Central Park: a mom and her little girl, on a hill. 

Central Park: a stroller, entranced?  

Central Park: two boys in gray 

Central Park: a kiss is just a kiss... 

New Haven Interlude

If I could change the way roles were cast among strangers and friends, I would insist on balance. I would insist that no one gave more, no one gave less of themselves. I would ask that each listened to the other’s requests and, in friendship, gave of her or himself fully, with no excuse, no dishonesty.

I thought of this today as I walked the blocks of New Haven and looked up at the dazzling petals framing the spires and the buildings of Yale.

A Yale date 

A bridge of sighs? a clock? a flower or two, cheering the passerby. 

detail: flowers reaching up to ... a beautiful form 

Spring blooms and foliage almost obliterate an Ivy Tower. 

a recorder tells it like it is: simple and sad 

late afternoon: translucent leaves 

New York Interlude: if you cannot deal with rejection, you might as well pack your bags and go home

Save spontaneity for Madison. Here, in the big league land, you need to have A Plan, and That Plan better be made and hatched early, before you set out.

Last night it did not strike me until significantly into the evening that it would be cool to do something so New Yorkish as to be completely in the realm of the impossible back in Madison. I noted that Mstislav Rostropovich was conducting the NY Philharmonic in a program of Shostakovich and Prokofiev piano concertos. I wanted to be there! Suddenly, I knew, that more than anything, I wanted to lose myself in these works, looking up at a musical giant (how old is he now anyway?), taking it all in the gorgeous space of Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center.

So I called and I begged to have one of the return tickets set aside (there are always at least two or three returns). I literally offered up my wealth and my labors for a chance at a seat. No luck.

In the alternative, I thought I’d walk to the NBC Tower to see if anyone was feeling sick and incapable of sitting through the live performance of SNL. Surely in this weather one person would be feeling sick and miserable enough to hand over their ticket to me. No. Throw up in the aisles why don’t you, but don’t give me your precious ticket. Fine. I wouldn’t either.

Perhaps drowning my disappointment up in the Rainbow Room would be the way to go? I mean, one drink, beautiful view (even if it was foggy, it’s always grand up there) – good plan! Except for the jeans. I hardly ever wear jeans back home (jeans capital of the world). I don’t even typically pack jeans when I go places (well, okay, as a standby for the mountains). But this time, I was on my way to SNL – how jeansy is that? Plus I put on my 70%-off-but-still-a-fortune Cambio jeans (never heard of them? neither have I, but the saleslady at Sassafras said they would put me in with the cooler if not totally coolest set). The elevator man took one look at my dangling from underneath the coat denim and pointed the elevator down, showing me the nearest exit sign.

Okay, plan number 4: stand around and look at Rockefeller Plaza at night. It’s campy. It’s touristy. It’s fun. Except when it is entirely covered by a huge tent for a private wedding function. Who the hell has the cash to rent the entire Rockefeller Plaza for a wedding??

Walking home I thought – there’s always Borders. In Madison, Saturdays are good Borders nights: the store is open, and it may be the only place outside of State Street where there are people mingling about. Take that image back to Madison. The NY Borders closes at 8 on the weekend. Of course. Who wants to sit at Borders when there are exciting things to do like the Philharmonic or SNL?

Of course, sitting at a bar, any old cheesy bar is always an option. Or getting out of the blasted Midtown. Spontaneity is more of a SoHo & Village thing. I should have known better.

Okay, but if I were the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, I’d keep my hands to the side when walking with Rumsfeld.

On why Bush was found walking hand-in-hand with Crown Prince Abdullah at the Crawford Ranch, see NYTimes story here.

New York Interlude: city mice

If you’re a suburban mouse, you have it made: fields of greens, open spaces, and a nice warm spot in a house to nest in for the winter.

But what of city mice? Do they trade in the open spaces, the clean feel of growing things for this?
 

Would they?

How can you mark seasons if you are a downtown kind of a mouse? Sure, there are the strips of land snaking through the boulevards and avenues. Like this one: can’t you tell what season we’re in now?
 

And even though some would not regard pigeons as good company, still, the city mouse need not feel that she is without playmates.
 

Mostly, the city mouse has traded in all that vast peace and quiet, the fresh smells of soil and flowers and young buds and pine needles for the company of strangers. But company it is nonetheless, so that when a city mouse digs herself out of her hole late at night, just to shake her mousy thoughts loose, even in the rain, even in the windy, breezy night, she will be able to cavort with the shadows and forms of people out and about, mysterious and fascinating strangers, hurrying, with secrets and twisted plots guiding them through the maze of city streets.
 

New York Interlude: Bouley’s

In truth, I am not easily won over by restaurants. I mean, I like a lot of presentations at a lot of eating establishments, but mostly I think they are less splendiferous than the hype around them would suggest.

Still, through odd and fortuitous circumstances, even though I do not run with the crowd that routinely plunks down wads of cash for dinners out, I have been fortunate, through sometimes devious and sometimes insane methods, to eat at some pretty extraordinary places. And I have paid my share of cash to try to get near a chef whose food I have read about. I am willing to take out a second, third, sometimes fourth mortgage to chase down a meal someone tells me is worth the gold needed to pay for it. I have also scraped the bottom far more often than I care to remember, with dishes and dining experiences that are worth writing about because they have been so unbelievably bad.

Mostly, I like the middle range. I like family run places outside metropolitan areas. Places with a regular clientele of locals. Places where waiters complain if you leave something on the plate. Places where the diners’ ages run from 3 to 93. Where people dress up slightly, but not too much. Where the food is good and honest and fresh and flavorful.

But every once in a while I will come across a star that is listed as a superstar and it winds up having enough shine and glimmer to light up a whole galaxy with its radiance. Bouley was it. Truly one of the best ever. Because every dish was a surprise and nothing was less than it could be.

I went for a late lunch and chose the tasting menu – six sampling courses, plus three others thrown in by Chef Bouley, possibly because he likes to be generous, possibly because I was assiduously taking notes and photographing everything. As if I were writing a story. Which I am. Because Ocean is as good as an NYT review, right?

I really cannot list everything -- too tedious and dull to read, especially if you can’t run your fingers across the words and lick them in appreciation. Okay, just a smattering: a tomato gazpacho over shredded grilled shrimp, served in a martini glass; the phyllo crusted Florida shrimp, Cape Cod Bay Squid, Scuba Dived Sea scallop, Sweet Maryland Crabmeat in an Ocean Herbal Broth; the baby skate with capers and baby greens with pineapple vinaigrette; the Nova Scotia Halibut with fresh porcini mushrooms, Georgia corn, Asparagus and a Corn Shoot Sauce; the Venison with poached Bartlett pear, Swiss chard and chocolate sauce (you heard it here); the white chocolate flan with green tea glaze; the fresh chilled Rhubarb soup with cassis sorbet, sour cream ice and Beaujolais granite; the hot Valrhona soufflé with maple, chocolate and vanilla ice cream; the chocolates and cookies and espresso – they were all over the top fabulous.

Complaints? None. Oh, alright: I could have kicked the waiter’s shins a few times for the poised manner with which he delivered wrong info when pressed on some of the dishes. Advice to all the waiters who have pesky diners bugging them with Qs: go back to the kitchen and get it right, from the cooks that know what they’re plating. Please please please don’t bluff it. Cassis and sour cream do not taste, look or smell the same and they cannot be folded together and come out looking white. It just can’t be done.

But the Russian runner was disarming, and Mr. Bouley was awe-inspiring. I wish I could shine his shoes daily, just so the glow of stardom would rub off onto my fingers and everything I thereafter touched in the kitchen would have his magic.

I do fall in love with good cooks and good writers, I admit it.

Okay, a few of the pictures. Apologies for the quality. This was not a place where I could take time, sit still and fiddle with the composition. Surreptitious clicking typically means you’re going to come home, download the photos and hit delete 99% of the time. Still, I promised food – here’s food. And thank you, gorgeous and brilliant daughters, for a magnificent birthday meal.

Bouley 

Apples line the small entryway, giving off a fragrance that puts you in the mood for crisp, fresh flavors. 

What tipped this into the la la land of the extraordinary were the shredded phyllo crust on the shrimp and the deep green herbal broth. 

Breads: I chose the pistachio, the fig, and the sourdough, passing on the garlic, the olive, and the black pepper only because there wasn't room on the plate. 

La vie en rose: note my spying on the two lovers: she was all over him. Did he mind? I'm not sure... 

The detail in the venison dish was amazing. Under the slightly cocoa-flavored venison sauce lay a sprinkilng of pear puree. At the side -- a tear-drop of whipped potato. Chard adds a touch of bitterness and nicely folds the meat back into the blend of sauces. 

When doing one of these, always, always start with the best possible chocolate. They did. The beauty of this lay in its utter simplicity and perfect execution. 

a meal in itself: post dinner nibbles 

New York interlude: setting out for a lunch to whip all lunches off the charts in terms of wonderfulness

This afternoon I am to dine at Bouley.

I should be thinking ahead to the tasting menu. I want to learn, get inspired by the great chefs of the city*. But right now all I keep thinking of is my entrance into this renowned Tribeca eatery: one look at my apparel and I know what table they’ll seat me at. I’ll just have to be careful so that I wont get banged by the door as the runners zip dirty dishes past me on the way to the kitchen.

I really do not love the fact that tasting the best of the best requires dining in opulent surroundings but I am willing to make the sacrifice occasionally.

Still, the dressing up part can dampen my humble cotton-leaning enthusiasm. I do not want the hosting person to immediately sniff financial failure (or at least on the failing side of great affluence) when she or he sees me entering the room. And they can tell, just by looking at my shoes.

Today will be a disaster in the shoe department: I am forced to wear something weather appropriate – not quite snow boots, but something that wont make icicles out of my toes. I have avoided purchasing pointed stilettos thinking – dear God, this style has to pass soon so that sanity can again prevail.

But it hasn’t happened yet. And in the meantime I suffer the indignity of knowing that whatever piece of leather or cloth will be strapped to my soles is inferior and plain wrong for the fine carpets at Bouley.

Ah well, if I wanted to tromp in with kick-ass shoes, I’d have to get some kick-ass dress to go with them and now we’re talking four digit prices, just for lunch.

Between my attire, my chickening out on the sophisticated hair-cut and my blogging camera, I am going to be like a duckling bobbing in a sea of plumed swans. But the food – oh! the food will be spectacular!

*Chef David Bouley is the city’s top cooking honcho, being the only one to have ever scored a 29 in Zagat’s food ratings.

these should be on my feet

slick men's counterpart (tell me what guy in Madison has a pair like this?) 

New York interlude: highlights

My man Jason, color specialist, the guy who can tell by just looking at me the shade of hair I had as a five year old (“it is the peak of hair color for everyone; after that it’s downhill all the way”), the guy whom I trust so much with hues and tones that I listen even when he tells me which nail polish to buy for summer sandal weather, was chatty today. He isn’t always, but today we were both in the mood.

One topic was my hair: is it time to go sophisticated (rather than fun)? I mean, I am 52 and I am heading for Paris next week. Is this the day to do the blunt little number that is so tres gentil that gentlemen start buying you un petit verre du vin?

Oh I was tempted. Really tempted. But I said to him: next time. Even though my next Jason moment will be after Paris and the only petit anything that anyone in Madison will buy me will be a spotted cow – how sophisticated is that, damn it: can I buy you a spotted cow? Much less deserving of a special hair trim.

Still, the Jason halo held. It’s as if I were with a golden spoon rather than just a few five-year-old-like golden strands. My evening flight to Chicago left 15 minutes early and I was on it, the Puck’s sandwich at O’Hare was superb, and the bar lady took one look at my hair and asked for an ID before serving me wine (honest! her eyes bypassed the entirety: I am certain that the only thing she even glanced at was my hair). Obviously she was momentarily thrown off. Had she not looked beyond the scalp, I would have been denied my glass of Chardonnay.

I’m in New York now, in a contemplative mood. It’s quiet, no one’s around. I am tempted to spend the rest of the evening sitting in front of the mirror, thinking five year old thoughts. I do not much remember what I did or thought as a five year old, living in Warsaw, looking out at the ridiculously noisy tram station just outside my window. But I sure had the hair color of all colors, if Jason has it right. Life was simple, but oh so golden.

Thanks

I do not often link back to Ocean posts when I make references to them (horribly unnice of me but there you have it) and so it took me a year to notice that my links have not been working. Possibly ever. So that, when, say, an author of another blog found a fetching photo of himself on Ocean and wanted to draw the attention of the world to his stellar good looks, he found that all he got for his efforts was a link to whatever latest Ocean post was on display. It is a problem when you think you’re linking to this, and instead get this.

Thanks, Tom, for fixing the broken link. Now, if you want this, you’ll get this, not, say, this.

Oh the flowers I have planted here: by the hundreds! The hours I have worked here: by the thousands! Now it's time for someone else to step in.

It’s good to move out of ruts and move ruts out of your space. When you need help, why stick with the ordinary sources of support when you can reach into fresh pools of extraordinary people?

That was my reasoning when I handed over my yard to a nine-year old. He will make sure no one sprays poison on my weeds (he is quite the econut). He will every once in a while take a sharp blade to the one or two strands of grass that make it through the dandelion patch. He will be the caretaker, the observer, the hawk.

Why him? Oh, maybe I see myself being nine again, loving the yard in my grandparents’ house. I see myself tending flowers there, next to my grandfather’s, picking cherries and fraises de bois, I see myself buying an American skateboard (remember those?) and taking it for the summer to that Polish village, only to find that it does not work where there is no pavement!

I see myself not weighed down by burdensome decisions that have to be made later in life, like forty-three years later. I see myself smiling with friendship toward people I meet – even older neighbors, age meaning nothing, friendship meaning doing things for someone and then dousing them with a water pistol.

So he gets my vote of confidence. And if he and his pals find cool ways to play here while he’s in charge, how wonderful that would be. Yards and houses should not stand empty, not when there are so many out there who would know how to care for them and how to enjoy them.

inch by inch, row by row: