A puddle of Manhattan "nature":

When did a muffin become a cupcake sans icing?

In 6th grade home-ec, Mrs. Lenci taught us the strict rules

of muffin-mixing: use a fork (and only a fork)

and stir exactly 46 times. (Or was it 43?!)

OMG, I can't remember! Anyway, a muffin is considered

a quick bread, while a cupcake is to be taken

much more seriously. A cupcake is cake.

And a cake is a serious thing. For example, a cake

by nature contains at least twice as much butter and sugar

as a muffin. It's dessert. It comes after the meal,

after the muffin, if you will. A muffin is an accompaniment.

I mean, I'm all for eating cake at and with every meal, but

let's be sensible. Coffee shops and delis these days are virtually 

overflowing with both uniced cupcakes (muffins) and those

with a week's-load of fat calories heaped on top. Adding the

word "carrot" to the muffin name seemingly adds to its

health value. Come on! It's just carrot cake that someone

forgot to frost! I propose a return to the Mrs. Lenci-type-

43 (or is it 46?) stroke muffin. Less sugar,

less fat. And please, please, use a fork.

At last the rain subsided, and we were greeted

with sun and a fresh breeze today as we left the hotel

on our way to Central Park. Quickly, though, the cool breezes

heated up, and we found ourselves scurrying from one

shady path to another. We sat a bit at Strawberry Fields,

with a view of the The Dakota, site of the John Lennon

shooting. The circular mosaic, with a simple Imagine

at the center, was circumscribed with pink-edged yellow

rose petals. Despite a steady stream of visitors,  a reverent silence 

ruled the balmy Monday afternoon. All ages, many languages.

Music is a powerful unifying force.

In heavy rain we visited the World Trade Center site.

Despite all the tourists, it was stunningly quiet. Reminded

me of visiting Dachau when I was twenty.

Stumbled into a great shop called Evolution in Soho --

a single-aisle treasure trove of all things skeletal

and entomological. One of my favorite items was

a life-sized paper skeleton kit! The massive (moving van sized)

spiders set in resin made my entire body crawl....

P. bought me this stunning pendant:

It's a butterfly wing.

***

"In America, you can have a parrot

on a stick and get rich."

     --Lampkin Franklin, cabbie

After a respite stretched across our hotel room bed

(G-rated!) we cabbed down to Greenwich Village 

and walked and walked. Much more my scene than the 

Upper East Side, I must say! (Even if the one-bedroom

apartment sells for a cool million.) Families with strollers,

funky hippie chicks, denim & boots and caffeine.

We supped at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill -- nouveau Mexican.

Bustling, crowded, humid, with impeccable service

and equally impeccable cuisine. My chopped salad

contained kidney beans, garbanzos, tomatoes, kalamata

olives, generous chunks of Jack cheese and neat tiny squares

of multi-colored crispy tortillas. Traditional with a twist!

Very satisfying. As usual, my friendly husband chatted it up

with our fellow diners, and we met a delightful young couple

from Puerto Rico, as well as some locals. Other than the fact

that we were visibly elder in this crowd, dinner was fantastic.

(When did we become not twenty-something? Or at least

thirty-something? Okay. I'm going to stop right here.)

Jack the Dripper

We spent a crowded morning at MOMA, which seemed

to be everyone else's bright idea also on how to spend

a rainy Saturday morning. The highlight for me was

the Jackson Pollack gallery -- which completely surprised me.

I believe that Pollack is one of those artists whose work 

you have to see in person to completely take in. 

Once faced head-on with those massive canvases 

and the frenzy of colors and paint, I felt like I got him. 

And it was nearly heartbreaking -- an alcoholic, Pollack 

died in an alcohol-related crash in 1956 when he was merely 44. 

Eschewing traditional painting tools & techniques, 

he used house paint, hardened brushes, sticks, syringes, 

indeed he used his entire body to paint. I can only imagine

what he carried in his head day-in and day-out that would

compel him to such epic expression.

***

Last night we saw South Pacific at the Lincoln Center:

talk about wonderful! These were the songs that my sisters

and I sang and played on the piano throughout our childhood.

A fantastic production! (I'm sure you'll be hearing more about

this from Citizen K.)

Live, from New York it's.....

Premium T.! 

A tropical storm is washing over us, and it's warm,

so the city feels like a sauna. Seems that the current fad

among women of any age here is whimsical knee-high rubber

boots, and it looks like they've been itching for a good

downpour so they could pull on their cutesy rubbers

and traipse about the city. I like to think of them as saunas

for the feet. No thanks. Glad I finally outgrew those, at about

age nine, thank-you.

In other news, we stopped for lunch at a French bistro

on Madison Avenue ("La Goulue"), where we sat outside

(dry) under an awning. Town Cars kept pulling up 

depositing pinched & plucked & coifed & buffed

older women who, by the looks of them, still believed they

were, oh, maybe twenty-five. After a while a small film crew

went inside. (I was enjoying my Salade Nicoise, which, with

eight distinct flavors, I could come up with myriad umami 

taste combinations: 8x7x6x5x4x3x2x1 equals A Big Number.)

When I went in to use la toilette, I saw what all the

hubbub was about: there was Bridgette Bardot, rather a shadow

of her former glory, very blond (ya think it's real?!), basking 

in the camera's glow while tucking into a lovely repas Francais. 

Oh, and she wasn't sporting rubber boots.

This is one damn big thrumming honking city.

Laid-over for 5 hours at JFK where there is no AC

and the stench of vomit hovers. Free wif-fi, though.

Can't complaint about that. I'm sitting in the

International Food Hall which is aglow in neon

and overuse. We are all transients.

This airport could use a park. 

Some cool breezes.

A mountain or two. 

And an ocean.

Next time I pass through here I'm going to bring

my own sod and a bench and trees. And a breeze.

Can't forget the breeze. 

I will possibly be off the grid for a few days
as we retreat to Friendship, Maine, to spend a few
days with P.'s dad. A quiet fishing village, slow-paced:
photo-ops! Then it's on to NYC for five frantically-packed
days: food, museums, shopping, food, food, food.

(I LOVE peeling hard boiled eggs.)

Au Revoir

Be sure to check out the baby stilettos on Peter's blog!

Two are better than one.

Any minute now this could end.
Yesterday there was a single breath of coolness
to the air, and then a slight breeze, after days and days
of stillness. These last moments of summer
are hoarded gold, slipping from my fingers --

Dwindling Summer

On the driveway this morning
as I went out to get the paper --

Here's something yummy to make while fresh peaches

are still in the markets:

Put one very large fresh peach in the blender.

(Of course, peel and slice it.)

Add some milk -- about a cup. Add some brown sugar

and a swoop of vanilla. Some ice cubes. Blend.

OH. SO. GOOD.

Feral

Last night at dusk I heard eagles, obscured
in the cedars above me, their keening
less than grand, almost gentle, unexpected
from a bird so exalted, so predatory.

And again this morning from my bed,
the windows flung open, the air a cool nectar.

Scary

One tart. 

Apple tart.

Two apples, 

not Two Tartes.

(And not too tart.)

***

Used my new 6" tart pan.

Flour, butter, sugar, an egg yolk,

apples (two), cinnamon, walnuts.

A side of Greek yogurt sweetened with

brown sugar and a dash of vanilla.

Can you say "perfection?"

The Price of Fun

Fuzzy-headed all day yesterday, after that glorious evening

at The Corson Building. Worth every cent.

The single morning glory plant I have growing

continues to send forth bloom after bloom.

The leaves seem to be fading as more and more

buds unfurl, trumpeting what, lingering summer?

The Corson Building

Ahhh.....we had dinner last night in Paradise.

Er, well, in Georgetown. With planes roaring overhead,

nestled between two sets of railroad tracks, a view of a

soccer field out the kitchen windows and within spitting

distance of the ever-gritty Airport Way:

at The Corson Building, an offbeat, two-story

tile-roofed "house" built by an Italian stonemason

in 1906, which now houses Seattle's newest haven

for foodies. (It sits nearly under the Michigan Street

offramp, also.)

When I heard, almost a year ago, that Matt Dillon,

of Sitka & Spruce, and partner Wylie Bush were launching

this endeavor less than a block away from the former

love-of-my-life, Two Tartes (I mean, non-human love....),

I was skeptical. Especially when it would mean gutting the

existing structure and pushing out the back for a new kitchen.

(And I think this is a leased property, but I'm not sure.)

Would people shed dusty jeans and Carhartt jackets

for an evening of $ prix fixe dining? In Georgetown?!!

Well, the answer I got last night was a resounding Yes! --as we

sat down with 3o-or-so other guests at three large communal

tables. We had already enjoyed white wine/huckleberry-

infused aperitif and a watermelon & tuna amuse bouche

in the oasis-like garden, where caged doves and chickens

cooed and pecked beneath a laden Italian prune tree.

Inside, Paul and I scooted down a lengthy bench elbow-to-elbow

as dishes of pickled, spiced cherries and currants were passed.

Too tart! --but strikingly beautiful, they certainly woke up our palates.

What followed were seven additional courses served family style,
save for two plated entrees:

--tahini flatbread with yogurt

--roasted eggplant, peppers and onions with Interlaken-grape raisins

--two salads: dilled green beans & diced beets with crispy fried garbanzos

tossed with an assortment of nuts and seeds and coriander

--breaded squid and artichoke hearts (YUM!!)

--mackerel and heirloom tomatoes on sauteed raddichio

(I refuse to say "on a bed of....")

--black cod sauteed with chanterelles and fresh corn

--whole, butter-infused roasted chicken and quartered plums

--herbed toasts and flageolets

--honey-roasted nectarine slices with crisp pastry squares

and creme Anglaise.....

PLUS wine pairings. Are you full yet?

The wine (that I'm able to remember):

Pinot Blanc

Pinot Noir

Meursault

Muscat

Oh my.

I kept asking myself Where am I?

The only drawback is the din. It's a cavernous space

with lots of brick and concrete, and although Matt Dillon

apologized at the beginning of the meal for their unfortunate

ability to find suitably-aesthetic sound-absorption, I observed

a lot of blank wall-space clamoring (literally) for tapestries.

For the price one pays for dinner here, one should be able
to carry on a conversation comfortably.

And The Corson Building is not for the timid:
there is no menu.
You sit.
You eat.
You are happy.
Trust me.

Again

I want to live in this blue, this Heavenly Blue.
To exist inside its other light: not golden,
not bathed in holy rays. An hour or so
before dawn, perhaps, still in the tumble of a dream.

****

I thought the headline said:

"Man found not guilty in massacre of 80 poets"

when it really said:

"Man found not guilty in massacre of 80 pets."

In any case, poets: watch out.