My Foodie Walking Tour....

Here's how my day went:

First, I ran on the treadmill for 50 minutes.

Second, shoved some legal sized envelopes with personal essays and creative non-fiction to mail before the May 31st deadline.

Third, walked myself down to the 77th / Lexington Ave. subway stop where I met my girls.

Peanut Butter and Co. - Any and everything made with peanut butter.  My personal favorite was the peanut butter, coconut, and cherry preserves sandwich. 

Rare Bar and Grill- six girls, one big ole' fry basket

One pumpkin cupcake cut into 6 bite-sized pieces at Sunshine Sweet Bakery

Inhaled  the scent of sugar at Economy Candy and The Sweet Life

Sampled some European cheese in Murray's Cheese Shop

Drooled on the glass case at Amy's Bread

Bought some dried apricots, pears and peaches at Russ and Daughters, but stashed them in my bag for later.

Four doughnuts were purchased at The Doughnut Plant.  I tasted the Carrot Cake.  It changed my life.

We stumbled upon Texas on Tour at the South Street Seaport and won some free t-shirts with our abounding Texas wisdom.

Chai and Tart frozen yogurt at 16 handles (by now it is 7:00 pm)

Walked through The Black Hound Bakery and tried a sample of some almond cake marzipan thing.  

Hopped on the Third Avenue bus and got a Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper big gulp at Seven-eleven.

6+ miles walked

2,000+ calories consumed

$21 spent

HUNDREDS of laughs.... 

The Foodie Group

The Fry Basket at Rare, three types of fries and four dipping sauces.

The Doughnut Plant, NYC 

Peanut Butter and Company

Let it out.

Last Saturday a friend and I wandered through the West Village.  It's somewhere I rarely go.  

1.) It's west.  

2.) It's home to NYU.  

3.) It's full of expensive boutiques, expensive restaurants and expensive brownstones.  

We found ourselves sitting in Washington Square Park, drinking Diet Dr. Pepper, and listening to some pretty good jazz musicians. And this little girl was just letting loose.  Letting it all out.  Her energies, her joy; everything just came spilling through her arms and legs.  Not graceful but soulful.  

So, when did this become unacceptable?  She's just doing what comes natural.  Feeling alive.  Feeling the music.  It seems like we unlearn a lot the older we get.  Our connection with expressing ourselves.  When I was a child I sang, danced, and talked things through to myself- ALOUD.  I made up my own songs and tunes and they were beautiful- to me, to my parents, to God.  

Organically, these things come to children.  But as adults we have to know the words and the melody before we will sing.  Even then, it has to be when we are alone.  We can't sing because we don't know how.  We can't dance, because we don't know the moves.  We can't pray because we don't know what words to say.  Just let it out.  

Somewhere we forgot that praying and singing and moving are just an overflow of what's inside.  It' s not something that you get right or get wrong.  It just is.

I recently read an excerpt from Ann Lamott's book Traveling Mercy's. I love her style and voice and honesty as a Christian woman.  I don't agree with everything she says, but I respect her views and learn from her essays nonetheless.  The piece is called "Knocking on Heaven's Door" and in the story two people are reconciled through music. And she says:

"I can't imagine anything but music that could have brought about this alchemy.  Maybe it's because music is about as physical as it gets:  your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath.  We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."  

BabyBjorn or Bikini Wax?

My dearest friend is pregnant.  Because she lives in Texas and I live in New York City, then I will not be able to make it to her shower, but I deeply wish I could.  I do realize that if I were there, I'd be a huge part of the excitement and pre-baby preparations.  I'd be working on a scrapbook or learning to cross-stitch or crafting something that was worthy of hanging on the wall.  I'd rack my brain for the perfect, sentimental, keepsake-type gift.  One that would make her weepy during the shower.  Not that it's hard to make pregnant women cry, hold up a pair of tiny crocheted booties and the tears start to fall. 

But, amongst the practical gifts; the onesies and bottles and diapers and burp clothes, I would offer the most thoughtful thing I could think of.  I would have crafted it, spent hours making it or somehow gone out of my way.  It would be a tangible reminder of our friendship.  Not that practical gifts are bad.  I am usually the one who buys the baby wipes and bibs and hooded towels, but this is my dearest friend.  I love her.  

If I were in Texas I'd have helped paint the new room, I'd use a stencil or do a tiny border if she wanted me to, even though she's a better painter than me.  I'd hang the Noah's ark window valance and help put all the tiny clothes on the tiny hangers.  I'd probably be throwing the shower, ordering duck-shaped cookies and planning silly games where you guess the sex of the baby.  Why? Because I'd want to.  But I am here and she is there.  And I will just be forgoing my bikini wax this week and will instead, pick out something from her registry at Babies-R-Us.  Something boring like a bottle warmer or changing table sheets. 

She is having a kid.  I am not really thinking that I want a kid any time soon and I feel like, once again, my friend is somewhere I am not.  This time she's the one moving, not me. 

Dear Mr. Eli Zabar:

We live above your location on 91st street.  Well, really we live in the building on 92nd, but our apartment faces south, so therefore your location is directly 33 stories below us.  And thus, here en-lies the problem. 

First, let me begin by saying I love your store.  I do. I personally think that you have the BEST raisin-nut roll in all of Manhattan.  It's dark and dense.  Your raisins are juicy, not like the shriveled pieces I find in most NYC bagels. They are plump. And not too many walnuts, just the right amount. I normally hate nuts in my food. But, this, this I can handle.  I like that for 75 cents I can get a roll and be on my way.  BUT, I do have a problem.

Each night, after dinner around 8:00 or so, you start your bread making.  The scent of freshly baked bread wafts 33 stories up through my window and into my home, where I am not thinking about food anymore for the day.  I've had my chicken or tuna. I've had my glass of wine or frozen yogurt. And I am done eating. I am not even hungry.  I'm just sitting reading Ann Lamott or Joan Didion when you start up your baking.  

It's really starting to get to me.  I will admit some days it's worse than others, the scent, the madness, but overall I find it torture.  I love bread.  I love Amy's rosemary twists and Orewasher's rye and pumpernickel.  I love the scent of freshly baked bread.  I love bread so much that my sister takes pictures of her own homemade bread and emails them to me (see photo).  I like the look of bread and the feel and the color and the texture.  I would rather have bread than my favorite sour cream spice cupcakes. And that smell. It's really something. Yeasty and Intoxicating. 

I also like the smell of funnel cakes and barbecue and whatever it is that is wafting out of Glaser's Bakery every single time I walk by there. BUT that doesn't mean I want it floating about my home each and every night.  

Mr. Eli.  Why do you do this? 

Today I worked.

Today I worked at a real job.  It felt really weird and really good. Just from 12-4 (Memorial Day weekend... early day...) which was wonderful for me.  It was nice to actually have a reason to put on make-up and wear something other than cargo pants and a tank-top.  I did look pretty nice.  I embraced my boring black suit, white collard shirt and three inch heels whole-heartedly.  

So, who knows what is to come.  For now, a little extra spending money...

Red Shoes

I wanted them upon first glance across aisles of lipstick ladies and clouds of fragrance.  Red velvet heals perched on a display.  Amongst others, hundreds if not thousands of others.  But these were intriguing and eclectic.  Like the doily looking sweater I got on consignment in San Francisco or the oversized turquoise pendant or the gray textured tights.

“I love your style.  I could never pull it off.”  This is what people tell me.  I’ve never understood if this comment, that I frequently hear, comes from a place of sincerity or is a backhanded compliment. 

The velvet red heals were so me.  And they were so marked down to $49.95.  I picked up the ruby slipper, held it close and found the nearest department store associate. “Nine and a half.”

When he returned I slipped them on.  They were unusual, loud, and quirky.

“I’ll take them.”

I like Papa John.

There I said it.  I admitted my deep, dark secret.  I like Papa John's Pizza.  I really do.  It is the THICK, deep dish crust and that garlic butter dipping sauce that gets to me every time.  I will admit that I was embarrassed tonight as I carried the pepperoni pizza back home.  After all, I live in New York City.  New Yorkers brag about their pizza.  It's just one of those things, like the bagels, or street vendor hot dogs, or Mr. Softee.

Pizza shops are sprinkled throughout the city like red pepper flakes across mozzarella cheese. These are real pizza shops run by real Italians.  Fresh ingredients and fresh dough to make a real pizza.  And it's good pizza with translucently thin crust.  See, for me, the deep dish pizza is where it has always been.  I know, I know--- if I want to eat a wad of dough, I should eat a roll, or a muffin or a biscuit or something right? 

I felt like I was betraying my city by eating at $9.00 large pizza from Papa Johns.  I could have bought a slice downstairs for just $2 bucks.  But it wasn't what I had a hankering for. 

I hate to admit it, but it all started when I decided we'd have pizza and ice cream for dinner. (I've been in a junk food funk all day and even dove into Chris' Cool Ranch Doritos around 4:00 when I just couldn't take it any longer.) So, I, being the thrifty, money savvy, wife-on-a-budget that I am, decided to run to the grocery store and grab a Freschetta or DiGiorno (at the worst a Tostinos) for $5 or $6.  No big deal. Stuffed crust maybe.  Brick oven style.  Half pepperoni for Chris, half cheese for me.  I bopped into a large, well-known grocery store.  There were no frozen pizzas.  A single serving Lean Cuisine or a store brand microwavable pizza were the two options available.  I was shocked.  So, I made a second stop at the other grocery store in our neighborhood whereupon the selection was pretty much the same. (I think there may have been a Stouffer's French bread pizza-type thing too.)  No Tony's, No Red Barron smiling back at me.  

NEWS FLASH: don't expect to find frozen pizza's in your local grocers freezer in New York City.  Why?  No one eats them.  There is good pizza to be had on almost every street corner.

But, still.  I had a hankering.  So, I visited the Papa. And I will dive into my Bryer's Sara Lee Strawberry Cheesecake Ice-Cream without reservation later tonight!

Decaffeinated coffee gives me the shakes

This week I have been extremely successful in getting done what I want to get done each day, in reference to my writing, editing and submitting.  It feels pretty darn good.  What is it in us that loves the feeling of accomplishment after working hard at something?  Or is that just me? 

Whatever it may be, I am feeling pretty good this Friday evening.  The sun has come out and I drank four cups of decaf coffee which still left me jittery.  (Okay, something is seriously wrong with me, or that Trader Joe's bag of beans was mislabeled.)  I don't really care though, I have done my work for the day and now I can go outside and play fueled by my decaf coffee. Walk or jog or whatever it is I do along the East River Promenade. 

 I am finally getting the hang of this thing; finding my own pace, rhythm and habits that help me push through.  Tomorrow I am taking an all day Personal Essay Writing course.

Yeah. Happy Weekend!  

Worship

Check out my one of my new favorite artists Tim Suel. "Take Me" is my current meditation and prayer.

"Your love is, my beauty.  Your heart is, my heartbeat"

Morning

"Let me experience Your faithful LOVE in the morning, for I trust in You.  Reveal to me the way I should go, because I long for You." Psalm 143:8

It comes every day.  Inevitable still. Chris shuts the front door sometime between 7:15 AM and 7:45 AM.  And then it's me.  Just me.  Me and nothing.  Me and everything.  The ice shifts and crackles in the freezer.  A siren blares thirty-two stories below.  The elevator chimes in the hallway.  "God," I pray. "Thank you for another day.  For windows so I experience sunshine.  For my amazing husband.  For placing us in New York City for such a time as this."

Sometimes I feel like my prayers get no higher than the ceiling.  But, He's with me even when I don't feel it.  Even when I am alone in the big city.

An hour at the gym downstairs pushes it down, contains it, but only for awhile.  I shower.  Again I feel it.  Kathie Lee and Hoda cackle and act ridiculous.  Is this what we've come to America?  I turn off the TV. I fill my coffee cup again.  It's now 10:00 AM.

I need this.  I need to feel the feelings, I need to remember.  Submerge myself in all that I'm avoiding.  Sometimes He's not in the thunder or winds or earthquakes, but in the still small voice that can only be heard when we are silent.

Eat the Fat

"Teach us to number our days carefully so that we may develop wisdom in our HEARTS."  Psalm 90:11

Some things are not worth skimping out on.  One of those being Birthday Cake.  I may be a health nut and practice moderation when it comes to carbohydrates and sugary things- BUT don't expect to see me eat a low-fat birthday cake.  Angel food with strawberries is not my idea of celebrating.  Berries and whipped cream are for PTA Luncheons or Easter brunch or Mother's Day or tea parties where the host wears an oversized, floppy sunhat and guests sit on wicker chairs.  

For my day, we celebrate with anything chocolaty, gooey, icing covered, buttery, moist, carmel infused.... nothing is too rich.  Ever.  You will never hear me say, "Gee, this is too rich, I can only handle a few bites." I can stomach some sugar.  I love sugar.  This is why practicing moderation requires a lot of restraint and will-power.  Or, adding an extra thirty minutes to my jog in Central Park. Whatever it takes.

What I can't stomach is fat-free cheese.  This is something else you CAN NOT be chinchy with. Give up the calories to the full fat cheese.  I recently made the terrible mistake of giving it another try. It’s still repulsive.  Fat-free cheese it just terrible.  What is cheese if not fat?  I can not stand this stuff and even as I washed it off the butter knife and out of the ramekin in the kitchen sink, it remained in solid pieces, like shreds of tuna or bits of bread crusts.  I did all this in the effort to not feel guilty about eating my Saturday morning bagel each week. I was going to buy a bagel, bring it home and prepare it guilt-free. 

But, I was more remorseful about buying this fake, processed, food product.  I trashed the tub of white paste and finished my cinnamon raisin bagel with butter and then noshed the other half plain.  I will not feel bad about my low-fat or tofu cream cheese choices.  I will continue to visit The Bagel Mill or Bagel Bob’s and order my whole-wheat, toasted bagel with low-fat cream cheese to go- once a week and not feel bad.  So what if it is not protein or a whole grain or a fruit or a vegetable?  It makes my heart happy.  It really does. 

Budgeting

"The sacrifice pleasing to God is a broken spirit. God, you will not despise a humble HEART." Psalm 51:17 

Chris has put me on a budget.  This is not a bad thing.  It is really a rather good and exciting thing and I welcome it with open arms.  That's part of the reason our relationship works quite well, I need restrictions and he loves to give them!  Okay, I'm being a bit sardonic, but nonetheless, it works for me.  I need confines, boundaries, someone to tell me what I can and can not do so I can know when and if I am being good or bad and make decisions accordingly.

I have been given a certain amount of dollars per week to spend on groceries & toiletries and anything else I may want (make-up, panties, new stationary, frozen yogurt at Bloomingdales or coffee drinks.)  This seems fair enough.  The only thing I don't like is that dry cleaning comes out of my budget. (I may start looking for that iron...) And, when I do splurge on a pedicure, Chris will have the choice of eating shredded wheat or a can of english peas for dinner.  Or, there is always an abundance of Luna Bars and Protein Shakes.  I am fine with that. Give and Take, Push and Pull, Yin and Yang.

I spent $27 the first day and I am keeping a running total.  I want to know where every dollar has gone.  I should have mentioned he gave me CASH and took my debit card.  Again, he didn't really take my debit card, I gave it up willingly, with a smile even.  This is a good lesson, one I should have learned years ago. 

I am also trying to budget my time... Writing and submitting and editing.  I hate revisions. Drafts 2, Drafts 10, Drafts 14... Final? I think I could keep editing forever.  That is the problem when you're a perfectionist.  It's never perfect.  Our pastor recently said, "While it's our job to aspire to greatness, it's not our job to define greatness."  God is not asking for sinless perfection, just a life willing to be used for Him.  We are no longer under the law.  This is good news for me, cause I could really get wrapped up in all those checklists and forget about the true condition of my heart.   

I got a package from my mom today. A CD of pictures from my last visit home & a bird necklace. First, it was leaves for me, which I still collect and adore, but I have added birds to the list.  I have a few things I collect and like to look at simply because they make me happy. Birdies are one of them. I guess these little trinkets serve as memory holders, bookmarking time.  Little things make me the happiest. 

Like the handful of kettle corn my husband brought me home from work today.  It was delish.  The thing is, I have this amazing addiction to popcorn that my husband does not share, so I have never bought this particular brand (that has quite the reputation)  because the bag is large enough for about 23 newborn kittens to fit into and I'd eat the entire thing while watching one episode of The Biggest Loser.  After several teachers devoured most of it- he brought the remnants home to me. He's a thoughtful guy, and he knows I LOVE POPCORN and, after all, we are on a new budget.  I'm fine with remnants.  It was really good stuff.  I was just a little bothered by the thought of God knows who's hands being in this rather large bag with who knows what on them. (We are talking public school teachers.) But, I wasn't bothered enough to turn down perfectly good popcorn.

This picture, from 1986, was also on the CD my mom sent me.  My littlest sister is "reading" her very favorite book, "Where's Goldie?"  Goldie was a bird.  Each page presented a scenario where the reader would have to find Goldie.  I was thinking about this book and talking with my sister about it, how she'd memorize each page and "read" it aloud, over and over.  This book was the only book she'd even consider for months.  Nothing else would satisfy, and me, being the older, six-year-old sister, I never really got it.  Not then anyway.  But sometimes now, I miss those days, of self discovery and newness in each moment.  Being mesmerized by something so simple.  

Be in the moment.

Be in the moment.

Be in the moment.  

But I seem to always be thinking about what I will cook for dinner, or how I need to mail a card, or dust the bookshelves, or return a DVD.  I am almost always thinking about something other than the moment.  

So, I am trying to STOP. To budget my time wisely.  To budget in "singing, reading the scriptures, being still, watching the river, listening to music."  And when these things happen, without me planning them, to embrace that moment even stronger.  I want to practice purposeful relaxation, not just vegging out in front of Everybody Loves Raymond reruns. Learn a lesson from my little sister in cloth diapers:  recline in bed, read a good book, do something for Self that doesn't require DOing anything.  Find Goldie, that cute little birdie, even though she was found yesterday and the day before, she may have something new to reveal today.  You never know where she might be hiding.  

On Motherhood & Writing...

"A good man produces good out of the good storeroom of his HEART.  An evil man produces evil out of the evil storeroom, for his mouth speaks from the overflow of the HEART."  Luke 6:45

I have decided that I am a writer because I am a thinker.  Writers are thinkers, yes.  We are trying to trudge our way through some larger picture and make some sense of it all.  However small or large:  scrubbing the orange scum off the faucet in the bathtub, or standing up on the surf board for the first time, or telling someone something that we know will break their heart.  We’re trying to convey what we feel and how we feel it through the details, senses and emotions that we live.  Memories that were conjured up, experiences that surfaced, sounds we heard and people that were there.

Maybe by writing everything down we will be able to make a conclusion or learn a lesson.  The underlying reason for the tears or the laughter or the reoccurring conversation that we cannot quit playing in our mind will be brought about.  Maybe not.  But we, as writers, know we are not alone in our quandaries.  Yet, we are alone.  Alone in out apartments, or condos or beach houses.  Alone in a house with five kids or in a coffee shop on a laptop. We are the only ones who can say what it is that we have to say.  We’re the only ones who can take a pickaxe and chip-chip chop away at whatever it is that is eating us inside.  The story has to be birthed.  And birthing is not easy.

  I’ve never given birth but I know it seems quite a unique, emotional, lonely, unexplainable thing.  There’s nothing there, then there is.  People give encouragement and backrubs or bring gifts, but they cannot feel what Mom has felt for nine months.  They can tie a Congratulations balloon around the mailbox and smile and “ooooo” and “cooo” but even they realize there is something more overwhelming that is overtaking the one who actually pushed this amazing thing out. 

Mom worked a lot harder at this thing than anyone. Even the maker of the christening gown and delicately designed booties.  Even the one who crafted a personalized scrapbook or made coconut sour crème cake and spaghetti with the homemade sauce.  Their time is nothing.  There love is something, yes.  And their time is recognized and necessary, but all they have poured into loving this new thing, to appreciating this new existence is nothing.  All their anticipation is just that.  It’s not a “day-in and day-out, 24-hours of wondering if life will ever be the same again” journey.  Everyone but Mom is a bystander, someone who can walk away and get the heck out.  Not Mom.  Mom is in it for the morning sickness, the hemorrhoids, the weight gain and the nine months of dealing with a parasite sucking the life out of her.

So, when a story is born, when something is nearing completion, I find myself in either one of two circumstances.

a.) I want to jump up and down, pat myself on the back and tell everyone that I am such a genius.  I smile at myself in the mirror and treat people nicer.  Even still, most people I give my stuff to read, even after several revisions, reply with an, “Oh, that’s a good piece.”  No confetti, no taking me out to coffee, not even a remark that I should really put forth a serious effort and get published.  Nothing.  Then I feel mediocre, at best. (sometimes A can lead to B, but usually I fall directly into one distinct camp.)

 b.) I feel like a terrible writer than I am wasting my energies pushing these keys for hours on end creating sentences out of words that make minimal, if any, sense whatsoever.  Really, what am I trying to accomplish?  I often want to quit all the nonsense jargon, anecdotes, niceties and just say, “Today was pointless and crappy,” getting straight to the point.  But sometimes rambling is nice.  At least once a week I want to quit.  Even if (and that is a HUGE if) I do become published somewhere someday, who is ever going to read it besides my husband and my mom.  And there is no money in it. 

Writing is something larger than myself; writing is a way to connect people and, in some way, make them feel something; fears, dreams, life lessons and beliefs realized.  

When I was younger my mom would refer to the verse above when I was being a total brat.  I was the queen of back-talking.  The times I recall getting in trouble as a child were for mouthing off.  I was full of attitude. 

So, I realized the importance of words and thinking before speaking.  Even though I still find it hard to keep my mouth shut sometimes.  The wrong words can shatter a life, they can resound with hate and bitterness and bring depression.  But the right words are a fine, fine thing.  They lift up, encourage and bring peace.  This is what I am trying to do.

To connect people to God, each other, themselves, that is what it's about.