I was really down this morning, but I managed to drag myself to pilates class, with the mental promise that I would treat myself to Shake Shack afterwards.
During class, it got dark and stormy out, exciting my hunger for Shake Shack even more. I figured if it was raining, the line wouldn't be so bad.
I left class early as I often do when I'm really achey, and bolted out into the rain under the protection of my umbrella. Some other folks weren't quite so prepared, but they didn't care: instead of seeking shelter inside Home Depot or running to Duane Reade for a cheap umbrella, they just went on their merry way, hustling down 23rd Street, turning plastic bags into makeshift headcoverings and ponchos.
I didn't care either. I was wearing my flip flops and gym clothes, with no particular place to go - except Shake Shack. I'd already missed two M23 busses, so either way I had to walk that way home.
I guess not surprisingly, despite the rain, there was quite a line at Shake Shack, but not nearly as bad as the wait would be on a nice Saturday. Standing silently in the rain, none of us there waiting would look at each other. Were we all just crazy? Maybe so, because I was having a good time, even with Audra Rox playing her kiddie concert on the nearby stage (with catchy songs like "Sugar High" and "Short Attention Span").
Of course, like any other day at Shake Shack, you have to wait again once you've ordered your food, and that's where things got hairy today. No cups for the ketchup and mustard, no straws, too many umbrellas crammed below the overhang that didn't really keep the rain out. And then...it began to pour. It poured so much the concert had to stop. It was pouring so hard that when I saw a soaked guy with two little kids and no umbrella run under the overpass, I immediately hoisted my umbrella above them (turns out it was my friend Jeff from Naked Angels!).
It's funny how it took a little rain (well, ok, a lot) to put a smile on my face. And by the time I got to E. 25th and Third Ave, the rain had stopped and the sun was beating down again. It was sticky out and I was soaked, still cradling my Shake Shack paper bag in my arms to protect it on the way home, with only two blocks to go.
Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
May 31, 2008
The 40-Year-Old Verge
I braved the throngs of sundress-wearing, huge bag-toting girls in their 20s at the movie theater yesterday to catch the 3:15 screening of the Sex and the City movie. I've never seen such a homogeneous crowd at one movie.
Of course, Edith and I claim that we're nothing like those other girls, but we were there, weren't we?
I haven't always been a fan. Having never paid for HBO at home, I'd only caught episodes of SATC on business trips, and I was always annoyed by Carrie's "And I began to wonder..." voiceovers, which is basically the same reason I hate Gossip Girl. But once it went into syndication and I could catch it every night on the CW or TBS before bed, I became addicted. The characters are so flawed. In fact, the media coverage of the show is totally different than the heart of the show. It's not about fashion! It's about digging cigarettes out of the gutter, farting in bed, and falling on your face.
The movie version stays true to that, maybe even more so. You feel the self-consciousness of Carrie, the 40-year-old bride. You see the age on her face, the bags under her eyes. In fact, all four of them age only as gracefully as one can in New York (or, in Samantha's case, under the magnifying glass of LA). The only one who seems happy and trouble-free is also the one who looks the youngest (Kristin Davis' slapstick charicature Charlotte).
The other night, Eric mentioned something about how Sex and the City is basically turning into The Golden Girls, and he's not too far off. But how is it that at age 40 and 50, things aren't nearly any easier? How is it after 20 or 30 years of practice, these women still can't get it right? And for me, feeling like I'm already on the verge of 40, what can there possibly be for me to look forward to?
I project myself too much into movies. I guess that's what makes me a good moviegoer (at least for the studios that need my $11.75). But I spent pretty much the last half of the movie, which was probably a half hour too long, on the verge of tears.
After the movie, I was all alone, with no plans for another couple of hours, so I decided to take advantage of the early hour and get myself a seat at the Gramercy Tavern bar. I was hoping the Orange Blossom cocktail - made with sparkling Gruner Veltliner, bitters, sugar and an orange peel - would make me feel better, but I downed it too quickly and followed it with a glass of lambrusco and a glass of Pinot Noir sparkling rose. I just kept feeling worse, even while eating delicious roasted cauliflower (with almonds and raisins) and chicken liver mousse on buttery toast.
I bailed on my later plans in favor of stumbling home and going to bed at 7:30 p.m. (missing the stunning Manhattanhenge sundown which has made its way into my photo blog in the past). I figured I might wake up on my own around 11 or 12 and would send myself back out into the city, or I might sleep through the night, but either way, at that moment, I could not deal.
I ended up sleeping through the night, getting 13 hours of supposed rest that was filled with dreams of my sister and my mom, something about wanting to go to the beach and some overlying theme of Moby Dick. I woke up exhausted and still depressed. Of course, nothing had actually changed about my life in those 13 hours - only the chicken liver no longer filled my stomach and the wine had worked its way through my own liver.
And as I lie in bed, eyes closed to avoid the clock, I began to wonder: can you actually find love, or do you have to build it, buy it, design it or just let it find you?
Of course, Edith and I claim that we're nothing like those other girls, but we were there, weren't we?
I haven't always been a fan. Having never paid for HBO at home, I'd only caught episodes of SATC on business trips, and I was always annoyed by Carrie's "And I began to wonder..." voiceovers, which is basically the same reason I hate Gossip Girl. But once it went into syndication and I could catch it every night on the CW or TBS before bed, I became addicted. The characters are so flawed. In fact, the media coverage of the show is totally different than the heart of the show. It's not about fashion! It's about digging cigarettes out of the gutter, farting in bed, and falling on your face.
The movie version stays true to that, maybe even more so. You feel the self-consciousness of Carrie, the 40-year-old bride. You see the age on her face, the bags under her eyes. In fact, all four of them age only as gracefully as one can in New York (or, in Samantha's case, under the magnifying glass of LA). The only one who seems happy and trouble-free is also the one who looks the youngest (Kristin Davis' slapstick charicature Charlotte).
The other night, Eric mentioned something about how Sex and the City is basically turning into The Golden Girls, and he's not too far off. But how is it that at age 40 and 50, things aren't nearly any easier? How is it after 20 or 30 years of practice, these women still can't get it right? And for me, feeling like I'm already on the verge of 40, what can there possibly be for me to look forward to?
I project myself too much into movies. I guess that's what makes me a good moviegoer (at least for the studios that need my $11.75). But I spent pretty much the last half of the movie, which was probably a half hour too long, on the verge of tears.
After the movie, I was all alone, with no plans for another couple of hours, so I decided to take advantage of the early hour and get myself a seat at the Gramercy Tavern bar. I was hoping the Orange Blossom cocktail - made with sparkling Gruner Veltliner, bitters, sugar and an orange peel - would make me feel better, but I downed it too quickly and followed it with a glass of lambrusco and a glass of Pinot Noir sparkling rose. I just kept feeling worse, even while eating delicious roasted cauliflower (with almonds and raisins) and chicken liver mousse on buttery toast.I bailed on my later plans in favor of stumbling home and going to bed at 7:30 p.m. (missing the stunning Manhattanhenge sundown which has made its way into my photo blog in the past). I figured I might wake up on my own around 11 or 12 and would send myself back out into the city, or I might sleep through the night, but either way, at that moment, I could not deal.I ended up sleeping through the night, getting 13 hours of supposed rest that was filled with dreams of my sister and my mom, something about wanting to go to the beach and some overlying theme of Moby Dick. I woke up exhausted and still depressed. Of course, nothing had actually changed about my life in those 13 hours - only the chicken liver no longer filled my stomach and the wine had worked its way through my own liver.
And as I lie in bed, eyes closed to avoid the clock, I began to wonder: can you actually find love, or do you have to build it, buy it, design it or just let it find you?
May 30, 2008
Hitting My Stride
I got through yesterday by just looking forward to having a nice dinner and going to The Johnnie Walker Journey, a private scotch tasting event that I managed to get invited to. There's really something wrong when the only thing that gets you through the workday is the promise of free scotch after work, but you do what you can.
We left work early for us to grab some dinner at Market Table, which is a total 180 from its prior occupant, Shopsin's. The exposed brick and chalkboard wall create a gorgeous, rustic, country market look - similar to what Borough Food & Drink is going for but with better food.
Edith is a good dinner partner because she likes to split dishes, so we got the skate on white gazpacho with green grapes, and a side of asparagus with egg and parmesan. One of the highlights of my entire evening was sticking my fork into the glistening yolk and watching it burst. It was almost better than actually eating it.
A couple of unnecessary wines in our bellies, we strode over to Skylight Studios for the Johnnie Walker tasting. A free cocktail, a few snacks and a lot of douchebags later, we finally got to run through the gamut of Johnnie Walker colors: the basic black, the chilled gold, the mixer red, the earthy green, and the premium blue (another highlight, served in a snifter). Each tasting was a pretty small portion, but in aggregate, we'd had quite a bit of scotch which made the evening go by pretty fast.
After kind of a late night, I was lucky enough to be able to work from home today, conducting conference calls from my home phone and laying in bed with the laptop on my legs. Resting up for more adventures. No more work til Monday.
We left work early for us to grab some dinner at Market Table, which is a total 180 from its prior occupant, Shopsin's. The exposed brick and chalkboard wall create a gorgeous, rustic, country market look - similar to what Borough Food & Drink is going for but with better food.Edith is a good dinner partner because she likes to split dishes, so we got the skate on white gazpacho with green grapes, and a side of asparagus with egg and parmesan. One of the highlights of my entire evening was sticking my fork into the glistening yolk and watching it burst. It was almost better than actually eating it.
A couple of unnecessary wines in our bellies, we strode over to Skylight Studios for the Johnnie Walker tasting. A free cocktail, a few snacks and a lot of douchebags later, we finally got to run through the gamut of Johnnie Walker colors: the basic black, the chilled gold, the mixer red, the earthy green, and the premium blue (another highlight, served in a snifter). Each tasting was a pretty small portion, but in aggregate, we'd had quite a bit of scotch which made the evening go by pretty fast.After kind of a late night, I was lucky enough to be able to work from home today, conducting conference calls from my home phone and laying in bed with the laptop on my legs. Resting up for more adventures. No more work til Monday.
May 26, 2008
Escape In New York
The city was empty this weekend, but I stuck around. While everybody else was laying out at the beach, I was getting my nails done at the salon that was closing early. I was grocery shopping without waiting in line. I was doing laundry without fighting for a dryer.
But today, on the holiday, I got the chance to get out of Manhattan a bit and do some city exploring. First, we went to City Island - my first excursion there - for som
e fried seafood by the water at Johnny's Reef Restaurant, a counter service fish shack with outdoor picnic table dining and different lines for fried, steamed, and raw food selections. Like something you might see at Coney Island but much tastier, adding to the Reef's ambiance was a flock of seagulls and a cool breeze with the hot sun beating on our backs (giving me a burn despite only being out there for a half hour). The steamed clams were big and meaty - though no match for the giant mussels I'd had at Bar Jamon the night before - and the fried filet of sole rivaled the fried haddock I'd eaten at the Clam Bar in North Syracuse. With $3 cans of beer to wash everything down, it was a uniquely New England habor town by-way-of-the-Bronx experience.
City Island was founded in 1685 and has managed to fly under the radar for most New Yorkers, at least the imports into the city who think the only island in the metropolitan area is Manhattan. While Eric dreamed of buying a cottage there, we managed to walk down the main drag of the island without buying a yacht or taking sailboat lessons, but we did get some soft serve at Lickety Split which reminded me of the ice cream stands we all take for granted Upstate. Today, we only had to drive 20 minutes north to find a cool delicious treat that was just as good.
There is a beach nearby, but we skipped it and instead went island-hopping to Randall's Island for some miniature golf in the much-needed shade. With two different courses and only $6 per person to play, the Randall's Island golf center - which also has driving ranges next door to batting cages - is a great escape if you have a car, and not too hard to get to via public transportation or, better yet, car service. Plus like any good amusement park or miniature golf course, there are waterfalls, fountains, caves, Stonehenge-like rock formations, and trees that completely surround you and make you forget you're in the city. I scored the worst out of the three of us, but I didn't do too bad considering the last time I played was in blacklight at Palisades and, before that, in high school.
There's plenty of time for me to beach myself this summer, so I'm glad I got to take advantage of the nice weather this weekend and enjoy the city sights, especially since I've been away so much lately. And what islands are next? Rikers? Roosevelt? If I'm lucky, I'll avoid Wards Island, as long as I can avoid being diagnosed criminally insane.
Island Hopping: A Place Where Cape Cod Meets the Bronx - The New York Times
Miniature Golf Beckons - The New York Times
But today, on the holiday, I got the chance to get out of Manhattan a bit and do some city exploring. First, we went to City Island - my first excursion there - for som
e fried seafood by the water at Johnny's Reef Restaurant, a counter service fish shack with outdoor picnic table dining and different lines for fried, steamed, and raw food selections. Like something you might see at Coney Island but much tastier, adding to the Reef's ambiance was a flock of seagulls and a cool breeze with the hot sun beating on our backs (giving me a burn despite only being out there for a half hour). The steamed clams were big and meaty - though no match for the giant mussels I'd had at Bar Jamon the night before - and the fried filet of sole rivaled the fried haddock I'd eaten at the Clam Bar in North Syracuse. With $3 cans of beer to wash everything down, it was a uniquely New England habor town by-way-of-the-Bronx experience.City Island was founded in 1685 and has managed to fly under the radar for most New Yorkers, at least the imports into the city who think the only island in the metropolitan area is Manhattan. While Eric dreamed of buying a cottage there, we managed to walk down the main drag of the island without buying a yacht or taking sailboat lessons, but we did get some soft serve at Lickety Split which reminded me of the ice cream stands we all take for granted Upstate. Today, we only had to drive 20 minutes north to find a cool delicious treat that was just as good.
There is a beach nearby, but we skipped it and instead went island-hopping to Randall's Island for some miniature golf in the much-needed shade. With two different courses and only $6 per person to play, the Randall's Island golf center - which also has driving ranges next door to batting cages - is a great escape if you have a car, and not too hard to get to via public transportation or, better yet, car service. Plus like any good amusement park or miniature golf course, there are waterfalls, fountains, caves, Stonehenge-like rock formations, and trees that completely surround you and make you forget you're in the city. I scored the worst out of the three of us, but I didn't do too bad considering the last time I played was in blacklight at Palisades and, before that, in high school.There's plenty of time for me to beach myself this summer, so I'm glad I got to take advantage of the nice weather this weekend and enjoy the city sights, especially since I've been away so much lately. And what islands are next? Rikers? Roosevelt? If I'm lucky, I'll avoid Wards Island, as long as I can avoid being diagnosed criminally insane.
Island Hopping: A Place Where Cape Cod Meets the Bronx - The New York Times
Miniature Golf Beckons - The New York Times
May 24, 2008
Top Eater?
I've recently become obsessed with the Bravo TV show Top Chef, courtesy of JetBlue's live TV allowing me to catch a marathon or two on business trip flights. It's not surprising, though, if you know my love of food and, well, eating.
People often ask me if I'm in the restaurant business, maybe because I hang out in bars and at restaurants by myself, or maybe because I get so comfortable at places like Bar Jamon that I just start handing menus to people and explaining the dishes to them.
People often ask me if I'm in the restaurant business, maybe because I hang out in bars and at restaurants by myself, or maybe because I get so comfortable at places like Bar Jamon that I just start handing menus to people and explaining the dishes to them.
On Thursday I was trying to reacclimate to New York City so I took a personal day and took myself to lunch at Bar Boulud, which I haven't been able to get into each time I just happen to be in the Lincoln Center neighborhood. But since I'd visited Daniel's brasserie in Vegas, I was dying to try another of his restaurants, so I planned ahead this time and went when I could actually get a seat. Since I was alone, I sat at the bar and chatted up the meat guy, spirals of black and white sausage nesting in the glass case between us, terrines and head cheese glistening. He, too, asked me if I was in the restaurant business, but as I patted a slice of beef cheek on my toast points, I said, "No, I just really like to eat."
Thursday night I finally made it to Gottino for their seasonal fava crostini, some other snacks and lots of wine.
Between yesterday and today, I've been to Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill twice, once to 
It's a long weekend and there are lots of restaurants to conquer, lots of untried menu items at familiar restaurants. Now that I'm finally back home and here for a while, I'm happy to put my wanderlust to good use right here in my own backyard. And although I will never myself ever be a Top Chef, there are plenty I can chase down for their delicious recipes and lovely establishments.
New Word: Brochebag
There's plenty of bro-cabulary out there referring to the characteristics and behavioral patterns of bros. In fact, the word "bro" came into mass popularity after the infamous "Don't tase me bro" phenom, because the worst part is, often a "bro" is a guy that calls other guys "bro."
So here's a new word that encapsulates the ultimate, insufferable dude that brings together the worst of two worlds:
Brochebag: (noun) the unfortunate combination of a bro and a douchebag
And we all know one of them.
I'm pretty sure I made this word up. Nothing comes up when you Google it.
So here's a new word that encapsulates the ultimate, insufferable dude that brings together the worst of two worlds:
Brochebag: (noun) the unfortunate combination of a bro and a douchebag
And we all know one of them.
I'm pretty sure I made this word up. Nothing comes up when you Google it.
May 20, 2008
Missing New York
I was missing New York tonight a little bit, so I insisted we have dinner at the Orlando outpost of Il Mulino.
It's not like I ever get to eat at the original location on Third Street anyway, though a block away from work but too expensive and family-style for my normal personal budget. But I wanted some nice Italian wine and snacks, and since somebody else was buying, the deal was sealed.
It sure was satisfying too, trying every color of wine (Pinot Grigio, Montepulciano and a sparkling rose) and a variety of vegetables including Caesar salad, peas with pancetta, and broccoli rabe with sausage and cherry peppers. And rice balls. It was a beautiful thing.
What was even better was being taken out. I could get used to this pampering: the bellmen who scramble to help passersby, the Dutchman at check-in who declared us friends when he found out I was from Bavaria, the lifeguards watching my every move in the wave pool...
I guess going to the kids' conference turned out to be not so bad. Especially since I won an award today.
It's not like I ever get to eat at the original location on Third Street anyway, though a block away from work but too expensive and family-style for my normal personal budget. But I wanted some nice Italian wine and snacks, and since somebody else was buying, the deal was sealed.It sure was satisfying too, trying every color of wine (Pinot Grigio, Montepulciano and a sparkling rose) and a variety of vegetables including Caesar salad, peas with pancetta, and broccoli rabe with sausage and cherry peppers. And rice balls. It was a beautiful thing.
What was even better was being taken out. I could get used to this pampering: the bellmen who scramble to help passersby, the Dutchman at check-in who declared us friends when he found out I was from Bavaria, the lifeguards watching my every move in the wave pool...
I guess going to the kids' conference turned out to be not so bad. Especially since I won an award today.
May 19, 2008
How Far We've Come
I had to blink my eyes a few times. I wasn't wearing my contacts, and I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing. But it was true, I was swimming with real live ducks.
I'd hightailed it to the pool upon arrival at the Disney Yacht Club Resort, remembering three years ago when I'd watched the Magic Kingdom nightly fireworks from my watery repose. But this year I'd become impatient, bored with swimming in circles and letting the fake tide carry me along - until I saw the ducks.
I was surrounded by the scent of lilac and the literal quacking of two different live ducks, who sailed along with me til they got bored and beached themselves on the concrete sidewalk, flying away when curious toddlers approached. Each photo I tried to take with my camera phone turned out like those of the Loch Ness Monster or the Abominable Snowman. I doubt anyone will believe me that they were really there.
In a way, it wasn't so different from the zoological experience I'd had in Syracuse at Maria's house, which is laden with several different species of animals, all living relatively harmoniously together. But Syracuse had been 40 degrees today, so I appreciated the 80+ degree heat I was cooling off from in the pool.
I got too impatient for the fireworks, which started sporadically and so inconsistently that I gave up and got dressed for dinner. I wanted to try the Todd English restaurant BlueZoo at the resort next door, and suddenly that became more important than fireworks that could never compare to the ones I'd seen on the beach at Coney Island in September.
During my vacation weekend, I'd really experienced a taste of Syracuse, authentic home-cooking whose local flavor rivaled that of my new hometown NYC (including an amazing Grandma slice from Mr. P's Pizza, the former Mike's, the former Paladino's, the former Papa John's). After discovering my love for the "Syracuse salt potatoes" that they serve at Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem (but not at the Syracuse outpost), Maria offered to make them as an accompaniment to our Sunday night cookout. I was so excited, but they seem simple enough: it's a bag of small, thin-skinned potatoes that comes with a packet of salt. But somehow when served with butter (and the requisite grilled meat), the potatoes transform into something heavenly and addictive. The most famous packagers of salt potatoes have a restaurant in North Syracuse - yet another stop I must make when I'm back home.
But tonight, travelling on business in Orlando, my palate reverted to more of its metropolitan character, so I braved BlueZoo alone. Typically, the waiters and bus boys took extra care with me, but of course sitting alone, I was relegated to the job of photographer for the tourists sitting at the table next to me. Once my food came, though, no one could distract me from it. I started with a romaine heart salad that was served with elephant garlic crisps and a generous drizzle of dressing that tasted more buttermilk ranch than Caesar, paired with some tastes from the bread basket and fennel butter. Then I washed down my seared scallops with braised beef short ribs on a cauliflower puree with a surprising Chardonnay-Viognier blend from Sonoma. Still working on my food - including the lobster broccoli cheddar baked potato side dish, I finished the evening with an effervescent Austrian Gruner that prepared my palate poorly for the chocolate ganache cake I indulged in for dessert, but I didn't care.
Three years ago when I stayed at this resort for the same conference, I spent my nights at Downtown Disney / Pleasure Island, getting drunk, getting conventioneers to buy me drinks, taking part in the neon touristiness of it all. This year, I just wanted to have a nice glass of wine, sit in a dark restaurant, and be alone with my thoughts. I couldn't wait to get back to my room and write.
Look how far I've come.
I'd hightailed it to the pool upon arrival at the Disney Yacht Club Resort, remembering three years ago when I'd watched the Magic Kingdom nightly fireworks from my watery repose. But this year I'd become impatient, bored with swimming in circles and letting the fake tide carry me along - until I saw the ducks.
I was surrounded by the scent of lilac and the literal quacking of two different live ducks, who sailed along with me til they got bored and beached themselves on the concrete sidewalk, flying away when curious toddlers approached. Each photo I tried to take with my camera phone turned out like those of the Loch Ness Monster or the Abominable Snowman. I doubt anyone will believe me that they were really there.
In a way, it wasn't so different from the zoological experience I'd had in Syracuse at Maria's house, which is laden with several different species of animals, all living relatively harmoniously together. But Syracuse had been 40 degrees today, so I appreciated the 80+ degree heat I was cooling off from in the pool.
I got too impatient for the fireworks, which started sporadically and so inconsistently that I gave up and got dressed for dinner. I wanted to try the Todd English restaurant BlueZoo at the resort next door, and suddenly that became more important than fireworks that could never compare to the ones I'd seen on the beach at Coney Island in September.
During my vacation weekend, I'd really experienced a taste of Syracuse, authentic home-cooking whose local flavor rivaled that of my new hometown NYC (including an amazing Grandma slice from Mr. P's Pizza, the former Mike's, the former Paladino's, the former Papa John's). After discovering my love for the "Syracuse salt potatoes" that they serve at Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem (but not at the Syracuse outpost), Maria offered to make them as an accompaniment to our Sunday night cookout. I was so excited, but they seem simple enough: it's a bag of small, thin-skinned potatoes that comes with a packet of salt. But somehow when served with butter (and the requisite grilled meat), the potatoes transform into something heavenly and addictive. The most famous packagers of salt potatoes have a restaurant in North Syracuse - yet another stop I must make when I'm back home.But tonight, travelling on business in Orlando, my palate reverted to more of its metropolitan character, so I braved BlueZoo alone. Typically, the waiters and bus boys took extra care with me, but of course sitting alone, I was relegated to the job of photographer for the tourists sitting at the table next to me. Once my food came, though, no one could distract me from it. I started with a romaine heart salad that was served with elephant garlic crisps and a generous drizzle of dressing that tasted more buttermilk ranch than Caesar, paired with some tastes from the bread basket and fennel butter. Then I washed down my seared scallops with braised beef short ribs on a cauliflower puree with a surprising Chardonnay-Viognier blend from Sonoma. Still working on my food - including the lobster broccoli cheddar baked potato side dish, I finished the evening with an effervescent Austrian Gruner that prepared my palate poorly for the chocolate ganache cake I indulged in for dessert, but I didn't care.Three years ago when I stayed at this resort for the same conference, I spent my nights at Downtown Disney / Pleasure Island, getting drunk, getting conventioneers to buy me drinks, taking part in the neon touristiness of it all. This year, I just wanted to have a nice glass of wine, sit in a dark restaurant, and be alone with my thoughts. I couldn't wait to get back to my room and write.
Look how far I've come.
May 17, 2008
My Eyes Have Seen the Glory...
I went home to Syracuse yesterday for Maria's birthday, which inevitably turns into a birthday weekend. It was good timing since I have to fly to Orlando for work on Monday, and it's just as easy to fly there on JetBlue from Syracuse as from JFK. Besides, I get some quality time with family, and I got to be here when they got their newest addition to their home, otherwise known as Wild Kingdom.
You would think a household with three cats, two ferrets, a bearded dragon, a sugar glider, a Husky and several creatures in a fish tank wouldn't need any more company, but they decided to get an eight-week-old Husky puppy, and he sure is a cute little boy.
We picked him up from the breeder's house in Pulaski, and on the 45-minute drive out there, I started to think I could actually live there. We passed a tiny cemetery with ancient headstones, and a construction site where a diner had been torn down but the DINER sign still loomed above the highway, exciting my inner explorer. Then I saw where the breeder lives: in a gorgeous farm house with a ton of property, horses, and 20+ dogs (one of which was a black poodle that kept biting my butt). Ever since Death Valley, I'm way into remote locations and getting in touch with nature. I may need to move.
On the ride back, the new puppy mostly slept on my lap, except for when I tried to feed him water out of a Dasani bottle and soaked myself. Baby boy promptly began lapping up my skirt. It got weird.
But he's a total joy and makes you see life in a total new way, watching him learn how to walk up stairs, how to carry things in his mouth, how to eat peanut butter to cure the hiccups. Of course, that's all I need, something else to give me an existential crisis. And although it's not really making my biological clock go off, it is making me want to live somewhere I could actually have pets.
My new eyes have seen lots of other interesting things in Syracuse this weekend, like the old sanitorium that's part of Van Duyn where we visited Maria's grandmother, and the War of 1812 cemetery across the turnpike. I think if I hadn't grown up here and didn't have so many bad memories, I'd be more inclined to go exploring on my own. But I kind of prefer just driving around in the car with Maria, who always seems to know where she's going, and press my face up against the passenger side window and say things like, "Ooh! What's that?"
That's how I discovered The Clam Bar, which we decided to go back to today for lunch. A nice fish shack in the middle of North Syracuse, The Clam Bar serves the usual battery of surf and turf that you can get fried, broiled, sauteed, Cajun spiced, buttered and garlicked. I had the "award-winning" clam chowder (deserving) and the house specialty fried haddock sandwich whose crispy fillet couldn't be contained by the sandwich roll, and whose steamy insides squirted hot boiling fish juice on my cheek as soon as I took my first bite. That place is a real find in Syracuse, and immediately I wanted to bring all of my New York friends there for some clams casino washed down with a draught pint of Labatt Blue.
Sure, normally I like to visit my favorite chains while in Syracuse, and we did make our requisite stop to Pizza Hut upon my arrival. But since my teenage idea of a nice date was Olive Garden, and my parents' idea of dining out when we were little was Burger King, I now like to explore the same types of charming, locally-owned pig-out destinations in Syracuse as I discover when travelling elsewhere.
The greater Syracuse area has never felt very familiar to me. I still get lost if I have to navigate my own way around when I visit. So I know there's a lot I haven't seen, and someday I'd like to try those diners we passed on the way out to Pulaski - the ones that haven't been torn down yet. And I'd like to get there before Guy Fieri discovers them!
You would think a household with three cats, two ferrets, a bearded dragon, a sugar glider, a Husky and several creatures in a fish tank wouldn't need any more company, but they decided to get an eight-week-old Husky puppy, and he sure is a cute little boy.
We picked him up from the breeder's house in Pulaski, and on the 45-minute drive out there, I started to think I could actually live there. We passed a tiny cemetery with ancient headstones, and a construction site where a diner had been torn down but the DINER sign still loomed above the highway, exciting my inner explorer. Then I saw where the breeder lives: in a gorgeous farm house with a ton of property, horses, and 20+ dogs (one of which was a black poodle that kept biting my butt). Ever since Death Valley, I'm way into remote locations and getting in touch with nature. I may need to move.
On the ride back, the new puppy mostly slept on my lap, except for when I tried to feed him water out of a Dasani bottle and soaked myself. Baby boy promptly began lapping up my skirt. It got weird.But he's a total joy and makes you see life in a total new way, watching him learn how to walk up stairs, how to carry things in his mouth, how to eat peanut butter to cure the hiccups. Of course, that's all I need, something else to give me an existential crisis. And although it's not really making my biological clock go off, it is making me want to live somewhere I could actually have pets.
My new eyes have seen lots of other interesting things in Syracuse this weekend, like the old sanitorium that's part of Van Duyn where we visited Maria's grandmother, and the War of 1812 cemetery across the turnpike. I think if I hadn't grown up here and didn't have so many bad memories, I'd be more inclined to go exploring on my own. But I kind of prefer just driving around in the car with Maria, who always seems to know where she's going, and press my face up against the passenger side window and say things like, "Ooh! What's that?"
That's how I discovered The Clam Bar, which we decided to go back to today for lunch. A nice fish shack in the middle of North Syracuse, The Clam Bar serves the usual battery of surf and turf that you can get fried, broiled, sauteed, Cajun spiced, buttered and garlicked. I had the "award-winning" clam chowder (deserving) and the house specialty fried haddock sandwich whose crispy fillet couldn't be contained by the sandwich roll, and whose steamy insides squirted hot boiling fish juice on my cheek as soon as I took my first bite. That place is a real find in Syracuse, and immediately I wanted to bring all of my New York friends there for some clams casino washed down with a draught pint of Labatt Blue.Sure, normally I like to visit my favorite chains while in Syracuse, and we did make our requisite stop to Pizza Hut upon my arrival. But since my teenage idea of a nice date was Olive Garden, and my parents' idea of dining out when we were little was Burger King, I now like to explore the same types of charming, locally-owned pig-out destinations in Syracuse as I discover when travelling elsewhere.The greater Syracuse area has never felt very familiar to me. I still get lost if I have to navigate my own way around when I visit. So I know there's a lot I haven't seen, and someday I'd like to try those diners we passed on the way out to Pulaski - the ones that haven't been torn down yet. And I'd like to get there before Guy Fieri discovers them!
May 15, 2008
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