Eataly Is Not Italy

Good grief, I haven't written since April.  Anyway...

I went to Eataly this weekend.  If you haven't heard of it, it's a grocery store-pastry shop-restaurant-deli-produce market-cafe filled with all things Italian.  Mario Batali and Lidia Bastianich are the celebrity chefs behind it, among others.  Since it opened sometime last year, it has been a phenomenon for locals and tourists alike.  So I was curious.

My main concern and reason for not visiting sooner...the crowds.  Every time I walked by it was crawling.  Saturday I managed to arrive early enough in the day that a quick browse seemed almost manageable.  So inside I went. 

It's beautiful, truly.  Sparkling and filled floor to ceiling with every imaginable product you could ever want.  All wrapped in gorgeous paper and foil, exotic bottles as far as the eye can see.  Around every corner is something yummier.  You can order fancy coffee drinks, linger over chocolate bars and homemade jam, and pack up some fresh pasta to cook in your own kitchen.  It's all there. 

And yet, somehow it's too much.  I found myself not wanting to look too closely.  Not wanting to absorb all they had to offer.  Not wanting to get excited about the adorable packaging. 

Because that's what you're supposed to do when you're IN Italy.  You're supposed to go to the market and stare blankly at the labels, hoping you purchase the right item.  You're supposed to marvel at how cute all their candy looks, and the sodas, and the boxes of cereal.  Because they don't look like YOUR candy and soda and cereal.  And you're supposed to eat their yogurt and remark how much better it is than Yoplait.  And you're supposed to wait in line at the green market and muddle your way through, pointing and smiling apologetically as you mangle the vocabulary.  You're supposed to pack up a picnic of berries and cheese and sit on a park bench.  And you're supposed to savor all these things because they are special and unique and a moment in time.

But still...it's a very nice place.  Don't get me wrong - I was the first to get in line when I spotted the gelato counter.  I ordered raspberry gelato on a brioche roll because I saw it mentioned in New York Magazine.  And it was delicious.  But not as delicious as the gelato I ate in Italy, piled high and sloppy. 

So, by all means, check it out if you're in town.  I have no doubt that everything you order will be scrumptious.  But then, take that $5.90 that you spent on gelato and drop it in your piggy bank the next time.  Save it for a trip to Italy.  Mario Batali will be alright without you.   

www.eataly.com

Thank You, Mr. C

If you don't live in New York, or even if you do, you may not be familiar with Bill Cunningham.  He photographs night life and fashion on the streets of New York City. On his bike.  He's 80ish, and has been doing this for decades. 

A new documentary entitled 'Bill Cunningham New York' tells his story.  I saw it today and haven't stopped thinking about it.  Although I knew of him and his pictures, like most people, that was about all I knew.  But this really isn't a fashion movie - it's a Bill movie.

I so hate to overly hype films and describe them to death, but I just felt the need to say a little something about it.  Because honestly, it made me want to run down the street, and wrap my arms around this city that is New York.  To dance with all the loners and misfits that make the world wonderful.  To do things I love.  It broke my heart, and filled it up to the point of bursting. 

Thank you, Bill Cunningham.  Truly.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYqiLJBXbss

Signs of Spring

Spring is here at long last.  Even a freak last-minute storm couldn't keep it away.  Days are still chilly, but there is that unmistakable spring glow in the air.  It's the kind of glow that makes people go out in their lightest jacket even if the weather really calls for something heavier.  They break out their sunglasses, and paint their toes bright pink.  They cut their hair.

The birds know it too.  The chirping chorus in the mornings is almost deafening.  On my street is a particular tree where they all seem to congregate.  You can find plenty of evidence of their presence on the sidewalk and cars below.  This morning I noticed a big wooden owl hanging in the branches, I guess in an effort to scare them away.  It made me laugh but it wasn't helping in the slightest...these are New York birds, after all.

The windows are open.  Apartments are being cleaned, and stuff is being thrown out on the sidewalks.  Getting ready for something fresh.  I spent the last couple weekends doing just this.  Rearranging and dusting and sneezing.  Listening to "Good Day Sunshine", a springtime anthem of sorts.  A new season, a new outlook.

There is a line for the Mister Softee truck.  Sidewalk tables are packed with friends meeting for Sunday brunch.  People are carrying around bunches of tulips and daffodils wrapped in paper.  And my sister called to tell me that the Cedar Inn, a hometown favorite famous for their cheeseburgers and frosty mugs of root beer, is opening for the season.  So it's official.

I remember my brother giving my mom a giant jar of sliced pickles one year at the beginning of winter in Minnesota.  He told her that when the jar was empty it would be spring.  Funny enough, I just finished my own jar of pickles yesterday. 

Spring is good.

Taylor and Newman

Quite possibly the two most beautiful creatures and generous spirits to have walked the earth...Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman. 

If there is such a thing, I hope they are having a laugh together in the after world.

The Ireland Fund

The Ireland Fund, established in 1997, consisted of dollar bills and random change crammed in a dark green wine jug.  My old roommate and I religiously contributed a dollar a day for I don't know how long.  We'd ask each other constantly, "Did you put your dollar in today?" 

It sat prominently on top of the stereo in our Ludlow Street apartment with the red walls (Vintage Claret, I still remember the paint swatch).  We were going to Ireland, one way or another, and a dollar a day was about all we could manage.  On occasion, we were lucky enough to have a generous visitor throw in a buck or two for the cause.  You wouldn't believe how much that thing held.  We would wad up the bills, fold them, and roll them...and somehow we kept squeezing them in when it seemed the bottle could hold not a penny more. 

At long last it was time to cash in.  There was to be no delicate shaking of the jug to remove its contents.  We took a hammer to it instead.  Probably not the wisest decision considering the shattered glass and all, but very satisfying nonetheless.  I don't remember what the total haul was - not enough to fund an entire trip, for sure, but we had a pile of money and we were on our way.

Happy St. Patrick's Day! 

 

Doing

Sitting on my bed
Warming up my toes
Listening to the rain plink on the air conditioner still in my window
Wondering how I can make a million dollars
Wishing I already did
Trying to get inspired
Writing some silly random stuff
Anticipating Spring and long sunny days
Straightening up my huge pile of magazines
Sniffing the perfume ads
Looking around at my room
Rearranging it in my mind
Sorting through old photos and artwork
Deciding which I should bother to frame
Daydreaming
Procrastinating?
Planning and plotting
Doing.

Oooooh, nooo, Mr. Dill!

There I was at lunch, reading my book and absentmindedly crunching on a dill pickle, when I happened to glance down.  Staring up at me, a little concerned looking yet faintly cheery, was a face in my pickle. 

Two perfect eyes and a mouth reminiscent of Mr. Bill.

I cracked up.  For awhile.  Obviously, I couldn't just continue crunching.  (Or is that only obvious to me?!)  In any case, I scooped him up and set him aside.

I considered sharing with my co-workers, but was fairly sure they wouldn't think it was quite as hilarious as I did. Oh well.

Yes, I saved him all day long.  I even took him out of his Tupperware in the afternoon and cracked myself up all over again.

And, yes, I carried him home on the train in a paper bag, took pictures, and wrote a blog about him.

Because I'm a dork like that and easily amused, apparently.  So here he is...Mr. Dill!

I'm thinking of introducing him to Mr. Mutant M&M Man...my find from a few months ago.

Oh, boy, how silly.  G'nite, all...

Betrayed by a Manwich

My mom made the BEST sloppy joes. 

Hands down, the best.  All my life I ate them.  On softie buns from the bakery with a whole bunch of crinkle cut dill pickles.  Potato chips and chip dip on the side.  Glass of milk.  And if it was a birthday party, there was Kool-Aid to drink.  Other kids' moms made sloppy joes too, but they never measured up.  Sometimes they were too sweet, or maybe they were stingy with the pickles. 

Unfortunately, I never did learn how to make them.  I could guess at some of the basic ingredients, I suppose, but in what combination and quantities?  It was one of those "a little of this, a little of that" recipes that you can't really write down.  Even after discussing it with my sister several times, we only came up with a vague recipe at best.    

Then, while visiting my brother this December, something surprising happened.  He made sloppy joes from a can of Manwich, with a little chopped onion thrown in for good measure.  And with all the requisite side items, pickles and chips included. 

They were really good.  Dare I say, almost identical to my mom's.  I realize that Manwich is not a revelation for most people, considering it's been around forever.  But in all my 38 years, I'd never tried it (at least not knowingly).  I couldn't believe it.  Sloppy joes almost as good as Mom used to make...in a can?!

Betrayed by a Manwich.  Sorry, Mom, hope you don't mind.  hee-hee!  ; )

What's up, Crankyface?

I'm rarely cranky.  At least on the outside.  Sometimes I'm cranky on the inside but most people wouldn't know.  Today was one of those cranky on the inside days.

Nothing particularly bad happened.  It was a lovely, snowy, picturesque day, in fact. 

Just tired.  One too many snarky comments on the train.  One too many indifferent souls marching along.  I had ridiculously smushed hat-head all day and my lips are chapped.  My TV screen was all static when I got home.  The snow turned to sleet.  I annoyed myself  by eating some pizza instead of the salad sitting in my fridge.    

Then my friend wrote me and asked what was up.  She called me Crankyface and that made me smile.  And she distracted me until I wasn't cranky anymore. 

Thanks, ladyface. 

Fancy

The word 'fancy' came up the other day, and it got me thinking about this particular story.  Here 'tis...

It was my last year at Parsons School of Design.  For anyone in the fashion design department, the senior fashion show was a major event.  We'd spent the last several months working alongside designers like Isaac Mizrahi, Donna Karan and Michael Kors.  We'd seen our ideas go from rough sketch to final product, and soon they would strut down the runway.

My family was coming to New York. 

The show was to be held at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square, and it was a black tie affair.  Designers and industry big-whigs would attend.  There was salmon on the menu.  My brother rented a tux.

One evening, my mom called, excited to tell me she'd found a dress for the occasion.

"Hi, Darling.  I found a dress for your show.  I think you will like it."

"Oh, good.  What's it like?"

"Well, it's kind of a slip dress.  It's black."

"Oh, that sounds nice."

"Yes, and it has spaghetti straps with little rhinestones."

"Oh, OK."

"Yeah, and then in the back there is a big ruffle that goes over the hips, and that has little silver sequins on it."

"Huh."

"And then there's a little jacket that goes on top with red feathers around the neck.  It's kind of glittery."

"Oh, really?"

"But you will really love the sleeves.  They're kind of gathered and really puffy.  I think they're satin."

Nervous silence. 

A few seconds went by and finally I said, quietly, "Um, I don't think you have to be quite that fancy."

Suddenly a burst of laughter exploded on the other end of the line and it didn't stop.  My mom had been teasing me, of course, knowing that I would never ever say, "Mom, that sounds hideous!"  She laughed and laughed and laughed, and so did I.

(By the way, her real dress was simple and elegant, and she was the most beautiful person there.)