Yes, I baked

It's well known around the House of the Rising Somerville that I am the cook, not the baker. I am more comfortable when I can add, fix, doctor as I go; the pot's on the stove and it could all change moment to moment. Baking requires faith on two levels: that the recipe will prove worth it and that I've done it right, because once I close the door it's all over. I lack this faith. It's also almost certainly a control issue--the same reason I feel safer in a car than in a plane. I need to be in charge of the stew.

All the same, I baked this past weekend. My first run at biscotti was a total success. I owe most of this to the stupid-proof nature of biscotti: sugar, flour, whole eggs, baking powder, pinch salt, butter (or not), spices, flavours, fruit (or not). The other part I owe to the best baking book I own: Cook's Illustrated's Baking Illustrated. I just like reading the dang thing, too, but every recipe we've tried has worked out. The lemon-anise biscotti was no exception, and thanks to their detailed description of how they arrived at the perfect recipe, I know why the other recipe, from a very flash looking but sadly disappointing other baking book, was good, but not The Best Recipe.

So now I have about 30 lemon-anise and about 30 cherry-almond biscotti up in my kitchen. I foresee a lot of dunking in my near future.

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The family Rocket is coming to town. Ma and Pa roll into the airport tomorrow evening, and the first thing we'll do is dunk biscotti into warm milk, before bed. The next day, I'll enlist their help in hanging the new art before we go on a rangy walk around town, hitting my high spots: brunch, museums, dinner in my favorite spot. Friday is the Canada Day of the U.S., also known as the Fourth of July, also known as the Rocket parental wedding anniversary. We'll probably make a pizza and try to overhear the Pops. Pops. I just like saying Pops. Pops. Anyway, I've shored up milk, eggs, coffee, tea, and all those things you'd need to either hit the Oregon Trail or have your folks over. Popsicles and sorbet in the freezer, white wine and sherry and beer in the fridge.

You'll understand if I'm not around for a few days. First, the walkies; then, the deeply overindulgent eating; then, the POPS; then, the recovery.

In which I allow that it is possible that I [heart] New York.

As I'd feared, this past weekend was a dangerous thing: put Nora in a big city and give her some friends and a real burrito and what happens? She begins to draw even more unfavourable comparsions between this possible life and her current life.

Yes yes y'all (tick tock y'all, to the beat y'all, ya don't stop...), my maiden voyage to New York was a total success. On Friday night, as we walked to the diner, we acted as first responders to a pretty serious cab-and-bike accident that happened right in front of our eyes, and my lady hit 911 first--an accident in New York reported by a native Wisconsonite visiting the city from her home in Boston but calling on a phone with a Chicago number. We are modern young America and we move around a lot.

We walked all over the place on Saturday, a fine, sunny, cool day to be in Central Park, watching the beautiful people stroll their bebes about and the bikers ride their beautiful bikes... Then to Brooklyn to the art museum and the feminist art exhibit including The Dinner Party, about which I'll write later. Indian food on the outskirts of Park Slope, and staying up late talking with friends who live in Hell's Kitchen.

Sunday brought me to my set of tasks: yogurt, shoe store, brunch. Check, check, and frickin check: we hit the Lower East Side, Soho, Little Italy, and a few other slivers of neighbourhood that I certainly can't discern from each other. I bought a bag that looks a bit like it's made out of tanned human skin--it is not and it is vegan. We popped into a candy store (Economy Candy) that was filled with kids acting like some kind of kids in candy stores. We brunched in a precious place in Freeman's alley staffed entirely by fellows with moustaches and lithe girls with effortless ensembles (damn their lack of effort!). My friend Jen took a shine to the lipstick our server (server? waitress?) was wearing and asked after it. A quick boutique search and she'd become That Girl With The Red Lipstick On, very oo la lah. All this and a trip to Zabar's for bagels and a $20 tub of truffle stock, with which I'll make some knockout risotto later this week.
I feel a little stupid, a little imprudently smitten. There was just...something about being in a city laid out on a grid again, a city with a big ass subway system, a city! My lady's and my dissatisfaction with our geography grows, and the lure to leave is great. My employer has a large New York office; surely there is much work in immigration law for my partner. One thinks, why not? It is never too late, and one is obligated to search out happiness because life is short.

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Life is short and the bag I bought is made by a house of design. My bag has a name on it that is not the name of a friend, as was the case with my previous bag. I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, it is a really delicious bag. On the other, am I not a brand-name girl; I own almost nothing that is marked on its exterior by its maker. I'm afraid that someone will say to me "oh, is that the new 'name & name' bag?" and I'll have to say "Umn, yes."

It's really a soft, glossy bag. I femme out on bags and shoes. I've made my choice and I stick by it.