“an almost.”
butter-crumbed poached eggs; moroccan-spiced chickpeas with olives and parsley; flatbread with black olive spread.
A little over a year ago, I attended a blogging conference in Boston. I had mixed feelings on what I actually learned there, but what I did get out of the experience was an opportunity to speak with a few like-minded individuals. I’m lucky to say that in a weekend, I made some nice friendships.
Wine in hand at the cocktail party preceding that event, I began chatting with blogger Anna , who was preparing to take off for four months of studying in Kenya. It was clear rather quickly that our common interests went beyond vegetables.
Anna visited the city this past weekend, and so we met for Saturday brunch. It was a brisk autumn afternoon, the kind where the sun fills up your bones with warmth, yet where its absence leaves an unsettling chill: the sign that temperatures will only lower from here.
Afternoons such as this remind me to appreciate the season, because I know the patterns of my tights and scarves will soon be buried under wool socks and an oversized puffy coat. In the dead of winter that awaits us, the sun seems a cruel joke – the air then is too frosty to enjoy a cloudless sky. Now in October, I can still appreciate the sunlight. It is almost winter, but not quite.
Our brunch on this not-yet-winter day was, at Anna’s suggestion, at Prune , a teeny, borderline East Village/Lower East Side restaurant known well for two reasons: the bone marrow appetizer on its dinner menu and the popularity of its brunch. Saturday took care of the latter; I suppose bone marrow will have to be conquered another time.
We met around noon, and of course, were faced with a wait. I’ve determined that my favorite restaurants , while boasting adorable atmospheres, cozy tables, and exciting menus, all share a single flaw: reservations are not accepted.
So we ladies stood out in the October sun, almost at brunch, but still outside its door. We glanced occasionally at the menu posted inside the window, keeping our ears piqued each time the hostess crossed a name off her ever-growing list. New York, I love and hate that all your inhabitants are equally obsessed with brunch.
Eventually, we settled into a snug space by the door, still feeling that crisp air, but now with food to warm us up. My runny eggs were poached, butter-crumbed, and flash-fried, then served with chickpeas in a light tomato and olive broth. The bowl felt indulgent, and yet it felt light. It was an almost, or perhaps a not quite.
That is, I think, just what an autumn brunch is meant to be. The food: beyond breakfast, not yet lunch. The air: no longer warm, but not painfully cold. The girls: she nearing graduation, me nearing the big two-five, we not sure where life will take us. Everything was an almost.
I think I like life that way. It means I’m never finished, even when my brunch plate is scraped clean.
“an almost.”
butter-crumbed poached eggs; moroccan-spiced chickpeas with olives and parsley; flatbread with black olive spread.
A little over a year ago, I attended a blogging conference in Boston. I had mixed feelings on what I actually learned there, but what I did get out of the experience was an opportunity to speak with a few like-minded individuals. I’m lucky to say that in a weekend, I made some nice friendships.
Wine in hand at the cocktail party preceding that event, I began chatting with blogger Anna , who was preparing to take off for four months of studying in Kenya. It was clear rather quickly that our common interests went beyond vegetables.
Anna visited the city this past weekend, and so we met for Saturday brunch. It was a brisk autumn afternoon, the kind where the sun fills up your bones with warmth, yet where its absence leaves an unsettling chill: the sign that temperatures will only lower from here.
Afternoons such as this remind me to appreciate the season, because I know the patterns of my tights and scarves will soon be buried under wool socks and an oversized puffy coat. In the dead of winter that awaits us, the sun seems a cruel joke – the air then is too frosty to enjoy a cloudless sky. Now in October, I can still appreciate the sunlight. It is almost winter, but not quite.
Our brunch on this not-yet-winter day was, at Anna’s suggestion, at Prune , a teeny, borderline East Village/Lower East Side restaurant known well for two reasons: the bone marrow appetizer on its dinner menu and the popularity of its brunch. Saturday took care of the latter; I suppose bone marrow will have to be conquered another time.
We met around noon, and of course, were faced with a wait. I’ve determined that my favorite restaurants , while boasting adorable atmospheres, cozy tables, and exciting menus, all share a single flaw: reservations are not accepted.
So we ladies stood out in the October sun, almost at brunch, but still outside its door. We glanced occasionally at the menu posted inside the window, keeping our ears piqued each time the hostess crossed a name off her ever-growing list. New York, I love and hate that all your inhabitants are equally obsessed with brunch.
Eventually, we settled into a snug space by the door, still feeling that crisp air, but now with food to warm us up. My runny eggs were poached, butter-crumbed, and flash-fried, then served with chickpeas in a light tomato and olive broth. The bowl felt indulgent, and yet it felt light. It was an almost, or perhaps a not quite.
That is, I think, just what an autumn brunch is meant to be. The food: beyond breakfast, not yet lunch. The air: no longer warm, but not painfully cold. The girls: she nearing graduation, me nearing the big two-five, we not sure where life will take us. Everything was an almost.
I think I like life that way. It means I’m never finished, even when my brunch plate is scraped clean.