A beautiful meal is a love letter. It’s honest, hard-won–an expression of a creative soul.

Last week.

“What do we do with the distance, Jamie? How do we lessen the thousand miles and keep our hearts patient, our minds occupied?”

Shortly thereafter,

arrived for me. The food was his caring and my comfort—a love letter for the mind and belly.

But thank the Lord for planes, trains and automobiles! This weekend, I get the real deal. I’m off to Tennessee and the Southland and into Jamie’s arms. Stories and pictures to follow…

The storefront is tiny and cramped and filled with things they used to eat as kids back in the old country. The air is humid, smells of warm milk and salumi and feels like your kitchen ought to feel. But, this is New York so no one really cooks and you come to “Joe’s” to escape the pristene stove top, the pretentious SoHo boutiques that ate Little Italy whole (like a mobster w. a meatball sub), the unremitting anxiety that you’ll never, ever meet your word count (your first born supplanting the final 150 pages of your novel).

The wooden countertop at “Joe’s” is 4 inches thick and bowed from decades of wear. Two scales are at the ready—though the second one is only put to use on Saturday mornings when the old neighborhood comes in from Queens and New Jersey to get a slice of childhood, a mouthful of memories, a taste of the uncomplicated. The mother and daughter team slice off hunks of the parmigiano and ricotta salata and piave while the father and grandfather stir a cauldron-like pot with the utmost care, rotating the enormous vat of fresh mozzarella on and off the heat at precisely the right moment. The fat white balls float contentedly in the milky water until one of the two uncles—both around 80 years young—wrap then stack the gorgeous soft cheese, readying it for the finest, over-priced Italian restaurants in the city. A caprese salad at “Cipriani’s?” That’ll be $25. A base-ball size portion of mozzarella at “Joe’s?” $4. I’m in the thick of Sin City and yet I feel protected, nurtured. Life is simple on Sullivan.

My order is consistent, my conversation with the mother never changing much except for the day I was in the “New York Post.” She asked where I was from, what I was doing so far from home and then slipped a smoked mozzarella into the bag containing my usual order of gruyere, triple cream brie, lightly salted mozzarella. I got back home, poured a glass of Pinot Gris (because this is what I do after visiting “Joe’s”) and found the sweet, little surprise in a place where the cynics claim nothing’s free and no one knows your name.

Joe’s Dairy, 156 Sullivan St, New York, NY

Until my new post goes up, A Roll in the Hay…

Getting ready, always hopeful…
Peeling off my dress, I leave another Saturday night behind. The first warm spell just passed through the city so I was able to invite friends over for cocktails on the terrace, wear a little bit less, walk around the neighborhood a bit more. But, still…

New York nights are funny. If something extraordinary doesn’t occur, you wonder if it was all worth it. These nights don’t just happen, you see. They’re carefully constructed and fretted upon and hopes fly high. But this is okay. For a spell, I’m allowed to dream the impossible because the bizarre and the wonderful happen every second —it just depends on whether I’m good enough and smart enough to be at the right place at the right time. All those hours in front of the mirror trying to make myself look pretty (that vain interlude getting longer and longer by the year), drinking just enough wine to be social not senseless, listening to men talk about their important post in the Kerry campaign, “If he had won, I’d be his deputy director of…” The position changes, the men don’t. I’m looking for more…

New York is my Saturday Night and I’m tired of coming home alone. If I don’t get something out of this whole big city interlude, do I have to ask myself if it was all worth it? To borrow a line from Kurt Vonnegut’s commencement speech to MIT’s Class of 97,’ “Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.”

My navy blue dress pools around my ankles and all I want is a kiss good night. Mr. Vonnegut, what should I do?

(…) The prince was always sleeping so the bodyguards and I spent a good deal of time together. I taught them a little quatrain though they never could grasp the title, “First Fig.”

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

But, the truth was, they didn’t care about poetry. They were all 35 and strong and loved blonde Americans. Would I go up to their room?

Leave the comfort of the grand lobby for the cramped quarters of a hotel room? No thank you. Besides, I don’t respond well to pushy in any language. While they protested in a mad mix of Arabic and French, I marked my place in Edna’s poems with a matchbook and silently said goodbye to the title of “desert princess.” The plans I had!

But, the garden of the Ritz can save any girl’s day.

The French doors to the side of the lobby gave way to swaying green, lazy fountains and a glimpse of the Prado’s sturdy, marble walls across the way. Madrid’s evening traffic was muffled to a lullaby, the few sounds that penetrated the perfume of the narcissus blooms and the leaves of the elms soothed. You could see it on their faces. I felt it on mine. The reality of hectic lives and headaches so near made us feel the luxury more intensely. My pocket of opulence—at least for 60 minutes or so.

I chose a remote table and looked out at the patio, white wicker chairs alight with dresses off the runways of Milan and Paris. The stylish ones. The proper ones were drinking four o’clock tea and eating square cakes inside. I was drinking red wine and most assuredly neither.

“Senorita?”

I’m walking down Bedford Street and pensive and thinking that I’m not a “girl” anymore—the next time I’m in Madrid, the camarero serving me the tinto will certainly call me senora instead of senorita. Feeling sorry for yourself in March is never a good idea—February’s gray is too close, July’s gold is far, far away. So I think of Spain because this cheers me.

I was a lucky, lucky girl the first time I was in Madrid. Granddaddy put us all up at the Ritz and I had just mastered the subjunctive. I felt brilliant and young (no matter that the latter held more water than the former). The city and the hotel and the provincial elegance of the Spaniards conspired to impress my sixteen year-old heart.

Sister was laid up with food poisoning (salmonella from all those slices of tortilla espanola) and Granddaddy and the rest were perpetually jet-lagged. I felt wonderful and free and oddly expressive in a language that I spoke quite well, but not with the same proficiency I spoke Southern. While they napped and poor Sister threw up and drank $5 room-service Sprite in the claw-footed tub filled with expensive gels and salts, I carefully dressed in my Sunday best and sat in the lobby. To appear occupied and important, I brought a book. Edna St. Vincent Millay, a glass of tinto (Jerez sherry when it got very, very hot) and the bodyguards of a Saudi prince kept me company in my corner. The prince was always asleep so his minions and I spent a good deal of time together. I taught them a little quatrain though they never could grasp the title, “First Fig.”

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

But the truth was, they didn’t care about poetry. They were all 35 and strong and loved blonde Americans. Would I go up to their room?

(more tomorrow, lovelies…)

My Gotham writing teacher was a beautiful, stern man that ruled his classroom with an iron hand. He inspired adulation, disdane and–amongst the cute co-eds–rivalry.

What was I to do when a very charming, very talented Duke graduate came into our class–my class? Naturally, I played the skeptic. But, then she passed out ten pages of delightful prose. I had to choose–was I with her or against her? I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Her words at once pulled me onto the page and away from it–into her world.

She calls herself Almost Literary but, I think she’s just being humble…

(and yes, Stuart, back to my prose tomorrow)