You can take the girl outta the city…

My younger brother (we’re 11 years apart), who I affectionately called Waterhead as a child (pictured right in his new apartment), is getting married in three weeks. I give him much props because he’s doing thangs in a way I should have: he dated his fiancé for 8 years (an educated gal with a Master’s in special ed); moved into a nice starter apartment in downtown Brooklyn earlier this year, which is a ten-minute drive from lovely Brooklyn Heights; and has been at the same job, which he loves, for almost ten years. Can you tell I’m a proud older sister? If I could get back…maybe…15 years of my life (sigh!) it’s no use crying over spilt milk. But enough about him, let’s get this blog entry on track and talk about me.

My brother, ever stressed about his upcoming nuptials, needed a wedding coordinator. Enter: big sister. It’s not as stressful as you might think; they only need me to make sure the wedding goes on schedule, to emcee the reception…oh yeah…and possibly write wedding vows. I’m tickled to do all of the above; lighting fires under people’s asses, running my mouth on a microphone, and writing love stuff is my bag, baby!

View of high-rise next door from my brother's living room window

So that nothing gets misinterpreted and I’m clear on what they expect from me ( ’cause I’m all about the clarity, I get irritable when confusion runs amuck) I decided to drive down to my place of birth, Brooklyn, New York, and check out my brother’s new digs. Lawdy, lawdy, has Brooklyn changed! Oh it’s still dirty, but there are so many new luxury high-rises competing for your attention you barely notice the grime. My brother showed me around his building (the heated swimming pool, the lounge area with movie theater, the exercise room, the basketball/racket ball court) before we settled down to business. Afterwards, there was only one thing that had to be done before I trekked back to Connecticut: eat, dammnit! My brother and his fiancé are avid diners, they eat, sleep and breathe the city so they took me to a New Yawk Italian restaurant in Brooklyn Heights.

View of Ellis Island from the Brooklyn Promenade

Even though I was born and partially-raised in Bedford-Styvesant, Brooklyn (we moved to Queens when I was 9), I’ve always had a special affinity for Brooklyn Heights. Walking the Brooklyn Promenade always renewed my energy as a New Yorker, a place where you could escape the rat race and just revel in the glory of the most busiest cities on the planet. I admit it was difficult to process it all and because I had been away from the city for 20 years I had to ask my brother to point out Staten Island, New Jersey, the Verrazano Bridge, Ellis Island, Governors Island, the Chrysler Building. But, oh, I had no problem IDing the Brooklyn Bridge or the South Street Seaport, my second favorite place in NY next to the Promenade.

View of the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline

There were butterflies flittering and fluttering abound along that stretch of track; owners with their dogs sitting on benches with dog-eared paperbacks and mothers pushing the cadillac of strollers while basking in the bright sunshine. The New Yorker in me was pained to see the skyline without the twin towers, like a smile with missing front teeth, but I reveled in the beauty of the view nonetheless. With my trusty iPhone I took pictures like a tourist, desperate to record this wonderful moment in time when I reconnected with the city that shaped me. I have to thank my brother for that, he transferred his love for the city onto me for that brief moment. It was a great day and the next time I plan to bring my Canon Rebel to really do some damage. My brother is curious about Boston and I’m eager to take him on the T, the cleanliness of the Metro will blow his mind!

Could I be tempted to return to NYC? Perhaps. I’d be moving back on my own terms, 20 years older, wiser and a damn sight more educated than I was when I left. The demons that chased me out have vaporized thanks to time (read my last blog entry about my buddy, Time) and if they did try to return I have some aromatherapy oils to chase their asses back to where they came from. I’d have a chance to create new memories. I think what I long for the most is to love a place as much as my brother loves NYC. He embraces the grunginess, the skanky people, the loudness, the grimy streets. He rarely misses a Yankees game on the telly and he mourns The NY Nets constant failures. Anything north of Westchester county is too country for him and he would never agree with Staten Island seceding to Jersey, it would be like cutting off a pinky toe. I simply don’t have that kind of passion for the place I live in, that kind of appreciation for the good, the bad and the ugly.

I’m looking for a new love, honey (Jody Whatley reference). A place I can make my own. A town or city I can feel passion for and take pride in. It could be NY or Santa Fe, Maryland or Boston are in the running, or that place could be not too far away from where I am now. Finding that special place is half the fun, right? Wherever I do land, I’m ready for the adventure.

All my love,
The Tasmanian Devil

 

A day in Wickham Park

As I journey deeper into Photoshop I discover more and more cool stuff:

Another view of the interior of the pagoda house

Pond in the Oriental Garden at Wickham Park

Interior of the pagoda house at Wickham Park

A stone dragon standing watch

 

I’m a really baaad blogger

Okay, I’m admitting that I’m a really bad blogger.  I came on strong at the beginning, promising a whole lot of stuff and then fell way short.  My intentions were pure; I even added posting to the blog on my iPhone calendar for every Monday.  But whenever the reminder came up, I kinda, sorta ignored it.  One week turned into two and damn!  The summer ended!  So this is me on one knee (my good knee.  If I get down on both knees, I’d have to fight like hell to get back to a standing position) asking for…um…not your forgiveness, exactly.  More like…your understanding?  Tolerance?  Ah, the hell with it, mea culpa, okay?

I’ll be 40 in about three weeks.  And at first I was gonna do the Jack Benny thing and stop counting at 39.  But my 39th year on this planet has been plagued with misery so I say damn 39, bring on 40 and from there I’ll stop counting.  This summer especially has made me want to run to the 40-year hills and scream from the mountaintop “free at last!”  I’ve been exposed to selfishness and emotionally-crippled humans who can’t seem to pull themselves out of the quagmire of their inadequacies and flow on a sea of self-denial.  I’ve been dragged into a hell where Rush Limbaugh plays 24-7 and Sarah Palin’s book outsells Stephen King by 5-to-1.  But on the other end of that spectrum, I’ve received kindness and warmth from people who are in good places emotionally and mentally, who listened to my woes and reached out to me from an altruistic place deep within their solar plexus.  And when I think of these people collectively, how they circled the wagons around me, my heart murmurs a really deep sigh.  For every asshole there’s an angel waiting to heal and it makes me want to get down on my good knee and say, “Thank you, God for creating that asshole/angel balance.”

If you haven’t noticed, there’s a name change at the top.  So the soon-to-be-ex-husband can now be officially called the ex-husband (the ex, for short).  I have to say two things on that subject: 1) I never thought I’d have the “distinction” of calling anyone my ex-husband, and 2) next time, if there is a next time, I marry for money…lots of it.  The judge who resided over my divorce, who looked to be about 100, kept chatting me up and smiling at me during the court proceedings so he might be a prospect.

(channeling Eddie Izzard) So…um…yeah, yeah…my full-time employer made me redundant recently.  I’m using the British term redundant because it sounds much nicer than laid off.  Yes, I’m a victim of the economic downturn but I’m not a complete victim because I still teach part-time.  I could take you through the range of emotions that awashed over me when I got the axe, but you’re intelligent people so you can pretty much guess how I felt.  I have to admit, though, that I like sleeping late and rolling out of bed when I feel like it; doing errands during a weekday instead of a weekend.  However, I’ve become dangerously attached to this home rhythm I’ve developed, being able to stay on top of my sons and finding good tv programming that will carry me through the day.

The first week I was home, I rarely got out of bed except to wash my ass, put the dogs out and cart my older son to campus.  No…wait…I take that back, I did take a sojourn out of my rabbit hole for a Nathan’s experience of hot dogs and chilly cheese fries that gave me wicked gas for the evening.  The second week I found the right channels to watch and discovered the meager pittance I’ll receive in unemployment bennies.  This week…well…I said enough!  Damn it, this is the perfect time to sink into a bath of creativity!  I’ve got a pitch letter to rewrite, a manuscript to peddle, photos to take and ideas to put on paper.  Photoshop CS4 is waiting for me to unlock its secrets and my camera is ready-Freddy for action.  I have recipes to try and a new stove that’s begging to lose its virginity.  This is the time I should be regrouping, regenerating, rediscovering…all those damnable “re” words that signify a movement towards change and growth.  In short, it’s time to get on the good foot and do the bad thing.  Brothahs and sistahs, nobody can do the bad thing like I can.

Yesterday I went exploring with my camera and came across this outdoor chapel in the Rhododendron Garden at Wickham Park in Manchester.  No, I’m not Catholic…hell, I’m a stranger to my own christened religion of Episcopalian.  But when you come across something so peaceful and soothing, you cannot help but bow down to its’ magnificence regardless of religion.  I kneeled on the steel altar and said a small prayer to the Virgin Mary.

I was a bit rusty on the prayer thing so I had to wing it, but I’m pretty sure she got my message.  In thinking back, I should’ve asked her for clarity of mind, but the Virgin Mother is a busy woman, what with all those mysterious sightings on grilled cheese sandwiches and whatnot that always seems to happen somewhere in Florida.  Besides, there are some things I just have to do for myself.

 

Summer delights

Summer always brings out the best in me, and when I say the best in me, I mean my desire to make delicious summer desserts using the freshest of fruit.  Even though, sadly enough, I’m allergic to quite a number of fruits out there, it doesn’t stop me from finding special recipes to cook the fruit to a state that makes it easier for me to eat them.

I should be more specific about the allergy claimer.  I’m not allergic to the fruit itself, just the patch, bush or tree it was growing in.  For example, I’m allergic to the skin of an apple because of the pollen it was exposed to during its growth.  Once I peel off the skin or bake that fruit, whatever I’m allergic to gets cooked away.

Okay, so I’m a huge fan of SmittenKitchen, a blog I stumbled across and subscribe to.  The recipes are cool, but the photography is even cooler.  The visual certainly adds something magical when you’re trying to show people how to put together a myriad of ingredients to produce such-and-such food.

So last week Smitten Kitchen sent me a recipe for a dessert called Blueberry Boy Bait.  Being I work for a state agency that advocates for the rights of women and young girls, I was initially offended by the title of this delicious-looking dessert…well, no, not really, I’m lying.  I thought the name was cute and whatever I can do to attract a man to sample my treats (yes, take that for what you will), I’m all for it.  Last Thursday I slid on over to my favorite supermarket (do you have a favorite supermarket?) and wouldn’t you know it?  Blueberries are on sale! 

In my first batch, I used 2% milk and the dessert came out nice and firm.  The only way to describe the taste is to compare it to cornbread but without the cornmeal and a tad sweeter.  The recipe doesn’t call for a whole bunch of blueberries so your taste buds are not assaulted with the tartness the fruit.  Just a warning though: I used buttermilk for the second batch (which I brought to work for our bi-weekly staff meeting), it came out loosey-goosey and a bit too crumbly for my taste, plus it doesn’t hold very well in storage.

You can find this recipe on Smitten Kitchen’s Web site (and check out the photos while you’re at it) or you can e-mail me for the recipe.  It’s real simple to make, a lot simpler than my other favorite dessert, Red Velvet Cake.

 

Food, glorious food

I LOVE food.  The more the merrier.  Whenever I get invited to an event, I make a bee line to the dessert table and start breathing all over the yummies as I snap away.  I do that in the hopes the hungry people might be deterred by my possible cooties and leave the stuff alone so I can have it all to myself, but the ploy never works.

Since last year, the Microenterprise Resource Group (MERG, pronounced with a soft “G”) asks me to photograph their annual celebration that profiles local micro business caterers (businesses with 10 or less employees).  I do it for free because they promise me free food and I can also build my portfolio.

I know this tasty-looking treat, from Alchemy Juice Bar Cafe, has cucumbers and hummus.  I think those are dates on the top.  Since I have every food allergy known to man, I didn’t sample.  I knew the moment I saw it, I had to snap it before people converged on it like locusts.

 

Yummy for the tummy

I think in my former life I was Italian.  I can’t get enough of everything Italian, especially the food.  Linguine Carbonara with pancetta is my absolutely favorite.  To date there’s only one restaurant I consistently go to for my dish: Vito’s by the Park in Hartford.  If they ever yank my dish from the menu, I guarantee a one-woman protest (with sign and bullhorn) outside of the restaurant in between samplings of their delicious foccatia bread with dipping sauce.  I think I should stop here, I’m frothing at the mouth.

Anyways, below is photo number two from my annual photography freebee for MERG’s annual event:

Bruschetta!  Yummy!  Dump some sweet tomatoes mixed with garlic, EVOO, oregano and whatever on that toasty piece of bread and I’m in heaven.  I can only take credit for the picture, though, not the appetizer itself, which was made by The Picnic Basket Catering for the event.

I’m pulling a Homer Simpson right now just thinking about it…can you hear my gurgling?