The Joy of Cooking

If only I had started this experience by video documenting every meal I am served here, I could have made an unforgettable mini series and posted it on a food blog somewhere.  I suppose I would've entitled it Cooking with Auntie Phyllis, Pass Me the Butter or What Would Irma Rombauer Do?  But alas, the photographs will just have to suffice.  Keep in mind that upon moving to New York I had no expectations regarding my living arrangement - all I knew was that my professor's mom was willing to host me, she lived on the Upper West Side (UWS, we learned that, remember?) and she was currently researching a 19th century Norwegian explorer for a book contribution.  I didn't know what she looked like, how old she was, what might be required of me, what the apartment was like, but I walked into it with a blind faith and found that any expectation I could've had was promptly exceeded.

stuffed peppers, spanish rice and chicken soup

The first night I arrived in New York, Phyllis told me she loved to cook and she'd be happy to prepare dinner (supper, as she calls it) for the both of us every night unless she had other plans.  When she said this she may as well have been accompanied by a 12-person choir joyfully singing Hallelujah because I swear I was convinced she was sent straight from heaven.

baked fennel with mozzarella cheese (omg. yes please.)

Now I'm not going to say I've been deprived for the last year and a half, for goodness' sake I've been in Italy, but it's not like I was gorging on lasagna and ravioli every night.  In fact, you'd be surprised what my roommates in Italy and I have haphazardly thrown together and tentatively called a meal.  Groceries are expensive, produce can be cheap but you need a certain amount of motivation and inspiration to succeed in cooking.  I can say what I've missed most (other than family and friends) while abroad has been the food.  There's nothing like coming home for the holidays and appeasing your gluttonous side with comfort food.  But as a student, you're constantly aware that this too will come to an end.  That responsibility and adulthood await, in a land where no one does your laundry but you.  A sad, barren land where the iced tea pitcher doesn't magically replenish itself.

fish soup with potato and corn

That is, until I met Phyllis.  (Ok, she doesn't do my laundry - I am able to manage that.)  Living with Phyllis is like living with your Grandma, which I was never able to do, but I imagine it would've been just as fun.  The apartment is lived-in, like Granny's is, everything has its place, and it's had that place for over 30 years most likely.  Every night a new dish is served, often something I've never had and always something I discover I enjoy.  Some nights we host guests, small gatherings around the dining room table where Phyllis catches up with old friends.  So far I've met Carolyn, former director of the American Institute of Graphic Arts; Karen, a toy designer from Vermont; Bill, a retired artist and filmmaker; and Fred, a biographer and historian of 20th century France.  You can just imagine the kinds of conversations we've had over winter root veggie soups, roasted lamb shanks and manhattan brownstone chocolate cake.

gorgonzola tortellini and tiny asparagus

I. Love. This. Lady.  And I'm not just saying that because she cooks for me (though that does put many a point in her favor).  It's because she's a gracious, gentle, caring, clever individual - basically she reminds me of my Grandma.  She's endlessly fascinating; we've spent a lot of time chatting at the dinner table, long after the bowls are clean.  I get the scoop on New York in the '50s, what it was like to travel abroad in the early '60s, and sometimes what she remembers of her father before he died in WWII.  She's constantly reading several books at a time, working on writing projects, volunteering at the Natural History Museum, visiting friends who are poor in health, and somehow she finds time to make dinner for me almost every evening.

baked apples with raisins, blueberries and spiced wine

And you know what, she really likes me.  And why wouldn't she, I'm great company!  She's interested in my life, my interests and my thesis research.  She's put me in touch with a few of her friends around town and I've met them to talk about the art world in New York.  She's taken me out several times to places she thinks I'll enjoy - a Mexican restaurant, a little Italian place (where we saw Kevin Bacon!), and last week we went on a movie date.  We went to see A Separation - it just won Best Foreign Film and I highly recommend it - then we had dinner at a nearby restaurant.  She bought tickets for us to see a Broadway show on Thursday night, too.  I know she adores me because she gives me granny-like hugs when she knows I need 'em and she already told me she thinks I shouldn't ever leave!

borscht - ukrainian beet soup (sooo good)

I really think a lot of my bonding with Phyllis has happened over food.  We discuss dishes we enjoy, then we compile the ingredients and make them.  I watch her leaf through butter-stained cookbooks before ever going to the internet with a culinary question.  I ask her how she's so creative and she says it's just industriousness and a zest for life.  I help her when she needs it, and observe her when she doesn't.  I listen to her friends' stories of their memories of first meeting Phyllis - all involve food at a dinner party.  Stuffed artichokes, cheese soufflé, lemon bars.  And most of these events were 40-50 years ago!  I wonder what people will remember about me, certainly not an ability to stuff artichokes, perhaps a mean grilled cheese?  Then I think of what people remember about my Grandma: brisket, pinto beans, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy -- the people who spoke at her memorial ceremony almost all mentioned food!

moroccan spiced lamb shank, cous cous and beet greens

So have I been missing something, am I just now putting together something I've always known?  Of course, food is inextricably linked to emotions, comfort, memories.  I miss certain dishes the most when I'm away from home because they're connected to a feeling of familiarity.  Phyllis' friends haven't forgotten the impression she made with particular dishes and a certain charm.  I know I won't.  And my Grandmother's legacy lives on through her generous spirit and willingness to share her table.  Considering this, I would venture to say food must be the key to a happy life.  Not just eating, but the act of making and sharing.  Breaking bread.  Communion, in the sense of bringing people together to participate in an experience.  What I really appreciate about Phyllis is her generosity, her vigor and her selflessness.  And this she shows me daily, by the spoonful.

One Woman Show

Or: Zero Degrees of Kevin Bacon

Well I'm going on month 2 of living in New York City and I can hardly believe so much time has passed already.  I feel like I just arrived here yesterday!  I've been busy with the internship at Christie's, frequent trips to the New York Public Library, cooking adventures with Phyllis and a healthy dose of arts and culture.  The only thing is, I haven't really made many acquaintances (from my generation) since I arrived!  I'm not complaining, in fact Phyllis has introduced me to some fascinating characters that make up her social network.

The Metropolitan Opera, Atrium

Last Monday I met Phyllis' friend Peter for an evening at Lincoln Center.  Peter is an 80-year-old actor and opera aficionado who kindly offered to pay my way at the Met for a performance of the Italian opera Ernani by Verdi.  He is a well-spoken, cultured gentleman who assumes I've "certainly already read about it in the Times" when he refers to anything (and almost always I haven't).  I met his friend Ingrid, a 50-year-old actress and voice coach and we (read: they) all spoke about 19th century librettists the entire night.  The performance was a real treat, as the Metropolitan Opera itself is a work of art, and the personally controlled monitor with electronic subtitles was appreciated.  But can I just say - 3.5 hours is too long for anything, let alone opera.  I don't even think I could manage an epic film for that long.  If you have to stop for 2 intermissions, the show just might be too long, everybody.  

© MetOpera.org

As I sat in the audience, one of the very few heads that lacked gray hair, I thought about the future of opera.  I appreciate the arts.  I'm white, female, middle class, educated-- essentially the target demographic for this Fine Art.  I've even taken several music appreciation classes, one of which focused on opera, but how the heck is my generation going to sustain and support this art form when even I can't keep from dozing off in the middle of Act II?  I pondered this question a bit over the course of the week, even discussed it at length with Phyllis over coffee and bagels, but truly dissecting that thought would be another post entirely.

blackberry cobbler night: I can die happy.

After a week at work with lots of post-sale activities and a standard "I have a friend who bought a Michelangelo drawing at a garage sale in Jersey" phone call, I welcomed the weekend.  The few girls I'd met via the internship at Christie's are all in the Visual Arts Administration master's program at NYU,  (you know, the program I was accepted to but then turned down because I would have had to sell a kidney and my first born child to make a tuition payment), and they're always very busy.  I went ice skating in Central Park with them one day last weekend but haven't held my breath for another invite, they have unimaginable amounts of reading and projects.  So this weekend I hung out with me, myself and I.

me and Central Park

Friday I did some reading and told myself I simply couldn't stay indoors all night.  When you live in NYC it's hard to justify laziness knowing what awaits you just beyond your doorman.  I ventured out into the blistery cool air and took the subway down to Chelsea to check out The Rubin Museum, or the museum of Himalayan art.  They were open until 10pm with a lounge, bar, DJ, free admission and several public programs.  I attended the "Talking Stick" storytelling session that involved artists, comedians, poets, writers and musicians interpreting works from the museum's collection.  I sat on the ground with 20 other people on the 6th floor of the museum as a 6ft tall Chinese guy did a spoken word piece with musical accompaniment about what it means to be Asian.  Another girl introduced a few paintings in the Modern Indian Art exhibition then read a short prose piece about a minnow.  A Jewish comic recounted crazy travel stories and a museum worker spoke of his first day in New York City as related to the theme in a painting.

13th Century Green Tara

I was mesmerized by this museum, the bustling activity, the liveliness of the people, the openness of the format, the accessibility of the programs, the friendliness of the staff.  As I descended to the lower floors to see the permanent collection a museum worker offered me a guided tour.  In the last 30 minutes of my museum visit I learned more about Buddhist tradition than I'd ever learned in my life.  The guide showed me a recreation of a shrine while explaining Siddhartha's life, then patiently described the parts of a painted tapestry that depicted the karmic circle of life.  I was so thrilled with the way my Friday night turned out, I left the museum feeling energized, knowledgeable and above all welcome.  Maybe going out by myself wasn't so bad after all...

Me and New York City

Saturday I went to Midtown after lunch to see my first off-Broadway play, per Phyllis' recommendation.  I managed a student discount with my Italian permit-to-stay and when I asked for one ticket the lady asked skeptically "…just one?"  Before the show I stopped into Shake Shack, a tasty burger joint where a free seat is prime real estate.  After finishing the last bite of my cheeseburger an eager couple was already asking if "we were done eating" referring to the people next to me.  I replied that I was finished but I had been sitting alone, to which the guy responded "Oh, I'm sorry.  Well I hope you're not alone for long."  Ummm, ok.  Thanks?  Then my one woman show headed to the theatre where I enjoyed the performance of How I Learned to Drive, and was thankfully flanked by 2 single theatre-going women on either side of seat F-110.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

In the evening I took the bus across Central Park to see an exhibit at the Met.  The museum was open until 9 and I was surprised how lively the building was.  The sounds of soft violin, piano, clinking forks and lively conversation wafted from the upper balcony and through the grand entrance as I escaped the bitter cold and checked my coat.  I perused the 19th century section without hurry, salivating over Rodin sculptures and feeling my heartbeat quicken when I recognize a Cezanne I studied last semester.  Something's beginning to happen to me in art museums with notable collections.  I'll see a study for a famous work by an artist and then try to remember where I've seen the painting before reading the label. I rarely ever get that chance, but over the past 2 years my visual vocabulary has grown tenfold with all the museums and collections I've seen in Europe, and once in a while I can give myself that mental high-five.

me at the Guggenheim

Today I dedicated to reading and thesis research.  Thanks to another of Phyllis' friends who worked at a foundation supporting emerging artists, I've got some leads on New York based arts organizations that may be worth discovering.  After seeing I'd worked all day, Phyllis insisted on taking me to dinner this evening, despite my repeated attempts to offer.  (Heart of gold, that one.)  I'm thankful she did because we ended up at Gennaro, an Italian trattoria on the UWS that she assured me was delightful.  Believe it or not it'd been over a month since I'd eaten pasta!  We stepped in the tiny restaurant and were ushered to the back where they'd found a chair for Phyllis and we were to wait for a table.  No sooner had I asked for a menu than I look up and realize I'm staring into the icy blue eyes of Kevin Bacon.  Whaaaat?!  This might even be better than my tap-dancing Jimmy Fallon sighting in Rockefeller Center a few weeks ago.  After a stifled giggle and quick text to people who might give a damn, I notice he's with his wife - a lady whose face I recognize but can't place her name until I imdb it later - Kyra Sedgwick.

unrelated snowy sidewalk picture of my neighborhood

I ever-so-slyly inform Phyllis of his presence only to realize she's never seen Footloose or Apollo 13.  Then I try to explain the 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon game to her, but I realize it's not as funny if you haven't seen any of his almost-legendary performances, including the awesomely bad 90s SciFi flick Tremors (not just the first one, I mean II, III and IV).  But not to worry, Phyllis was busy getting her work published, traveling through China, and generally being too much of a badass to watch Kevin Bacon films.  

view of the skyline across Central Park

We had a lovely dinner and I enjoyed having a meal that reminded me of Italy.  I realize more and more how much I am thankful for her guidance and companionship here in the city - we really get along quite well.  And to think she's been living alone for decades!  The way I see it, if she can star gracefully in her own one woman show that continually has me riveted, then I must not be averse to continuing my (mostly) solo adventures in the Big Apple!