Dear D.C.

My bottom was sore from sitting on the floor of Secaucus station, my hand burning from scrolling through my phone while it charged rather than just letting it charge. My Mega Bus which I will forever more call Mega Bust was three going on four hours delayed but I had a donut and a cold brew to appease me. The last seats remaining on the beyond delayed bus were in the way back and each time we hit a bump I flew into the air. For the first time in a long time I felt light. I met two kind souls and we talked for most of the ride which made the time accelerate. They gave me moral support as I fought for my $26 dollars back from the bus ticket. It might not be a lot of money to a corporation, but after that egregious delay and a missed opportunity to wander Georgetown at night, I wanted it back. I booked an Amtrak home and extended my stay through Sunday afternoon, hell with how much it cost. Experiences have value too.

Copley Hall at Georgetown University was my home sophomore year. 

Gooey cookies and subs from Wisemiller's, or Wisey's, were a favorite indulgence as a student. 

Although the delay was a nuisance, a departure from my normal routine still felt momentous. Train stations and airports hold much significance for me because the stories unfolding there are so palpable. Soon to be companions meeting for the first time while they share a bench and bake in the heat waiting for their bus, loners running away, a soldier coming home. My bus buddy was from Baltimore, around my mother's age, and had been in Boston for a week with a special "friend". Her children hadn't wanted her to take the trip because she is terminally ill, but she refused to compromise her plan. She only told me she hoped her friend would not fall in love with her because she didn't know how long she had. Her courage astounded me, but being prone to seizures and fainting, I could see why her children would be concerned. When we passed into Philadelphia she dozed off to sleep and I leaned over to check that she was breathing. A slight scar shown on the upper part of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.

Colored and cozy on 36th street in Georgetown. 

Loaves at Baked and Wired. Georgetown Cupcake pales in comparison to this spot. 

Just around 1am I tumbled into bed, freshly bathed in hotel body wash, at the Key Bridge Marriott, where my parents and grandparents stayed whenever they visited me at Georgetown. I rose early the next morning and walked over the Key Bridge gazing out at the row boats on the Potomac and landmarks in the distance. I caught up with two dear friends, celebrated the pending nuptials of two other beloved friends, and found my way back to Georgetown for Thomas Sweet Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream and rainbow sprinkles. Not to be confused with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, this ice cream literally tastes like cookie batter and is unlike any other ice cream I have ever had. 

The same menu at Filomena. 

On Sunday I visited the restaurant that gave me the life I now know, Filomena. One of the managers, Anton, greeted me as if no time passed. He only asked if James and I had children yet. Not yet I said. The cast of characters at Filomena remains the same although the hostess, like me back then, looked like a student. The menu hasn't changed, the decor hasn't changed, nor the music. The restaurant continues to do 400 covers a night effortlessly; why change a thing?  I embraced a few old friends and settled in to dip crusty bread in an Olive Oil confection complete with olives and herbs. For lunch I chose the Smoked Chicken and Mozzarella Ravioli with a thick rustic tomato sauce. I didn't take a photo of it although taking photos of food is one of my great joys. The food at Filomena is not made for Instagram. It is made to be savored. 

I leaned back in my seat with a full stomach to make room for my favorite Turtle Cheesecake and reflected on my brief five months of employment. In that short time I got a taste of the hospitality industry, made friends, practiced my Italian, ate too much dessert, and found the man I would marry. Fast forward to our long distance relationship, James, then an Executive Sous Chef, would call me to confirm the spelling of Italian words for the day's specials. I would send text messages back, privately wishing that I was there for one more "family" meal. I followed him back to D.C., he followed me to NJ and now we have family meals of a different kind.

I depart for the train. The bustle and magic of Union Station feels like my own Platform 9 3/4 only I have no years left at Hogwarts. This chapter isn't all that bad though. 

24 Hours in Brooklyn

Have you ever played a tourist in your own backyard? This past Friday marked my dad's first trip on a New Jersey transit bus. In 57 years of life in New Jersey, he had never taken a bus to New York City, citing his need for control as the reason for avoiding bus travel. A mock dinner service at the soon to open Circa Brewing Co. in downtown Brooklyn changed all that. He let go of the reigns and boarded the bus. My mom dropped off this burly man of nearly 300 pounds at the station and he gleefully revealed to me that he bought his own ticket. Like an expectant student on the first day of school when he arrived, I intercepted him in Chelsea and my sweet colleague helped us subway navigate to Brooklyn around the F train horrors.  Dad revealed he was nervous to make a trip by himself on the subway because in those 57 years of life living 20 minutes from Manhattan, he had taken the subway a total of 2 times. 

Coincidentally, I had purchased tickets to a private dinner in Brooklyn held by one of my favorite culinary entrepreneurs, Gabriele Corcos. I'd been to Brooklyn only once before this year and now I was doubling my visits in a weekend. My husband surprised me with a room at the McCarren Hotel and Pool so we could explore rather than rush home late in the evening with bellies full of porchetta. We rise early on Saturday, 7am to be exact, thanks to James and his military urgency. I curse the sun that peeks through my window and immediately retract my negative feelings because it is a gorgeous day, ripe for adventure. We arrive so early at the hotel that we secure free street parking and get a glimpse of the McCarren Pool in all its tranquility before a Veuve Clicquot summer party moves in; James and I don't quite fit in that scene so we take to the street. 

In that instant I am Francie Nolan, one of my favorite literary characters, from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I am subtly insecure, on occasion uncomfortable in my skin, perhaps trying too hard,  but my intentions are good and I open myself to what the world has to offer. James and I are giddy exploring McCarren Park Green Market. We sample pickles and ginger teas, pet pups, and practice taking pictures of beautiful root vegetables. I've been to farmers markets before, of course, but this one feels more like a village all its own as if the market rendered this location relevant and the people flocked here to be a part of it. 

We snag a matcha iced latte and a chocolate croissant at Woops! to fuel our journey and walk nearly 3 miles before realizing we are going farther from our destination. I am enjoying myself so thoroughly it doesn't phase me. We hop on Citi bikes and ring our bells, passing joggers, babies, and dogs, lots of each. We embrace our roles as tourists: sun burnt, dehydrated, foolish, and loving every moment of it. Advertisements are painted on the sides of buildings. We watch a man carefully finish off a portrait of a woman to advertise some brand that escapes me as I write. I only see the artist and the woman. 

We finally arrive at Smorgasburg. James instructs me to find the booth with the longest line and hop in that line, queues indicating something is coveted and worth trying. We opt for Mao's Bao  and are not disappointed. We walk more and settle in to Shelter to balance out all of the fried confections we had eaten with a selection of grilled Camembert, roasted vegetables, lox flatbread, and cold Brooklyn Lager. 

That evening we Lyft to the Tuscan Gun Officine Alimentari for Summer Porchetta Nights. I have long been a fan of Gabriele Corcos and Debi Mazar, of their show, their book, and the values of family and community that they champion. They are as I envisioned genuine, passionate, and inclusive. I tend to build in my mind an aspirational perspective of those I revere. For these two, the perception is upstaged by their true characters. Gabriele and his team work methodically in their small space to put out two kinds of bruschette, carrot soup with rosemary and chickpeas, pasta puttanesca, and his iconic porchetta. There are Aperol spritzes for me and bottles of Peroni for James. In his backwards baseball cap, Gabriele shares with us the origins of Pasta Puttanesca. As the story goes after a long night in a brothel somewhere in Italy, everyone had developed an appetite. They canvassed the pantry for items to cook with and only found olives, jarred capers, and sardines. Alas, puttanesca incorporates the shelf stable goods you'd expect to find in a brothel. After a long night of conversation with our new Brooklyn friends, Lisa and Chris, we sip on cappuccino and eat bite sized cornmeal cakes. I get a hug from Gabriele and realize one of my culinary life list goals.

Gabriele Corcos, James Beard Award recipient, tv host, author and culinary entrepreneur plating dessert. 

Sunday morning we wander through Brooklyn Bridge Park and take in the World Trade Center from yet another perspective. The sheer magnitude of the bridges and the buildings take my breath away. At Almondine, we have draft lattes and butterful pastries. I envy the French lifestyle of indulging in these decadent confections and maintaining a trim figure. If I ever make it to France, I'll be sure and inquire how they do it. Lastly, we find enamel plates, vintage baseball cards, and artwork entirely drawn on post-it notes at Brooklyn Flea in Dumbo. After being rushed off a corner for a movie filming, we pile into the Jeep and head back across the river. We never boarded a plane or traveled extra far but it felt as momentous as if we had. 

Grass is green wherever you water it, as they say, and you need not go terribly far for an adventure.  Board that bus, take that subway, wander with wonderment in your own backyard.  

It's been so long since last we met.

On Indian Lake

To celebrate America's birthday, James and I explored a lake of hers in Upstate New York for the weekend. We arrived Saturday in time for a quick lunch of hotdogs and hamburgers before our kayak trip across Indian Lake. Having not worked my upper body adequately in some time, I immediately felt the burn spread across my back from shoulder to shoulder. Cold water splashed on my legs as my rowing partner cut through the water in front of me. The air was crisp and delightful to breathe in. After a mile of paddling... left, right, left, right, we docked our canoes and headed to the top of the mountain on foot. 

The men said this was one of the easier hikes in all of Indian Lake, and the one with the best views. To me it hadn't felt very easy, but I made it nonetheless. The last 100 yards were nearly vertical, but with some reassuring words from myself to myself as I struggled for breath, I made it to the top and snapped this photo.  

The view after our hike. 

Once our energy was restored, we set out for the bottom, accompanied by a young family- a baby girl in her Dad's backpack carrier and a voracious bulldog. Three children were on their way to the top with springs in their steps and smiles on their faces. A short distance away we rowed to a series of cliffs, and I mustered the courage to jump off not once, but twice. The minute my feet left the cliff, I felt a moment of panic that I might die when I hit the bottom. Moments later I emerged from the cold water, unharmed and relieved.

 For dinner, James made homemade chili and grilled corn over an open fire using his Dutch oven. The women had wine, and the men had beers as we tucked in to hearty, cheddar chopped chili served with tostada chips. We walked to the fireworks in town and grabbed a spot on the hill just in time for dark to fall.  Before the firework display, a few youngsters released a lantern in to the air. I found it lovlier than the fireworks that followed but it was a fitting spectacle for Uncle Sam. 

Sunday we woke exhuasted, and sore, but embarked on another momentous day. James and my uncle went on a hike that ended in fishing, while my aunt and I went to a charming little beach. After swimming, reading, and a short snooze, we visited some antique stores and were inspired by the skill of local artisans and their creations. Grilled pizzas were dinner with a slew of toppings - assorted peppers, onions, yellow squash, zucchini, and pancetta. I snuck in an additional swim as the sun was setting on the dock. We will be returning, and often, as I have been won over by the allure of the lake. 

We adjusted our route home to pass through Lake Placid and watched some young hockey players skating on the ice where the Americans defeated Russia in the 1980's Olympics despite the incredible odds. After a ski lift and an elevator ride, we stood atop the launch pad for the Olympic Ski jump. Overwhelmed with admiration for America's athletes and the beauty of her lakes, we drove home grateful. 

Flying high

One of the pleasures of living on the East coast is the variation in the seasons. With Autumn come the bright hues and crunch of leaves, cable knit sweaters, and pumpkin spice lattes. We ease in to Winter with temperatures that drop steadily, snow falls, and the buzz of the holidays. When it has been dark for long enough, Spring greets us with warm sunshine and fresh blooms. 

​At last it is Summer. There are popsicles, roasted marshmallows, and late nights around the fire. Weekends are for the beach or picnicking. Weeknights, we grill outside greeted by warmth, a setting sun, and the smell of fresh basil from the garden.  There is an abundance of activities outdoors. My boyfriend James has a keen sense of adventure, which is aided by his appreciation of small things. Consequently, ordinary endeavors become grand adventures.  

One night, on a whim we went to the State Fair in search of a deep fried confection and a ride or two. Fortunate for us, there happened to be a traveling Circus group performing, the entertainers dressed head to to in red, white and blue, the picture of Americana. We grabbed seats next to a sweet family of six, and watched on in amazement.  ​

The first performer climbed a massive pole, and hung from the very top by just a wrist strap. In the wind, the pole swayed back and forth, as she stood atop and balanced with no net below her, and I ached with anxiety. There was a human cannon that flew through the air, and two young men that maneuvered a massive rotating apparatus with ease. A family of performers walked the tight rope, then rode along it on a bicycle. My heart beat faster with every step. Planes from the nearby airport roared overhead all the while, and  American flags waved as these talents were flying high against the backdrop of the evening sky.   ​

After the performance, we wandered, mounted the sky ride and caught a breathtaking view of the New York City skyline. James kept his eyes closed as he was reminded of one too many drills at high altitudes from his time as Marine. We had french fries with malt vinegar and a coffee milkshake to split, an end to a fine summer night.