So Many Holidays , So Little Time

The bakery calendar works in mysterious ways. This week is sans celebration, next week there are three battling for counter space. Holiday baked goods can be so needy- "Look at me! Pick me! I'm the limited edition!" I want to remind them that in a flash they will be old news, just like the February 15th Valentine and the Easter Monday Bunny. But since my livelihood is somewhat dependent on the holidays, I am forced to pay attention. So as not to overlook anyone next week, I'm starting a little early. The 14th is such a huge holiday it will need particular attention to detail. Queen Esther will have to cool her royal heels til the 15th which means I've decided to bump St. Patrick to the front of the line. I know for a fact there will be cookies to bedazzle for each holiday which should keep things calm amongst Pi/Pie, Esther and Patrick.

March fourteenth is a relatively new holiday. Yet again, in East coast vs. Pacific Northwest coast, we are woefully behind. According to my sibling, not only is Pi/Pie Day celebrated, it's really a Thing. It is celebrated at the Salmon Bay School as an All School Event with "math games and plenty of pie." Math Games? Honestly, why do you have to ruin a perfectly good holiday with Math Games, Barbara? I will say, however, that a school that takes Pie seriously is alright with me. My sources inform me that there is extensive merry-making and a vast assortment of pies for the pickin'- sounds much better than the aforementioned mathematics. Then again, they do things a little differently out there and who am I to point a disapproving all-purpose-floured-finger in their direction...

I'm a little fuzzy on my comparative religion, but I do know that Queen Esther played a prominent role in my childhood. There was an unwritten but very real understanding that one needed to dress in costume for the annual Purim party at Hebrew School. All of the girls arrived in some queenly attire, nothing too flashy, very little bling distracting from our homemade crowns. In later years, when it was necessary to outfit my children for Purim festivities I took a slightly different approach. Armed with scissors and a brown paper grocery bag, I cut out triangles and festooned the triangles with apricot/orange and poppyseed/black construction paper. I then attached the triangles to the children with some sort of non-toxic adhesive, I think it was double-face tape, and said, "There.You don't want to be a run of the mill Queen Esther or the Evil Haman. If anyone asks, simply tell them you're Hamantashen."  And I sent them on their way. 

St. Patrick's Day was never my thing as a child, and less so as an adult. There was one particular March 17th that was quite memorable. Before I left New York City to take that Game-of-the-States National tour gig, I was working at a large Art Deco venue, home of the Rockettes. A farewell send off coincided with St. Patrick's Day. Was there a place where the bar would not be awash with pitchers of green beer and the sound level would not be deafening? We ended up at the bar at the Rainbow Room, where we had the place completely to ourselves as we soaked up the only-in-New York views.

Many holidays to embrace next week and so little time. I will begin with a pie inspired by one of my Young Scholars who happens to be passing through the home nest for a few days. I asked him to offer me his thoughts on a suitable St. Patrick's Day pie flavor- and nothing with Guinness because I already use that in a Stout cake. He glanced up momentarily from the piano and provided three pearls of wisdom. Coffee. Bailey's. Jameson. Ithaca plus London plus Boston equals Genius.

The result of said conversation can be found on this week's recipe page. A whole week stretches out before you to make it which will free you up for celebrating on the 17th, if you are interested in that sort of thing. I will no doubt still be recovering from the 14th and the 15th. You will have no trouble recognizing me at the local watering hole just up the street from the bakery. I will be the one clutching the rolling pin, my Queen Esther crown slightly askew.

Mardi, Paul and Oscar

We’re at it again, another holiday as is evident by the cookies vying for attention on the counter. Mardi Gras is a holiday I could wrap my Sazerac-fisted hand around.  Since we are not baking King Cakes, we are giving a nod to the holiday with Fleur de lis cookies splashed purple and green with sugar crystals. As we pride ourselves on being Equal Event cookie providers, the Fleur de lis are nudging up against gold dusted Oscars. It wouldn’t be a day in retail baking unless there was a bit of confusion between staff and patrons. Many of the baristas are unfamiliar with the Fleur de lis and keep pointing them upside down. Coupled with the fact that the Oscars do bear a striking resemblance to Mummies (“Are those Mummies?” “No, they’re Oscars.” “Oscar who?”) it’s probably best if I bow out of that conversation. Mardi Gras festivities and the Academy Awards ceremony are about to collide and I find the juxtaposition of these two events a personal aside. New Orleans triggers two pie memories; one rather glamorous, the other unpretentious, both incredibly delicious. My first visit to New Orleans was when I was working for a man who just happened to be an Academy Award winning actor. His 1956 Best Actor Oscar was for a role he had originated on Broadway and was many years later reviving in a National tour.  For me, an extended stay in the land of beignets and etouffée was a gift in itself. Sweeter than the opportunity to explore the culturally opulent city was the chance to live at the Pontchartrain Hotel in the Garden District.

The St. Charles streetcar provided my transportation between the Saenger Theatre on Canal Street and the hotel. Hotel guests stayed in suites named for celebrity patrons; The Mary Martin or The Richard Burton or The Helen Hayes Suite. There were also long- term resident accommodations for those who called The Pontchartrain home. The hotel boasted three distinct food and drink emporiums. What I remember about The Bayou Bar was an old Steinway piano manned by Tuts Washington tickling the ivories and the walls covered in extraordinary murals by artist Charles Reiinike.  The Caribbean Room was the beautifully formal dining room, as opulent as a debutante ball gown, famous for Trout Veronique. For many, the Pontchartrain’s Silver Whistle coffee shop was comfortably delicious and an alternative to the Caribbean Room.  Sharing the same kitchen, a meal in the coffee shop could be a simple breakfast of blueberry muffins and chicory coffee or a lunch of their famous Avocado Pontchartrain, over-filled with Lump Crabmeat salad. The chance to enjoy the hotel’s signature dessert in both casual and swanky settings held great appeal for me. Mile High Pie was composed of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and peppermint ice creams standing tall in a pie shell, crowned with brûléed meringue and warm chocolate sauce. As a guest of Mr. Albert Aschaffenburg, the hotel’s proprietor, it seemed rude to not only order the dessert he suggested, but to finish it.

A pie of contrasts was found downtown at K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen. First, a little bit about my initial visit to K-Paul’s. My boss was a man of very specific likes and dislikes. Once I understood the reasoning behind his requests, it generally made perfect sense. Yet there were times when I was challenged by my “To Do” list. It often had ‘to do’ with seeking out or replacing or repairing or ordering a particular item.  Each stop on the tour was new to me and therein was the rub. I really didn’t know the ins and outs of the city until it was time to move on to the next city. It is important to understand that my boss adhered to his own personal dress code which meant he dressed exclusively in Twizzler black. When the trunks and suitcases were unpacked at the hotel or at the house he was renting, everything hanging in the closet looked identical. Trousers, shirts, sweaters, all black. Even the beautifully soft-as-buttah Italian leather loafers, black. The loafers had not reared their ugly heads with a problem until New Orleans. The shoes were resplendent with gold buckles when we left the previous city. Somewhere between Atlanta and the City-by-the-Bayou, one of the buckles went missing. Guess who had the job of tracking down a matching buckle? Before you suggest that it might have been easier to return to the original source for a replacement, it was never that easy. Most of the prized possessions had a bit of a back story- oftentimes items were gifts or one-of-a-kinds. The congenial doorman at the Pontchartrain Hotel listened sympathetically and gave me a list of both high-end shoe stores and jewelers who might be able to help guide me on my quest for the elusive buckle.

Armed with a piece of Pontchartrain stationery scribbled with a series of names and addresses, I carried the naked shoe with me feeling cautiously optimistic. It was while traversing the streets within walking distance of the theatre that I spotted the line of expectant diners snaking around Chartres Street. The fact that K-Paul’s accepted neither reservations nor credit cards seemed not to squelch the spirits of the hungry mob. Clutching my brown paper bag with the Italian loafer, I made a mental note to return to K-Paul’s later in the day when the crowd had thinned. Three hours later with a friend in tow, I was successful in snagging a table for lunch. As far as securing a new buckle, I was still fostering a despondent loafer. My friend was mildly perplexed by the brown paper bag sitting on my lap under a white linen napkin. “Don’t you want to put that down?” she asked innocently enough. “No one is going to steal it.” In the past year one of the many things I had learned was that anything was possible. “I’ll just hold on to it,” I replied knowing that while trying to outfit one loafer seemed daunting, the idea of explaining why I was replacing a pair of shoes and buckles was more than I could bear.

Chef Paul Prudhomme’s restaurant was small, tables close enough together to ogle the meals on your neighbor’s plates. Reflecting New American regional cooking, the Cajun and Creole dishes were a delicious assault to the senses. Shrimp and crawfish swam against a sea of cayenne and Tabasco, tempered with dirty rice and hushpuppies. Lunch was starting to infringe upon my Buckle Quest but we couldn’t leave without having dessert. Chef Prudhomme’s Sweet Potato Pecan pie was a dessert I was totally unfamiliar with and that’s why I ordered it. Teaming two pie fillings in a single crust was a new-fangled idea and I loved it. The filling was warm with spice and sweet with brown sugar but then the pecans swept in under a cloak of Chantilly cream and I was a goner.  It was simply Mardi Gras on a plate.

As for the loafer, despite an exhaustive search of the city I was unable to find a matching buckle. I did the next best thing which was to ship the shoes to the Assistant in Paris from whence they originally came. When I called to explain my predicament, the voice on the other end of the long distance line assured me in rapid fire Française that replacing the shoe accessory would be “Trés facile.” I guess what she really meant to say was, “Easy as pie.”

A Day Without Orange

Two things sparked this week’s pie selection; unpacking a box of miscellaneous cookbooks with an advertisement from a 1962 edition of Ladies Home Journal tucked inside and a chance encounter with a case of oranges. First, the ad…

As a baker, canned fruits are not something I generally house in my kitchen cupboard. There are however, two exceptions where canned fruit is infinitely easier than fresh. Crushed Pineapple-in-its-Own-Juice (not someone else’s, thank you) and Mandarin orange segments. The pineapple is key when making Morning Glory bread and Mandarin oranges are ideal for fruit tarts of the diminutive variety. (I do have a fondness for pineapple pie with a macadamia nut crust, but that’s fresh pineapple, and today it’s about the “tin can orchard in my kitchen.”) I used canned Mandarins religiously in the restaurant because of their vibrant color and perfect size. Perched atop miniature tarts, they play nicely with other fruit, particularly berries and kiwis. Everybody gets along and nobody balks at a quick brush of apricot jam to bring out the blue or red or green in their eyes. 

While we are on the subject of cans, there’s one other tin-ified item that I keep.  Not in a cupboard, but chillin’ in the freezer, and that’s Trader Joe’s orange juice concentrate. No, it’s not as orangey as Tang or Beech-Nut fruit stripe gum. It is an unheralded savior of orange desserts. Unlike orange flower water or orange oil which must be used with the utmost precision, orange juice concentrate can be used with greater abandon. The flower water and orange oil vaguely remind me of a fragrance that I dodge when accosted by a perfume spritzing sales clerk at Bloomingdales. Frozen orange juice can be reduced rather quickly on top of the stove or in a microwave.  The end result is highly concentrated simply making  orange taste more like, well, orange.

Admittedly, I do not adhere to the teachings of the Ladies of the Home Journal who admonished readers to turn to their cupboards for inspiration. Opting not to share their philosophy that “all outdoors is at my fingertips” I prefer fresh to tinned, still seeking choices within the produce aisles.

Tis’ the season of citrus and as fond as I am of lemons and limes, I am particularly drawn to fresh Mandarins. Simultaneously sweet and tart, Mandarins also look great resting in a bowl on the kitchen counter. Mandarins seem perfectly comfortable in their own easy-to-peel skin, and don’t pine to be flashy like The Real Housewives of Blood-Orange County, all caught up in their pink and red selves.

Now about my chance encounter with the oranges.  Years of therapy as opposed to years of running might have helped me cope with my Post Traumatic Restaurant Syndrome. Too late. A visual can trigger an episode, a flashback, a remembrance. The manager at our local Garden State market is always in the thick of things. Unpacking and arranging, decanting and displaying. The other day he was up to his madras shirt sleeves in Sunkist juice oranges. Suddenly, it was Sunday in Philadelphia at the Super Fresh supermarket. I was in a bit of a situation because a certain restaurant was shy one case of oranges. Orange juice was an integral part of the Sunday brunch “mise en place.” Which is a lovely way to say in French that somebody in the kitchen neglected to order the oranges. I went to the Super Fresh (we called it Stupid Fresh) in the hopes of snagging a case of the citrus, and have it back and squeezed before bottles of bubbly were being uncorked.

Sporting my Sunday morning kitchen best, smelling more than a little bit like French toast and bacon, I was frantically scanning the produce section hoping to find a manager. No one in sight, so I made a beeline to the Customer Service counter. In a quiet Sunday pre-noon voice, I asked the clerk if they could locate someone in produce to help me. No response. In dulcet tones I explained  that I was hoping to buy a case of oranges. In a heartbeat, the store’s mega-amplified paging system was engaged. “MANAGER TO PRODUCE. MANAGER TO PRODUCE.”  Through the swinging doors arrived the none-too-pleased produce meister. The paging system felt an obligation to capture our conversation.  “YOU WANT TO BUY A CASE OF ORANGES?! LADY, WE SELL SINGLE ORANGES AND BAGS OF ORANGES. NOT CASES OF ORANGES.” Pleading with him to bend the rules just this once, he glared and disappeared back through the swinging doors. I waited and watched. Shoppers were filling their baskets with sensible groceries; a quart of orange juice, a gallon of milk, a plastic bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s clutching a box of frozen Eggo waffles. My cart was empty until the manager reappeared, huffing and puffing and lugging a case of oranges which he handed off to me. I wrestled them into the cart where they half-straddled the child seat and the wagon, not quite fitting in either space. Maybe all four wheels of my shopping cart were in good stead, but it didn’t sound like it. I pushed/pulled the groaning wagon to the 10 Items or Less aisle. Grown-ups stared. Children pointed.  There was some horrible Muzak version of a Bee Gees song playing over the sound system. Unable to lift the case onto the conveyer belt, I tipped the case in the direction of the check-out clerk. He didn’t know what to charge me and I didn’t know what to tell him.  The Bee Gees were abruptly interrupted by the summoning of “PRODUCE TO CHECKOUT ONE.” I was now holding up the line, and boy, can shoppers turn hostile in an instant. Longing to vanish through the automatic Exit doors, I surmised that stealing a case of citrus in Philadelphia was most likely punishable by time served in an orange jumpsuit. Not my best color. The manager arrived, feverishly scanning his clipboard trying to come up with a price. He scribbled something on an adhesive sticker which he affixed to the box which was scanned by the checker. I paid, I exited, eyes straight ahead, shopping cart limping towards the parking lot. A day without orange juice is like a day without, oh never mind…      

  

         

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Icing Valentines

I love every holiday equally, which as you can imagine, makes me as much a devotee of Cupid as I am of Phil (see last week's post). My friend Rosie listened patiently as I whined about this week's cookie chaos at work. In response, she posed an interesting question. "Why are they fixated on cookies? Why can't they give chocolates on Valentine's Day, like everyone else?" I wondered why as well. In a time not so long ago, my home address was in this very state, not too far from an infamous stretch of roadway that boasts many landmarks from my Wonder Bread years. Among them are a large fabric emporium, a retail store built to resemble a ship (really) and a chocolate manufacturer (now we're talking). My mother at the wheel, I traveled that highway three times a week, passing Helen Elliott Chocolates. Mondays and Thursdays for piano and Solfège,Wednesdays for ballet. Clearly my talents ultimately lay elsewhere; hence my current employ in the world of rolling pins and pastry bags. Which brings me back to Valentine's Day.

It was somewhat of a tradition in my youth and throughout college to receive a Valentine card and a heart shaped box of Helen Elliott chocolates. The signature on the card was always the same and it was the only card my father ever signed. My mother has beautiful handwriting and was the signator on birthday cards, but Valentines were penned in my Dad's run-on scrawl, "Your Secret Admirer." I adored every piece of candy that was nestled into accordion pleated papers; caramels and chocolate covered cherries, English toffee, nut clusters and something that was a cross between a truffle and fudge. That box of candy was the highlight of February, and always welcome. Except once.

    

Sophomore year of college, circa 1970-something. Situated on the Ithaca college campus, tucked within the student union was The Pub. I'm still struggling to understand how The Pub was housed on campus and served alcohol when now the only bars in the student union serve salad. Let's just say without going into too much detail, that on this particular February the 13th, I had joined a castmate at The Pub. I recall circles of fruit swimming in pitchers of red wine and not much else. Oh yes, my friend Pamela arrived at some point and walked me back to my dorm through mountains of snow where Betsy was curiously waiting. Thanks, Pamela. 

The very next day I was making my way to a voice lesson when I paused to check my mailbox. There was a slip indicating I had a package waiting. It could wait. Class was a group lesson and someone was singing a selection from "Oliver" which ordinarily I wouldn't have minded. That day it was torturous, every single note on the piano wreaking havoc on my throbbing head. After class, I swung by the Union to pick up my package. I tore back the corrugated box to reveal, just what someone in my current fragile state would not consider pining for; a heart shaped box of Helen Elliott chocolates. Even hundreds of miles away, my father had his finger on the pulse. 

Which makes me think that on Valentine's Day I should take a minute and call my Dad. Come to think of it, he was the guy who introduced me to the concept of pie for breakfast. I should also say "thank you." For the piano lessons and the ballet lessons, and for all of the heart shaped boxes of Valentine chocolates. 

Birthday Cake or Birthday Pie?

It's a brand new week and I'm cautiously optimistic. There's only one holiday this week and it's on a personal level. It has nothing to do with sports or that insufferable creature from Puxatawny (who by the way, I know it sounds harsh, I Unfriended on FB.)  The week stretches out before me and I have a monumental decision to make. What to bake for my mother's birthday, pie or cake?

We have celebrated many family birthdays amidst cake layers festooned with swirls of buttercream.  We have also tucked birthday candles into crevices of pie crust, busting with blueberries, or ripe with summer peaches.  February poses a bit of a challenge regarding fresh fruit ripe for the baking.  That's why I'm stumped and that may be the tipping point in Pie vs. Cake.

Chez moi, our leanings tend towards pie almost unanimously. It has been brought to my attention however, that one of us has been known to choose birthday cake- not because she prefers cake to pie. She simply prefers hearing herself bemoan the fact that she's the Birthday Girl and she'll just go ahead and make her own cake anyway, because, well, who else is going to and... But enough about me. 

I posed my question to those gathered around the bakery work table and was surprised to find quite a few pie enthusiasts. Even the high school and college baristas voted in favor of Birthday Pie. Those who chose cake (Sweet Lady Carey) indicated that it's really not about the cake at all. It's about the frosting and the cake is a mere vessel for said frosting.

Among the Seattle-ites I found a slight divide. Strong pie leanings from my youngest nephew, particularly if lattice crust is featured. My handsome brother-in-law and oldest nephew are cake-ers. My brother-in-law is also I might add, a damn fine baker. My sister is what she calls "Dessert Positive" so she'll take either unless white peaches are in season. Then it's pie all the way.

My mother has always been the peacemaker seated at one head of the dining room table. She is possibly the least selfish person I know and if asked what she would like for her birthday dessert would tell me not to fuss. Which makes this all the more daunting. Of course I'm going to fuss; when I'm an octogenarian, my kids better be fussing over me.

When it comes to desserts, my mother inherited from her mother a fondness for custards and creams, chocolate and glaceed fruits. She also has a penchant for everything lemon so I could go in quite a few directions. The question is, which one?

There is also the whole Boston Cream Pie debate. I know nothing says Happy Birthday better than sponge layers sandwiched with pastry cream and dark chocolate dripping down the sides. Is that considered pie or cake or both?

I have another day to ponder this and perhaps a stroll through the produce aisles of Whole Paycheck will serve to inspire. The more I think about it though, it's not a question of Birthday Pie or Birthday Cake. When I consider the recipient the answer is simple; this Birthday Girl deserves one of each. 

         

Four and Twenty Groundhogs

It's Friday and I'm listening to the banter at the front counter.  It's been the same all week, ever since a certain fellow made his debut on the sugar cookie platter.  Customers ask to purchase one of the cute squirrel cookies, sparkly with brown sanding sugar.  The counter folk casually reply, "Well, actually they're Groundhogs."They are met with a vacant look from the customer. The staff continues, explaining that this very Sunday is Groundhog's Day. Each time I hear this exchange, I start to fall deeper and deeper into a Bill Murray/Andi McDowell trance.  

I am trying desperately to get some pies into the oven before the morning slips away from me.  I've pre-baked the shells (see last week's rant) thinking I'll make banana cream for a change.  I didn't anticipate my morning being interrupted by a cookie.  

According to my cookie calendar, Thanksgivukkah had come and blissfully gone. Turkeys, Menorahs and Pilgrims, oh my! Apparently there is a convergence of holidays this weekend, as well. I don't remember any mention of this, but maybe I wasn't paying attention. Today kicks off Chinese New Year and the Year of the Horse. Sunday is Groundhog's Day right on the heels (rather cleats) of Super Bowl Sunday. And I've already begun mixing a palette of Conversation Heart color for that other holiday. (The one that rears it's ugly head on the 14th of February.)  My pie shells will have to sit tight until I tend to the cookie crisis. We're running low on footballs and we're overrun with Groundhogs. I realize we are not Rocket Scientists, but this is indeed a problem. I casually suggest sticking a football on the Groundhogs and we do. Now I'm the one doing the piping of the royal icing "laces" on the teeny fondant footballs. Which gives me pause to consider a Universal Holiday Cookie.

I'm prompted by my brother's philosophy regarding greeting cards. He claims that he has purchased one card that he presents to my sweet sister-in-law that covers all occasions. The sentiment of the card is something along the lines of "I love you." He presents this card on her birthday, Valentine's Day, their anniversary. The card knows no limits and clearly it has done the trick; they have been happily married since the late 1970s.

I'm thinking that we could create a cookie at work that is equally suitable. I'm envisioning something simple- for instance, the Easter Bunny wearing a Santa Claus hat embroidered with the word "Mom" and decorated with a shamrock tassel. In one hand, Santa holds the hand of a Gingerbread Man who holds a dreidel emblazoned with a turkey and a pumpkin. In the other hand, Santa clutches both (he has big hands, okay?) an Apple-for-the-Teacher and a 4th of July flag. That should cover it nicely. Sporting events just don't make the cut. Nor do woodland creatures. Why? Because I said so.

I complete my Groundhog/Super Bowl tasks and return to the empty pie shells. Folks are still talking cookies at the counter. I know that the Groundhog of Pennsyltucky or Puxatawny has his rightful place on the calendar, but when did he squirrel his way into the bakery? I'll tell you when- when Super Bowl Sunday collided with Will He or Won't He See His Shadow Day.

Enough- I'm back to the pies, separating whites from yolks with great abandon until one of the Baristas turns to me and asks, "What are the pie shells going to be filled with?"

Without pausing I look up and reply simply, "Groundhog."             

On the Savory Side of the Street

 It seems wrong to complain about the Polar Vortex when my daily workplace boasts two blazing convection ovens.  If you were to catch a glimpse of me with my shoulders creeping up to my ears you would understand that even a bakery can be cold and drafty.  I’ve been decorating Valentine’s cookies (please, no comment) in my red LL Bean fleece which is now royal-icing-crusty along the zipper.

I’ve had a busy few days gallivanting not only the Garden State but the outer boroughs of Manhattan as well.  There’s a common denominator amongst these jaunts; freezing cold weather and blistering hot, thin crust pizza. The kind that burns the roof of your mouth if you’re not careful. I wasn’t.  

I know I tend to gravitate towards sweet pies as opposed to savory, but honestly, in this weather put something spicy/salty on a crust and I’m in. I kicked off my pie safari on Friday night, clutching a garlic permeated box from Arturo’s artisan pizza across the street from the bakery. It’s a tiny space and more often than not, there’s a mighty long wait for a table. Sometimes for lunch we fortify ourselves with slices of their farm-to-table pies. On Friday night, after a torturous wait for NJ Transit to get its act together, I picked up one of those pizzas and carried it home. 

Saturday I reconnected with an old friend from the UK who happened to be in town. On a snowy evening, Conte’s Pizza in Princeton was hopping. The kind of old time neighborhood place that pours Perroni by the pitcher and serves no-nonsense  pies. Was it noisy?  Indeed, it was. And chilly? Yes, right down to my work shoes which were liberally coated in all purpose flour. It was a deliciously retro kind of evening, from the laminated tabletops to the melamine plates. It was also a far cry from Monday night’s foray to Brooklyn.

I was invited to attend a small gathering celebrating the 2^nd Birthday of a restaurant.  A very hip restaurant, I might add.  Despite the frigid temps, I dashed from work to home and then back to the train station. Sometimes it’s fun to catch a glimpse of what’s going on outside your own snow globe.

For those of you who watch “Girls”, you might recognize the locale. Where the bar is surrounded by the hip and the beautiful, and the thin crust pizza can barely hold on to its toppings.Travel does come with a cost. Not simply the $14.50 round trip NJ Transit fare or the double swipe of the Metro Card.  It requires donning non-work clothes, Big Girl Shoes (in this case, boots) and washing the butter-sugar-flour film from your face. I was prepared. Or so I thought…

Bobbi Brown promised her Party All Night mascara wouldn’t smudge and Kleenex claimed the tissues I was clutching wouldn’t make my nose red. The cable-knit sweater tights swore they would sit snugly at my waist and keep me warm as toast. But as I traversed the slippery streets of Manhattan, everything was running; mascara, nose, and yours truly.  Navigating the black ice hidden beneath the slush, I stepped knee deep into banks of once pristine, now gone city-gray snow. Racing down the subway steps, I felt my tights inching their way south just as the G train slipped away out of sight.  My Kleenex pocket pack was buried deep inside my coat and retrieving another would necessitate removing one of my gloves and I certainly was not doing that. 

After a stint on the C train, the G train and a brisk walk, I arrive at the small gathering. What’s small is the space, what’s large is the crowd. I wedge myself into a space within elbow’s reach of the line cooks. Perfect vista of the intricate kitchen choreography.  A blur of long handled pizza paddles lap at the flames of the brick oven.The pizzas are as promised, delicious- wild mushrooms, Farm egg and curls of fresh sage, another teaming fresh pineapple and salty speck. At the other end of the line is a wood-fired grill where what appears to be a branding iron (can you say Ponderosa?) is hugging the grates. With great precision, one of the line cooks systematically brands something on a silver tray and then hands it to a willowy server. The server dips the tray in front of me and urges me to enjoy a tease of dessert. It’s a new-fangled S’More, a whisper of a graham cracker crust barely crumbling under the weight of its dark chocolate filling. A puddle of marshmallow teeters beneath a crown of more graham cracker. It’s delicious and boy, is it hot.  Nothing melts a homemade marshmallow quicker than a branding iron. Just ask the roof of my mouth.