This is really exciting. As I was walking home along Broadway in Astoria last night, I did a double take when I passed Lots O Bagels. Though the establishment was closed, it had been transformed for the evening into a Japanese street food stand.
Open every day from 5pm to midnight (and 2am on Fridays and Saturdays), this young operation is offering Astoria something completely different. Kooya serves only kashikatsu, deep-fried skewers of vegetables or meat.
“Want a free sample?” the young man behind the counter called out. I can’t resist a free sample. I tried the squash, which was delicious, and then ordered a 3-skewer combo for $4: eggplant, beef, and chirashi cheese. All were equally good, but as I remember from my prior experience with kashikatsu, you have to order the vegetables — they’re out of this world.
Yesterday was the pop-up stand’s second day open. “We’re figuring things out as we go along,” said the young man. Astorians were skeptical as they passed by. “Want a free sample?” he asked them. “What is this?” one woman said. “Is it all fried?”
Yes, it is, and it’s all delicious! Comparing it to halal food in New York, the boy at the counter explained that the chef (who was furiously frying behind him) spent several years in Japan training, where he witnessed Japanese workers purchasing kashikatsu on their way home in the evening, and he thought we ought to have it in New York, too.
Check them out!
Broadway between 31st and 30th Streets (inside Lots O Bagels)
Open Monday through Thursday 5PM to midnight; Friday and Saturday 5PM to 2AM
How do you find so many flowers in New York? people ask me.
I don’t find them. They find me! Flowers permeate my consciousness because I need flowers to live. I grew up playing in the soil, planting tulip bulbs in fall, cutting back rose campion and spirea and cosmos in spring and summer, fighting prickly brambles to collect wine berries that stained my fingers red, and picking fresh bouquets of pansies and lilies and peonies and roses as long as their seasons lasted.
Today, I have a kitchen shelf garden with one geranium (more on her later!) two cyclamen from Trader Joes, and a little baby plant from my friend Deepti. I don’t have a yard anymore with a lamppost garden, a stonewall garden, a back deck garden, a front path garden, and a rose garden. And I certainly don’t have the time to maintain all of then even if I had acres of land to myself.
What I do have is Central Park, the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, the New York Botanical Gardens, the tulip beds on Park Avenue, radiant purple Iris in the northwest Bronx, and an Instagram feed brimming with flower photos in the warmer months. This tendency to collect the gardens of my New York gave me the idea for the Secret Gardens of New York series. In the past few summers, I have blissfully stumbled upon them. This summer, I plan to seek out the more elusive of the lot.
For now, here’s a look at a few of the floral scenes I’ve collected in the past few years.
As I am tossed along by the wind currents that barrel through tunnels between skyscrapers, I yearn for the melting away of layers, the fresh breath of spring on my skin.
Someday, not so long ago, I was free and easy, on the interstate, rushing away from the city for a weekend escape in nature. I was savoring frozen yogurt on a late, sweltering summer evening. I was too hot. I slept with the windows open.
I came home from any commute drenched from sweat and discomfort, and I stood under a stream of cold water and washed with spearmint soap until everything tingled and my skin forgot the city grime.
Then I lay motionless in my towel on the bed in front of a fan waiting to be cold again. I drank complicated cocktails on rooftop bars with a view. I wore open-toed heels and threw on flip flops to run around the neighborhood. There were weddings and country cabins and LIRR journeys to the boardwalk. Playing guitar on the roof.
And again and again…before and before…the years are circles marked by summers and the summer vacations I took. Reading books on the beach and at the pool and on the back porch. Growing up with the flowers all around me, marking the seasons by crocus and peony and autumn joy.
This is my fourth summer in New York, which feels somehow weighty, as though my time here has been longer than it has.
It’s my third summer in Astoria.
With those free and easy months quickly approaching, I feel the urge to build anticipation for my favorite parts of summer here in Astoria, my adopted Queens home. So, here’s a quick hit list of what I’m looking forward to.
1. Swimming in the adult lap swim, mornings and evenings at the Astoria Park Pool
2. Grabbing Eurotart yogurt with kiwi, blueberries, strawberries, and chocolate shavings at Vanilla Sky
3. Nighttime films in Socrates Sculpture Park and Astoria Park
5. Not being cold walking home in the cold after hot yoga at Bikram Yoga Queens.
6. Writing on my roof, in Central Park, in Socrates Sculpture Park — wherever my traveling journal takes me!
7. The farmer’s market in Socrates Sculpture Park!
8. The LIC Flea, which kicked off its second season last weekend. I’ve never been. This year it’s definitely on the list, especially because they’re opening a new location closer to me, at Kaufman Astoria Studios (starting May 4.)
9. Spring Pop-up at Queens County Market on Sunday May 4… how awesome does this look?
I was thinking of this quotation today, and my appreciation for Ralph Waldo Emerson.
I talked about him in all of my college admission interviews.
I had read “Self-Reliance” in my Introduction to AP English class in junior year of high school. I loved the man. His writings are so pure. They are timeless because they express an objective clarity of thought which we rarely encounter today.
In the spirit of Whitman’s barbaric yawp, they display a self-possession as well as a courage to be proud of one’s own genius.
Coincidentally or perhaps not, I felt this way about myself in high school more than at any other time in the past few years. In other areas of my life and my person, I had yet to develop. But the freedom I valued highly in those days was the freedom to immerse myself in literature.
I borrowed extensively from the Stamford Public Library. I spent long Saturday afternoons wandering past names I recognized and those I didn’t. I read Lawrence Ferlinghetti while lying in the grass. I read Leaves of Grass while lying in my bed. I taught myself Robert Frost and e e cummings by heart and recited their verses before falling asleep and while floating in the gentle waves at Cape May Point, staring out toward the distant line of blue meeting blue, somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond.
It is something to be grateful for, the opportunity to encounter the classics for the first time. As we are becoming ourselves, they become us, too.
I admit it… I cheated in my post last week! I’m so anxious for spring to arrive that I used photos from spring 2013 to speed things along. It worked! I’ve seen the first spring bulbs peeking up from beneath their winter mulch.
Today I’m offering fewer words and more photos, for a serious injection of spring color. Take a look at these before you shop for your spring wardrobe.
And most certainly, check out the Orchid Show this spring at the New York Botanical Gardens. This year’s theme is “Key West Contemporary,” and it promises to be an exotic departure from our door-to-door mundanity.
And finally, the New York Botanical Gardens has a fabulous gift shop. Including these, after my own writer/gardener’s heart:
I recently entered a contest to win a week-long trip to Italy. But this isn’t your average Venice-Florence-Rome trajectory; far from it.
This short scholarship, hosted by WorldNomads.com, immerses you in the local food culture of one of three regions of Italy: Emilia-Romagna, Cinque Terre, and Langhe and Roero (in Piemonte.) While there, each of the three winners has the opportunity to meet Italians involved in all levels of the food production chain, from vintners to sausage makers to cooks. All of these experiences are then transcribed by the winners into a blog and even shared in front of a video crew!
In order to enter this contest, I created a journal in which I shared a recipe. The contest guidelines suggested that the recipe be “…something that you think would transport other travelers to a new place, simply by making it at home. We want recipes with soul and with that make us miss a place that perhaps we’ve never even been.”
I chose the recipe for Zuppa di Ceci, which I first tasted at Trattoria Mario in Florence. Trattoria Mario deserves its own blog post — which is why I wrote about it back in 2010. To reveal the true beauty of the humble chick peas, I conducted a photo shoot on my sunny roof.
When I first heard of this contest in January, I knew I had to enter. But I didn’t know how I would find the time! I ended up writing most of my entry on my iPhone on the train to and from work each day. It was somehow easier to start filling the small screen of my phone than the large screen of my computer or even a handwritten journal. (Side note: not surprisingly, I’m not the only writer who finds it easier to get her thoughts down underground.)
In addition to the story behind the recipe, the contest required an essay explaining why I was a good fit and why I should be chosen. Until a week before the deadline, I believed that this essay should be 1500 words, and had written, edited, and proofread one slightly over the word count.
I was shocked to discover one week before the deadline that the limit was actually 1500 characters — including spaces!
With a lot of emotional anguish, and much help from my dad, who is an expert editor, I was able to chop the essay into roughly fifteen percent of its original length.
I’m now considering what to do with the remnants of the essay (the remnants being the bulk of the original.) I could divide it into several blog posts, or perhaps find another outlet for it. I have a few ideas in mind.
Here’s the miniature version of the essay:
Voi mangiate per vivere. Ma in Italia, si vive per mangiare!
You eat to live. But in Italy, we live to eat!
So my Tuscan host father, Babbo, “Dad” in Florentine dialect, explained to me.
His wife Ornella created glorious meals. But it was Babbo who taught me how to eat: how to twirl pasta, how to peel a peach with a knife, and how to linger over a Sunday dinner.
They molded my culinary sensibility.
Since I lived with them in Florence in 2008, I have dedicated myself to Italian food culture, majoring in Italian and creating two blogs. Piccolo Mondo, Gran Cuore records my journey from American student abroad to gastronomic adventurer. When Nutmeg Met Basil explores my life after graduation, working as a nanny in Parma and getting to know Emiliana cuisine.
Today, in my position at a public relations firm, I write website content and magazine articles on daily deadlines. As a communications professional, my skill set will allow me to produce a high volume of quality content during my scholarship period. Through videos, essays, photos, and social media, I will document a way of life that is in danger of disappearing as Italy modernizes.
Winning this scholarship will fulfill my dream to return to Italy and focus on food, giving me access to parts of the Italian culinary landscape I’ve never before experienced. It will also allow me to communicate my joy to others. Ultimately, it will launch me toward a future in which food, wine, Italy, and writing are intertwined.
Here’s a teaser for my entry:
2-3 tablespoons olive oil
3 15-ounce cans of chickpeas
1 cup water
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 sprigs fresh rosemary
Salt and pepper to taste
How to prepare this recipe:
Heat 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a large pot. Drain and rinse the chickpeas and add them to the pot along with 1 cup of water. Cook on low-medium heat, covered, until the chickpeas are soft and heated through, about 15 minutes.
Remove slightly more than half of the chickpeas from the pot and puree in a blender or food processor. Return the pureed chickpeas to the pot and stir them thoroughly. Let the soup simmer on low heat.
Saute the garlic with the chopped leaves of one sprig of rosemary for several minutes until toasted, and then add to the soup.
Allow to simmer for an additional 15 minutes. Add water as necessary to thin the soup to the desired consistency. Add olive oil, salt, and pepper to taste.
Serve the soup with a drizzle of olive oil and fresh rosemary for garnish.
The story behind this recipe:
Non e` buono quel che e` buono ma e` buono quel che piace.
Personal preference reigns in matters of taste. (Tuscan proverb)
The chickpea may seem to be a lowly bean. But Italian cooking honors the most humble of ingredients. This is most evident in the Tuscan kitchen, known as “cucina povera” or “poor cuisine.”
This recipe for chickpea soup is extremely simple; it gets to the heart of what matters to me about the Italian attitude toward food. A dish may start with a humdrum ingredient, but it never ends with a boring flavor.
This soup is so remarkable that, months after eating it in Florence’s tiny, family-run Trattoria di Mario, I dreamed about it. I awoke from the dream with a lingering sense of well-being. Already back in America, I set out to recreate my Italian experience through recreating this soup.
To read the rest of my entry, click here!
The first few days after we spring forward for daylight savings time have that freshness, that spring energy that cannot be replicated at any other time of the year.
It’s warm and certain smells we’ve forgotten have been unlocked in this new air. Not those icky, worldly summer in New York smells, but clean, innocent, earthy spring smells, of dirt and defrosting branches. The promise of a more outdoor life tantalizes us, and the bathing suits and jaunty striped sailor shirts in store windows begin to make sense.
This is our season, when we begin to remember what we didn’t know we’d forgotten, bringing up from beneath the earth our own treasure trove of hopes squirreled safely away, and the secrets we no longer need keep.
This is spring. This is freedom. This is the beginning.