taste: adam gopnik’s scrambled eggs

Food for a day like this

I know that sounds like a bit of a joke. I am halfway through Gopnik’s lovely meandering cultural history of cooking and eating, The Table Comes First, and in the soft quiet of the first snow of the year, I made his scrambled eggs. It’s not a recipe, exactly, but it’s perfect, and reminds me of the way I was taught to make scrambled eggs, on a stool by the stove with my mother hovering, patiently stirring until the first scrapings emerged from the liquid. I don’t know how this gets so bright yellow and creamy when hurried, lazy scrambled eggs in a frying pan end up pallid and dry. Too good to wait to photograph, Gopnik’s description will have to do. Continue reading

taste: fennel, quinoa and pomegranate salad

The finished dish. Bright wintry goodness

I was extremely happy to see a spread of Yotam Ottolenghi‘s recipes in the January 2012 issue of Bon Appétit – I’ve been coveting his book Plenty for ages, and this recipe gives a pretty good sense of his cooking – mostly vegetarian, fresh & unexpected combinations of flavors, and totally indulgent without involving bacon fat. As often with BA, though, I found the order of instructions illogical, so here’s how I *actually* did it, with my modifications. The original recipe is here. Continue reading

look: a grown-up film for grown-up people

We went to see “The Artist” last night at the Paris Theatre, the beautiful old single-screen cinema on 58th Street at the southeastern corner of Central Park, opposite the Plaza and the glass-cube Apple store, a corner that smells of horse dung and money. As Joe Queenan put it in this 2008 Times article about its 60th anniversary, ‘The Paris also has an understatedly elegant décor and does not cater to Irony Vixens who think that watching Icelandic films makes them morally superior to truck drivers.’ Indeed. Plus, it has a balcony!

For all these reasons it was the perfect venue to watch the film that’s going to get Oscar nominations, tons of press and a backlash, but for now let’s just enjoy. Since words like “whimsical” and “charming” usually make me run a mile, I’ll try to avoid them – and besides, the film is so inventive and elegant and grown-up it deserves more respect. It’s also proof that it’s possible to make a film that you could take your grandmother or your eight-year-old son to see and be pretty sure that they’d both love it. Here’s the trailer. But see the film:

love: happy new year!

Fullest of moons

Happy new year, loyal blog readers, if you’re out there?! We’re currently having the most beautiful, unseasonally sunny and warm weather in New York; after a cold snap on Tuesday that made me run home and buy a bright red down-filled coat from Brooklyn Industries (on sale, everyone, and highly regarded by People Who Know), it is balmy April weather all around. So for once we took advantage, and went for a walk in Central Park to reacquaint ourselves with New York after what seems like a really long time away in England. Some pictures…

Welcome back.

Skaters, of course.

Did I mention it was a beautiful day?

No, seriously. It's January.

A handsome, literary gentleman. The park's full of 'em.

Starlings in flight

No idea *what* these knobbly little fruits (?) are...

Time Warner Center at dusk

taste: chicken breasts in blue cheese sauce

It’s been forever, I know. I have been eating, and even traveling a bit (holla, Buffalo!) but somehow have been feeling photographically and culinarily uninspired. So many people do this so much better than me – that kind of thing. But then sometimes, inspiration just smacks you, and you have a camera to hand, and you decide you don’t care, because damn, you have to share this. And so, inspired by this post by the Pioneer Woman, but lacking the necessary steaks, I substituted chicken breasts (don’t go to that link before you’ve finished reading this by the way, you’ll never come back.) This is easy, and ye gods of dairy goodness, is it worth it.

Cream makes everything better

Continue reading

look: after the hurricane

A ribbon hanging off the flag at our local public school

I’ve never lived through truly extreme weather – I’m from Southern England. The most dramatic storm I remember was the 1987 gale that downed trees and caused a lot of damage in the southeast, after weather reports scoffed at any danger. It gave my eight-year-old self nightmares whenever the wind made tree branches scratch my bedroom window. Since living here, extreme weather has been more frequent, but it’s always worse somewhere outside New York. I watched Katrina footage like I watch scenes from war zones – without being able to wrap my head around it by reference to any memory of my own. The stories my midwestern friends tell about racing tornadoes in their car are as alien to me as the weird green color that they say the storm turns the sky. So I had no idea how to react to Irene over the last couple of days – was this overreaction? Or sensible precaution? We wouldn’t really need a flashlight and a bathtub full of water and canned foods, would we? Continue reading

love: astoria park pool

the pool and the hellgate bridge

I’ve lived a 15-minute walk from this pool for two summers now, and yesterday was the first time I’ve got it together to go for a swim. The pool is open 11-3 and then 4-7 every day, and I was there for the evening session. It was the first hot and sunny day after a few days of heavy rain and gloom, so it was busy – I assume it’s always busy – but it’s huge, so even with several hundred kids playing all over, it didn’t feel overcrowded. The whole experience was unexpectedly nostalgic and moving for me; the bare-bones locker rooms with their turquoise-painted open-fronted changing booths took me right back to the municipal pools and lidos that I grew up visiting, and the feeling of curling your toes on the scratchy wet concrete floor, hopping the puddles and enduring the dankness and dark corridors for the sake of emerging into the light and the blaringly bright poolside.

overlooking the concrete bleachers

It’s not easy to swim laps since most people are hanging out in groups and playing, carving out little corners for themselves by the ropes that bisect the pool or at the edge of the water, but if you persist in your mental lane they’ll move out of your path. The place has all the democratic charm of a busy park on a sunny day, but concentrated and intensified by the excitement of the water.

the vast pool, looking over to the snack bar and picnic tables

The pool is a glorious monument of WPA architecture, stunning in its proportions, its generosity, its sheer presence. Nothing temporary or cost-cutting cramping its style. It opened in the summer of 1936 on the Fourth of July, making it the oldest outdoor pool in the city. Although it’s free it feels lavish, and as I lay drying off on one of the white plastic recliners in the sun I couldn’t help feeling like I was getting away with something.

would you look at those lines and curves?

Home thoughts from abroad

London in flames – in run-down streets of betting shops and ‘designer’ sports-clothing stores and mobile phone stores and other primary-colored, low-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit businesses that are our strip malls, the glass-fronted boxes on the ground floor, sometimes, of elegant Victorian buildings or more often, of short-sighted postwar developments which tore out city centres in favor of these decentralized and depressing little corners. London is an atomized city and always has been; it’s a conglomeration of mini-towns and high streets and it sprawls until it touches and merges with a bigger nexus on the outskirts, a Croydon or a Bromley, and peters out. Those outskirts – the Medway towns in Kent, Essex – those are places you never hear about, although one possible origin of the murky slur ‘chav’ is the town of Chatham, in Kent. And this is the most exciting thing that may have happened, ever. Come on, who doesn’t love a good fire?
People are a little nervous today, but defiant – an attitude that tends to define Londoners, especially those who live in the affordable corners of the city that tourists don’t visit – Streatham, Peckham, Wood Green, Lewisham, Lee, Woolwich, Hackney, Dalston, Bethnal Green – which is to say, most university students, most artists, most teachers, most nurses, most ordinary working people without banking jobs or trust funds. Gentrified Brixton, once a place synonymous, to non-Londoners, with rioting and violence, was an afterthought, not an epicenter. Our London Too and Riot Clean-Up are the hashtags of the day.
Towards the rioters/looters, disgust and frustration seem to be the prevailing emotions, and a kind of despair. Sympathy for the family of Mark Duggan and the members of ‘his community’ – the preferred term of well-meaning politicians and police who don’t seem to realize just how alienating it is to imply, over and over again, that ‘his’ community is not simply THE community – sympathy for the 16-year-old girl allegedly beaten by police in Tottenham, sympathy for the men in Hackney venting rage at years of racist policing – sympathy has evaporated in the smoke of burning buses and burning buildings.
As night follows day, rioting follows the election of a Tory government, said one Twitter-wit late last night. But it’s clear that on the whole, these looters are perfect little Tories. They’re not resisiting a system that excludes them but capitulating wholly to its values – you’re out for yourself, you’ve got to take what’s there, your status and your worth are measured in the stuff you own. Carrying out a pair of boxfresh trainers or a flatscreen TV over the shattered glass underfoot, you’ve won.
Of course (sympathy stirs again) it’s not like they have any other option – Tottenham, where all this kicked off, has the highest unemployment rate in London. And the inchoate anger against what these kids, raised on procedural dramas from a foreign country, weirdly call the ‘Feds,’ is perhaps less violent than that against ‘rich people’ – another enemy offered up by one looter explaining himself on camera.
I think for most ‘rich people’ – which really means, I’d guess, stable people with jobs or education or secure families or all three, who aren’t treated as nascent criminals wherever they go – the reflexive horror is the violation of a basic survival instinct. Don’t shit on your own doorstep. You’re the ones who are going to pay for this, whether in prison time or probation or the vitriol of your neighbors or the sinking of your heart at the sight of your own environment trashed. And the shrinking of opportunities, and the redirection of resources away from you, and the hardening of the nation’s attitudes toward you, so that they will applaud more government money going to ‘law and order’ and less to ‘community outreach,’ never mind that it’s more expensive in the long run to keep arresting you than it would be to give you somewhere to go and something to do.

love: hammocks in the park

It’s insanely hot in New York right now, even for my lizard-blooded self, so it’s not exactly hammock weather. But last weekend, which was warm, overcast and breezy, was perfect for a little riverside lounging. We snagged one of the little row of hammocks in my new favorite park, Gantry Plaza State Park in Long Island City, and, well, it was a pretty nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. The hammocks are low to the ground and pretty swingy – it took some shifting about to get comfortable, and you have to be fairly in synch if you’re going to share. But it’s worth it. Come on, it’s a HAMMOCK.

Handy tree for chaining the bikes

Smarty-pants hammock-sharer

Cloud-gazing from the hammock

explore: high line extension

End of the line

Hot day to be walking the length of the High Line, now it stretches all the way from Gansevoort to 30th. The park is so much lusher and fuller than I’ve seen it, bordering on overgrown in some places. Beautiful flowers, sculptures and architecture all the way up – the new section isn’t as wide, and the lawn area is tiny, so it feels more like a promenade than a park. But who doesn’t love a good promenade? The views, people watching, and now food options are great – I had an absurd, but delicious rhubarb and chai-flavored ice lolly for $3.50 (sorry, People’s Pops, but where I’m from that’s not an ice pop. They are long and thin and bright blue and come in a plastic wrapper. They are decidedly not gourmet.)

People's Pop

The 30th street end is great, because you can see where the line extends, and what it looked like when it was genuinely overgrown, not landscaped and polished.

New & old High Line

It’s definitely grittier this end, since you’re getting down into the Lincoln Tunnel entrance rather than the swanky-pants meatpacking district.

30th & 10th Ave

But enterprise is enterprise, and under the tracks, proving again that New Yorkers will eat and drink pretty much anywhere, there’s a new beer garden and food-truck-stop, Tom Colicchio’s The Lot on Tap.

Food trucks under the tracks

And hey, they have rosé on draft. Can’t really argue with that.

Beer & wine on tap