good walking!

Garrett took his first independent steps on September 4th, and since that time, has become increasingly more balanced and steady. I still, however, hesitate to firmly tell people that he's walking because, honestly, he only does it when coaxed. And though he's lately grown more fond of two-footed explorations around the perimeters of the apartment and its furniture by clinging to walls and anything else handy, crawling is still his preferred method of getting around.

Walking is like a game for him, and he gets really happy and excited when we practice. Last night, just before bed, Garrett was extra jolly and consequently extra exuberant in his efforts to walk. And, happily, we got some of it on film.

sunday menu with a side of saturday night

On the menu today was Laurel's delicious honey lime enchiladas, with sides of green beans and secret-family-(stolen-from-the-Bisquick-box)-recipe corn bread. And because what's Sunday night without a tasty treat, we made some yummy caramel popcorn.

I'll have you know that I'm a quick one and as such have the ability to anticipate your desire to know how to replicate this menu in your own kitchens. So in that vein, here are the recipes:

Honey Lime Enchiladas

6 tbsp honey
5 tbsp lime juice (or the juice from 1 large lime)
1 tbsp chili powder
1/2 tsp garlic powder
1 lb chicken, cooked and shredded
8-10 flour tortillas
1 lb Monterrey jack cheese, shredded (I only used 8 oz)
16 oz green enchilada sauce
1 cup heavy cream
diced tomatoes and chopped green onions, if desired

Mix the first four ingredients and toss with shredded chicken. Let it marinate for at least 1/2 hour. Pour about 1/2 cup enchilada sauce on bottom of 9x13 baking dish. Fill flour tortillas with chicken, green onions, and shredded cheese, saving about 1 cup of cheese to sprinkle on top of the enchiladas. Mix the remaining enchilada sauce with the cream and leftover marinade. Pour sauce on top of the enchiladas and sprinkle with cheese, remaining green onions, and tomatoes. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes until brown and crispy on top.


Corn Bread

Beat 2 eggs and add 1 cup milk.
Add 1/2 cup oil and mix.
Add 2 cups Bisquick,
2/3 cup sugar,
1/2 tsp baking soda,
5-6 tbsp cornmeal.

Mix well and pour in well-greased 9x9 pan. Bake at 400 for 30-35 minutes.


Caramel Popcorn

7-9 cups popped popcorn
3/4 cup brown sugar
6 tbsp butter
3 tbsp corn syrup
1/4 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla

Mix sugar, butter, corn syrup, and salt together and bring to a rolling boil for two minutes. Turn down the heat and simmer for 5-7 minutes. Add vanilla and pour over popcorn, stirring constantly. We liked ours chewy, but for crunchy caramel corn, bake on cookie sheet at 350 for 5-10 minutes.

Also,

Happy day! Tina Fey has reprised her role as Governor Sarah Palin for Saturday Night Live. This time it's a hilarious interview with Amy Poehler's Katie Couric. My favorite part? Definitely gotta be when Couric asks Palin her opinion of the bailout plan. Really, though, the entire skit is a riot. Do enjoy.

little ragamuffins

We had planned to go to a farmhouse apple festival today, but rain in the forecast put a damper on that idea -- literally. That left us with Activity Option #2: stay in the neighborhood and watch the Ragamuffin Parade. The organizers of that event are apparently not the type to let a little drizzle deter them, so after lunch we donned our shoes, grabbed our umbrellas, and walked to the corner to have some good old fashioned fun.



The Ragamuffin Parade is a children's event which has been an annual neighborhood tradition for the last 42 years. Basically, it's a chance for the local kiddies to march through the streets showing off their Halloween costumes. Anyone who wants to can join in (thus leading to far more participants than spectators). We realized almost too late that the parade was happening, and so didn't have enough time to put Garrett in his costume before we made our mad dash out the door, arriving just in the nick of time to see the start of the parade pass by our apartment. Otherwise, I think we would have joined the ranks of participants. As it was, though, the parade needed more spectating support, and Garrett loved watching, so we're not too sad we missed marching. Next year, though.



Highlights included:

• Approximately five thousand little boys dressed up as Spiderman (complete with foam --err, I mean washboard abs);
• A brother-sister pair as Raggedy Ann and Andy;
• Another brother-sister pair: a toddler dressed as a monkey and his infant sibling dressed as a banana;
• The Headless Horseman -- well-done and very creepy;
• A toddler-sized R2D2 which even rolled around on wheels (with the aid of his parents);
• A little boy wearing a green shirt, green pants, with a string of fake leaves wrapped around him going as the Green Giant;
• Four teenage girlfriends dressed as the Deal or No Deal models. They all wore matching red dresses and carried numbered aluminum foil-covered boxes as their cases;
• A pint-sized British golfer, complete with teeny tiny golf clubs;
  
• And, though they weren't necessarily in Halloween costumes, we loved that the high school marching band played "Eye of the Tiger." Seemed rather fitting in Brooklyn, we thought.

But the Award for Best Costume has to go to the little girl, maybe four or five years old, dressed in a business suit, sharp glasses, and with her hair done up, dressed as a pint-sized Sarah Palin, with her mom, wearing a hockey shirt and a sign that said "Hockey Moms for Sarah Palin!" walking alongside her. Oh, how I wished I'd snapped a photo!

Yay! A parade!

eating well

I had another success in the kitchen last night: Honey Chicken Wings. You want I should dish? Well...okay.

2 lbs chicken wings
salt and pepper, to taste
2/3 cup honey
2 tbsp ketchup
1/3 cup soy sauce
1 tbsp + 1 tsp oil
1 clove garlic, minced
sesame seeds

Sprinkle chicken wings with salt and pepper. Place honey, ketchup, soy cause, oil and garlic in a slow cooker; stir until mixed well. Add seasoned chicken wings and stir. Cook on low for 2-3 hours. Garnish with sesame seeds.


I served it with my oven baked potato wedges and fresh cantaloupe. If you're able to swing it, I highly recommend downing a serving of free Cold Stone ice cream (Nutter Butter, shared with Garrett) before dinner. My only wish was that Blake didn't have bishopric meeting so that he could have enjoyed it with me.

Oh! And congratulations, Jim and Pam! If I weren't too thrilled for words, I'd tell you it was about time!

green-wood cemetery

Garrett and I spent a pleasant afternoon yesterday with my friend, Emily. Most of our time together was spent walking through Green-Wood Cemetery. The park-like burial ground was founded in 1838 and is the final resting place for New York residents throughout history, including quite a few notable figures. A portion of the Battle of Brooklyn (also know as the Battle of Long Island) was fought on the site in 1776, though, as far as I'm aware, no Revolutionary War soldiers killed then were buried here. This is, however, where a good many Civil War soldiers and veterans were laid to rest.

During our stroll through the grounds, we tracked down a few graves who belong to people you may recognize. We found Samuel Morse, inventor of the telegraph language named for him:



And William "Boss" Tweed, the corrupted New York politician who swindled taxpayers out of millions:



We also happened upon one of the Steinway (of piano fame) mausoleums, but I didn't take a picture. And we didn't make it to Leonard Berenstein's grave, Louis Tiffany's or Henry Ward Beecher's. (Next time.)

But at Horace Greeley's monument, which was situated at the top of a steep hill, we found cemetery employees digging up his grave. No one was sure why exactly they were assigned to this task, but it was fascinatingly creepy just the same.

The diggers invited us to take a peek, not that there was much to see, but still. That's generally an offer one doesn't refuse. I positioned Garrett in what seemed to be a safe spot on the hill while I took two steps over to check things out.


Suddenly, one of the diggers yelled out, "The baby!" and took off running. I turned around to find that Garrett, who had probably wiggled in his stroller to watch an airplane fly across the sky, was now rolling, with a fair amount of speed, down the hill. Of course, I took off running as well. He wasn't going too fast, so was easy to catch up with, and he ended up being no worse for the ride. In fact, I think he was pretty oblivious to the whole thing. So, no harm done.


But it makes me wonder, what with Halloween just around the corner and all ...had Greeley's ghost, taking advantage of his open grave, decided to have a little fun with my son? I suppose we'll never really know....

sneak peek

Guess who my little round-headed kid is going to be for Halloween this year...


Of all the Charlie Browns, I'm sure he'll be the Charlie Browniest.

and speaking of produce

I have found a deliciously fantastic, to-die-for way to use up those zucchinis (besides zucchini bread, zucchini cake, and fried zucchini, of course).

Zucchini-Chocolate Chip Muffins

1 1/2 cups flour

3/4 cup sugar

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt

1 egg, lightly beaten

1/2 cup vegetable oil

1/4 cup milk

1 tbsp lemon juice

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup shredded zucchini

1/4 cup miniature semi-sweet chocolate chips (chopped regular chips will do just fine, too)

1/4 cup chopped walnuts (if desired)

In a large bowl, combine flour, sugar, baking soda, cinnamon, and salt. In a small bowl, combine egg, oil, milk, lemon juice, and vanilla; mix well. Stir into dry ingredients just until moistened. Fold in zucchini, chocolate chips, and walnuts. Fill greased or paper-lined muffin cups two-thirds full. Bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes, or until inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Yum.

Autumn doesn't get much better than this.

at home in the neighborhood: the produce stand

Yesterday was a nice day and Garrett and I were itching to leave the apartment. We were running low on fresh produce, so we decided (err...I decided) to make the hike over to 3 Guys.

Three Guys from Brooklyn is a large produce market on the northeast end of my neighborhood. It is always busy, but definitely worth the crowds because their fruits and vegetables, most of which are of remarkably good quality considering the state New York City produce is usually in, and which are piled up so high, they fill this stand to bursting, are cheap cheap cheap. Seriously. Here is my receipt from yesterday's trip:

The scan wasn't the best quality, so here's the rundown. For $10.82 I got:

• a head of romaine lettuce
• a large bunch of beautiful bananas
• 2 red onions
• 4 plum tomatoes
• 2 cantelopes
• 2 zucchinis
• 5 bartlett pears
• a bag of carrots
• 1 cucumber
• 10 gala apples

This might not seem as amazing to you folk living near local farmers markets and whatnot, but in the heart of New York City, where if the price of rent doesn't knock you off your feet, the cost of food will, this place is a lifesaver.

Before she moved away, a friend of mine did a little write-up about 3 Guys on her blog, and in it she gives a brief history of this marvelous establishment. She also mentions how it is not a good idea to plan your shopping trip on a Friday, as every Jew in Brooklyn is shopping for Shabbat. I could not agree with this advice more. For those of you in or familiar with grocery shopping in Utah, it is comparable to attempting a "quick trip" to Costco between the Saturday General Conference sessions, or to Macey's at 11:30 on a Saturday night. Three Guys is crowded enough as it is on an average weekday. It is no easy task to maneuver my stroller, with grocery basket attached to the handles, in and out of the stalls, meanwhile trying to keep Garrett from pulling an apple from the bottom of the pile or from swiping one of those delicious green grapes he's so fond of. I've learned, though, that to survive day-to-day living in Brooklyn -- including those trips to narrow-aisled and crowd-filled grocery stores -- one must act like a native, and though I'm more timid than most, I can still confidently shove my way in with the best of them.

The trek from my apartment over to 3 Guys is long (about 5 avenues and 17 blocks, which typically takes me about 45 minutes to walk), and I have to be really careful not to over-buy, seeing as how I'll have to lug my goods every step of the way back, but I'll tell you what: this place is incredibly worth it.

at the playground

What IS that boy pointing at?

Airplanes, of course!

(LOTS of airplanes. Until very recently, I didn't realize just how many low-flying airplanes graced our skies. I'll tell you one thing, though: Garrett has EXCELLENT hearing. He hears airplanes outside on the playground, amid street noise while strolling through the neighborhood, at home eating lunch, each night in the bathtub. He can pick the sound of airplanes out against the sound of cars on the street, trains underground and overhead, boat horns in the harbor. And every time he hears one, he stops everything, listens acutely, and points his finger towards the sky where his keen eyesight is almost always able to spot the aircraft in question. It's pretty impressive.)

I'm so in love with this boy!

chip shop

Last night Blake took me on a date. For dinner we made a stop at the Chip Shop.


The Chip Shop is an English restaurant that serves English food. Their specialty (in case you couldn't guess) are their fish and chips. And that's exactly what we went in to eat. Blake and I each ordered the battered cod and chips meal, and mmm...mmm...it was deep fried goodness.


We ate in the garden seating behind the restaurant, which, despite the mosquitos, was very nice. Our waiter (in fact, every employee there last night) was actually British, which only added to the authenticity. And no, even though their beer menu, which boasted over 40 varieties, was most impressive (if you're into that sort of thing), we did not order any to wash down our dinner. We had, however, wanted to try a fried candy bar for dessert, but because the meal itself was so huge and heavy, we opted to leave ourselves with an excuse to go back.

the rummage sale

If you like Seriously, So Blessed because you like laughing at yourself and your culture, then it's quite likely you'll enjoy The Rummage Sale as well.

From the jacket cover: "The Rummage Sale presents what appear at first to be randomly gathered odds and ends -- not just stories, but letters, journal entries, photographs, poems, notes, and even the contents of a box. Yet what finally emerges is a tapestry, a collection of fictional pieces subtly created and linked together through characters and events, a community of lives. [...] In this book [former BYU professor] Donald R. Marshall [...] has drawn fascinating portraits of people we feel we must surely know or remember."

The characters in The Rummage Sale are Mormons from Utah. They have names like Floydene and Verdell. They come from towns like Ephriam and Paragonah. They travel the world, but can't quite enjoy it. They write to their missionaries and convince themselves they've been proposed to. They participate in ward bazaars and bake their children cookies. They worry when no one wants to marry them, and they travel back to their missions to see if that one hot Italian girl really is "the one." It's a rummage sale of lives, a collection of hilarious (and some serious...though mostly hilarious) snapshots of people we're sure we've met somewhere.

I loved the book, and was so happy when, a short time ago, my mom sent me an extra copy she found while cleaning out their basement. I laughed out loud during:

• "All the Cats in Zanzibar"
  
• "May the Good Lord Bless and Keep You"
• "And What Are You Going to Do Next Year, Miss Dodds?"
• "A Change of Scenery"
  
• "Somehow They Always Seem to Change It" and
  
• "You'll Never Believe It"

And I wanted to cry during:

• "Minna"
• "The Sound of Drums" and
• "Notes on a Calendar Found in an Empty House after the Death of Viola Pratt"

The stories are capable of standing alone, but they're much better when weaved together in a tapestry. Pick yourselves up a copy. You won't be sorry.

dropped call

Cell phone conversation, tonight, 9:27 p.m.


(Phone rings.)

Lindsay: Hello?

Blake: Hi. I'm coming home. Sorry I had to work so late.

Lindsay: It's okay.

(Long pause.)

Blake: Lindsay?

Lindsay: Blake, I'm here.

(Blake hangs up. I wait for him to call back.)

(Phone rings. I answer.)

Lindsay: Hi. You hung up on me.

Blake: I did? I thought the call dropped.

Lindsay: No. I just wasn't talking.

Blake: Oh.

(I can hear him smile.)

Oops.

Lindsay: (laughs)


I think we're both ready for the weekend.

i'm grown up now, but am i a writer?

When we moved into our building, Blake told our supers that I was a writer. Periodically, when they see me out on the stoop relaxing with Garrett, they ask me how my writing is going. Always I am at a loss for what to say. After all, I'm not technically a published writer, nor am I currently trying very hard to get published. And I think that, to so many people, having your work published is what makes you a writer. But it makes me wonder: if I don't write for a living, but I write every day, can I still call myself a writer?

I suppose, if you look at my history, you might argue that I am published, if only slightly. I spent a year and a half writing for my high school newspaper. And during my sophomore year of college, I had some poetry published in the school literary journal. Though it hasn't resulted in a printed version of my work, I've placed well in a few writing contests: an honorable mention for short fiction in The New Era magazine, third place for a poem while at Ricks, and third place for my 100-word story in a short-short story writing contest at BYU. Still, though. That was then. Can I call myself a writer if my now is not like my then?

But, Lindsay, you might be saying, you write frequently on your blog. You publish posts to your blog. Doesn't that count? And I ask, I'm not sure, does it? Is this blog more than just a public journal or a communication with faraway friends and family? Have I harnessed an audience who reads me more for my ability to write than they do for the family updates? Again, I'm not sure.

Whether or not you could title me as a writer, I do consider writing to be more than just my hobby. It is my craft, my art. Words are my medium and I mold them into sentences and paragraphs just as an artist would turn a chunk of clay into a beautiful sculpture. I love twisting grammar to my advantage. Word choice thrills me. And while I know that sometimes there are typos and mistakes sprinkled in my writing, there are, at the same time, rarely ever accidents in what I create as every detail, every syllable, is carefully considered. I keep a notebook and something to write with on my person at all times, and I pull it out frequently to jot down ideas or a pleasant-sounding combinations of words or an opening or closing sentence. I don't necessarily flesh out every idea, but occasionally one sticks with me and eats away at me physically and mentally until I'm finally able to spit what I'm trying to say out on paper. Though it is not what I do for a living, I do devote myself to this craft, and everything I write, from blog posts and comments to a short story or poem, is awarded some measure of care and devotion. It can be exhausting, and I'm not always satisfied with what I produce, but I love it just the same.

Here is what I write: I write my day-to-day personal history in my journal. I write carefully crafted letters and emails. I contribute to a monthly writing group. When writing for an audience (i.e. on my blog), and sometimes also just for myself, I write personal essays. Occasionally my ideas come out looking like poems, and less often looking like fiction. I'm not very good at writing fiction -- can I still be called a writer?

I do write. I might not be prolific, but I do write. Whether or not I'm any good is not necessarily for me to decide, but I must admit: I do think I'm decent. So maybe I am a writer.

and then there may or may not have been light

Since he's been old enough to notice them, Garrett has devoted hours of unending fascination to things like buttons, knobs, and zippers, so his recent obsession with light switches was not too surprising.

He cannot reach them himself (unless, of course, his mama lets him stand on a chair underneath for a photo-op), but I am unable to carry him from room to room without having to stop at every single light switch so that he can satisfy his desire to press it in an attempt to create light.

It has not dawned on him yet that in order for a light switch to turn on or shut off the light in a room it must be flipped up or down and not pressed like a button, but none of my methods of teaching and persuasion can convince him otherwise. And so we have Garrett, aged 14 1/2 months, pressing every light switch in the apartment, turning around to see if it worked, then trying to press it again.

the return of the ring

For nearly four years now, my wedding ring has never been off my finger for longer than a good night's sleep. So when, about a week and a half ago, as I took it off to wash a sink full of dishes, I noticed that one of the prongs supporting the diamond had broken off, I was a bit heartbroken. I knew that, in order to reduce the risk of any further damage, I should keep it off my finger until repairs could be made, so I tucked it safely away in the butterfly box Blake gave to me on our honeymoon as a wedding gift.

The jewelry store which accepted the insurance on the ring was all the way up on 34th Street in Manhattan, and it took me a few days before I could take it up there to get it fixed. The repair itself, minor though it was, took an entire week. For twelve days I felt like was walking around naked, which, let me assure you, is an uncomfortable feeling as you leave the house to go grocery shopping. I tried clothing my left ring finger with the silver knot ring I normally wear on my right hand. I even tried walking around wearing my Nauvoo prairie diamond. Neither, though, could fill the void.

But yesterday the call came: my ring was as good as new and ready to be back on my finger. Blake picked it up during his lunch break and guarded it with his very life as he finished out the workday and attended to some evening responsibilities at the church. Late last night, after he returned home from bishopric meeting, he put the ring, all pristine and shiny, back where it belonged.

It's nice to feel dressed again.

at home in the neighborhood: the laundromat

I do laundry every Tuesday morning at 7:00. The night before I portion out my detergents and sort our dirty clothes into colors and whites. In the morning, bright and early, my two heavy bags are ready to be loaded into my cart and pushed down the street to be cleaned.

The laundromat I use is about three blocks away and is run by a Chinese woman named Peggy. Until very recently, Garrett came with me to wash our clothes, strapped either to my front or my back in the infant carrier. He and Peggy hit it off pretty quick, likely due to the fact that she finds immense pleasure in harnessing the attention of small children. At first Garrett didn't know how to respond appropriately, but by the time he was about ten months old, he'd let Peggy take him on walks to visit neighboring storefronts (and thus allowing me to switch my loads with two hands instead of just one).

Garrett isn't the only one to have made friends there. Nearly each week I'm joined at the washers with other "Tuesday regulars." There's Karen, who's due with her first baby in just a few weeks and with whom I've had fabulous conversations with, not only at the laundromat, but out on the sidewalks when we run into each other when we're out and about in the neighborhood. And the lady Peggy calls "Grandma" whose voice is husky because she steps outside during the short time that I'm there three or four times to smoke yet another cigarette. There's Agnes, from Ireland, who truly is a grandmother, who comes in to wash only a small load of clothes which she then takes home to line dry. And Debbie and her grown daughter, who I now see more often out in the neighborhood than I do in the laundromat, and who, despite the fact that she doesn't see us every Tuesday like she used to, still stops me on the sidewalk to ask in her thick Brooklyn accent how Garrett is doing.

If I time things just so, and am able to work quickly (i.e. sans Garrett), I can be in and out in just over an hour. My tendency towards efficiency comes not only from a need to get home quickly so that Blake can catch the train to work, but also because coin operated machines in NYC are not cheap, and I can't afford to be haphazard. It costs $1.75 for a small washer, $3.50 for a medium, and $7.00 for a large. The dryers cost 25 cents for 6 minutes of drying time. On a typical laundry day, I use one small washer (for the whites) and one medium washer (for the colors), and then three dryers for 24 minutes apiece. If I'm lucky, I'll get to use the sole -- and coveted -- extra large dryer (which doesn't cost any more than a regular one, despite its extra capacity) for the jeans and towels.

The lulling sounds of the running washers and dryers and clinking of quarters being fed into them, in addition to the high power fans which run during the warm months, and the steady, journalistic voices of the Good Morning America anchors blaring from the TV at the front, are familiar and comforting. Now that I'm no longer wrangling a wiggly Garrett while the clothes wash and dry, I spend my hour reading,* which is just the right kind of enjoyable to keep me from dreading the folding and ironing that awaits me once I get home.


*This morning it was another chapter from The Rummage Sale, a hilarious collection of short stories by former BYU professor, Donald R. Marshall, depicting snapshots from the lives of a handful of Utah Mormons. This morning's selection was called "All the Cats in Zanzibar," and nearly had me rolling off my seat at the back of the laundromat in laughter. I don't think it's still in print, but if you can get your hands on a copy, you won't regret that you did.

blurg

Our TV has seen the biscuit.* What began as only a bit of discoloring in one corner has overtaken the screen so that the lower half of anything displayed is now a lovely shade of neon green. It gets especially bad when we watch DVDs, though, really, not even the evening news is spared anymore. Which made our highly anticipated weekend viewing of our rented copy of Baby Mama a little bit disappointing.

Don't get me wrong -- I loved the movie. Loved it. It was was hilarious and several times had me rolling off the couch clenching my gut in uncontrollable laughter. (Favorite line: "I want to reward you with five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact.") And Tina Fey is pretty much my favorite. I'm a die-hard 30 Rock fan, in large part because of her Liz Lemon, and though I don't really get around to watching Saturday Night Live much, I'm oh-so glad this skit from last night was shared with me:

I don't care what your politics are or your opinions of Sarah Palin, this is just dang funny. And for the record, I also want to state that I totally called this one. A few weeks ago, when Palin was picked as McCain's running mate, I turned to Blake and expressed my sincere desire for Tina Fey to do an SNL impression of her because, holy cow, those two could be twins! All I can say is, Tina, you didn't disappoint.

But back to our poor TV. The set seems to have more problems than just the neon green screen. The audio and video ports at the back, which we use to connect the TV with the DVD player, don't hold the cords in securely, making DVD-watching more time-consuming that it should be, and the remote got lost sometime during the era in which it was owned by Blake's sister. Add to this the fact that this set, because it doesn't support digital TV viewing, will no longer work after February 17, 2009, unless we get a converter. But because of the reasons described above, our TV has seen the biscuit, and just buying the converter doesn't seem to be the wisest choice.

Which means that I guess it's time to buy a new TV. Blurg. Buying a new TV wasn't exactly high on my agenda of big-ticket items I want to purchase. Maybe we'll see how long we can hold out (because it's not like we have cable or anything; it's just us and our little ole amplified top-of-the-TV antenna). But I don't suppose I'm capable of that sort of will power. After all, a new season of 30 Rock (and not to mention The Office) is just around the corner. And I'd really like my regular doses of Tina Fey to come without the neon green side effects.


*By which I, of course, mean "has seen better days."

at home in the neighborhood: the copy shop

Because I live only one block away from this corner copy shop, I pass by nearly every day. I have only been in twice, however: once to see about card stock in a certain shade of blue, and once a week ago to make copies (on card stock) for a nursery activity. But my limited business with this little establishment hasn't kept its proprietors, Frances and Maryann, from getting to know Garrett and I. For the last 12 months they've watched us pass by, inside from the window, and outside on the sidewalk during those moments they've stepped out for a cigarette.

They are never short on comments about how big Garrett is growing. For example, towards the end of last winter, when I was still primarily carrying Garrett around in my infant carrier, one of them suggested to me that he was getting too big to be held like that, that my back must be killing me. When, just a day or two later, I walked by again, this time with Garrett in the stroller, she gave me a nod and said, "That's better."

During my visit there last week to make my nursery copies, Frances was the one to help me at the front desk. When she saw that I had Garrett with me, she didn't hesitate to holler back to her partner.

"Maryann! Look who's come in! It's the little blond baby! Come up here!" she said before turning her attentions back to Garrett and I. "I remember when he was just born," she said to me. "Don't you remember, Maryann, when Garrett here was just born? He was so tiny."

Maryann agreed and they both leaned over the counter to continue their cooing. In between my glances down to Garrett to reassure the stranger-shy portion of his budding personality that it was okay, they were nice ladies, and Mama was right here, I fished around in my wallet for $3 to pay for my copies. Frances noticed my digging.

"Oh, dear, don't let me take all your change," she said. "We see you pass by often enough. You can just pay later."

I assured her that I had the funds, and intended to pay now, but she wasn't entirely convinced that by charging me now for the copies, she wasn't inhibiting my ability to buy milk for my child.

I paid, and she accepted my payment, but as we bid our drawn-out goodbyes and assurances that we'd be passing by again very soon, I couldn't help but think about how awesome the whole mom-and-pop store/neighbor client relationship really is. It's not everywhere that business is conducted in quite the same way. And it made me happy to know that I live somewhere where it does.

the neighborhood remembers

Last night, just after sunset, Blake, Garrett, and I took a walk along the Shore Road Promenade. Unbeknownst to us was the fact that, as it was the eve of the seventh anniversary of 9/11, a dress rehearsal for the Tribute in Light was scheduled for the same time, and as we walked north along the path, the lighted Manhattan skyline just ahead of us in the distance, we were privy to a fantastic view of that striking memorial.

***

Sprinkled throughout my neighborhood are street signs like this:



Though in conversation and everyday direction-giving, 82nd Street is called just that: 82nd Street, one block of it has been renamed "Mark D. Hindy 9/11 Memorial Way." A little further down the same street the memory of another person has been preserved by a renamed block of road. And so it continues as you wind through the streets of the neighborhood.

Who are these people? I found myself wondering shortly after we moved here. And why this stretch of road?

Apparently this neighborhood was incredibly affected by the attacks on September 11, 2001, because it was home to a large percentage of FDNY firefighters, NYPD officers, and talented financiers employed in Lower Manhattan. The loss was pretty devastating to this little corner of Brooklyn, and some say it was the neighborhood hardest hit. To remember their loved ones, friends, neighbors, and family members renamed and dedicated sections of streets in their honor as 9/11 Memorial Ways. I can only assume that the renamed blocks were where, or near where, those who died resided.

***

Perhaps tonight we'll walk again down to the bay to get another glimpse of the Tribute in Light. Perhaps we'll walk down 82nd Street, and perhaps, as we do, we'll wonder about Mark D. Hindy, the neighbor we never got to meet.

vroom vroom

A few days ago we noticed some odd grumbling noises coming from Garrett as he played in one corner of the room. Upon further inspection, we discovered that the noises weren't exactly coming from him, per say, they were coming from the toy cars he was driving across the floor. This leads me to believe that 1) Garrett's little imagination is starting to blossom, and 2) He really is a boy. (No, really, he is. And don't let the fact that he drives his cars delicately with only one finger make you think otherwise.)

at home in the neighborhood: bagel boy

Through a small series of posts, I'd like to introduce you to a few beloved places in my neighborhood. In response to the bagel love that seemed to permeate the comments of my last post, I think it's only appropriate to begin with Bagel Boy.

Located on the corner just two blocks down from us, Bagel Boy would seem from the outside to be nothing more than your typical New York bagel joint. Based on the nearly round-the-clock business it receives, not to mention the mouthfuls of breaded delicacies I've devoured, I must conclude that, to their devoted patrons, at least, Bagel Boy is something more.

Their menu consists of the usual deli items: sandwiches, pasta salads, muffins, and the like. I must admit, though, that the only things I've eaten there are bagels. Wait, I take that back. Once I tried a filled croissant (they're buy-one-get-one-free in the evenings), and it was good, but I like the bagels more.

A bagel, which is always plump and freshly baked on the premises, and which comes in such varieties as plain, whole wheat, onion, cinnamon raisin, egg, everything, and poppy seed, served with plain cream cheese will cost you $1.75. You must get it toasted because, well, it's just better that way. For an additional $1.25, you can have your toasted bagel smeared with a flavored cream cheese. I've tried the vegetable, honey almond, and banana walnut, and prefer them in the order listed. I'm dying to try their sun dried tomato, but it's always out of stock when I go in, and I have it on good authority that their lox is delicious. But no matter what kind of cream cheese you get, it will always be piled on so high and thick it will drown out the bagel it's spread on.

Just in case all this talk of delicious New York bagels makes you want to hop on a plane and come see for yourself what all the fuss is about, let me first give you some basic instructions on how to order one. New Yorkers, in general, are fantastically nice people, but if there's one way to step on their toes, it's to order a bagel incorrectly. It might not seem a difficult thing to do, but there is definitely an art to it which I'm still trying to master. First of all, speak loud and clear. The hustle and bustle of good business and background baking brings up the decibel levels, and no one likes to be told after they've made your order that they didn't hear you right. Second, be quick. Know what you want to order before you get in line and make sure that your instructions are given in an orderly fashion. If it's a group order, tell them so at the beginning; it will save everyone unnecessary hassle at the register. And last, don't be afraid to make small talk. New Yorkers, whether they know you by name or not, love to tell you their life story, and as such expect you to do the same.

If you're still not convinced as to the lip-smacking wonders of Bagel Boy, try this little tidbit on for size. One day, as we were walking home, Blake and I were passed by a hurried ambulance blaring its sirens. We wondered for a moment what the emergency was, but then we saw it pull up and stop in front of Bagel Boy. The engine died, and all on board got out and sauntered inside. Apparently the alarm was for bagel-craving induced hunger pains.

trivial knowledge gained by the experience of living here

Whether or not everything on the following list is actually true, I've been led to believe it is in the time that we've been here.

• You order a pie, not a pizza.
• How much you pay for rent is everyone's business.
• Humid weather (like the intense humid heat we experience yesterday and the day before while waiting for Tropical Storm Hanna to hit) makes it very difficult to bake.
• To be a New Yorker is to be a food critic. They are one in the same.
• You don't push a button for an elevator, you call it.
• Neighborhoods with lots of eights in the addresses will likely have a lot of Chinese people populating them. Also, if you need to sell your house, and there are multiple eights in the address, it is likely it will sell quickly, and to a Chinese person.
• Borough hierarchy, according to a Manhattanite: 1. Manhattan 2. Brooklyn 3. Queens 4. The Bronx 5. What was that other borough? 6. New Jersey
• Borough hierarchy, according to a Brooklynite: 1. Brooklyn 2. Everywhere else
• Manhattanites typically only go to Brooklyn accidentally.
• It's a cellar, not a basement.
• They may have been in California for the last fifty years, but the Dodgers never really left Brooklyn.
• Sushi is a New York institution.
• So is handball.
• Kids trick or treat at small business storefronts, not at homes.
• A New York cookbook consists of take-out menus.
• Every public clock in the city is in tip-top working order and tells the time precisely.
• Distance is not measured in miles, but rather in blocks/avenues, minutes, and subway stops.
• Once you've eaten a fresh New York bagel, there's no going back to "lesser" varieties.

"aunt lindsay" has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

I'd like to introduce you to the boy who turned me into an aunt, Blake into an uncle, and Garrett into a cousin:

Henry Tyler
born to my brother, Tyler, and his lovely wife, Amanda
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
at 12:21 pm
8 lbs 3 oz, 19.5"

Doesn't he just make you want to melt? You can be sure that I'll be feasting on this bundle of utter preciousness, even if from afar.

Congratulations, Tyler and Amanda! He's beautiful!

he speaks!

I've been paying close attention for a few days now, and I feel pretty confident in telling you that Garrett's first word is "hello." Hello. He says it when he's "talking" on his toy phones (i.e. slinging them over his shoulder and babbling). As you can hear, it sounds more like "huh-yuh," but whatever...it works. And I'll take it.

You have to listen very carefully for the "huh" part in this clip because he says it very quickly and almost only breathes it; trust me, though, it's there.

And...take 2:

and then she made pillows

I made two, and they are identical. They even match the rest of the living room! I love productive afternoons.

letting go

Garrett is fourteen months old now, and I've decided that it's time to start weaning him off the bottle. My goal is to have him completely bottle-free by Christmas. To aid in the process, we purchased over the weekend some "big boy cups" to add to the beginning sippy cups he's been drinking water from since he was about seven months old. (Since first introducing him to the cup, we've been consistent at making sure that the only liquid offered to him in his bottle was formula/milk; water and juices were reserved for the cup.)

Two of the four cups we bought are regular sippy cups; the other two have straws. Because I prefer not to have milk splattered this way and that, I usually only serve milk in the regular sippies, saving the strawed cups for water. He knows, though, how to drink from both. But even so, this weaning process is proving to be a little more difficult than I was hoping it'd be.

First of all, in the last three or four months, Garrett has grown extremely attached to his bottles. When he picks up on the sounds of me preparing him a drink, he makes a mad dash for the kitchen. Where, during the first two-thirds of his life, he didn't seem to care one way or the other how he got his milk, he lately prefers that it comes from a familiar, comforting bottle.

Another challenge is the fact that Garrett is still a lazy eater. He has been from day one (which was a major reason why breastfeeding was unsuccessful). Though he is capable of doing it, he often refuses to hold his bottle or cup himself; but he adamantly (unless he's very, very thirsty) refuses to let us hold his new cups for him. Before I could express to my mom over the phone the other day my concerns of whether or not he's now getting enough milk, my mom commented that cup-drinking children often drink less than bottle-drinking children, which made me feel a little better, but I'd still like to know my son is drinking enough milk throughout the day.

Also, it doesn't help that Garrett often loses interest in cup drinking faster than bottle drinking, and demonstrates that loss by chucking his cup forcefully to the floor after only a few sips.

I'd love it if I could wean by the Cold Turkey method, but, given the circumstances, I'm not so sure that would work. So, taking these challenges into consideration, I think I've been able to come up with a bottle-weaning plan. As of a few days ago, Garrett gets a morning bottle and a bedtime bottle, but his milk during table meals and snacks is served in a cup. So far it seems to take him all three meals and the one or two snacks to drink about eight ounces of milk. Ideally, I'd like him to be drinking more during these sittings.

I'm hoping that my persistent offering of milk in a cup will help encourage Garrett to keep at it. Patience, too, is also something I know I'll need to have. Once I notice that he's taking to the cup better (i.e. not throwing it on the floor as quickly, and drinking more during meals and snacks), I will take away the morning bottle. After a little while longer, his bedtime bottle will be taken away as well.

I have no idea how long this will take, or whether my planned approach will work. If any of you have further suggestions for me, I'm all ears. Because I'd really like to only have to pack cups, and not bottles, too, for our Christmas trip to San Antonio.

me and george

Elisa at Diary of an Unlikely Housewife tagged me the other day to share six random things about myself. I don't normally like to participate in tags (so if you tag me, and I appear to ignore it, please know it's nothing personal), but I was able to tweak this one to include a few thoughts that have been on my mind recently. So here we go.


1. I ardently admire George Washington. I am eager to be introduced to him on the Other Side.

2. Last week I finished reading 1776, by David McCullough, which highlighted the first year of George Washington's career as general commander of the Continental Army. It was fantastic, and I think that it should be required reading for all Americans because not only did it portray the god-like character traits Washington's gone down in history as being known for having, but it demonstrated his human side...that side we all have that isn't perfect, that makes mistakes.

3. Like George Washington, and the rest of the Founding Fathers, I think politics can be interesting and enlightening. I believe that we should not turn a deaf ear to the political happenings occuring in this country, that it is our duty as citizens to pay attention.

4. I agree, however, with George in that party politics has the unfortunate habit of dividing a nation. In his Farewell Address of 1796 (which is another piece of literature I believe should be required reading for all Americans), he highlights his concerns about the dangers of party politics:

I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the state, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discriminations. Let me now take a more comprehensive view, and warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party, generally.

This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. It exists under different shapes in all governments, more or less stifled, controlled, or repressed; but, in those of the popular form, it is seen in its greatest rankness, and is truly their worst enemy.

The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders and miseries, which result, gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of Public Liberty.

Without looking forward to an extremity of this kind, (which nevertheless ought not to be entirely out of sight,) the common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it.

It serves always to distract the Public Councils, and enfeeble the Public Administration. It agitates the Community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms; kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the door to foreign influence and corruption, which find a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passions. Thus the policy and the will of one country are subjected to the policy and will of another.

There is an opinion, that parties in free countries are useful checks upon the administration of the Government, and serve to keep alive the spirit of Liberty. This within certain limits is probably true; and in Governments of a Monarchical cast, Patriotism may look with indulgence, if not with favor, upon the spirit of party. But in those of the popular character, in Governments purely elective, it is a spirit not to be encouraged. From their natural tendency, it is certain there will always be enough of that spirit for every salutary purpose. And, there being constant danger of excess, the effort ought to be, by force of public opinion, to mitigate and assuage it. A fire not to be quenched, it demands a uniform vigilance to prevent its bursting into a flame, lest, instead of warming, it should consume.

5. At the very least, I think we, as Washington's "fellow-citizens," should respect the political opinions of others. Our choice of party system, candidate, or legislation is just a choice. It is neither right or wrong, and we, in our impassioned political debates would be wise to remember this. We owe George, who did so much to help form this country, at least this much.

6. I am completely torn as to whether I should leave the comments open in this post. While on the one hand I'd be honored if people shared their thoughts, on the other I fear another heated debate where none was scheduled to occur. I think I will leave them enabled, but please, for all involved, be mindful of what you say and how you say it.

it's all about the presentation

If there's one thing NYC is good at doing, it's putting on a show. And not just on Broadway. Everything is a production, from glamorous Fifth Avenue to large-scale public installation art and department store displays to musical performances in the subways. Take our Labor Day outing, for instance.

First we stopped in the Toys R Us at Times Square, partly because Blake still hadn't been there, and partly because the birthday money Garrett received a couple months ago was burning a hole in his pocket (err -- our pockets, though in his behalf, of course). The first thing you see inside the Times Square Toys R Us is the giant ferris wheel in the entryway. If you wend your way up to the second floor, you'll encounter a life-size and technologically alive Tyrannosaurus Rex situated alongside mammoth-sized renderings of city skyscrapers done in Legos and a life size Barbie dollhouse.

During this trip we oohed and ahhed appropriately, then found our way to the toddler toys, where Garrett picked out this puppy:

Can anyone else see a budding young Mozart?

After a long cross-town walk from Broadway over to Third Avenue and then up to 60th Street, we found ourselves at Dylan's Candy Bar, which is seriously the coolest candy store I've ever seen. (Also the most expensive, but never mind that. The presentation was awesome.) Everything was decked out in candy.


Even the stairs:

Yes, that is all candy, and it's all under your feet. (Under glass, of course.)

We splurged and came away with a few treats: a Dylan's Candy Bar Dark Mint Belgian Chocolate Bar, a Dylan's Candy Bar Malted Milk Belgian Chocolate Bar, and a small handful of the most expensive Smarties I've ever purchased. Garrett loved them, though. It's hilarious watching him eat them because instead of excitedly popping them into his mouth, he licks them nearly into non-existence. I bought him Smarties because I thought they wouldn't be messy, but he proved me wrong.

Oh, and the chocolate was delicious. I'd share, but the internet doesn't work like that.