Personal Yummy #10

Following is the second excerpt that I’m sharing from my coming-of-age novel—set in the nineties—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.

Happy reading.

Beth

She’s got it all together.

Tall (close to six foot), shapely (rather voluptuous, actually), fair-skinned, pretty, intelligent, and well-spoken, with brown eyes and abundant hair that she pulls loosely back in a low ponytail, she has her own sense of style while on the job. Instead of wearing khaki shorts or pants as most of us waitresses always do, she wears a short, wraparound khaki skirt, which shows off her long legs. But what is most noticeable about her is that she has a great deal of common sense, is very confident, determined, and focused, and knows exactly what she wants first before anything else: a good, stable career. She is attending the University of Pittsburgh, where she is pursuing a business and computer science degree, and she is working at The Grill to put herself through school, which I can particularly relate to. I remember that I instantly felt a connection to her and felt comfortable talking to her.

We met not too long ago. Whereas I waitress during the day, Monday through Friday, and occasionally on Saturday, she usually waitresses on Wednesday and Sunday evenings and hostesses for a few hours on Saturday evenings. But our paths cross in that in-between time, when she is just arriving for work and I am doing all of the necessary restocking jobs before I can leave. From the start, she has been extremely kind and very helpful in any way that she possibly can be.

But how could I not like her?

The first time we met, you know what she said to me?

“Hi, I’m Beth. It’s very nice to meet you… I hear that you are a dancer.”

Personal Yummy #9

Following is an excerpt from my coming-of-age novel—set in the nineties—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.

I hope you enjoy it.

Nick

A magician of liquid, he swiftly grabs a tall, dark green bottle from the top shelf on the left, then seizes an elaborate black one from the bottom shelf on the right, quickly and simultaneously pouring their altering contents into the thin glass full of ice in front of him, but stopping the flow of one bottle a few seconds before the other, releasing just the correct amounts of each, designing the perfect-tasting cocktail. He does this over and over again, and night after night, often making three or four drinks at once, relying upon the bank of information stored in his head, remembering all of the varying combinations of substances that come together in unique ways to create countless types of happiness. The authority here on the subject, he answers any questions I have. “What goes in a Singapore Sling, Nick?” or “What’s a Grasshopper made of?” and he instantly rattles off the components. A couple of times he does have to think for a second or two before he responds, such as when I ask him about some obscure drink hardly anyone ever orders, or when someone older requests a concoction with an unusual name that was in fashion back in “their day,” as they tell me. But almost always he replies as if the specific ingredients are written on his tongue. Only once do I see him refer to the cheat sheet that is yellowing in its place under the register.

Personal Yummy #8

I’ve always enjoyed spending a lot of time alone. Whether it’s a result of my introverted nature or my artistic temperament—or both—spending time alone brings me great joy, providing me with the opportunity to think, to write, to read, and to reflect.

According to a well-crafted 1932 essay titled “The Great Garbo” by Clare Boothe Brokaw Luce in Vanity Fair’s Hollywood—an intriguing, heavy, oversize, full-of-good-stuff hardcover book that my friend gave me when she was moving and cleaning out her apartment in Brooklyn (did she realize what she was giving away?)—the actress Greta Garbo was extremely private and independent. And according to the opinions of many other writers in many other articles I’ve read, she chose to spend a great deal of time alone, which contributed to her mysterious and alluring image.

How about you? Do you enjoy spending time alone, too, or are you afraid of it? If you avoid it at all costs, ponder that spending time alone has countless benefits, including reducing stress and helping you to become more self-aware.

I’m not suggesting that you spend time alone to the degree that Greta Garbo did, but why not follow her example every now and then, and even if for only an hour?

You might be amazed at what you’ll discover.

Personal Yummy #7

Raw oysters with fresh lemon and a touch of cocktail sauce

Salsa dancing in a crowded downtown club

The “Obsession: Nudes by Klimt, Schiele, and Picasso” exhibit at The Met Breuer

The hot sun on my face in Central Park

Steve Perry’s voice

Springsteen’s lyrics

Bachata music, especially the “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” version

Saju Bistro on 44th Street

Fig & Olive on 52nd Street

A glass of cabernet at either

Sarah Ban Breathnach’s Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy

The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, the Pulitzer Prize–winning novel by Oscar Hijuelos

Meditating every morning, and loving it

Southern Living

Dark chocolate

Chicken curry, especially with lots of garlic and cilantro

Castello aged Havarti (you won’t believe how good it is)

Extra virgin olive oil—first cold pressed, of course

Nubian Heritage patchouli and buriti bar soap (the smell is intoxicating)

Dangling earrings

Red sheets

Pink lipstick

Avocados

Yellow roses (my favorite)

Diego Chauca’s lunchtime Zumba class at the Ailey Extension (it really gets the endorphins flowing)

And so much more…

 

Have you ever devoted the time to creating a list of what delights you and invigorates your senses? If not, why not give it a try? In fact, keep a journal and, every week—or even every day, if you so desire—write down a few items that bring you joy.

Before long, you’ll be addicted to abandoning your mind to abundance.

Personal Yummy #6

“I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing. The power of love came into me, and I became fierce like a lion, then tender like the evening star.”

The above excerpt is from a little hardcover book that sits vertically on top of my mantel in my living room, the cover on display, the pages fanned out, its shiny gold lettering and detailed flourishes—against an intense red background—emanating outward. Every time I go into that room, I have the opportunity to gaze at the book, read a few pages, and receive its beauty.

Specifically, the excerpt is from the book titled Love: What Is Life Without It? Presented artistically inside—with plenty of color—are erotic, sensuous, and thought-provoking passages from Rumi’s inner being.

Rumi, in case you are not familiar with him, was a 13th-century Persian poet and Sufi mystic. Through his writing, he connected to the spiritual world and offered wisdom and awe-inspiring insight. Moreover, he focused on love and its essential nature.

“In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”

The next time you yearn for more desire, life force, and inspiration, sit down with a glass of red wine and a book of Rumi’s love poems.

I am certain you won’t regret it.

Personal Yummy #4 (Part 3)

Having had such a wonderful time at The Dr. Oz Show, my mom and I were undoubtedly going to continue our lovely day and were now ready to find a place to have a beautiful dinner. Therefore, after quite a bit of walking and plenty of time devoted to reading the menus presented near the entrances of many different restaurants, we chose Trattoria Dell’Arte, an elegant, bustling, and alluring Tuscan trattoria at 900 Seventh Avenue, just across the street from Carnegie Hall, between 56th and 57th. I had been there only one time before, during the day, for an appreciation lunch for me and my coworkers when I had been an employee at the nearby asset management firm where I worked as an editor in the private client marketing department. After many months of effort, we had just finally completed a dense and sophisticated 108-page research book on financial planning, and I was so happy to be finished with that particular project and the rounds and rounds of editing and proofreading that it required. I enjoyed that lunch, but I remember how exhausted I was from all of my countless daily corporate responsibilities, and I felt so fortunate to be vastly more rested and in a much more creative mental space for dinner that evening with my mom.

The smiling host greeted us and seated us in the upper-left back section of the restaurant, taking us past the elaborate antipasto bar in the center of the restaurant (the largest antipasto bar in all of New York City!), and past the bottles and bottles of wine and champagne resting in ornate buckets of ice and surrounded by fancy wineglasses. I received such a good energy as I walked through the trattoria, feeling like I had entered a little section of Eden full of candles and appetizing food and atmospheric lights and good conversation and unusual items.

We were seated at a small round table in the middle of the section, and we couldn’t help but admire the walls around us, which were covered with all types of colorful, unexpected, and quirky Italian art, including oversized candy fruit slices and sculptures of lips and famous Italian noses. It was as if we had suddenly arrived in the wonderland of an Italian artist’s mind.

It was difficult to stop looking around, but when our attractive, elegant, and dark-haired waitress with very red lips and a distinct voice and a fashionable windswept bun and dainty earrings handed us the menus, we turned our attention to all of the appetite-inducing offerings in print in front of us. Nevertheless, amid our perusing the menu items and discussing them, my mom commented on how pretty and unique our waitress was, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was a Broadway performer, or at least an aspiring one. So, naturally (my mom being a bit more comfortable than I am when it comes to asking strangers questions, which is a good thing), when she came back to take our order, my mom simply asked her, “Are you on Broadway?” And you know what she said? With a bit of unmistakable and good-natured mischievousness in her eyes, she simply answered, “No, I’m not. I’m on Seventh Avenue.” My mom glanced at me and smiled, apparently rather impressed by her quick answer. When she finished taking our order, gathered our menus, and left our table, my mom commented, “Well, she’s pretty clever, isn’t she?”

Because there were so many delectable-sounding items on the menu, it was tough to make a decision, but my mom eventually picked the hearts of palm, arugula, and parmesan cheese salad to start, and then the lobster spaghetti carbonara with guanciale bacon, pecorino cheese, and egg for her main course. After going back and forth in my mind, I chose the chicken Milanese. Also, I usually order a glass of wine when I go to such a nice place for dinner, but we were planning to attend a Broadway show afterward (I certainly didn’t want to have to run to the restroom during the show), so I was happy with my refreshing water with lemon, which was served in an intricate wineglass, making it taste even better. My mom decided upon water with lemon too, although she usually orders a decaffeinated beverage of some sort, whether it be a 7Up or some kind of fruity or minty concoction.

A lover of salad—I make a side salad almost every evening to eat with my dinner if I am eating at home—I couldn’t resist enjoying some of my mom’s salad when it arrived, even though my entrée was going to come with a salad as well. In any case, the hearts of palm, arugula, and parmesan cheese salad with fresh black pepper was delicious—filling us with even more anticipation for what was next.

It didn’t take too much time for our waitress to appear with our main dishes, in fact, and I was struck by how beautifully they were presented, certainly a continuation of the artistic nature of the entire establishment. Lying on top of my mom’s creamy pasta was an entire fried egg, the yolk pristine and perfect. And my golden-brown piece of chicken Milanese—which was adorned with a mixture of arugula, fennel, and cherry tomato, as well as half of a lemon wrapped and tied within yellow cheesecloth and accentuated with a tiny green bow—was so large, round, and expansive on the even larger white platter, that I sat there for a minute wondering how the chef had accomplished that feat. However he or she did it, it was tender and crunchy, and when I squeezed the fresh lemon all over it, even better.

The spaghetti carbonara with big chunks of lobster was yummy, too—of course I tried it—and my mom had no trouble finishing the dish, which had been the ideal portion for such a rich combination of lusciousness. As for me, I was able to eat only about a quarter of the chicken, but, as usual, I enjoyed every single bite. Moreover, I certainly didn’t want to waste the rest of it, but I was concerned about taking a to-go container into the theater with me, fearing that the smell would bother the people around me—or that I wouldn’t even be allowed to take it into the theater in the first place—but my mom assured me that if it was wrapped in a sealed container, all would be fine.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to try any of the trattoria’s desserts, which include tiramisu, cannoli with blueberry sauce, raspberry sorbet, chocolate mousse, and layered vanilla meringue pie, but I will definitely enjoy one next time…and the next time…and the next time. And—while we’re on the topic—I hope you find the opportunity to enjoy a dessert, and so much more, at the trattoria too.

Finished with our meal and very satisfied, we asked our waitress for our check, and I mentioned that I would like to take the rest of my chicken home. So she packed it in a thick plastic container, which she placed in a sturdy paper bag with an even sturdier handle. Ready to go, we walked through the restaurant toward the exit—gathering additional good vibes on the way—and made a stop in the downstairs restroom, passing even more interesting art on the walls along the staircase. And then out into the cool night air we proceeded, definitely ready for our next New York City adventure, but still discussing our fortune to have spent part of our evening at Trattoria Dell’Arte.

Awash in art, delicious food, Italian sensibility, and the energy of inspiration, it would be hard to find a reason not to go back.

 

 

Personal Yummy #5

For my most recent birthday, which was not too long ago, my older brother and his girlfriend sent me the perfect gift: a beautiful box of Taylors of Harrogate assorted speciality teas—48 tea bags in all—individually wrapped in sturdy and appealing pouches with colorful labels highlighting the name of each tea. The assortment includes teal-labeled decaffeinated breakfast tea (bright and refreshing black tea), yellow mustard–labeled lemon and orange tea (zesty and vibrant black tea), purple-labeled earl grey tea (light and fragrant black tea), red-labeled English breakfast tea (rich and bright black tea), olive-labeled green tea with jasmine (fresh and floral green tea), gold-labeled organic chamomile (a gentle and soothing caffeine-free infusion), mint-labeled (of course!) organic peppermint (a fresh and vibrant caffeine-free infusion), and burnt orange–labeled Assam tea (strong and malty black tea).

Even though I love each and every one of these teas, I am particularly enjoying the Assam tea, and not just because it is full-bodied and intense, but because it reminds me of one of my stays at the Eden Roc hotel in Miami quite a few years ago. I traveled there to compete with my pro partner in the International-Latin division of the pro-am circuit of the ballroom dance competition world. Upon arriving in my fancy room—tired from my flight and from dragging my luggage in the hot sun to the hotel (I took a bus instead of a cab from the airport)—I was greeted with a teapot and a few packs of Taylors of Harrogate Assam tea, which were elegantly presented on a waist-high shelf in a small mirror-lined alcove in the hallway.

I was so happy and grateful to be at that stunning place and to have a weekend of dancing ahead of me, but for reasons I won’t address here (I’m thinking that it may be better to use those details for another post or for one of my dance stories I’m working on), I was feeling a bit lonely and emotionally wounded.

Therefore, as soon as I got settled in my room, I walked over to the alcove and brewed myself a cup of the Assam tea, which was held in a similarly distinct, but somewhat different, package as the tea in the assortment I received for my birthday. In fact, the tea bag was encased in a delicate and shimmery black foil wrapping, with the words “PURE ASSAM TEA … A rich, refreshing Indian tea from the Brahmaputra Valley” in white against a dark reddish-brown background.

Not one to rush unless I have to, I gave my tea plenty of time to steep in the dainty white circular cup that was provided, and I sweetened it a bit with the raw sugar from one of the unique sugar sticks that were held in the glass sugar bowl. I was even more impressed when I looked in the refrigerator and realized that there was a teeny-tiny glass carafe of whole milk waiting there for me to add it to my tea, which is exactly what I did. And then, with lots of anticipation—the sight and aroma of my tea just perfect—I sat down in one of the form-fitting chairs and savored my Assam delight, focusing on its warmth and richness.

You know what? I actually kept that empty little foil package that held that Assam tea bag, and I placed it in a small drawer in the kitchen of my New York City apartment, where I also keep menus and birthday candles and other items. And it never fails: Every time I open that drawer and spot the glistening wrapper, I am reminded of that particular trip and of my first experience with that brand of tea, and all that it represented to me.

I had been enjoying the companionship of tea for years but had never had the opportunity to try the Taylors of Harrogate variety until my arrival at the Eden Roc. And at that exact moment—as surrounded by beauty and excitement as I was—I needed some comfort, and that feisty cup of Assam gave it to me.

Personal Yummy #4 (Part 2)

After enjoying a morning cup of coffee (for me) and a cup of green tea with honey (for my mom) in my cozy apartment the following morning after our wonderful evening at Feinstein’s/54 Below, we got ready to go and jumped in another cab, on our way to see if we could get into The Dr. Oz Show. We would’ve taken the bus there (my mom is not a fan of taking the subway, which I completely understand), but we got up a bit too late and left my apartment much later than we had planned.

We headed up 86th Street, and as we approached Fifth Avenue, my mom commented that it was really too bad that we were unable to get tickets to see Rita Wilson perform that evening at Café Carlyle. She was making her return there that week with her show Rita Wilson: Liner Notes. “I know,” I replied, feeling regretful. “That would’ve been so nice.” I had called and tried to reserve tickets the prior week, but they were all sold out. I sat there for a moment, thinking. Not one to give up, I said, “You know what, Mom? It can’t hurt to try again. You never know—someone may have canceled…” So I used my phone to search for the number, and then I called. The man who answered directed my call to the reservation line, and I waited, filled with hope. But it didn’t work out to our liking. “Oh well,” my mom said, smiling gently. “Something to look forward to next time.”

Eventually, we made it to the West Side, on our way to 320 West 66th Street. But as the cab took us farther and farther west on 66th street toward the water, my mom began to question if we were going in the right direction. It seemed as if we were headed toward the large studio at the end of the block where we had seen The View many years before, and my mom was almost sure that the show was still filmed there, so she thought that that particular studio couldn’t be the correct one. Plus, the numbers on the buildings lining 66th Street weren’t of any help—for some reason, they didn’t seem to be sequential in certain spots. And, to top it all off, the cab driver was as confused as we were.

At long last, we got out of the cab, and we started walking toward the water, but when I saw the number on the building across the next avenue, it didn’t make sense to continue going that way, so we headed a couple of blocks in the other direction. This, however, proved to be a bad decision. We stopped for a moment and I looked again at the map I had pulled up on my phone, and I told my mom that I thought that we needed to head back toward the water, and that it must be the same studio that The View is filmed in. Of course, I could have saved us all of this trouble if I had used Google Maps in the first place, but what can I say? I’ve lived in the city for many years now and didn’t think it would be necessary. Besides, to be totally honest, I’ve never really used Google Maps to get anywhere. I prefer writing the directions down.

“Want to jump in another cab?” I asked my mom, realizing that it was a lot of running back and forth.

“Do you think it’s even worth it? It’s already past one now…”

I deliberated for just a few seconds, and then, “Sure. Let’s give it a shot.”

We flagged down another cab, and we took it all the way to the end of the street near the water, about a block past where the other cab driver had dropped us off. We were finally pretty sure we were in the right spot, because as we approached what we thought was the correct building, we could see a very long line of people waiting against the wall.

After questioning a few of the people who were standing on line (or “in line,” if you are not from the northeast part of the United States), we found out that they all already had tickets. I looked for someone who may be working for the show, and I saw a young man in a dark blue sweater, and with a walkie-talkie in his hand, approaching us. I immediately thought that he must be cold, because it was a rather windy and chilly day, but he seemed to be heated up from all of his responsibilities. I asked him if there was a standby line, and he said that there definitely was one, and he directed us to go all the way up to the front of the line, and to stand in the small area that was marked off to the side. At that point I had a good feeling that we might be able to get into the show, and I was touched by how friendly and helpful the young man was.

It turned out that there was only one other person in the standby line other than us, which really surprised us (we’ve gone to see many other talk shows over the years, and there have always been many people in the standby line). She was a middle-aged woman from New Jersey who had driven into the city for the day to try to get into as many talk shows as possible. “Yes, I do this every now and then. I just bounce around from one show to another. It’s so fun, and I enjoy the city so much.” We told her how we had trouble finding the studio because we thought that The View was filmed there, not Dr. Oz. “Oh, yes, it used to be taped here. But now it’s taped over at the ABC studios on 66th, between Columbus and Central Park West,” she explained.

It was good to have that cleared up.

Nevertheless, it turned out that our running around and our confusion were worth it. We didn’t have any trouble getting into the show, and we had a great time. They taped a lot of extra segments that day, so we got to see more than most audiences usually get to see on any given day. Most of the segments focused on what you can do to take care of your heart, and the information was very interesting and quite helpful. But what my mom and I were most impressed about was the quality of Dr. Oz’s heart. A seasoned professional—notably natural and easy in front of the camera—he was so kind and caring to all of his guests, especially between the segments, and especially when he could sense that a guest was nervous or needed to try to explain something again. “You want to try that one more time? Yes, let’s do that,” he said to a guest who had been chosen from the audience and who had stumbled over her words a bit on the first try. “It’s all good. It will be fine this time.” Moreover, he would compliment the guests who had more experience in front of the camera, telling one doctor during a break: “Wow, that was outstanding. To memorize all of that, and then to deliver it so clearly. Wow.”

Furthermore, we were impressed by how attractive he was, what good shape he was in, and how he interacted with the audience. At one point between the segments, when they needed to take some time to change the set and to apply makeup to some of the guests, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” was playing. What do you know? There was Dr. Oz smiling and singing and interacting with the audience as he slowly snapped his fingers and sultrily moved and danced across the floor.

Dr. Oz: a skilled surgeon, a gentle heart, and an effective communicator with the ability to be fun and spontaneous.

It was an afternoon well spent.

Personal Yummy #4 (Part 1)

This past October, I traveled to my hometown in the middle of PA for its annual Fall Foliage Festival, a special event with homemade crafts, fresh cider, delicious food, and live music (look forward to more about this lovely festival in a future post). But instead of taking the Amtrak train (namely, the Pennsylvanian) back to the city from Altoona, PA, as I usually do, my mom and I drove back to the city together. She loves the city just as much as I do (we took trips here many times before I officially moved here), so she wanted to visit while the weather was still nice.

We left on a Tuesday and got up extra early to drive back, because we had tickets for a show that evening at Feinstein’s/54 Below, a supper club—known as “Broadway’s living room”—on West 54th Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. We became a bit delayed because when we stopped to eat breakfast at the Iron Skillet in Carlisle, PA, as we usually do on our way to the city (a couple of hours into our trip), we had to wait a bit longer than usual for our food because the burners were temporarily not working. Plus, the traffic throughout our trip was a bit heavier than we had expected for a Tuesday, especially as we approached the George Washington Bridge a few hours later (the magical outline of the city in the distance).

Nevertheless, we eventually pulled up to the curb in front of my apartment building, as far in front of the bus stop as possible, and I unloaded our luggage—and several other items that I had brought from home (unwittingly, I keep packing more and more stuff into my apartment)—placing our things in the foyer of my building, going back and forth, and back and forth, from the car to the foyer, until the car trunk was completely empty. Then, as my mom took the car and parked it in the parking garage around the corner (we really didn’t have time to look for a spot on the street), I made quite a few trips up and down the stairs in order to get all of our belongings into my fourth-floor abode. Usually I don’t have much trouble going up and down the stairs (which are quite steep), but after having been out of the city for about a week—taking a break from my usual weekly dance classes and my walking around the city—I knew that I was going to feel it in my quads later.

We got dressed quickly, my mom in nice black slacks and a colorful purple top with interesting designs, and me in a glittery black sleeveless dress, a red cardigan, and black heels and stockings. We headed downstairs, grabbed a cab, and were on our way, ready for an evening of music, elegance, good food, and quintessential New York City nightlife.

In about 10 minutes, the cab dropped us off directly in front of the entrance, which is next to the theater that used to be the Studio 54 nightclub—where Warhol and Diane von Furstenberg and many others laughed and glittered and shone—and the theater where my mom and I had seen Cabaret with Alan Cumming a few years earlier. At the bottom of the stairs that led down to the tiny room outside of the underground venue, we were greeted by about three different individuals, one of whom was a young, pretty woman with a velvety voice who offered to take our coats and check them for us. Hearing her distinctive voice, I immediately realized that she was the one who had left me a personable message the previous night, confirming my reservation, which I had thought was a really professional touch. With a seductive voice such as hers, though, I also thought that she should be on stage somewhere, instead of being a worker supporting others who are on stage. But, then again, you never know what is really going on inside of someone, especially on the inside of a New Yorker who is working in a theatrical environment. In her mind, maybe she is already on stage, but it just hasn’t materialized yet.

Another young woman then led us into the main room and to our tiny table, which was located near the right-hand side of the stage and only a few feet away from it—“ringside seating” is their term for it—a bit more expensive than some of the other seats, but a perfect spot from which to enjoy the show (although all of the seats in the club are good). We sat down and I glanced around, noticing that it wasn’t very crowded yet, although the people who were already there were chatting and enjoying glasses of wine and appetizers, obviously so happy to be out on a Tuesday evening. There was a woman enjoying a cocktail and sitting alone at the table to my left, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she had ventured out on her own for a night of entertainment, or whether she was waiting for someone.

It reminded me of the time I had seen a woman sitting alone at Birdland, the intimate jazz club on West 44th Street—her drink, her food, the atmosphere, and the performers on stage were all she needed for company for the entire evening. In fact, I have even done it myself. I once went alone to see a Bruce Springsteen cover band at the B.B. King Blues Club & Grill in Times Square. None of my friends were free to go with me that night (or maybe they just don’t have a connection to Bruce’s music like I do), so I decided to go alone. To be totally honest, there were moments when I felt a bit awkward, especially because I was seated in the middle of a long table with people who all knew each other, but it was an amazing evening regardless. And, when it comes down to it, there is surely something beautiful about being able to experience what you want on your own, and despite what everyone else is doing.

More beautiful—without a doubt—is being out on the town with your mom at a beautiful place in New York City, and it was certainly beautiful and intimate inside Feinstein’s/54 Below, with its dark wood and tiny lamps and cushy leather booths and soft red lighting and walls, and a classy, fancy bar lined with comfortable chairs, nestled up a few steps in the back, behind an elegant railing.

In no time at all, a very friendly, soft-spoken waiter took our drink order, and I requested a glass of buttery Chardonnay. My mom wasn’t yet sure what she wanted (she’s not a big drinker), so she ordered a glass of water for the time being, but she couldn’t stop admiring the cocktail that the woman at the next table was drinking. No longer alone, but now joined by what seemed to be her daughter, her husband, and a good female friend, I eventually tapped her on the shoulder and asked her what she was drinking, per my mom’s request. “Oh, it’s the specialty tequila drink,” she said, pointing it out on the menu. “It’s delicious. I highly recommend it.” The drink was definitely attractive: pinkish-colored liquid (from the muddled gooseberries, I believe) with slices of jalapeño in a rocks glass with a pinkish salt (or sugar) outlined rim. However, after a lot more admiration and a bit of thought, my mom still wasn’t sure if she should order something that strong, so she decided upon a less risky 7Up.

We were quite daring with our food order, nonetheless, not holding back. To start, we dined upon peekytoe crab fritters with avocado, drizzled with roasted tomato vinaigrette. They were—in one word—scrumptious; and, to add a few more: moist and crunchy and flavorful. Next, and for our main course, I decided upon pan-seared arctic char with black pepper and lemon spaetzle, baby artichokes, olive oil, and thyme roasted tomatoes, and my mom chose the farm-raised Amish chicken with buttered parsnips and sautéed dandelion greens. Oh, and I mustn’t forget to mention the large bowlful of shoestring French fries on the side. All of the food was prepared well, beautifully presented, and very pleasing. The only problem was that the show began before we had time to finish our meal, so we didn’t have a chance to order dessert. That turned out to be just fine, though, because the group of bubbly young women sitting at the table to our right and slightly behind us thoroughly took care of that for us. On top of their table sat the key lime pie with brown sugar gelato and whipped cream, as well as the affogato al caffè—or, in other words, the vanilla gelato with a single espresso shot and a waffle cookie crisp. They each had a delicate spoon and were taking turns scooping up and enjoying the lusciousness in front of them.

The show itself—the highlight of the evening, for sure—featured Kate Baldwin, a pretty, blue-eyed, sassy (in the best sense of the word) performer who is a two-time Tony nominee and who appeared in the Hello, Dolly! revival with both Bernadette Peters and Bette Midler. She exuberantly came out onto the stage wearing glittery, gold, stretchy pants and a glittery gold jacket with a black chemise underneath, as well as impossibly high gold stilettos—certainly an indication of the fierce boldness she has exhibited in her life. To be honest, I wasn’t familiar with her or her career before I decided to go to her show, entitled How Did You Get This Number?, nor was I familiar with many of the songs she sang throughout the evening, chosen from the various shows that she has been in over the years, but sitting there and watching her and admiring her and hearing her stories of auditioning, striving, and performing, intertwined with her beautiful singing voice, her humor, and her confident stage presence, was just what I needed.

At the end of the show, Ms. Baldwin graced us all by singing “New York, New York.” That song always fills me with hope and inspiration, but it was even better experiencing it in such a romantic setting, and it was the perfect way to end a perfect evening shared with my mom.

As she and I were paying our bill and collecting our things to get ready to go, I took another look around, trying to take in more of the place before we had to actually leave (they needed to set up for a later show and another performer). As I did so, though, I couldn’t help but notice tears running down the face of one of the young women who had been relishing the desserts earlier at the table nearby. Obviously, she had been very affected by the show, especially the final song.

I knew exactly how she felt. Essentially, I had felt myself getting choked up quite a few times while Ms. Baldwin was singing and telling her stories. But that’s just an inevitable outcome for me whenever I see a performer on stage, living her life to the extreme—being courageous, being vulnerable, putting herself out there, sharing her talent and years of hidden, hard work with others—as we all should really be doing but, in too many cases, aren’t, and for reasons that we think really matter but, in all actuality, really don’t.

Sure, I held back my tears during the show, but the young woman nearby couldn’t. And that’s certainly okay, and—in all sincerity—probably the better outcome in this instance. Because, no matter how many times you hear it, “New York, New York” doesn’t let you forget about the endless possibilities. And what better way to honor those countless possibilities than with tears, the ultimate and endless representation of emotion.

 

Personal Yummy #3

The night before. Excitement at what lies ahead. Packing more than you need—just in case. Sleep interrupted by eagerness…

Sound familiar?

In the summer of 1996, I took a trip from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, with my boyfriend of one year (friend of two-and-a-half). I got up at six a.m., checked the oil and water in my car, threw my luggage in the trunk, and was ready to escape to one of my favorite places. So I picked up my guy, and off we went on our adventure.

Fortunately, unlike a lot of preparations and car rides to go on vacation, which are visited periodically—and sometimes, incessantly—by quarrels over getting ready to go, and, in fact, which direction to go, I am glad to say that ours were free from any of this. And, as my memory serves me, so was the entirety of our trip.

Yes, what stands out in my mind is nothing but fondness and contentment.

We left on a Tuesday and came back on a Friday. Short—you might think—but certainly long enough to enliven and rejuvenate the body and, most importantly, the spirit.

Everything about the trip had significance.

First of all: the motel. I had fears that it might turn out to be—well, in blunt terms—a dump. What—at forty-five dollars a night, in the peak of the season—could one expect? My fears, however, were nonetheless allayed. In fact, the place actually turned out to possess some character. It was painted yellow (my favorite color, believe it or not; the same as my car at the time) and had blue window panes and little black lanterns by each door. On top of that, the name of the establishment was quite interesting: The Fountain Motel. This would usually not be anything important to comment upon, but when the water in the fountain, which was located in the middle of the parking lot of the motel, has trouble rising into the air more than a foot, and reminds me—if I may give it human qualities—of a person trying to wake up very early in the morning, and never quite succeeding, then it is something to remark upon. At the very least, it gave both of us something to chuckle about. And you know what? The motel itself, although modest, was rather comfortable and became like home by the end of our stay.

Moreover, the beach. Nothing can quite compare to the warmth of the sand and the sun, and to the freshness, vitality, and ceaseless moving of the waves. The entire atmosphere of the place is wonderful—everybody mellow and laid-back, with no goal in mind except to enjoy the beauty surrounding them.

Furthermore, everything contributing to the area itself is special: the quaint and cozy beach houses that line the side streets, of all shapes, sizes, and designs, with their owners and their friends sitting on the front porch in the evening and playing cards, or simply chatting and enjoying glasses of red wine; the eclectic shops with both casual and fancy dresses, colorful dangling earrings, candles and soaps of various delicious fragrances, and all sorts of other delights; the busy and active boardwalk; and the intoxicating smell of the night air.

Thus, not only the beach itself, but all the myriad aspects associated with it, had an effect on me.

And—even though the boyfriend of this story is no longer in my life—the entire vacation was all the more precious because I had someone special to share it with. Our lunches at the diner across the street of our motel; the hours spent on cracking and eating hard-shell crabs; the moonlit walks on the pier; the dancing to an oldies band on an outdoor deck: cha-cha-cha-ing to “Blue Moon”; the enjoyment of the water; the waves lapping upon our legs; the refreshing, warm showers after a day luxuriating and reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover on the beach; and the gentle, yet passionate lovemaking under the covers at night… All the moments in life hold so much value, and mean so much more, whenever they are shared with someone you care about deeply.

In simple terms, our trip was magical. Being at a favorite place, and with your favorite person, the one you love:

What could be more perfect than that…