Jingling All the Way

For her fourth 5K race, Mandy chose to support a good cause, celebrate the Christmas holiday, and stay close(ish) to home. So this morning we took a brief PATH ride to Manhattan and a little stroll down to Battery Park (at the southern tip of the island) for the umpteenth-annual Jingle Bell Run/Walk for Arthritis. 

Just to clear the air: yes, we wore jingle-bells; no, I didn’t win; and yes, Santa was there—and, as Mandy will tell you, he was a very good one. 

At this point, I would normally let the pictures tell the story, but since I forgot to charge the batteries for my camera and only have a few snapshots from Tim’s phone, the burden of this post will fall on … the writing.

Rock, Chick Rock

For some reason, my music-listening experience has recently been inundated by female artists. This is partly by choice: in what I listen to, and through my expanding awareness of the music I'm missing out on. But this trend also depends on the forums I explore and what I am exposed to there. But even then, NPR doesn't force me to listen to anything ... But enough analysis! Here are some tunes/artists to liven up your day/life, ranging from folk to rock and back again:

Florence + the Machine performs prettily in studio

Wye Oak on some balcony playing "Civilian" (and I thought the album version was good)

And then there's the amazing Lisa Hannigan's "Tiny Desk Concert": http://www.npr.org/2011/10/25/141684634/lisa-hannigan-tiny-desk-concert

Or, even Laura Marling playing "Muse" in concert

Once again, Dum Dum Girls (been listening to their album all week):

And a teaser from one of my favorites, Sharon Van Etten, who'll be on tour next year supporting her new album: http://www.thealternateside.org/111129/sharon-van-etten-tramps-view-serpents-download-album-art

So I guess music in 2011 wasn't all that bad, but still ... bring on 2012!

Terps lose, Terps lose, Terps lose ...

This past fall, I hoped (as I do every year) that the Maryland Men's soccer team would be successful. They always make the NCAA tournament, and are perennially one of the top-ranked teams in the country. So, "success" for them would mean a National Championship, or at least a berth in the College Cup (the semifinal round.) Since I held this team so dear in my time at school (never missing a home game), I've of course written about them here before. Two years ago I had the pleasure of following them to two playoff games on the road, a tough route to a championship they fell short of reaching. And this past season, I had the opportunity to see them play when they took on Seton Hall just a short train ride away in the New Jersey suburbs. Although I was giddy to see them play (and to buy treats in support of the SH cheerleading team) that game itself was particularly frustrating: neither side scored, fouls and missed-opportunites were rampant, and despite Seton Hall not even close to playing on the same level as the Terps, they were competent enough to shutout the visitors. Oh, and Juan Agudelo, rising star of the US National Team and member of the New York Red Bulls, was there checking out the college game he eschewed to, you know, make some dough.

Now, I had especially wanted the Terps to do well this year so they might erase the woes of the football team (ineptly managed by a first-year coach) and the emerging woes of the men's basketball team (shakily starting their season under a first-year coach). However, no men's program at College Park is nearly as successful as the Maryland field hockey team which just became National Champions for the fifth time in the last 10 years (even winning back-to-back titles twice in that stretch, including this year.) Obviously, they're doing very well and won't be one of the athletic programs cut from the school budget. Actually, they should probably get more money, press, and notoriety than basketball and football--but we know that won't happen.

At any rate, I was excited to watch the live broadcast of the Terps playoff game on Sunday. I thought they were a lock for the win: a team with regular post-season experience in a third-round game, at home, against Louisville (who, despite being last year's tourney runner-up, was just a mid-conferance squad this season ... in the Big East.) But despite all the Terps' on-field talent and off-field advantages, Louisville burnt them three times (in the same way) for three goals. Though the Terps equalized twice, they evidentally didn't learn to lock down the quick counterattack off a long ball and gave up a goal too late in the game for another comeback. A disappointing result, especially considering this is how I watched them finish their seson twice in college--beaten at home in the third round by an inferior team.

By now it's long time to finish up this post, and all further writing about my Terps soccer fandom, with this:
https://acrobat.com/#d=wq3-SN5HnklixaoSqTjL8Q

It's a scene I wrote last winter for a short-play contest about D.C.-area sports. I actually didn't finish it in time to submit it, though. Eventually, I'll write a post about missed opportunities, risk/reward, and the agony/ecstacy of a soccer match. Until then, you have these few pages--relics from a time when I thought I could possibly try to be a playwright.

A Very Mandy Meal

Before the extravaganza that is the traditional American Thanksgiving, Mandy and I put together a sumptuous for our apartment. It featured Mandy's latest crock-pot concoction ('tis the season, after all): lentil & butternut squash stew. 

Of course, Tim will claim that his meddling monitoring not only contributed to the cook of the stew, but also to preventing the house from burning down. Alongside this hearty stew, I added a loaf of my usual no-knead, no-worry artisan bread, paired the meal with a rather dry, tart Spanish apple cider.

And for those of you not familiar with my aunt: crock-pot meal + mountain of fresh bread + green drink = a very Mandy meal (though I believe a sprinkle-encrusted bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream would also qualify.)   

A Turkey(less) Trot at Coney Island

A month after our triumphs at the Bay Ridge 5K, we took the long train ride out to Coney Island to try our luck on the boardwalk for the 6^th Annual Turkey Trot 5K (the entry fee to which benefited no charity or benevolent cause.) Though closed for the season, Coney Island still offered surf, sand, and Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs. And, of course, the opportunity to punish ourselves for three miles along a windy wooden walkway populated by curious and obstructive onlookers. 

Run (sort of) Far, Run (sort of) Fast: The Story of a 5K in BK

A chilly Sunday morning, and in a few hours, a road race. None of this was new to me, but for my companions, this would be their first 5K run. Having broken in their running shoes with a few neighborhood jogs, they were ready to test their mettle along the Bay Ridge waterfront for the 13^th Annual Race Against Violence put on by the Women Against Violence, a non-profit organization that educates, lobbies, and raises awareness on domestic violence issues. We would be joined by my friend (and fellow runner) Helly. But first, we had our journey to far Brooklyn.  

Dum Dum Girls: Live at Maxwell’s!

Really, it doesn’t take much to get me to check out a show at Maxwell’s. I’ll even go to see two bands I’ve never listened to, just so long as I have the night (and next morning) off. Hell, even if I don’t--but can get to the corner of Washington and 11^th in Hoboken by show time—I’ll be there. Just give me a heads-up is all I’m saying … an hour at least.

Dance and Life Lessons in a Night at BAM

Inspiration … why, and from where, does it come? Although I do like to think it can be found in encounters with the arts—whether visual, literary, or in performance—I feel that often it can come from contact with certain people—either from their advice, or demonstrative example. And when I experience both such opportunities in a single night, I feel that could be blog-worthy.

A New Season of New Possibilities (and Pies)

It's been a long time since I posted here. What have I missed?

Visiting friends ...
A great concert ...
Good meals on rooftops and elsewhere ...

Regardless, summer is behind us and autumn has finally arrived in earnest. Although I would say summer is my favorite, I welcomed the new season by participating in a celebration of its bountiful harvest.



Mine = lower right; Mandy's = upper right

 Mandy and I sprinted to Brooklyn Sunday afternoon carrying two apple pies fresh from the oven. Our destination: Enid's 9th Annual Apple Pie Contest. The only rules: they must have crust, and must have apples. Though we followed those rules to the letter (and just barely got our pies on the table before the entry deadline), we did not come home winners. Not that our pies were bad, but out of the 25+ entries, ours fell short of the lard (just one of them many "useful prizes" awarded.)

Mandy baked a pie with a complex filling--Bourbon-soaked raisins accompanying a sugary/spicy medley of skin-on apples chunks--wrapped in a gorgeous crust decorated with star cutouts and handmade apple-shaped center piece. For my filling, I peeled Rhode Island Greening apples, mixed them with brown sugar, cinnamon, and cloves (and a little lemon juice), and baked them in a thick, buttery crust adorned with an array of cutout NJ shapes. Whether they tasted any good, we weren't even sure. But they certainly looked damn good, though perhaps they could have been cooked a little longer to produce blue-ribbon golden crusts and softer fillings.



pickled egg on a stick? of course!

  Unveiled at Enid's, our pies received a few compliments from on-lookers, but we had to wait for the judges' assessment. In the meantime, we sampled treats from the bar (spike apple cider!) and the kitchen, including corn dogs, sloppy joes, apple fritters, and even pickled eggs on a stick.  Since the barroom was crowded with pies and hungry patrons eyeing them longingly, we took seats outside. The evening was appropriately chilly; a breeze rustled the leaves in McCarren Park, while strollers and cycling hipsters rolled by. After visual inspections and sample tasting, the judges reached a decision: they're were no perfect pies, but they had definite winners for each category. Mandy and I anticipated hearing our number called out. I can only assume she would have bounced with joy if #34 had won, while I would have proudly held my #29 aloft for all to see and behold. Though indeed beautiful, Mandy's did not win "Prettiest Pie." And although unique, mine did not win "visually creative." Feeling snubbed (though still proud of our baking prowess), we retreated to the bar with our umpteenth mug of cider and two hearty helpings of assorted pies. Crust and fillings mashed together, and no one could tell what pie was what, whose was whose--winner or loser.  Drunk and full of pie, we collected our pans (with their delicious dregs), our critiques, and even a corn dog for Tim before heading back to New Jersey.

The air is crisp, the apples ripe, and a new season's potential is palpable and welcome. Our pies can be better, and so can we: so long as we try, fail, learn, and fail better the next time.

Bottling Summer's Bounty: a Tale of Three Jars

 When I have the time, I will go on a frenzy of cooking. This especially true in summer, when I desperately try to make ever meal as light, local, and seasonal as possible. I freely admit that I have a farmer's market fetish, and can never leave the Journal or Union Square Market without a bagful of produce, baked goods, or cheese. I justify it like my concert obsession--I don't have cable, or car insurance, or any of those normal kinds of expenses. So, please, let me have my pursuit of good meals and quality ingredients.

The other night, inspired by my kimchi triumph (see below), I created three concoctions either derived from fresh local ingredients, or destined to complement them: blueberry jam, basil pesto, and ricotta cheese. Each of recipe is rather simple on its own, but attempted all at once late at night ... It's possible to accomplish, but I don't recommend it; my ambitions sometimes get the better of me, but the results are almost always worth it.

The blueberry jam recipe comes courtesy of Mark Bittman at the Times, whose Minimalist column I've been following and cooking from for years. This recipe is incredibly simple, and only requires blueberries, a little sugar, and about 20 minutes of simmering until they've broken down into a syrupy mess. Actually, this warm blue goo would probably be fantastic over pancakes or waffles--and can be used to supplement the whole blueberries in blueberry muffins (before baking, of course.) Instead, I let it cool and congeal in some jars, and will use it with toast over the next week or two. And maybe I'll even save some for Mandy; a notorious blueberry fanatic, she once ate a pint of berries every day for a whole month ... or at least tired to.

While the blubes simmered, I boiled three cups whole milk and a cup of heavy cream until it reached 190-degrees Fahrenheit (having figured out how to actually use the kitchen thermometer helped immensely.) When the milk reached this point, I added some fresh lemon juice and let the whole thing curdle--cheese-making being one of the few times when you actually want milk to become a solid (well, ice cream is pretty good too, but I don't make that--that's strictly Tim's department.) Actually, this experience was a good application of everything I'd learned from Harold McGee in his book On Food and Cooking. Milk's unique molecular and chemical structure were fully demonstrated before my eyes in a novel way (rather than as the foam on my cappuccino, or as poured over my cereal).

curdling

draining

I dumped the curds into a colander lined with cheesecloth, and waited for the whey to drain. Sprinkled with a little salt, it's as fresh and simple as cheese gets. Besides eating it straight, I planned to use ricotta in linguine with sweet cherry tomatoes, but I also had to whip up a quick pesto.

Naturally, I went down to our front "yard" basil plant and, by flashlight, trimmed two cups of huge green leaves. Then I combined them with the traditional accoutrement: olive oil, garlic, parmigiano-reggiano, and toasted pine nuts (do toast them, it's worth the five minutes for that flavor.) Simple, right? Of course, with a recipe of so few ingredients the emphasis falls on the quality and balance of those ingredients. And, as with most recipes, you can alter pesto to your particular taste. One of the best things about pesto (there are several, but I will not explore them here), is it's ability to be frozen, sans cheese. Then come winter, you can thaw some pesto, add a dash of parm and a drizzle of oil and have yourself a taste of summer despite the snow and lack of fresh local vegetables. (If you have a home as well heated as mine, the effect will be complete since you'll almost certainly be wearing shorts--not that I'm complaining ... ) And with that, I tucked my three jars in the fridge and called it a night. The next morning I awoke eager to sample my home-made concoctions.

Check out this (not so) fresh hotness!

See, I told you it would happen. I pickled and spiced napa cabbages using two different recipes back in June/July to create the famous Korean condiment-of-a-thousand-faces known as kimchi. 

The first attempt ... Well, let's just say I have been to wary to eat it since the day I made it. One, it involved some apple sauce, for a sweet tang to go with the spiciness; this seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I'm kind of leary of the results nearly two months later. And two, on the first night of pickling, I was cruelly reminded of the necessity of a loosely-lidded jar to allow gasses to gently escape. Curiosity about my first ever attempt at kimchi led me to open the jar I'd been storing in my roommate's pantry cabinet (Shh! Don't tell him!) A few twists of the the lid, then WHOOSH!--and a stream of sweet/spicy/sour cabbage water sprayed across the counter and me. Oh well. So I cleaned myself up, placed the jar in a plastic bag on the floor of our recycling annex (yes, we have a recycling annex--right next to our dumbwaiter, as a matter of fact), and waited a few more days until it was good and funky before refrigerating. And ... I haven't tried it since--and I have a rather wide and unusual palate.* I have suggested two reasons why--the taste and eruption--but it's probably the third reason that's most accurate: the other recipe is just far better.

You see, I brewed up an truly spicy version for the guests at my uncle's annual Fourth of July picnic, since I knew there would both be an abundance of hot dogs and perhaps a few adventurous eaters who might appreciate a fiery Korean condiment. Actually, if no one else but myself had eaten any kimchi, I still would have been pleased. But apparently, people were really into it (not as much as my home-made limoncello or grilled clams, but I digress.) Months later, Mandy and I still use this kimchi to spike our tacos, sandwiches, and take-out Chinese food. It's good'n'pickled and incredibly hot, but I'd like to do it again--with the authentic Korean chili powder. You see, I live near New York City, so when a recipe suggests you go to an Asian grocery store, I can pretty much go any grocery store and find an plethora of ethnic food aisles. But this time, I really wanted to get it right (and I was glad for an excuse to go on a food adventure in Chinatown), so I went to Hong Kong Supermarket. Surely, a place with live frogs, preserved duck eggs, strange freeze-dried fish, and hundreds of Japanese snacks would have Korean chili powder, right? Apparently not. I searched high and low, found two separate aisles of spices and sauces (of the East Asian and South-East Asian variety), picked up a bottle of srihacha for Maggie since Baltimore is a rooster-less desert, and left with a small bottle of additive-free red chili powder. Not the right kind, surely, but I used the whole damn thing and don't regret it.

Uh-oh! Looks like it's time to make more ...

*Just last week, I bought for myself as little snack I saw while shopping at the grocery store: a can of smoked oysters--not your typical impulse-buy treat. (They were delicious, by the way.)

Driving Mr. McDermott VI: Re-starting (again)

For the first time in months, I spent most of my Saturday behind the wheel of a certain green Toyota Tercel, not much unlike this:

Yes, I re-started my driving lessons (again), a process I began nearly one year ago. Why do I think it’s acceptable to function on the scale of geologic time? Regardless, my hiatus is over—though it was not without its consequences: namely, forgetting how to drive. Fortunately, Mandy reminded me as I walked out the door that the gas is on the right, and the brake on the left. Sure, this got me down the block with my stalwart teacher, Walter, but what would happen at the next intersection—let alone, in traffic?

Jersey City on Two Wheels: Weehawken & Hamilton Park

to enjoy this panoramic view, click to enlarge

For this edition of my semi-regular photo-essay on local attractions accessible with a bicycle, I took a trip outside the Jersey City limits. Yes, I know. I understand your outrage (and the vituperative comments I will surely receive), but please hear me out. Don’t consider this a betrayal of my adopted city; the JC will forever have a special place in my heart and on this blog. But a bright Saturday morning is perfect for a ride to the cliff-top Hamilton Park in nearby Weehawken, a trip I’d like to take you on here—even if you’re unwilling to leave your doorstep, or the familiar streets of Jersey City.

Free Concerts Galore!

Summer in New York, for me at least, is synonymous with eating delicious meals outside (sometimes in a park, sometimes on a sidewalk, but often on a rooftop), going to outdoor concerts, and (when possible) doing both. Usually, the city as a whole can achieve this ultimate aim by attending the New York Philharmonic’s “Concerts in the Parks” series, which brings this illustrious orchestra to each borough (even Staten Island) for a night of classical music—and sometimes fireworks! But this year, due to reasons unexplained (even to me—and I work for it!), the Philharmonic did not conduct this city-wide tour. However, an annual tradition on hiatus (just this one time, we promise), allows us the opportunity to discover other sources of entertainment. Festivals and arts series abound in this city, wherever there is space enough and an organization willing to present the artists. Already I’ve traveled to Red Hook Park for a concert—just one in the massive Summer Stage series put on by the City Parks Foundation, which embraces the entire city by staging concerts of various genres in nearly every sizable park. If you can’t find something to fill your Phil-hole, then you’re not even trying. Theater in the park, migrating street fests, food festivals, beer gardens, outdoor swing dancing, roof-top films … it’s a hectic three months trying to keep up, really.  I, for one, try to go to as many free, outdoor concerts as I can. And thus far, without buying a single ticket, I have enjoyed three summer nights of live music from some of my favorite artists: Andrew Bird, The Decemberists, and Animal Collective.

Catching Up on My June Adventures, Part 2: an Evening in Red Hook

late 19th Century Red Hook

 On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty. 

 I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.

            With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
            The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found: 

Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
            We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.

But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert, every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the music on this night was refreshingly familiar.  

                

*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from Sunny’s bar. Any takers?

Catching Up on My June Adventures ...

When I traveled home last month for my sister’s annual dance recital, I did not expect to experience a gastronomic tour of culinary curiosities in the area of the Delaware/Maryland border. All I had anticipated from this relaxing weekend away from the city was visiting my family, catching up on sleep, watching crappy TV, eating my grandfather's food, and taking in a little ballet. But when my mother declared while driving on I-95 (after picking me up from the Fung-Wah bus drop-off in Wilmington) that she didn’t really know where she was driving, I should have expected we’d end up somewhere wholly unexpected.

Jersey City on Two Wheels: A Three-park Tour

This weekend I decided to string together three small parks into one bike ride/blog post. These parks are all within easy running distance, and I frequently visit them. Nearby and smaller than the previous parks, I overlooked writing a post on them. But I realized that including all three would give both my ride and the post enough distance and material. So, here are three parks tied closely to their respective Jersey City neighborhoods.

Jersey City on Two Wheels: Lincoln Park

Another (rain-free) Saturday morning to cycle about my fair city equals another installment of my series on the best places in Jersey City beyond walking distance of my apartment. (The only truly great, blog-worthy places within walking distance include the Landmark Jersey Loews Theater, and our local churrasquiera.) This time I bring you photographs from Lincoln Park, a valued patch of greenery on the West Side of Jersey City. I first stumbled upon this park on an exploratory walk one evening during my first summer here. Enamored with my discovery, I have returned frequently since then, whether on foot, on a bike, or behind the wheel of a car. And finally, now I can show someone other than Walter what a great park this really is: where joggers and cyclists circle cricket and softball players sharing the inner fields, where tennis and basketball players hit the courts early, where families stroll through the passing seasons, where birds and other wildlife find safe haven, where monuments commemorate chapters of the city's history, and where a solemn statue of a clean-shaven Abraham Lincoln presides.

Return of the Food Market!

Welcome back, Madison Square Food Market—the bane of my budget and waistline (just kidding: I really don’t expect my budget to shrink or my waistline to widen, since both are perpetually small and fluctuate rarely.) It’s been such a long winter in the Flatiron district without. Was it really back in October when I first wrote about your many culinary delights? My, how the time does fly … and this blog sucks just as much as it did then. Oh well … Evidently, the month-long fest was so popular last fall that the organizers brought it back for the spring, with the addition of a few stalls of indie handicraft manufacturers. And along with the surprise of discovering the market’s return a couple weeks ago came the inevitable dread of having to decide what to select from the many options available—and how not to eat everything at once. (Oh, how lucky am I to have an expendable income, general lack of responsibility, and absence of dire life issues. That is why I write this blog after all—so I can gloat over any readers in the Third World who may stumble upon this.)
           
At lunch on the opening day, rather than be experimental with my selection, I decided to go with a sure thing and bee-lined to the Calexico grill cart on the south side of the market. 

Calexico began a few years ago in the early days of the gourmet food-vendor scene by dishing out Cal-Mex on lunch breaks downtown. I’d read that they were turning out some of the best burritos in the city, but never could make it to their cart for lunch. But once, on a trip to Brooklyn, I managed to stop by their recently-built storefront. I had a good pair of tacos, before I became aware of the breadth and diversity of NYC taco scene. This time, however, I chose a carne asada burrito to fill me up for the day—with a dose of their trademark chipotle “crack sauce.” Now, as much as I like Americanized Mexican food and the traditional stuff, I dare not claim to be a connoisseur. I cannot even compare this burrito to one from Chipotle, or that of Dos Toros (an NYC purveyor of Mission-style burritos). But let’s stick to what I do know. Would I have liked more gauc on the burrito? Sure. But, the pressing urgency of the cart’s line did allow for me to go back and request an extra "fwop". But—was the meat both well-seasoned and well-grilled? Yes, and that counts for a lot in my book. And, the crack sauce was definitely worth the extra cost. This would be the point where I include a photograph of a burrito, but I am: a) trending away from being a food pornographer, and b) sorry to report that the awesome delicousness of said burrito did not allow me time for a photo or a spare with which to take it. Moving on …

Last Wednesday, since I had an extended lunch break, I invited my aunt to the market. Last fall, the long lines at Roberta’s had prevented me from getting personal pizza from their wood-fired oven, but now that I had someone to share with, it made sense to order a pair: the SpeckenWolf, and a Bee Sting.  We grabbed them, as well as some sodas concocted from home-made syrups, and found a seat on the lawn in Madison Square Park. A pizza fresh from the oven is something to relish, but we were both too damn hungry—so no pictures! Besides sating me, these pies also inspired me get back to my own pizza-making hobby. (Among my favorites from last summer: a “smoke & fire” pizza featuring soppressata, roasted red peppers, and a touch of liquid smoke; and a dessert-like pizza of arugula and figs with a touch of honey and balsamic vinegar.) For me, the Speckenwolf did not feature enough speck—but it did hit home on the onions and mushrooms. The spicy/sweet flavors of the Bee Sting was more to my liking, and leads me to believe that a combination of my “smoke & fire” pizza with the fig one might just work … Although I’ll probably need a damn thick crust to support all that.

Speaking of fascinating flavor combinations, I discovered more at the goat’s milk ice cream stand. After the pizza, I got a scoop of their salted caramel, which suited me perfectly since my palate enjoys salty/sweet more than spicy/sweet or even sweet/sweet. A couple days later I stopped by for a cone of the flavor my aunt had gotten: bitter chocolate mint. Where my caramel had been a punch of saltiness finished off with a potent sweetness, this ice cream possessed depth and a subtle complexity I did not think possible. Rather than tasting like traditional mint chocolate chip or Thin Mint cookies, I tasted fresh mint—not overpowering, but reminiscent of mint tea, or chewing on mint leaves while playing left field during my family’s annual wiffleball game. And the chocolate had an intricate flavor profile akin to that of a good coffee, good beer, or good wine.

And finally, I treated myself to a pair of hot dogs from Asia Dog—a restaurant that combines two NYC trends: putting Asian condiments on non-Asian food (i.e., Korean tacos), and adorning hot dogs—a sacred New York culinary icon—with a plethora of toppings that make them resemble the dogs served in that “second city,” you know, that one in the Midwest or somewhere. Anyway, I ordered a Thai-style and one with kimchi and nori (seaweed) flakes. The Thai dog (of chicken meat), came with a mango, cukes, onions, cilantro, and, of course, crush peanuts. This was the kind of heft and variety of textures that should appear in a good sandwich, or hot dog for that matter. The kimchi—fermented spicy cabbage—on my beef hot dog wasn’t as tongue-burning as I’d assumed it would be (which is both good and bad), and the nori were too few (granted, this critique comes from someone who has been known to snack on seaweed flakes.) However, I did realize two things: first, kimchi, combining a cool relish with a spicy sauce, is my ideal hot dog topping (sorry, sauerkraut and spicy mustard—we’ll always have the ball park), and second, I could probably make my own kimchi easily, and enjoy it on my hot dogs all summer long. So, the next time I blog on food, it will likely feature my experimentation with jars of fermenting cabbage and a journey in search of Korean chili powder. Bring on summer, and keep the good food coming.

     

Spending time with family in the present ... and of the past

Whenever I manage to escape the city (Jersey City, that is; I escape New York City daily, and yawp triumphantly in the PATH station every time I do.) and visit my family (besides the benevolent and bedeviling aunt and uncle I reside with), I try to split my time evenly between three simple activities: sleeping, eating, and hanging out with my sisters. Often, I manage to do all these quite well, ie. with little time for doing anything else. This was almost the case over the Easter weekend.

First, my grandfather’s insistence on serving meals both larger and more frequently than I am used to deliciously achieved my “eating” goal—and may have actually added a pound or two to my stickly frame. And second, my littlest sister’s endless enthusiasm and glee to have me home ensured hours of playing games and eating Easter candy, studying U.S. geography and checking out her award-winning project on Arizona, or just loafing around watching River Monsters—and even a Lindsey Lohan movie (one I’d never seen before—can you believe that?!). However, the first pillar of my long-weekend plan—sleep—suffered doubly from my proclivity to stay up late and my grandparents’ proclivity to rise with the sun. And amid all this, I cavorted with several young girl cousins, took a nature walk with my lone male cousin on this side of the family (whereupon he told me about all the dangerous creatures that inhabit the southwest United States—including the dreaded chupacabra, so this six-year-old definitely knows his stuff), and participated in an embarrassing Easter egg hunt for the older children (me, my eldest younger sister, and her boyfriend)—embarrassing not only in principle, but in the fact that I couldn’t manage to find a single egg on my own. All in all, pretty much what I expected and desired from such a weekend. But the most profound and enlightening experience was an enjoyable surprise.

 
After lunch one day, my grandmother and her sister sat at the dining room table, leafing through one of their mother’s decaying photo albums. Attracted by the seventy-something-year-old snapshots and an opportunity to learn my family’s history, I joined them for a lesson. The photographic collection from my mother’s mother’s family is surprisingly large, though it has not been kept in the best condition or state or organization, ie. dates and identifying captions. But, between my grandmother’s and great aunt’s recollections and the dozens of black-and-white images, I could grasp a better sense of one quarter of my family tree: a Slovak-Hungarian tribe from in and around Youngstown, Ohio. But let me share some particularly endearing and curious anecdotes from my forbears.
                                            
From one series of photographs, I discovered that my grandmother was as fond of dancing as many of her young granddaughters—and that, as a four-year-old, she eerily resembled one of those cousins. On another page, I learned that there was a penchant for nicknames back in the Thirties and Forties, including one of my grandmother’s great aunts, who went only by “Nanya”—her proper name forgotten and replaced by the word for aunt in Hungarian.

Also in this vein, I learned that the man appearing throughout in the Army uniform was called “Uncle Russian,” despite that fact that he was of Hungarian extraction. And, according to both my family’s account and a newspaper clipping, this man (who was really my grandmother's uncle, named John) became such an avid golfer after the war that he hardly ever took a break from the game for winter—and actually grew a thick beard to both protect his face on the course and to hold his tees.

 I just love these kind of stories and eccentricities, just as much as looking at the photographs themselves—viewing lives so distantly past, yet captured on paper and in memories; lives connected to my own, in ways I’m only just beginning to understand. Like that of my great-grandmother Helen, whom did I know when she was living, but who I now saw as a beaming nineteen-year-old posing with brothers and parents, with no hint of a thought in her head of the two women sitting next to me. And fortunately, those two are not satisfied with the incomplete knowledge of their family they have carried with them from childhood. Speaking about this just last night with my grandmother, she mentioned that she would be contacting some cousins of hers next time she found herself in western Pennsylvania, and might be able to elicit from them the forgotten name of her great aunt. And some of her preliminary research has proven that her father’s father (my great-great-grandfather) had already arrived in this country from Slovakia by 1910. And after she completes the genealogy of her side of the family, then it’s on to my grandfather and his Polish forbears. Oh boy, now there’s a project …

Jersey City on Two Wheels: Liberty State Park

Hello, my avid readers (and those random strangers who may have stumbled upon this site while looking for tips on arranging your own 100 monkey/100 typewriter set-up in your basement). Welcome all!  Since I have recently discovered that my digital camera does not encumber me while pedaling about my fair city, I plan to share with you some of the sights and attractions that make Jersey City just about the greatest city around. Sure, it can be rough for a place to be in the shadow of NYC and to be ridiculed as part of every Jersey joke or slur, but I’ve come to embrace all aspects of the JC: its convenience and frustrating lack thereof, its beauty and rampant ugliness, its history and modern woes. But where else would I live? Brooklyn?  Ha … haha … bwahahahahahaha!

First stop on this virtual tour, the crown jewel of Jersey City’s waterfront redevelopment: Liberty State Park (Okay, okay … any golfer would say it’s actually the adjacent country club that deserves such a designation, but that place is private and extremely exclusive, ie. I cannot shoot a round or bike there. Hence, it will never be mentioned again, and boycotted forthwith.) These photos can only provide a small sense of the wide expanse of rolling parkland and harbor vistas adjacent to those iconic New Jersey landmarks: the Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. (See what I did there? You might think those islands are part of New York State or something like that. Well, that misconception has just been corrected. BOO-YAH! Tell your friends—you’ll seem smart. Or just a snarky know-it-all. And if that’s the case, then you’re better off without those friends anyway.) Thus, the best way to experience the park is to visit yourself—preferably on a bike, and never as part of a half-marathon. Now, I’m no J. Moskowitz or M. Crenshaw when it comes to capturing gorgeous snapshots of my travels, so please bear with the results of my photographic endeavors, and (if you can) enjoy them.

from the center of the park you can see Manhattan, and ...

 ... Ellis Island, and ...

... the Statue of Liberty.

the Goldman-Sachs building in JC, with the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings in the background

the nature center

my bike and the view

the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge connects Brooklyn (left) and Staten Island (right)

gulls, piers, and the port of Elizabeth, NJ

 

 

what lives in the water?

one of my favorites

and another

 a river monster?!

Brooklyn Bridge!

Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island

lower Manhattan

Jersey City, new and old

inside the former terminal for the Central Railroad of New Jersey

exterior of the CRRNJ building

farewell Liberty State Park