Things That Go Bump

“The dream of a cat is filled with mice.” -Arab Proverb

Obviously I jinxed myself last week by saying I would write about Boston next, barring unforeseen difficulties. I have a laughable tendency of making grand statements and sweeping gestures that seem to invoke the wrath of Murphy's Law.

The sweetest little girl cat featured here is my baby Schuyler (Pronounced Skyler. It's Dutch.), and she has terrible allergies that have caused her to have to wear this ridiculous get up, which is a soft e-collar (a more pliable version of the cone-shaped hard plastic ones you sometimes see on dogs). She also is on a strict, bland smelling hypoallergenic diet that does not include any treats. Thankfully, Sky is not one to meow about her misfortunes. After all, she's a Jellicle cat! And, when she's not passed out on the couch, she's is very pleased to scare away the pigeons lurking around our new East Village windows, or corner roaches, or do running pirouettes after flies.

Being a Jellicle cat, Schuyler has earned a number of names in the four years since I adopted her from a miserable caged existence at a Hell's Kitchen pet shop. Her name in full is, Schuyler Buddy Munchie Pookiebear La Rue Coleman, aka Schnookems, and sometimes Poindexter. Her mobster name is Baby Cakes, aka Cakes, Coleman. Her Native American name is Schuyler One Paw. And this morning at about 3 a.m., she earned her newest moniker: Mouser.

Yes indeed, Little Miss Kitty began making some horrific noises just after Jon and I drifted off last night. My dad informed me today that cats can make 200 different noises, and this particular one was a note of primal instinct mixed with a little mommy, please get out of bed and come see what I've mauled for you, and don't worry I'm in just as much shock and have as little a clue of what do next as you.

The whole incident was simply disturbing. In part because it's the second mouse in two weeks (the first surprised me when I went to open a Billy's Bakery box full of their delicious blueberry and banana chocolate chip muffins. That mouse had good taste! And seemingly more than one life, as it escaped. I wonder if mice prefer a sharp cheddar, or a creamy St. Andre?). But more so because after Jon and I came to and jumped into action by putting Sky in the bathroom and putting a clear, plastic bowl over the mouse, I had time to examine it before we disposed of it. It was just a wee baby, and its soft-looking fur was a precious light grey and pink. It had obviously been seriously hurt by Sky, because it couldn't get up or turn from its side, but its little back legs and tail were still moving, still trying to escape and live. To be so very close to a living thing struggling and fighting for its life on my living room floor after having been attacked by my cat was painfully hard and kept me tossing for hours afterwards.

Supposedly, when a cat moves into an apartment, the word gets out in the mouse community and those smart little rodents take their after hours shriekfests elsewhere. Hopefully, for our peace of mind and the very existence of the mice, they've already learned their lesson: don't mess with the sunflower bedecked kitty!

Photo: Mouser Coleman in her former (bug and rodent free) Chelsea abode.

Next Week's Slice: TBD!

Tucking It In

It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity. -Albert Einstein

I'm in the middle of a stupid computer crisis and my time to blog has sadly been whittled away by the technical support of Time Warner and AOL.

In lieu of the afore-planned Beantown bonanza, here's a few of the East Village restuarants I've been to in the week since I moved downtown. (For some reason, as I did just now, I always misspell the word restaurant by mixing up the a and the u.)

Prune and Tuck Shop
I was on my way to a quiet counter brunch at Prune today (I'm trying to start Play it As it Lays by Joan Didion), but as I turned the corner, a light bulb went off in my head that the last time I tried to have brunch at Prune in July, it was closed for vacation. And it is, through the 12th. Instead I had a breakfast pastry full of beans, ham, and cheese at Tuck Shop, the new Aussie hole in the hall. Next time, I want to try a piece of lamington cake, which is sponge cake layered with raspberry jam, coated in chocolate, and topped with coconut. Mmm-mmm-mmm.

Mama's
I don't like broccoli, but I make myself eat it sometimes anyway. The other night, I made a deal with myself that if I ordered the broccoli at Mama's, I could also get corn and mashed potatoes on my veggie plate. The corn was sweet and had a hint of cilantro. The taters were creamy and had a few cloves of roasted garlic hiding in them. And the broccoli -- I don't know if it was the healthy dose of pepper it wore, or the fact that the garlic from the taters overwhelmed its normal flavor, but that green shrub was damn good. Thanks, Mama!

Atlas Cafe
Jon and I really like the fresh, hand-cranked yogurt with mix-ins, and many of the other 100+ menu items (salads, sandwiches, crepes, soup, etc.). It's très cheap and quick, and there's decent outside seating.

Next week: Barring other unforeseen difficulties, technical and otherwise, a sip of Beantown

Firecracker, Firecracker, Boom Boom Boom

"Black birds slow and
softly breaks a glass of wine / Broken bluesy whisper sing to me tonight/Well, everybody wants to go on forever / I just wanna burn up hard and bright / I just wanna be your firecracker / And maybe be your baby tonight." -Ryan Adams, "Firecracker"

"The beet is the most intense of vegetables. The radish, admittedly, is more feverish, but the fire of the radish is a cold fire, the fire of discontent not of passion. Tomatoes are lustly enough, yet there runs through tomatoes an undercurrent of frivolity. Beets are deadly serious...."
-Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

Something Old: Me. I rolled past my mid-20s like a tumbleweed last week. To celebrate, and for something completely different, Jon and I took the 3-hour Circle Line cruise all the way aaarrround the isle of Manhattan. I did the cruise with my good pa Al six summers ago, and wanted to do it again because I understand so much more about the City now and could better comprehend and apply what the guide told us.

When you're stuck in the ho-hum of work, sleep, work, it's easy to forget how much variety, from toe to crest, Manhattan has, from the Financial District, on up to SoHo and the Lower East Side, to Times Square, to the Upper West, to Harlem, to Washington Heights. The latter is named after Fort Washington, as in George Wasington, which, in 1776, was the site of a Revolutionary War battle. Pa Al and I trolled around the lovely Fort Washington Park one afternoon a few years ago. The tippy top of the island, including Fort Tyron Park, and The Cloisters, looks ridiculously lush from the boat. As I subcribe to the hi-lo-/shabby-chic aesthetic, I toasted the isle by drinking an Amstel Light out of a can with a straw.

Something New: Odd. Very, very odd. Makes me miss bag phones and parachute pants.

Something Red: Courtesy of About.com, the perfect Fourth of July tomato sandwich recipe:
Ingredients--
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice; 1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest
1/3 cup mayonnaise; 1/4 teaspoon each, salt and pepper
1 (1 lb) loaf French bread; 3 large tomatoes, thickly sliced
Preparation--
In a small bowl, combine lemon zest and juice, mayonnaise, salt, and pepper. Stir well.
Cut eight slices (about 1/2-inch thick) from center of bread loaf. Toast lightly under the broiler if desired. Spread mayonnaise mixture on each slice of bread. Arrange tomato slices on 4 bread slices; top with remaining bread slices, mayonnaise side down. Cut each tomato sandwich in half to serve. A delicious lunch sandwich, served with chips and pickle slices, or with soup. Serves 4.

Something White:
Also new, my appreciation of the New Jersey version of a Sloppy Joe, courtesy of Millburn Delicatessen (Anne Hathaway hails from Millburn. Wonder if she's ever tried a Sloppy?). Imagine this: a layer of white rye bread; a layer of freshly sliced roast beef or turkey; a layer of coleslaw; a second layer of rye; a layer of more coleslaw; a layer of Swiss cheese; another slice of rye. Super sloppy, super fine. 20 napkins up for this hella sandwich.

and,

Something Blue: As I was sitting down to write this post, Shayne called to say she was waiting in line at Shake Shack wearing a blue shirt. Amongst peels of laughter, I cued up the SS Webcam to see her and Tracy for myself.

Webcam report -- 12:22 p.m., July 1, 2006. 83 degrees Fahrenheit. Camera 1, at Southeast corner of Madison Square Park, above Shack, top of the last "K." Line short, rapidly moving. Blue-shirted girl on cell phone moving up, moving up, moving out of camera view. 2 Shack Burgers, 1 fry, 1 lemonade, 1 Black and White shake. Satisfaction level indicated as "high."

Next week: A sip of Beantown

A Moveable Feast

I'm too crazed with packing to write a comprehensive post for the week. Who knew it would take so long for one little person to uproot herself, her cat, and four years worth of belongings? It's been going like: one for me, one for storage at Jon's parent's house, one for the trash can. One for... I haven't lived anywhere this long other than my childhood home, and the problem is that so many of my possessions evoke memories, many of them dusty. Me being me, I take a moment to pay tribute to each, until the cat jumps full throttle into an empty box and I realize I'm still in my obstacle course of a studio.

Yesterday, Jon and I joined a friend of his who regularly volunteers in the gardens of Riverside Park, to rake, weed, and bag around 138th St. The trees blocked the rain, and the rain kept us from getting too hot and made the weeds give more easily. As a reward for our efforts, we came home with a bag full of Riverside Park grown, straight-from-the-ground lettuce and a young garlic bulb. With it we made an in-the-process-of-moving feast of chopped salad with feta, peppers, tomatoes, and garbanzos.

Next Friday's the last day the root beer-flavored custard will be on the calendar at Shake Shack. Go forward, I urge you, and taste the genius, creamy fizz.

Next week: A patriotic slice

Odds and Ends

I think we all have a love/hate relationship with food – too little and our minds are cloudy and cranky, too much and our stomachs are achy and bloated. Finding the right balance with food, with everything, is a lifelong adventure.

One of the best NYC meals I've had of late was a splurge with my friend Chloe, who suggested Kuma Inn, a Thai tapas gem on the Lower East Side. Chloe works in food PR and essentially eats out for a living. From the first taste, we were both enraptured by our meal. Each chopsticked bite was savored and every flavor, spice, and flash of heat had meaning. We shared edamame with Thai-basil lime oil; sauteed Chinese sausage with chili sauce and sticky rice; pan roasted scallops with bacon, calamansi, and sake; and a luscious tuna tartar. The prices are low, but the bill adds up since the dishes are petite. The meal was just under $40 each, including one glass of wine and tax + tip. To balance the budget, the next night I ate my old standing-up-in-the-kitchen standby of Boca fake chik'n and edamame.

Inspired by my last blog entry, my dear Shayne and Tracy friends gave me an early birthday gift of ice cream bowls (very hi-tech: they are made of materials that inhibit the "transference of temperature from the interior to the exterior of the bowls"); an ergonomic ice cream scoop; and jars of dulche de leche; a very rich, fruity chocolate sauce; and strawberry rhubarb topping. All the better to eat ice cream with you, my dears.

I first had rhubarb in a strawberry rhubarb pie at the now closed Sermets restaurant in the West Ashley neighborhood of my hometown, Charleston, S.C. On the menu was a pasta dish I still miss from 10 years ago: penne with squid and mint. I'm not sure if Sermet still serves the rhubarb pie at his downtown Charleston location? I had my first legal drink there with my friend Matt a mere seven years ago this month. Sigh.

Along with ice cream, nothing says summer like sticky sweet fruit juice drippin' down my chin. After reading this New York Times story about cherry picking along the Hood River Fruit Loop in northwest Oregon, I sprinted to Whole Foods to buy a bag. Boy, are they expensive. Ha-ha, fruit loop!

Speaking of Whole Foods, I am mui curious as to when the new one on Houston Street will open. The thing I thought I'd miss most about moving out of Chelsea next month was the close proximity to my dear Whole Foods -- mine has an urban neighborhood feel to it vs. the commuter vibe at 14th St. and the tourist laden crowd at the Time Warner Center. Turns out, Jon's and my new apartment in the East Village is a stone's throw from the as yet unopened Lower East Side location. By golly, a quick MapQuest check tells me I'm currently .34 miles away from WF, but will soon be only .31 miles away! I'll leave you to wonder if that's secretly why we took the apartment.

While I do love milkshakes, or a healthy pour of milk in my coffee, I have always been a tad disgusted by the prospect of sitting down and drinking a glass of milk proper. Milk drinker or not, I bet that you too would be grossed out by Lucky Charms, Wheaties, Trix, Starburst, Milky Way, and 3 Musketeers flavored milk. Ewww.

This morning Jon and I ventured out in the heat to The City Bakery for the best yogurt bar, pretzel croissants, and gourmet (i.e. expensive) salad bar you've ever met. As I was checking out, I spied fellow food blogger The Girl Who Ate Everything, whose face I recognized from the photos on her fabulous, fun, funny blog. One day later, we've each officially blogged about our random meeting. (I unapologetically don't do names, but due to a strong ability to imprint, I never forget a face -- sometimes to an embarrassing effect.) What a teeny, tiny New York it is.

Postcard from: The City Bakery

Next week: A slice of the big move of 2006