Fragments

I have lost myself and I search for her on December streets lined with French Canadian tree sellers and their pagan trees that smell like winter, like cold fresh air in northern forests. As I pass I hear glimpses of the deepwoods Quebecois patois that sounds like a half-forgotten dream. Pieces of the world puzzle tumble through my senses as I inhale the scents of Ethiopian injera topped with a dozen deeply-flavoured dishes one night, and Indian bhel puri and lamb korma the next. But the deepest puzzle piece eludes me as I plunge down stairways and ride trains through tunnels and surface to other streetlights reflected in the wet pavement that sings as cars brush past and vanish into points of red light at the next corner.

As I become more than whole I fear the self I am searching for is gone forever.

Coda into Summer

Light dinner at the sidewalk cafe at Bistro 33. Walked the remaining block to Astoria Park as the sun was setting, and settled on the grass between the bridges to hear the Chapin Family sing songs of their own and of Harry. It was nearly air temperature air with a breath of warmer breezes, as the sun faded and the bridges glowed and the lights of the city rose to reflect in the swift-running East River at high tide. A lone bat swooped above, carrying the sweet music and clear voices into the darkening sky.

A day full of

A day full of
sharp words
sharp emotions
dulled only
by
nothing

nothing that satisfies
nothing that reaches the soul
everything is left
hanging

alone
along with
the others
there is no
easing of anything

I suppose it's only
what we all see,
or feel

Another Summer Begins

The weekend was wonderful.

I think everyone left early to avoid the traffic. It took friends five hours to get up to New London, leaving at 1:30. We left at 6:30 and took the slow road and went way around New Haven -- and it took us 2 hours and 45 minutes. As we entered Connecticut on the Merritt, we looked at the open road in front of us and at each other and said, "where are all the cars?" It was a green and golden drive, the early evening sun streaming through the newly green trees in golden swathes. The Merritt is just beautiful this time of year, with grassy verges, overhanging trees, and graceful old stone bridges. We got there so fast, they didn't even have time to eat their dinner at a local restaurant. A woman at the bar got on the phone and gave us directions from the I-95 exit, and we pulled into the parking lot at 9:20.

Since we were the first guests to arrive, we got the pick of the beds - a mattress double, queen waterbed, or futon double. We chose the mattress double in a room off the dining room - I have slept many times on a waterbed, and they don't thrill me. The others arrived about 15 minutes after we got to the house, and we cracked open the wine, some cheese, and movie-tasting popcorn (made with coconut oil!). We explored the house and then sat in the living room, catching up and chatting. The house is beautiful - built in 1913 with a relatively open floorplan downstairs, clean lines reminiscent of an arts and crafts bungalow, lots of wood painted white, which fits the beach location of the house - the Long Island Sound is just half a block away.

The next morning, 8:30 was too early, but we were roused by various kitchen noises. My friends all got to see my weekend morning grogginess, which caused not a little amusement. Making the coffee was difficult, but I finally managed. We had a wonderful breakfast, all of us contributing something.

Set out for the shore, and with shoes in hand, walked on the firm sand along the edge just out of reach of the still-frigid water. Walked to the edge of Alewife Creek and wandered through tidal flats, fording shallow stretches of stream. Back across the beach and into the beachside arcade, frozen in time from the 1980s. The skee-ball tokens and cheap, yet coveted, prizes still look the same, although they are probably made in China now instead of Taiwan.

Back at the house, there was a peaceful stillness that allowed me to relax. The only street noise was the breeze that caused the sunlight to dance through the leaves, punctuated only occasionally by a child's laugh, the sound of a ball hitting the ground, or the brief buzz of a lawnmower. The air was clean and fresh and lightly tinged by the saltiness that is fundamental to me.

We broke the spell by piling into two cars and heading for Captain Scott's Lobster Dock, located near the land seized by eminent domain that has fallen into disuse, next to the Amtrak line and swivel bridge. Jim was enraptured by the industrial setting and set off to explore, leaving me to order. Steamers, clam bellies, a hot lobster roll, 1 1/4 lb. lobster dinners, with crisp fries and purple cole slaw. We washed it all down with a crisp vinho verde we had picked up on the way there. Took our time, laughed at the menfolk with their lobster bibs blowing straight out behind them like the Red Baron.

Next stop was Thames River Wine and Spirits (that's the THAYMES River, not the TEMMS River, btw), a fantastic store in an incredible space (scroll down the link to see a photo of the wine cellar). Spoke with Jim the Wine Guy, each of us describing our planned contribution to dinner so he could recommend a wine for each course. After choosing the perfect wines, we wandered across the street to an amazing antique/junk store, one of the biggest I've ever seen and with stuff you'd actually want to buy. Jim bought me the US Army's Meat Handbook from 1945 - illustrated with lots of butcher cuts.

Then, it was time for ice cream. We headed to Michael's Dairy. Chocolate monstrosity in a sugar cone, butterscotch, black raspberry, coconut, lime - take your pick. We ate sitting at barn-red picnic benches set out on a perfect lawn, next to a red barn with white trim. In the middle of the lawn was a flag pole with waving flag. Across the drive was a gazebo decked with patriotic bunting. It was a picture-perfect slice of americana, and for once it didn't seem so bad. After the ice cream, one by one, we made our way to the expanse of manicured green, took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our jeans, and stretched out on the grass. Eyes closed against the brilliant sunshine, the smell of fresh grass and springtime in our noses, we made up for months of concrete deprivation and did our best to burrow into the earth.

We headed back reluctantly but resolutely, for we knew that we had hours of cooking ahead of us, followed by the promise of hours of eating. Cook we did, and eat we did -- starting at close to 9pm, we stretched out the eating over an epic six hours, with a break around 1am to head to the bonfire burning strong on the beach. We watched the moonrise over Fisher's Island - a mango-shaped moon so huge and deep orange in the dark sky and reflected in the dark sea that it looked like an apocalyptic sunrise. The meal finally drew to a close with a beautiful series of wine and cheese pairings marred only by fatigue.

Sunday morning, beautiful sunny spring Sunday morning on the beach. There was time for a beach stroll, coffee mug in hand, another delicious breakfast (how was it possible we could be hungry?), a little time to listen to the silence, and then, bags and car packed, we said reluctant goodbyes and headed to the ferry only a few miles away. It was a smooth trip across the Sound, and before too long, we were at our destination in Greenport. There was time for another good evening, another day of being able to listen to the wind, finishing with a slap of reality upside the head.

Thoughts on the New Year

Another year. Another year of what I didn't want. Tomorrow I will dress, dress in my funky red dress and my boots, and put on the laughing jester. What I want I do not want, and what I do not want I want. I will look forward instead of to the past, but the future is a mirror that cannot resist reflecting. I will dance when the ball falls, and turn my head so others do not see my glistening cheeks or lie and say it is champagne sparkles.

The Beach, Ah, The Beach

It's been a very long time since I have just gone to the beach locally - not on Mexico or in some exotic place, just the familiar shore. If you grew up in the Northeast, you know what I'm talking about - one of those weekends on the Jersey Shore or in Long Beach. Small towns that blend into one another, one main drag lined with small shops and a couple of blocks stretching off it lined with closely spaced, old-time summer cottages. A wide, sandy beach, sometimes framed by a boardwalk. You find your plot of sand, and you set up shop, unloading beach umbrellas, chairs and towels, finding a shady spot for the cooler. Settle in, warm up, and head for the surf. The water's a perfect temp, and even a little rough, with wave after wave cresting as it reaches shallower water. You dive in, and in, and in again, into the wave. Boogie board or body surf, if you time it right you can ride the wave almost back to the beach. The wave throws you under sometimes, and you get sand in your suit and swallow the salty water and come up sputtering - and you turn around and do it again.

Hours later you gather your things and stagger the two blocks back to the house. A shower never felt so good, sluicing off the accumulated sand and suntan lotion. Off to the wine shop and then the small market for some last minute supplies. Grill an enormous grass-fed London Broil and lots of organic summer veggies, and dig in with a big salad, crusty bread, and summery red wine. Finish off the meal with a selection of ice cream and grilled organic fruit.

Things get even better if you decide to spend the night when you find out there's an extra bedroom for you. Then it's time to change and go out on the town - the bar scene's perhaps not quite as enticing as it was 15 years ago, but it's still lots of fun. Back before 2 and sack out to wake up to another perfect sunny day.

Strong black coffee, enormous organic local breakfast sausage links, eggs, sunny side up, give the right energy to hit the beach once again. The surf is calmer today, but still with a big wave once in a while to ride into shore. The water temp is absolutely perfect and you dive, dive, and dive again and then return to sun and sand, with the ceaseless crash of waves giving rhythmic punctuation to the hours slipping by too quickly.

Ride back home in a convertible, wind whipping through your hair and the music makes you want to dance. We don't want the weekend to end, so we go to the butcher, buy enormous steaks, and everyone comes over for a little more grilling, a little more relaxing, a little more wine, and a little more time with friends.

The Best Rainy Day

Under threatening skies I navigate down my one-way street in reverse, necessary to avoid the Greek Orthodox street procession that is the culmination of the three-day long street fair. Collecting friends, we jump on the BQE and into the traffic that slows as we enter Brooklyn and a downpour that will be with us for the rest of the afternoon. I exit at my old haunt, Atlantic Avenue, and we make our way down a crumbling Columbia, then over and down Hicks, skirting the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, until we arrive at our destination – the Red Hook Ball Fields.

With umbrellas, dodging drops and waterfalls from tarps, we listen to a mingling of English and half a dozen Spanishes and breathe in the smells of Mexican, Central and South American street food. For this is why we have come, to sample the freshly made huaraches, tortas, tortillas, tacos de chiles rellenos, ceviche, crispy hot empanadas de carne or queso glistening with hot oil, all washed down with tall glasses of jugo de piña, or the crowd favourite, horchata. Pupusas con chicharron, queso and jalapeño, or frijoles con queso, or calabaza, made by quick fingers dipping in the large bowl of soft masa dough, circle formed around the mound of filling, pinched together and flattened into a disk and thrown on the griddle, made to order while you wait. The crowds were thinned by the rain and the glowering skies rent by streaks of lightning and booming thunder, but that didn’t dampen the spirits of those who were there for the food or to play their weekly game of fútbol.

Slipping through the familiar beloved streets of Brooklyn, stitching the neighbourhoods together, weaving among the half-broken streets on the edges now lined with gentrification rising. Past warehouse shells and factories-cum-condos encrusted with scaffolding, down the narrow streets nearly to water’s edge and the new home of the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. Dodging thick drops and laughing our way inside the old Bleu Drawes space transformed with ice cream machines and newly exposed brick wall and fireplace. A warm welcome from owner Mark Thompson to his cool treat – smooth, rich chocolate, crunchy butter pecan, intense (decaf) coffee that’s not too sweet. Dense and creamy, it’s Philadelphia-style ice cream, made without eggs and with turbinado sugar that adds a round note of caramelisation to every flavour.

Finally sated, we make our way back across the Pulaski bridge, up Vernon, and under the Queensboro Bridge toward home. We promise ourselves another pilgrimage under sunnier skies, before the summer’s close.