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Rome again, humble this time
Here’s a funny old picture of us in Italy. We had just started dating, and I was there for the summer intensively studying Italian so I could get all my language credits in and graduate on time. Joe wanted to come visit but I was sort of like “I’m doing my own thing over here.” And then, when I had one month left I was like, “Hey come visit! please come please come” So he dropped everything and splurged on a ticket and showed up (I’m not sure I would have been so gracious, in his place).I took him on bus rides to my favorite hill towns, checked him into his hotel because no one there spoke English, brought him to the best gelato shops, and showed him the fine art of an afternoon apertif in the sun. We took long walks during the typical evening passeggiata and drank too many espressos.
Then we went to Rome for a few days, where I am always out of my element. I get flustered when Italians insist on speaking English, when things feel crowded and commercial, and the streets are filled with crummy tourist things for sale. But he, an architecture student, was over the moon about every nook and cranny of the city. Oh, the perfect cafe is closed, I would complain. Oh, but look at that wall, he would say. This pizza is overpriced, I would sigh. I think this was done by Bernini, he would exclaim. I wanted to have leisurely breakfasts under porticos, he wanted to actually see every last old stone (as I fondly referred to them).
And surprise surprise, two summers later, he went on a drawing trip with his architecture class. They stayed in the city and walked every street of Rome, setting up on street corners, spending the entire day drawing. His initial crush on the city turned into headlong infatuation (two of our four living rooms walls are covered in Rome maps).
I think every couple has those leitmotifs in their relationship, things they reference constantly that form a strong part of their history together. When we realized we really wanted to get one more trip in before Lux turned two (the mental doomsday on parents’ calendars when children need a full priced air ticket) Rome was first on our minds. Of course I’ll be going for the salami shops, the cappuccini, the food, the markets. Joe will be going to draw.
Honestly if you put a photo of the Pantheon in front of me, I would probably barely be able to identify it. And if you dropped Joe into a new city and asked him to find a delicious affordable dinner at a tiny spot critics recommend, he wouldn’t have a clue. I didn’t get this when we over there before, so young and so new together, but we can graciously divide our skills and share our knowledge. This time, I’m looking forward to saying to Joe, “what is this place again?” over and over.
And since psychologists have verified that the best part of vacation is the anticipation, I’ve got my planning-anticipating fired up. Finding language memorization apps, following new blogs written by Roman foodies, examining airbnb rentals, attempting to at least faintly learn some of the history, checking out old travel issues from the library. If you’re a travel junkie and have some favorite blogs, apps, websites, tell me about them please. I’ve got till April to learn every last thing.
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Social Clubs of Boston
I’ve been reading this
nerdy(trendwatchers wiser than I say that you can’t call things nerdy anymore when you secretly believe they are awesome. Hipster trends have cancelled out self-deprecating comments like that. For the best, I suppose.) fascinating book I picked up at Brattle Book Shop. Most Boston clubs began because there weren’t good dining options at the time. And most of them were men only. Many of them still exist (like the Club of Odd Volumes in Beacon Hill, or the Union Club on Park Street). But you probably wouldn’t notice their clubhouse if you walked past it, or know that it might have been purchased by club members more than a century before.
You can probably see straight through me: I want a social club of my own. Primarily there would be velvet armchairs, fresh scones, and a big fireplace. We might have charge dues but you also might get to nap like a cat on the rug in the sunshine. You would know you could bring your friends for drinks when they came to town, there would be seats for everyone, and you wouldn’t have to shout over the music or feel guilty if you didn’t order lots of cocktails. In fact there would be a very grand dark wood bar, but members would take turns being the bartender. There would be a letter writers meeting, and many many book groups. Maybe there would be a little terrace to share iced tea. We would have a playwright among our members, and we would perform her plays annually (this is stolen from the Tavern Club, they still do this!). And we would have a very nice emblem monogrammed on all our towels. There would be a knitting meeting where everyone got very drunk. And movie showings, with a full candy bar. Yes, I do think we’d have to charge dues.
Speaking of classy traditions…I finally learned how to play chess! Maybe an old fox can learn new tricks…maybe I will learn stick-shift one of these days!
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The Seeking Heart
I read Franny and Zooey, the book J.D. Salinger wrote after Catcher in the Rye and Nine Stories, every couple years to keep up with the dramatic little-sister-existential-crisis part of me. I remember first reading it in Italy and our residential program director handed me another book, saying, “Do you know what book she is reading obsessively in that? Here it is.” And it was the strangest collection of Desert Father writings I’d ever seen, and I hated it and read about ten pages (though I left it on my nightstand for weeks to prove my interest).
But lately, like Franny I’ve been reading curled up on the couch, in the bathtub, and just before bed, reading something that feels like her ascetic text, but actually it’s a French theologian who was a sophisticated advisor to King Louis XIV. My dishelved copy of his three hundred year old writings is one of the books my mom sent me when I had Lux, with a simple annotation, “These helped me when I was at home with all of you kids.” My mom was home with seven kids and there are several books.
Fenelon says things like “let your anxieties flow away like a stream” and “do not listen to the voice that suggests you live for yourself” and “the pain you feel at your own imperfections is worse than the faults themselves.” He writes very simply and his words ping like drops of hard alcohol into my subconscious muddy puddle.
Becoming a mother has not come easily always. I’m not stir crazy. I’m not bored. Mostly I’m delighted. But at times I miss the narrative of the self propelled life. I’ve never been more aware of my urge to live for myself, aware of what Fenelon would call my self-love.
I heard a quote about motherhood in the most unexpected place the other day. Joe and I were watching a documentary about the bizarre performance artist Marina Abramovic (“The Artist is Present”). I wasn’t really listening, and then I perked up at the first sentence, and then I thought this! is! it! Because people ask what being a mom is like, and how it’s going, and I have trouble explaining it.
The hardest thing is to do something that is close to nothing. It’s demanding all of you because there is no story anymore to tell. There’s no objects to hide behind. You have to rely on your own pure energy and nothing else.”
Of course there is an object, you might say—a tiny human. But in the day to day there isn’t a narrative. The work is slow and breathtakingly repetitive. There are rarely moments of great completion. The demands feel illogical and relentless.
And yet I do feel as if this child might have chance of helping me get rid of my blossoming trifecta of impatience, arrogance, and antagonism toward sympathy. Like Marina says, I realize that the wave of selfishness that crashes when I wanted her naps to fall in line perfectly with my plans, that wave that frustrates me so, does come from the lack of anything to hide behind. Here I am, I’m selfish, and I want to do want I want. At the heart, it is not Lux that frustrates me, it is my own frustration that infuriates me.
Fenelon would say this happens to all of us, from a variety of sources. Mine happens to be Lux, yours might be a family member, an illness, a job, a quiet call that persists. I guess the turn I’ve taken lately, for the better, is to hear what else he says, this:
Learn to see yourself as you are, and accept your weakness until it pleases God to heal you. Your goal is to be as patient with yourself as you are with your neighbor. If you die a little bit every day of your life, you won’t have too much to worry about on your final day.
Does any of this ring true to you these days? Thanks for returning and reading, despite the intermission. : )
Photos of watching the rain, something we’ve been doing again lately, from this summer.
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Almond Cake for the Needy
I make this almond cake for women who’ve just had babies. The food you eat after you’ve had a baby tastes like food after you’ve been sick for a long time and eaten dry toast with nubs of butter for a week. I remember being in the hospital with Lux and they would bring me these rather sad McMuffin-style egg sandwiches and I thought they were amazing. After we came home someone brought me marinated steak, arugula salad, and orzo salad with sun dried tomatoes and I almost wept with happiness.
But even though a new mom might have low standards for what you bring her I think if you bring her the good stuff, it will really count. For life. I’ll probably be calling in favors, five years from now, and say, “remember when I brought you that almond cake? Ok, now will you please come pick me up on the side of a highway?”
I know I’m not grandly delusional too, because then I get the Thank You Notes that exclusively gush about the almond cake (“no need for a thank you note!” I proclaim. New moms don’t listen to nobody.).
But of course, you can bring this to anyone who needs a little extra affection, a paper-wrapped golden reminder on their kitchen counter that the world hearts them. It ages really nicely (I think the one photographed here was a week old), but it probably won’t age because it doesn’t take people long to figure out that it tastes good with eggs for breakfast, salad for lunch, or just after dinner. It also ships nicely. I once packed up a box for my brother in Florida and it arrived perfectly intact, only to be devoured within the day.
But perhaps my favorite thing about it is how humble it appears. The center invariably falls in and at first sight it looks like a FAIL cake. It doesn’t have frosting, and the color is rather simple. It could be anything, from the outside. I think of it like a little time bomb. I say bye!, and leave them with this innocuous package, maybe they ignore it for a day, and try it later. AND THEN THEY REALIZE. On the inside it’s deeply deeply almondly and with “good crumb” as the bakers say. And so hefty that all slices come out as wedges which is really how one eats cake when in need.
I originally tried it because my Aunt Anne told me about it. The recipe is from The New York Times cookbook edited by Amanda Hesser and it was contributed by Amanda Hesser. She’s the best. And that cookbook is amazing. It’s a culinary history class with a sexy cover. The best thing to do is think of making it a few hours before and pull the butter, eggs and cup of sour cream from the fridge. The batter is mixed in the food processor (a normal mixer would also work). The most tedious part is pulling apart the tube of Almond Paste, but that really only takes 3 minutes. As far as going to the store just for the almond paste, don’t bother. Just make it a habit to always have a tube at the ready in your cupboard. Most groceries stock the Odense brand in the baking aisle, by the spices.
Ok, here it is. Make it yours.
2 sticks butter, more for buttering pan
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour (measured after sifting)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
7-ounce tube almond paste
4 egg yolks, room temperature
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon baking soda
Powdered sugar, for sifting over cake
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Butter sides and bottoms of one 8-inch springform pan; line sides and bottom with parchment paper. Butter paper.
2.Sift flour and salt into a small bowl. Set aside. In a food processor, beat butter and granulated sugar at high speed until fluffy, about 5 minutes. Add almond paste, a little at a time at medium speed, and beat 8 minutes. Beat in egg yolks, one at a time, and almond extract. Mix sour cream and baking soda and add to butter mixture. Reduce mixer speed to low and gradually add flour mixture, just until blended.
3. Pour batter into prepared pan and spread evenly. Bake about 1 1/4 hours, until top is golden and springs back when lightly pressed and the cake shrinks from sides of the pan. Cool in pan on wire rack. Remove sides of pan and remove paper. Store in a covered tin in or out of the fridge. It improves with age and can be made 1 to 2 weeks ahead. When ready to serve, sift powdered sugar on top and slice like pie.
you can read the original at the New York Times, or buy the book!
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Tiny Bottle of Perfume
First of all, you should know that Joe loves nice smells. Whenever we have a chance to sit down together with a new fashion magazine, we flip to all the perfume ads and smell them. Then we make judgy comments about the scents, the advertising, the color. OR we make gushing comments. “oh yes. orange liquor and cobblestones in Rome.” This type of nonsense.
Sooooo when my aunt Anne sent me a perfume sampler from OLO I think for sure it was the most fun $24 gift I’ve ever received. You get four 1ml samples, tiny little things labeled with names like Dafne or Violet/Leather.
We carefully opened each one and hmm and ooo over them. Our absolute favorite was one labelled Cedar & Rose. I went to her blog to read about it, I was so allured. It’s interesting story: she (Heather, the owner) made a hair tonic (with argan oil, the stuff that makes that blue-labelled Moroccan Oil famous) and scented it with cedar and rose. Her customers loved the smell so much, they begged for a perfume of the exact scent. You can read about the development of it on her blog, here.
I said they were tiny (see middle photo for size) but actually 1ml is enough for about 12 uses. So now I feel like Cleopatra with a full collection in my kingdom (queendome. pyramidom.). But as soon as they run out, I’ll be ordering a nice bottle for keeps.
Do you have a signature scent yet, my friends?
Photos from OLO and the bottom one from Reading My Tea Leaves.
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Googling your Tea Friends
This week the New York Times had an article subtitled “In a perfect world, we’d all google our friends.” I thought of it when I had tea with blogging friends Anna and Natalie. One’s instincts always seem to say that meeting up with internet friends will be weird. I mean, do you really know them? And sitting down with them over tea for almost three hours? Possibly even more awkward (though alleviated by the presence of scones) right?
But as the article suggested, a little background knowledge on friends, even old friends, is really nice. I knew Natalie had a new job, and that Anna loved hers. I got to ask Natalie about her childhood and Anna about her boyfriend’s habit of diving for lobsters. I knew they both loved New England and could talk at length about their favorite things.
There was a sense that we were going to be there for hours, so there was no hurrying to fill each other in, and no rushing to tell your story.
I challenge you to suggest a place where you can lounge and dine for three hours, unaccosted. Can you think of one? Not my living room, I assure you. Tea at the Taj Hotel is $40 for a lot of tiny food. But somehow totally filling by the end? I’m not sure what the secret is but I wouldn’t mind a meal like it every weekend. First came the savory tea sandwiches. Then after we’d sat around nibbling those for an hour, the three-tiered trays returned, loaded with sweets, devonshire cream (my favooorite part of tea), lemon curd, scones, and on and on. I brought a small box of leftovers home, there was that much.
Anyway, the Globe recently wrote an article reminding everyone where else you can have tea in Boston (including the Public Library, my next chosen venue!). It will cost more than a cup of coffee, but if it’s a friend you’ve really been hoping to catch up with, it’s totally worth the extra.
Did you ever go to tea at a young age? Is there a place in your town that does it well?
Photos stolen from Anna’s wonderful skills.
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Favorite Mugs
Do you have a favorite mug? DesignMom asked this question the other day and one immediately popped into my mind. It was in the cupboards of a cottage we stayed at in Michigan. I loved how lightweight the enamel was, and the kooky cheerful characters all the way around. I also liked the size–just right for how much coffee I drink.
I very much wanted to steal it, but figured that the owners probably liked it as much as I did. Good thing I decided that too, after a google search once home, I learned that these Finel mugs made by Arabia (for children) often sell for more than $80 each! Sheesh. Keep your eyes open at garage sales…
Poketo has some fun faux tin mugs, and here is a great size enamel mug for children. I think I’d like a couple of those for Lux. Real cups are much easier for toddlers to drink from than sippys. And you could pretend you were camping every morning!
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Warmth and cold
We’re learning how to put on clothes for cold weather here. Feeling confident that Lux is warm when we’re outside makes an enormous difference in how I relax and enjoy the time. After an hour or two at the playground on an afternoon that was much colder than I realized, Lux was bone chilled and crying as a result. Clearly my internal temperature was no metric of hers. I wanted to rush back home and declare, we’re never going outside again!
But of course we went out again, only a few hours later. Long underwear, cotton t-shirt, sweater, jacket.
Hat, thrown to the ground. Plopped back on. Cheerfully tossed. Just as cheerfully tied, though not a strangle knot, let’s hope. Tugged, tugged, off again. “What’s the secret to the hats?” I ask my mentor-friend who runs our waldorf playgroup. “Repetition repetition repetition,” she replies. Ah.
When Lux was a newborn I found myself experiencing cloth on a new level of delight—this one is so soft, this one is so cozy, this one is so carefully stitched. Now again this happens to my senses, but this time I notice only: warm? Oh, is this one lined on the inside? Thick corduroy on one side, soft flannel on the other? I’m at consignment shops across the city spinning through the racks, digging into the bins, grabbing bits of sleeves between my fingers asking only: wool? But it’s thin thin cotton, 100 renditions of the same.
Do you know which items stand out on these hunts? The funny rumpled homemade sweaters, the ones with goofy rainbow yarn and crooked buttons. Those beam the promise of warmth as if each haphazard row captures a little more heat, kept close by your side.
Did you know they make smartwool socks for toddlers?
And the hunt does make you treasure what you’ve got. Shoes from a cousin that finally fit. Thin, yet soft sweaters, and why not just top it with another one? A red wool hat I picked up at a consignment sale. In a chance of 1/20 ,the register I ended up at was run by the woman who had brought the hat. “I’m so happy to see you take that,” she said “both of my children wore it for years.” A good one.
Do you have a few warm things you’re tugging out from under the bed, glad to see again?
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gcal valentive
Can you spot my surprise note from Joe? Nothing happens around here unless I put it on this thing, I am addicted! Might as well post here instead of the fridge…
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One affogato
I love these affogato photos by Josephine Rozman. Affogato is the greatest overlooked desert. Every cafe should have them on the menu, but few do. Right now we have apple crumble ice cream in our freezer….imagine that with espresso!
More photos at Eat Boutique
