Savoring the Flavors of New York

Listening to my grandmother and aunt talk about their adventures in cooking and compare recipes in baking as I grew up kindled my interest in food. But I've never attempted much cooking since I'd rather bake. I'd rather read books about cooking and chefs and restaurants than try it out myself. I'd rather watch a cooking show on the Food Network than attempt to create my own dinner menu. But during my recent weekend in New York, culinary inspiration met me practically on every corner. I took a food tasting tour of the gritty East Village neighborhood and I went to tea at Lady Mendl’s in Gramercy Park. I tasted adventure on New York’s wild side and sipped the genteel tea of elegance at a historic brownstone. And I’m not sure which flavor I fancied more.

Before we got started on the East Village food tour, the guide asked our group if we were willing to try everything scheduled at our stops. With a reluctant yes, I found myself going below street-level to Jum Mum’s tiny eatery with just two tables. I was pleasantly surprised that the steamed pork dumplings with sweet soy sauce, garlic, scallions and cilantro were delicious. So far, so good. The next stop was Veselka, a Ukrainian restaurant that’s been around since 1954. The tour's website had advertised pierogies at this stop, which are a Pittsburgh staple, but the guide said we'd be tasting borscht. I was pretty sure I’d never eaten it before, and I don’t care much for beets. When the bowl was set in front of me, I thought I wouldn’t like it. But it was scrumptious. Whatever they did to the beets, cabbage and pork, served hot with a dollop of sour cream, I liked it and could have eaten another bowl. Growing up in Pittsburgh, I often ate my aunt’s delicious stuffed cabbage and the borscht's familiar ingredients reminded me of one of my favorite foods.

The tour moved on to a tiny corner drugstore for an egg cream drink that was mostly chocolate fizzy water. I choked down a sip before we got pizza from Iggy’s, hot dogs and papaya juice from a street stand and then stopped at the Milk Bar. Christina Tosi is the chef, owner and founder of Momofuku Milk Bar, named “one of the most exciting bakeries in the country” by Bon Appetit magazine. I sampled green pea and almond ice cream and compost cookies. I really could taste the green peas but having them in ice cream seemed strange to me. But it was the compost cookies that made me shiver. 

Although they tasted mostly of oatmeal and sweet butterscotch chips, they were also made from ground up potato chips, pretzels and coffee grounds. I absolutely hate the texture of coffee grounds. I’ll throw out an entire cup of coffee if I spot one ground floating in it. So I just couldn’t put the thought of those black specks out of my mind to enjoy the cookie. (I'm thinking that Milk Bar can keep its compost cookies and maybe New York can find a place to recycle them.) The tasting tour finished at an Italian bakery where I sampled a creamy cannoli among the cases and cases of baked goods on display.

After the exhilarating excursion to the East Village, the next day I found myself in an elegant dining room overlooking a charming courtyard garden at Lady Mendl’s. Her 1834 brownstone is the setting for a grand five-course tea. I enjoyed a delectable tiny mushroom tart, adorable tea sandwiches, scones with Devonshire cream and preserves, Lady Mendl’s signature creamy chocolate cake and a final course of petite tea cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries. My spicy and rich chai tea made every bite scrumptious.

The gritty and the elegant. It got me thinking. I know where I’d usually like to be. I kind of like my adventure in bite-sized pieces. I prefer my excitement in tiny nibbles. With a lot of familiar whipped in. I only want change and the strange in small morsels. I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew. But sometimes the different, richest, most flavorful experiences reside there. Out on the gritty side. Where a spoonful of uncertainty is. I'd like to cultivate a taste for it. Maybe I can start with learning how to cook a few dinner dishes to add to my repertoire of my one and only pasta with spinach and Italian sausage bake. Now that's a recipe for adventure that's more to my taste. 

Making Biscuits, Scones and Friends in Manhattan

While I was in New York City last week, I took a pastry class at Le Pain Quotidien’s Bleecker Street Bakery to learn how to make biscuits, scones and shortbread cookies. I’ve always had trouble making scones and tried dozens of recipes without finding one I really like. The class promised to help aspiring bakers find their biscuit hand. Since I was certainly aspiring (thanks to my one word for 2013), I registered before I could change my mind. I wasn't sure what to expect or how skilled my fellow students would be. In the bakery’s kitchen, floor to ceiling windows faced the street. With my hair scrunched under a black baking cap and wearing a white apron, I felt like I was on display. But I soon realized that not much holds the attention of New Yorkers for very long. A few people – who I’m sure were tourists -- stopped to gaze at us rolling out our dough, but they quickly grew bored and hurried on after a few minutes. 

My fellow biscuit-makers were all local New Yorkers -- two via Paris and one via London – but they all assured me they were baking novices. We were handed bowls with dry ingredients, containers of eggs, milk, vanilla and pre-cut pieces of butter to combine into dough with our pastry scrapers. I wasn’t sure I believed my fellow bakers as I watched them proficiently combine their ingredients with their pastry blenders and confidently shape the dough into perfect mounds. My pastry dough scraper was quickly covered with the dough that was all over my fingers and I felt like a messy baker. My dough also seemed to be misshapen. The instructor chuckled and said “Well, your dough looks like a little mountain in the middle when it should really be flat all the way across,” as she deftly patted it into shape. Even though I reminded myself that this wasn’t a competition, I was pretty sure I would have ranked last in the class with my baking skills. As I snapped a few photos of the instructor’s samples, the girls laughed and asked if I was going to claim the instructor’s work as my own. I told them it was indeed a tempting thought.

Pastry instructor Brie's cheddar scones and apple scones (honest!)

My fellow bakers were so confident that two of them asked the instructor if they could top their savory scones with the cheese instead of using it all in the dough. She said she’d never been asked by students to change a recipe but told them to feel free to experiment. After we made vanilla shortbread cookies, cheddar and scallion scones, apple scones and cream biscuits, we all gathered around the communal table in the bakery’s dining room to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Jars of fig jam and raspberry jelly and hazelnut and chocolate spread were set out for us to spread on our biscuits while we chatted and ate.

The NYC girls told me how they have their groceries delivered to their doors. They said there’s no reason to go to Target or cook dinner or buy paper towels. Delivery service is their go-to for easy living. They talked about half-hour subway rides to get to work. They talked about living in Paris or London before moving to New York, as if it were a city next door instead of an ocean away. They talked about living a few blocks from the bakery in the heart of Manhattan. I admired these cosmopolitan girls.

New friend Aris is a native New Yorker.

I brought home the recipes we made and attempted the vanilla shortbread cookies. It was easy and delicious when I made them in class. But the ingredients were measured in grams instead of cups and tablespoons so I converted them online. As I peeked in the oven, the cookies were a puddled flat mess. When I tasted them, they were far too salty. I’m sure something was lost in translation. But instead of trying to figure out the recipe, I drove to the store and bought a kitchen scale. I will try making the cookies again. I thought of the pastry girls and how the communal table coaxed everyone to get to know each other once we sat down. I am inspired by this entertaining idea of a gathering table filled with just scones and jams and coffee and good conversation. And I can't wait to invite some friends over to join me at the table.

With pastry class instructor Brie in the bakery's kitchen.

Taking My Turn as a Tourist

I don't really like theme parks. I know it sounds almost sacrilegious to live in Orlando and say that. I know people travel here from all over the world to visit them. I know they're supposed to be the happiest places on earth. But I’m not crazy about them. It wasn’t always this way. I used to like them when I first moved here. About 25 years ago. But now just thinking about going to a theme park makes me feel hot. And crowded. And very grouchy. I’ve stood in my fair share of snaking lines of humanity, listening to quarreling families, sweat dripping down my back, wondering if the three minutes of whatever I’m about to experience is really worth it. My favorite spot at a theme park is usually under a shaded awning away from the glaring sun with a cool drink in my hand. I feel like it's okay that I don’t like theme parks since I don’t have kids. But since I am also an auntie, I have to hide what I really think about theme parks from my niece and nephew. Because they love them.

Where's the dolphin?

A few weeks ago my sister said she was going to SeaWorld to kick off my niece and nephew’s spring break. She called and said everyone was going. “Well, are you in or not?” she asked. The kids love SeaWorld and I love seeing them love it, so of course I had to go. Of all the Orlando parks, SeaWorld is one of the easiest to get into – as in you don’t have to take a boat, monorail or bus to get there once you park your car. You can actually walk a reasonable distance from the parking lot to the gates without needing a tram to transport you. Once we got inside, the kids passed out park maps to us so we could all take part in a lively debate about what we’ll do next and the quickest way to get there. We raced to our first stop, the dolphin show, where the kids wanted to sit close to the front. Within seconds of the morning sun blazing on me, I was hot and sweaty. I was already tired of being a tourist and the day had just begun.

There's the dolphin!

Tourists are the lifeblood of Central Florida. Although we locals love having them here, sometimes they try our patience. They drive slowly as they peer at road signs and consult their maps. They get in the automatic pay toll booth lanes and at the last minute veer toward the cash booths, finally realizing they don’t have toll passes. They talk loudly on their cell phones, “Yes! I’m in Florida! Can you believe it’s (fill in the blank, depending on the month) degrees and sunny here? What’s the weather like there?” They ask for their regional specialties in our grocery stores and say they can’t believe we don’t have that item here. They ask, “Is it always this (hot), (rainy), (humid) here?” 

But next week it’s my turn to be a tourist. I’m going to New York City. I’m going to annoy people hurrying around me as I stop and stare at the sights. I’m going to get lost and have to ask for directions. I’m not going to know how to take the subway. I’m going to carry my camera around my neck that will clearly identify me as a tourist. I’m going to take pictures of everything. I’m going to exclaim how cool the weather is this time of year and that it’s nothing like the weather back home. And I hope the locals I happen to meet are patient with me while I'm a tourist in their town.

My day of SeaWorld turned out to be quite enjoyable since the day became beautifully cloudy. And I got to spend the hottest part of the afternoon watching cats, dogs and a rat open doors, jump through windows and run on wires over my head. All while I relaxed in my seat a few rows from the stage. Did I mention this amazing pet show takes place inside? I highly recommend it for any tourist planning a visit to SeaWorld. It’s the coolest show in the entire park.

The kids pretend they're underwater sea divers.

All in Good Time

I've lost 15 minutes of time in my day. Or maybe I've gained 15 minutes. I’m not sure. Every spring and fall, the time change always confuses me. In the spring, are you early or late if you forget to move your clocks forward? I can never remember. Time has always been a little bit of a family problem. Growing up, every clock in our house was set 15 minutes fast. The kitchen clock, our bedroom clocks – every single one. I thought that was normal. I thought everyone did that to make sure they were on time. Until I heard my mother explaining to visitors, who were puzzled looking at our clocks and then at their watches, that we set our clocks fast so we wouldn’t be late. But we still were. Almost always late. But we were never as late as my grandmother and aunt.

L-R: My mother, my two aunts and my grandmother

It was a family joke to tell them an event was starting an hour ahead of when it was actually scheduled, to increase the chances that they might be on time. They eventually caught on to these schemes and continued to arrive habitually late. I grew up thinking it was just a family characteristic to be late. Except that it caused a lot of arguments. My mother says she hated attending weddings as a child because my grandmother would arrive just as the bride was walking down the aisle. Or worse, she remembers arriving as the wedding party was walking out of the church and the wedding was over before they even arrived.

When I went off to college, being late was no longer an issue since it was simply not tolerated. My school was meticulous about rules and warning bells rang throughout the dorms, alerting us for mealtimes, class times, curfew times and just about every other time imaginable. There was no need to set my clocks fast while I was there. Actually, I didn't even need a clock my entire four years there, as I just timed my life by the tolling of the bells. But when I got a place of my own, I reverted to my family tradition of setting my clocks 15 minutes ahead. I especially liked glancing at the clock in my car, knowing if was stuck in traffic on my way to work that I had 15 minutes more before I was really late.

But a few weeks ago as I reset the clocks in my house to daylight savings time, I decided I was going to live my life in real-time. Each clock in my house was set to slightly different variations, with my bedroom clock advanced a puzzling 23 minutes ahead, causing me to use considerable brain power to figure out the correct time. I wasn't sure why I needed to go to such lengths to avoid the actual time. My cell phone and computer reflected the actual time and it didn’t seem to alarm me, so maybe I could cope with viewing the actual time on all of my clocks. I considered this a companion step to keeping my New Year's resolution for last year.

I decided I was tired of not being a morning person. I would snooze the alarm. Wait until the last minute to get out of bed. And I was always racing the clock to get to work. To encourage myself with a little reward, I started brewing coffee at home instead of at the office. I started looking forward to my cup of coffee and a few minutes of Scripture study before heading out the door. After shocking myself the first few mornings of actually doing it, I started to enjoy it. Some days I had more minutes than others, but making myself get up earlier changed my outlook. And proved I could really change if I wanted to.

I think time has run out for me to use the excuse that being late just gets passed on from generation to generation. Now I’m trying to be mostly on time. But from time to time, I am still late. I think it's about time that I live in real-time. As time goes on, maybe I’ll figure out if I was behind the times, losing 15 minutes of my life or did I get with the times, and gain 15 minutes? Maybe I was actually ahead of my time. I guess only time will tell.