Food in the round; and what the Internet is for

I loved this week's creative challenges at Hot by BlogHer. I chose to do the diet challenge:

For this challenge, choose one day this week and photograph every bite you eat, then blog those photos. (Before you eat it, of course.) You'll not only be hyperaware of food choices due to the accountability of blogging it, but you may be surprised when you see your entire day of food in front of you.

1 Nonfat chai latte; 2 apple slices left from kid's breakfast; 3 oatmeal with blueberries, almonds, and a splash of chai concentrate; 4 stir fry with brown rice, tofu, broccoli, carrots, shiitake mushrooms, and bok choy, plus tea; 5 Annie's peace pasta with parmesan, again with the kid leftovers; 6 sugar snap peas; 7 "club sandwich" wrap with steamed vegetables; 8 roasted cashews with cinnamon and sugar; 9 seltzer

I am amused by the roundness of all my containers. And surprised by the small amount of food (I only ate half of that ridiculously oversized wrap). This is a pretty normal day of eating for me, except we went out to dinner. But not at a decent restaurant, so that wrap was the best thing I could find on the menu. We saw a show and were unable to resist the intoxicating scent of the ($7!) cone of roasted crack cashews.

And as your reward for being interested enough in my daily food intake to read this whole post, here is a clip from the show we saw. Still just as funny as when we first saw it 6(?) years ago.

Dating myself for your benefit

And when I say dating myself: I mean in the "omg how old am I" sense, not the "dinner and a movie" sense.

Moving on. Waaaaay back in the day, when I still used floppy disks and a cassette-tape answering machine, I used to go to Kate Spade sample sales. This must have been in about 1993 or 1994, because the Kate Spade brand was just taking off. It was only bags, not all this other stuff they sell now. (And with each successive sale I went to over the course of a couple of years, the crowds got crazier and the prices got higher.)

Anyway, that first sale was the best one ever. I walked out with 7 or 8 bags (some for me, some bought on behalf of friends, some for gifts) and I don't think I even spent $100. I got at least three of the classic, short-handled, rectangular purses--a black nylon, a brown suede, and a cotton plaid. I got a small, drawstring evening bag. I got a larger black bag with longer handles. I could have died happy that night.

These days, I am a lousy bargain shopper. I am all about convenience and I am usually happy to pay for it. I wish I could be a good thrifter like these amazing women. Instead, I keep my old, out-of-style Kate Spades in my closet, remembering the thrill of that first sample sale and waiting for those boxy shapes to come back into fashion.

Thanks, PBN, for inspring me to take this little walk down memory lane!

Never too young for happy hour

I first took Opie with me to New York when he was 6 months old. In the week we were there he mastered sitting up, practicing on the one small rug found on the sealed concrete floor of my cousin's loft.

He also visited his first Lower East Side bar. Whenever I come to town it's always an excuse for a happy hour outing with my friends at work. My cousin/nanny had some other commitment that night so she delivered the baby to me at work (plus, duh, always have to find a reason to parade a cute baby through the workplace) and he accompanied us all to the bar.

At six months, he was a fairly cheerful guy but only if he could maintain contact with one of a few trusted caregivers. I was, of course, at the top of that list. So after a long day of being forced to hang out with my cousin instead of me, he was not interested in any further separations. But after a few drinks (most of them of the "tap water" variety) I did need to use the restroom.

I had, at that point, mastered peeing with a baby on my lap (because desperation is the mother of ... more desperation). But I didn't think my skillz would carry over into the dingy stall in a bar. So I handed Opie over to a coworker, a very lovely and capable woman, and headed downstairs.

Bars are loud, right? Even when it's only 5:30 and there aren't that many people there. The music is pumping and people are talking and there's huge ventilators whirring out white noise and traffic flying by just beyond the front door.

Do you think that was any match for one six-month-old baby? No. I could hear him screaming all the way down in the basement, from inside the ladies' room. Little man was not having a very happy hour.

Dude, the LES is so over. Next time take me to Greenpoint.

The thing is, I really tried, with both my babies, not to not do things because I had a kid. I took Jo to a friend's child's birthday party that was a two-hour drive away, by myself, when she was two months old. Everyone there was astonished but I really, really wanted to see my friends, and my husband couldn't go for some reason, so I packed up the baby and got on the road. She slept all the way there and back.

Maybe I was overconfident or lucky or stupid or all of the above as a rookie mom but it all worked out. As it did with Opie at the bar, once I'd quickly washed my hands and hotfooted it out of the restroom. And as I hope your new-mom outings did too.

Super-easy soup

Since I went ahead and confessed that I am a lousy cook, I thought now would be a good time to post a recipe. Right?

I am going to a Soup Swap on Monday. It's like a cookie exchange, but for soup. Here's what I'm going to bring (there is a contest for best soup name ... if you can think of a better one, I am all ears). I'm making 40 cups of it tonight (8 cups x 5 recipient swappers).

I Think I Can-nellini Bean Soup
Makes: A lot. At least 8 servings depending on who's eating. Probably about 35 servings if you are serving it to a small child.

3 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 16-oz cans cannellini (white) beans
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes
1 head escarole (or kale I think would also work), chopped
4-5 cups chicken broth (sub veggie broth to make this vegan)
S&P
Shaved parmesan cheese for garnish

1. Heat the olive oil in a big soup pot or dutch oven. Throw in the garlic and saute for a couple of minutes.

2. Dump in everything else.

3. Bring to a boil.

4. Simmer for 20-25 minutes (or whatever. Until you are ready to eat it).

5. Top with shaved parmesan and serve.

See? If you can open a can and boil water you can make this.

My only problem is that my husband doesn't really like soup (weirdo). So I am going to have 40 cups of incoming soup to eat all by myself. Guess what I'll be eating for lunch for the next 40 days!

(When I was a poor editorial assistant, I always brown-bagged except on Fridays. Then I'd treat myself to lunch out. If I was feeling really flush I'd go to the Soup Nazi. I think it cost about $7 a serving [this was way back before the Seinfeld show even aired] but it came with bread, fruit, and a piece of chocolate and damn, this soup was so. good. It was entirely worth the anxiety and abuse and the very very long line.)

Reporting for duty

Have you ever served on a jury? I think everyone should. When you live in Manhattan, you get a summons every two years on the dot. Luckily, mine was for a criminal case (civil case = snore) and I didn't yet have any kids or big job responsibilities. This was back in the days when jury duty meant a lot more "sitting around in the courthouse reading magazines waiting for your name to be called" and a lot less "call this automated voice to see if we need you."

So I got put onto a case. The perp was an alleged drug dealer. A bike cop--why that detail sticks with me, I don't know--watched him holding fort inside a pizza place (or a pizzeria, as true New Yorkers always call them) over the course of several hours. The cop described customers entering, money changing hands, and each customer being apprehended, a few blocks away, with drugs in hand. The bike cop summoned a squad car and the dealer was arrested, given a quick pat-down, handcuffed, and put into the car for a ride to the station.

Once at the station, the car was thoroughly searched and a bag of drugs was found under the seat in the back. The question was, could we the jury be certain enough that the dealer had ditched his goods there to convict him? Or was it, as his lawyer argued, possible that they belonged to some other person who'd ridden in that car that day?

What struck me most, then and now, was how seriously we all took our job. We were a real cross-section of New Yorkers (well, we lacked some corporate titans and skinny socialites but we were at least of all ages, races, and education levels). It was a really straightforward case but we took our time discussing its merits and debating the guilt of the accused. The best part was when we considered whether the man could have sneaked his stash under the seat of the squad car while handcuffed. A tiny old lady volunteered that she had tested this out at home by putting on her own handcuffs and stuffing something under the cushion of her couch!

We voted to convict and I still remember how my heart pounded as I affirmed my vote aloud in the courtroom. I knew it was the right decision (the judge, in thanking us for our service, agreed as much) but it still felt scary to be in a position to send someone to jail. It took me a week to breathe normally again.

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I posted at The Full Mommy about our holiday hits and misses -- click over to find out what we liked and didn't.

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What are you reading tomorrow? I have too much to choose from: Sunday's New York Times, a pile of magazines, this month's book club assignment (Jane Austen's Persuasion), or my next PBN review title. It might depend on the weather. If it snows, as is predicted, I think Persuasion is the way to go. And if I read it with a cup of tea, I'm killing two birds with one stone.

Yup. There's no place like it.

I will freely admit that I am a creature of habit. A homebody, a Cancer, a don't-rock-the-boat, status quo kind of girl. So these trips throw me entirely out of whack. I love to go, to get back to New York. It's like visiting the old me, tasting what my life would have been like if we'd stayed. But as the days go by (and this past trip was a long one), I start to itch for my real life, my current one, with its precise routines and familiar comforts.

Now that I'm home, my first task is to restore those routines, that order. My first day back, I had an awful, nauseating headache, along with a pile of urgent work that couldn't wait another day. And not being able to stop and unpack, reorganize, dig through the towering stack of mail, reply to any but the most essential emails -- was almost physically painful.

Today I'm feeling better. My stomach is back to normal, my suitcase is empty and I've done four loads of laundry. My to-do list still unspools behind me a mile long (do not remind me how many shopping days are left until Christmas, I beg you) but just being home is, for now, enough.

That's my little rainbow boy

OPIE: Where TJ's two moms? [TJ is the neighbor kid.]
ME: One of them is right over there.
OPIE: Where TJ's TWO moms?
ME: She is at work.
OPIE: Okay. *wanders off*

File this away for next year

Crisp apple-scented roast turkey with cider-Calvados gravy

I've had it twice this month (actually, six or seven times, if you count the leftovers) and it is SO. GOOD.

(Why twice? Because two weeks before Thanksgiving, my husband, apparently weakened by the presence of so much fowl in the supermarket, decided he needed to roast a turkey. So he did. It was excellent. Yes, he rocks in many ways ... but that also meant that there was an entire weekend in there where I had to be on 100% kid detail because he was up to his elbows in poultry. It was worth it though.)

Don't skip the gravy, either. It's the best part.

And here is Jo's summary of the trip, entitled "Jo New York Book."

A Turkey Dinner on Thanksgiving.
And a Tea Party.
And a Dinosaur Museum.
And spin on the Whee Chair.
And P.J.'s Secret Hideout Place With Toys.
And make a Paper Penguin.

Hope you all had a terrifically tryptophanic weekend.

I provided tissues

Roger: strange old coot
Jowls, limp, cranky attitude
Eyes crossed, heart mighty

When we lived in the city, like real city people we had a dogwalker. He came once a day to dispense biscuits and walkies to the dog and lots of opinions to the humans. That's if we happened to cross paths, which we'd do our best to avoid. Roger was one of those people who'd just plunk down on a kitchen chair and rattle on about who knows what, oblivious to any signs that we were ready for him to move along. It was only the other "animal children" on his route that kept him from staying parked for hours. Once I came home from work early to take something to the post office and discovered he hadn't yet arrived. As I gathered my things I heard him huffing up the front stairs of our building. Like a total coward I actually sneaked out the back door just to avoid being waylaid.

Still, he found other ways to dispense his wisdom. Three-minute long voicemail messages, say; or his daily notes reporting exactly what happened during the walk. Not just what the dog produced, but anything they saw or people they met. Once there was a page-long tale of a "Young Girl" who accused Roger of not picking up after our dog. He defended himself by pointing out that the "feces" she had indicated were not fresh, since they were no longer warm. To prove this, he wrote, he made her touch them ("I provided tissues," he noted). I'm sure the Young Girl was sorry she ever tangled with Rog.

If only I'd saved more of those notes (or had a blog back then). We did preserve the final missive. Here it is, with only a few identifying details changed.

Well here we are! Down to the final walk. These past four (almost) walking F. have been good. She will be missed. The years go by as quickly as a wink. It was good to work with you & I tried my best.

Of course I knew Jeff from the times at [his former address] when he would take care of [a friend's dog/fellow Roger client] & I would travel down to walk the canine

Please enjoy the new page of your collective lives in [Mayberry]. I am very happy for you also especially Jo who will have a chance to attend good Public schools when she is ready.

Until we meet again

Roger

I do wonder about him still. If he's still shuttling up and down the Boulevard with his animal children, living with his cats, complaining about his landlord, his neighbors, and most of humankind. I hope so.

18 miles of books

New York's famous bookstore, The Strand, is celebrating its 80th anniversary with The Strand 80, a list of its customers' 80 favorite books. I've read over 50 of them (yes! go double literature major) and several are among my personal favorites. I discussed it a bit with a friend and she pointed out these are not necessarily meant to be classics -- they are popular picks. Of course, many are undisputed classics (Les Miserables, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Crime and Punishment, Homer's Odyssey). Others might more commonly be called pop-culture phenomena (The Da Vinci Code, Harry Potter).

That led us to wonder, though: What makes a classic? Obviously a work that can stand the test of time is often called a classic. If you can read a book written 50, 100, 200 or more years ago and find that it resonates with you today, then that's classic. There have to be more criteria than that, though. What do you think?

By the way, there is exactly one picture book on the list: Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

1. Work: Eh. Lovely catching up with coworkers and demonstrating that I am, indeed, more than just a voice wafting through the speakerphone. Much slower pace than last visit. Project that I went to launch didn't launch, thanks to no help at all from other parts of our group. Blah blah story of our little team's life blah blah.

2. Opie: excellent companion. Befriended many fellow travelers. Dug the subway (except when it was "too woud"). Can demonstrate Statue of Liberty pose. Wants to be a "stick guy" for Halloween.

3. Neighbor child doting on Opie: Largely annoying (mostly because he riled Opie up so that it took me an average of one hour each night to get him to fall asleep). All forgiven when I learned he'd written in his school journal that "the best part of this week is taking care of the Baby Opie."

4. Celeb sightings: No Clooney, but Opie saw Chris Noth and Eric Bogosian and we both saw John McCain.

5. This weekend, aka The Return:

Guess whose is whose?

The lost tooth, by the way, is literally lost, somewhere in the depths of Home Depot. I only hope the next person rummaging through one of those drawers full of nuts and bolts doesn't find a small, bloody incisor instead. Jo wrote the following note to the fairy (punctuation emphatically hers):

Jo! lost! my! Tooth!
Look! for! it! at!
Home!
Depot!
[signed]
Jo!
Bye!

Gimme a muffin to go

For the record, this is what I brought to entertain one 2.5-year-old boy during two airplane flights and an airport layover:

6-8 miniature vehicles, including motorcycle, airplane, and various cars and trucks
4 books
2 coloring books/markers
2 pacifiers
1 laptop/5 DVDs
1 string of beads (vehicle theme)
1 baggie goldfish crackers
1 baggie trail mix
1 apple
1 turkey sandwich
1 sippy cup

This is what proved to be most entertaining of all:

1 overpriced, very dry blueberry muffin (place both hands on top of muffin; squeeze. A good 10 minutes of hilarity!)

I'm in New York this week with 1 junior sidekick. So posting will be light as I am busy massaging unused-to-high-heels feet, playing Frogger trying to cross Atlantic Avenue (see: feet too sore to reach crosswalk), catching up with friends, and -- oh yeah. Working.

My stay at the Home for Wayward Girls

Last Sunday's New York Times blasted me to the past with this article about the Salvation Army's Parkside Evangeline Residence. When I first moved to New York City after college, I needed a place to stay while I was interviewing for jobs and looking for an apartment. I spent about 10 days at the Parkside Evangeline, which I insisted, then and now, on calling the Home for Wayward Girls. I think it cost $35 a night.

This women-only, single-room-occupancy, extended-stay hotel was a throwback even then, with its dingy decor and prim rules about male visitors to your room (as in, none allowed. Not that I had anyone to invite up). I didn't eat in the dining room or spend any time in the lobby -- if I wasn't out prowling for a job or an apartment, I holed up in my room with a few books and a tiny radio for company.

I did have friends in the city but I mostly remember feeling lonely and scared. I'd lived in Philadelphia for the past four years but was still felt like a total rube in NYC. Sleeping alone in a dim, narrow room, skulking down the hall to use the bathroom, and communicating with the outside world via the hallway pay phone didn't help at all. Nor did the bank screwup that left me with almost no cash (or credit) for a few days, weighing whether to spend my last $1.50 on a subway token or a bagel on the morning of an interview.

And I never availed myself of my one and only chance to visit Gramercy Park! Curses.

As for the plan to evict the remaining tenants from the Parkside Evangeline and sell the building, I can't say I blame the Salvation Army. Yes, the deal stinks for the current residents and for people in the position I was in. And it's a shame to see one of those places that makes New York New York be turned into yet another luxury condo. But all that sentiment and $1.50 will not even get you a ride on the subway.

Another sunny Tuesday

My September 11 story is here. Six years seems like forever ago but I can recall every minute of that day in sharp detail. I can't let it pass without a moment of remembrance and a prayer for peace -- the peace that means "no more wars" and the peace that means grace and comfort too.

I'm surprised the piano didn't move itself

All this talk about the political candidates reminds me of a little story. Gather 'round, kids!

Back when I was a magazine editor, I worked for a smallish publication with an accordingly small staff. This meant we had to do everything ourselves, including stuff way out of our/my league. Once a year we put out a big story, one of those lists that are designed to garner lots of media attention and may or may not be based on fact. It was our version of the swimsuit issue (and in our case, it really was based on a tremendous amount of research and hard work--which I know because in later years I oversaw that project too).

To get the maximum bang out of this particular buck, we always had an event to promote our story when it was published. And somehow in 1996 I wound up in charge of this thing. Me, the young, green editor with less than zero event-planning experience. Me, the totally conflict-avoidant delicate young thing. Taking the lead on this breakfast honoring lots of multi-billion-dollar companies, attended by all our own corporate VIPs and advertisers. And the guest of honor: was the current vice president of the United States, Al Gore. Who also happened to be running for re-election at the time.

At one of the pre-party walk-throughs, someone from the campaign was there to check out all the arrangements. She was a fast-talking, take-no-guff, totally stereotypical New Yorker. She barked orders about security (yes ma'am, there would be bomb-sniffing dogs) and press access and what he'd say and how long he'd stay. She told us exactly how the room should be set up, and that included moving a grand piano across the room (because otherwise it would interfere with the TV cameras' shots).

The banquet manager gently demurred on moving the piano, explaining that doing so would require extra staff time and also a charge for retuning the instrument. Our magazine was so poor that we used 5-inch floppy disks and didn't have voice mail--I had an ancient answering machine with a cassette tape so old that callers would frequently inquire whether I was landing helicopters on my desk. So keeping costs down was absolutely essential.

For a few seconds I tried to broker a compromise with the scary campaign lady, sputtering out lame alternatives as quickly as I could come up with them. She, of course, was having none of it. Almost immediately, she wheeled to face me and yelled "He's the vice president of the free world! MOVE THE PIANO!"

So yeah. We moved it. I voted for Clinton/Gore that year anyway. But I'm still kind of afraid of that campaign staffer.

You want me to put that where?

I have lamented before that whenever I go to New York, I get sick. I really don’t appreciate this because my trips there are for both business and pleasure, and it’s annoying to have either one disrupted by a vicious cold that turns into a sinus infection that turns into a barfathon prompted by the antibiotics that are supposed to be helping me get better. Plus, I hate the implication that my heretofore sturdy, city-tough immune system can no longer hack the mean streets (and subway cars) of NYC.

So. Next time I go, I’m bringing some Nozin. These wacky little sticks are billed as "sanitizers for the nose"--basically, the idea is to put up a no-germs-welcome barrier across your nostrils, since they otherwise put out a big old welcome mat for germs, viruses (virii?) and other cooties. It sounds squicky, but you basically take a cotton swab soaked with orange-scented, homeopathic liquid, put it just inside your nose and swish it around. It takes a minute to get the hang of the distribution system—you have to flick the swab’s handle and shake it a bit to get the liquid ready to apply, then snap the swab as if you’re going to break it in half to get the liquid to flow into the business end of the stick. (You can also just get it in a bottle and squeeze it onto a Q-tip yourself, but where's the fun in that?)

I got a travel pack of 10 doses to review, courtesy of the Parent Bloggers Network. I was already a couple of days into a cold when they arrived. It didn't seem fair to put them to the test once the snotties had already set in, but I had a deadline, people, so I did it anyway. And you know what? I could swear the cold was milder and shorter-lived than my usual cement-headed, leave-a-trail-of-Kleenex-in-my-wake, bitching-and-moaning-for-two-solid-weeks cough-and-sneeze fests. It was over in a week and never reached that kill-me-now low point where I couldn't eat, sleep, breathe, or otherwise function. Who knows if Nozin or plain old luck should get the credit, but color me a satisfied customer.

What I liked: The smell, and how it felt when applied. The active ingredient here is alcohol, so I was afraid the stuff would burn my delicate nose-al skin. But there is enough orange scent and vitamin E to counteract the drying effects of the alcohol.

Also the art on the packaging. I just think it's got a certain kitschy-cool appeal.

What I didn't: At a dollar a dose, the travel pack is way pricey. Go for the 60-dose bottle--it even comes with some cotton swabs.

Who it's for: Anyone who's regularly exposed to germs--travelers, teachers, parents--and wants to try to head off colds and other icks before they start. Faith in homeopathic products a plus.

By the way: Kristen said I should include a picture of my nose. I'm sparing you because I really can't top this little animated gif that Domestic Diva posted.

Destination: Union Square

At a glance:

Venture into New York City's Union Square Park, between 14th and 17th Streets on a balmy summer evening, and the entertainment is free and plentiful. Buy a soft-serve or a dirty-water dog, jockey for a spot on a bench, and sit back and enjoy the show. You'll be treated to an endless parade of Manhattanites trudging home from work, walking their dogs and their babies, displaying the latest fashions (both couture and curious). The concrete fringe on the park's north and east sides may be home to a farmer's market four days a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday), but in the evenings it's a skate park. The grassy expanses within the square are less than pristine. Still, they're a welcome sight in the concrete canyons of this busy city. Listen to the street performers and feel the rumble of the subway below your feet: You're a New Yorker now.

Fast facts:

• Subway: L, N, Q, R, W, 4, 5, 6
• Time Zone: GMT/UTC -5
• Statuary: George Washington, the Marquis de Lafayette, Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi

Jennifer's Monday Mission for today: Travel guide entry. I couldn't pass that up!

P.S. I took more pleasure than is probably reasonable in scanning for open wireless networks during this trip. Some of my favorite names: Lawstud3, Precious Taters Too, TaBoNe, and of course: 40 cats live in my UES apt.

Live from New York's Upper East Side

...where you’re never more than 100 feet from a Bugaboo. Or a Starbucks. Or a purse dog.

Work is crazy and Internet access is spotty (read: pirated) so that’s my excuse for not posting or reading.

Hope to catch up soon.

PS Julie: I walked by Gate 210 the other morning and felt a great pang of homesickness. And then I was all, “This is the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Get over yourself.”