TORMENTING LITTLE BROTHERS & ITALIAN EMPANADAS

We headed over to The Feast of San Gennaro the other day with our partners in crime, River & Latonya, to stroll the famous culinary festival and enjoy some good old fashioned Italian fun.  I first stumbled upon the festival about 10 years ago, as a bright-eyed new-to-the-city girl, and was instantly enchanted.  I remember walking around downtown with a friend in the late evening hours, seeking out dumplings or ramen or some other delicious cuisine from a certain "secret" basement-level Chinatown restaurant that had been rumored to be the best in the city.  We somehow got mixed up and walked a few too many blocks north, and a little too far East, and then, bam! Smoke and music hung in the air, lights dangled from fire escapes and across the narrow streets, church bells rang in the distance, and grilled sauasages and hot nuts and sugary cannolies filled the booths.  We had no idea where we were, but we knew it was somewhere special.  It was a greasy smoky over-crowded good time. It was kind of amazing.

I hadn't been back in many years, but decided this year to take Biet and baby Lou to experience a little Italian street food.  All I can say is, The Feast of San Gennaro is a different experience during the day, especially with kids.  Holy tourist haven, was it crowded! We made it a couple of blocks in the strollers, but then the kids wanted to run, and there were far too many hot grills and drunken party-goers and swarming crowds to make that happen.  We decided to go out on a limb and try some Italian empanadas.  And.. I don't know about you, but when I bite into a cheese empanada, the last thing I expect is to find is hot cream cheese inside.  Hmmmmmm, ok, San Gennaro.  We eventually escaped all of the mayhem and went out for burritos.  Maybe we'll try again next year, when the kids are a little older (and also, during the night.. the festival takes on a special magic at night that somehow eludes the daytime hours). Until then, San Gennaro..

As we were stopped on a side street plotting our escape, I looked down and saw the most amazing thing: Biet and River, taking turns playing with baby Lou.  They had teamed up and were sticking their tongues out at him and tickling him, taking turns and laughing all the while.  And while I would imagine that witnessing one of your children tormenting the other in such a calculated and matter-of-fact way would usually cause alarm in a parent, this particular sight made me profoundly happy.  In that moment, Biet was such a big sister. And Lucien, beaming at the girls and giddy for all of the attention, was such a little brother.  And even as future arguments and cat fights and anti-sharing strikes flashed before my eyes, I was overtaken with happiness. Sometimes it's these little in-between moments, on a street corner in Little Italy with empanada wrappers in your pocket and a diaper that needs changing and two hungry toddlers on your hands, that perfect moments take place, that relationships grow, and that life happens.

And so burritos were consumed, and afterwards chocolate (because a meal just isn't a meal without a little bit of chocolate, according to Biet... and maybe to me too), and big sisters were a little too rough with little brothers, and little brothers didn't seem to mind getting roughed up a bit, and best friends were willing and encouraging accomplices, and Mamas were tired but happy all around, and another full and gratifying day in the city was had by all.

*Biet's shirt by Coup

COMING HOME

In the middle of the cool Oregon night, I stepped into my Aunt Pam's house. Gaby and I quietly carried our exhausted little ones past the grandfather clock by the front door and up the winding staircase to the cluster of bedrooms on the second floor.  My older sister and her children slept within one room, my younger sister in another.  We had planned to each travel from our homes and meet here, in Portland, on this particular day, in this yellow-painted four-story home.  And we had all made it.

Gaby and I collapsed into the bed of the master bedroom, or what had once been the master when I lived in this house twenty some years ago. I looked around at the walls, so familiar, yet almost from a dream.  The slightly woody, slightly savory scent in the air was one I knew instinctually from my childhood, a mix of the old house's walls and of freshly cooked food.  I made my way downstairs to fix a bottle for Biet, who, even as thoroughly exhausted as she was from the flight, still refused to go to sleep without her customary almond milk.  As I made my way downstairs in the dark, I realized that my feet knew each step and each curve in the wall.  Yet my mind was surprised at how small the staircase was.  These stairs I used to chase my sisters up as a four year old, and slide down as a five year old, were, in my memories, a castle-like cascade of steps.  But now they were just another set of stairs, albeit a set of stairs upon which many a great woman had walked.

When the babes had drifted into their dreams, Gaby and I lied upon the big bed and whispered. With the windows cracked, you could hear and smell the Oregon breeze drifting in, tainted with notes of trees and flowers and the faintest smell of the ocean.  An odd feeling, of calm and excitement at the same time, began to creep up from my stomach, and yet I could not place it.  Over the next week we would be here with family, away from the city, away from the noise, away from the internet, in a place of love and warmth and history.

After my mother passed, but before we were swept away into the unsteady world of foster care, this is where my sisters and I lived.  My mother's sister Pam opened her heart to us in the most unreserved way, and we became part of her family.  Here, we healed. Here, we bonded.  Here, we shed the layers of turmoil and became children again, for a little while.  Here, I learned to believe in magic again. And I learned to cook. And garden. And, through example, to mother.  And now I had finally made my way back, with both of my sisters, as was meant to be.  And I had made it back as a mother.  Full circle.

Over the next few days in Portland with my aunt & uncle & sisters & cousins & nephews & husband & children, we lovingly made family memories for the next generation, for our children, to keep.  And I slowly learned what that feeling in my belly was.  It was a feeling I had not felt since I stepped off the plane upon moving to New York City.  It was the feeling of coming home.

JAZZ AGE LAWN PARTY

This past weekend, Gaby and I decided to throw together some 1920's-esque ensembles, grab the kids, and join the annual Jazz Age Lawn Party. I'd been wanting to go for years (eight years to be exact, since it first began), but somehow every summer when it rolled around I would find myself either working, out of town, pregnant, or postpartum.  This year, we were free. And so, with gusto from years of anticipation, we joined the party. And it was spectacular.

Vintage cars lined the roads, stands selling gorgeous beaded antique dresses and felt hats set up shop next to bars slinging prohibition-era drinks.  Everyone leisurely grazed on picnics and relaxed in the sun. The band played jazz that made you feel like you had stepped back in time, and the dance floor was hot with couples dancing everything from ballroom to the Lindy Hop to the Charleston.

And the fashion.

The style could stop you in your tracks.  Flapper dresses and silk gowns, head scarves, top hats, vests, so much tweed, so many suspenders. Gatsby would be proud. There was so much beauty, so much style, and so much originality in one place, you couldn't help but be happy.

Baby Lou sat upon his Papa's arms and took it all in.  I think he really enjoyed the music.  Biet, on the other hand, had me on the dance floor in a matter of minutes.  We twirled and shimmied and shook until we could dance no more, and she still wanted more.  She invented a couple of new moves and hammed it up for photographers left and right.  I swear that girl has performance in her blood. She simply thrived in the communal, creative, free-spirited energy of it all.  It was really amazing to witness.  At one point I caught her far in the distance, sitting with a group of women. I ran to grab her, and found  her happily sitting her new friends at their picnic, eating strawberries and laughing and joking with everyone.  My little pearl of a girl...

I cannot wait to do it all again next year.  I'm already daydreaming of a little toddler Lucien in suspenders and a fedora. :)

*my kimono c/o Arnhem Clothing*

AND OUR LITTLE FLOURISHES GIVEAWAY WINNER IS.... Anna! (I emailed you for shipping info) Thanks to everyone who entered!

HELLO GOVERNOR!

To satisfy a spontaneous urge to escape from the city, we hopped on ferry to Governor's Island the other day to meander around the old abandoned mansions and sit beneath the massive Hickory and Chestnut trees.  It was Biet's first time on a boat, and my first time to the island.  I'm beginning to realize that the more years in NYC you put under your belt, the fewer and fewer genuinely new experiences you seem to have, so to travel to a brand-new-to-me nook of the city (part of Manhattan actually, according to the city), and see brand-new-to-me things, was exciting beyond belief.

Anticipation mounted as we boarded the massive boat and found seats right in the front, where the wind would be the strongest upon our faces and the view the most clear.  Halfway through our ride, a bicycle-pulled ice-cream cart that was parked in the very front of the lower level of the boat, undoubtedly heading to the island with its owner to set up shop for all of the summertime visitors, somehow detached from its holding spot and, with the next bumpy wave, began plummeting towards Biet.  As the cart hit her stroller and began pushing it onto its side, I pushed my arms out and tried with all of my might to lift it, envisioning the terrifying ice-cream covered disaster that loomed.  Suddenly the conductor from the front of the boat was there, along with a few passengers and the ice-cream lady, frantically pulling it off.  It all happened so fast, but everyone was okay.  Biet didn't seem to mind the near-catastrophe, and just kept laughing like a lunatic at the wind blowing her hair in every which way. The girl's fearless, I tell you.

We crossed the Buttermilk Channel, gently pulled to dock, and walked down the splintered wooden boarwalk.  And there she was, a glorious sight.  Sprawling fields, gentle winds, ancient manicured buildings.. it felt like we had landed in another country.  Suddenly, everything just felt free.

And so we roamed.  We roamed through the poetry festival, the winding tree-lined pathways, and the acres of grass.  We climbed the playground, collected pebbles, and ran through the current installation piece, Head in the Clouds, by Studio Klimoski Chang Architects, which is a giant cloud made entirely of recycled plastic bottles and jugs.  It was surreal, and beautiful.  We watched a man hack open a coconut for us so that we could drink the water.  We admired the glistening city skyline in the distance.

And when the sun began to sink, we boarded the ferry once again, this time climbing the stairs to the open upper level, and sitting along the edge of the boat where we could peer down at the rippling waters below. Watching the skyscrapers of Manhattan come closer and closer, and then get further and further away, we passed Battery Park City and approached the Brooklyn waterfront.  Tired but refreshed, we were back home. Although, technically, we had never left.

See you again soon, Governors Island.

OVER THE WEEKEND

..A few shots from our afternoon wandering the streets here at home in Brooklyn this Sunday.  With so much commuting, rushing, and working in Manhattan on a regular basis, it was a welcome break for us to stick around home for a few days. Also, we got to bring our fifth family member (we love you Nico!) with us most everywhere we went, which is something I really miss.  When we lived downtown Nico used to tag along everywhere that we went.  A surprising number of stores and shops in Manhattan allow dogs (the bank! the laundromat! Duane Reade! Bloomingdales!), so we would sometimes leave with her in the morning and walk her around the city for hours.  Since moving to Brooklyn over a year ago, we've had to ride a lot more trains, schedule a lot more of our lives, and be much more precise and timed with walking Nico.  It always makes me a little sad (okay, a lot sad) when I have to rush her around the block and then take her back home before hopping on the train to run errands.  It always fuels the Brooklyn vs. Manhattan debate in my head once again too...

Anyhow, this weekend we stuck close to home, and made time to wander. We walked around proudly as a family of five.  Sometimes I would catch passerby's laughing in disbelief when they saw Gaby, baby strapped to his chest, pushing a toddler, who held the leash of a pitbull, who walked by my side as I lugged our bags.  We must be a pretty amusing sight.  I can only imagine what we'll look like when both of the kids are walking/running/chasing/being hooligans... :)

Thanks for being good to us this weekend, Brooklyn.

**My kimono is c/o Arnhem Clothing. You can find it here. Thanks ladies, I love it!**

A SHOW ON EVERY CORNER

Sometimes, while I'm hurrying between a job and a playdate and an errand, I'll find myself absolutely awestruck by the magnitude of talent that surrounds me.  I don't mean that of my husband (who's talent and musical ear blows me away on a daily basis, but that's another story), I mean the talent of the city as a whole.  Walking the dozen blocks from Houston on the east side to Carmine on the west, one's liable to come across multiple musical performances (we saw a hip-hop xylophone show, a swing-style five piece brass band, and a handful of singer-songwriter types doing their things), dance performances (a modern lyrical-style troupe from the New School putting on an experimental number), games (dirty city basketball in all its glory), and art (The Bowery mural, the new David Bowie wall at Rag+Bone, and all of the magnificent heartfelt work on the walls in between.. street art will always have my heart).  Not to mention the sight of taxi cabs navigating 6th Avenue at rush hour, which is a not-so-delicate dance of sorts all its own.  This place is simply brimming with talent. And it makes the everyday moments and errands so utterly beautiful.

To think that eight and a half million people are living here: struggling, playing, creating, and working hard to make a life for themselves, well its humbling.  I feel grateful to be surrounded by such diversity, and by such talent.  It's inspiring.  And I can only imagine what it must be like for my children to grow and learn in this reality where everyone strives to be themselves and to follow their dream, as crazy or offbeat as that dream may be.  I love that Biet and Lucien are able to experience music, art, and performance every day, as a natural part of their world.  I love that they will grow with the message that if you love to do something, you can walk out your door and do it.  The examples are everywhere.  And I love that no matter what they may choose to do or become, they will be able to look out upon their city and see someone doing it.  The great talent pool of the city reinforces what I long to instill in them every day: that anything truly is possible, and that your dreams matter. A lot.

So thank you for the street shows and the street art and for being yourselves, my fellow New Yorkers. Whether I stop to admire a scribbling pasted to a wall, smile at you in passing as you strum a guitar, or throw a dollar in yout tip bucket as you belt out Billie Holiday on the corner, I want you to know that I appreciate you sharing your gift and your dreams. It makes the city even more exciting and beautiful, for all of us.

(photos from another lovely afternoon with Latonya & River, and Natalie & Henry)