Smoking Chef

I am a pretty low maintenance girl. In fact, when it comes to cooking and eating...the less I have to do the better. I am a chronic grazer, a picnicker of sorts so it makes sense that I did not make much use of my 'stove' in my previous apartment (some would not say it qualified as an actual cooking device). But now, oh now, a Viking range beckons in my new home and so after purchasing two very tempting steaks, I decided tonight was the night I would play with gas (as in the kind in the stove- not the kind I am sure to have later).

I got out the olive oil, the salt and pepper, I turned the large sleek stainless steel knob. Magic. It works.

And so does my smoke alarm.

The meal was brilliant despite the blood curdling alarm that eventually conceded defeat to my open windows and breezes created my panicked attempts and mad flapping. The cow was a little overdone but I have to say, cooking an actual meal was very satisfying- to my tummy and my soul.

I will do it again. And I will remove the battery from my smoke alarm.

One Sentence

Nothing is more beautiful than a very pregnant woman, sitting on a park bench bathed in sunlight, delighting in her vanilla ice cream cone, with golden retriever, head in her lap, hoping for any 'extra' drops.

Could Not "Pass" this "Over"

When you live in Manhattan as I have for some years now, you are likely to have seen just about everything. So when something occurs that makes you stop and stare or something you saw lingers with you throughout the rest of your day, it is a rarity. Today I was working at home and after a wrestling match with an ornery computer, I decided it best to take in a walk along the Hudson bedazzled in the spring sunshine. I set off blissfully with iPod on and rounded the corner to Riverside drive, about to cross over to the park when I notice not one cab, not two, but probably 50 or 60 all parked along the side of the street - some 3 or 4 deep- and not a soul in them. I looked to see if I was in front of a building where a concert could be held or some large gathering...no. Where were the cab drivers? I slowed down considerably and rounded another corner where all of a sudden there were nothing but men, all on knees, bowing and praying in unison. They bent over and touched their foreheads to the sidewalk and back up- over and back up- over and back up.

"Wow", I caught myself saying- probably audible to anyone nearby. But my sheer fascination and curiosity went head to head with my utter respect for religious freedom. The latter kept me walking. I only barely hesitated. I mean, surely in New York I had seen this before at Passover? No. I had not. All of these men, all of them cabbies, all of them parked haphazardly to jump out and pray together because their religion said it was to be so.

I love moments when I feel like I am in New York for the first time.

The Naked Stare

I just had one of those moments. When I am in the bathroom and after letting the water wash away the soap from my face, I lift my chin to catch my eyes in the mirror. I stay there. I look so long and so deep into my own eyes that I can see my reflection inside my reflection inside my reflection - all in my pupils...in and out..they get bigger and smaller...the water drips down my face. I stay there. I talk to God.

Have you ever stared into your own eyes so long, so closely that your face becomes distorted? That you no longer see your form anymore? You see something else. Someone else. That is where I got today. I used to do it a lot when I was a little girl. This is my best time to talk to God. And it is funny- with all the fear and anxiety and stress that I am experiencing right now- there was a calm there- inside my eyes. And I saw a woman who has so much to do.

Moving = Breakdown + Build-Up

So, I just moved.

I had heard people tell me (WARN ME), "Oh, wow- you are moving? Have you had the breakdown yet?"

Me: "What? No- why?"

Now I know why.

But my new neighborhood is, in a word, divine. The upper west side has this charm that is inexplicable. Kind of like the difference between being 25 and 35. Both are great- both ages have energy and youth but at 35 you have let slide away all the 'crap' of image ( I am so looking forward to this)...you know enough of who you are and have enough history to just be as opposed to 'being' for others (insert yuppie and trust fund babies abound with no remorse or sense of humility). But hey, that is my opinion.

Post breakdown? I cannot articulate how alive I feel. Crossing over the park I had one of those moments. We all know when the city can get to be too much. Sensory overload. And then suddenly, as quickly as the wind hits you in the face, you have another moment, another overload, yet everything makes sense. You want to be nowhere else than here...than New York. I felt the sun warm my skin, heard a dog bark and a child laugh, the sound of a baseball cracking off of a bat, and smelled the freshly cut grass. If anyone had told me this could be New York, I would never have believed them. But now that this is my home and now that I have just that- a home- I can be nowhere else. Crossing the park is a symbol of crossing into newness for me...a new side of town, a new home all encased in a new season that flourishes with possibility.

So that is that.

Lack of Lumps

Oh, the bra.

It feels like a fraud. I mean, putting curves where there are not any feels wrong and yet? What is it about us women? We have to have these 2 lumps or we do not love ourselves. While most women have to 'tame' their lumps, I feel like I am in the secret service- just trying to find the hidden anecdote- the bra- to make me look like I have lumps at all. Ok, the grass is always greener but... How can I look natural when all mother nature gave me was the 'pass card' ?

They are not that bad. In fact, in 30 years I know they will not be around my hips....that would be impossible. Gravity cannot work on something that is not there.

Bra shopping is on par with a root canal.

Looking down...nope, still nothing.