I've Moved!

I'll now be blogging from DoehleBread.wordpress.com

See you over there!

Friends in Town

I love it when friends visit New York. It's always fun to explore the city through a newbie's eyes, but given my current state of adventuredom, where I'm basically playing high-level tourist every day, it means I have at least one companion for what I normally do alone AND I get to share all my secret tidbits and hidden trails. Yes!

My friends Sean and Erin (pictured with me above) were in town from Indiana last week as part of an epic east coast roadtrip, and we lazed our way through Central Park, bought cookies, wandered the Met... It really was a perfect day.

Spring in New York

Upper West Side. The gentle rain is gone and soft beams of sunlight illuminate green leaves. Somewhere a woman is singing opera. She stops and starts, circling the same phrase to get it right. A bird calls. An air conditioner hums to life. The breeze smells like wet cement and freesia.

Jump(suit)

I bought a jumpsuit last week. I don't know what came over me, but I'm just letting it happen.

It's made of silky crepe, fits like a dream, and makes me feel like the type of person who hosts large, relaxed dinner parties at her sprawling Hamptons home. It also makes me feel like I'm wearing pajamas in public which is the only reason I wear anything, really. The only downside is its, uh, restroom functionality. (Pro-tip: Pee pre-jumpsuit. It's the only way.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some canapés to prepare!

The Peach

Swish, swish, swish, swish...

My blue checkered button-down was cinched at my waist, and I could feel the soft knit of my orange skirt brushing around my knees as I sauntered across Union Square in the fading, golden and glowy sun, searching for dinner. I tossed my hair, giving my neck a breezy reprieve from its tousled, wavy platinum blanket, feeling the balmy spring air whispering against my collar... and suddenly caught eyes with him.

He seemed about my age and was looking directly at me and smiling, pulling the earbuds out of his ears while coasting quickly through my field of vision. I was startled, but smiled back. And then he was gone. I hadn't broken my stride, but he had broken my concentration, so I fixed my gaze back on the long black shadow leading me across the square. Then I heard it. The whir of small rubber wheels against pavement, and a low voice from back right. He was beside me now. On a skateboard, which explained his previous sudden departure from view.

"Has anyone ever told you..."

Oh, here we go. Men in public like to compare me to famous women a lot. Marilyn? That one isn't so bad. Too easy, but not bad. Anna Nicole? I had been getting that one a lot lately. Bad. I braced myself for what this skater boy with inch-thick ear gauges would say to me.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a Georgia peach?"

A big, sweet, easy grin had spread itself across his face as he glided away from me, and I felt something like warm honey spill over my insides. A Georgia peach? No one had ever compared me to a Georgia peach. It felt soft, and sweet, and tender and romantic. Somehow exactly how I always wanted to be, but never realized. No one had ever compared me to a Georgia peach...

"You're the first!" I laughed, "But I'll take it!"

I was so pleased with myself for coming up with anything at all to say, let alone fairly coherent and witty, but now looking back I wish I had stopped in my place and dragged him down off his skateboard for a kiss on the cheek. Or invited him to dinner. Or done something more romantic than acting fairly glib about the whole thing.

Because I couldn't stop smiling for the next three blocks.

Mother's Day

Today I am thankful for my mom. She who taught me to be gracious and graceful under pressure, noble, think freely and for myself, and the importance and value of true wisdom. She remains the wisest, strongest, kindest woman I've ever known. Truly beautiful.

But today I am also thankful for the garden of mothers that have sprung up in her absence. I am thankful for them making a place for me at their table, for their soft hands and encouraging words and answering of "mommy questions". They have been the hands and feet of my mother's heart, and I would not be the woman I am today without them.

So today I honor my mom. I miss her and so badly wish she were here to cuddle and kiss. But I am also thankful for all that has grown in the void she left. I was blessed by her life, and have been blessed in her death. I love you, Momma.

Baseball

If I'm honest, I have never liked baseball. I grew up in a household obsessed with it: my brother could correctly identify every player on the A's according to jersey number by the time he was two, and my mom would listen to games on the radio in the car, out in the garden, in the kitchen (she purchased a special radio exactly for this purpose)... When we had cable, we watched games on TV.

My dad enjoyed it, I suppose, and certainly went along willingly with our imposed household A's fan-dom, but Mom was the ringleader, and my brother her protégé. Occasionally Mom would drag me along for a game and I'd be forced to sit in the hot California sun eating Baked Lays chips on the bleachers, bored out of my mind. I didn't get it. Didn't like it. And certainly wasn't going to let on that despite all my protestations I was starting to understand the rules, because I Still. Didn't. Care. Thankfully she caught on that bringing me along was a bad idea, so the live games petered out.

So you can understand what a total triumph of the human experience it is that I have not only gone to a total of THREE baseball games since living in New York, but I have gone WILLINGLY and OF MY OWN IMPETUS. Truly a testament to... I don't know, something. Tonight was one such triumph.

With spring in the air, I (now, if you somehow learn how to time travel and go back to tell pre-adolescent Jessica this, she will be just SHOCKED) have been itching to go to a Yankees game. While researching, I discovered that the A's were in town for a few days, so I knew it was fate. I found two willing accomplices and we trekked to the Bronx to watch the boys do their thing. Now, obviously by "watch" I mean talk, notice the A's hit a homerun on the opening pitch, talk, eat garlic fries, talk, dance, sing "God Bless America", talk... But I'm telling you: between the garlic fries and all this fun stuff, I think I could really get into baseball.

Oh, and the A's won! Somewhere, my mother is very, very happy about this.

The Cookie from Culture

“I look out the window and I see the lights and the skyline and the people on the street rushing around looking for action, love, and the world's greatest chocolate chip cookie, and my heart does a little dance.” (Nora Ephron)

My very first Levain cookie on my very first trip to New York.
June 2010

I'm passionate about good chocolate chip cookies. Thankfully I live in a city where all different kinds of people are trying all different ways to make the best, and I get to act as one-woman tasting committee. Levain was, is, and always will be my favorite cookie in New York, but I'm always looking for a handsome runner-up. Jacques Torres has held that spot for many months until a recent trip to midtown changed my mind...

May I introduce, the Culture Cookie. Packed with soft dark chocolate chips (no walnuts), this impressive confection is the closest counterpart to Levain I've come across. With a crisper, smoother exterior than Levain's, it's seemingly baked a few minutes longer, giving it a darker, more formidable outer shell, which, when broken, yields a tender, gently oozing core. The whole thing is just a little more "done".

Its size is similar to Levain's as well-- I'd wager roughly 3/4 the size and girth, which is appropriate considering its $3 price point (to Levain's $4). My favorite feature of this satisfying sweet, however, is also the most subtle. After taking your first bite and tasting the deep, buttery brown crust, the dark chocolate, and the sweet, tender interior, a barely perceptible salty high note grazes the center of your tongue, setting the whole thing to hum. All in all, a real treat.

Yesterday I snacked on one while sitting on a rocking chair in Bryant Park, and could not have imagined a more perfect companion. My favorite cookie south of 42nd St.

*The last three paragraphs of this blog were originally written for my dear friend Allison, who should definitely come visit again soon so we can eat cookies.

Spring in Central Park

It was a good weekend.

She

Rockaway Beach

Before Sandy, the boardwalk on the right was the boardwalk on the left. Now it lays at an angle, curving jagged and broken into its mate. This bench, the lone remaining structure in a demolished landscape, is bolted to the sun-bleached and ocean-worn wood. There is a blue tag affixed to its left shoulder, surely marking it for future removal, preservation and honor. "This bench survived Hurricane Sandy." But until then she sits at her post. 

Built for facing in, for holding tourists and toddlers with ice cream cones, now she faces out. Once average, now artifact, she sits looking into the currents that once consumed her, the ceaseless thunder of crashing waves filling the salty air. Tide ebbs in and out, light breaks and fades, and still she sits where she was built, gazing out into the wet gray blue.

Where I Sleep

Every few nights I sleep in a different bed.

Every few nights I fall asleep on new pillows. Every few nights I tuck a different blanket beneath my chin. Sofas, futons, air mattresses, loveseats, guest beds, kids' beds, rinse and repeat. Every few days I take my clear plastic toiletry bag, my five sweaters, my jeans, my three pairs of shoes, my curling iron, my clutch purse, my travel jewelry box, my underwear, and my cocktail dress (just in case), fold and wedge them into my rolling black suitcase to be hauled to my new sleeping location. Zip and roll.

I've stayed in Manhattan: East Village, Upper West Side, Upper East Side, Midtown, SoHo, Greenwich. I've stayed in Brooklyn: Williamsburg, Bushwick, Crown Heights, Bay Ridge, Prospect Heights. I've stayed in D.C. I've stayed with people I know. I've stayed with people I don't know. I've slept on loveseats that threw my back out. I've slept on memory foam mattresses that lulled me into 14 hours of slumber. I was downtown when the power went out for four days during Hurricane Sandy. I was at a friend's country home upstate when the power came back on.

Every few weeks I visit my storage unit on 11th Avenue. I take the elevator and walk to the very back and climb the ladder to open my white tin box of belongings, and switch out shoes, exchange coats, or drop off something I've discovered I don't need. Seven months so far. I've gone down a dress size.

I go to the park. I sit and listen to the redheaded piano player in Washington Square. I discover giant, magical swing sets in hidden mansions on the Upper East Side. I make friends with a carriage horse in Columbus Circle. I find a new favorite chocolate chip cookie. I see every movie nominated for an Oscar this year. I see plays. I go to the ballet. I visit the White House. Twice.

And every night I return to my suitcase. To my sofa/futon/air mattress/love seat/guest bed/kids' bed. I put my earrings in my jewelry box. I fold my sweater and put it in my suitcase. I wash my face and fall asleep on foreign pillows that have become my fleeting rest. And dream of cherry orchards in bloom.