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.

Breathe

...I had power over nothing. And that's when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow that I had to stay alive. Somehow, I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope, and all my logic said that I would never see this place again.

So that's what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day, my logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail. And now, here I am. I'm back in Memphis, talking to you. I have ice in my glass... And I've lost her all over again. I'm so sad that I don't have Kelly. But I'm so grateful that she was with me on that island.

And I know what I have to do now. I've got to keep breathing. Because tomorrow, the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?

-Cast Away (2000)

Six

I remember this time six years ago I went to bed oddly easily. Sometimes the stakes are so high all you feel is peace.

We had sat with Momma all day. She was wearing her new, pretty pajamas-- the ones she picked out right before she went into the hospital to help her feel better. That morning someone had-- after ushering us out of the room to remove all the things that had kept her alive for the last few months-- changed her into the powder blue set that would have perfectly offset her hair, had she still had any.

Her eyes were closed. She was slightly less swollen than she had been, and it was so nice to see her without the web of tubes and wires. She almost reminded me of the Momma I knew. Her picture-- the one from when she was happy and healthy and working at the Chamber of Commerce-- was above her bed, and all the nurses told me how much I looked like her. I loved that.

We sat with her, sang to her, held her hand, rubbed her leg-- each irregular beep on the monitor or jagged deep breath halting our own. She stayed alive all day. We went and got lunch, came back, still she lay, jagged breath proceeding un-aided from cracked, once-beautiful lips. Hope began to rise. "Come on, Momma! You can do it! PLEASE come back!" I hadn't heard her voice in months, but something in me, stronger than me, was willing her to open her eyes and come back to us. Rise from her bed. Make cinnamon rolls at Christmastime. Be on the sofa in the kitchen with her coffee in the morning. Tell me how much she loved me and laugh until her shoulders shook.

She stayed alive all day.

I went to bed that night unnervingly peaceful. Almost excited about the next day-- desperately hoping it would bring news that she had recovered, that her body had started to function on its own.

Tomorrow came. I should've been in LA driving to class on the first day of my senior year of college. Instead I awoke in my high school bedroom to silence. Hope glimmered. "If no one's woken me up, she's still alive!" I lay silently rejoicing, anxious and hopeful. Then I heard my dad's phone ring from his room down the hall. And I knew.

Sometimes the stakes are so high, all you feel is peace.

I miss you, Momma.
Girly Girl

Quiet

Yesterday I moved out of the apartment that has become my home in New York. It was harder than I imagined it would be. In the days leading up to the move I found myself getting sluggish and wandering aimlessly around my beloved neighborhood, grieving. I didn't want to go.

It wasn't even so much that I loved my apartment-- although I did-- it was that my apartment was the last living testament to any semblance of the life I had built in New York. I no longer had a job. I had scrapped the career path I was progressing down. Relationships had changed. Home had changed. The possibility, however small, of someday retreating to the west coast had faded behind the quiet thud of a shut door. My apartment was the one thing left. And I was leaving. To where I didn't know.

In the last few weeks I've likened my current experience to the scenes in action movies where actors are in a high-speed freeway chase when the camera pulls back and suddenly you see that a mile down the road the overpass is down for construction and the actors are hurtling toward nothingness. The car can't be stopped, the freeway can't be fixed. Void and plunge.

I've been hurtling toward this void for the last four weeks since I gave notice at my apartment. No clue of what's to come, no idea of where to live or how to do what I think I should do. Just incontrovertible passing of time thrusting me into the unknown.

And this is where it gets very quiet.

In the movie, this is the hushed, whistling moment that the car leaves the concrete and soars through the air in slow motion, tires spinning, time suspended. Quiet. No ground behind, no ground before, just a silent arc through the air as the audience holds their breath and waits...

I have two suitcases and a hope for what's ahead. Waiting to land.

Swim

I swam in the ocean yesterday. Paddled out beyond the crashing waves to the cool, salty, open blue, stretching my limbs and splashing. I laughed and twirled like a dolphin in the salty swirl, suddenly so excited to be in the water and feeling overwhelmingly free. As I spun, the land behind came into sight and I gasped and stopped.

Beyond the crystal blue I swam in, and the pale golden beach, lush green mountains embedded with tiny jewel-toned houses rose up and surrounded my view. They stunned me. Perfect emerald guardians, sitting regally overlooking the Pacific as I bobbed like a little blonde buoy. I felt so small, so protected, so overwhelmed by the beauty of floating in the ocean in the sun, with these lush jade peaks surrounding my perfect little Eden.

 “What is my life?” I murmured against the saltwater lapping against my chin. Smiling, I laid my head back into the blue, and let the steady undulations carry me back to land.

What a Difference a Week Makes

A week ago yesterday I had just been fired and was watching Duets in a friend's Brooklyn living room. Last night I watched Duets in a movie star's penthouse (with said movie star) overlooking Columbus Circle and Central Park.

Life is weird. And really great sometimes.

Two Blondes, One Blonde

I already miss my friend.

City Girl

New York

Moments trip gently along over here. Snow caps the bushes in unexpected ways, birds shoot and spin like balls of sound. My feet hum over the dry walks. A storm smoothes the sky, impounding the city lights, returning to us a dull yellow glow. I run every other day at the small indoor track which slants slightly upward like a plate; I stretch long and slow, twist and shake, the fatigue, the inertia finding home in different parts of the body. I check the time and growl—aargh!—and tumble onto the wheel. And bodies crowd and give off heat, some people are in front and you can hear the patter or plod of the steps behind. You look down to watch your feet, neat unified steps, and you throw back your arms and run after people, and run from them and with them, and sometimes someone will shadow your pace, step for step, and you can hear the person puffing, a different puff than yours, and on a good day they’ll come up alongside and thank you for a good run, for keeping a good pace, and you nod and keep going on your way, but you’re pretty pleased, and your stride gets lighter, the slumber slipping off behind you, into the wake of the past.

Barack Obama in a letter to his then-girlfriend, 1983

Missing

When I was little, Mom homeschooled my brother and I, and for several years into our early childhood we weren't allowed to go get breakfast or watch TV in the morning until we had cuddled with her first. Every morning we'd clatter into her bedroom and dangle our muffed-up heads over her face as we asked, "Mom, can I go get some cereal?" "Mom, can I get up now?" "Mom, I think Kitty needs me..." 

"Just one quick snuggle..." she would say. 

She'd pull us under the covers and bury her nose in our warm, fluffy hair as she sighed with contentment. There's no real activity to cuddling, just resting and loving, so we'd tuck ourselves in tightly next to her, each on our own side, and lay there and let her warmth wash over us. 

When I was five the local newspaper came to our house and interviewed me because I had written them a letter. I thought they should do less stories about violence and more about cuddling. Somehow it made the front page. 

One of the last times I saw my mom truly alive (before the coma and respirator), she was laying in her hospital bed as Dad and I sat and talked with her. I was tired and she could tell, so she pulled the covers down and invited me to come up and take a nap with her. There wasn't a moment's hesitation as I pushed the tubes and wires aside and crawled into her big, squeaky hospital bed. I laid myself down in the nook that had always been mine on those mornings at home so long ago, and tucked my now bigger head under her chin, resting my cheek against the soft skin on her chest. My legs dangled off the foot of the bed as she wrapped her arms around me and kissed my hair. We drifted off to sleep together that way, soft and warm and overgrown. 

 I don't think I'll ever stop missing that.