Bran Fan

Bran muffins are one of my favorite guilty pleasures.

Along with French fries and chocolate chip cookies, they comprise the triumvirate of foods I‘d need to survive on a deserted island.

Before I began to worry about what I ate, my weekday breakfast consisted of a New-York-City-sized bran muffin, slathered with butter, and a medium coffee. This habit went on for years. Each time I moved offices or changed jobs, my #1 priority was finding the deli or street cart en route that had the best muffin-and-coffee combo.

Since I started worrying about what I eat, the challenge has been to find a bran muffin recipe that is both healthy and delicious. Not an easy feat, I assure you. But thanks to Heidi Swanson and my new favorite cook book—Super Natural Every Day—the search has finally ended!

As she puts it (modestly) in her intro, “If good bran muffins have eluded you, give these a shot.” As I put it (emphatically), “Bingo!”

Stairway to Heaven

It’s easy to see why the High Line has quickly become one of Manhattan’s biggest tourist draws.

An old elevated train line magically transformed into a public park—what’s not to like?

Winding along the far west side, snaking through neighborhoods in various stages of re-gentrification, it offers an unprecedented aerial view of everything from warehouses and centuries-old corner bars to shiny new art galleries and Frank-Gehry-on-steroids apartment buildings.

Where else can you walk under the hip-and-happening Standard Hotel, then over a fledgling Japanese garden visible through the grates of a metal flyover? Sip iced latte on a (surprisingly comfortable) wooden chaise lounge? Or enjoy an Italian ice as you stroll, block after block, through an ever-changing botanical wonderland in the sky?

On Monday, at dusk, I found myself entering the High Line's recently-opened Section 2 via the stairway at 18th & 10th. The designers have worked miracles, incorporating the actual rails into the walkways and flowerbeds in ways so inventive they literally stop you in your tracks. Their achievement appears even more fantastic when juxtaposed against a still-to-be-converted section of the tracks near 30th Street.

It was breathtaking and, in many ways, even more enchanting in the dark than in the bright light of day. Here’s my paltry attempt to capture the magic...

Adventures in Eating

Jim and I have a well-earned reputation for driving great distances to enjoy unique culinary experiences.

When yesterday’s hiking plans were scrapped due to a threat of thunderstorms, we set off on one such “adventure in eating”: to check out a burrito place that Hudson Valley Magazine raved about in its July issue. The fact that these burritos are served from a food truck way up in Red Hook, NY was not only beside the point—it was at least 50% of the draw. The food may be the main event, but it’s really just a reason to explore the wonders of this part of the country.

A little online research revealed that Bubby’s Burrito Stand wasn’t open on Sundays. And neither was our second meals-on-wheels choice—Rae Rae’s To Go in Poughkeepsie. Undaunted by the lack of info on our third choice, we set the GPS for downtown Newburgh, NY and hit the road.

Ironically, we’d passed through Newburgh on our way back from the recent peach-picking excursion—and decided that we couldn’t imagine a reason to return. Now we’ve found one: the Ixtapa Taco Truck.

Despite the truck’s dubious location and sketchy appearance, these were hands-down the best tacos this Mexican food fan has ever tasted (and Jim concurs.) And at $5 for a platter of four, lets just say I’m glad this truck isn’t parked anywhere near my home or office!

We do plan to visit Bubby’s when I have a Friday off later this month. Because yesterday’s experience reminded me of the lesson I learned while working in Manhattan for so many years: some of the best food on the planet is served from the tiny window of a rolling restaurant.

Just Peachy

Nothing tastes more like summer than a peach.

Thanks to Maryanne, who’s all about supporting local farmers; and Jim, who’s all about not being bored; we drove 90 minutes to Prospect Hill Orchards in Milton, NY. We chatted with farmer Steve, then bounced around in the back of a tractor-pulled wagon to spend 20 minutes collecting a bucket of fuzz-covered, not-quite-as-ripe-as-we’d-hoped fruit.

Now I’m about being outdoors on a gorgeous summer weekend. But even a pit-stop at the Raccoon Saloon to check out their much-lauded burgers (my veggie version was delish!) and surprisingly spectacular view of the Hudson didn’t stop me from thinking it might have been a waste of time.

But when I sliced up a ripe one this morning in hopes of jazzing up my bowl of Special K, I tasted sweet sunlight at the first juicy bite.

And decided that no peach tastes peachier than one you’ve picked yourself.

Butterflies

My yearly mammogram was magical.

Sounds crazy, I know. How could a procedure most women dread more than, well—almost anything—be the high point of my week? It was all because of Heidi.

She was chatting away in a valiant effort to distract me from the ridiculous process of mashing each breast between two plastic plates in order to record a digital image. Pushing the gown from my left shoulder, she caught sight of my butterfly tattoo.

After a bit of oohhing and aaahhing, she asked what butterflies meant to me. As I stumbled through a lame reply, I realized I hadn’t thought about it in the 10 or so years since I’d walked into a tattoo parlor in South Beach with a sketch in my pocket.

Heidi listened as she angled my arm and shoulder into a position that only a contortionist might find comfortable. Then she said, “I love butterflies,” and pointed to a pretty enamel brooch pinned to her smock. “I wear one every day.”

I asked what the significance was for her. And that’s when the magic began. She said that her young son died several years ago, and on the morning of the funeral she went out to sit in her garden. Minutes later a single blue butterfly landed on her arm. “I’d never seen a blue one before,” she said. “I sat really still, hoping it would stay. But it flew off as suddenly as it had arrived.” Wearing the butterfly jewelry reminds her that life is a continuous transformation. “Things are always changing. We must appreciate the beauty and wonder of each moment, because it won't last.”

Rubbing the goosebumps on my arms, I thanked her for sharing her story. But later, as I dressed to leave, it struck me that her biggest gift was inviting me to share mine. I’d gotten my tattoo at a time when, after years of unhappiness, I was slowly breaking free from the conventions I'd let define me. I took more risks. Lived with a sense of abandon. And experimented with new forms of self-expression—from dying my hair red to competing in a triathlon.

So the butterfly symbolizes my metamorphosis from a good girl who always did what was expected to a woman who was far less predictable. And like the butterfly that suddenly appeared in Heidi’s garden, I’m sure it’s no coincidence that she showed up just now to remind me.

Joy

Today is Jake's birthday.

Unlike many of the events that fill the pages of my past, his birth day is fully preserved in my memory. To say it was one of the pivotal moments of my life is to both overstate--and understate--the facts. I wasn't really ready for him, although he was well-planned. I experienced the guilt and fear of failing to feel an instant bond of motherly love--and yet his arrival immediately, permanently, altered my life.

Over the past 28 years, he has become a smart, silly, guitar-strumming, chef knife wielding, sports nut that I love being around. A strong, decent, warm-hearted young man that I'm proud to call my son.

Today, as I waited impatiently on the wrong line at Whole Foods, I thought about a creative exercise I recently did. I was supposed to think about something that gave me joy, then create an image of it on a small card to carry in my wallet. If I found myself in a difficult or aggravating situation, I could simply pull out the card and--ta da!--my anger or frustration would disappear.

What popped into my mind was answering the phone and hearing Jake's voice on the other end. Failing to come up with a suitable image, I just wrote the word "Joy" on the card and stuck it in my bag.

Standing in the slow-moving line, I remembered the card in my wallet. As soon as I saw the word I'd written, Jake's voice was in my ear. My mood shifted in an instant, magically lifted by a wave of love. And I gave thanks for the precious gift of my son--and of being his mother.

Independence

This holiday weekend is the one where I declare my independence from driving.

Actually, I refuse to go to any of the places where July 4th revelers traditionally go. Like the beach, ballgames, parades, and fireworks displays. It's got nothing to do with being patriotic (or not.) And it's got everything to do with sitting in traffic jams and feeling claustrophobic in large crowds.

Instead, on Saturday I went to the Metropolitan Museum with Jake (his first time there!) and oohed and aaahed over the Guitar Heroes exhibit. Then Jim & I entertained friends with a yummy grill-less (and meatless) dinner. Sunday we wandered through Storm King in the rain and fell in love with a few new sculptures--Stephen Talasnik’s Stream: A Folded Drawing and Zhang Huan’s Three-Legged Buddha, a 28-foot-tall steel-and-copper piece that weighs 12 tons.


And today--the day we give thanks for those who liberated this country from tyranny--I liberated myself from the burger-and-hot-dogs routine, experimenting with a tempeh and mung bean recipe from my new favorite cookbook, Super Natural Every Day.

So as fireworks pop and sparkle outside my window, here's to declaring our independence from the tried-and-true. And celebrating our freedom to live life as we choose.