May is my challenging month. Marked by beautiful celebrations and life-changing events, it’s a big one.
This year, our daughter turned 21 in May. We celebrated 25 years of marriage, and there’s always Mother’s Day.
It’s also the month we laid my father to rest and there were other, unexpected anniversaries that required a sharp pivot and made me question my belief in people.
So, with all that and the daily news barking global death and destruction and mad men doing bad things, I look for quiet in May.
This leads me to some recommendations.
The first, pleasantly unexpected, came in the form of an octopus named Marcellus. Watch Remarkably Bright Creatures if you can – it’s calm and beautiful, complex but uncomplicated.
Typically a fan of psycho thrillers and action, I was in no frame for holding my breath and upping the heart palpitations this month, so actress Sally Field and Marcellus the octopus struck the perfect pace.
The second wonder was finishing a book I began reading more than a year ago. While beautifully written, the grit and sadness of Trent Dalton’s of Lola in the Mirror prevented me reading more than a few chapters at a time.
Finally, and fittingly on Mothers’ Day (IYKYK), I made it to the end. If you’ve read Boy Swallows Universe, you may be mentally prepared for the urban angst but clearly I needed more time to clear some of the emotional hurdles.
Sometimes, in hard or complicated seasons, we don’t need more intensity. We need softness and room to breathe.
Bad water, bad fish. Good water, happy healthy fish. It’s a simple concept shared with me by a friend, a retired HR consultant.
The idea being that taking a fish out of bad water – a disagreeable work environment, for example – and putting the fish into good water, results in a healthier, happier fish.
This photo was taken the day I became a fish out of (bad) water.
Moments after the final step in a professional breakup, a ‘conscious uncoupling’ to quote GOOP founder Gwyneth Paltrow, I look haggard from the stress of it all. But mostly I see relief, joy (and clearly hunger).
A weight was lifted, and I was celebrating the opportunity to do more, differently. I realised that day that everything was possible
At 50+, a mother, wife, mortgagee, menopausal and absolutely part of the sandwich generation – the toxic waters had me thinking I was done, at the end of a career, confidence dented.
But the inevitable parting changed everything. Not to absolve the perpetrators of bad behaviour but I thank them for making is easy for me to choose happiness. I wouldn’t swim murky waters anymore – I wanted a free-range future.
My darling father use to say, ‘as one door closes, others open’. All I could see was the prospect of opening doors and good waters ahead.
Of all the photos taken since late May – including dozens of holiday snaps at exotic locations around Italy – this is my favourite. It marks the moment when I crossed from blah to optimism.
I was out of the bad water, breathing freely, thinking clearly and ready for fresh, clear waters.
Not sure if I’m delusional or if it’s just too simple, but after a lot of tossing and turning, a few mighty unpleasantries and bouts of navel gazing, self-flagellation and dangerous introversion – I’ve decided to be happy.
Sounds simple enough.
Frankly, I had no idea at this wise age that it was as simple as choosing happiness. Happiness, I thought, was an outcome; something that you were bequeathed based on events outside of your control.
Broody, creative types thrive on an eternal state of irrationality and unhappiness. It’s the fuel for their makings. Who ever met a happy, untortured writer or artist?
Turns out I may be wrong. Happiness can be as simple as a choice.
Happiness researcher Shawn Achor, a proponent of positive psychology and author of books including The Happiness Advantage, says: ”What I want people to realise is happiness can be a choice, and it’s something you can practice.”
“Happiness, like any other discipline, requires focus and effort. Without deliberate focus happiness can be elusive,” he said in an interview at a World Happiness Summit (there really is such a thing) in Miami and later widely published.
Achor added that being unhappy isn’t a failure. “It’s just a temporary state that can be remedied. Part of the remedy is making the choice to continue movement towards your potential.”
I’ve decided it’s bloody exhausting to think too much. It’s tiring to care what others think. I’ve long been a fan of a quote attributed to Oscar Wilde: what people say about me is none of my business.
This choosing happiness thing is new to me – I must remind myself daily and honestly, I’ll be faking it til I make it.
And before anyone expects some perky, bouncy reimagining of me – the happiness is for me – a coping mechanism, perhaps.. It’s about an inner calm with a side of I don’t care. I choose not to care.
As it happens, there’s research out there to support that people who accept things at face value and don’t critically analyse and search for truth (the instincts of a good journalist, by the way) are happier.
Not only that, but I’ve read that happiness is the single greatest competitive advantage in the modern economy. About 25% of job success based on intelligence and technical skills, while 75% of long-term job success is based on your ability to be jolly and optimistic.
Happiness pusher Achor says apathy, standing still and letting the world break you – that’s what must be avoided. Maintain the momentum towards your potential. One could add the importance of knowing your purpose – but that’s an exploration for another day.
I’m not sure I’m ready to be a poster child for happiness: I haven’t drunk all the Kool-Aid yet. But happiness sure does beat the alternative.
Sometimes wild thoughts take hold based purely on instinct. It’s your gut telling you something (unpleasant) is looming.
What do you do when your gut is screaming beware?
I listen.
And so begins an interminable internal monologue that deprives sleep and threatens sanity, until I grab the unpleasant question mark by the tail and either rule it out, or deal with the consequences.
The gut is like an internal alarm system. When it goes off it’s trying to tell you something. It has long been my faithful personal radar, picking up on vibes and warning me of potential dangers.
When I was younger, it was devastatingly handy at outing rogue boyfriends and mean girls.
These days, it works for complex family ties and the career, in cahoots with the wisdom and ‘I’ve seen it all before’ nonchalance (or is it disappointment?) that comes with age.
Regardless, our instincts are a primal, intuitive sixth sense that has been honed over millennia of human evolution. According to research done in 2022, the quality of someone’s gut instincts may depend on their overall emotional intelligence (EI). And by learning to increase our EI, we may therefore strengthen our intuitive decision-making.
Gut feelings can manifest in different forms: a sense of unease, a persistent thought that something is amiss, or even physical symptoms like a tightening or drop in the stomach. This happens when I sense something really dire is afoot.
While body and mind are interconnected, and your gut feelings are often a reflection of this deep connection, it’s important to balance gut feelings with rational thought. This bit, I’m not so great at!
You need logical analysis and research to confirm your feelings.
And if that fails, suck it up and confront someone with what your gut is telling you, and see if you’re right!
Is it only me or do others write constantly?In their heads, about whatever is going on at the time.
My brain is like a typewriter that I constantly dictate copy to.
The internal, very literate dialogue is constant.
If I’ve had a bad day or experience, I write about it. Sometimes physically and always in my head.
I think of it as a type of cognitive processing function.
Once it’s on paper or written mentally, it’s done, and I can move on.
If I could drain all those words tapping away in my head onto paper, I’d have countless manuscripts and probably have spilled a lot of ‘tea’.
It’s not only my experiences. Everything is a story. I watch people and conjure stories about them. Not fiction. Never creative writing.
Always an opinion piece or a news story. Always with an angle.
It can be exhausting.
Is this a common behaviour? Is it a writer thing?
Does anyone else relate to sitting in meetings, or social gatherings, possibly looking disengaged but actually observing everything in minute detail and writing about it in their head?
Staring at the water as I do most weekend mornings, enjoying the peace and coffee, I’m contemplating the simple satisfaction of cleaning a swimming pool.
It can be frustrating too sometimes but mostly I feel satisfied doing the work. The basics are always the same; scoop the leaves, empty filters, rescue sodden bees and gekkos. Then then there are the water tests, chemical balancing, and regular troubleshooting.
When it’s done and everything is working, we can all enjoy it.
Then you do it all over again – especially with towering trees, the rogue bees and other nature messing with perfection.
It’s not an easy job. I’m sure the lads at my local pool shop rue the 40-degree days when they’re lugging chemicals and equipment to clean someone else’s pool. But after long days in an office, sitting for hours in meetings or banging out copy at a desk, it’s a tonic.
So, what is it that makes cleaning the pool so satisfying and how can that translate to the office (or can it)?
Firstly, and most obviously, it’s active and outdoors.
Not sure that translates to corporate life but squeezing in outdoor time, a walk or using the stand- up desk could conquer the interminable sitting.
Every action is for a reason, everything you put into the water is designed to have an impact.
Minimise the meetings and emails that get nothing done. Ring people when you need an answer or walk up to their desk – it’s harder to dodge a question in person.
I’m in control (most of the time) with pool management. It’s up to me to decide what to do and how to do it. The pool is my domain.
Ensure your team has super clear roles and responsibilities, Reduce the layers of approvals and oversights to wade through.
Pool cleaning is a ‘just do it’ job – you get results. There can be complexity of course; the science of water management is a challenge I’m oddly enthralled by. The pH tests make me feel like a mad scientist.
Take on new challenges. Say yes to doing the things that scare you. The bigger the challenge, the greater the reward. Being the right kind of scared occasionally is healthy.
There are tangible, usually fast results with the pool. You can see success right there in front of you. No waiting or wondering.
Find something daily you can cross off the list – find a sense of achievement even if there are 50 other things hanging in limbo with multiple stakeholders and opinions at play.
There’s value in a clean pool that family and friends can swim in safely and comfortably.
Build a team that revels in success with you. Sharing the wins and lifting each other up is so much sweeter.
If you don’t get results, you have carte blanche to change tact and try something else. If you still can make it work, you have support. The local pool shop gets a call when there’s a pool emergency.
Don’t point fingers or shirk accountability. Create a network that has your back and will help solve the problem with you.
You either do a great job and get results – a pool you can swim in. Or you don’t.
Focus on solutions, not problems. Minimise the debriefs and pointless rear-view of what could’ve- should’ve happened. Move on and park your judgement and unconscious biases.
Like mowing lawns or growing a garden, pool work isn’t easy. But nothing worth doing is.
Alone in beautiful, tropical Queensland with only a book and a busy brain for company. Overthinking all the things, worrying and hurdling what ifs?
Is this what it will feel like if our daughter moves away to work and build her own identity and life?
Is this how my mother felt when I did the same a million lifetimes ago when I was bolder and braver and never stopped to think I couldn’t handle everything.
I’m so proud of our daughter for being brave and strong and taking risks but I’m sad that I’ll lose her company. I didn’t realise how much a part of my day-to-day our often tiny interactions mean.
They fill a space in my pretty solitary life in a way that other relationships don’t. Spouse is different, son different again and work, a whole other ball of wax.
A taste of my girl moving – growing her independence and hopefully happiness, is as much an adjustment for me. People keep asking how I’ll feel if she gets a job interstate, and I’ve acknowledged I’d miss her but am proud she’s making the most of opportunities.
Now, being alone on vacation while she interviews and attends events with the goal of impressing potential employers in the tourism industry, I realise how redundant I am.
I’ve done my part – with my husband, raising a beautiful, kind, smart, brave young woman and now she belongs to the world. It’s hers to make the life she wants.
This is what happy sadness feels like.
PostScript: We were home from vacation for two days before the phone call came. On Monday 28 October a job offer came through. It was the one she wanted, so she’s about to fly the coop!
Bracing myself …
November 19: She’s gone – for an initial six months of island life in Queensland. She is very happy – I’m adjusting.
People vote with their hip pockets. As an Australian American living back in Australia these days, I watched the US election results unfold with disbelief but also with clarity on a few things. The economy trumps (sorry) everything.
If you don’t have a job and can’t buy groceries; if your cost of living is rising while your wage is stagnant; or if you think foreigners are succeeding while you’re struggling, apparently you vote for a trust fund billionaire with The Apprentice credits over a pro-choice woman of colour without an economic solution you can relate to.
The prospect of a better economic future than Americans feel they have now was enough to get people to the polls, and for them to overlook Trump’s dirty track record.
Remember, he’s the guy who incited insurrection at the US Capitol in 2021; lied; bullied; politicised the Justice Department and the FBI; abused the pardon power; obstructed investigations; fired whistleblowers and truth tellers; profited from his presidency by refusing to divest from his international business empire; cosied up to dictators; and has worn countless accusations of sexual impropriety, among other cons.
But here we are. It’s the economy. stupid, a phrase coined by Jim Carville, a strategist in Bill Clinton’s successful 1992 US presidential election.
With all the commentary on the latest election, it became apparent that no-one in Washington is fired for spending too much (moreso for spending too little) and no one votes for a Scrooge. Notably, the word ‘spending’ came up only three times in the Trump/Harris debate, and even then it was only associated with Ukraine.
It’s always easy to see things in retrospect: the economy was always going to hold the key.
A week in the tropics. Alone with my thoughts and contemplation. A chance to navel gaze and wrangle with the ‘why’ and ‘what next’ of mid life. It’s kismet that the opportunity for a week away in balmy North Queensland coincides with navigating some life questions. Let’s see if sunshine and snorkelling, reading and afternoon swims foster clarity. We’re fresh off the plane but so far everything has gone right. This is a good sign.
Public relations. Digital marketer. Social media. Graphic designer. SEO. Proofreader. Web developer. Content creator. Photographer. Videographer. Filmmaker. Hostess. Influencer. Digital editor. Copywriter. Speechwriter. Crisis communications. Sales. Business development. Strategist. Designer. Event planner. Sponsorship. Networker. Public speaker. Presenter. Media trainer. Front of House.
These are some of the many things I don’t claim to be an expert at. They are not my field of expertise. They are not my bread and butter, and have not been in my job descriptions over the years. I don’t have university credentials in them.
And yet I do them. Many, almost daily.
No doubt there are countless of us who started on a career path, twisting and turning along the path until we became specialists, honing our skills and concentrating on what we excelled at and loved. But over time and out of necessity, we rebounded and our jobs morphed into a bit of everything somehow related to that core expertise.
There would be plenty of ex-journos working in corporate communications or marketing or some mishmash of both also dabbling in that long list of career paths above. Stuff has to get done and all these things, and more, somehow land in the same deep kitchen sink.
It’s little wonder so many of us feel like imposters. Even after decades working, often excelling in areas you didn’t train for and don’t believe you’re ‘the expert’ at, you find yourself overreaching and doing anything tenuously connected to your actual job.
The same applies in other fields, I’m sure. Accounting these days is expected to stretch way beyond taxes and back-room number crunching to all-round business advisory. Technology services leaned from IT support to everything from running security cameras and hanging giant TVs from the ceiling to AI training and cybersecurity awareness. Dentists don’t just check your teeth these day, they have technologies to whiten them and can even administer Botox to treat dental issues.
These days when a service provider utters the words: ‘no worries’ or ‘too easy’. I shudder. It’s never ‘too easy’ and i inevitably worry.
I identify as a journalist who works in corporate communications, with an aptitude for PR and issue/crisis management. I dip into websites and socials, I can media train and proofread and take a usable photo. I can present and create a presentation, i can network and work across BD and partnerships if required. I’m an ad-hoc marketer.
But i identify as a journalist, working in corporate comms,
With all the time-saving, productivity enhancing AI tools at our fingertips (as we keep being told) you’d think I could ‘outsource’ the extraneous tasks. But no, it turns out I could use AI to do the things i actually love doing and am good at like writing for a myriad of audiences on all sorts of topics, or structuring communications strategies or plans.
I don’t want to drop the stuff i love so I can faff about in Canva trying to create social tiles, or in the backend of a website trying to load forms or upload images.
It feels like we’ re doing less of what we’re really good at and more of everything else. Is this the great dumbing down of expertise to create a generation of generalists?
I’d forgotten how important it is to be around people who get what you do.
When you work as a journalist in a newsroom of other journalists, there’s a collective understanding and respect for the craft. You are united in a healthy mistrust of other professions, particularly the sales team and anything beyond your editorial fiefdom.
That unity flies out the window when you cross to the dark side of communications in any business that focuses on something other than what you do, be it superannuation, transportation, or accounting. When you’re outnumbered and everyone has their lane, people don’t necessarily understand (or care) what you bring to the table.
So, spending time recently refreshing issue management skills in a crisis communications course was a tonic.
Hosted online, with participants spread across Australia, it was hardly a social gathering, and that was fine. As Comms and PR professionals we deal with similar issues and business structures. We speak a shared language. We know what it’s like to be ‘the comms team’ in a bigger business where few get what you do beyond ‘write stuff’ and make others and the business look good.
Bravo to the newly formed Communication and Public Relations Australia (CPRA) for adding Communication professionals to its remit. The transition to CPRA from the Public Relations Institute of Australia opens a new door for comms pros looking for a tribe.
Those of us who’ve crossed from journo to other finally have a place.
What does success look like to you? Professional success. Not good health and a beautiful family, a roof over your head and food in the fridge, and not money in the bank.
The career success that makes work exciting and challenging and keeps you coming back for more.
After a recent deadline heavy week, delivering with a small team on a year-long project with a go-live date set in stone, I headed for home and the weekend ahead wondering what the heck.
There was no collective sigh of relief, or group congrats. No high fives, backslapping or heading to the nearest pub for a debrief. No one expects fireworks or popping champagne corks but the anticlimax, the fizzle of adrenalin, and the emptiness of the non-occasion was real.
I had to ask myself, what does success look like to me now?
In the old days of a big, bold career success was cheers with the team, wrap parties, or bump out drinks. When success was really meaningful, it was a juicy bonus and a promotion.
Those days are behind me. Now, success is measured in meeting business objectives; the satisfaction of creating something of value; learning new skills and conquering fears (both hugely invigorating for me); and being proud of the outcome, even if no one else seems to notice.
Oh, and not killing someone in the process. That’s always a win.
I want to acknowledge a good journo and a good guy, a gentleman, who recently passed, suddenly and much too soon. Michael Yiannakis was a fellow in journalism and then corporate comms, He had a great career spanning prestigious mastheads and vibrant cities. He’s also the husband of my dear friend, another great journalist, Andreea Papuc, who now edits Bloomberg Opinion pieces from Sydney.
When bad things happen to good people, people you have grown up with, literally and professionally, it’s a wake-up call.
I was so busy building my career interstate and then oversees to get home for significant events like friends’ weddings and new babies. Now, I’m tuning in online to funerals.
The only upside of terrible, life-changing events is that it brings us together to reminisce and realise that strong bonds won’t be broken by time. I’m vowing to do better for my friends before it’s too late.
Do you ever feel like the protagonist in your favourite books?
Interestingly, I’m drawn to delusional, psychotic or narcissistic males in many cases: American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman is a wealthy, narcissistic, vain Manhattan investment banker who moonlights as a serial killer.
Liar’s Poker is semi-autobiographical account of author Michael Lewis’s time as a bond salesman on Wall Street in the 80s when ‘greed was good’.
And then there’s Death of a Salesman, a play by Arthur Miller fearing Willy Loman. The name befits the character – a 63-year-old travelling salesman from Brooklyn who has lost the youthful verve and camaraderie of his past. His business acumen is still at its peak, but he can no longer leverage his personality to get by.
Time has caught up with him.
I’ve been pondering Willy as I edge towards 60. Still some years away but in the professional world 50, 60 – it doesn’t really matter.
Time is nipping at our heels.
I hear the platitudes – age is just a number, there’s plenty more to achieve, you’re never too old, it’s about your mindset. Blah, blah blah.
Sure, they’re all valid comments, but it also becomes very clear that you don’t have (or perhaps don’t want to commit) 10 years or 15 years or even 12 months to reaching some milestone. Make it snappy. Time is short, we need to get a move on.
Gen Xers like me have been there, done that. We’ve been through social, economic and plenty of tech changes and challenges that have influenced our view of the world.
Unlike the tradition valuing Baby Boomers and the socially progressive Millenials, Gen Xers are pragmatic, self- reliant and skeptical.
Poor Willy Loman pre-dated Gen X and Baby Boomers. He worked at the same company for more than three decades, withstanding a pay cut and then being fired by the son of the guy who had hired him decades prior.
Willy created a fantasy world to cope with his lot, and he tried several times to end his life.
Author Arthur Miller was quoted saying Willys’ story was about hopelessness and mortality: “Willy was trying to write his name on cake made of ice on a hot summer day.”
No one wants to be Willy. To be fair, no one is probably keen on being any of my fictitious favourites.
There’s probably another discussion in why I’m drawn to dodgy New York male characters (husband excluded) but meantime I’ll seek out some sunny, female protagonist-led literature.
I’d love to hear which characters you are drawn to, and why?
You can get a university degree in three years, plan and have a wedding, birth a couple of children, change the direction of your life completely by moving abroad, changing jobs or Marie Kondo- ing your life.
But three years is no time when you are grieving. It’s as fresh as if it were yesterday. Three years, 36 months, 1095 days . It’s a whisper of time that hasn’t passed at all.
Three years is supposed to mark a period of transition. It’s when you begin rebuilding, and while the sadness of losing a loved one lingers, it’s not as prevalent, according to psychological studies on grief. It’s no longer socially palatable to talk about your loss, according to another piece I read One needs to move on. Easier said than done .
Here’s to my beautiful father who passed three years ago today. He is well remembered daily by those closest to him and especially missed this week.
In business, many of us spend hours networking. We seek out opportunities to connect with other people to expand our existing networks, or to meet people whose skills or custom we might be able to use down the track.
Interacting with others is a basic human need, and a skill we try to hone for business success. But imagine if you walked up to someone at an event and they turned their back, or walked away.
You wouldn’t physically ghost someone, would you?
And yet, increasingly I hear of, or see people reaching out to business connections via email or providing a proposal or a piece of value-add work and … crickets. No ‘thank you.’ No ‘I’m flat out at the moment but I really will come back to you.’ No, nothing.
It’s the corporate version of ghosting. It’s rife, it’s accepted, and it goes mostly unchallenged.
Ghosting, as the name suggests, is when someone suddenly stops communicating with another person without any explanation. It’s a term that gained traction in popular lingo in the dating world.
Poof! They’re gone
You connect with someone online and then, poof, they’re gone. Their profile vanishes, and it’s as if they never existed.
It’s increasingly evident in the recruitment sector too. Post Covid, I’ve heard countless cases of people going for a job interview and waiting for the follow-up call from the recruiter.
They’re still waiting. Apparently, it’s not the norm these days to advise unsuccessful applicants that they can move on. They are left hanging, wondering if the position was filled or if they’re still in with a shot, or where they went wrong? It’s a guessing game.
Likewise, job candidates don’t show for interviews. Successful candidates don’t turn up for the first day. They vanish without a word.
The Harvard Business Review quoted a 2018 study published in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships: 25% of participants reported having been ghosted by a partner. When it comes to job seeking, 93% of respondents in a 2020 LinkedIn poll said they had been ghosted during an active hiring process.
It’s a problem and it’s only getting worse.
At its core, ghosting is a sign of disrespect for the time and effort others invest in reaching out to us.
Just say No!
So why do people ghost?
In the era of everyone wins a prize, there are no losers, could it be that people have forgotten how to say no? Is there a phobia around rejecting an approach from someone or turning down a proposal. Are people scared to have a difficult conversation? Do they think that ignoring the elephant in the room will make it go away?
Of course, it will go away (eventually) and with it goes your reputation (eventually). When a business turns cold and fails to acknowledge your proposal or your email or a piece of work you’ve done for them, their brand is devalued by the people they ignore. Word travels fast and no one wants to be known as unresponsive, or rude.
So, short of sending a copy of Debrett’s etiquette guide, what do you do if professionally ghosted? Walk away and chalk it up to bad manners, or call it out and keep prodding for a response?
And just like that … it’s more than a decade since we relocated to Australia from New York. We said so long NYC and hello to Adelaide, South Australia.
Adelaide is where I grew up, It’s the town I left for Sydney, which I later left for New York. A lot of young people leave Adelaide and inevitably, one day, usually with children in tow, they move back. Some settle in right away, landing cushy jobs and riding high on their international careers: others take longer to find their feet and settle in.
I am probably the latter. it’s still debatable whether i’ve truly settled in, and certainly the family have their moments when this doesn’t feel like home. But day by day, we take turns feeling more entrenched.
Frankly, the idea of packing up and moving across the world again makes me shudder. It’s still too soon to contemplate another relocation so Adelaide it is. We have a house we love, a dog we adore and won’t ever leave behind, jobs and friends and my small, immediate family. And we have safety and security.
With all that is happening in the world right now, the horrors in Europe, the flood destruction across eastern Australia, to name just two of this week’s headliners, it’s good to be here.
So this is a bit of a peg in the sand. I write all day for work but I miss this sort of writing – letting the words flow freely with no real destination in mind. It’s rambling of sorts, and therapy after the boundaries and rigidity of my day shtick (which by the way, I actually really enjoy).
Now that the floodgates are open again, i’ll be writing more frequently I hope. So stay tuned for gdaybklyn from Adelaide.
Yesterday, I pressed ‘enter’ on a competition I barely read the details of. Something about the Barossa, a weekend away, food. It doesn’t take much more to pique my interest. It was a vendor that I trust and it didn’t take me to any dodgy links or spam, so why not.
Within a couple of hours, an unfamiliar number rang on my cell phone and I was told I had won two nights away at Anlaby Station in the Barossa Valley and a dinner at fermentAsian. Just like that.
The contest, run by Glam Adelaide for the South Australian Tourism Commission. builds on a recent, deliciously controversial, new ad campaign to lure savvy overseas travellers to our gorgeous wine region.
The ad – part of a $6 million tourism campaign – goes way beyond the well-known wineries though, wooing viewers with sumptuous produce and beautiful people. Lots of suggestive scooping of oranges and freshly-laid eggs, rolling around in fine Barossa dirt, a woman in a white dress and a man who might as well be shirtless for all of the ad’s lusty feel.
The tagline reads simply: Barossa, Be Consumed. You can watch it here.
Is the Barossa bringing SexyBack?
Anyway, I’m yet to set a date for this adventure but as we roll towards our second anniversary since moving to Australia, I think a weekend away is in order.
Oh, and if you’re wondering, yes, hubs will get first dibs on accompanying me …
This adorable chap made his way home with me after a recent browsing afternoon on Magill Road. There was just something about hot pink antlers that I couldn’t resist.
Thankfully the family realised his charms and my deer made his way above our bed, like some sort of hunting trophy.
For patchwork, Liberty-esque deer busts and other outlandishly individual homewares, furniture and art visit Louis Bond at 133- 135 Magill Road, Stepney.
George Shaw, a self-described ageing punk, says buying a loud shirt back in 2005 at his wife’s urging led to an obsession that changed their lives forever.
He picked up the well-cut shirt – with green felt running down the sleeves and a plasticised stencil on the back – in a UK boutique to wear to a friend’s 40th birthday bash. When some lads from Bristol mentioned that the stencilling on the shirt was reminiscent of the rogue street artist Banksy, who cut his teeth on the rough Bristol streets, Shaw’s curiosity piqued.
“I thought Banksy sounded like my kind of guy,” said Shaw.
“Through a hangover the next day, I Googled Banksy and I felt a rush. I was so excited – it was the first artwork that I really related to. It was a bit like the punk movement, it really had something to say.”
That loud, well-cut shirt and the street art obsession it inspired will bring Shaw, his wife and creative partner Shannon Webster, and more than 70 pieces from their urban art collection, including 22 Banksys, to Adelaide this month for the Oi You! Urban Art Festival.
The duo has run the festival in Sydney and in Nelson, on New Zealand’s South Island, where they live. Shaw says they approached Adelaide City Council (ACC) with the idea to host one in Adelaide, and the council saw its value. ACC, through Splash Adelaide, is backing the event with the State Government and theAdelaide Festival Centre, which will be the hub for festival events, including an exhibition, an art hunt, a scrawl wall and outdoor installations.
“There’s a fabulous local street art scene in Adelaide already,” said Shaw. “Hopefully this festival will allow for it to win an even broader audience and be a bit more cherished.”
As part of the exhibition, Adelaide-raised street artist Peter Drew invited fellow street artists to ‘respond’ to an unfinished portrait of Adelaide’s founder, Colonel William Light. These were hung briefly on the Gallery walls, alongside traditional, historically important paintings. They were then plucked one by one and hidden around the city, sending anyone from students to office workers running through the CBD in a game of finders keepers.
Elusive and anonymous
Elusive and still anonymous, Banksy is one of the world’s best-known street artists for his iconic and satirical stencil art in public places. His last major show saw some 300,000 people queue for hours to get in and his art fetches hundreds of thousands of dollars at auction houses in Britain and the US.
The Oi You! Festival will host 22 Banksy pieces, along with work from other leading graffiti artists around the globe, including Faile, Swoon and David Choe from the US, the UK’s Antony Micallef and Paul Insect, and the artist known as Milton Springsteen from NZ.
“I like a lot of art but street art really speaks to me, probably because it’s not exclusive. It’s inclusive, it’s populist.
“The way I look at street art: it’s almost like you think of traditional art as the theatre – street art is the cinema. It’s for the people.”
Matt Stuckey adds colour outside the Adelaide Festival Centre
Since 2005 Shaw and Webster have collected about 100 urban artworks, among them Banksy limited edition prints such as the Kate Moss image channelling Warhol’s iconic Marilyn Monroe and the original Flower Thrower canvas, the cover image for the Banksy bestseller War and Piece. Both works will be part of the exhibition in Adelaide.
Shaw says they have spent the best part of seven years following Banksy’s shows around the world, including war-ravaged Palestine and the more high-end Los Angeles for Banksy’s Barely Legal show in 2006, where Shaw found himself shoulder to shoulder with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.
“It’s been surreal. We found ourselves at the epicentre of this phenomenon that just exploded across the world.”
Obsessed stamp collectors
Unlike the collectors who buy art on a hunch that an artist will make it big and their works will command big price tags, Shaw says he and Webster just bought what they liked, and they liked a lot.
“We’re like obsessed stamp collectors.
“It began with an interest in what Banksy had done and we kind of went overboard. If there was a new piece out, we had to have it.
“Most people start collecting art when they are rich but we weren’t rich – we were comfortable I guess – but we still sold both our cars and went to the bank to support our obsession.”
Their next goal is to find a permanent home for the Banksy collection, ideally in earthquake-wracked Christchurch, New Zealand, which is in the midst of a massive rebuild.
“We’d really like to see Christchurch become home to an annual Oi You! festival and to our collection.
“They’re going through a very significant rebuild there and we like the idea of being a part of that.”
Adelaide is sister city to Christchurch so it’s fitting perhaps that Adelaide will get a taste of Oi You!
The festival kicks off with an Opening Night party on 19 April before opening to the public from 20 April to 2 June. The Opening Night party will give fans a sneak peek at the exhibition and feature talks from some of the artists as well as a DJ set from local electronic artist, Oisima.
A large annex built outside the Artspace Gallery will provide plenty of space for budding local artists to express themselves. One side will be a ‘scrawl wall’ covered in chalkboard paint and the other, made from corrugated iron, is dubbed ‘corrugated irony’.
And while you won’t be able to take a Banksy original home, local duo Ankles and Smile, known as Rawhide, will give everyone the chance to own some art in The Great $5000 Art Giveaway. On Saturday 27 April and Sunday 28 April, 38 tokens will be hidden across the Adelaide Festival Centre Plaza, corresponding to 38 works of art. Find a token and take home a piece of art – it’s that simple.
Australian street art gurus Anthony Lister, Rhone and Beastman will be in town too, to create large works on big walls. Matt Stuckey will create a number of installations on the plaza outside the Festival Centre too.
Among other festival events are street artist guided tours of some of Adelaide’s best urban art sites, and a Street Art Film Night in the Space Theatre Foyer on Friday 10 May, featuring screenings of locally-produced documentary Who Owns The Street,and the Academy Award-nominated Banksy film Exit Through The Gift Shop.
As for the shirt that started it all, Shaw reckons he might wear it on opening night.
“It’s all come from that shirt. Our whole life changed in that moment.”
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The much talked about and anticipated bunny is the latest and possibly the final member to join our household. She is of course utterly adorable. A seal point, lop eared dwarf (or do I have to say bunny of short stature?), Miffy is somewhere between a pale gray and a very light cocoa. The breeder says this colouring is particularly rare.
I say it works in beautifully with our dark wood floors.
The progeny of mother Gypsy and father Thomas, Miffy was born 23 October 2012. It happens that she shares a birthday with Grandma, Mo’s mother, which the kids find especially amusing.
Artist Dick Bruna’s Miffy
Her name, which means little rabbit in Dutch, is in honour of the Miffy character illustrated in series of picture books by Dutch artist Dick Bruna. The first Miffy book was produced in 1955 and has since inspired two television series. Our children happily watched Miffy for many years on public televsion in the US – so it was a no brainer that our little, female rabbit should be a Miffy.
Miffy has been with us for only two days but so far she is curious, spunky – and fast. She’s a tiny, fluffy bundle of energy; easily startled like all small bunnies but still gutsy enough to explore our turf on her terms.
The children are probably a bit too excited for Miffy to warm to them just yet. They are busting to play with her but don’t seem to understand that she needs to suss them out first – have a sniff and wander around them calmly before they can lunge and pick her up.
I’ve been mulling the whole Christmas thing en route to work each day. The bus takes North Terrace, a gorgeous boulevard of historic buildings – the cultural hub of this pretty city – and yet not a single red bow or decorated store front. There’s not a thing to indicate that Australia is still one of the countries where Christmas is a big deal, celebrated or at least recognised by the majority of the population.
New York, in contrast (yeah here she goes again) is a decorating dream come the holidays. It’s all out warfare among window stylists at the big department stores as they compete for the glitziest, most innovative and cleverest store windows.
ABC Carpet & Home, where a lovely old-school Santa greeted our children for many years, twinkles with gazillions of sparkly decorations, and Rockefeller Center is a winter wonderland, with the massive lit tree and ice-skating rink front and center. Even in Brownstone Brooklyn, there were pop-up nativity scenes, inflatable Santas and light-up deer in people’s front yards and outside stores.
Interestingly, we were the only Christian family at most of the annual Christmas parties we hosted in Brooklyn. There were Jews and Muslims, and then us. We were also often the only Christians at the Jewish Hannukah parties that coincided with the Christmas festivities.
None of it mattered. It was the holidays and everyone was merry in one way or another, for one reason or another.
But in lovely Adelaide, where most of us are celebrating the same holiday, there’s nary a wreath or a red bow in sight, let alone a nativity scene. I read with interest Susan Mitchell’s column It’s a Christmas dark age in Adelaide in Indaily last week. She said exactly what I was thinking. For all the waffle about making our city vibrant by attracting people to live, work and play in the CBD, the lights are out and apparently nobody’s home.
sad and sorry snowflakes, the lone and seasonally inappropriate ode to Christmas on Gouger Street
Even in the office where I work, there is little in the way of festive cheer. Admittedly I have been here only a year, but even so a couple of Christmas cards and some tinsel strung about our desks is about it. There’s no crazy office party since apparently some anti-drinking chap moved to a top job and outlawed fun, not that we would necessarily expect him to come party with the plebs.
I fondly recall working for gritty newspapers in the days of long, boozy Christmas lunches and gifts of wine or leg hams or hampers arriving for staff. Even at stitched up Bloomberg in New York, where we worked very hard, we played hard too. In the old days before the boss became the City Mayor, Bloomberg marked the holidays with an extravagant soiree for staff and their partners at the Museum of Natural History. Sushi and caviar were served aplenty from beneath the huge suspended whale skeleton. Those were the days.
We do have an annual social club lunch at my current workplace but even that requires arm twisting to convince people to come, and after a couple of hours feasting, we dutifully return to work.
Maybe it’s something about the mercury soaring here at Christmas that makes decorating too sweaty a prospect. But it was hot when I was kid too and yet I fondly remember my mother taking me for dusk strolls around the neighbourhood to see Christmas trees lit up in people’s front windows. We had a massive holly tree in our front yard and people would pull up and ask to pick a bunch.
It was friendly and neighbourly – and Christmassy.
We have a wreath on our door this year and the kids had a blast hanging everything but the kitchen sink on our Christmas tree. But ours is the only decorated house I have noticed on our street.
We do live in an unusually aged street but still – don’t people turn it on a bit for the grandchildren? Even the local shopping mall (if one is allowed to call Burnside Village a shopping mall …?) isn’t particularly festive. And as our kids noted when they visited Santa, he was kind of over it. He didn’t ask the obligatory ‘have you been good’ or ‘what would you like for Christmas’ questions, but rather chugged kids through for the obligatory photo op.
So what gives? Are we all hamstrung by the threat of the global financial rumblings finally reaching our shores, or does the prospect of a holiday that unites families to gather and feast just not do it for us anymore?
For the record, we will be gathering and feasting and hopefully having a lot of laughs on Christmas day. We light a candle or two in honour of the Jewish Hannukah celebrations which have just ended, we may even light one for Kwanza – the African American holiday that coincides with Christmas – and we recognize Eid for our Muslim friends. Never let it be said that we don’t like a party.
Our seven-year-old declared tonight that we all seemed happier living in America, and my heart broke a little bit. She put into words what I know I’ve been thinking – observing – for awhile now. We moved to Australia for all the right reasons – family, space, and a good lifestyle – but I have to agree with the little one, we were more functional in our Brooklyn community.
The kids were well adjusted and generally happy.
Many of the things we moved here for now seem to have been a mirage, or just no longer exist: the extended family that congregated often for laughs and feasts and creating good memories; the big backyard, fishing and beach houses; seafood and generally terrific food aplenty.
The family is a soap opera in the making, we have a nice place in a good suburb but no big grassy backyard, and everything is ultra expensive. The cost of living in Australia is through the roof compared with the US and Adelaide can be mighty cliquey if you’re a newcomer.
Maybe we haven’t given it a fair go. Maybe things will get better. I hope so, because the thought of packing up and moving overseas AGAIN just makes my head hurt.
And if I leave again, I know I’m never coming back.
As the Brooklyn saying goes, ‘not for nothin’ I’ve decided to write a random list of what it is I miss about the US. Perhaps it will help give me some perspective and make it easier to just shutup and stick it out in Adelaide. If nothing else, it may be cathartic to at least think about what I miss. So here goes, in no particular order:
Friends and family, of course: the kids especially miss their paternal grandparents and their cousins, who are closer in age to them than their Adelaide relatives. We took for granted how well the kids all played together and the strength of the bonds they forged with their grandparents and aunt and uncle, even though we didn’t see them often enough.
My hairdresser: Michelle at Serendipity in Soho – you cannot be replaced. I have had three haircuts in Adelaide; one was a complete botch job, the other two were just ok. I went to Michelle for many years, from before I was even married to the week I left NY – she will be one of my first stops when I go back to visit.
Cheap manis/pedis: never underestimate an inexpensive mani/pedi from one of the hole-in-the-wall Korean nail joints in Manhattan or Brooklyn. For peanuts you can get your feet rubbed, scrubbed and toes polished and looking clean and shiny for weeks to come. I had one pedicure in Adelaide and besides the woman gouging my nail until it bled, the polish peeled off in a day – and it cost about $45.
Walking: it goes without saying that NY is a walking city. I walked the kids to school and back again everyday, I walked to the shops, I schlepped my groceries home. You walk and walk and walk – even when you ride the subway – you walk at either end. You don’t notice how much you are walking but your body notices when you stop walking and start getting into a car to run errands, to get to school or go around the corner.
To be sure, my husband and I have noticed a HUGE change in Adelaide since we first came here together to visit in 2000. People are getting heavier– there are more chubby folk than ever before squeezing themselves in and out of their enormous, sole-occupancy, gas-guzzling vehicles to go 15 minutes in any direction. I reckon it won’t be long before Australia was more heavy people per capita than the US.
Subway, Stoops + Street Noise
The subway; you can go anywhere at anytime. Enough said.
Stoops: there’s nothing nicer than hanging out on someone’s stoop – chatting to neighbors, watching the world go by, or holding a stoop sale. Stoops bring communities together. Front fences and gates and intercom-activated entry does nothing for community.
Street noise: even the occasional gunshots and police helicopters were okay. You knew you were living a city and there was life going on outside your four walls.
Neighbors: knowing that there were other people nearby whose door you could knock on it you needed to borrow a rolling pin, or a cup of sugar was comforting and handy. We could send the kids upstairs to a favourite neighbor’s apartment with a plate of cookies or some leftover dinner, without fearing they’d be abducted.
Cheap cabs: speaks for itself really. You could always find a way home, without breaking the bank.
Coffee: just a regular cup of joe from a street stand, with a splash of milk for a buck 25 – that’s $1.25 – not the average $4 you pay for a coffee here. I still haven’t worked out which coffee I actually like drinking here either. I just want a big cup of black coffee that I can pour milk into, godammit.
Delivery at all hours; one of the biggest issues with living in a small city like Adelaide is that you cannot eat after about 9pm. Kitchens close. Delivery is almost non existent. I miss the Spanish places on Smith Street that would bring beef stew, and rice, beans and plantains at 10pm for $12; I miss the pizza places that would deliver a piping hot pie at 11pm.
Pizza: there is no match for a good New York pizza. All the organic flours, handmade, flown-in-daily artisanal mozzarella and toppings in the world are no match for a plain NY pie.
That’s round one. I’ll add to the list as I think of things, but I already feel better for spilling my guts and remembering the good stuff. I’m not trying to piss off anyone in Adelaide. This is a great place to live and raise a family – I wouldn’t have chosen to live here if I didn’t believe it, but I didn’t think for a New York minute that it would be so hard to settle back in.
In Japan they have pods; small, quiet cocoon like capsules where people can seek out silence. In Adelaide, a favourite quiet space might be a trickling fountain in Victoria Square, a non-descript city car park or a narrow thoroughfare off a main street.
Jason Sweeney, a self-described introvert, is morphing his search for safe, quiet places into an ever-evolving sound-art project. Stereopublic: Crowdsourcing the Quiet, a tech-savvy pursuit for web and smartphone, will launch at the 2013 Adelaide Festival.
With roots in music, from playing in bands to community radio, 41-year-old Sweeney calls himself an interdisciplinary artist these days. A composer for theatre, dance and film, he has worked with companies including State Theatre Company of SA, Vitalstatistix, Chunky Move, Belgium’s SOIT, Restless Dance Theatre, Tanja Liedtke, Closer Productions, Force Majeure and UK-based DV8.
He has been releasing his electronic music compositions internationally with bands Panoptique Electrical and Pretty Boy Crossover, via the record label Sensory Projects, and he is in the thick of creating a feature film The Dead Speak Back slated for 2013 release.
But Stereopublic is something “I’ve been working on for years in one form or another. I knew it would shape shift and have different incarnations. It’s just incredible how well received this incarnation of it has been,” said softly spoken Sweeney. He said he pitched the idea in an email to David Sefton, Artistic Director of the 2013 Festival and a fellow electronic and experimental music enthusiast, and Sefton was quick to jump onboard.
Poster Child for Quiet
“This is one of the most important projects in my life. It’s hugely personal,” said Sweeney, who for all his music-making and current it boy status, is something of a poster child for quiet. The concept for ‘crowd-sourcing the quiet’ grew from Sweeney’s own inherent discomfort in crowded, noisy places.
He tells a story of a basement apartment he rented in Melbourne. “There was no natural light, no air – but when I stepped outside I was right on Flinders Lane, one of the busiest places in Melbourne. I lasted eight months there and then I had to come back to Adelaide. It was such a relief to come home.”
With support from the TED Prize-winning City 2.0 Award, Arts SA and the Australia Council’s Creative Australia New Art initiative – as well as Adelaide City Council – Sweeney and a team from Freerange Future, a design studio made up of designers, web and app creators, are developing an online space where people can geo-locate and crowd-source quiet spaces.
Their aim is to increase the “sonic health” of the city— both for everyday introverts, and potentially for people with mental health issues or disabilities such as schizophrenia or autism, who crave less sensory stimuli.
Jason Sweeney seeking solitude
At a time when the Government and the Adelaide City Council are gung-ho about making Adelaide pulsate with activity and are encouraging pop-up creativity from the laneways to the parklands, a quest for solitude might seem off kilter.
Quietly Vibrant
But Sweeney says “quiet can have a vibrancy of its own.”
“This is a community-building project; I really want to connect it to the city as much as possible.” In Adelaide, for instance, a favourite quiet space could be beneath a tree in the Botanic Gardens, among the crowds in the Adelaide Central Market or in a department store restroom high above the hustle and bustle of Rundle Mall.
For someone unnerved by heavy-duty social contact, Sweeney interestingly has conceived an art project that relies on participation for it to work.
From 1 March, 2013, people will be invited to contribute to the sound map online at www.stereopublic.net as part of the Adelaide Festival. There will be an Adelaide-centric app that includes a map of quiet spots around the city and the website will act as a portal to other relevant quiet events, including quiet walks, workshops and talks.
Ultimately, Sweeney says he’d like to implement a ‘quiet hour’ or even a full ‘hushday’ as part of the Festival. And down the track, he said it’s possible the Stereopublic model could be set up in other cities, with their own city-specific app.
One of the coolest features of the Stereopublic app draws on Sweeney’s musical talents.
Once participants find their quiet place, they can record the sound of that place, write about it, give it a mood through a colour chart or take an image and post it. As a reward for the input, Sweeney plans to offer a composition relating to their chosen quiet space.
‘I figure if I’m asking people to commit physically to finding a space, the composition is a reward of sorts.”
He says he expects the project will attract lots of young people because it’s about using technology in a very engaged way as a creative tool.
“I hope it will appeal to introverts too, and be unashamedly appealing to people who want to be antisocial,” said Sweeney, who is only just catching on to what a big year he has ahead. “I’m starting to realize how large scale this is and it’s starting to give me heart palpitations.”
And with that, Sweeney continues his search for a quiet place to recharge.
Hurrah! Good sense prevailed and US voters elected President Barack Obama for four more years. I’ve never felt more relieved nor more pleased to be a US citizen. So glad that we got to exercise our right to vote from Australia.
I know how my parents felt now.
Watching Hurricane Sandy rip through the East Coast of the United States from a comfortable, dry and unthreatened space in Adelaide, South Australia, has been a daunting experience. And not knowing if family and friends in the path of fierce winds and flooding were safe was stressful.
Now I know how my parents felt on the many occasions when I was in New York and bad things happened. Bad things like the 911 terrorist attacks on the city and bad things like tornadoes in Brooklyn and snowstorms that cut power, halted the subways and closed schools.
Or bad things like when I had to have emergency open-heart surgery without any warning to them that something might be up.
Unsurprisingly, I have slept with my cell phone close by the past few nights, monitoring Twitter and Facebook and keeping tabs on friends and family through email. Thankfully everyone in my world in Brooklyn, Manhattan and New Jersey is alive and well and by now, suffering from cabin fever and frustration by cuts to power or water, or both.
But many others have lost their homes and businesses. Neighbourhoods like the lovely Red Hook on Brooklyn’s waterfront are in soggy ruins. I’d like to be there to take the short stroll from our old apartment in Carroll Gardens to Red Hook to help toss ruined possessions onto the mounting trash heaps on the sidewalk, or to help bail water from residents’ flooded basements but I’m on the other side of the world.
I know how my parents felt now. Helpless.
Americans are tough, New Yorkers especially so, and I know they’ll pull together for the rebuild because there is no other way.
All I can do is send good vibes and support.
Bill Shannon at Kumuwuki / Big Wave. Photographer: Chris Herzfeld
Bill Shannon had to change the wheels on his skateboard when he hit the rough textured streets of Goolwa. Surfaces are an occupational hazard for this American improv artist, who mixes street dance, skate and hip hop to create his own brand of creative expression.
Even more challenging; Shannon does it all on a pair of rocker-bottom crutches and with a tonne of don’t mess with me attitude.
He was in the river-port town of Goolwa south of Adelaide for the Regional Arts Australia National Conference, Kumuwuki/Big Wave. As Keynote Artist in Residence, Shannon was everywhere: he opened the four-day gathering of artists, arts workers, and regional and community specialists with an address that was both entertaining and provocative.
He hosted a masterclass and workshop for 10, exploring the idea of public space and its connection with personal identity, and led the ScrLK program. Featuring some of Australia’s best-known disability focused organisations including Back to Back and Restless Dance Theatre, the program presented screenings based around disability-led digital arts projects and discussions on how emerging digital technologies, cultures and the National Broadband Network will significantly affect disability culture in regional areas.
“I was interested in programming Bill Shannon to speak as his practice represented a form of creative resilience that was being discussed as a theme throughout the conference,” said Steve Mayhew, Artistic Director of the 2012 Regional Arts Australia National Conference.
“I was hoping that the experiences from this particular viewpoint and perspective would subtly inform people living in regional areas who are dealing with similar issues, access being a very large example of this,” said Mayhew.
In-Your-Face Choreography
Through his blend of energetic, in-your-face choreography and simple video techniques, Shannon deals with the public’s hopes, assumptions, fears and misinterpretations of what an artist with a disability is. He raises questions around how you engage with public space and how you use your own body as a canvas for performance art and experimentation.
He uncovers a world of prejudices that disabled people encounter daily and questions his methods – often involving a hidden camera – as he readily takes advantage of strangers’ good Samaritan impulses to make his point.
“Performance art grew out of my childhood experience. I was always a spectacle.” said Shannon, speaking at a Disability and Arts Transition Team gathering in Adelaide this week. He demonstrated how he had to walk in a semi squat as a child growing up in Pittsburgh, PA, to alleviate pressure on his malformed hip joints.
He had a brace and crutches and to top it off the leather squeaked when he walked. “It was a very intense spectacle. But I didn’t really have a big emotional reaction to it as a kid.”
Shannon was diagnosed at five with Legg-CalvéPerthes disease, a disorder of the hip joint in children that can limit the amount of high-impact activity that an otherwise healthy child can take part in.
The Crutch Master
One of a series of CRUTCH! videos on Bill Shannon, Directed and Produced by Sachi Cunningham and Chandler Evans.
Now 42, that kid with crutches is known around New York’s dance scene as the Crutch Master, and is widely sought around the globe to showcase his flamboyant and seriously athletic dance style and to talk about it. He’s become a poster boy for disability, albeit reluctantly.
Shannon said “peer pressure to keep up with the other kids led to a relationship with creativity.”
“I call it creative necessity – creativity as survival to keep up with peers. I was challenged constantly with these hurdles like jumping through the hedge. All the kids would do it and I had to figure out how to do it with my crutches. I had to get creative to keep up.”
Shannon is a showman, to be sure. He’s a performance artist, melding street dance with the influences of skate and hip hop cultures. Armed with a BFA from the Art Institute of Chicago, he counts poetry and sculpture among his art forms.
And author: he’s working on an outline for a book that will lead readers from his beginnings to the development of the Shannon Technique, a how-to-guide for his style of dancing on the so-called rocker-bottom crutches with U-shaped tips.
He’s a bit of a psychologist too, creating names for some of the scenarios he has encountered when interacting with able-bodied people. There’s faker squared, a reference to the people who think he’s faking his need to use crutches to get around. He can actually walk unassisted but not for long periods or without pain.
“Sometimes I’ll lift up the crutches and do a little tiptoe to give people the satisfaction of thinking they’ve caught me faking. I have the satisfaction of hosting their discovery.”
“If I fake the faking, I take possession of the faking and that’s empowerment,” Shannon said.
And there’s the moment of projected narrative. In one video sequence, a hidden camera shows Shannon’s efforts to pick up a bottle at a marketplace in Russia, while an older local woman looks on, willing him to succeed.
Over the past two decades Shannon’s installations, performances, choreography and video work have been presented in the US and internationally at events, venues and festivals including Sydney Opera House, Tate Liverpool Museum, NYC Town Hall, Portland Institute of Contemporary Art, The Holland Festival, Amsterdam and Temple Bar in Dublin.
Cirque du Soleil
Shannon also completed a project with Cirque du Soleil where he choreographed an aerial duet and a solo on crutches for their 2002 production Varekai.
It was an offer to tour with Cirque du Soleil that prompted Shannon to devise what he calls theShannon Technique. Unable to leave home base for months and endure a grueling performance schedule, Shannon said he started to name his dance moves so that he could pass them onto others.
The Shannon Technique “is a contribution to the history of dance. I never had a class to learn to dance on crutches – I never had the shoulder of the giant to stand on.”
“I decided to lay it all down so that in the future some other individual serious about dancing on crutches can use this as a guide.”
“It’s all about the economy of movement,” he said. As for skating in Goolwa, “it’s like skating on sandpaper. I had to change out the wheels on my skateboard.”
Fee Plumley calls herself a geek artist, techno-evangelist and digital consultant. She hails from the United Kingdom and has become a permanent, if nomadic, resident of Australia.
Combine Fee’s geekery with her will to travel and you have reallybigroadtrip – her proposal to create and live in a truly mobile digital culture.
Fee’s plan is to get a bus, rig it with recording equipment and drive it around Australia, talking to people about how they engage with creative technology. It’s an artwork, a research project, plus a home, studio and workshop.
Among other things, this soon-to-be 39-year-old with cropped, dyed red hair and wearing a big, blingy ‘Geek’ nameplate around her neck (a gift from her sister), has co-founded a company that created a new genre of literature inspired by mobile phone technical limitations and started the Geek in Residence model that was adopted in Australia and abroad.
“It’s the stuff that breaks convention that I really love,” says Fee, speaking about theatre, where her career started years ago. But you get the idea that this is her metaphor for life too.
Anything is Pozible
Like many creatives with an idea but scant funding, Fee is tapping the crowd-sourcing site Pozible to raise money for her reallybigroadtrip. Her Pozible campaign is scheduled to end 12 July and she is anxious that it is lagging her target amounts.
“It’s the most exciting time in my life. It’s also the most terrifying,” says Fee. “I have never made myself so vulnerable and never felt so strong.”
Once she has ‘the bus’ – which incidentally will be styled-decorated-rigged out by none other than lighting, set, venue designer Geoff Cobham, also the man behind Barrio, – the plan is to hit the road and just keep driving; talking to people, documenting data, writing, and making stuff along the way.
All the traveling and talking will result in a huge amount of rich media, the best of which will be shared instantly via social networks. Follow @feesable on Twitter and you will notice two things pretty quickly: she tweets a lot and sleeps very little.
The rest of the information gathered on her journey will be stored for future development; a vast legacy of material for advocacy, data visualisation, conferences and festivals. There may also be a book or documentary in it too, or as Fee corrects – an e-book or interactive documentary.
Fee said the idea of buying a bus came up a few years back when she knew she wanted to apply for permanent residency in Australia and had to create an opportunity to make it happen.
“I adore travel, buses, creative play and geeks,” so the digital-mobile-bus combination seemed to fit together.
“I could have just traveled around from place to place on foot or by plane but the idea of a road trip seemed right. The bus is a symbol of the kind of digital community-based cloud that we exist in now.”
The bus will be Fee’s exhibition space, workshop, conference room, screening space, studio and her home, running on vegetable oil and the kindness of others. After couch-surfing for the past eight months in various Australian states, she says she looks forward to having a home, albeit mobile and on a bus.
The bigger picture – and there is always a ‘bigger picture’ when Fee’s mind starts ticking over – is to get a bus in every continent.
“The idea is to have all these spaces that become resources for other digital practitioners.
“I really want to dispel this myth that media arts are a niche or emerging. I’ve been doing it for years already and I wasn’t even there at the beginning.”
Fee recalls the day she met the Internet. She was moving into a share house in Brighton in the UKin 1996 and there was a free, online computer.
“I didn’t really know what I could do with the Internet but I knew I wanted to use it somehow.
“I went to the dole office and asked where I could learn about what the Internet was and what it meant for creative practice.” Of course, her enthusiasm met blank stares.
Wind forward some years and Fee eventually moved to Australia on a distinguished talent visa and got a job at the Australia Council, working in funding digital strategies. There she created the Geek in Residence program, which placed creative technicians with creative firms.
Just weeks shy of her Australia Council contract ending, Fee got the permanent residency status sought in Australia. Now for the bus, and her circle is almost complete.
To get this show on the road she needs funding – sponsorship, in-kind partnerships – whatever it takes to buy a bus, deck it out and keep it running from place to place. Plus, she’ll need money to cover internet access, living expenses, promotion and equipment.
“My life is this kind of ridiculous adventure,” says Fee.
Needless to say she’s not resting on her laurels waiting for money to roll in and a bus to materialise. She recently returned from Melbourne’s Emerging Writers Festival and already has conferences, speaking engagements and the like scheduled for coming months.
Among then, Fee is on the roster to give a keynote speech at the Regional Arts Australia Conference in Goolwa in October, touching on art and the economy and broadband – all sorts of things that she predicts will get her into trouble.
Most Adelaideans don’t know the name but chances are they’ve seen his work all over the city, from the huge posters of criminal mug shots to the Icarus motif atop a prominent city building, his personal favourite.
Peter has just opened his final solo exhibition at A P Bond Gallery in Stepney and in less than a week he’ll take part in the opening of South Australia Illustrated: From the Street at the Art Gallery of South Australia.
It’s not every street artist who finds their anti- institutional s scrawls hanging in the State’s premiere arts institution, but in keeping with the rebellious overtones of graffiti, this won’t be any regular exhibition.
There’s a twist.
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Peter has donned his curatorial hat and invited 12 fellow artists to `respond’ to an unfinished portrait of Adelaide’s founder, Colonel William Light, which he will turn frame in heavy antique frames ready for the Gallery walls.
They’ll be there, beautifully lined up when the exhibition opens, but throughout the exhibition Peter will take a portrait and hang it someplace around Adelaide.
He’ll give clues on its location using social media, such as his Facebook page.
“It is really great that the Art Gallery has agreed to this – it turns the whole exhibition on its head,” said the softly spoken artist.
But it will be nicked, won’t it? And that is the whole point.
”It’s an experiment in opportunism,” said Peter.
“The idea of theft and opportunism – that impulse hasn’t changed since colonial times. If there’s something there and people think that they can get away with taking it, they will. There is definitely a link between colonialism and opportunism.”
Even exhibiting at the `big end’ of the city, as the Gallery and its North Terrace cultural neighbours are known, can’t curb the edge of a street artist.
Around town though, Peter – an Adelaide born and educated visual artist and writer – is best known for his uncommissioned art for the urban landscape – or street art – which can be found not only on home turf but around Berlin, Glasgow and London.
Criminal Element
Peter says that having made illegal street art for years without being caught, he started to forget that it was a crime.
“When I was finally arrested I began to think more seriously about its criminality. This interest grew into a side project, which quickly blew out into the largest street art campaign I’ve undertaken.”
Adelaide’s Forgotten Outlaws grew from Peter searching police documents at the South Australian State Records. Drawn to photos from the early 1920s, he began choosing mug shots based mostly on the immediate impact of the image.
“Whether through their defiant pride, amused irreverence or shamed humiliation – some faces drew me in,” said Peter.
And so began his self-funded, ‘uncommissioned’ public project. Peter pasted some 42 black and white posters, each standing 2.5 meters, on naked city walls and sides of buildings.
Initially he worked at night, rather like the criminals he iconised, but soon realized it would be safer during the day dressed as a legitimate worker.
“When I donned the high vis vest and went about my business I didn’t feel like a criminal, I felt as thought I was performing a public good,” he said.
Unstoppable
While the man of the street has generally enjoyed Peter’s campaign, Adelaide City Council eventually traced the posters back to him and struck a deal.
The Council would stop removing the work so long as Peter legitimised the project through a ’pilot project’ scheme and removed the criminals’ surnames to protect surviving relatives.
Peter said he was just happy that people got to see the posters, as he’d intended. So impressed with his work were the folks at History SA that they let Peter loose on their photo archive.
He chose 10 portraits of everyday, extraordinary South Australians from the 1870s to the 1930s for use as part of the About Time: South Australian History Festival, which ran through May 2012.
Come August, Peter is heading abroad to study writing criticism at the Glasgow School of Art for a year or two. He wants to write a book, not surprisingly, about street art – comparing it to other artistic movements throughout history that were viewed as anti-institutional.
And while he’s away, he says he may have the urge to express himself artistically on a blank wall.
“I’m not sure that I can stop,” said Peter.
Peter Drew’s solo exhibition All you need is LIKE is currently running at AP Bond Gallery. South Australia Illustrated open at the Art Gallery of South Australia 1 June, 2012.
I just waved my eight-year-old son goodbye as he boarded a bus for his first ever school camp. One week into school in Australia and he was herded away to Aldinga Beach, an hour or so from the city, to run free and learn in the great outdoors. It’s all part of being an Aussie.
Every morning at school drop-off, these robust little kids are running and jumping and chasing each other, or playing one of many organised sports. Every girl in our daughter’s first-grade class has a skipping rope tucked beneath the desk to use before school and at recess. Sitting still isn’t an option.
It all fits the romantic notions about Australia, especially among Americans. From the worn out stereotypes of kangaroos bounding along city streets and Foster’s drinking blokes throwing shrimp on a barbie, Australia holds a sort of mystique from far away. Our New York friends, while sad to see us go, were excited for our brave move down under. Everyone wants to visit and everyone probably would, if it weren’t so far away.
But as recent arrivals – sit still, we do. So far it has rained almost daily since we got here in July, soaring electricity costs make us too scared to blast the heat as much as we’d like, and neither my husband nor I has found a job. With no income to speak of and no entitlement to assistance because apparently the Australian Government deems us rich, morale has its ups and downs.
We’ve endured reams of paperwork and probing questions only to be told that money in a bank, no matter how inaccessible, a part share in a house we cannot live in yet and the fact that we could get jobs any day, trump years of paying taxes in both Australia and the US and the absence of a pay check.
Sticker Shock
Every time we walk out of a store, sticker shock follows us. Everything costs a lot more than we’re use to paying. Even long-time Australia dwellers are balking at rising food, gas and utility prices. Basics like bananas go for around $3 a piece and green beans top out around $18 a kilo – or almost $9 a pound. The good life sure is pricey.
Still, here I am 40-something, married and mother of two back in my parents’ immaculate house after more than 20 years of independence. Perched at the dining room table, I feel a bit like an aged Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City, banging out resume updates and introduction letters in improbable surrounds ( how did she ever afford a Manhattan studio and Jimmy Choos on a columnist’s wage?)
To be sure, the folks are thrilled to have us back in Adelaide – as delighted as they are petrified every time a beloved grandchild swings a backpack and narrowly misses some pricey collectible or “accidentally” picks all the unripe lemons and stomps the onion patch.
The question we’re asked by pretty much everyone we meet is, why? Why on earth would you move from New York City – bright lights, big city, songs written about it, movies made just to showcase its vibrancy – to Adelaide? Adelaide, a sleepy city barely bigger than a country town, with lots of green space and nearly as many churches as people. Why indeed?
For family and for lifestyle mostly. We figured it was time to slow life down a little, smell the roses that bloom in Adelaide gardens and let the kids run free in the parklands and on the beaches, with cousins and perhaps a dog in tow. We wanted to own a house and a have a garden where we could cook out on a warm evening, and all sit around the dinner table together.
All in Good Time
And soon enough the sun will shine and the kids will get the beach and park time they moved for. We’ll find jobs too, I’m sure of it. We just have to adjust our timing from New York standards where emails are answered pronto to Adelaide’s more relaxed schedule. And soon enough we’ll be able to rip up old carpets, paint walls and move into our own little home.
For now, the coffee is good, the clean country air is a mere 15 minutes “up the hill” as the locals say, the kids are happily settling into a lovely school and we are still charmed by the many people we meet and the warmth and friendliness they show us; from the boys in the local coffee shop we’ve made part of our morning ritual, to the toothless old man I met at the weekend farmers’ market. He explained to me the pros of eating Australian olive oil and beamed with pride talking about his famous ballerina daughter.
Our waterlogged son will have his own stories to share when he slumps home from three rainy days at the beach, where he was to learn to paint a boomerang, cook on an open fire and negotiate friendships with a new crew of teachers and classmates.
As the lyrics go if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. Let’s see if Adelaide is our “anywhere”.
Der Kommissar, the newest kid on its South Slope block, swings open its doors tonight, promising to blend traditional Austrian eats with Brooklyn smarts. Artisanal Austrian-style sausages, craft beers and schnapps define the bar-restaurant-hangout on 5th Avenue, at 15th Street, which is loosely modeled on the outdoor sausage stands common in Vienna.
Three Park Slope locals – Gary Baldwin, his Austrian wife Monika Wuhrer, and neighborhood mixologist Alex Darsey – wanted to create a place where locals could kickback with drinks, chat or watch a game, while noshing on simple, high-quality, artisanal snacks. Der Kommissar ”brings a little bit of Vienna to 5th Ave,” touts the website.
Just like a Viennese Würstelstand, sausages feature high on Der Kommissar’s menu – from frankfurters and bratwurst to lesser known käsekrainer and weisswurst. There are also pretzels, potato salad, sauerkraut and the classic Austrian Liptauer, a spread made from quark, paprika, caraway, herbs, pickles, and anchovy. And for something sweet, the beloved Manner Schnitten – traditional Austrian wafers layered with hazelnut cream.
Food will be available at the bar, as well as through a window that opens onto the street, a leftover from its previous life as a Spanish take-out spot. The whole idea is to keep it simple and relaxed; a place you can stop-by with the kids for an afternoon snack, or hang with your mates late into the night.
Baldwin and Wuhrer are known around the hood as the owners of the nearby Open Source Gallery, which has been a nomadic art force since a five-alarm fire damaged it and the couple’s apartment in November. Since it began in 2008, the gallery has become an institution, offering everything from a soup kitchen through the holidays to summer camp for local kids. Business partner Darsey is a photographer and well-known bar tender.
Der Kommissar, which is hosting a “soft opening” tonight from 7pm to 10pm, is at 559 5th Avenue, phone 718. 788. 0789.
I admire go getters who turn that one great idea into a money-making business. But sometimes, things move too fast or not fast enough, and those go getters make big promises they struggle to keep.
I really hope that’s not the case with LA-based accessories brand Thursday Friday whose founding duo Roni Brunn and Olena Sholomytska created the Together bag – a wildly popular canvas shopper emblazoned with a pop-arty Hermes inspired bag print on the outside. With the original $35 price tag (the price has since risen to $45 to counter rising cotton prices), they literally sold like hotcakes.
What could be wrong with instant success and enormous publicity you ask? Well, this fledgling company has had a very public struggle to fill orders placed as long ago as January, causing an outcry on its Facebook page from frustrated buyers. In full disclosure, I’m among the hundreds of people worldwide waiting on bags I ordered and paid for at the start of the year.
It seems the wait may soon be over. Late yesterday, Thursday Friday posted the following to its Facebook page:
“We understand your frustration with us. We have been dealing with the delayed shipments, cotton price rise and production halts since we started. When we designed our products, we did not expect it to explode in (the) way it has and the overwhelming demand from all over the world has exceeded our production. Please be patient with us, we take your orders very seriously and we are shipping all orders from Jan/Feb.”
This long-awaited assurance prompted many hits of the Like button, and was met with a flurry of thankful, hopeful comments from Facebook fans.
Sure, we all knew when we ordered bags in January that they were on backorder and would be delivered sometime in March. But as March turned into April and spring weather coaxed us to swap chunky leather bags for a lighter tote, there were still no bags and intermittent communication from the firm left shoppers wanting. There were discussions about how to get a PayPal refund, and even threats of getting the Better Business Bureau involved.
‘Production Snafu’
The problems started when, with unexpectedly high and relentless demand, Thursday Friday had to work with an unfamiliar factory which was not only seven weeks late with orders but produced bags of unacceptable quality that Thursday Friday wouldn’t sell to customers. Even once a suitable factory was booked, it was slow to replenish stocks.
“During this production snafu, we understandably got more incoming customer emails, and this volume overwhelmed our support team,” Creative Director Roni Brunn, half of the Thursday Friday duo, told G’DayBklyn. “We’ve been hiring and training new staffers with the same eye for quality and care that we have for our products. Again, this level of attention to detail has created another lag – a delay in answering support emails.”
What there has been all along though is enormous publicity for the bags – from blogs like this to The New York Times, Elle and The Daily Mail, and a prolific Twitter, Facebook and Tumblr presence by the company. That presence, as it turns out, can be both a blessing and a curse. Sure, a company can promote itself brilliantly through social media, but on the flipside, when something goes awry all those chatty friends and followers have a very public place to rant. And that they did.
A string of negative comments and delivery queries litters Thursday Friday’s Facebook page. So much so, that the company repeatedly asked people to take their issues to customer support rather than use Facebook as a complaint forum.
“We try our best with those whose frustrations are voiced on Facebook, and we completely understand that our responses may not work for everyone,” said Brunn. She said the company contemplated sending an email to customers “but thought it’d be whiney of us. We’re lucky to have anyone interested in our products and just want to push through any setback.”
Interestingly, even bad publicity – in the form of legal action from French luxury brand Hermes, whose iconic Birkin bag inspired the Together tote – has only fueled demand for the quirky bags.
Hermes, whose Birkin bags sell for upwards of $9,000, contends that Thursday Friday is “riding on the reputation and recognition of the Birkin Bag” to sell its otherwise generic tote. And in so doing, Hermes says Thursday Friday is creating confusion among customers and putting Hermes’ reputation at risk.
I’m not sure that anyone is confused by a leather bag worth thousands and a cotton tote, but the suit has done nothing to damp demand for Together bags.
As we cross our fingers that the wait really is coming to an end, Brunn assures Together bag carriers can still be the coolest kids on the block.
“These bags aren’t close to ubiquitous,” she said, putting a positive spin on the setbacks and delays. “People who ordered them in January will still be among the first to carry them.”
I’m not sure I get exactly what this show is all about, but I do know I want to go. The idea of paper clothes and faeries and cupcakes is about all the lure I need. But if you need more, here are the details accompanying the invitation:
“Come out to frolic at Papertopias Frisky Faeries Fashion show! This is a life-sized paper doll fashion show exploding with glamor, treachery and sass. The show explores voyeuristic glimpses of a changing identity, with each paper outfit taking its inspiration from a beloved children’s book character.
There will be music performed by DJ T3db0t, devilish sweet treats … mayhem, trickery, life size paper doll fashions, original paper doll art work, and a fabulous dance party after.”
Papertopias was created by Ruth Irving, an artist who creates custom doll sets from her Brooklyn studio. Irving trained in architecture at University of Florida, and has honed her studies to stretch the boundaries of the paper dolls we’re all familiar with by melding history, glamor and the fantasy of future fashions.
Papertopias debuted its life-size paper fashions in a show last month at Urban Alchemist, a design collective on 5th Street in Brooklyn.
The second performance this Friday, March 18, starts at 8pm at Brooklyn Collective. Even if you don’t get the paper doll thing, it’s a great excuse to check out local art, jewelry and other quirky stuff on show and on sale at the collective.
Brooklyn Collective is at 212 Columbia Street, between Union + Sackett Streets. Phone 718.596.6231.
They say the economy is on the mend, the worst is over, people are spending again. THEY clearly don’t live near my block in brownstone Brooklyn, where store after store on Smith Street, between Degraw and Douglass streets, has shuttered or moved on.
In just a few recent weeks, Stinky Bklyn has laid out plans to move further along Smith Street to bigger digs, while neighboring Salsa Salon shut up shop. Andie Woo, a quirky underthings store next to Oaxaca Tacos, also faded from existence. I should have seen it coming when I was in there on a Saturday afternoon in late February, taking advantage of the huge half-off sale. When I returned about a week later, the windows were papered over, the signs were down: it was all over.
Adios Andie Woo
There may be one bright spot amid the shutterings though. I’m told the Andie Woo site is poised to reopen but not as a clothing store. Word is that it will be a deli similar to the famed Russ and Daughters on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, selling smoked fish and other deli treats. There’s no news on an opening date yet, but I’ll be tracking this one with bagel in hand.
Meantime, there are now almost half as many boarded up shops or ones for rent on the Carroll Gardens block as there are occupied businesses. On the side closest to Court Street, for example, there are 10 storefronts, including the big empty lot on the corner that promises to become some sort of sprawling residential/commercial development, and only four actually in operation, Refinery and Video Free Brooklyn among them.
Adding to the ghost-town feel, most of the stores are closed by 10pm or earlier, so it makes for a dark, desolate strip heading to or from the subway.
As recently as 2009, the same block boasted the restaurant Patois, which has long been credited as a pioneer in getting Smith Street going. When Patois closed after more than a decade, speculation brewed that it would reopen across the street, but it never happened and the bistro took its business to Manhattan’s Little Italy instead.
Provence en Boite opened a few years ago on the corner of Smith and Degraw, and the owners said they added sidewalk tables, a bench and flowerpots with hopes of creating a bustling corner and rejuvenating the block. Then came Stinky Bklyn and Oaxaca Tacos, and the block did indeed seem brighter. Thankfully Oaxaca’s original spot – now one of three in Brooklyn and Manhattan – seems set to stay. And Provence en Boite followed up almost a year ago with spin-off JB’s Burger.
But “it is scary,” said Leslie Bernat, who with her husband Jean-Jacques Bernat owns and runs Provence en Boite and JB’s Burger. “It is hard with the economy like it is, to know what is going to happen next. It worries us very much.”
Not to mention elsewhere along Smith Street where mom and pop stores have been closing for years because of soaring rents and the ever-changing demographic of the neighborhood. They’ve been replaced in many cases with cookie cutter ice-cream shops and clones of stores already across the Gowanus in Park Slope.
The comic book haven Rocketship and the Big Apple Deli across the street both closed recently, the doomed restaurant of many names – Banania, Porchetta, Carniceria – hasn’t been able to find a niche that will keep it open, and Brooklyn Camo, one of my personal favorites for rain boots and hiking socks, shutdown awhile back as did my drycleaner, which was replaced with another innocuous deli.
Add to the list the Brooklyn Indie Market near Carroll Park, which has a For Rent sign on the weathered tent. They announced last month that after four years on Smith Street they won’t be back, even once the weather improves. And this is just a handful of the businesses that have gone in the few years I’ve lived in the neighborhood.
Ok, so my birthday is far enough past that I don’t feel completely gratuitous bragging about the most beautiful gift ever from the best husband ever. And before everyone prepares to retch slightly at all this syrupy joy, let me be honest.
Yes, dear husband does have excellent taste. But no, he wasn’t just randomly surfing vintage websites in search of the perfect gift for me. He did however take the hint when I thrust the laptop in front of him and sighed, “Isn’t this divine!”
It won’t surprise anyone who knows me that the chain comes from my favorite purveyor of high-end vintage clothes and accessories Rice and Beans Vintage. It is a vintage 1970s Gucci gold and enamel GG chain, which can be worn either as a belt or a necklace. It is casual and glamorous all at once.
My husband suggested I buy it as my birthday present and I followed orders. When he asked the next day if I planned to buy the necklace, it was already making its way from Maine to Brooklyn and it was worn out for the very first time to birthday dinner.
I don’t know if I am imagining it, but there seems to be a resurgence of demand and adoration of the Gucci brand, which has played second fiddle on and off over the years to the ever fashionable Chanel. I’m merely an armchair follower of haute fashion, and a frugal one at that, but while Chanel is forever, Florence-based Gucci seems to have slipped on a hip, rejuvenated vibe as it celebrates its 90th anniversary.
At Milan Fashion Week, for instance, Gucci just unveiled its Fall 2011 Ready-to-Wear collection, loaded with color, fur and Fedoras to create what Gucci Creative Director Frida Giannini called a “contemporary female dandy.” Giannini cited UK singer Florence Welch, of Florence and the Machine, as an inspiration for the collection.
Also feeding into Gucci’s celebratory vibe, the fashion house and Italian car giant Fiat used Milan’s Fashion Week to roll out the adorable “500 by Gucci.” The special edition and highly covetable version of Fiat’s iconic 500 car marks Gucci’s anniversary and the 150th anniversary of a unified Italian peninsula.
Gucci’s Giannini custom designed the zippy city-car, which comes in white or black and is distinguished from the regular Fiat 500 by Gucci’s signature green-red-green stripe. It will be sold online from April 1 to June 30, with a price tag beginning at 17,000 euros or roughly $24,000 US dollars.
I wonder how big a hint I will need to give dear husband for the car – in white please!
We don’t get out much together. Dear husband works late weeknights, which leaves only weekends for adult dinners. So on the rare occasions we have a sitter and actually do get to go out, it really bites to have a less than enjoyable time.
Enter the communal table.
A long sturdy wooden table conjures notions of comfort and nostalgia. It takes you back to a toasty kitchen, crowded with family and friends and a grandmother or aunts reigning over bubbling pots and roasting pans. The communal table can convey a sharing of bounty and acceptance.
Increasingly, restaurants are installing large communal tables in part to recreate that homely vibe and often times to maximize square footage and revenue potential per customer. To be sure, you can squeeze more paying diners around a long table, than you can fit individual tables, and that matters when space is tight and overheads high.
It can be nice too in a big city like New York where you might be lunching solo with just a book to keep you company. Pulling up a chair at the communal tables at one of the Frenchified global Le Pain Quotidien restaurants in Manhattan, for instance, feels easy and inconspicuous. There is enough space that you can get by with barely a nod at your neighbors, if you don’t feel like engaging them.
And I’ve never thought twice about joining a large round table for Chinese dim sum. In fact, it’s pretty much the only way a singleton or a couple can join in the parade of passing carts to slurp noodles and dip dumplings during bustling weekend hours. Thankfully, people are there to eat, not make friends, so rarely have I attracted much attention beyond the usual stares at another ignorant gweilo.
This brings me to a recent, rare date night when we agreed a little hesitantly to sit at a communal table. The restaurant of choice was crowded and there was a lengthy wait for a 2-top, so it seemed harmless enough sitting side by side at the end of the table. Shortly after we sat down, more people joined the table and the wait staff assumed understandably that we were together. We pointed out that we were separate parties but as timing had it, our orders were taken and food was served in sync.
It was fine for a moment as we kept to ourselves but I sensed that the couple across from us was just dying to make eye contact. Well, I went there; I made the mistake of acknowledging our fellow diners and exchanging pleasantries. I thought we could go on with our meals then, unencumbered, but the chatter went on and on and I found myself trapped in conversation with a stranger as our partners stared into space.
Our date night was being sabotaged by a chatty young woman who, worse still, complained that her meal was overcooked. Here lies the peril in the communal table; friendly neighbors are one thing, but incessant talkers and whiners are deal breakers.
Unpleasant Standoff
The woman sent back her plate and sat glumly through the rest of the meal, making us feel uncomfortable enjoying our own food. When her check arrived she balked at being charged for her discarded meal and called over the chef-owner, who tried graciously to make amends while we tried our hardest not to listen. It was assumed again that we were a group and somehow we became bystanders to an unpleasant standoff.
What began as date night had morphed into a Seinfeld episode.
I wanted to crawl under that wretched communal table. And dear husband chided me for being sociable. “Don’t talk to strangers,” he urged. “It can only end badly.”
Thankfully the offending couple left and the staff, realizing once and for all that we weren’t with them, apologized for our neighbors and our lost evening. But we were scarred, vowing to never again sit at a communal table as a couple, or unless the sociable one – me – is gagged.
Sure, communal dining has its merits. It can be nice to see what others are eating, or to join in a party atmosphere if you happen to sit near a fun crowd. And with a big group of your own friends or with children in tow there are enough distractions to ward off needy neighbors. In fact, we’ve had some great dinners with the kids at Brooklyn’s Buttermilk Channel when we’ve landed at the communal table surrounded by families celebrating birthdays or graduations and letting us in on the fun.
But as a couple desperate for some “alone” time, beware!
One day, when I grow up and have a house, I want a room in it just like the wonderful, whimsical Park Here, an indoor garden housed at Soho’s Openhouse Gallery for the past couple of months.
Openhouse Gallery is an exhibition and installation space, pop-up retail location and events venue at 201 Mulberry Street in Nolita. The notion to create an indoor, pop-up park is ingenious and I only wish I had bothered to go there sooner.
Tree stumps, fake grass, a pond filled with coins and neat faux leaves entwined on branches, enlivened by chirping birds and perfumed air, make for the perfect winter haven. Take a book, a laptop or a kid and lean on a tree trunk, grab a park bench or nab a huge cushion and while away a bleak afternoon.
Entry to the “park” is free but if you get peckish, Brooklyn’s own Robicelli’s Cupcakes were on sale this closing weekend, as well as brownie treats from The Chocolate Swirl, and other vendors have been in place through the season. It’s just a few steps to restrooms unlike in most parks, and there are no grass stains or muddy boots to worry about.
It’s a fabulous idea, but of course all great ideas need money, so this, sadly, is the last weekend of Park Here. Though, according to the Openhouse Facebook page, they’ll be setting up again next Winter!
If you can get there before it closes tomorrow, Park Here is open from 11am to 6pm at Openhouse Gallery, 201 Mulberry Street, between Spring and Kenmare Streets.
There are certain foods I love the idea of, but which never really live up to my expectations in their execution; scallops, for instance. Don’t even get my husband started on how many times I have ordered scallops in a restaurant and then been disappointed.
Fried chicken is another. I love the sound of chicken soaked in buttermilk and fried to a crunchy, well-salted shell with tender chicken within, but am frequently underwhelmed, even at restaurants I count among my favorites. It’s me, it’s not you, I want to tell them.
Finally, though, I may have met the fried chicken I always think I am going to get. It came in a huge, thick portion piled on a toasted bun with red slaw at the just-opened Van Horn Sandwich Shop on Court Street, Cobble Hill.
I don’t usually write about places after only one visit but an hour after finishing that sandwich, and I am still thinking about biting into the delicious fried chicken. A pickle and some tastily dressed greens come with the simple sandwich. There are a bunch of other Southern-style sandwiches, including a cornmeal dredged catfish, smoked pulled pork, a blt and a vegetarian version with smoked sweet potato strips, a plt. Plus, there’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich ideal for kids, and for their parents, a beer and cocktail list.
I have to return with a group next time to justify ordering a Pimms Cup and sides of hush puppies, mac and cheese, roasted beets and collard greens.
Van Horn Sandwich Shop is a collaboration between architect Jacob Van Horn and chef Rick Hauchman, who both grew up in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and crossed paths again years later in Brooklyn. While Southern at heart and in menu, the eatery has a clean, modern feel with high bentwood stools and plenty of bar space so that eating alone, as I did, doesn’t feel conspicuous. It’s also entrenched in the neighborhood by sourcing ingredients from local producers including Caputo’s Bakery and Paisano’s Meat Market.
Until now, the location at 231 Court Street has seemed somewhat cursed. It previously housed Café Ribant, which formerly went by the name Café Mei Mei, and never really took off as either. And it was Jill’s before that. I’m rooting for this sandwich shop, and I think all bodes well, especially with much-acclaimed newcomer Brucie across the road, Strong Place and Karloff down the street and stalwarts like Quercy and Sam’s Restaurant just a stone’s throw away.
Van Horn Sandwich Shop is at 231 Court Street, between Warren + Baltic streets.; phone: 718.596.9707.
This totally falls into the “why the heck didn’t I think of it” category. And yes, I know it has been all over fashion blogs and mags here and abroad but I love it and cannot resist. If, like me, you’re unlikely to have a spare $20,000 anytime soon to invest in a covetable Hermès handbag, then meet the Together bag created by LA-based accessories label Thursday Friday.
These canvas shoppers are fully lined with an interior pocket for phone and keys; what sets them apart from all the other canvas carryalls being schlepped by gym rats, diaper-toting mamas, greenmarket goers and the environmentally conscious alike is the pop-arty Hermès inspired bag print on all five exterior sides.
They’re cheeky, good-looking and practical. Trouble is, just like the iconic Birkin bag they’re “modeled” on, the Together bags sold out within weeks of their launch last year and are now back ordered.
The bags, a sort of anti-status, status symbol and sturdy enough to carry in rain, sun or snow, come in red, blue or camel and with a very manageable $35 price tag. To order, click here.
I have made no secret of my love of stripes, the French-Navy-striped “la marinière,” in particular and French label Petit Bateau is one of the masters of the iconic striped tee. Even better when Petit Bateau has a massive sample sale and it’s just a brisk walk away from home.
I was late to the game on this sale – it began in early December – but it is in full swing still until the end of January and there was plenty of stock at last check.
I scored a classic, long-sleeved stripey top pour moi and about five adorable shirts for the kids. Everything was at least half price, often even more; think $15 for a red + white striped boys’ cotton tee. Like any sample sale, you have to dig through boxes and there isn’t a fitting room. The chap running the show is incredibly accommodating though and let me slip things on over my clothes. For the record, if you happen to be petite and small chested in particular, don’t worry that there aren’t many tops in women’s small – try the 12, a sort of teen/junior sizing – and it will likely work just fine.
There are pants, tunics and a smattering of skirts and underwear too, but the real boon is in the tops.
The sale is at 219 Seventh Avenue, between Third + Fourth Streets. Cash and credit cards are accepted.
My American husband’s birthday coincides with Australia Day, so every year we toy with the idea of celebrating both events in one place. We’ve thought about the big black-tie shindig at Cipriani but the price tag is too steep, so we usually wind up downing Coopers and kangaroo in the (heated) garden at Eight Mile Creek.
Well, it’s almost that time of the year again.
G’Day USA kicked off January 15 to 29 with a string of events designed to showcase Australian business prowess in the US. The program spans eight cities including NY, LA, Boston, Houston and San Francisco, and events include conferences, forums and product sampling covering new business, art, education and tourism.
For Americans, Australia Day is the Aussie equivalent of July 4 Independence Day, complete with fireworks and a national holiday. Every year, January 26 commemorates the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788, the hoisting of the British flag there, and the proclamation of British sovereignty.
The official national day Down Under is marked by an address from the Prime Minister and the Order of Australia and Australian of the Year awards. That, and a whole lot of partying and beer-swilling, as well as some level of national pride from old and new Australians alike. Though, from my experience (and I have been away a long time …) Aussies aren’t big hand-on-the-heart patriots in the same way as Americans. It is, afterall, a nation built largely by convicts and with a longstanding guilt borne from mistreatment of indigenous Australians, the Aborigines.
History aside, New York-based Aussies with a spare $250 could grab a ticket and a gown or dinner suit for the Australia Day Black Tie Gala on January 28 at Cipriani Wall Street. Better still; try convincing your company to buy a ten-seat corporate table for $2000-plus.
One of the highlights at this year’s New York event, hosted by G’Day USA and the American Australian Association, will be performances by cast members of the upcoming Broadway version of Priscilla Queen of the Desert. But be warned, this event always sells out fast.
If that’s not your scene, I suggest beginning Australia Day with a flat white and a breakfast pie at one of Tuckshop’s three downtown Manhattan locations – they opened a third in Chelsea Market in November – or at DUB Pies across the river in Brooklyn.
For dinner, Eight Mile Creek is one of my faves, with its special three-course Australia Day Dinner for a fixed $42 that includes kangaroo skewers with a pepperberry ketchup and a rack of Australian lamb or seared tuna, and best of all the dessert plate with a mini pavlova, sticky date pudding and lamingtons! When you’re done with dinner, head downstairs to the bar for the drink specials and party until 4am!
Another biggie is the annual New York Magpies event to be held Saturday, January 22 at Nevada Smiths on Third Ave. It’s a gathering of football-and-beer-loving Aussies complete with Tuckshop’s meatpies, Keith the Koala handing out Tim Tams – a beloved Australian chocolate biscuit – Aussie music and of course plenty of footy and cricket on the tvs. For tickets go to nyfooty.com.
Or check out The Sunburnt Cow, The Sunburnt Calf, Bondi Road or Brooklyn’s Sheep Station. And for watering holes within stumbling blocks of each other, head to The Australian or Van Diemens, where the beer and wine will be flowing.
Straight from the runways to the stores, it’s all about stripes for Spring 2011. To be sure, stripes are never out of style – think Coco Chanel in a classic French-sailor striped tee or “la marinière,” Audrey Hepburn or even James Dean, proving even pretty, bad boys can rock horizontal stripes.
You cannot step into high street retailers Forever 21, H&M, Zara or even Old Navy right now without stripes jumping out at you. These pics (above) show just a smidge of what’s on offer at Forever 21 in New York’s Union Square. There’s traditional blue and white, nautical red, white and blue and even knotted nautical-style rope belts and a quirky Popeye t-shirt to accent the theme.
It seems every place is screaming Hello Sailor for Spring.
I’ve been wondering about this quaint sign hanging from the Carroll Street Bridge since I first noticed it late last year on one of my daily walks over the Gowanus Canal.
I cross this bridge four times a day – to and from my children’s school – and cars zoom by, and cyclists go any direction they want. Most, I am guessing have never even noticed the sign, which hangs high above this New York City landmark, and most certainly wouldn’t slowdown to avoid a paltry $5 fine!
It turns out it’s a neat reproduction by the DOT of an original sign that hung over the Carroll Street Bridge back when horses and carriages not lead-footed car drivers plodded from Bond to Nevins Street. Five dollars was, no doubt, a lot of money then.
For fact freaks, the Carroll Street Bridge was opened to traffic in 1889 by the Brooklyn Department of City Works (when Brooklyn was a city). It’s one of the oldest bridges in New York City and one of only two retractile, or sliding, bridges left in New York, and the oldest of four left in the US. There is a retractile bridge at Borden Avenue in Queens and two others in Boston.
Almost one year ago to the day, my Godmother died. She had been sick for a very long time with an invasive cancer that chewed through her body and her spirit and finally won. My parents were in New York for Christmas, visiting from Australia where my Godmother, my fathers’ elder sister, also lived. I wept at the time, mostly for my father who felt guilty being away when the inevitable happened.
Today, I wept again; steadily and perhaps irrationally.
I returned from a festive lunch with family friends at a local Italian joint and was told our doorman for the best part of this year had died suddenly and all too young. Curtis was not just the guy who signed for my parcels or buzzed me into the building; he was the one person I chatted to daily about the weather, the kids, whatever; he played soccer with my children and chased them around outside.
Curtis was a good guy who years ago gave up the rat race after he suffered a massive heart attack. But he kept smoking – a lot. He told me once that he wished his children wouldn’t smoke, but that he had been doing it so long, he couldn’t give up now.
I expected to see him this morning when I stepped out early with my yoga mat slung over my shoulder, but the super was at the door, wearing an awkward smile. Upon returning late this evening, he said Curtis has passed earlier in the day from heart problems.
I have wept uncontrollably since, for a man I scarcely knew. I can’t spell his last name; tell you his address or his birth date. Though I know he was barely past 50.
Is it selfish that I will miss his chatter each day when I head outside, or his weather forecast before I leave, or his kind words for my children? The last exchange we had was Thursday afternoon when the kids told him silly jokes and he laughed heartily. Curtis is survived by his two grown children, one of whom also works in our building. My thoughts and prayers go to his family.
Happenings like this make me embrace New York even more. We have had so many doormen and maintenance men through the years, many whom my children have become attached to. There was Angel who helped my son build a robot dragon; Robert who joked around with the kids and snuck them candy when they thought I wasn’t looking, and Anthony, who told my daughter she was beautiful and tickled my son until he giggled uncontrollably. They all left for one reason or another, probably immune to the impact their leavings had on us.
For big-city kids, and their parents, these men who earn minimum wage and work around the clock, are the equivalent of uncles or close family friends. They are often times a link to people and cultures we might not otherwise get to know.
Most importantly, they are friends. Rest in peace Curtis, we will miss you.
I have horrible feet. Really ugly, wide, hard-to-fit feet that at any given time are plastered with at least one Bandaid and a myriad of shoe-related injuries. My feet are clearly not meant to be trapped in shoes; either that, or I’m not meant to walk as far as I do each day in footwear.
I saw a guy on television last week who rarely wears shoes. Dubbed the “barefoot professor” by his students, Daniel Howell has made a career – and written The Barefoot Book: 50 Good Reasons to Kick Off Your Shoes – about his barefoot endeavours. An Associate Professor of Biology at Liberty University, where he teaches Human Anatomy & Physiology, Howell has long hiked and run barefoot and decided to extend it to the rest of his life out of comfort and curiosity.
He said he was even removed from an airplane en route to New York because he did not have on shoes: he had to go to Old Navy for flip flops before they would let him back on the plane. It seems odd that in this post shoe-bomber age, with shoe removal and pat-downs the standard for air travel, a shoeless man is viewed as a threat. But I digress.
Given access to unrealistically clean streets and spotless floors, I may go barefoot too. It’s no surprise then that I am not a shoe person. Handbags, YES, but shoes, not so much.
I’ve marveled but never embraced the passion my friends have for their shoes; the Carrie Bradshaw-esque love affair with sky-high, feather and bauble-adorned shoes queued on closet shelves. Love fashion as I do, I haven’t braved a Manolo Blahnik sale or a Christian Louboutin frenzy because skinny shoes with pointy toes just aren’t an option for me. Or so I thought until I wandered recently into a newish consignment store m.a.e. in Park Slope.
The owner, a self-proclaimed “shoe girl” with a predilection for Manolos and a size 10 foot, opened a whole new world of shoes to me. She waved off protests that my feet were too wide for pretty little shoes and sat me down with a stack of beauties in swag of different sizes until I found pairs that fit and looked fabulous. Because of the long pointy toes, I had to go up a size or so, but many of the shoes actually worked.
My spirits lifted: I couldn’t believe that for all these years I’ve dwelled on horrid childhood experiences as confirmation that gnarly, wide feet should be hidden in Doc Marten’s and the like.
my foot = a pasty
I recall someone close to me (you know who you are) likening my feet to pasties, a broad semi-circle pastry stuffed with meat and vegetables (see right), and calling the shoes of my youth clodhoppers!
I strutted out of m.a.e. with a dainty pair of vintage Chanel black + white kitten heels, and a new confidence about shoe shopping. I’m still not quite ready for the Louboutin sale, but at least now I will bother to keep on trying shoes to see what works.
m.a.e. isn’t just about shoes; there are a couple of racks of designer-label clothes and some handbags too, but the shoe selection sets the place apart from other neighborhood consignment stores. Beacon’s Closet it is not. There is a definite bent towards Manolo Blahnik, either gently or barely worn, and at a fraction of their retail prices. The last time I stopped by there were vintage Gucci loafers and pumps as well as plenty of Prada, and some Chanel and Ferragamo.
m.a.e. is at 453 7th Avenue, between 15th and 16th streets in Park Slope, 718.788.7070.
Spotted on a recent stroll up Carroll Street towards Third Avenue – the Graffiti-Free NYC truck removing spray-painted scribblings from a residential building. I had never seen the truck in the neighborhood and I certainly wasn’t aware of the City’s Graffiti Free NYC Program, which offers free graffiti removal to properties throughout the five boroughs.
If you want a graffiti-busting van to come cleanup your site, you can call 311 or fill out a Forever Graffiti Free form. Typically, a cleaning crew will show up within about 35 days after the City is notified there’s a problem, and either repaint or power wash away the graffiti. If you want to do it yourself, Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s Paint Program will provide supplies and paints for community-based and volunteer groups to plan and execute their own cleanup projects.
I’ve written before how much I like topical or artistic graffiti but sadly much of it polluting local walls is just juvenile vandalism, and for that ilk there’s Graffiti Free NYC.
It’s the little things, like picking pumpkins with the kids and then carving silly faces into them that make a windy weekend a fun one. We headed to the Red Hook Community Farm for the 5th annual Red Hook Harvest Festival. Besides a farm market and live chooks and bunnies, there are always great local food stands – The Good Fork, iCi, and the Lobster
Pound among them this year – and the pumpkin patch. Somehow in 12 years in the US I had managed to never carve a pumpkin. So today, that changed. The kids were happy and dare I say, I was too. It is the simple things really …
Barneys Co-Op opened calmly today on Atlantic Ave in Brooklyn. There was no long line to get in, no glitterati and very little fanfare. It was the perfect entree for the uber hip store on a stretch of Atlantic Ave. shared largely with Middle Eastern grocers.
Keeping it local and low key, simply dressed wait-staff offered trays of mini cookies – coconut orange and black and white among them – from One Girl Cookies on nearby Dean Street, and a bar was set up to the back of the store. But there was no over-the-top flash or pretension. It felt comfortable and jolly; the staff all very happy to chat and answer questions, many of them new to the Barneys franchise.
The clothes of course are gorgeous and pricey. The store is split between two levels, with designer denim – think J brand Houlihan skinny cargo pants and Current/Elliott boyfriend jeans – and more casual gear downstairs.
Today was mostly about browsing, with plenty of stroller-pushing mothers stopping by for a look; longer term, it will be interesting to see if the new the Co-Op store, aimed at a young, fashion-forward crowd – and dubbed the “wayward offspring” of Barneys New York – can tempt locals to part with a big chunk of change for an of-the-moment Rag & Bone or Alexander Wang creation.
Forget the pink leopard Mulberry for Target bag – it’s pink crocodile I am lusting after. This iconic Hermes Kelly bag in fuchsia is totally a “wish list” item, dream list perhaps with an almost $30k price tag but I like to look nonetheless. I stumbled across it at Bswank.com, a luxury resale website I like to ogle for covetable, if not (yet?) attainable, designer pieces.
For the record, this divine Kelly bag is pink Nile crocodile with palladium hardware. The details state that the Nile crocodile is farmed in Zimbabwe and that gorgeous high gloss is achieved by buffing with stone. Hermes, the French luxury-goods house, introduced the bag in the 1930s but its popularity soared much later when in 1956 Princess Grace Kelly of Monaco was snapped carrying a large black crocodile Kelly bag, which she used to shield her pregnant tummy from paparazzi. After the image ran on the cover of Life Magazine, the bag became a hit and was later renamed the Kelly bag.
“One of my clients has an incredible collection of amazing Hermes bags in all sorts of skins and colors and is consolidating her collection, hence I have several divine pieces on consignment,” says Lucyann Barry, the founder of Lucyann Barry Luxury Resale, in a sales blurb accompanying the bag.
I am always fascinated that people have piles of these luxury pieces stashed away in grand closets, being the kind of gal who treasures her single vintage Chanel handbag and would be happy – satisfied even – to add maybe one more and call it a day.
This is the “chosen one” from the much anticipated handbag collaboration between English luxury house Mulberry and Target – that went on sale today in stores and online. It’s the bag people are talking about and angling for – and at last check today, the large cerise leopard tote priced at $49.99 was out of stock at Target.com though I’m sure supplies are being replenished. A couple of other, less out-there designs were also sold out online hours after going on sale. But surely I am missing something? Perhaps it is more luxe looking in person, or perhaps I just don’t like pink and black leopard print, but I really don’t get the appeal of this bag. Judge for yourselves of course, but move fast – these bags are flying off the virtual shelves.
Naturally the one bag I do like enough at $49.99 – the large denim satchel – also sold out online on day one of the latest designer team-up with Target. Though I would quickly remove the dangling heart, which doesn’t appeal to me. I guess the drawcard with all of these bags is the similarity in styling to the way more expensive and equally-coveted Mulberry handbags that sell for hundreds of dollars. Mulberry was established in 1971 in Somerset, England, and fast became the first British lifestyle brand for its attention to craftsmanship and quality.
As mother of a 5 year old who has refused to wear anything but skinny jeans for the past two years, shunning all other legwear as “too puffy”, my recent shopping finds should come as no surprise. And yet, somehow, I’m stunned at the insidious spread of the dreaded JEGGING to children’s wear and beyond.
I was in Old Navy one recent morning before work and wandered over to girls’ leggings to find, hanging alongside the ubiquitous multicolored leggings, baby jeggings. Just like mama owns, only in sizes from toddler to tween..
If somehow you missed the advent of the jegging, let me explain. It’s basically a denim jean in legging form, – so a super-stretchy blue jean, usually with an elastic waistband and often with jean-like stitching details – hence the unfortunate name, jegging. Besides the horrible name, I don’t object to the product per se. Who doesn’t love to pull on something comfortable that gives, tucks neatly into high boots or looks just as good with ballet flats. Jeggings – I love mine from Uniqlo – can look great.
And then there’s the other side. It’s tricky for women to pull off the skintight silhouette, disguising womanly lumps and bumps under long tunics. Plus, I often feel badly that I resort to the legging look all too much, rather than structured clothing with zippers and buttons. It concerns me sometimes that we – me included – are rearing our children largely unaware of belts, buttons and shoelaces.
That said, it seems the jegging, along with elastic and Velcro are here to stay. And not just in the children’s aisle.
Legwear for men is getting an overhaul too, with man leggings – meggings perhaps – on the runways and already in some fashion forward retailers. The UK’s Daily Mail reported last month that men also are increasingly keen to wear tights. So much so that Selfridges in London has a range of man pantyhose – yep mantyhose – designed exclusively for guy-sized legs.
The mantyhose are made by lingerie brand Unconditional and are a sturdy 120 denier thick. At about 70 GBP a pair or roughly $111 US dollars, the look doesn’t come cheap and really, hipster, fashionista, whatever, this just cannot be a good look en masse.
It’s nothing new of course; think court jesters, ballet dancers, some athletes, Superheros and rockstars – meggings and mantyhose have been on the radar for years. But in 2010/2011, unless you’re Spidey or glam -metal rocker Bret Michaels, perhaps stick with a manbag instead.
It’s not often that I am reduced to tears by a news story but the latest tragic tale of a Rutgers University student killing himself after fellow students outed him on the Internet makes me sick enough to cry.
As a human, it makes me wonder what sort of children we are raising that two college students would think it a funny prank to ridicule another person’s sexuality in public. And as a mother, I feel a massive responsibility to ensure that my children would never think to treat another like this, and to protect them from ever being bullied.
Tyler Clementi jumped off the George Washington Bridge on Sept. 22 after learning that his roommate and another student had used a webcam to film a sexual encounter between Clementi and another man and posted it not once, but twice on the Internet . The two 18-year-old freshmen Dharun Ravi and Molly Wei are charged with invasion of privacy, with the most serious charges carrying a penalty of up to five years in prison. Of course, nothing will bring back Clementi or any of the other young people who have taken their lives after repeated bullying.
What really gets to me, besides obviously the length Clementi felt he had to go to in order to flee the public humiliation inflicted by his perverted roommate, but just why anyone would think it okay, let alone funny, to target a boy for being gay. I realise this is naive of me, but I really thought we had come far enough that young adults – especially once at college-age – didn’t have to hide their sexual preference.
Back in the old days when I was at school, I’m sure there were mean girls. I remember being teased for having Greek heritage (unlike some of the pristine WASPS I schooled with), oh and for wearing glasses, and being on the debating team but it was harmless stuff back then. I don’t remember ever feeling shut out by it, and certainly not suicidal. What has happened to make kids so extraordinarily horrible to their peers?
Apparently while technology has made leaps and bounds, allowing social networking sites such as Twitter and Facebook to broadcast exploits far and wide and encroach on privacy all around, kids today are dragging their knuckles on the ground and getting thrills from belittling anyone different to themselves.
Bullying is alive and well, and with more terrifying consequences than ever.
I love this vintage button pin featuring graphic art by Carol Summers, a master American print maker renowned for his intensely vivid colors and woodblock techniques. The pin is stamped 1971, and may have some collectible value as do Summers’ prints. The Santa Cruz resident has works in museums including The Art Institute of Chicago, Biblioteque National in Paris, New York’s Museum of Modern Art and Brooklyn Museum of Fine Arts.
But for me, the cool vintage pin – purchased from my favorite online vintage store http://www.riceandbeansvintage.com/– is all about wearable art. I plan to use it to drape and pin into place some of my oversized, slouchy winter sweaters. Or maybe I’ll pin it on my bag the way my kids do with their superhero pins!
I’m also loving this Claudia Pearson poster for its bright cheekiness. It’s the first in a series of hand-drawn type posters featuring some classic and some more obscure song lyrics. This one was inspired by Roy Ayers “We Live in Brooklyn Baby!” Pearson, a Brooklyn local, has been published in the New York Times, Elle, The New Yorker and The Big Book of Illustration, among others. She also has one children’s book and is working on another. Besides prints like the one pictured, her illustrations are available on tea towels, totes, cards and books. You can find her work in her etsy store.
I am not the crunchy, granola-making sort BUT I am having a clog moment as the weather turns and the Havaianas no longer cut it to run the kids to school on a chilly, wet morning. Plus, I am not very good at wearing shoes. Seriously, no matter what shoes I wear I manage to end up with red, chewed-up heels and other assorted blisters and bumps. I am obviously meant to be barefoot but since that isn’t practical roaming the Brooklyn streets, clogs – which have no back – seem like a practical alternative. What’s more, they could work well with the whole knee-high-sock-trend that’s promising to be big this Fall. I haven’t owned clogs since I was a very young girl back in Adelaide and probably still in primary (elementary) school, and I probably haven’t worn knee-high socks since then either – but this Fall, it’s all about to change. I like the lightweight Sven clogs, available online or at Refinery on Smith Street, the go-to for Brooklyn women searching for clogs or the other staple Saltwater Sandals. I know there are much fancier and pricier clogs out there right now, but I’m thinking Sven might do the job and be a good “trainer” clog so to speak.
Brucie, the new Italian restaurant-market on Court Street, is finally open and in spite of my early hesitation at the name, the menu looks worthy of a few tries. That, and the fact that while I loitered outside peeking in this morning not only did a local walk by and tell me the food is terrific but the people inside waved and a guy, who turned out to be the chef-owner’s boyfriend, came out and chatted enthusiastically about the new business.
I’m loving the sound of the panelle sandwich with ricotta, vinegar peppers and honey for $9, the Finnociano Salami sandwich with fig mustard, provolone and fennel slaw at $10 and the roasted cauliflower lasagna with hazelnuts and pesto at $11. As is the rampant trend, produce and meats are locally sourced and the menu changes according to daily availability. Whatever is cooking, for example chicken parmigiana, will also be available to take home from the mini market set-up.
The restaurant opened ominously last week during the now-infamous Brooklyn tornado touchdown. But in good spirits, the guy I chatted to today figured that was a good omen. I already like the cheerful buzz of Brucie and will be trying it soon!
The hours for now are Tuesday to Sunday 5pm to 10pm but once they are up and running, I’m told there are plans to open all day, including brunch. Brucie replaces the defunct sushi joint Cube 63 at 234 Court Street, near the corner of Kane Street. Here’s an example of the menu posted on the website at www.brucienyc.com.
So, way back before the long summer hiatus, I wrote about the Brooklyn Collective moving locations into its very own sprawling 1,500 square foot digs complete with artists’ studio space and room enough to run classes. Well, the space is open and to celebrate, they’re having a re-opening party! Collective parties are always fun and packed, so go and have a complimentary cocktail, browse a whole bunch of new pieces from local artisans – there are about 30 new collections on show – and shop.
The party will be held Friday, October 1 between 7pm and 11pm at the new Brooklyn Collective , 212 Columbia Street, between Union and Sackett Streets.
I have lived in the United States for some 12 years. I married a US Citizen, my children are US Citizens, so I figured it was about time I joined their club.
Friends kept warning me that “you never know what can happen” and the most compelling message from well-meaning advisors: “you should always have the same citizenship/s as your children.” Was I worried my husband might flee with the kids and deny me access, like those awful stories on the 10pm news? No, I am pretty comfortable in the thought that my children will stay glued to me for as long as they can, G*d bless them and their attachment issues.
But it did make sense not to worry about renewing my Green Card every so many years: and it did feel odd having to stand in a separate immigration line to my kids and husband when I travel with an Australian passport and they all have US passports. It’s the little things that made me to push ahead, plus, it seemed like only a little effort and about $675 to make the application.
Now the fun begins. I have a couple of days to cram the history of the United States, from colonization to present day, with the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the structure of government, wars spanning the 1800s and 1900s, a smattering of geography, a bunch of presidents and the rights and responsibilities of citizenship in between.
I happen to know from watching late-night talk shows – Jay Leno’s “Jaywalking” segments come to mind – that the average American, born and schooled in this fine country, could NOT, even on a very good day and with clues, answer most of the test questions laid out in the printed 29-page Learn About the United States: Quick Civics Lessons for the New Naturalization Test publication that citizenship candidates are handed after their fingerprinting and biometrics ‘meeting” with immigration officials.
My husband is a bit of a history buff and could answer most of the questions correctly, but I suspect he’s not the norm. Here is a sampling of the questions: how do you rate?
Who is Chief Justice of the United States now?
The Federalist Papers supported the passage of the US Constitution. Name one of the writers?
When was the Declaration of Independence adopted?
When was the Constitution written?
What is onething Benjamin Franklin is famous for?
What territory did the US buy from France in 1803?
How many amendments does the Constitution have?
The House of Representatives has how many voting members? They are elected for how many years?
These are just a few of the questions that most people probably have to think about, just a little, lest the number get muddled of the memory is hazy. And I’m willing to bet many, many people wouldn’t even have a clue, but perhaps I am underselling the population. Either way, it’s a task for those thousands of people who, every year, choose to pledge loyalty to the United States, many who speak or read little English and probably weren’t taught about the Civil War in school, and haven’t heard Star Spangled Banner at a hundred baseball games.
I’ll admit, I plan to study the book before I go.
Failing the civics section of the test (it’s not multiple choice unfortunately) is not an option. There are 100 questions; I will be asked 10 and have to answer six right to “pass”. There is also an English writing and verbal test, which I hope not to worry about, given that English is my first language and writing is my living.
But hey, I am not getting cocky about any of this. One dear friend has already made it clear that I will be mocked mercilessly for years to come if I don’t walk out of my interview a citizen. I consider myself warned!
It’s hard to be chic when you are up to your elbows in laundry, let alone when your youngest starts scratching wildly at her head after weeks in day camp at the height of summer.
Well, that’s how my long-awaited trip to London began, or the preparation time at least when I should have been laying out the clothes I would pack, and styling them with shoes and accessories, a raincoat, umbrella … all those precautionary things you need for London.
Instead, I was confronted for the first time ever with the biting reality of head lice.
My 5 year-old complained her head itched, which given the heat and her very long hair, wasn’t anything unusual. I had never seen lice, but a closer look at her head suggested something was wrong – something seemed to move, or was I imagining it? There was no time to muck around, so off to the appropriately nicknamed “lice lady” we went. In Boro Park, Brooklyn, in a self-contained primarily Orthodox Jewish community, the lice lady and her family lives. There are daughters and daughters-in-law aplenty who help out too, picking heads searching for lice and then combing them out with tedious but effective (and pricey!) precision.
My daughter, it turned out, was infested with live bugs – probably acquired at her very nice day camp. My son and I, thankfully, were all clear. But what happened next was like a military operation and not what I needed one day before delivering the children to their grandparents’ house and setting off for our first grown-up trip overseas sans kids.
Daily Torture
Bedding, cushions, clothing, dolls – anything my daughter had contact with had to be washed. And what couldn’t be washed and dried at high heat had to be bagged and sealed for several weeks, so anything lurking would die. My daughter’s hair still had to be monitored, so grandma was armed with a big bottle of Pantene – the conditioner of choice because it’s thick enough to coat the hairs, and the delousing crew informed me you can get huge bottles at Costco – and a sturdy German-made “lice comb” to torture dear daughter with daily.
The initial head check and subsequent comb through for a 5 year old with very long hair, in case you wonder, was about $175 and the comb, another $25. Somehow it worked out to another $70 each for my son and I to be combed through with conditioner. It’s a cash-preferred business, but if you don’t happen to have $300-plus on you, they will accept a check. This, I have decided, is a business to be seriously considered, though probably not by clean-freak, type-A personalities (like me).
As part of the overall service, my daughter went back for a head check the following day and was declared all clear; my son and I have yet to return for a final checking but that also was included in the price. I was told that London is crawling with lice, so I really should return for a post-trip check. Ahh, the glamor of international travel these days: if it’s not lice, then beware the bed bugs.
Needless to say, a week away was much needed. And needless to say, in the midst of a delousing operation, I packed completely inappropriately. The scorching heat in New York addled my brain and had me stocked with flimsy sundresses and open-toe wedges for London, instead of layers, and rain-wear and at least one pair of closed shoes. I froze, I was rained on and my feet were splattered with mud on long walks through Hyde Park. But none of that mattered.
And we’re back now to cooler weather and lice-free kids.
The sweltering heat is killing me just like everyone else. I’ve spent a disproportionate number of hours with the AC running, much to my annoyance. But there are two things in particular that have given me solace this summer: the weekly lobster feasts at Rocky Sullivan’s pub in Red Hook and the Double-D pool.
Lobster no doubt speaks for itself. What’s not to love about a fresh Maine lobster cooked by the Red Hook Lobster Pound crew and dished up with corn, a teeny container of coleslaw or potato salad, a bib and a mound of napkins for cleanup – followed by a whoopie pie for dessert – all for $25. With a Sixpoint Ale at hand and a table of friends outside on Rocky’s sprawling rooftop you really can’t go wrong. This weekly dinner – lobsters are Friday and Saturday nights only – are a great way to get together with people and include the kids. Who doesn’t like lobster- especially when you can crack and suck and gnaw out in the open without worrying too much about the clean up?
The other almost daily destination that has saved many a scorching day is the local pool. Not some fancy country club or beach house out East, but a New York City public pool, one that came distressingly close to being closed because of budget cuts before the swim season even started this year. Thankfully Mayor Bloomberg and co had the sense to keep open the Double D, so named because of its location between Douglass and Degraw Streets, and Nevins Street and Third Avenue. Its dubious position, nestled amongst derelict industrial buildings and just across the Gowanus Canal, has helped keep it a bit of a secret watering hole for as long as I’ve lived in Carroll Gardens.
The first time I took my children there a summer ago, we embarked on an adventure, strolling down the street in just our swimsuits and towels, past the old men huddled outside C-Town and across not-so-salubrious streets into something of a wasteland butting the Gowanus, the now Superfund site-and aspiring Venice of Brooklyn. The pool is not in the prettiest spot, and it’s not easy to find unless you’re willing to venture outside your usual zone. The rigid rules that go with a City pool can also deter a lot of people – from only allowing white tees and hats to banning cell phones in the pool area. But traveling light (swimsuit, towel, that’s it) and going early all make it worthwhile. It really is a neighborhood oasis.
We’ve been to the pool at least every second day since school ended, sometimes for a full four-hour session and other days for just a quick dip before dinner. It’s worth knowing that children can have a free, school-style lunch, too, if you are there through lunch hours. It’s usually a sandwich, fruit and a carton of chocolate milk – not especially appetizing, but enough to tide waterlogged children over until they get home.
The Double-D pool is open daily until Labor Day. There are two swim sessions: 11am-3pm and 4pm -7pm. For pool rules and information ring 718 625 3268.
Rocky Sullivan’s is at 34 Van Dyke Street, at Dwight Street, 718 246 8050. If you can’t make it to Rockys but still want lobster, head to the Red Hook Lobster Pound at 284 Van Brunt Street, 646 326 7650.
A sign in the window at shuttered Cube 63 on 234 Court Street announces that another eatery, Brucie, is coming soon. No further details yet.
Strong Place gastropub has just opened (July 26) in the old Shakespeare’s Sister location at 270 Court Street. The team at Cobble Hill’s Bocca Lupo is behind the new spot, which boasts a seafood-meat rich menu and some 24 beers on tap. Word is a garden area is planned as well, possibly through September.
On Smith Street, there is a new Mediterranean-style restaurant in the works, adjacent the Big Apple deli that has just shutdown after a speedy “buy one, get one free” clearance sale.
This is especially annoying since it’s where my husband has long picked up icecream for me on his way home from work late at night, and it was really the only well-stocked deli on the stretch between the subway station on Warren Street and Degraw Street that opened late.
Across the way at 208 Smith there is another casualty. Rocketship – the geeky comic/anime store is finally gone for good after a string of lengthy, unexplained closures signaled something was wrong in the land of graphic novels. It’s a shame – my 7 year-old-son loved stopping in there on weekends to choose some quirky book with great drawings and impossibly small print.
My thanks to fellow writer Kate Godin for pointing out this incredibly divine example of Australian fashion. It channels the inner ballerina in all of us methinks, and redeems the nation after the travesty of a “national costume” that the Aussie Miss Universe contender plans to wear in Las Vegas next month.
This puff of gorgeousness is a design by Aurelio Costarella, modeled during a StyleAid Perth 2010 event in Perth, Western Australia. Aurelio Costarella launched his ready-to-wear and couture brands in 2000 in far-flung Perth and has gone on to dress celebs and socialites from Rihanna and Sharon Stone to Leelee Sobieski and Dita Von Teese, as well as grace Fashion Week runways locally and abroad.
Thank you to Aurelio Costarella and this beautiful dress for restoring my faith in fashion down under and bolstering hope that the dreaded high-heeled Ugg boot won’t stray from the pageant catwalk and onto Main Street.
When you switch on the TV come August 23 to watch the Miss Universe pageant, which I know you all will, please disregard this crazed ensemble on Australia’s entrant. High-heeled Ugg boots, a sheepskin shrug and a cutout cossie, that’s a swimsuit in Oz-speak: Is this really worthy of a national fashion identity?
Please, Ugg boots shouldn’t be seen outside of your cold apartment in the dead of winter, or at least that’s my take on them, let alone adorned with heels and on a catwalk. Hideous. But, what do I know. Jesinta Campbell, the 18-year-old Aussie pageant queen, is chuffed with the costume, which she will wear to represent the land down under in the national costume section of the contest. “Isn’t it incredible,” Campbell said when revealing the outfit, which a-la-pageant style also reveals plenty of her.
Well, yes Jesinta, it is incredible, in the same way that the Crocodile Dundee stereotype was incredible, and horribly embarrassing. The costume was designed by Sydney’s Natasha Dwyer who works under the Arthur Ave label, and the swimsuit bares a design hand-painted by an Aboriginal artist. To be fair, I actually don’t loathe the multi-layered skirt, but I am not sure how it really speaks to Australia. Perhaps the color palette is reflective of the earthy reds and ochres of the landscape, and common in indigenous art. Or perhaps Jesinta is headed to Rio for Carnival after her Las Vegas jaunt?
Please, before you judge Australian fashion sense based on this national garb, think Sass & Bide, Lisa Ho, Peter Morrissey, Richard Tyler, Collette Dinnigan, Carla Zampatti – there are plenty of great designers to emerge over the years, and they really are incredible. Oh and feel free to smack me silly if heeled Ugg boots catch on!
There’s movement on Columbia Street again. Brooklyn Collective is moving to its own digs and expanding to include artists’ studio space and classes in cool stuff like sewing and silk screening.
The Collective had been in a space at the back of vintage furniture store General Nightmare , which is shuttering once and for all.
While demand for pricey antiques may be waning enough to send the General packing, the cry for local handmade goods continues to thrive on the increasingly popular Columbia Street Waterfront, prompting the Collective to shift into a 1,500sq ft space that will open August 1.
The Brooklyn Collective was founded in 2004 by locals Rachel Goldberg and Tessa Phillips, jewelry and fashion designers respectively, as a way to give other artists a place to display and sell their work. Member artists share the rent, hence the idea of it being a “collective”, and get to keep 100% of all profits from any of their creations sold.
The Collective is closed through July and will reopen next month at 212 Columbia Street, next to Mazzat restaurant. As part of the expansion, the Collective will be offering studio space to local artists and classes, including sewing, photography, drawing, metal smithing and silk screening. Look out for a schedule in September.
Brooklyn Collective parties are always fun, so stay tuned too for info about an opening event.
Meantime, mainstay General Nightmare at 196 Columbia is calling it quits, with just a scrappy note in the window advertising a closing down sale to get rid of the last of the furniture before turning out the lights.
The store, once cluttered with antiques and mid-century treasures, had long been a favored hunting ground for locals and visitors alike in search of something obscure or specific.
My husband and I have scoured the basement on occasion in search of Eames chairs and ottomans. It was like slipping down the rabbit hole into a crazy garage sale.
General Nightmare survived and grew even after the death in 2005 of its well-known owner and Columbia Street pioneer Barry Jetter, with partners taking over and sprucing the place up a bit.
But even as the Columbia Street Waterfront is “discovered” almost weekly by one publication or another, and new spots move into the neighborhood, ailing demand for antiques and rental drama apparently encouraged the closure.
This is what I have been waiting for: BRUNCH at Seersucker. The one meal I can drag a couple of hungry children to and not feel too self conscious. Thank you Seersucker for getting this going, as pledged when you opened back in May.
Fried chicken livers, a catfish po’ boy, biscuits and grits; these I can get behind on a sunny Sunday morning. And I am curious, if a little nervous, to try the Dixie Michelada, Dixie beer mixed with lime juice and hot sauce – sounds like a hangover cure if ever there were one.
Brunch service begins tomorrow, Sunday, July 18, from 11am to 2pm. Seersucker is at 329 Smith Street, near President Street in Carroll Gardens: Phone: 718.422.0444.
So it’s the last day of school, the children stream out all hot and sticky and relieved to have long, lazing weeks ahead. We, their mothers, dig deep in their backpacks for the report card with that crucial number scrawled at the bottom: the number of the class our children will enter the following school year.
And then it begins: “What class did you get? Who else is in there? Who is teaching it? Are they good, bad? What’s the scoop?.” This goes on out front of the school and carries on through the stroll to the after-school hangout, the park, and then via email in the hours long after backpacks have been emptied and schedules put aside for a few months.
If you’re lucky, a crafty parent will gather all the class info and post it in a spreadsheet for everyone to peruse and add to. It’s in our natures I guess to want to know it all, right away. Who wants to walk into class in September and be surprised?
Do the kids care too? Not so much.
But we the parents, from the over-hyped-up helicopters to chilled out, work it out yourself parenters do care who our children proceed with, and who will lead them. We care for them, and for ourselves.
What adults will be tossed into the class boat with us for 180 days; who will we work alongside to fund-raise and feed and entertain our kids? Never mind all those hours spent sitting on a park bench watching little ones play, or killing time when they are dropped at a birthday party, or grabbing a quick meal before a school function.
At the end of the day, what really matters is that our children have great teachers and at least one buddy to help them adjust to the next year. But for the parents, it’s social too. I am as guilty as anyone of wanting to hang with my posse of fun mamas and dads; sipping wine at birthday party picnics, and chatting about life beyond our children, because we like each other – not because we have nothing else to say.
Having had some really terrific classes the past few years, I can vouch for how much it helps when the parents gel. It probably helps the teachers too when there is a cohesive parent group, and if the parents and teachers are happy, shouldn’t it follow that the children will benefit?
Afterall, it’s all about the children. Isn’t it? And if anyone’s wondering: WE are in 2-3 and K2 next year!
There is one kind of shopping I really love: strolling around the farmers’ market early in the morning, before the crowds and the before the hot sun saps the freshness from the produce and me. It was a rare treat today to be in Union Square with an hour to kill, and an empty bag to fill with vegetables and fruits.
I counted at least seven types of radishes from long white, to French breakfast and all sorts in between; and at least as many different types of carrots and squash and garlic, from big, fresh bunches of bulbs to spindly scapes and tiny individual shoots.
I grabbed a bit of everything, as well as baby fennel, cucumbers and peaches and will decide what to do with it later: though usually I just lay it all out and the children and I feast as is.
avocado squash
My son will devour the tiny, perfect peaches that send juice running down your arm with the first bite. And I think I will saute the medley of squash: long and round yellow, long pale green, and avocado squash (my new favorite) with some of the fresh garlic shoots and a slurp of olive oil.
There are markets all around the city now, but Union Square is my pick, though it does get crazy busy, especially with the neighborhood restaurants swooping early for the choice produce. For a list of farmers’ markets and their days of operation, check here.
This snippet of graffiti on some construction to the Area Yoga building on Court Street got me thinking: Aren’t yuppies just hipsters all grown up? Not necessarily older, but in a different phase of life.
Yuppies are by definition young; so are hipsters. Both are urban and both have professions of some form, lawyer or book publisher perhaps VS indie rocker or graphic artist. Hipsters like arts and pop culture, as do yuppies who, to go with the sterotype, typically spend plenty of money on cool stuff … so isn’t it more about a state of mind. Yuppies are settling down, while hipsters are hooking up; yuppies are having babies, while hipsters just have sex.
Maybe I’m missing something in the call for “Yuppies Out: Hipsters In.” To be sure, these could have come from different scribes, but it seemed an amusing juxtaposition, especially given the makeup of the neighborhood – old-timers who grew up here mixed with Manhattan transplants in search of more space to push a stroller and perhaps a million-dollar brownstone to store it in, and the singletons in creative fields who start work sometime after 10am, once they snarkily dodge the strollers.
Coincidentally, I spied the graffiti from across the street only because I noticed that upscale children’s store Ola Baby is going out of business.
Yep, breeders take note; there is a closing sign on the window and a 50-70 percent off sale in the meantime. Perhaps we’ll get another organic, fair-trade, pricey coffee shop … or just another boarded up building.
Ola Baby is at 315 Court Street, between Degraw and Sackett Streets.
It’s summer again and time to unwrap the long sleeves and high necks and reveal skin. I am not averse to baring skin – but with it come a bevy of stares and questions. Already, children in my daughter’s pre-k class are pointing at the long red scar that dissects my chest and asking what it is.
A scar, I say, or a boo boo that is healing. They look uneasy at the response, I guess because that boo boo is pretty red and jagged. It begins just below my collarbones with a nubbly mass that has formed a keloid and continues down my chest, resembling exactly what it is: a knife cut. To top it off and make it even more sensitive, the keloid has formed on top of a bump, which is a cluster of wires used to fuse my bones post surgery.
The scar is almost four years old now, and the result of emergency open-heart surgery to remove an aortic aneurysm and replace a faulty heart valve with a mechanical one. Sadly, I found out the hard way, that I am prone to keloid scars, which are not only unattractive to look at but incredibly sensitive to touch.
There are days when my 5 year-old jumps on me, thrusting her head at my chest in loving play, and I shriek in agony as she swipes my scar. Or I bump it as I open a drawer or remove jewelry, and it brings tears to my eyes from the throbbing pain. Even just being exposed to sun can be agonizing as the skin sort of dries and contracts, no matter how much sunblock I smother on it, resulting in a uncomfortable, sunburn-like itch.
Magic Solutions?
Of course, there are things you can do to minimize such scars, I’ve been told repeatedly by well-meaning friends and doctors. So, a few weeks back, I went in search of one of these magic solutions. I made an appointment with a cosmetic dermatologist on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The doctor came with a great reputation, swanky rooms and a staff of sweet, leggy blondes of indeterminate age. Sitting in the waiting room, you could feel women looking at each other wondering what each was “having done.”
I was assured the good doctor could help me out with all sorts of non-invasive treatments, including lasers and other scar-zapping devices. But nothing is ever so easy. During a consultation (ka-ching), the doctor informed me that there were indeed great solutions for my scar but first we had to deal with the keloid and the only way to do that was to inject cortisone into the swollen, angry-looking mass.
I had this exact procedure once before in 2008 when I was visiting Australia, and it was the most mind-numbingly painful thing I had ever experienced. After some back and forth though, I agreed to give it another shot (literally!).
The doctor tossed her blonde locks reassuringly and swabbed my scar with liquid nitrogen to help freeze the location and hopefully ease the pain. It didn’t.
Scared + Scarred
I am pretty pain tolerant but the pinch of the needle sliding in and out of the scar had me clawing the bed, knuckles white and eyes watering until I broke down into full-blown sobbing and begged her to stop. I bore two children with no medication, and this, I told the doctor, was more grueling.
The poor doctor wanted so desperately to help me; and my sobbing unnerved her. I paid my hefty bill and left the offices in a pained daze. As I walked across town toward Central Park to gather my thoughts, I kept wondering why I had put myself through the procedure again knowing how much I loathed it. I tried in vain to ring my husband, fearing that I may just pass out in front of Bergdorf Goodman and be trampled by hoardes of fanny-pack-wearing tourists.
Would I come back in three weeks or so for another treatment, the doctor had asked before I left. She wanted to see how the scar responded and hopefully take another well-intentioned jab at it. Well, three weeks is up and I am in limbo. Admittedly the scar looks a tad better and is not as sore, but can I take another round with a steroid-filled needle?
When I gave up at the DVF sample sale opening day, I headed downtown along Sixth Ave, and checked out the hot new Limelight Marketplace. Inside the 163-year-old church-turned-nightclub, the shiny new market (mall?) is a candybox assortment of mostly high-end pop-up stores, with one of the prettiest and probably priciest “food halls” to boot. I picked up a new pair of Havaiana flip-flops at $18 but if it’s Petrossian caviar, Mariebelle chocolates or a bikini wax from J Sisters you’re after, the Limelight Marketplace has it. The marketplace is at 656 Sixth Avenue at 20th Street. It’s open Monday to Saturday 10am to 9pm, and Sundays 11am to 8pm.
It’s that time of the year again when I acknowledge my Greek heritage and schlep the family to the Sts. Constantine and Helen Cathedral in downtown Brooklyn for some fabulous food.
It’s all about the lamb and potatoes, sticky Greek baklava and kataifi and the loukoumades dripping with syrup, made by tireless Greek mothers and grandmothers lurking in our community. They work hard through this festival, feeding masses of Greeks and non-Greeks alike.
Every year, as I am noshing on lamb and missing my own mother and grandmother’s cooking, I vow to go to church more and become a part of Brooklyn’s Greek community. And then another year rolls by and so it goes. Thank goodness for the annual festival to serve as a reminder to me of where I came from – before the Australia and New York parts that is.
Oh, and if the Greek food and dancing doesn’t lure you, there are carnival rides and sideshows to captivate the kids and empty your pockets too.
The festival is at 64 Schermerhorn St. until June 13. It opens weekdays at 11am, and 1pm Saturday until late, and Sunday 1pm to 4pm.
I am not usually one to give up but the lines at the DVF sample sale did me in today.
Queueing along Fifth ...
I was about 15 shoppers away from getting through that hallowed door when the cold (yep it was cold standing in the shade all that time) and the seemingly-endless wait made me farewell the new friends I braved the line with for almost one-and-a-half hours, and head elsewhere.
I arrived right on 9am to find a line stretching along Fifth Ave. and around the corner to about half-way down 28thSt. There were at least 200 women at that stage, all around size 2-to-4, sipping coffee, trawling the Internet and making phone calls; it was a friendly, if antsy scene as we took bets on how long it would be before we could even see the door. Some half-hour later, I made it from 28th onto the Fifth Ave. line, and then it took another 30 minutes to the front of that queue, at which point a suited young man with one arm in a sling, ushered us forward to the line outside the door. I gave it 30 minutes or so there before calling it a day.
almost there, just one more line ...
I had places to be and children to collect from school. I figured by the time I got through the bag check, looked around and possibly got on another killer line to pay, my children would be en route to a police station with child protection workers!
Will I try again? Maybe. But for now I can report that the sale seemed to be some kind of black hole, people were let in – hundreds and hundreds of them – but they came out in dribs and drabs, and some people never seemed to make it out.
Mind you, pretty much everyone coming out did have a large white bag, so there was some shopping going on. A lot of people were pulling handbags from their shopping, showing that the demand for DVF accessories was alive and well.
I’d love to give you tips on the best time to go, but frankly, I’m not sure that there is a good time. Certainly not first thing in morning when people stop-by on the way to work. And avoid bringing a large bag that will have to be checked, if you want to save time. Someone in line also suggested having cash, to cut the credit card queue.
The sale is at 260 Fifth Ave. between 28th and 29th streets. It continues Wednesday 10am to 8pm, Thursday 10am to 7pm and Friday 9am to 3pm.
I feel like a wrap dress is something everyone should have in the closet: Diane von Furstenburg’s iconic wraps are classic, easy-to-wear and and on sale this week.
Get DVF’s boldly patterned summer styles for up to 75 percent off at the sample sale beginning tomorrow, Tuesday June 8. Signature silk jersey wraps that can take you from work to a wedding, cocktails to dinner, are marked around $150, down from $325. And swim cover-ups, including bright kaftans ideal poolside or at the beach, are $100 from $250.
I’ll be scouring the racks in search of the Hesta dress pictured left, or anything similarly chic. The sale opens to the public from 9am Tuesday to 6.30pm; Wednesday 10am to 8pm, Thursday 10am to 7pm and Friday 9am to 3pm. It’s at 260 Fifth Ave., between 28th and 29th streets.
It is bad enough that it is crazy hot and I have been outside at my son’s Field Day since 9.30am, but now I get word that BKLYN Yard is closed for business. As quickly as I fell in love with that oasis on the stinky Gowanus Canal, it is gone.
The folk at Mean Red Productions, say last weekend – which was a bonanza with events including Score! Free Pop-Up Swap and Parked, where some of the city’s hottest food trucks gathered and fed thousands for the holiday weekend – was the finale. The landlord apparently won’t honor or even renegotiate the lease on the Carroll Street property and has told Mean Red to take their four-year vision elsewhere.
The landlord “requested that we take what we have built, and terminate all of our confirmed plans and schedule for BKLYN Yard this summer, ” Mean Read, the production, marketing and promotions company that dreamed up the yard concept, says in a posting on the BKLYN Yard web page.
They may be down, but definitely not out: “Rest assured our renegade spirit and love for pop-up spaces will come alive again this summer — very possibly with the same collaborators and programming you see on our current schedule… And very possibly even better than we had planned before,” says Mean Red.
Meantime, Doug Singer, Eamon Harkin and Justin Carter’s Sunday Best series will continue on at another location, including this Sunday with DJ Koze. To find out where, keep an eye on www.sundaybestnyc.com.
Just when it looked like there was a grassy patch to loll about on through hot summer days … good luck Mean Red and keep us posted …
There’s yet another new restaurant on Smith Street; Seersucker has just opened its doors with a Southern menu, complete with shrimp and grits and deviled eggs.
Seersucker Opens on Smith
I was in the nail salon next door this morning when an older lady walked in shaking her head and commenting on “the names they come up with for these places … seersucker,” she bemoaned.
Seersucker, of course, is a bumpy, woven cotton, often in blue and white stripes or checks, considered a summer mainstay for gentlemen’s suits, especially in the South, where the light fabric was favored in the hot, humid months.
Nevermind the name; it’s a nice-looking place and the menu will lure anyone in need of chicken and dumplings, pickled okra or pimento cheese. Personally, I want to try to the biscuit box: 3 or 6 biscuits served with seasonal jellies, preserves and butter.
Right now, the restaurant opens at 5.30pm for dinner but there are plans afoot to serve lunch and brunch down the track. Oh, and in the tradition of all popular neighborhood spots, Seersucker takes reservations only for groups of six or larger. It does, however, buck the trend by accepting all major credit cards.
Seersucker takes the spot of Pita Grill at 329 Smith Street, near President Street in Carroll Gardens: Phone: 718.422.0444.
I am always happy to see my neck of the woods spruced up with things that will be useful to me, especially the spartan span of Third Avenue characterized by auto shops that I trek along twice a day to and from my children’s school.
Enter Tony Bagelz – the name alone makes me laugh out loud. Tony was a co-founder of Park Slope fixture La Bagel Delight on Seventh Avenue, honing his knowledge of the bagel business over the years. But as a local who seems to know everyone around, he wanted to do something for his neighborhood, and so his own bagel shop-slash-mini-mart was born.
The bagels are pretty good; the coffee is tasty; the service is super friendly and best of all for any clean freaks out there, it is nice and new and clean inside. Out back there is a large patio area with tables and umbrellas, which I can see becoming handy for local parents needing someplace to stop and feed their kids on the way home from nearby schools Rivendell and PS 372, The Children’s School.
Tony says he’s planning to install some sort of water feature outside, too.
The new spot is a stone’s throw from Crooked Tail Café but the vibe is so much cheerier, and comes complete with an ATM and last-minute necessities like milk, juice, toilet paper and Italian bread for the evening dinner, so I don’t see Crooked Tail snatching much business from Tony Bagelz.
Also on track to open very soon is a revived pizzeria on the corner of Third and Carroll streets, where Bella Maria was until a few months back before quietly pulling down the shutters and joining nearby landmark Monte’s Venetian Room, whose claim to fame was being the oldest restaurant in Brooklyn dating back to 1906.
New owners are moving into the Bella Maria digs, with a June 1stopening slated. The boys who’ve been toiling to empty the restaurant and get it ready for its new life say the place will be called Benvenuto, which means “welcome” in Italian. They also say there will be an adjoining Italian ice joint, which is going to make my daily stroll up Carroll Street a living hell each summer day as my kids beg for an ice.
Still, it will be nice to see some life back on that corner.
Tony Bagelz is at 284 Third Avenue. The new pizza spot is on the corner of Carroll and Third and Crooked Tail Cafe is at 272 Third Avenue.
Ever wish you could clear out all of your old, unused, unworn, unread stuff and swap it for fresh things, be it books, clothes or cool homewares: Well, get thee to BKLYN Yard this Saturday, May 29 for the next pop-up “free store” Score!
Here’s how it works: you take your old clothes, books, electronics and tsotchkes and drop them at the door, where volunteers sort them and distribute them to themed departments. Then professional curators – this time Etsy, Brooklyn hackerspace AlphaOne, vintage fashionistas Market Publique and the bookish crew from Desk Set are among the all-star curating team – pulling it all together and merchandising the unwanted items into boutique-like displays.
Then, you get to go shopping for NOTHING. And while you’re loading up on freebies, there’s music and other artsy carryings-on to keep you amused. Anything left at the end of the day gets recycled or donated to charity.
Departments this year have been expanded to include clothing for men and women, books + media, electronics, music, housewares, bikes, crafts and a kiddie corner. Start clearing out that closet, because the last two Scores! have drawn more than 1,000 people apiece.
The only catch is there is a $3 cover with RSVP here; and $5 if you don’t RSVP. But hey, think of all the stuff you can offload and the new things to take home.
Score! is on this Saturday from noon to 6pm at BKLYN Yard, 400 Carroll Street, between Bond and Nevins. In case it rains, the rain date is Saturday, June 5.
I have these vague imaginings that I will someday invent something and make millions; something simple and practical that people will question how they ever lived without – like that piece of plastic that joins together bra straps to create a crossback and prevent ugly straps peeking out from singlets and sundresses.
I am stunned though at the craze for rubber band shapes. I saw them one day in a local toy store, and by the end of the next day I spied at least three of my children’s friends wearing them. By the weekend, my kids had a couple packs each of these fun money-wasters, and were begging for more.
In case you haven’t seen them, they are colored silicon rubber bands in the shapes of anything from fruit, to baseball players, zoo or wild animals, fairies, princesses, dinosaurs, sea creatures or rock band equipment. Some are multicolored; some have scents; and some are glow-in-the dark. They sell anywhere between $2.50 and about $4.50 for a pack of 12 of varying shapes and sophistication.
Beyond the visual appeal of the shapes, it seems kids love that they can wear them as bracelets or apparently as hair bands, though I think they would rip out hair in the process. When you remove the bands, they return to their original shape and are pretty sturdy, though not indestructible: as my 7-year-old found out, they can break with too much stretching. From a marketing perspective, it’s genius. They are for boys and girls, they can be traded just like Pokemon cards or baseball cards (remember them!), and they appeal to all ages, from five years old to college students and beyond.
I am guilty of grabbing packs of them to send to Australia to my young cousins; and picking some up for my own children, who have already begun trading shapes among themselves, and probably with their friends. My daughter wears them up her arm to school, but my son says his teachers have outlawed them in class, lest the already rampant toy-trading ring grows.
I’m not against the bands per se. They are kind of cool and certainly harmless, unless your vacuum chokes on a stray silicon strand caught in a rug as mine did. I just wish I had thought of it first, because somewhere out there is somebody making my millions.
Oh, if you feel the need to pad said creators’ coffers, and there is a bunch of brands out there from zanybandz to Silly Bandz to just straight-up shaped rubber bands, you can buy the bands in my Brooklyn neighborhood at Pizzazzz Toyz at 281 Court Street and across the street at Classic Impressions gift and card store, and of course online at Amazon.com or even Office Depot, which I see is selling bags of 20 for just over $3, which works out to a decent deal. But I’m pretty sure any toy store worth its salt is doing a blazing trade in rubber bands right now.
Who knew that one pair of shoes could evoke so many memories and begin so many conversations. That pair of shoes being my Kork-Ease Bette sandals in “luggage” with a suede-covered wedge heel. They are not especially fancy or expensive, but I love them all the same and have worn them on and off for the past two summers.
Kork-Ease wedges
This week I got to thinking what it is that makes a piece of clothing iconic and whether perhaps the classic Kork-Ease wedge meets the criteria? I must have met and chatted the past few days with at least a dozen people, mostly strangers – between Brooklyn and Manhattan, in stores, on the street and on the subway – about these very shoes.
This is generally how it plays out: firstly someone will point and comment to their friend or they’ll just come out and say “I love your shoes”; and then the stories begin. These wedge-heeled walks down memory lane have taken a bunch of my new acquaintances back to sixth grade or so when women recalled either wearing the exact pair of shoes, or begging their mothers for them.
One woman I chatted with on the R train revealed that she wore them somewhere around 1975; adding proudly that they were the first shoes she bought when she “left the projects”. Two older women on the F train and en route to the airport after a girls’ vacation in the Big Apple, said they’d considered buying my shoes during their stay but worried that the 4 1/4-inch heels and potholed sidewalks might land someone in hospital.
Kork-Ease, the company that started business in Brooklyn in 1953 as a “comfort” shoe brand, burst into the fashion scene as a must-have in the 70s. Outlandish fashion designer Betsy Johnson reportedly owned at least 10 pairs; entertainer and actress Bette Midler wore them; and to be sure, any hipster shy of 30 owned at least one pair. As the Kork-Ease Facebook page states, it was the shoe that stood in line at Studio 54.
Well, Kork-Ease is back making its famed wedges as well as an ever-growing range of comfortable sandals and shoes. They’re a little more pricey than in the 70s when they retailed between $25 and $40 but still much cheaper than designer rivals. The Bette heels that garnered so much attention were about $149 online, and pretty much all the big online shoe stores from Zappos and Shoebuy, to Online Shoes and Amazon offer at least some of the styles.
Surely if a pair of shoes can unite strangers, evoke fun memories of one’s youth, and still be current and stylish today, they deserve icon status?
Where do cheap designer duds go once the buzz is over? To the clearance rack, that’s where.
I traipsed over to the Target store this week, after following my own advice and dropping two bulging bags of clothes at the Salvation Army on Atlantic Avenue. My Target mission was two-fold: to check out the Zac Posen collection in person, which was unveiled a week ago, and to see what was left of other recent designer collaborations, including the much-hyped Liberty of London for Target range and Jean Paul Gaultier’s collection.
Well there they were, the remnants of both designers’ clothes, piled high on the clearance racks. Needless to say there was no buzz there. No styling. No huge “get it while it lasts” graphics; nary a coat hanger even for these forgotten clothes. They were crammed onto a couple of racks, hanging haphazardly or trodden underfoot beneath the 50%-off and 30%-off banners.
These were the same floral dresses and saucy swimsuits that people lined up for just a few weeks ago, though admittedly the choice of sizes was limited to very small or very large. Quite a contrast from Liberty’s fanfare introduction to the masses at a pop-up store in New York, that came with an enormous ad campaign, spring flowers and even hyacinth scent wafting through the air. Jean Paul Gaultier would be no less thrilled, I’m sure, to see what’s left of his collection shoved unceremoniously onto the bargain racks.
Somehow even the deep discounts couldn’t make this mish-mash of frocks and bathing suits and tunics appeal; everything looked unloved, cheap and garish.
That leads me right to Zac Posen’s collection, which is still very much front and center, having been in store only since April 25. I was disappointed it didn’t show better than I expected. The fabrics had that cheap sheen; the red tulle party dress didn’t live up to my hopes; the cherry-red leather jacket, the most pricey of the clothes at just under $200, looked plastic and glaringly bright; and some of the prints were just plain tacky.
Needless to say I left empty-handed and even more resolved to buy only what I love from now on.
You know that feeling when you walk into a room and someone gives your outfit the once over; there are women skilled at casting an eye from head to toe in a nanosecond without so much as tilting their head. I have a relative with that skill. It’s irksome.
Well, you can get that very same feeling in stores all over the city, as I did this week when I set out to sell some long neglected pieces of clothing. For anyone not familiar with the concept, there are stores staffed with skinny, twenty-something hipsters that will pick over your gently-worn clothes, trawling for current styles or hot labels.
For what they deign to keep, the seller gets a percentage of the price tag they will resell it at, or can take a bigger percentage in credit to spend in the store. For instance, Beacon’s Closet, with locations in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg and Park Slope, will pay exactly 35% cash, or 55% store credit, of the price tag that they in turn put on your clothes and accessories. Unlike a consignment shop, where you have to wait for your items to be sold, stores like Beacon’s give you cash or a credit voucher on the spot. It’s a great way, albeit potentially demoralizing, to get something back for clothes that you don’t wear anymore, but are that little bit too good for the donation bin.
Beacon’s Closet and Buffalo Exchange are the two where I have tried my luck in the past. And that’s where I traipsed this week, bulging bag in hand. Like many things in fashion, it’s a lottery. I’ve sold armloads of H&M and Forever 21 tees and tunics, while Dolce & Gabbana dresses and even up-and-coming Asian designers were rejected at the same time. It’s a crap shoot to predict what they are looking for on any given day.
So I hit Buffalo Exchange in the East Village first. They were pretty full-up, the girl said, but after some back and forth they decided on a Clu jersey and cotton bubble dress, which I had actually bought a couple of seasons earlier at rival store. The staff at Buffalo Exchange are friendly and pleasant. Even when the girl rips through your fashion history in seconds, she does so nicely.
Which takes me to my next stop, Beacon’s Closet on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope. I have a love-hate relationship with this place. As annoyed as I am most times I sell things there, I keep going back. I feel like I almost have their formula down; there is certain “look” in everything they accept and then resell, and it’s generally not a look I dabble in. This particular day I did well though, selling a Tim O’Connor halter neck top with ruffles down the front, a very 80s black Betsey Johnson tiered skirt, a sequined skirt I bought a decade ago and never wore and a nude leather pencil skirt by the Australian brand David Lawrence. Curiously, both stores rejected a Paul and Joe silk slip dress. That one’s too good for the scrap heap and came home with me.
So, was it worth the schlepping a bag on the subway and enduring the judgments of girls barely beyond their teens? Sure. And what’s more, I didn’t feel bad acquiring a couple of new things with the earnings. A blue and white striped knit blazer-style cardigan from A.Cheng in Park Slope and the Kenneth Jay Lane diamante embellished leather cuff from Outnet, which I have had my eye on for ages.
New Purchase
Outnet, by the way, is offering free shipping though May 19 to everyone who signed up for their $1 sale, as a way of apologizing for the craziness of the online birthday fiasco.
Now, my drawers are tidy. I have a couple of new pieces and my wallet is a little better padded. Not bad for a week’s work.
Every now and again I find I have overstepped the mark and promised to do something I probably shouldn’t, mainly because I am ill-equipped to fulfill the promise with aplomb. Well, I promised my daughter I would come to her school to bake something – one of those promises you don’t expect to come home to roost anytime soon – but of course, I am on the schedule to bake cookies next week.
I love to cook and am decent at it, but baking is not my thing. It is too precise for my dash-of-this, pinch-of-that methods; not to mention that the idea of baking publicly with a gang of over-zealous four-and five-year old helpers and only a toaster oven at my disposal, actually makes me nervous.
So, aware of my shortcomings, I did a trial run with daughter and her friend this week. We made ANZAC biscuits to mark ANZAC Day on April 25, an Australia-New Zealand holiday that recognizes the soldiers who landed at Gallipoli during World War One. The biscuits, or cookies to Americans, were also called Soldier’s biscuits, because they were baked by wives and mothers concerned that their boys abroad weren’t getting the nutrition they needed to fight a war. The absence of eggs in any true blue ANZAC biscuit recipe meant they would stay fresh during the long sea journey.
ANZAC Biscuit Trial Run
ANZAC biscuits are traditional and a favorite among Aussies – and so easy to make that I may even pull-off my misguided attempt to make my daughter proud of her mummy cooking in class. Here’s the recipe I remember from growing up in Australia; there are many variations but basically it’s a combination of rolled oats, flour, sugar and coconut with butter, golden syrup (which you can get easily in New York at Fairway and most well-stocked supermarkets), bi-carbonate of soda and boiling water.
Ingredients
1 cup quick cooking oats
3/4 cup flaked coconut
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup white sugar
1/2 cup butter
1 tablespoon golden syrup
2 tablespoons boiling water
Directions
Mix oats, flour, sugar and coconut together.
In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the syrup and butter together. Mix the soda and the boiling water and add to the melted butter and syrup.
Add butter mixture to the dry ingredients. Drop by teaspoons on greased cookie sheets (or baking paper).
Bake at 350 degrees F (175 degrees C) for 18 to 20 minutes.
It’s been a busy week. A stressful week even, but I finally got some light relief when I stumbled upon clientsfromhell.net, which has plenty of hilarious fodder.
Clientsfromhell.net is a collection of anonymously contributed client horror stories from designers. It lists tales of amusing and sometimes unbelievable conversations between designers and their clients; from their bizarre requests and odd quirks to out-of-the box demands. The conversations are unedited, and oh so relatable.
One of my favorites, which had my husband and I chuckling from our laptops was the client seeking a “deeply spiritual” design for a website, including crosses and perhaps some images of Saints thrown in for good measure. When the designer declares he or she is an atheist, the client eventually decides it cannot work with someone in league with the devil. You kind of have to read the conversation to appreciate its humor.
If you need some light relief or have dealt with some hellish clients, check it out.
I had my game plan. I set my sights on one dress, a Manoush tiered silk gown I’ve had my eye on for months, and a Kenneth Jay Lane leather cuff, but neither item was included in the much-hyped Outnet 1st birthday sale that was over in a flash this morning.
Like thousands of fashion lovers, I cleared my Friday schedule to be ready for the email from theOutnet.com, the discount offshoot of high-end online retailer Net-A-Porter.com, that would provide the top secret time of the $1 sale. Instead, when I wandered downstairs this morning to make lunches for my children and get them up and ready for school, the email alert flashed and lo and behold just before 7am, the sale was on.
Fast and furious I logged in and filtered for my size only to find a paltry selection; two pages of clothes that I didn’t care for. For those who’ve asked, the only noteworthy things left at that stage were studded Mary Janes and a Stella McCartney Taffeta jacket that, at a stretch, I may have bought for a buck. The jewelry flashed SOLD OUT, and the handbags, which I would happily have settled for, were long gone. A Sold Out sign abounded by 7.25am, and the next time I checked, the sale was closed.
What a fizzer. It was a great concept. Who doesn’t want a designer piece for just a dollar? But like so many of these recent pop-up stores, Liberty of London for Target which sold out a day early and the current Zac Posen for Target 24-hour sale come to mind, or even the snatch and grab for Stella McCartney children’s clothes at the Gap, the attempt to give everyone a chance to participate leaves most people wanting.
I was one of the lucky shoppers who could actually sign-in to the Outnet site this morning, but there are many, many people who’ve complained that the site crashed or it took them hours to log-in, only to find the sale closed by then. There are gripes galore on Twitter today, calling the sale a bust, a hoax, a joke; a couple of tweeters commented that it was like getting an invitation to a fabulous party and then having the bouncer not let you in!
Not surprisingly, the Zac Posen for Target pop-up sales party, which started 11pm last night and runs until 11pm tonight, was another bloodbath. I didn’t go after hearing from a friend that racks were bare by 11.25pm. I’m not so enamored of the range that I have to have something right now, but perhaps I’ll take my chances to peruse what’s left when it hits Target. com on April 25.
The moral of all this? Maybe with the proliferation of social media – Twitter and Facebook, in particular, where loads of people have shared their Outnet frustrations – and guerrilla advertising, have elevated even the world of pop-up stores and deep discounting to heights beyond the average consumer.
Now, even designing or discounting for the masses have become exclusive.
Ok, so you missed out a designer bargain at Outnet’s 1st birthday sale, which incidentally sold out in a matter of minutes, and you’re bummed that Japanese department store Takashimaya is closing its flagship Fifth Avenue store – all is not lost. For fashion and Japanese style combined, one of my favorite shops Callalilai on Atlantic Ave. is hosting a shopping party this Saturday to celebrate the arrival of the spring women’s collection from its Japanese brand Aoyama Itchome.
Besides loads of gorgeous, printed tunics and dresses there will be a tasting of French aperitif Lillet, as well as a DIY jewelry making crash course with designers from Haknik and Liria Shop. DJ Tabu will provide some rhythmic beats to shop to.
The Aoyama Itchome line is designed by Japan native Hogo Natsuwa, who lives in Paris. The cross-cultural influence gives the clothes a great esthetic, more sophisticated than boho but still floaty and artistic.
Callalilai is asking that people RSVP by today at atlantic@callalilai.com. They’ve pledged a 15% discount off your entire purchase during event too, so what’s not to like.
The shopping party will be held Saturday, April 17, from 2pm to 6pm. Callalilai Atlantic is at 296 Atlantic Avenue @ Smith Street, 718.875.1790.
I feel like I am going into battle. I have read the strategies over and over; I have cleared my schedule to be near my weapon – computer – through the day. Now I, along with potentially thousands of other faceless fashion warriors, wait.
TheOutnet.com, the discount arm of high-end, online retailer Net-A-Porter.com, celebrates its first birthday tomorrow and will reward followers with a party sale. Everything in the sale is $1 – yep, that’s a buck, a single dollar for an item that could retail for at least several hundred dollars, if you shop right.
The catch is, Outnet won’t reveal what time the sale begins or what clothes and accessories will be offered until sometime this Friday. All we do know, as we hit refresh on our email accounts, is that we can buy just one, single item for a dollar.
Flying Solo
Now, I’ve followed theOutnet.com since it began. I haven’t bought much but only because I waver too much. I contemplate whether I really need a Rick Owens leather jacket, even if it is 60 percent off, or a Manoush tiered silk evening gown for a mere $220, slashed 65 percent. I stop myself buying for the sake of buying.
But I can vouch for the great selection of designers – from Givenchy and Oscar de la Renta to Sass & Bide and Alexander McQueen – and the often crazy price tags. While most things are reduced by 40 to 60 percent, some random days prices will be cut as much as 80 percent. I’ve missed out on many a Malene Birger frock – one of my personal favorites – in these fast-paced sales. And sexy Louboutin heels don’t even hit the ground before the SOLD OUT banners flash.
I’m predicting the $1 sale will be brutal; worse than my memories of even the most harrowing Barney’s Warehouse sales where I saw otherwise composed women trample thousand dollar dresses, ripping them off hangers and shedding their own clothes with abandon to try things on.
It will be worse even than one of those Target pop-up sales, where hordes of hungry shoppers crush through the doors to grab a Zac Posen tuxedo jacket or a Liberty of London sundress.
It will be worse because we, the shoppers, will be flying solo, victims of our own competitive streaks; trolling the website to stake out coveted items, then going in for the kill, credit cards at the ready.
Flying Off Shelves
This is one time I wish I were an odd size. I daresay size 10 shoes will be a lot easier to find than a predictable 7.5, and anything in the 2 to 4 dress size will likely fly off the virtual shelves. All the thin, hungry women will surely be skipping lunch for this event.
But if you too have signed up to take part in the birthday celebration sale, heed theOutnet.com’s advice. Shop smart and like all good fashion hounds, come prepared. Know your sizes and filter the available items accordingly rather than scrolling through a bunch of wrong sized clothes, as gorgeous as they may be. And finally, move fast. Whatever is in your shopping cart isn’t yours until you press all the buttons, so don’t do as I do, and contemplate. Just Go!
TheOutnet.com’s first birthday sale will be held sometime this Friday, April 16.
Another wonderful New York destination, for me at least, is shutting up shop; Takashimaya, the NY arm of the Japanese department store will close its doors and sell the Fifth Avenue building it resides in come June, according to a notice posted on the company’s website.
This is a jewel box of a store, diminutive and beautifully merchandised, from the floral arrangements it sells, to the Tea Box restaurant downstairs, and the pricey women’s clothes and jewelry. It’s a place I love to wander around and imagine shopping in, but sadly, could rarely bring myself to part with that much cash, which no doubt is one of the reasons it is going under.
The announcement to shutter the store, a Fifth Avenue destination since it opened in 1993, comes after the company’s plans to merge with another Japanese retailer H2O Retailing Corp. fell through. It’s no secret that a flailing global economy has hurt retailers and stunted expansion plans from the US to Japan and beyond, as sales drop and consumers shun boutiques in favor of bigger, supposedly safer brands.
While Takashimaya’s online sales ceased earlier this month, the store will operate as normal pre-June, according to the website, though of course shoppers are already rubbing their hands with glee in anticipation of a fire sale. As much as I hate to see this store close, I will likely be one to take advantage of deep discounts, or at least to have tea one last time and ogle some of the city’s most glorious floral arrangements.
Takashimaya New York is at 693 Fifth Ave., between East 54th and 55th Streets.
Provence en Boite’s newest spin-off a couple of doors down on Smith Street promises delicious burgers, hot dogs nestled in baguettes, salads and ice cream, sort of a laid back, faster food version of the bistro that moved into the neighborhood from Bay Ridge a few years ago.
Given the apparent success of Oaxaca Tacos nearby, which is also working on its own spin-off for 4th Ave., near Carroll Street, JB’s Burger should do a roaring trade too. Named for Executive Chef and co-owner Jean-Jacques Bernat, who with his wife Leslie Bernat, runs Provence en Boite, the newly opened JB’s Burger takes over the space once occupied by Patois, and most recently by La Petite Provence.
Here’s hoping the burger/hot dog formula works better than the couple’s short-lived La Petite Provence, which offered much the same fare as the restaurant proper but in the small-plate style sweeping New York.
With the sun shining at last, there’s been a crowd outside and a lot of buzz about the newest burger joint; my husband spied a burger on his way home one evening and commented that it “looked really good.” I’ll give it a try next time I’m in a burger-beer mood and report back.
JB’s Burger is at 255 Smith Street in Carroll Gardens; 718 254 0007.
Brace yourselves; the next pop-up shopping extravaganza is almost here – bringing the glamour of Zac Posen’s slick, sophisticated designs to Target in yet another high-end collaboration. This time though, it’ll be short and sweet.
Since New Yorkers apparently cannot wait for anything, there will be a mere 24-hour pop-up preview beginning 11pm April 15. The collection hits Target stores nationwide more than week later on April 25.
The speedy preview comes after the much-hyped four-day Liberty of London for Target pop-up store sold out a day early, leaving a lot of shoppers wanting and waiting for the supplies to land in-store and online.
The Manhattan-bred wonder boy’s collection is all priced below $200 and includes a long printed evening gown, lots of prom-ready party dresses, and bathing suits, including a snazzy black and gold number. The most pricey piece is a cherry red leather motorcycle jacket at $199.
A few things already caught my eye; a brocade tie dress in a floral print, a classic tuxedo jacket, a chic little blue snap-tape dress (pictured), which has a lot of edge, and my prediction for the big seller, a bright red ruffled tulle dress just made for a party (pictured). Some of the floral and polka-dot prints though take me right back to the Madonnaesque 80s; not to mention the Hawaiian print shirt and Bermuda shorts, which take me to the local Trader Joe’s, and not in a good way.
Adding to all the buzz about Posen’s latest Target collaboration – he did a range exclusively for Target Australia back in 2008 – aspiring film director Gia Coppola has teamed with all-girl band The Like to make a fun and flirty video promoting the new collection.
The pop-up shopping fest, which promises a party atmosphere with bands, including The Like, DJs and other surprises, runs from 11pm Thursday, April 15 until 11pm, Friday April 16 at 481 8th Avenue, at 34th Street.
–Photos from the Target Lookbook courtesy of Fashionista.com
I love graphic arts; probably something to do with my job at a graphic design magazine and writer’s thirst for the brief, catchy one-liner. Well, I discovered this Anthony Burrill print hanging on a friend’s wall at the weekend and wanted to take it home.
“I Like It. What Is It?” was exactly what I asked my host, several times, in fact, until he introduced me to Burrill, a UK-based designer whose work spans witty posters, to film and Internet projects. Trained at the Royal College of Art in London, Burrill has designed ad campaigns for London Underground, DIESEL and Nike, among others; and covers for The Economist and Wallpaper. He’s also produced interactive web-based work for bands such as Kraftwerk and Air, murals for Bloomberg and Priestman Goode, and designed the identity for KesselsKramer’s London base KK OUTLET.
But it’s his woodblock posters, each one signed in pencil, that I really fell for. Burrill uses traditional woodblock letterpress techniques to convey his message on 100% recycled paper.
His appreciation of simplicity comes across loud and clear in his trademark one-liners. He’s not saying anything particularly deep or cerebral, but the direct, uncomplicated style makes it something you want to repeat, or at very least hang over a desk someplace visible. His limited edition prints – including one of the most well-known “Work Hard and Be Nice to People” – have become mantras for the design community and beyond.
The April issue of Creative Review also features Burrill’s cover art. To see more of his work or to buy one of his woodblock prints, check out his website www.anthonyburrill.com.
Yay! Finally something useful is moving to a street I frequent. First Oaxaca Tacos opened around the corner from us on Smith Street, making for the first fast, friendly and delicious place for delivery or a quick late-night meal at the bar. Now, Oaxaca is opening an outpost on 4th Ave., between President and Carroll Streets, which is wonderfully convenient for me, since it’s right around the corner from where my children go to school.
Fourth Ave. is otherwise pretty barren, save for Root Hill Café, Brooklyn Lyceum a bit further down and the down home Latin American food at Yomaris Restaurant. So the addition of Oaxaca Tacos is most welcome. I already predict after school visits for a quick bite, or stopping in for a late lunch when I arrive too early for school pickup.
I’m a fan of the soft tacos, especially the fish, or the bowls of rice and beans with chicken mole or carne asada and all the trimmings. There’s no opening date yet beyond early April for the new Oaxaca at 250 Fourth Ave., according to the website, but the sign is up and the bodega it replaces is long gone.
What a nice change to have something I like in a useful location. From our Carroll Gardens address we manage to be just far enough away from everything we utilize; walk up to Henry Street for bread and bagels (Mazzola + Marius), hike up Court Street for Citibank and CVS, down to Atlantic Ave. for cheese, olives and pita bread (Sahadis + Damascus Bakery), Atlantic again to cruise Urban Outfitters and soon Barneys Co-op. Now if we can get someplace on Smith Street, near Degraw please, to get a good cup of coffee and a fresh baguette, I’ll stop complaining.
Oh, and speaking of good stuff, I should mention that the Carroll Gardens Greenmarket, which sets up outside of PS 58 and across from Carroll Park, resumes Sunday, April 11.
Also good news for fans of tacos and beyond, the beloved Red Hook Ballpark vendors will be setting up their stalls again May 1. And the satellite vendors at the Brooklyn Flea’s Fort Greene and Hanson Place venues will be at your service from Sunday, April 11.
Barneys Co-op is opening in Brooklyn, so come September, fashion-minded locals will be able to pop into the new Atlantic Ave. location en route to Trader Joe’s for a bag of avocados and some mini mochi ice creams.
Located in a new building at 194 Atlantic Avenue, the Co-op store – aimed at a younger fashionista and dubbed the “wayward offspring” of Barneys New York – has Trader Joe’s on the corner of Atlantic and Court Streets, and Urban Outfitters just a few doors down, making for a bustling block. Stroll across Court Street in the other direction, and there’s Jonathan Adler and a string of boutiques and antique stores to poke around.
Now I love to wander around Barneys proper but the Co-op stuff, much like the annual warehouse sales, have never really been my thing. I’ve inevitably bought some lower-level Barneys frock, lured by the Barneys cachet, only to never wear the darn thing. Nevertheless, it’s always good to see a new business in the neighborhood.
Barneys Co-op is slated to open sometime in September and is part of a national expansion for the often financially embattled Barneys; Santa Monica will also get getting a new outpost. All in all, I guess it’s a good sign that things may be picking up, and if you can afford Barneys price tags, even at the less lavish Co-op level, life can’t be all that bad.
Australia is a democracy, or at least it was when I last visited. The laid-back land of no worries offers the right to vote, to live freely and as of now, the right to think for oneself – but that could all change if the current government gets its way.
There are plans afoot to censor internet content in much the same way that Communist China does. Prime Minister Kevin Rudd and his Communications Minister Stephen Conroy have outlined plans to force Internet Service Providers to block a blacklist of so-called refused classification or RC websites for all Australian internet users. If adopted into law, and let’s pray it isn’t, the screening system would make Australia one of the strictest internet regulators among the world’s democracies.
The blacklist would include subject matter that most of us find abhorrent such as child pornography, sexual violence, bestiality … but where do you draw the line? There’s a very real risk that that anything from regular porn sites and YouTube links to sites on euthanasia, anorexia, or fringe religions from satanic worship to fetishism and even Christian sites could slip onto the banned list. Not to mention that such a broad filter also runs the risk of restricting news coverage of illegal activities.
Political Suicide
The blacklist would apparently be compiled and updated based on complaints from the public, government censors and URLs provided by international agencies. How could these entities not know what’s best for us – let me count the ways! Not only is it is political suicide for a government with a national election looming, but fraught with all sorts of freedom of speech ramifications. Add to that the threat that real educational and informational sites could inadvertently be blocked, and the whole thing is a big, stinking, ill-constructed, and hopefully ill-fated, mess.
Sure, the motivation is noble. We all want to shield our children from seeing things they shouldn’t, which is why children have PARENTS and don’t need the government for a big brother. Besides, most children watch television and there is plenty of cursing, sex and violence on regular programming, let alone the slew of uncensored cable channels or ever-popular video games that anybody can get access to. Does the government plan to monitor and control these too?
That Australia would even toy with internet censorship – at enormous cost to boot – let alone allow the nation to be tarred with the same unfavorable brush as China, where centralized censorship abounds, is beyond me. Search giant Google has just pulled out of doing business in China, to protest such censoring; followed fast by GoDaddy.com, the Internet domain registering company.
Friendships in Jeopardy
Now Google and rival search engine Yahoo are condemning Australia’s proposal, dubbing it a heavy-handed measure that could restrict access to legal information. And even the U.S., Australia’s most coveted security ally, has weighed in. U.S. State Department officials reportedly raised concerns about the planned internet filter, which would defy the free-flow and ease of access to information that define democracy.
From a technical standpoint, the proposed filtering system is so broad that it would likely slow down Internet speed too. Interestingly, when my husband and I first visited Australia together about a decade ago now, technology-savvy husband was impressed at how advanced Australia seemed; the span and sophistication of everything from cell phones to internet speed were leading the pack. Our most recent visit in 2008, revealed something different. Australia, he said, had stood still, while everyone else had caught up and then some. Internet speed was already wanting, and with censorship proposals in the works, Australia could lose its footing as a player in the modern technology arena.
And one more thing, besides the obvious and indecent infringement on freedom of speech and thought, I wonder what happens if deviates can’t freely surf the Internet? Would they be more likely to act on unsavory urges? I’m no therapist, to be sure, but I can’t help but think that keeping cyberspace free and unfiltered is a good thing, especially if it keeps people inside glued to their computers rather than out on the streets causing trouble. This may be naïve of me, like I said I’m no therapist, but hey Prime Minister Rudd, it’s something else you may want to consider.
It’s not every day you invest in art. But we did a week or so ago, at our children’s school Arts Day, an annual fundraising event where each class creates a saleable project for parents to bid on. There were quilts and pictures and bound collections of children’s art, and then there was this, I think fabulous, tiled painting of President Barack Obama.
Created in a similar vein to the works of famed American artist Chuck Close, who is known for his paintings based on a grid pattern, it can take a minute or two of staring from a distance to work out who it is, as we discovered when some friends glared at it with a confused squint. But once you get it, you can appreciate the colors and delve into each child’s individually colored and decorated tile.
It just happened to be the work of my son’s first-grade class and we just happened to lodge the winning bid and bring home this colorful piece, which will eventually grace a wall. I was in the classroom to help the children decorate their tiles and it’s no small miracle that it actually turned out looking like a person, let alone the President.
IF YOU CROSS THE NORTH KOREAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU GET 12 YEARS HARD LABOR.
IF YOU CROSS THE IRANIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU ARE DETAINED INDEFINITELY.
IF YOU CROSS THE AFGHAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU GET SHOT.
IF YOU CROSS THE SAUDI ARABIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU WILL BE JAILED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CHINESE BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU MAY NEVER BE HEARD FROM AGAIN.
IF YOU CROSS THE VENEZUELAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU WILL BE BRANDED A SPY AND YOUR FATE WILL BE SEALED.
IF YOU CROSS THE CUBAN BORDER ILLEGALLY – YOU WILL BE THROWN INTO POLITICAL PRISON TO ROT.
IF YOU CROSS THE AUSTRALIAN BORDER ILLEGALLY YOU GET –
A JOB,
A DRIVER’S LICENCE,
A SOCIAL SECURITY CARD,
WELFARE,
FOOD STAMPS,
CREDIT CARDS,
SUBSIDIZED RENT OR A LOAN TO BUY A HOUSE, FREE EDUCATION, FREE HEALTH CARE, A LOBBYIST IN CANBERRA, BILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF PUBLIC DOCUMENTS PRINTED IN YOUR LANGUAGE, THE RIGHT TO CARRY YOUR OLD COUNTRY’S FLAG WHILE YOU PROTEST THAT YOU DON’T GET ENOUGH RESPECT – AND, IN MANY INSTANCES, YOU CAN VOTE.
Now, I don’t generally open emails with jokes or group messages for fear of downloading a virus or reading something annoying, or just plain silly. But this gem sent from an Aussie mate gave me a good laugh, in part because it is so true, so worrying and just so Australian in attitude.
From the cynical content, to portrayal of the collective chip on the shoulder and the national pastime of whinging, (that’s the US equivalent of whining or moaning), it has Aussie stamped all over it – and I say that as an ex-pat with some level of nostalgia and love for the country.
In light of some of the crazy stuff going on around the world at the moment – the ludicrous controversy surrounding health-care reform in this country, for one; Google and then Internet domain registering company GoDaddy.com pulling out of China to avoid censorship demands; and a whole slew of other irritating news the past couple of weeks, all bearing the common thread of just how much say should any government should have in our lives, the above commentary offered some light relief, while also being a tad too close to the truth about my homeland.
For what it’s worth, I commend Obama for having the Presidential balls to make health-care reform happen, and I am yet to see why people are so irrationally against it, to the point of brick throwing, threats and name calling. Brand me a socialist if you must, but public health care works just fine in Australia … more ranting on this to come, I swear.
I also commend search giant Google, and others to follow, for saying so long to the enormous Chinese market, rather than operate under the country’s Big Brother surveillance and censorship.
I’ll be ranting plenty more on both those issues once i clear my house of marauding six and seven year olds in need of pizza, cake and goody bags! Meantime, it’s nice to know that someone had the sense of humor to write and email the “joke” above.
Looking for some place to shop and sip cocktails this Friday evening? Check out the Brooklyn Collective Spring Event, showcasing more than 15 homegrown designers, from fashion and jewelry to painting, sculpture and photography.
The collective recently moved a couple of doors down on Columbia Street, to take up the back space in General Nightmare Antiques. The terrific new space is a great place to peruse some Brooklyn design, and mingle with crafty locals. Some of the artisanal work on show at the moment: Tattoo Girl Lingerie, AshiDashi socks, clothing by LJ Lambillotte, sculpture by Jen Kelly and Lisel Ashlock paintings.
Brooklyn Collective was founded in 2004 by Rachel Goldberg and Tessa Phillips, jewelry and fashion designers respectively, as a way to give other artists a place to display and sell their creations. Member artists share the rent, hence the idea of it being a “collective”, and get to keep 100% of profits from any of their creations sold.
Besides complimentary cocktails, there will also be a live performance by musical duo SORD. The Spring event runs this Friday, March 26, from 7pm to midnight at 196 Columbia Street, between Sackett and Degraw Streets in Red Hook.
I like graffiti; there’s a rawness to good, creative graffiti art that I really admire. Then, of course, there are the random scrawls sprayed across public and private property – many of them infantile and uninspired, like a middle school anatomy lesson some delinquent plastered on the freshly-painted sidewall of a recently renovated house on Sackett Street.
And somewhere in between, there’s stuff like this scrawling spotted on the Union Street bridge crossing the murky Gowanus Canal, best known these days as a noxious Superfund site in urgent need of a cleanup. I don’t know if the sign is a jab at the much contested Superfund project or just insightful commentary on local property prices, school admissions or the lines outside Blue Marble to get an ice cream on a warm spring day.
Mostly, it makes we ponder who went to the effort to stop on the bridge, pull out a spray can and leave this note. What was the motivation? It’s too political to be kids – and do kids these days even know what a yuppie is? It seems too self-loathing to be hipsters. So, I’m left wondering.
Either way, it makes me stop, smile and mutter Eat the Rich out of earshot of my children en route to school and back each day.
This sign perplexed me and made me smile, chuckle even, one sunny afternoon this week, when I pondered what could possibly make a car wash kosher. I have a pretty good working knowledge of things Jewish, being a New Yorker and having many friends from whom to seek guidance, plus both my children went to a Jewish preschool. So, by default, we inherited token Jewish status for the duration.
I did seek guidance on this one. I asked three Jewish friends what could possibly be meant by the sign, planted outside a car wash on Fourth Ave. near 1st Street in Brooklyn. And I came up with nada. Since the place doesn’t sell food, neither enlightened friend could think of any reason a car wash could guarantee a kosher vehicle. One friend suggested perhaps the workers expertly remove any trace of leavened food product from a vehicle in time for Passover, but that was a stab in the dark, to be sure.
I’ve yet to wander inside and ask the Golden Touch folks what the sign means, but I will, and I promise to report back. Meantime, it still gives me a chuckle whenever I pass by.
It’s going to be a rainy weekend, too wet for the dog park or long strolls with Rover around the neighborhood, so take shelter and head to the Brooklyn Lyceum for its first Brooklyn Mutt Show.
Proving that even the scraggiest mixed-breed beast can be a winner, there are dog show categories including sloppiest kisser, most indistinct and looks most like owner. It’s $10 per category to enter and you can enter as many of the slots as you like. Of course, your dog doesn’t have to be a mutt to enter, but prizes are for mutts only and purebreds will be left wanting and waiting perhaps for their next shot at the Westminster Kennel Club shows.
Besides the main event, there will be puppy products – from grooming stuff to clothes – for sale, as well as the Lyceum cafe’s coffee and treats. And as if the chance to hang out with some of the coolest mutts in Brooklyn and beyond isn’t enough, some of the proceeds from the Mutt Show will go to Brooklyn Animal Resource Coalition (BARC), a no-kill shelter in Williamsburg.
The Brooklyn Mutt Show runs Saturday, March 13 and Sunday, March 14 from 11am to 7pm at the Brooklyn Lyceum, 227 Fourth Ave.
As if Target’s team-up with Liberty of London isn’t enough, MAC Cosmetics is launching a lush, springy MAC Give me Liberty makeup selection today. The bevy of limited edition lipsticks, glosses, shadows and blush, as well as makeup bags and a covetable scarf are springy and cheerful, and the packaging is knockout.
Primarily white with black detailing and splashes of color, the packaging features an open-beaked bird and simply drawn flowers. With shades including Prim + Proper, Summer Rose, Birds + Berries and Petals + Peacocks, the newest makeup collaboration channels the ladylike-boho chic of the British print icon that is Liberty of London.
At just $14, the Petals + Peacocks lipstick and the Blue India nail lacquer for $12 could be just the go in my own Liberty collaboration come spring. The Mac collection hits makeup counters today, Thursday, March 11, as well as online at maccosmetics.com.
I never line up for anything. It has become a sort of personal creed for me, especially since moving to New York more than a decade ago and being stunned at how willing people are to queue in this city – and in such an orderly manner. Australians are largely a cynical bunch, and lazy, so the whole lining up thing doesn’t work well. A French friend, also stunned at the orderly American queue, said lines in her homeland were notoriously rowdy and crooked, with people going in all directions.
That’s why today was notable. I surprised even myself and stood in line with about 200 other shoppers to get first dibs on the Liberty of London for Target range. Thankfully, the line moved fast, and I made it inside in about 15 minutes at what was probably peak time around 12.30pm. Was it worth it? Well, yes I believe it was. I scored three pretty sundresses, of course in Liberty printed fabrics; a couple of tea mugs and floral tumblers as well as an armload of frocks and bikinis for the daughter, all of which actually fit.
I was pleased to find the dresses were modern cuts and the fabrics didn’t feel cheap and nasty as has been the case with some other designer for the masses collaborations. Target seems to have really hit a home run with this latest teaming, raising the question among just about everyone I chatted to in that long line: why isn’t there a Liberty of London store in New York?
The pop-up store was beautifully decorated with planters galore of spring flowers, and hyacinth perfuming the air, which was also adorned with massive cutouts of home wares, umbrellas and yards of wallpaper and fabric in the famed Liberty prints. The umbrellas, by the way, were sold out by noon today and a lot of the smallest sizes in the lingerie and some of the most popular dresses were in need of restocking too. Still, a woman next to me was thrilled to find a row of bras in 36 DD and beyond! There were plenty of staff scattered about too to help answer questions, though most people wanted to know about sizing, and that was the one thing the staffers seemed clueless about.
Most things are sized x-small, small, medium or large etc., although in an odd twist, some maxi dresses were sized numerically in British sizes. For the record, a UK8 is about a 6 in the US and a UK10 is an 8. I found the dresses run large, so opt for the smaller size. It was also tough to navigate the children’s clothes, since there was no guide on what ages the S, M and L were for. If it helps any, my almost 5yo was fine in the 5T and XS selections.
So here’s what you need to know if you plan on hitting the pop-up store; go early and unencumbered because it will be crowded and you probably won’t see everything properly, partly because the layout of the pop-up store is muddled and partly because in a flower-filled room full of Liberty-printed platters, clothes, rain boots, lingerie, bathing suits and so on, it all begins to look the same after a bit; and don’t bother with the fitting room lines unless you really must.
Afterwards, head home for a nice cup of tea, preferably in a glossy new Liberty print teacup.
The pop-up store is at 1095 Sixth Ave. at 42nd Street, near Bryant Park through Saturday. It hits Target.com and Target stores beginning Sunday, March 14.
This bout of spring-like weather has me in an uncommonly good mood, so instead of ranting about the incredibly tedious Oscars, or the recent Park Slope-driven debate about whether it’s okay to take children to bars (though I might get to this shortly), I thought I would rave about a couple of things.
One-A-Penny, Two-A-Penny …
Every year around this time I crave real, fruit-laden hot cross buns, the sort I grew up eating toasted and dripping with butter. I have been into countless bakeries around New York and usually my request for hot cross buns is greeted with a blank stare. Or, if I can find them, they are cakey and light, sparse on the candied fruit and peels and heavy on white frosting and sticky glazes. I still haven’t found a version entirely reminiscent of the hot cross buns I remember from childhood, but I am thrilled to finally come close.
Bread Alone at the Union Square Greenmarkets has hot cross buns for the next few weeks preceding Easter. They are heavy with fruit and yeasty as I remember. The only downer is that like all the buns I have tasted here, they have an icing cross instead of a traditional dough one, which means you can’t put them in the toaster or the oven. Still, at around a buck a piece, they’re worth it.
Zara Boys
Also on the rave list this week is the boys’ section of Zara, my beloved shopping haunt, with locations dotted around New York. The store on Fifth Ave near 18th Street, which is dangerously close to my office, has super stylish children’s clothes on the upper level. I discovered that not only are the accessories great and inexpensive for my children, but there are finds to be had for a smallish female too.
I picked up a graffiti-patterned belt for my son and grabbed myself one in brown leather with brass grommets too; I picked him up a spring-weight scarf with skulls + crossbones and found a blue + white striped one for me. You get the idea. The belt was about $15 and beat anything I could find in the women’s section, and the scarf was under $10 and totally sated my current addiction to blue + white stripes.
Liberty of London
And I am hoping to have a serious rave by the weekend, as I gear up for Liberty of London for Target range to go on sale. I’ve been a huge fan of the international fabric label since I was too young to buy it; with its pretty florals and oh-so-English Garden sweetness. I still have a little cloth Liberty print bag my mother bought me on a shopping trip to Melbourne some 30 years ago. Wind the clock forward, and now I’m eyeing a teapot and a heap of breezy sundresses for me and my almost 5yo daughter.
The designer range hits Target.com and select stores March 14, but we lucky New Yorkers can get a sneak peak and shop beginning Wednesday at a pop-up store at 1095 Sixth Ave. at 42nd Street near Bryant Park.
Where do local Aussies want to hang out when they want to be around other Aussies, or at least drink a Coopers beer, nosh on a sausage roll or watch a footy game? Here are a few places in New York that I go if I want a slice of home.
For a decent meal, some kangaroo or barramundi perhaps, there’s the perennial favorite Eight Mile Creek in Soho. We’ve spent many an evening in the upstairs dining room or the heated outdoor area, enjoying top-notch Australian wines and slightly more elegant food than befits the misguided Crocodile Dundee stereotype that America has too long embraced. It’s one of the few places I’ve been able to find good pavlova too.
Tuck Shop in the East Village is the place for a quick cup of coffee – that’s a flat white where I come from – and a meat pie or sausage roll. And the lamingtons and vanilla slices are about as good as you can find in NY. I was here for Australia Day, the Aussie version of St. Patrick’s Day celebrated January 26, and the staff was great. The server treated us to lamingtons and threw in an extra one for me to bring home to the kids. A lamington for the uninitiated is an Australian childhood favorite; a slab of white sponge cake, filled with strawberry jam, dipped in chocolate syrup and dredged in shredded coconut.
There’s a second location too, at St Marks Place, and hot off the presses, they just got a license to sell beer and wine. As part of the long-awaited coup, Tuck Shop is introducing New York to the Esky. For $30, you can get six beers at the table in a mini Esky to keep it extra cold. The St Marks Place location also has Billy Tea, Tim Tams, beloved Vegemite and other Aussie treats for sale.
And while you’re downtown, the Sunburnt Cow and Bondi Road Fish + Chips are great spots for drinks and eats. Yep, you’ll get meat pies, burgers, lamb chops, fish+ chips – all the usual drinking food with a fun, laid-back vibe. I hear there is a The Sunburnt Calf now on the Upper West Side too, but I’ve yet to check it out.
The Australian is where you go for very large glasses of red wine (and very large headaches the next morning!) and non-stop sports action. Sports junkies are glued to the TV screens for cricket matches and rugby league, and the proprietor, a former rugby league player himself, will happily shoot the breeze about the game. Great place to take visiting sports writers or wannabe sportsmen.
If you’re in Brooklyn, the coffee and meat pies at The Pie Shop in Prospect Park come straight from the ovens of DUB Pies (Down Under Bakery), which started out with its prime storefront on Columbia Street. The coffee is good, the pies and sausage rolls are pretty decent, there’s catering and delivery to boot, and chances are you’ll hear an Australian or New Zealand accent working the counter.
Then there’s Sheep Station on Fourth Avenue, Park Slope, where the shearer’s burger (a burger topped with beets, pineapple and a fried egg), lamb chops and fish + chips are worth the trip to the otherwise pretty barren block. There is a fireplace too.
If you just want to read about Australian food, hit the newsstand at Barnes & Noble for the occasional good, out-of-season and pricey Australian food mag. Donna Hay’s breezy, beautifully styled magazines channel Martha Stewart but with that laid back Aussie feel. And there’s usually a Vogue Entertaining + Travel lurking on the shelves.
I was skeptical to say the least, but oddly fascinated by the concept of cooking tuna in a soup. Applying heat to a fresh, ruby-red chunk of tuna is sacrilege in my book. So what was my dear friend thinking, urging me to come over for a bowl of her latest creation; an Ecuadoran style tuna soup. I’ve not been to Ecuador, and being born and bred in Australia, have little knowledge of the style of cooking. But for me, tuna is all about sashimi, keeping it raw or just seared, at most. I did grow up with fish soups, mind you, but the ones my maternal grandmother made were a hearty mix of sturdy white fish, perhaps some fat prawns for good measure, but never tuna.
Yuca, another dominant ingredient in this soup, was also foreign to me. I’ve since learned that it also goes by the names cassava or manioc, and is a long, slim tuber (like a long potato) with bark-like skin. It’s often sold in bins outside NY bodegas, or cut and peeled in the frozen section of most supermarkets. All that said, there are few things I won’t at least try. so I agreed to go and just look at the soup, and see if perhaps I dared a taste.
Well, I had it all wrong. The soup was utterly delicious. The chunks of tuna were poached in a fish stock and doused in lime juice, a smattering or red onions and fresh chopped tomato, then all kind of bound together with nuggets of sweet, starchy yuca. Even my kids lined up for bowls; thinking they were eating potato cooked in broth.
I haven’t made it myself yet, but I am already thinking to replace the tricky-to-prep yuca with some potato and/or a handful of rice to make it a more substantial meal. And I will definitely toss in some fresh red chilli to balance the lime and give more bite. My experimental friend was inspired to make the soup after tasting a version at the Red Hook ball fields where for some 30 years cooks from all over Latin America have gathered at weekends to sell foods from their homelands. I guess that’s where I’ll be going come spring, once the food sellers set up shop again.
Meantime, here is a recipe for the tuna soup or Encebollado De Atun that won me over.
Ingredients:
1 lb yuca, peeled, cored and cut into 1-1/2″ pieces
3 tbsp olive oil
1 white onion diced
4 plum tomatoes diced
6 cloves garlic finely-chopped
1 gallon fish stock
1 1/2 lb tuna cut in 2″ pieces
parsley chopped
1 bunch cilantro leaves chopped
salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 red onion, thinly sliced
6 limes quartered
corn nuts
Preparation:
Place the yuca in a large stockpot and add water to cover. Bring to a boil,
then lower the heat and simmer gently for about 30 minutes. Remove from
the heat and let cool in the water.
Heat the oil in a separate stockpot over high heat. Add the onion and half
of the tomatoes and cook for 10 minutes. Add the garlic and stock, and
bring to a boil. Decrease the heat to low and simmer for 20 minutes. Add
the tuna and yuca and cook for 5 minutes.
Stir in parsley and cilantro and season to taste with salt and pepper.
Immediately ladle the soup into bowls. Float some of the red onion slices
on the surface of each serving, and top with the remaining diced tomatoes.
Squeeze lime juice over the onions and sprinkle the corn nuts over the
onions and tomatoes. Serve with the remaining lime wedges on the side.
I agree it’s terribly sad that yet another person was killed by the killer whale at SeaWorld Orlando but it’s a KILLER WHALE for goodness sake. People pay good money to go gawk at this amazing creature, SeaWorld no doubt paid very good money to keep it captive and have it jump through proverbial hoops to entertain the masses. But it’s a wild animal and frankly, it is unlikely it would have killed anyone had it been allowed to remain in the wild where wild animals belong.
I just don’t get it. You pull a wild creature from its environment, basically exploit it for money and entertainment value, and then wonder why the animal acts “wild.” Whales generally don’t encounter humans, let alone attack them, in the wild because unlike other sea animals, sharks for instance, whales don’t come close to shore where humans swim.
The SeaWorld orca (from Orcinus orca) drowned its experienced female trainer Wednesday in front of horrified onlookers. Details of the accident are still sketchy but there are news reports that the trainer was dragged under the water and thrashed about.
It’s the second time in just two months that an orca trainer has died on the job. In December, a trainer fell from a whale at a marine park on the Spanish Island of Tenerife and crushed his ribcage as the pair practiced a trick. And the SeaWorld whale, the oldest and largest killer whale in captivity, was responsible for two previous deaths. In 1999, there was the bizarre case of a man sneaking into the whale’s pool at SeaWorld and his naked body being found splayed on the whale’s back; and in 1991, a marine biology student and part-time trainer fell into the whale’s tank in Canada and was dragged under to eventual death.
What’s not clear in the latest case is whether it was an act of aggression by the whale, or if the animal was just bored and trying to play. Whales are typically intelligent and playful creatures, and with potential to reach some 32 feet and weigh up to 18,000 pounds, they are not meant to be penned in. So no matter the motivation for the whale’s attack, the sheer strength of the animal was no match for a human.
There’s no word yet on the fate of the killer whale. SeaWorld has suspended its orca show for the time being. And just maybe someone will show some sense and consider setting the orca free now.
Okay, I’ll be the first to admit I know nothing about Winter sports, let alone the 3,000 meter women’s short track speedskating final at the Olympics. But seriously, South Korea was robbed. The women’s relay team from South Korea, the four-time defending champion, crossed the finish line well ahead of China and Canada and left the US for dead. The four-strong team kicked straight into celebration mode, making an ecstatic victory lap wielding their flag proudly overhead, only to have the gold ripped from them minutes later after a referee review decided that a South Korean racer had impeded during the exchange push with a few laps to go.
From what I could tell, watching replays and slow-mos, one of the racers swung her arm back at the Chinese racer on the turn, and frankly if someone were coming that close behind me, I would probably do much more. That probably explains why competitive sports aren’t really my thing. Even so, all the replays made it look like a genuine arm swing, and in my untrained opinion, not worthy of disqualification. Nonetheless, the leading referee, some Aussie bloke according to the commentators, though that’s not the label they used, made the call, which gave China the gold, Canada silver and brought the US into third place with a bronze medal.
I don’t know how I feel about everyone scooting around the ice celebrating by default. If you win a medal, be it gold or bronze, because the team that was faster and better on the day was disqualified, is the victory as sweet? Not to put a damper on things, but I think not.
Who knew a new pair of jeans could prompt so many questions. At 40-plus, I’ve been sliding into skinny jeans day-in, day-out for at least the past four years. But today I put on a pair of boyfriend jeans, the baggy, just rolled out of bed slouchy denim look of the moment. What are these jeans? Turn around. How did you choose your size? What are you meant to wear with them? The questions came thick and fast from skinny and boot-cut wearing mamas in my midst.
I believe it was Katie Holmes who rejuvenated the “boyfriend” label after she was spotted running around New York way back in 2008 in oversized, scruffy jeans that may well have been borrowed from husband Tom Cruise. All the usual celebs from Jennifer Aniston to Lindsay Lohan have been seen wearing them since, and with spring lines hitting the stores, so-called boyfriend jeans look to have nudged skinny jeans to the side, at least temporarily. I dismissed the new trend a few months back when I tried the Gap version. I looked about four-foot-nothing, with tree stumps for legs. They were the most unflattering jeans I had worn in ages. But some of the more recent version are cut slimmer and definitely work better, even for the height challenged. And never mind the look for now; it’s all about the comfort. A day in my newest jeans was something of a denim renaissance. After the shackles of skinny jeans, at last I could move freely; my ankles weren’t in a vice, there were no seam imprints running down my calves, and the proportion works really well with skinny tees and long, boyish cardigans.
Right now I’m coveting a pair of Current Elliott cropped boyfriend jeans but balk at paying $200 plus for daily denim. Instead, I went for Zara’s $59 version in a worn blue wash. Urban Outfitters has some too around $58, and also offers a slim boyfriend cut, which is basically less baggy but still straight from hip to ankle. It’s been awhile since I was anywhere near a boyfriend’s jeans but I guess they must always have jeans with holes, or at least fraying, because that’s the most typical finish I’ve seen so far. As for how to wear them; there are a couple of things to remember; firstly, they must be turned up at the cuff to convey the look and avoid just looking shapeless. And secondly, with all that androgyny below the waist, something fitted and feminine works best on top. With shoes, anything goes. I like a heel with the cropped jeans, and for the ankle-grazing cuts, something girly like a ballet flat, beachcomber-esque like Keds, or even ankle-high boots work.
Far be it from me to dismiss skinny jeans altogether; there is a place for them, tucked into boots, under a swingy jacket or with tunics and sneakers. Leggings, too, fall into the skinny class. But I realized I may have gone too far into the skinny thing when my four year old daughter proclaimed that she will only ever wear skinnies. “I don’t like jeans that open at the bottom, like daddy’s,” she announced while dressing for school one morning. She hasn’t voiced and opinion on the new boyfriend jeans yet.
A table for two, tonight? Oh gosh no, replied the addled maitre d’ at Po when my husband tried for a last-minute dinner reservation, since the kids were nestled at grandma’s for the night. We had kind of forgotten about the whole Valentine’s Day, romantic couples on date -night thing and just wanted something good to eat.
It just wasn’t meant to be. All our favorite, walkable haunts were booked to the brim. Apparently we were the only Brooklyn couple who hadn’t booked weeks ahead for the chance to share the love with a roomful of strangers, who knew? What to do, what to do. Order BBQ of course.
We’d had a menu for Jake’s BBQ in the drawer for months and finally got to try it. And glad we were; a pile of juicy, beef short ribs, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob and individual, small cornbread loaves — teamed with a good bottle of red — we couldn’t have been more sated. We ate well, didn’t have to trudge through the slush AND in these tough times, we figure we saved about $100 on what we would have spent going out. All that food was just short of $30. Oh, and the neighbors’ dog gets the bones!
Next time, we’re thinking of riding the BBQ shuttle over to Jake’s for a nosh. No kidding, Jake’s will send a car to take you to the restaurant and home again, for free. What’s not to like? Jake’s BBQ is at 189 Columbia Street in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
With Valentine’s Day putting red hearts front and center, I figure it’s as good a time as any to share my own story of an ailing heart. Back in 2006, I made a routine doctor’s appointment to check out a lingering cold. I just couldn’t shake a cough and sore throat and expected the doctor to send me packing with antibiotics, as he typically did. Instead, he listened to my heart and determined that I had a slight murmur. It was probably nothing, he said, and went on to do an Echocardiogram, finding that I had a leaky valve somewhere in there. This was Sept. 11, 2006, a date I considered ominous enough without the added burden of some brewing heart issue.
Being one to brush off ailments and generally be mistrustful of doctors, I thought nothing of all the fuss over a heart murmur. I mentioned, in passing, to my husband that the doc wanted me to go in for a CT scan, basically a fancy, detailed x-ray where they feed dye into the body to get a cross sectional image. The doctor just wanted to be sure the leaking valve was something minor and manageable. A lot of young, slim women apparently suffer from something called mitral valve prolapse, where one of the heart’s valves doesn’t close properly, without it ever causing any problem. That was the diagnosis he foresaw for me.
Worst Case Scenario
Instead, there were hushed conversations and panicked phone calls hours after I had the CT scan. The doctor had me booked for stress tests and a cardiac catheterization in the weeks ahead; there was a risk that not only did I have a leaking valve but it appeared I may have an aortic dissection that if aggravated could rupture to cause internal bleeding and at worst, death. The way he put it: “If it’s what it looks like, you should be dead. Lifting your children or carrying the stroller upstairs, you could just bleed out.”
My husband was livid. Frustrated and dissatisfied that I was booked to see specialists in a matter of weeks, he made a bunch of calls and came up with the name of a cardiologist at New York Presbyterian Hospital who dealt with cases such as mine. I rang her immediately and was told she was traveling; minutes later, apparently unnerved by the details I had left with her assistant, the cardiologist rang me from the airport. She pulled no punches. If what I told her was accurate, I needed to go straight to the emergency room where she would have a cardio team waiting.
Running Scared
You have to understand, I was at my son’s preschool to pick him up at the time. My son was three and my daughter just 16 months old and still breastfeeding. I had none of my family close-by or even aware of what was going on, and my in-laws, who came from Long Island to help, had never even spent the night with our children, let alone looked after them daily and in a time of crisis. I don’t remember much of what happened next, except that a neighborhood mommy and now very good friend stepped in and took the children home, while I collected myself, rang my husband in tears and literally ran from Cobble Hill to downtown Brooklyn to collect x-rays to take with me to the hospital.
That evening, my husband drove me to the ER, where I presumed I would wait for hours amid true emergencies for someone to see me. Instead, a posse of men and women in white coats sprang into action, studying me and my story over and over and over again. Indeed, I had a thoracic aortic aneurysm; and yes, I should have been dead like so many other young people I have since heard of who just keeled over with the same condition. There were no symptoms, no family history, and no explanations for why I had this or for how long I had it. It was decided that — at just 37 years of age and with no noteworthy medical history — I would have open heart surgery the next day to patch the aneurysm and replace my leaking valve with an artificial one. At this stage, I still hadn’t told my family anything was wrong, leaving that horrible task to my already stricken husband.
My only real recollection through any of it was being wheeled into the operating theater in tears after having to remove my wedding and engagement rings, which I never take off. That’s when I asked the surgeon if I would see my kids again, a notion that until then I hadn’t contemplated. It had all happened so quickly and so extremely, it was almost an out-of-body experience.
Freak Case
I woke in the intensive care unit with my husband nearby and tubes coming out of my arms and mouth and nose. I was medicated to the eyeballs, so it wasn’t until a day or two later that I even realized how sore I was. The surgery had been a success and besides a whopping great scar down my front and taking blood thinners for the rest of my life, all seems to be well now. There’s still no explanation for how this happened; no family history; no warning signs — I am something of a freak case and as such, am now part of a research study into unexplained thoracic aortic aneurysms.
When I bare my scar, as is inevitable in just about anything I wear, I get plenty of double-takes from people wondering what happened, especially my children’s friends, who ask why that mommy has a big boo-boo. One very hot day last summer, I had beige-colored surgical tape over the scar to avoid it burning; an old woman on a lawn chair outside her Brooklyn home stopped me to ask if it was “the patch.” I never figured out if she meant a birth-control patch or one to quit smoking, either way it amused me. I could cover-up the scar I guess, but why?
Interestingly, as the American Heart Association promotes the Go Red for Women campaign and even Project Runway gets in on it, charging designers with the task of making runway worthy red dresses for women who have been affected by heart disease, I forget that I am one of those women. It was just 15 days between that first doctor visit and the surgery September 26, 2006. The entire process seems surreal, a bit like childbirth I guess, where you forget the agony just enough to contemplate doing it over again.
I rarely wear color but maybe this Valentine’s Day I’ll slip something red over the black New Yorker uniform, and celebrate that my ticker is fit and well.
Two consecutive, cold Fridays, while the children were in school, I found myself luring willing diners to Al di La Trattoria in Park Slope just to eat the same dish. For some, comfort food is a bowl of mashed potatoes, a hamburger or ice cream maybe; for me, this restaurant’s version of polenta ai funghi hits the spot. The warm, gooey, not-too-cheesy polenta is draped with vibrant kale and a tumble of braised wild mushrooms. It is deliciously unctuous – filling but not overly so. It’s the kind of comfort food you really want your lunch partner to taste, but not really! With snow falling and Friday just around the corner, I may make it a polenta ai funghi trifecta.
Wandering down our street one chilly afternoon, we heard what sounded like bock-bocking in the bushes next to our building. Lo and behold it was a big, seemingly lost chook, looking for someplace to park itself. A call to 311 proved useless because animal control apparently deems it completely fine to keep chickens in Brooklyn backyards, or to have them wander the streets until a cat or car gets the better of them. My feisty four-year-old, a budding locavore, suggested we eat said bird, while animal-loving husband and son set up a cardboard box as a temporary home and surfed the web for other solutions. They came across the eglu, a brightly-colored, modernist chicken house sold by the aptly named Omlet, and aimed at urbanites keen to keep a chicken or two for a supply of backyard-fresh eggs. Just as I was warming to the idea of one of these aesthetically-pleasing coops in hot pink or lime green perhaps, our adopted pet was gone, hopefully back to wherever it came from. Only in New York, I guess …
So I finally checked out the much-hyped new smoked meat joint named Mile End for the historically Jewish Montreal neighborhood where it gets its inspiration. The place was packed with a refreshingly mixed crowd, not just hip, singletons but parents with babies and older couples, no doubt in search of a taste of the Old Country. Everyone seemed happy with what they got; which was primarily smoked brisket on bread with a scrape of mustard, bagels with house cured salmon or turkey sandwiches and the ubiquitous Stumptown coffee.
The very sweet waitress, who was literally run off her feet, said they had cooked twice as much as they thought they would need and still ran out twice that day. They would have to close for dinner just to get ahead of themselves. The scene hadn’t calmed any a few days later when friends reported lines snaking down the block, even in these chilling temperatures. I had the smoked meat sandwich and it was hearty and tasty, though that deep smoke stayed with me for the rest of the day. My son LOVED the bagels I brought home; I’m told they are flown in daily from Montreal, and their sweet crust comes from a dip in a honey-water bath before baking. The guys sharing our table had Poutine, a Montreal standard of fries, doused in brown gravy and cheese curds, which also looked good, in a rib-sticking, not-eating-again-for-a-month kind of way.
I’ll return to Mile End but perhaps to try something less manly than the smoked meat next time, if I can ever get a seat at one of the few communal tables. Mile End is at 97A Hoyt Street, near Atlantic Ave. in Boerum Hill.
