An Introduction

I've always considered myself to be a curious sort of person.  I’m not afraid to ask questions, to examine different options, and to experiment until I find the right answer.  Perhaps that’s to be expected when your parents are a Librarian and a Physicist.

When I was younger, I was fascinated with how things work.  I used to take apart old radios and telephones just to see what the inside looked like and how all the parts moved together.  I could almost never put anything back together, but that wasn’t the point. That mechanical curiosity faded by the time I was a teenager and was eventually replaced by a more personal curiosity.

I’ve never really been able to answer the question ‘What do you want to be’. Or at least not in a way that people expect.  While many of my peers would respond with details about their career aspirations, my answer is more abstract.  I want to be happy.  I want to be the best version of myself.  That’s all I’m looking for in the world.  I don’t aspire to a corner office or an expense account and I’m not looking to raise a family, at least not yet.

On the surface, to be myself and be happy seems trite and simplistic, but if you really think about it, it’s an involved, never-ending project.  People are not stagnate and happiness is a day by day process, not one final destination.  To be the best version of myself is an ever evolving undertaking involving issues of spirituality, self-confidence, learning and growth.

In this column I want to consider those topics and the questions they invoke.  I want to look to religions from all over the world and learn from them. I want to talk to women I admire about their own journeys. I want to reflect on what practices and actions work for me, which do not, and why. And I want to learn from you, what has made a difference in your own life and helped you become who you are today. What are our strengths and how can we strengthen our weaknesses.

We all have a journey and a destination, and everyone’s path is different.  This column is about how I’m making my way in the world. My interests, experiences, beliefs and thoughts are just that, my own.  Life is not one size fits all and there isn’t one right answer, but that’s what makes it interesting and exciting.  I’m not the expert on living your life, but I’m trying to become an expert in living mine!

I hope you’ll read along and comment, maybe even be a little bit inspired, I’m sure I will be.

This is Me, Making My Way.

Lessons from traveling...

Dearest Clara, We are still on the move---one week into a seventeen day trip.  This time around we have been taking you on a bit of a sentimental journey though you are much too young to remember these places or even understand their significance.  But don’t worry, one day we will certainly take you again.  In the meantime, we will take lots of pictures for you to remember this by.

We travel a lot, whether for fun or for work---it is a bit the nature of the job we signed up to do.  But even if we hadn’t, I have a feeling we would continue to move about anyway.  Traveling can open up the mind to so much, but it certainly can be draining as well.  Keep these things in mind when you find yourself on the go---my bet is that you’ll take after your parents.

• Don’t pack more than you can carry: I think this is rule number one.  If you yourself can’t carry it, you probably don’t need it.  My rule of thumb is one roller board and a folded duffle inside for the trip home (inevitably, you always come back with more).  But remember, you shouldn’t be dependent on anyone when it comes to just carrying stuff.
• Ask for help when you need it: That being said, ask for help when you need it.  Some days, your bag will be too heavy, or you’ll find yourself lost.  I always avoided services that booked taxis or brought bags or any countless number of other things, insisting that I do it myself.  That’s a good way to start and a good way to learn, but at some point, it’s okay to get some assistance.  It’s how others make a living, and sometimes, a few dollars more can save you lots of time and frustration and back ache.
• Move around with confidence: You won’t always know where you’re going, but you should always look like it.  You will build confidence in your own abilities to get to where you need to go, but you’ll also stave off any unwelcome attention that finds its way to the lost and unaccompanied.
• Be a gracious traveling companion:  No doubt you will come across myriad of personalities while traveling, and not all of them the nicest.  But traveling brings out funny things in people: some might be sad, upset, coming from or going to a place they would rather not.  Give people the benefit of the doubt and the space they need, and don’t take travel outbursts personally.  Be as gracious and patient as you can, the day will come when you need the same from others.
• Remember your documents and your wallet: I used to worry the entire way to the airport whether I had packed everything.  But my mother always used to ask if I had my passport and my wallet,  and then told me not to worry, anything else you can buy.  Always be able to identify yourself, and always have a couple of ways to get money where you’re going and you’ll always be set.
• Leave something to come back for: When you really love and enjoy a place you’ve visited, leave a little something to return for.  A museum unseen, a picture not taken, a personal item you forgot, a coin in the fountain . . . my mother always said that you should always “leave something to come back for”.

Over the years, you’ll find all of your own little bits of advice to make traveling easier.  You can always start out by laying out what you would like to take, and then taking half the clothes and twice the money.  Drink lots of water, travel with a shawl, and wash your hands a lot.  And of course, send your mother lots of postcards.

All my love,

Mom

He'd have me at Atwood.

Tell me, if you would, what each of these lists has in common.

1984, The Odyssey, Infinite Jest, Super Sad True Love Story. Lots of non-fiction, typically covering: history, science, or art/art theory. Neil deGrasse Tyson/Brian Greene/Richard Feynman. And biographies/autobiographies.

Just finished Nick Flynn's Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, which is incredible. I am sappily fond of David Foster Wallace for many many reasons.

Confederacy of Dunces, Girl Curious Hair (surprised, wanted to really hate him), everything Salinger or Kundera.

Currently reading Life by Keith Richards and miscellaneous repair manuals. Some favorites: White Noise, Libra, Assassination Vacation, Shop Class as Soulcraft, Outliers.

All the Kings Men, The Man in the High Castle, 100 Years of Solitude, The Odyssey, Who Censored Roger Rabbit, The 1,001 Nights, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Catullus.

They are lists of books, it's true. And they're charmingly eclectic, up to a point. I mean, you have to admit that there's something adorable about a list that includes works by both Homer and Neil deGrasse Tyson. But look a little closer, and you might notice something missing: not one of these lists of favorite books includes a single novel written by a woman.

The common thread uniting these? They all herald from the OKCupid profiles of men who've either emailed me or caught my attention in the last few weeks. I haven't met any of these gentlemen in person yet, but they all seem perfectly nice, bright and open-minded. They are men who claim, either in their profiles or in the answers to their questions, a certain level of liberalism---even feminism. But nary a one lists a single book by a woman---not even a freaking short story---as among their favorites.

Whenever I get an email from a promising guy, I dread scrolling down to this part of his profile, knowing that pretty much every time I'm going to feel a twinge of disappointment in a man I otherwise find interesting. Why is it, I ask myself, that none of these men can be bothered to include a woman among their favorite authors? The likely answer, of course, is that they probably haven't read anything by a woman---with the possible exception of Doris Kearns Goodwin---since college. (Habits developed in childhood---which we've discussed before---follow people for life, kids.)

By contrast, here are the favorite books of some awesome, single, straight ladies in the same age range and geography:

A Visit From the Goon Squad (Jennifer Egan), Super Sad True Love Story (Gary Shteyngart), The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (Michael Chabon), The Unnamed (Joshua Ferris).

I have favourites ranging from the Hitchhiker's Guide books to Jane Austen (cliche I know) to Stephen Fry's books.

Beckett, Plath, Hughes, Jack London, Brontës, Poe, Camus, Anthony Minghella's radio plays, Donne, Dostoevsky, Gogol, Strindberg, Thoreau, Marx, artists' journals (especially Munch), T.S. Eliot, Braudel, Benjamin.

Nabokov. Wells Tower. Lorrie Moore. Jennifer Egan. (Writing a list of books could take me forever and would only look boring on screen.)

The Handmaid's Tale, Middlesex, House of Mirth, I Capture The Castle, Persuasion, Grimm's Fairy Tales

This is hardly a scientific survey. But I can't help but think that when men---especially supposedly progressive, liberal, worth-dating men---can't be bothered to read women's writing (or, if nothing else, to cop to it online), we have yet another symptom of our still-yawning gender gap. (On the flip side of things, note the woman who feels the need to temper her love of Austen, one of the Western canon's greatest social satirists, with an aside noting how cliche her admiration is.)

I truly believe that "small" things like this are just the bubbles popping on the surface of a roiling body of sexist water, seemingly benign indicators of the ongoing wage gap (even more notable for women of color), the constant, unending street harassment women face on a daily basis, the one in four women who will be raped in their lifetimes---and on, and on, and on.

Plus, these dudes are missing out on some seriously awesome writing. Margaret Atwood is for real, bros. And would guarantee a reply email, to boot.

Inside the White Picket Fence

By Marni Zarr I met him in sophomore geometry. My head in the clouds over his best friend, the subject of which made easy fodder for conversation. Our instructor happened to be his basketball coach which miraculously made me privy to over the shoulder glances at his correct answers during tests thus saving me from failing. Happy that I had this advantage I was big on smiles and loved conversing with this insider who knew everything I wanted to know about my not so secret crush on his goofy yet charming friend.  In between the hand holding and break ups between his friend and I, the two of us grew into good pals. Hours spent with him on the phone, nothing said in coded whispers as was required with other friends.  I wasn’t afraid of my parent’s overhearing me as I spoke to him through the avocado kitchen rotary, only that our phone time would be cut off before I was ready to say good-bye. The curly cord a slinky in my hand, I’d wind it’s twisting loops through my toes while talking and daydream about compliments from the older girls in the P.E. locker room. One insisted I should be a foot model. The perfect shape and always polished, the only blemish a growing bunion on the right side, enough to squash that idea. My self doting thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his innocent question, “So what about going to the movies with me this weekend?”

My parents prejudices were a good cover-up for my own fear. I wasn’t totally comfortable with the thought of going on a date, although I considered him a friend, a black guy. Would people think he was my boyfriend? Would they stare and tag me with another accessory like my religion that I wasn’t comfortable carrying around? Did I want to say no but blame my parents prejudices as a shield for my own? How could I decline without hurting his feelings? All of these thoughts swirled in my head like an alphabet soup of questions whirring audibly in a blender, a jumble of words and feelings that in the end was so thick and unrecognizable my thoughts a messy mush. and then, the honest answer rose to the top, “ I can’t, I have to be sixteen to date.” Although valid, we both communicated the understood underlying truth with an awkward moment of silence.

Who knows what would have happened if I had been allowed to experience my first date with him. I could sense his feelings for me were different than mine for him, but his character spoke only of respect. I could have breached my parent’s rules and told them I was going to a movie with a girlfriend and met him there but didn’t. Instead I packed the incident neatly away, we stayed friends, I denied my feelings, and life went on with the blame pinned to my parents, folding my confusion neatly away to be dealt with later.

We remained friends while the dating excuse covered the dark truth until late winter. Still three months shy of my 16th birthday I successfully convinced my parents to lift the dating rule, “just this once.”  The most popular boy in high school, a year ahead of me had asked me out on a Valentine’s date.  Possessing perfect all American good boy looks with mischievous sparkly blue eyes and a California like carelessness to his confident athletic walk, he was the stud of the school. How I was chosen to be his valentine crush was never clear . . . to anyone. He was the boy on a pedestal. The one that everyone remembers.

All nerves electric at the sound of the doorbell, awkward introductions were made and off we went down the front walkway to his pristine truck where he opened the door politely and I raised myself up and sat on the soft burnished brown velour seat. First stop, a weathered liquor store in a strip mall just outside the cozy confines of his country club community. I waited while he confidently strutted in and came out minutes later with a six-pack, gum and a pink plastic comb which became my souvenir of the evening.  I loved how he played with my hair and teased me with it as we listened to “The Cars”  cassette on his fancy stereo and drank the lukewarm bottled beer in the theatre parking lot. Three for him, two for me, time for the movie. We each popped a fresh stick of doublemint gum in our mouths and before getting out to walk around and open my door, hand resting softly on my thigh, he asked me to reach into his glove compartment so he could reapply more of his “Polo” cologne. My senses heightened to the first hints of sexual tension the scent was forever branded on my memory so that years later I could smell our song whenever it played and feel his hand as it went up my shirt.

After the movie, fully clothed but rolling in the cool winter grass of the church on the corner, we kissed and I assumed it was true love forever, hearts floating in my head I went home to dream about our wedding and how envious everyone would be as I walked down the aisle with the dream god of the high school universe.  Two weeks later, as the deities of high school often do, he moved on to new and easier waters. My elevated ego smarted from the fall, but I had the song “Just What I Needed” by The Cars and my light pink comb for comfort. Even if never allowed to pray at the feet of his graven image again I knew I had earned his blessing and to me that was timeless.

A few years ago I ran into a former high school friend at a neighborhood restaurant as I walked out the door. Turning at my name there was instant recognition in the hint of a smile, the way you see through someone’s voice and facial expressions and it transports you back in time. We started talking about our current lives, family, kids, jobs etc., the creamy pre-prepared information filling the space between high school graduation and now. The conversation turned to people we occasionally ran into from school and we shared short clips of what we knew or had heard.  His son was on the high school football team at a small school in California and being coached by another former classmate’s younger brother, small world. The topic of football sparked my curiosity about my long ago crush and the question rolled off my tongue with a wistful lilt. His face fell as he told me what he had heard a while back. This boy who many of us had assumed would go on to have it all, just as he did in school, grew up and had taken his own life. I couldn’t help but wonder if every one of us who had assisted him in rising to that highest spot of teen-age stardom hadn’t somehow contributed to his fall.

On Coming Back

There can be heartache in city living, especially in the summertime. For someone who grew up as a country mouse, summertime has always been the backdrop for my most sensory memories: the smell of freshly mown grass and charcoal barbecues, the sound of airplanes crossing a lazy summer sky, choruses of peepers and cicadas, the sharp crack of baseball bats, the feeling of bare toes in sand and the hot prickle of a sunburn. In the city, the smells and sounds are different, even when they’re the same. The smell of barbecue wafting from our neighbors’  balcony feels invasive when it’s not paired with sounds of cicadas and the soft hum of a garden sprinkler. Airplanes that cross the city sky compete with sirens and car alarms for aural dominance and all but disappear before I’ve even noticed them. Our neighbors' air conditioner now drowns out the sounds of the birds I spent the spring listening to. Last week, we spent two glorious days in Maine. We drove seven hours up and back for the priviledge of walking barefoot in tall grass and having mosquitos bite our legs into near oblivion.  The trip was worth every single itchy red bump. While we were there, mostly, we relished the space and the quiet and the company. Now we’re back and the city feels stifling and smelly by comparison. The places where I normally seek refuge aren’t working their usual magic. Our tiny apartment feels tinier. The smell of Sunday night’s garbage sitting out for Monday’s pickup is oppressive. I'm the first to admit, I'm the worst kind of grumpy. There is so much to love about summer in the city, and I know I’ll get back into the rhythm of things, but for now, it’s hard to be back.

Dreams of Another Season

I try to explain to my friends and family up north, what it’s like to live in Florida. They chirp, “It must be so great, summer year round!” Not exactly, I reply. It is summer half the year and literal hell the other half. Picture it being so hot your car reads 110 degrees, daily. No relief at night, the only escape the whirr of the air-conditioning. The constant thrum as it turns on and off. You are sweating, and freezing, and sweating agan. Growing up in Indiana, we rarely used our central AC. It was a special treat, once or twice a year, and Dad would yell up from the musty basement steps, “I’m turning her on, batten the hatches!” We would all scramble; trying to slam the sticky windows down, the paint often sealed from the heat. Then the house smelled funny, not fresh, it had a special chemical scent you only noticed when you ran the AC that rarely. I remember, before I left Chicago, how important the seasons were to me. I could smell the changes. My little old apartment on Potomac had hardwood floors that were a hundred years old, and they fluctuated with temperature. In the summer, without air conditioning, it was musty. Then lots of people in old apartments didn’t have air conditioning. Instead we went outside. We looked forward to leaving our windows open and lying on the dark, damp floors for relief. It was just part of life. I write this now, trapped inside my ivory tower of air conditioning. In Florida, the air is on from April through October, if you are lucky, sometimes even longer. Is that better than the heat being on from October through April? You tell me. Now, I feel so disconnected and isolated from the concept of summer.

Summer used to mean that school was out. Then I graduated college and stopped going to school. Then summer meant parties and rooftop grilling. Then I moved to Florida and summer meant being trapped inside in the air conditioning because the heat index is over a hundred for the fifth week in a row. I watch my northern counterparts buying summer dresses and getting tickets for outdoor concerts. Instead I am signing up for as many summer Mommy and Me classes in the mornings, so that the afternoons everyone can sleep.

I miss the fall. Fall in Chicago is my favorite season. You bring out your boots and sweaters. Jackets and scarfs. You get cooled off after the summer heat. You say goodbye to the beach at North Ave. and say hello to Wednesday night wine nights at the Blue Line. You switch from white wine to red and enjoy it sitting in front of a fire, reading, listening to the wind whistling outside your window. It smells clean, fresh, the wood in the apartment is getting colder, but isn’t so cold yet that your heating bills are outrageous.

Then comes winter. It sneaks in on you. The air gets a little bit sharper. You switch to your winter coat; it's wool and lined. And you occasionally wear long underwear under your jeans. But even still, it feels refreshing to walk around the Kris Kringle Village in December, awaiting the first few flakes. The first few times it snows it is magical, like you are a kid again. You want to just sit and watch it, or make snow angels. Or stand and stare at the dogs running wild in the dog park at Wicker Park. They are so happy.

Then winter really hits, and everyone hibernates for January, February, and part of March. Some years St. Patricks Day feels like the first day of spring, other years, it snows. But right around April, the air begins to change again. You are giddy walking home from the subway, “Can I really leave my windows open?” You ask yourself, like a sugar deprived kindergartner.

None of these changes exist when you have constant summer. Instead there are no markers to watch the time float by. I have dreams about the north. It’s like that time that I tried to do the diet where you don’t eat any carbs, and by day two I was dreaming about muffins. I wake up every night, dreaming of falling into the snow, of walking down Southport when it’s fall. The leaves are yellowing and crunching. I get a hot scone and see its steam rising into the air. I pull my yellow coat tighter. Then I realize I have thrown off my covers, and that chill is the familiar manufactured chill of the air conditioner and I am covered in sweat.

On Inequality

The night before my son was born, my wife and I were in the hospital at the beginning of a very long process. It was June 24, 2011, and the New York state legislature was preparing for a vote on a bill that would legalize same-sex marriage in our adopted home state. The timing was pretty remarkable. My wife and I have been married since 2008, when our immediate families joined us at City Hall in Toronto, Ontario for our wedding. It was a funny limbo to live in, to be married in Canada, but not at home in New York. When we drove into Massachusetts, and said “married!” it often caused us to chuckle darkly. It’s weird enough to be able to buy beer in grocery stores in one state and not another, but to have your own family status legally change based on state boundaries is beyond weird.

The vote in the legislature was going to be close, and both of us had contacted our state senator, Steven Saland, a Republican, to state our hopes that he would vote for equality. In fact, I had called that very day while my wife packed up the last of her things for the hospital. I felt as though he might not even believe me, leaving a voice mail saying, “I’d like my son to be born to two married parents and you could make this happen.”

Of course, the ending of this story is well known.  The bill did in fact pass, and Senator Saland was one of the swing votes. His wife of forty-six years, according to him, “certainly lobbied him,” reported the New York Daily News. How fitting that my marriage was legally recognized partially because of the bond and influence within another marriage?

The moment when the bill passed, as we were up late in the hospital room felt almost ethereal.  Our son was about to enter the world at a remarkable moment in history, and not just History-with-a-capital-H but in our personal history. It felt fated, and I don’t feel that way very often, but even my cynicism couldn’t deny a certain sense of destiny.

Now that a year has passed, however, I no longer feel the blissful surprise of the legislature’s decision. I’m not satisfied with feeling as though I only have a handful of states in this country I can ever live in, with so many others officially off limits (I’m not taking that particular step backward). I realize how quickly this year passed and I know that the years will keep flying by and soon my son will have questions.

There’s no easy way to explain inequality. Why do some people have so much and others so little? Why do women still not make as much money as men for the same jobs? I teach Elie Wiesel’s Night to tenth graders every year and there’s always at least one who asks, “but why?” as the concept of a Jewish ghetto is introduced.  I have honed an answer to that question over time, but it never feels convincing. How will I explain to my son that our state sees us as a family, but our country does not?

I suppose I could show him all of the various tax returns that we had to have prepared: separate federal returns (which mean that my wife, in the eyes of the federal government, is a single mother), a joint “dummy” federal return to inform state returns, and a joint New York return.  I could explain that many people have had to endure a lack of family equality for as long as the United States has existed. We could talk about the Loving v. Virginia decision that will likely inform any decision the Supreme Court makes on the issue.

Fortunately for me, our little boy is not yet concerned with such things, not when there is water to splash and trucks to make go “vroom-vroom.” Someday, though, he will be. I am grateful to Governor Cuomo and New York’s lawmakers for validating our family and setting an example for the rest of the country, but I hope that this inequality, one that is anathema to what I believe to be “American,” is rectified before today’s children are adults who are appalled by the generations before.

The Art of Japanese Sweets

These traditional japanese sweets (called "wagashi") are not only something yummy to eat, but also a piece of art.  There are many seasonal pieces you can only find at certain times, making us appreciate the season more. My favorites are sakura (cherry blossom), which can be found everywhere in spring. They are pretty and so tasty, too!

 Some sweets even resemble gold fish swimming in a jelly, but don't worry---they're not real!

What Are You Reading (Offline, That Is)?

Yes, I have a love affair with books. My relationship with them is passionate, compulsive, sometimes even compromising. Books have shaped my life since I’ve been born – naming me Alice, my mother fatally bound me to a destiny of being a day and night dreamer, and I soon started to accept the responsibilities carried by my name, letting myself be won over by an alluring and beguiling world called Wonderland. And once upon a time, when I was 25 (well, I’m 30 now!), I did find my Wonderland---it actually feels like my Neverland, too---in a country (America) I deeply love and consider the one where I can get lost, and found, and I always feel myself at my best potential. I indeed tumbled into Brooklyn, a borough I fell in love with, a very special spot that takes thousands different shapes and smells thousands different smells. A place where I hope to live again soon.

So these are some of the books that have inspired and influenced my love for Brooklyn, and that have somehow contributed to shape my idea of a unique place.

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN. By Betty Smith. LOVED IT BECAUSE it made me want to go back in time, wander around the streets of Williamsburg and meet Francie Nolan, a character I feel deeply attached to. Francie looks for simple pleasures in life, like being allowed to sleep in the front room of her house on Saturday nights, watching the busy streets below. Like her beloved tree, she is ready to burst into bloom. This novel paints a portrait of Brooklyn at the turn of the twentieth century, and it goes far beyond mere description. It made all of my senses came alive and helped me feel what it was like to live in Williamsburg back then.  A classic, a must read.

“It’s mysterious here in Brooklyn. It’s like – yes – like a dream. The houses and streets don’t seem real. Neither do the people.”

THE BROOKLYN FOLLIES. By Paul Auster. LOVED IT BECAUSE I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, not far from where this story takes place. The novel feels and sounds like the borough, and Auster's native Brooklyn is painted with affection. I liked Nathan Glass, a man who retires to Brooklyn to recover from lung cancer (and his divorce). And I liked his project entitled The Book of Human Folly, a chronicle of his unique mishaps, misunderstandings, foibles and foolishness, where he actually begins the process of authoring his own true existence.

“Kafka wrote his first story in one night. Stendhal wrote The Charterhouse of Parma in forty-nine days. Melville wrote Moby- Dick in sixteen months. Flaubert spent five years on Madame Bovary. Musil worked for eighteen years on The Man Without Qualities and died before he could finish. Do we care about any of that now?”

BROOKLYN. By Colm Tòibìn. LOVED IT BECAUSE this is ultimately an optimistic novel, and on many occasions it actually made me smile. Eilis comes from a small town in Ireland, and in the 50’s she crosses the ocean to find a new life. She has to learn to live in a new culture away from the only home she has ever known. I feel like she could have been more curious about Brooklyn though, and if I ever meet her in Wonderland I’ll tell her!

"She had been keeping the thought of home out of her mind, letting it come to her only when she wrote or received letters or when she woke from a dream in which her mother or father or Rose . . . appeared. She thought it strange that the mere sensation of savouring the prospect of something could make her think for a while that it must be the prospect of home."

BROOKLYN WAS MINE. Edited by Chris Knutsen and Valerie Steiker. LOVED IT BECAUSE it’s a collection of essays that gives some of my favorite authors (and today’s best writers) an opportunity to pay a tribute to Brooklyn. Its literary history runs deep, and also in recent years the borough has seen a growing concentration of bestselling novelists, memoirists, poets, journalists. Contributors include Emily Barton, Jennifer Egan, Alexandra Styron, Darin Strauss, Jonathan Lethem.

“... but this life, we have to admit - this endless throwing and retrieving of a ball, this endless cycle of shade trees to acorns to the winter hiatus from which our kidst burst, metamorphosed completely, while we try to believe we ourselves haven't aged - is the real life: the repetitive rhythm, the onrush of time.”

“There are moments when a city can suddenly acquire all the kinetic qualities of a human being, a person's moods and expressions, so that she becomes a character of some kind - like a large woman, I often think, half asleep on her side. You find yourself talking to her, asking her questions, pestering her. And living in such a city is a long, monogamous affair, or else a marriage one abandons from time to time. Cities are rarely causual flings.”

Only, I don’t feel Brooklyn WAS mine. It IS mine! And WILL always be mine!

Alice runs “alice + wonderland”, her new blog. She is now a copy editor at Rizzoli Publishing, in Milan, and a former Italian lecturer in New York and Washington DC. Alice is passionate about books, travelling, taking pictures, vintage clothing, and of course Brooklyn ❤ Tweets @pluswonderland.

I Have My Hands Full

by Jennifer Moore People always smile at me when I am with all three girls.  A baby on my right hip and the two older girls both holding part of my left hand. They say nice things. They say, in a kind way, "You have your hands full." I smile back. I look into their eyes and I feel like I can see them thinking . . . of Back When or of Some Day. I feel blessed and I feel like I never want this time to pass.

I let the girls play outside in the mud and the wet grass and puddles, between rain showers Saturday afternoon. I opened the kitchen window to converse with them while I was making dinner. Elizabeth, my five year old,  showed me it was raining again, her tongue stuck out to catch the drops. Maren, my toddler, ate sliced cheese from an ice cream bowl and then left it by the birdbath, her jacket out front by the wilted petunias.

Tonight, with the older two mostly in bed, I sat in the rocking chair with baby Vivie. She fell asleep in my arms. I had been up since 6:22 am. I had cleaned numerous potty training tinkle puddles, run last minute errands, managed a timely birthday party drop off and pick up with all three, coordinated most of 3 meals for 4 or 5 mouths, searched for unicorns and unicorn crowns and horse reins and American Girl hairbrushes, soothed tears and even discussed, a bit, where lightening comes from.

We sat in the rocking chair, baby Vivie and I, in that green grey light of 8:42 pm on May 26th and the birds were chirping still, a bit too loud, as if their mother would be shaking her head, "Girls, girls, it's quiet time, let's slow down, no flying, no singing . . ."  I decided not to get down on myself for that basket of clean laundry still sitting in the corner. Instead, I focused on her breathing, the rhythm of her little baby sweaty chest against mine. The thumb in her mouth made that sweet sucking noise and her other fingers stroked the ridge of my collarbone from time to time, little reflex nudges checking to make sure I was there.

Fifteen minutes later I got up, put the baby in her crib. I grabbed the five pairs of "da da da da Dora" underpants the toddler had worked through from the hamper, hand washed them in the bathroom sink. From her bedroom, Maren screamed, "I have an orange thing on my arm!" It was the skinned elbow from the other day in the park, on the play date, on which she wore a dress and her big sister's rain boots on the wrong feet and she fell on the paved path, running with half a peanut butter sandwich, which, when I went to rescue her, had asphalt rocks mixed into it. The scab looked dark orange in the almost dark room. I fetched a Band Aid and after I put it on her, she clutched my hand so hard, loving, like she was holding a baby bunny, and in her wonderful, trademark, scratchy voice, "Mom, your hands cold, you okay?" She didn't let go, concern. "Oh Bug, it's just from the water, Mommy washed your underpants. It's okay." And then I felt tears welling up---the happy sad kind. "It's okay, Mommy." Oh my perceptive one.  "Thank you, Bug. I love you." "I love you, too, Mommy." The sweetest sleepy smile, her Great Grandma Zora gap front teeth peeping through.

Yes, I have my hands full. Heart, too.

(Image: Mary Cassatt, Mother and Child, 1890)

New Normal

by Alison Schramm

My parents – and especially my mom - have always made extra-ordinary efforts to visit me and my husband in New York. I’ll admit that I’m skilled at lining up visits regardless of the occasion, but truthfully, my mom never really needed any convincing. Occasionally she flew, but more often than not she drove, always with her handwritten directions taped to the dashboard. She drove down with my dad, with my sisters, with friends, and because nothing was going to get in between visits with her baby, she even drove the oftentimes torturous 350 miles from Rochester by herself. The car was typically loaded with groceries – always with some type of pork product, as my husband loved to point out – and beer and wine. I joked with her, “Mom, it’s New York, there are grocery stores here,” but it was wasted breath. She came to help us move, to help celebrate birthdays, for girls’ weekends, and for everything in between. All of these visits were variable, but there was one that was more or less set in stone each year.

For the last six or seven years, my parents have made a summer trip to New York. If you’re sitting there thinking what an awful time to visit NYC, what with the tourists and the humidity and the smelly garbage, you’d be right. But for my dad, this trip is about one thing: going to a Yankees game. To say my dad has a healthy appreciation for sports is an understatement. The Browns, the Yankees, Syracuse basketball, Notre Dame football, anyone holding a golf club - the man does not only watch, but truly enjoys most sporting events, a trait shared wholeheartedly by my husband.

My mom, on the other hand, was a sports fan in that way many wives are, myself included. The Yankees play approximately 162 games per season, and my mom probably watched close to 150 by virtue of living with my dad, or as she liked to put it, being a hostage in her own house. Despite this love/hate relationship, she could rattle off the starting lineup for the Yankees on a moment’s notice and liked to provide her own color commentary on each of the players and their personal lives. I was home one Wednesday night and somehow wrestled the remote from my dad, just in time to catch Modern Family. I was shocked when my mom told me she had never watched an episode, but in her now infamous words, ”If it doesn’t have a ball, we don’t watch it.”

Last weekend marked our first Yankees outing since my mom died. A small milestone, comparatively speaking, but I missed her every step of the way. Before the game, we stopped for lunch at Dominick’s, an Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and truthfully, the real highlight of the day for me. Dominick’s is the kind of restaurant where the waiters recite for you the menu, where the red sauce is the star, where the table clothes are plastic, but most importantly to me on that day, the kind of restaurant my mom would have loved.

As we ate, I thought about how my mom would have oooh’ed and aaah’ed over each bite of chicken parm, one of her favorite indulgences. I was reminded of a conversation I had with my sister the week before. She was matter-of-fact, and told me how during a particularly difficult day, and after months of thinking to herself, “Mom would love this,” she decided to change her way of thinking. She said from that point on, she has repeated to herself, “Mom LOVES this,” and it’s changed everything for her. So I tried it on for size, over our Italian feast. And then this past weekend, when we were all together for Father’s Day, with the kids running around in the side yard, I said it again: “Mom LOVES this.”

This is my new normal. Baseball games with my dad and husband, holidays with my family, keeping my head up each and every day. It’s the new and it’s the old and if I’m being honest, I have no idea where it’s taking me some days. But one thing I do know -

Mom loves this.

From The Sound of Music....

Dearest Clara, We're having a bit of a homecoming this week you might say . . . Vienna, Salzburg, the mountains, the lakes: all of our Austrian favorites are on tap as we head off for vacation.  When Americans come to Austria, they can't help but think of the Sound of Music, much to the bafflement of many Austrians.  They just don't get why we like that movie so much, but how can you not? Love stories, hero stories, gorgeus mountains, all set to cheery music? It's the recipe for a winner.

I've been watching this movie at least once a year since the age of five.  I remember when I first saw it, I could barely make it through the first half, and most of the storyline was lost on me.  But so much more comes out of that movie when you get older---not only does Captain Von Trapp become more and more handsome, you start to notice different characters in a new way.  Here is what I've learned over the years from this movie:

• Some parts of a party are for children, and some parts of the party are for adults: I am always almost as excited as Gretl when she exclaims "My first party!".  The Captain lets them attend and perform, but when the guests are seated at dinner, the children sing their way upstairs, which always struck me as a nice balance for everyone involved.  So please don't be upset if mommy tells you to go to bed halfway through a party.
• Bow out gracefully: Unlike many people, I think the Baroness von Schraeder gets a bit of a bum rap.  And as I've gotten older, I've actually started to feel for her---after all, she thought everything was going swimmingly until a would-be peasant nun from the hills, half her age waltzs in and turns everything upside down.  I give the Baroness a lot of credit for putting up a battle for the Captain, but more so, for bowing out gracefully when she sees the battle is lost.  She is, even in heartbreak, a pretty decent lady.  And she's got some of the best lines in the movie.
• Sometimes those closest to you will hurt you the most: We want to love and trust those closest to us, it makes natural sense.  But sometimes those we love and trust turn out to be influenced by something else more than us.  Between Liesl and Rolf, and the Captain and the Butler, we see that it is sometimes those closest to us that can hurt us the most.
• Your favorite things will be your most comforting things: When the dog bites . . . when the bee stings . . . all things that can make us cry.  But I love how Maria and the children sing of simple things that they love, like brown paper packages tied up strings, and schnitzels, and ponies. Keep a list of those things that make you smile, you can call on those memories when you can't call on me to keep you company when things might be a little saddier or lonelier.
• If you're afraid of something, you should probably go back and face it: I always loved how Mother Superior calls out Maria for hiding in the convent.  She tells her that if she joins the religious life, it must be for the right reasons.  She makes her face her fears and really explore what she was meant to do, even if it meant a loss to her convent.  I think everyone should be so lucky to have a mentor that really makes us look at what we want and need out of life, and then helps us find the courage to face it.

All my love,

Mom

Apple Pie, etc.

At this time of year, compelled by a latent patriotic streak, I often find myself pulling up a copy of the Declaration of Independence.  I find the first passage stirring each and every time.  The prose is so beautiful, the sentiments so impassioned.   Even though when they wrote, “all men are created equal,” they were, in fact, only really talking about men and not actually all men, I would say it was a pretty propitious beginning for a nation.  It is obviously important to note that the men who drafted this document were functioning in a particular social and historical context and so I forgive them, to a great extent, for not including language about women, people of color, the LGBT community, etc.  The concepts of feminism and civil rights were barely a glimmer in the eye of our founders.  I do think, in their minds, they were creating a country in which citizens could be fundamentally free and that over time, they would leave it to the people to decide to whom this freedom applied and what exactly it meant.  In 2012, however, I would like to hold us to a higher standard.  After all, we have had a few years in the interim to work out the kinks. Although I am a bit of a cynic and feel like “Holidays” can be really arbitrary markers in the passage of time, I do appreciate a solid and socially sanctioned opportunity for contemplation.  Also, I am a sucker for fireworks.  Still, in moments, I absolutely struggle with my identity as a U.S. citizen.  I worry that our domestic discourse has been reduced to a profoundly childish political game with no heed of the real consequences for our people.  As recently as 2008, our First Lady was publicly eviscerated for simply acknowledging that we are a country with a history of discrimination and lack of opportunity.  There is real dissonance with all the talk about what the founders intended and the reality that some of our citizens still don’t have equal rights or access to decent basic services.  Meanwhile, the very groups that like to tout liberty and the original “values” of this great nation tend to support limiting the prospects for everyone but those in traditional positions of power.

Living with this kind of ambivalence---despairing over the state of our union while believing that progress will prevail---is my daily bread.  As I wade through the morass of feelings and obsessively check in with Nate Silver in an effort to predict the future, I thought I would try real hope on for size.  This year, there are a few things that make me truly proud to be an American.

1. Barack Hussein Obama is our president.  That’s right, a black man is the president of the United States of America.  That is still fairly mind-blowing, am I right?  Oh, and a black man of mixed race, with an African father and a middle name that was the same exact surname of one of our country’s sworn enemies.  This guy is so “other,” that fringe people (I am looking at you, Donald Trump) still insist he is a Muslim, Socialist, Communist who was not born in this country.  And yet, WE DID IT.  We elected him fair and square and might just do it again.  This is fantastically American and is us at our best.  By the way, the person who gave him a real run for his money?  A woman.  It’s getting better all the time.

2. Same-Sex Marriage is recognized by nine states and licenses are issued in six states (plus Washington, D.C. and on a couple of Indian Reservations).  And several other states have legal avenues for recognizing same-sex unions.  And the President just publicly endorsed same-sex marriage---unalienable rights!  And people functioning in high-profile, mainstream positions, like the anchor Anderson Cooper can come out with fewer professional and personal consequences.  And when Dan Savage decided to create the It Gets Better Project---a movement to develop awareness and a call to action regarding the bullying and the suffering of gay youth---practically an entire nation took to YouTube to lift people up.  There we are again.

3. 30 million uninsured Americans just got healthcare.  I will spare you my rhetoric about how this is a moral issue.  And we can talk until the cows come home about whether or not you support various aspects of the new healthcare law.  But make no mistake, this is one of the most powerful legislative achievements on behalf of under-served people in the last 40 years.  I am so proud of the people who have fought for this bill and who believe, as I do, that a country has a responsibility to its citizens to help them when they are ill.  NO WAY, the founders had in mind to leave people to get sick and die because they couldn’t afford care.  NO WAY.

There are plenty of other, more modest reasons to hang bunting on the front porch this week.  But I think even just the above will do for the time being.  The march toward access and opportunity continues, despite a great many obstacles, both social and political.  So, go ahead, accuse me of being a hippie, but I will say this . . . you’d better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone (Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin’).  Happy 4^th, one and all.

(Fireworks photo: Ian Kluft from Wikimedia Commons.)

YWRB: First Impressions

By Amanda Page My first memory of Amy Turn Sharp is crisp and static, like a simple snapshot. She was a girl in a poetry workshop, sitting in one of the chairs beneath the classroom window, scarf around her neck---although it was Spring---and headphones casually slipped from her ears, dangling from her neck where they got lost in the fabric.  It might have been the first day or late in the quarter. But that's when I took notice. She seemed shy as she responded to a question---maybe about her poem. What stands out to me most about that moment is the reserve and timidity she displayed, because I was reserved and timid. I was shy and I didn't like it, but I didn't know how else to be.

Maybe that's why the image sticks. Or maybe I recognized a kindred spirit, but not consciously. Anyway, that was not the woman I started to know on smoke breaks. The Amy Turn I came to know in fifteen-minute bursts was loud, exuberant, and wildly enthusiastic about writing and life.

We weren't fast friends. The quarter ended and I saw her once over the summer, when I saw her on the street and stopped to say hello. Fall came and classes started and there we were in another workshop together. Most of our friends had graduated that summer. We were those rare, at the time, students who kept at it, floating a little, not quite ready to move beyond the classroom, still trying to figure out what we were doing in college, let alone with our lives.

Maybe I'm projecting a little. That's what I was doing: floating. Flailing. When I met Amy Turn, as she was called then, I made a friend to flail with. Amy Turn. I rarely ever heard her called anything but the two names together. She was never just "Amy." I admired that. I was from a place where two names were common, and I'd tried to get one to catch on for myself. It never happened. I wasn't a Bobbi Jo or Barbara Dee. I was just Amanda. Just the one name. And I couldn't quite get the two-first-name version of myself to exist.

We started writing together. We'd sit at the bar or the coffee shop or sometimes at the kitchen table in her apartment and we'd handwrite essays in yellow legal pads, right there on the spot. We thrived on the spontaneous nature of sitting down and writing something complete. We were rebelling against the image of the isolated writer, working in a dim room all alone. The work had more energy, more life, because it was composed quickly, full of vim and whimsy, in the presence of another writer.

Rebelling against the idea of the diligent, lonely writer was exciting. We reminded ourselves that Jack Kerouac wrote On the Road on one long continuous scroll. He couldn't have written it all in isolation. He needed his friends. He needed to be around the "mad ones." And I found myself a mad one in Amy Turn. I liked that my first impression of her was wrong. It gave me hope that I could rebel against first impressions of me. I was more than just a shy girl with a single first name. I was a writer, and that's what I wanted to be known. Amy Turn made it known.

Amy Turn was known. Everyone in town seemed to know her: restaurant owners and convenient store workers and every single bartender in town. It’s hard to not know the girl dancing on your table at the end of the night. Before I knew it, we were known as the writer girls. People expected us to show up with our legal pads and scratch out whole pieces. People knew about our project. That terrified me. But it also made it real.

If you're going to look for a friend with whom to rebel, you can't go wrong with one who pulls you out of your comfort zone, who introduces you to people as the person you want to be, which is not always the person you see yourself as. I started, then, to see myself as a writer. That vision, that version, of myself has wavered through the years. It's good to have a mad one to contact to remind you that you are not the lonely writer.

And it's good to know that the mad ones don't always reveal themselves in your life with that first impression.

We want to know: Do you have a friend who pulls you out of your comfort zone and makes you rebel against the small version of yourself that you sometimes believe yourself to be? How do they pull you out of your comfort zone? How do they prompt you to rebel against that small version of yourself? Email us at amanda@bold-types.com or leave a comment.

Notes on Memory

My earliest childhood memory is from August 18, 1984. I see a reflection of my little self in the large mirror in my parents’ bedroom, sitting on burnt orange carpet with my legs crossed. My face has the shape of a pear; my hair is jet black, long, and straight. I am barefoot, wiggling my tiny toes. “So Cherilynn, how does it feel to be four years old?” my aunt Julie asks. I don't see her; her voice comes from the bathroom.

“It feels the same as being three,” I say as I stare at my reflection.

This memory is intact more than any other childhood memory I have; I replay it in my head like a familiar video clip on loop, and perhaps it would not be so fixed had the mirror not been there. But I don't view this memory as more precious than those memories I can't grasp, that have shapeshifted so drastically. In fact, while I'm grateful to have this memory, as I don't really recall long sequences of moments like this until my third or fourth grade years, its immutability feels unnatural.

* * * * *

I went to the second day of the championship round of the U.S. Open, which took place recently at the Olympic Club just south of San Francisco. I'm not a fan of golf, but I thought it'd be something new and interesting to experience. I was in a bit of a panic, though, reading the championship's rules—no mobile phones, portable email devices, cameras, and anything potentially disruptive.

So I mentally prepared for a day without my iPhone, as phoneless days are rare. Before we left, my boyfriend tweeted that he'd have a ringside seat to watch me self-destruct without it. It sounds silly, but being without that portal in my pocket—not knowing what the rest of the world is doing, or perhaps not being able to tell or show the rest of the world what I am doing—freaks me out a little.

As we wandered the Olympic Club sans phones and cameras, I wanted to take photographs of various tents and pavilions, the rolling hills of green, different holes of the course, and the grassy slope overlooking hole 8—a golf course version of A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte—where we spent a few hours under the sun. But I didn't want to take pictures to record my first golf experience, or to compile an album of the day. I wanted to take photographs mainly to prove I was there. I hinted at this urge in a blog post on the new way I take photographs; now, consuming and owning the present moment has become more important than capturing an experience cohesively, or creating something to add to an archive.

* * * * *

Pictures or it didn't happen.

I've never liked this phrase. Yet I've become a slave to this very mode to self-document and share from moment to moment, and in a way my U.S. Open experience feels incomplete because I have no documented and shared proof that it happened. And so I wonder: What is a memory in this digital age? Why am I beginning to view a memory not photographed or tweeted—one residing solely in my mind—as unattractive? I'm a visual person, so I take mental snapshots of the places I go, keeping these images in my head. But this sort of intangible, mutable evidence seems increasingly inadequate in our world of over-sharing, and on an Internet where our traces are permanent.

It's as if undocumented memories are now less potent.

I wish this wasn't so; elusiveness is the very quality I love about (my) memory. But these days it feels as if I'm doing something wrong—or simply not doing enough—if I'm not experiencing each moment in my day with the intention of documenting and sharing it for all to see.

The Cost of Convenience

by Breanne Martin Convenience is one of those things that is such an American ideal that challenging it sometimes causes people question your sanity. The problem is, when I think about the things that were created in the name of making slow processes go faster, I can't help but think that we've lost something important. Fast food, bought and consumed without leaving the car, takes the place of meals made out of real food and eaten around the table with loved ones. Exhaust-billowing vehicles get used to complete local errands that could easily be enjoyed from atop a bicycle or on foot. Thousands of dollars are spent on recreational vehicles used to power through the outdoors when a silent tent or a mountain bicycle might have sufficed. Heaven forbid we complete a routine task in a way that takes more time or worse, muscle power.

During a recent trip to the grocery store on our steel bicycles, my husband and I were carefully loading our week of food into our panniers, balancing unclipped helmets atop our heads. As we worked, the cashier puzzled at our slow method of covering the five miles between our house and the store, finally commenting, "Well, at least you don't have to walk!"

Thinking of the two functioning cars that we intentionally left in our suburban garage, I marveled that our society has become so dependent on gas-powered vehicles that it would be inconceivable that we might choose to use a bicycle to pick up some vegetables from the store. Little did he know that while I loathe grocery shopping in general, completing the task via the outdoors makes it something I savor. By the time I return home, my cheeks are rosy with exertion; I'm perhaps a bit breathless as I pack the bags in the house, but I'm aware of my body, motivated to feed it something real and delicious.

Born and raised in the SUV-driving, Costco-shopping suburbs, I am a newcomer to the idea that slow is better. Little by little, deliberate, laborious routines have had to painstakingly wrap themselves around my tendency to rush things, slowly rooting me into the here and now. After all, I finished my four year college degree in just more than two years---if anything, I am gifted at rushing things.

The truth is though, when I think of the most incredible times in my life, I am keenly aware of the time and work that went into each of those memories. The hours-long meal we ate with new friends in France, the grueling process of hauling literal tons of dirt in a wheelbarrow to create my own expanse of organic garden, the three months of pedaling a bicycle across the European continent. I could have hired a landscaper to tend to my yard or ridden a train across Europe, but tackling these endeavors using my own muscle power and without a time schedule etched them into my whole being in a way that will always be with me.

Things that move slowly force you to reduce the number of things you can accomplish, forcing dedication to the task at hand, and adding meaning to processes that once seemed inconsequential but somehow necessary. Hurried errands morph into a chance to get moving and experience the weather. Regrettable combo meals give way to cherished memories around a table, and social media falls second to the joy of a real conversation.

One of my fondest childhood memories finds me sitting in my grandfather's kitchen, eating French toast only moments out of the skillet, smothered with his home bottled apricot jam. I never liked jam much, but always knew there was something different about the stuff that came from grandpa's storage room. Of course, the store-bought jam we ate at home could never have rivaled the stuff that is carefully made by hand and spooned into enough jars to last the winter, but of course, I've never made my own because I don't know how. I keep saying I will ask my aging grandfather to teach me and spend the weekend driving to his house to visit and learn, but I just haven't seemed to find the time. When I get there, I know he will drop his plans and spend the weekend sharing his secrets to jam and life---he's never been much for convenience. He's 80 years old this year, and suddenly I'm keenly aware if I don't slow down and make time soon, I'll never get the chance.

What Are You Reading (offline, that is)?

Today we're lucky enough to present the Pretty Mommy edition of our "What Are You Reading?" column. Our pal Michelle LeBlanc is the tastemaker behind the impeccably curated shop, Pretty Mommy---but we don't just love her for her good taste. Michelle isn't afraid to be honest that figuring out how to run a thriving business while raising two small children comes with daily challenges. We love that she's willing to share the parts behind all the pretty.  Here, she tells us what she's reading, and pulls in two of her friends to join in the conversation. Michelle LeBlanc, Pretty Mommy I have to wax a little nostalgic about summer reading . . . growing up in the hot climes of the southwest, I spent many a long morning combing the shelves at the local library, taking home stacks of reads . . . lounging in the cool a/c with classic movie star bios, some trashy romantic lit that I snuck in under my mother's nose, the latest Sweet Valley High installment, and a hippie beauty-at-home recipe book for concocting face masks out of oatmeal & honey, patchouli oils and rose water toners . . . then finally coming out of my cave at dusk to brave the heat and track down some ice cream . . . oh to have those lazy days!

With two littles underfoot, my reading time these days is pretty much limited to short snippets of magazine reading (Bon Appetit for wishful cooking & Entertainment Weekly for indulging my pop culture obsession), but one week every summer we escape with the in-laws to a cabin whereupon I let the relatives keep track of my kids and I dive into  something with just a touch more depth (but only a touch mind you, there's nothing so awful as a downer book in the middle of summer vacation, no?) So to that end, I just ordered Seating Arrangements by Maggie Shipstead . . . Amazon's description calls it "deceptively frothy" . . . sounds right up my alley!

[Editor's note: Hey look! One of our favorite people, Robyn Virball, recommended Seating Arrangements in the May 18 edition of What Are You Reading? The author happens to be Robyn's friend, which makes her a friend of ours.]

Jenna & Cary, Ace & Jig Some current favourites are The Glass Castle and Half Broke Horses, both by Jeannette Walls. We scrounged a third-hand (dog-chewed) copy of The Glass Castle off of a friend and since then Cary and I have both read it, and now the same copy is being devoured by the second of our interns! Some serious recycling going on. It's a fast-moving and fascinating read, and her no-nonsense literary style  really appeals to us as busy mamas (she cuts to the chase!). The story is a memoir of the author's life and her unbelievable family and the follow-up Half-Broke Horses  is a true life novel which relives the tale of her heroic grandmother. As you may guess, we are drawn to stories of strong women.

Cary also reports that she is currently reading Vaclav & Lena by Haley Tanner about the immigrant childhood in Brooklyn.

And last but not least . . . we are both so thrilled to have reached the stage where we can enjoy reading chapter books with our eldest. Cary and Alice are reading The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett and James and I are reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  It's so fun to revisit these favorites from our childhoods.

Jennifer Murphy, Jennifer Murphy Bears & dull Diamond I'm crazy for The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. The dreamlike quality of a life weaving in and out of real and unreal spaces takes me away in the summer . . . seems like the perfect daydream---charged with vivid plots and characters.

The F Words: Holly Ivey

Those of you who know me even a little know that I am, shall we say, interested in my hair. Invested in it, even. (Obsessed with it? Perhaps.) Today, folks, you will get to know the amazing woman who's been nurturing that investment for me for the past seven years, my incredible stylist Holly Ivey. Holly is pretty much the coolest chick I know, and she's a spectacular businesswoman, to boot. After working for years as a stylist as other people's salons, Holly broke out on her own a few years ago, and is now the owner of her very own business, Holly Ivey Hair Design.

In addition to being a wizard with the scissors, Holly is an artist, and, more to the point for our purposes here today, a talented home cook. She's been making me drool with pictures of her food on Facebook for ages now, and so I've asked her to share her thoughts about cooking, gender and life in general with us today. Enjoy!

Tell us a bit about your day job. I make people feel better about themselves with aesthetic maintenance of the length and color of the hair. (I'm a hairstylist!)

How did you learn to cook? I learned out of sheer necessity. The "great recession" entirely changed our "situation"and it became mandatory to start eating at home 95% of the time. Problem was, we were spoiled by all the great food we ate at all the fabulous NYC eateries we frequented. I'm almost completely self taught, and learned from a combination of my personal bible A New Way To Cook (by Sally Schneider) and the bits and pieces I picked up in my 10 years of working in food service. Religious devotion to recipes eventually led to improvisation. And now, I wing it a lot for quick weeknight dinners.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE! I don't mind a sous chef helping me chop and cleaning up behind me as I go. But I'm a basket case if I'm distracted.

What’s your favorite thing to make? Hen of the woods (or maitake) mushrooms. Alone with some arugula, tomatoes, and Parmesan for a quick, satisfying meal, on a burger, in a pasta with a touch of cream, thyme and sherry, tossed with Brussels sprouts and Dijon then roasted . . . they're easy luxury with tons of flavor.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Italian. Very simply, without hesitation. Italian.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Deep frying is intimidating. It makes such a mess and I don't know what to do with all that oil. I do not bake. Baking is on par with brain surgery to me. Anything that requires standing over a pot and stirring endlessly is not appealing either.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? Cooking is not something my mother had time for when we were younger, so when I entered the real world my abilities and taste buds were limited to plain and bland. Because I didn't spend time in the kitchen, I didn't appreciate how much work and care went into a good meal and how fleeting the moment of payoff is. A few years ago, toward the end of my grandfather's life, he was subsisting on Meals on Wheels and quick deli meat sandwiches he could make for himself. The one gift I could give an elderly man who had everything he needed was fresh, homemade, flavorful meals. Filet mignon au poivre. A homemade bolognese with fresh ravioli. In-season asparagus right off the grill. Then we sat down together and ate and talked . . . being able to cook gave me those moments.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? It is, in many ways, considered women's work by a lot of people. But I NEVER think about it that way. My years in the restaurant business showed me almost exclusively men in the kitchen. A few of my friends' husbands do the majority of the family cooking. When I watch the Food Network men and women are completely equal. I do the cooking because I'm the one who's home. But when I have a day that I just CAN'T do it, my husband does without hesitation.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I first had the inspiration for this recipe at a bar/music venue on the Lower East Side called Pianos. It's a flavor sensation.

Red Wine Burgers with Bacon & Mushrooms You can make your own hamburger patties, but for convenience, Holly uses Pat LaFrieda's pre-made patties. They're available via FreshDirect, and are often on sale!

2 hamburger patties 2 tsp. garlic powder 2 tsp. onion powder 1/2 bottle (good) dry red wine Kosher salt and cracked black pepper, to taste 2 bundles maitake mushrooms, roughly chopped 1 tbs. thyme, minced 4 slices bacon 2 hamburger bun bottoms (or English muffin halves, or slices of bread) Dijon mustard, to taste (Meg likes Maille)

Prep work Before you leave for work in the morning, remove the patties from the freezer. Place in a shallow, rimmed dish. Sprinkle with the garlic and onion powder, then submerge in the red wine. Cover with plastic wrap and leave to thaw and marinate.

When you are ready to cook dinner Remove the patties from the marinade; they should have a purple, marbled look to them. Pat dry with a paper towel, then season with salt and lots of black pepper.

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium high heat. Add the bacon and cook, turning occasionally, until most of the fat has rendered out, and the bacon is crisp. Remove the bacon to a plate covered in paper towels, and set aside. Discard all but 1 to 2 tablespoons of fat from the skillet and return to medium heat. Add the mushrooms, thyme and a bit more salt, and let cook down for about 7-10 minutes. Set aside.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat and cook the burgers for 2-3 minutes per side. Allow to rest on a plate for 2 minutes before serving.

While the mushrooms and burgers cook, go ahead and toast the bottom slice of bun, bread or muffin for your burgers. Apply mustard to the toasted bread, then add two bacon slices to each, then the burger, followed by half the mushrooms. (A slice of tomato doesn't hurt, either. You can also add avocado, Gruyere, caramelized onions...)

Serve open-faced, alongside a spinach salad or freshly roasted corn on the cob.

Serves two.

From San Francisco...

Dearest Clara,

It’s funny how quickly a week can go by---especially if you find yourself moving from one coast to another.  Last week was New York, but this week is San Francisco.  Luckily, my next flight will bring me home to you, and the one after that will take us on vacation together.  But before we get too excited about sunny summer days, let me share a little of what I’ve learned over my San Francisco visit:

• Always wear layers . . . Since we’ve returned to the US, I believe we’ve been to California three times, and we’ve ended up having to buy more clothes on two of those times.  This time I finally nailed my packing list!  The weather is not quite as toasty as the one hundred plus degrees I left on the East Coast, and it changes . . . a lot.  First it’s foggy, then its sunny, then its raining . . . then who knows.  And there can always be a chill in the air, especially a night.  Be prepared for all of these situations by wearing layers so that you can put on and takeoff as you need to always stay warm!
• Don’t underestimate the value of local products . . . I think you can give San Francisco a lot of credit for making Americans proud of American food products---and especially of American wine products: wines, cheeses, produce, fresh breads. This city and the areas around it have gotten so creative (see below) about pushing the envelope of what they put on the table and  they're proud of the fact that they can get it there themselves.  We take it for granted here on the East Coast, but I think this really started right here in San Francisco. It's easy to get caught up in imports, but sometimes, you can find it just as good at home.
• Choosing healthy is not weird . . . I love this about San Francisco, and about California generally.  I’m not a vegetarian but if I were, it wouldn’t be a problem here.  If you want a healthy option, you can always find it on the menu and no one seems to think less of you for choosing it.  It makes choosing healthy an easy shift and not a production.  Choose what you know is good for you proudly.
• Everyone could use a little more time outdoors . . . When people move from San Francisco to the East Coast, I know they are always going to miss the outdoors.  Even for people who don’t consider themselves “outdoorsy,” they often appear to be so to us.  Hiking in the hills, camping on the beach, windsurfing on the ocean . . . they may spend a lot of time in the city but people from San Francisco certainly know how to appreciate and protect the areas that surround it.
• Be creative . . . When I go to New York, I’m always impressed by the pace of life, but when I come to San Francisco, I’m amazed by the creativity.  For example, one cab driver was developing his own app to monitor parking rates, another friend developing a new form of digital photography.  If your heart is in invention, this is the place for you---and we could all use a little inventive spirit in our daily lives.  In San Francisco, just because things used to be a certain way, doesn’t mean they have to stay a certain way. Remember that in anything that you pursue.

Lots of love,

Mom

The Sweet Sounds of Summer

Are you like me?  Are you profoundly distractible in the summer?  Are you flooded with memories of some silky body of water from childhood?  Do you perpetually conjure fantasies of what your life would be like with a beach house?  While I am aware that it would make me a far more interesting person to say that my favorite season were fall (“LO, the changing leaves, the chill in the air, the opportunity for reflection . . .”), it is unequivocally summer.  The sense of liberation, the peeling of clothes, the ubiquity of gazpacho . . . my mood lifts for a solid three months. Yet, here we are, mere mortals---without that second home with the chic friggin’ towels, jute rugs, and $67 candles on the vanity.  You and I are still caged in the daily grind (however joyful and soul satisfying) of work and the business of life.  At times like this, I like to use music to transport, because as it turns out, there is nothing fired up on the helipad to take me to the Hamptons or Anguilla.

I compiled a list of some all-time favorite albums that give me that carefree summer vibe.  In doing so, I have noticed a few things: 1) I am kind of old; 2) As such, I seem to have gotten a little bit stuck in the ‘90s; 3) Maybe the ‘90s were sexier?; 4) I digress; 5) I can’t remember the other thing I was going to say here.  And one final author’s note (for the sake of what we will not characterize as my obsessive compulsive disorder, but merely something on the wide-ranging and often totally, totally normal anxiety spectrum), this list is certainly not comprehensive.  These albums---yes, I call them albums, I mentioned I was kind of old---are classics in my mind and I reach for them consistently in this season, but they are in no particular order and there are so, so, so many more I could discuss.  That is all.  ENJOY IN GOOD HEALTH.  Oh, and I would love to hear about your clutch songs or albums for summer in the comments---always looking for new classics.

Moondance – Van Morrison (1970) Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?  This is such an obvious choice, but I have (even recently!) met people who have never heard this album in its entirety and I have even met people who don’t own this album or any of the songs from it.  If something doesn’t move inside you when the opening of “Into the Mystic” begins, well . . . then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.

Songs in the Key of Life – Stevie Wonder (1976) Double album.  Stevie is so fully, totally, serious here, such a monster talent.  He played many of the instruments on many of the songs.  This is a major opus in his long and illustrious catalogue and is referred to by several critics over the years as the best album ever made (like of ALL the albums ever made by anyone, ever).  This masterpiece comes with a 24-page booklet of lyrics and liner notes.  UNREAL.  Stevie writes the book on heavy duty lyrics paired with gorgeous melodies.  Prepare to have your mind blown by “As,” one of my favorite songs, period.

3 Feet High and Rising – De La Soul (1989) Pure, unadulterated, wacky fun.  I wish hip-hop existed like this today---sadly, it does not.  This concept album is smart and sassy and hot and will make your booty shimmy.

Static & Silence – The Sundays (1997) This is the third and final album by the dreamy band, The Sundays.  If I had a voice like lead singer Harriet Wheeler, I think I would use it only for good.  And she totally does.  At all times.  And the single, “Summertime?” How about this chorus stanza:

“And it’s you and me in the summertime.  We’ll be hand in hand down in the park.  With a squeeze and sigh and that twinkle in your eye.  And all the sunshine banishes the dark.”

Heaven or Las Vegas – Cocteau Twins (1990) Cocteau Twins are completely weird, and I recognize they might be an acquired taste for some.  But if you don’t know this band and want to go into a really cozy version of outer space, this is the album to choose.  I also love Elizabeth Fraser’s voice and although she is noted for singing jibberish, this is one of the only albums on which you can actually hear her clearly and make some sense of the lyrics.  This seems like a strange endorsement, but please go download this?

Summerteeth – Wilco (1999) Haunting, lush and beautiful album by the always amazing Wilco.  An all-time favorite for all seasons.

Old World Underground, Where Are You Now? – Metric (2003) Metric is an awesome Candian indie rock band that it would really behoove you to know better.  Total Girl Power music, but also heady and sharp.  “Hustle Rose” makes me all intense and gets me grooving every time.

Rumours – Fleetwood Mac (1976) Do I really have to write anything here?  I mean, COME ON.

The Hits/The B Sides – Prince (1993) 3 albums of HOT SEX.

Celebrity Skin – Hole (1998) I will grant you that Courtney Love is a complete and total mess.  But she has made (arguably in collaboration with many other talented people) some rock-solid music in her day.  Particularly because I suspect that day has passed, never to return, what with all the crazy . . . this deserves a good, hard listen.  This whole album is sort of dedicated to LA and is very much evocative of California pop (a common theme in my musical tastes).  This also makes it a gorgeous summer stand by.  The hits on this are obviously great, but try “Boys on the Radio” on for size.  You won’t regret it.