When sun pours into the narrow, buckled-cobble streets of Soho and my eyes water for it, I think of the land across the water where change was slow and small. We're crazy about the season changes here. It is 6pm and bright in March, and we are thrilled.
Spring. We ate cheese plates this weekend---soft and melting, with pear compote. Birdsong flicked us in Prospect Park, and we sat by the water just holding the hint of salt on the river outside our home. Sun shot in swaths across it and little tikes threw stones into the river. We smiled at each other, at puppies tails thwacking the warm air, at scoops of fresh ice cream. Thousands of daffodils burst in the other nearby park, Cadman Plaza, last week, and I actually took a photo with my phone because it was so exhuberant.
My arms are pulled down with bags and bags of fruit of late, and tonight I took the last fruits of winter and baked a summery cake.
PINEAPPLE TROPICAL CAKE
1 cup chopped, ripe pineapple
1 ripe banana (or 1.5 small bananas)
5 large eggs
1/2 cup plus 2 Tbl. coconut flour
1 Tsp vanilla
1 Tsp baking soda
sprinkle each of salt, nutmeg, ginger
1/2 cup coconut cream
chopped macadamia nuts
lemon zest (or orange)
1. In food processor, blend all cake ingredients for about 30 seconds until well combined.
2. Pour into parchment-lined bread pan.
3. Bake in 375 oven for 35-40 minutes, until toothpick emerges clean.
4. Remove from pan carefully in parchment paper, and let cool at least 30 minutes on cooling rack
4. Slice into triangular pieces and top with coconut cream, macadamias, and zest.
More than cake, held in this past week have been a basket of moments I wanted to pick up like Easter eggs and hold out for you to see. Except, they weren’t always exquisite, or beautiful. This city mainly makes me laugh. It’s funny when people huff and shake their heads because you take your right of way—and even funnier when you find yourself in such a rush that you lift your hands as if really?! back at them.
The other day, I took a subway seat next to the world's messiest artist. No. joke. She was covered in paint. Paint on her pants, on her hands, holding a small canvas and a Crayola watercolor brush. She was painting ---not attentively or intentionally, but just random light strokes, coloring in the canvas aimlessly, her brush smooshed from the pressure. She wore a fur coat splotched in neon green paint, with purple hair sticking straw-like from her scarf. I did overhear her say The Tea Party and Occupy Wall Street are basically the same thing. They both hate the government. I want to tell her I hate both peas and macaroni and cheese, but they aren't the same. But I was too shocked to see her trying to get her pen to start, scribbling on her purse.
This week? New Yorkers are loving the cupcake stands on Broadway, their Crayola-colored clothes, and sitting by the river as the sun sets. Mens' pants remain awkwardly rolled up and women are either slipping into calf-hair flats or coal-mining boots. Sidewalk spottings include more cigarettes, Yogo cups, and Zara bags. New Yorkers all want to be Parisien.
And things I'm loving? Opening the windows. Reading by the tiniest waves in the world in Brooklyn Bridge Park. Packing up everything with a trace of wool for the year. This charming lunch spot. Sunny brunch with neighbors. Walking to the cheese shop at lunch (free samples!) and dabbing raw honey on Two Sisters' gouda. Viva la cheese!
Happy Spring to you!
P.S. Since I am a New Yorker, I will take it upon myself to event drop. Company-sponsored advance Hunger Games screening tomorrow. If you are under the age of 15, don't even pretend you aren't jealous.