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Palm Sunday
“It’s nice out here,” said a man in a navy down vest and Yankees cap as he swung through the lobby door of his building out onto Frederick Douglass.
“Yeah,” I replied, agreeing.
“I thought it would be chilly,” he said.
It was about 31 degrees but the sunshine felt warm.
At corner of 147th and Eighth, a man and woman hailed a car. Though I saw them from behind – they looked sharp, she in a long coat with a pattern of flowers, her Afro catching the sunlight. He wore a gray flannel suit.
“It’s Palm Sunday,” the cashier at Pathmark told me.
The beginning of Holy Week.
Along Eighth, a deli prepares to open. “Mo’s Gourmet,” says the red sign with yellow letters. Brown butcher paper held in place by blue painter’s tape fills the windows right now.
Back at my building, the sound of Drake drifts through a second-floor window.
In an article recently for The New Yorker, the writer John McPhee describes some of his experiences over the course of more than 50 years of interviewing people, including Special Agent Ronald Rawalt, a mineralogist from the FBI whose work in Mexico solved the murder of an American drug agent there; the actor Richard Burton, who “interviewed himself,” according to McPhee; and Alan Hume, M.D., a surgeon in Maine who “talked clearly, rapidly, volubly, and technically.”
McPhee has some advice for anyone who makes a living that involves recording what other people say. “Whatever you do, don’t rely on memory,” he writes. “Don’t imagine that you will be able to remember in the evening what people said during the day.” Good point, in my experience, as limited as it may be compared with McPhee’s. Even when I’m not on deadline, I make it a practice to read my notes the same day I’ve interviewed someone, as a way to reflect on what he or she told me, to identify gaps in my understanding and to decipher the scrawl that I tend to produce when I’m scribbling.
Lots of people take notes but journalists may be the only ones for whom writing down what other people tell us is the work itself. In December I met Bohlale Ratefane, a woman who works the lost luggage counter for South African Airways at Johannesburg’s Tambo airport. Ratefane wrote notes to herself in a black notebook with a worn cover while juggling both a BlackBerry and a smartphone. She wrote in the notebook seemingly at random, back and forth among the pages, but the system must have made sense to her because she found the entry she needed every time. She worked the notebooks and phones to perfection in pursuit of her prey, which included suitcases and passports that had become separated from their owners.
Recently I came across a story that I wrote two autumns go, during a football game between Columbia and Dartmouth that I had gone to cover for a class at journalism school. The draft had been piled among a series of notes that I’ve carried with me since then as I’ve traveled from New York City to South Africa and back.
About midway through the fourth quarter on that Saturday in October, I wandered over to the Big Green’s side of the stands, where I met Elliott Olshansky. I had sought out Olshansky because he and a cluster of fans cheered for Dartmouth on nearly every play. As it happened, Olshansky graduated from Dartmouth in 2004 and aspired to be a writer and an entrepreneur. “I’m in this weird limbo between where I am and where I want to be,” he told me.
I liked his comment and used it in my first draft of the story. My professor also liked the comment but suggested that I discard it nonetheless. “It doesn’t really advance your central point,” he wrote in tracked changes through the middle of the paragraph. My professor was right about the quote. The story was tighter without it.
Still, I’m glad I’ve preserved that first draft of the story long enough to read Olshansky’s comment anew. That’s because the in-between state that Olshansky described himself as occupying has become a home of sorts to me. I’ve recently returned to New York from South Africa to work on a project that combines my training in law and journalism. But I also look forward in August to returning to South Africa, where there are stories that I want to report and write, and where my partner lives and works.
When I met Olshansky he had recently published an e-book about the rules of dating from a guy’s perspective. “Guy-lit,” according to Olshansky, who also was pursuing an MBA at Fordham. Aspiring entrepreneur and writer – that was where Olshansky stood as we parted on that sunny afternoon, when I did not yet realize his observation might one day resonate with me.
Writing in my notebook what Olshansky said and discovering the quote anew 18 months later underscores for me another reason one writes things down in the first place. Mostly we take notes to remember, but the notes that we take also help us to see things in new ways. Our drafts may be a means to an end, but they become a part of us too.
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Meeting of the Dunbar Tenants’ Association
March 27, 2014
About 21 people in attendance…
Starting next month, management will post notices about monthly meetings of the tenants’ association inside the bulletin boards in each lobby. This way we can hold them accountable. If the notices are not posted, we’ll know.
You may notice crews digging in the streets around the complex. They’re replacing the oil heat with natural gas. If you smell gas, call 911 and get away. They are switching over the system. Natural gas is cheaper and cleaner. But if you smell something, especially outside, where it’s not near anyone’s stove, report it immediately. The infrastructure under the streets is aging. Will require billions in investment in the coming years.
If you see people wearing green jackets who happen to be near the traffic island at Macombs Place, they’re doing a study for the Department of Transportation. They’re counting cars and pedestrians, with the idea of possibly turning the triangle into a pedestrian island. Doesn’t make sense to spend $150,000 to create a plaza when there are projects in the neighborhood like youth basketball for 122 kids that can’t get money anywhere.
The chairman of the tenants’ association will not run for reelection. He’s served for eight years and wants to spend time with his grandchildren.
The group discusses motorcycle packs that ride in the city. The police point of view is don’t chase them.
Cleaning of common hallways is lacking. “It’s not the Dunbar,” says one woman. “It’s the Dump-bar.” Tenants discuss possible need for a petition. Note that management reduced staff just as a rough winter arrived, bringing ice and snow, which results in salt and grime being tramped across floors.
But even with a snowstorm they have to sweep and mop the buildings and clean the grounds. Head of tenants association spoke with the property manager about this. If we had the right amount of staff the situation might be better. Head of tenants association might ask for a volunteer from each courtyard for petition drive. Will speak with manager.
The people responsible for removing snow are not supposed to be the same people coming into apartments to make repairs. Someone notes that’s not followed, however. Someone else asks about union, which might object to that.
When the current management took over the Dunbar they had 75 vacant units. They are renovating the apartments and bringing in additional tenants, which they say will help them to do more as far as staffing. “I’m not impressed by what they say,” someone says. “I’m impressed by what they do.” He notes that insufficient services may entitle us to a reduction in rent.
Work on renovating apartments must take place between 9:00 a.m. and 5 p.m. on weekdays, not late at night or on weekends. Report problems to 311.
If your rent increases sufficiently the landlord can require you to give them additional security deposit, up to one month’s rent.
The number for security is a non-working number. Security company’s personnel don’t seem to be patrolling. They sit inside. Security monitors aren’t working – another decrease in service we can add to our petition.
Request for dues. Meeting adjourns.
My partner, her colleague Rachel and I set out recently to make marinara after reading a recipe in the Times that reminded us of sauce we craved. Rachel, whose great-grandparents were born in Italy, volunteered to make pasta, which added to the fun. What follows are the steps we followed to create pasta with marinara that we loved.
Spoiler alert: Never rinse cooked pasta before adding sauce.
Rachel’s “Grandma Style” Pasta
INGREDIENTS
3 cups of flour
3 eggs and 3 egg yokes (6 eggs in total)
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons of ice water
PREPARATION
1. Pile the flour on a dry surface; hollow out a crater in the center so that the mound resembles a volcano.
2. Pour the eggs, yokes and olive oil into the crater. Be careful to preserve the wall of flour that surrounds the liquid.
3. Add ice water.
4. Mix the ingredients in the crater. Use your fingers to make a mixture of egg and olive oil.
5. Start to pull flour into the slurry slowly. “Have faith,” says Rachel. “It will turn into pasta.”
6. Combine the ingredients – flour and slurry – completely to form dough.
7. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and let stand at least 30 minutes. “The longer the better,” Rachel says.
8. Cover the counter with a liberal dusting of flour.
9. Cut the dough into six pieces; each piece should be roughly the size of a deck of cards. Dust each piece with flour.
10. Roll each piece until paper-thin. “You should be able to see your hand through it,” Rachel says. Add flour liberally as you roll.
11. Cut each piece in half widthwise. The halves determine the length of the noodles.
12. Fold the noodle-length piece of dough in half, then in half again, before cutting (see photo below). Cut into ribbons about a quarter-inch wide.
13. Cover a baking sheet with wax paper. Cover the paper with flour.
14. Lift and unfurl the ribbons of pasta. Place the ribbons onto the sheet so that they form nests. “What I like about nests is that you can portion them,” Rachel says.
15. Cook immediately or leave uncovered overnight. Freeze the pasta if you don’t plan to cook it within a day.
COOKING
1. Fill 3/4 of a large pot with water. “The bigger the pot the better because you want to give pasta lots of space and lots of water,” says Rachel.
2. Bring the water to a rolling boil. Add salt liberally. “Salt like it’s the sea,” Rachel says.
3. Drop the nests of pasta into the boiling water. Stir pasta to avoid clumping. Boil for between 1 and 2 minutes, checking roughly every 30 seconds to determine the pasta’s firmness.
4. Pour about half of the marinara (prepared according to the recipe in the Times) from the skillet into a large preheated bowl.
5. Remove pasta from water and transfer directly into the marinara. Do not drain the pasta or place it into a colander. Toss the pasta together with the marinara until coated well, garnish with ribbons of fresh basil and serve.
Tutti a tavola a mangiare! (Everyone to the table to eat!)
Cheerios made the news recently for airing a commercial that shows a little girl in a biracial family use the toasted whole grain oats to win her dad’s heart. I mention it because I’ve longed for the cereal since arriving here in South Africa.
Walk down the cereal aisle at a grocery store in Kwa-Zulu Natal and you may find Cheerios, but the oats somehow lack the flavor of Cheerios one finds in the states, where they’re manufactured by General Mills. Nestle makes the South African version at a plant about 37 miles north of Pretoria, according to BakeryAndSnacks.com, a trade publication.
Meanwhile, the Cheerios sold in the states have changed. Though the whole grains that go into Cheerios always have been free of genetically modified organisms, General Mills announced in January that the cornstarch and sugar used in the cereal are now GMO-free as well.
The change, which occurred over the past year, applies to original Cheerios. Eliminating GMO’s from other types of Cheerios, including Honey Nut and Apple Cinnamon, would be “difficult, if not impossible,” a company spokesman told CNN Money.
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At Christmas, dreaming of fake Chinese food…
On Christmas Eve in 1908, New York City Mayor George McClellan shuttered the city’s 550 movie houses, saying they had inadequate fire exits, the Times reminded readers recently. The theaters reopened a few days later.
I’m glad Mayor McClellan relented because seeing a movie on Christmas Day is one of my favorite traditions. As many of my tribesmen can tell you, the routine involves a late-afternoon movie – a 5:00 p.m. showtime feels ideal – followed by going out for Chinese food.
In Manhattan, Christmas morning may be the quietest day of the year. The hum that seems to run through the city the rest of the time ceases. It can be a great day to read, to volunteer or to walk.
In the afternoon, I would head to a theater filled with moviegoers who by then are dreaming of the wonton soup and hoisin sauce they will savor later at a restaurant packed with those of us for whom December 25 offers all the fun of a holiday without actually having to observe anything.
Hunan Park, a restaurant that used to be on Columbus Avenue between 71st and 72nd Streets but closed a few years ago, topped my list. I still can taste the restaurant’s jade chicken, which featured white meat flanked by green beans in a spicy sauce.
I can’t vouch for the food’s tie to Chinese cuisine, but my girlfriend, who’s half-Chinese, seems pretty sure the link was tenuous. I asked her how she knows Hunan Park wasn’t typical of regional Hunan cooking. “Because if you ate there, it wasn’t,” she replied.
Still, the food was terrific. So was the scene. On Christmas the place filled with Upper West Siders fresh from the AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13. The dining room’s decor looked to be from the 1980s. Signed headshots of Dan Rather and other celebrities adorned the walls near the register, which was bookended by bags of takeout. On cold days, the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted Columbus Avenue fogged with steam from all the soup and dumplings.
I’m feeling nostalgic for Hunan Park here in South Africa, where a woman corrected me recently after I wished her happy holidays. “It’s ‘Happy Christmas’ here,” she said. “In America you soften it because you don’t want to offend anyone but here even the Muslims say ‘Happy Christmas’ and it’s fine.”
At first, I attributed her response to her being South African, until I read that two-thirds of Americans prefer to say “Merry Christmas” while 18 percent prefer “Happy Holidays,” according to a poll released Monday by Farleigh Dickenson University. Fifteen percent say they’re indifferent or would rather people not say anything. The greeting also varies by political party. Eighty-two percent of GOP’ers prefer saying “Merry Christmas” compared with 55 percent of Democrats, the survey found.
No war on Christmas here. In my reverie, I’m back at Hunan Park. If I were there I would hang my jacket on the back of my chair in the overcrowded room and look forward to being passed a pot of tea while I practically drool in anticipation of the fake Chinese food to come.
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Moving day…
“South Africa, that’s halfway around the world,” Kelly, the mailman, said to me while I waited on the street for the movers to finish loading the contents of my apartment into a van.
It was an 88-degree day that felt like July. A woman walked by holding a battery-powered fan.
“Tough day to do move,” said a cyclist who dismounted near me, soaked in sweat.
Turned out to be an easy day to move. My girlfriend and I drove the van from Manhattan to Wallingford, Conn., where I rented a 5 x 10 climate-controlled storage locker. We encountered little traffic and arrived back in the city at 9:00 p.m.
Later we headed downtown for a margarita. As it happened, the day marked the 12th anniversary of 9/11. We stopped en route at Engine 24, which has a memorial for firefighters from the company who died at ground zero on 9/11.
“Take care, it’s been great knowing you,” Kelly had said as we fist-bumped. I later overheard him greeting a man at the building next door. “I don’t know the neighborhood very well,” the man said. “I just moved here.”
That’s how it goes in New York. You leave and someone else arrives. That’s part of the rhythm of this great city.
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Escape Velocity
A spacecraft trying to leave the Earth needs to be traveling seven miles per second, or about 25,000 miles per hour, to overcome the planet’s gravity and avoid falling back to the surface.
Scientists call that speed escape velocity, which also describes what I feel I’m attaining as I prepare to leave New York City after a decade. Like a rocket that appears to bounce haltingly in the seconds before it breaks free of the launch pad, I’ve felt this summer the force of a life lived in one place.
In July, when I began the process of relocating to South Africa, I wobbled under the weight of my to-do list. I felt handcuffed by possessions, especially those I needed to inventory, photograph and describe for Craigslist. That’s not to mention the things that had piled up over the years: papers, books, photographs, magazines, Band-Aids, toothbrushes, notebooks, t-shirts, coffee mugs, bottle openers, eyeglass cases, towels, Sharpies, a chess set, bed sheets, receipts, bandanas, magazines, magnets, seashells and business cards.
I’ve encountered a battery of medical appointments and filled out a mountain of forms for a visa. I’ve planned what to pack and ended my lease. I have friends to see.
Leaving also means escaping the pull of the familiar. After 10 years in one home I can pad around in the dark without my eyeglasses and not bash into things. I know how far to turn the knob to release a full stream of water into the shower and how long the sink takes to drain. (I won’t recall wistfully the vagaries of my apartment’s 85-year-old plumbing.)
Outside I navigate largely by intuition. I know the city underfoot sufficiently well that often I can tell where I happen to be by looking at the pavement. I read on the subway until I feel my stop.
You might say New York exerts its own gravitational force. I suppose that’s because I love it here. Especially on summer evenings when cafes spill onto the sidewalks and trees overhang the streets and the neighborhoods become park-like and the parks themselves become the loveliest refuges. Or when I’m riding the subway to Manhattan from Brooklyn on a Thursday night and feel tired in a good way and can read for a dozen stops. I love the newsstands and movie theaters and the bodegas that sell Mexican Coca-Cola. I love the people.
I don’t think one can live in New York and not fear the day that your being a denizen might end. That you won’t be around for the change of season. That you’ll have to give up your apartment. That the dailiness of your life here will disappear.
About a decade ago, I left New York for Nashville. During my year away I felt as if I would never get to live here again. “It seems that the moment you left town they put up a wall around the place, and that you will never manage to vault over it and get back into the city again,” Nora Ephron wrote in a 2006 essay about moving away. But I later learned what Ephron also knew: you can come back.
Now summer is fading and the tide of my life here is receding. An echo fills my apartment where furniture and books and the clutter of life once absorbed conversations and footfalls. The last time I heard the echo was 10 years ago when I had just moved in and gazed out my window at the Empire State Building. I thought then I was the luckiest person in all of New York to have that view. I still feel that way.