Goodbye, Marci. For now.

Dear Marci,

Today is your last day at The Smile To Go.

When I used to wake up and ride my bike to M. Wells, I would notice the color of the sky, turn left at the stop light, park, turn the single key into the side door, turn off the alarm, and take in the sound of an empty restaurant.

In the moments that followed it became about me and coffee, me and writing my list, me and the (usually) clean counter surfaces. I’d find cigarettes sinking in wine that wasn’t finished in the bottom of tea cups as I’d collect large bowls from the dish pit; and then, magic would happen. I would dip my hands into the cold flour that Gabrielle Hamilton describes, make biscuits, and as soon as I made that first slam of the oven door—my day would begin. It wasn’t about anything else. It was about me, and it was about cooking.

I hope that the Smile is the same for you. You should feel pride in being entrusted with a set of keys to a whole building in New York that doesn’t belong to you. You should feel a deep appreciation for handling many pounds of butter at any one time, and you should feel accomplishment for everything you learned. I was only partly your teacher. I can only go so far, and I am in no way perfect when it comes to baking, or cooking, or anything. I can only hope that I helped you carve out your own path to the oven and to your cook’s sense of self, and that you have a special relationship with each recipe I handed you, and with every recipe you choose to pair yourself and the lips of others with in the future.

Good cooking comes with a certain sense of profundity. You should get a sense of it from the men who came from South America and the Caribbean who walk through the same door that you do to work. You should hear it from the Front of House describing what you made to the paying customer, and from those you bake with when they are around, and when they aren’t. I can only hope that you think about your time at The Smile when you are in your happiest of moments—singing to yourself and whisking something together. 

Don’t forget that we get to make up our own songs. And they can be about anything. Especially about things we hope for and wish for, but, most important, things we are already grateful for.

Like braids. And singing about braids.

All my best and sweetest wishes,

Brenna

One of those days.

Ha!

I was sitting in silence a few moments ago, writing Marci a goodbye letter, when it suddenly starting pouring. It’s kind of surreal to be listening to the silence outside when an hour ago you saw stars, and then without giving even a few warning drips, rain comes down in waterfall motion. And to think I just sent P off for a drink with his good friend, Chris, without a jacket. Or umbrella.

It was one of those days. The miraculous kind. Where serendipity swooped in and took you under its wing. Well, me, I mean. 

I arrived in Manhattan at 6:30 this morning, wearing zigzag rain boots and the wool fisherman’s sweater I share with Matt Yu. He and I bought it together at a thrift shop last winter, and this year I’m getting a lot of use out of it. I decided to go to Starbucks on Canal and Greene, even though it was most certainly raining big, wet drops and is definitely not on the way to the restaurant. With my coffee in my hand and the morning streets slowly waking up, I couldn’t help but sing out loud. Today it went like this:

I’m in the sky, sky, sky
I’m in the sky.

Was I singing to the buildings? Or was I singing because it was raining, or because it was the morning and it felt good, and I wanted to?

Do you know where this is going? I got to work and turned on Pandora, as I sometimes do. And what song should come on, at random, without me realizing it was on the right station, but the very one I was singing.

I was so excited. I wanted to hear it, I wanted to be alone with it and think about it. I steamed milk for my coffee. I’m in the sky, sky, sky. I thought about the rest and sang along, too: when we’re in the dark, I’ll ride you like the arc. Because you’re mine, mine, mine. I couldn’t help but wonder who or what was mine. But I sang along in that sort of beautifully nostalgic way, where you want something you used to have, or maybe have somewhere else, deeply hidden away in something you’ve yet to encounter. How lucky I am that the song played when I asked for it.

Despite me throwing away a batch of scones and a rhubarb cake I didn’t care for at all—the day bumped along smoothly. At around one I had to make an order, and since the rain had yielded I sat on the stoop in front of the restaurant.

My hair in a braid, my elbows on my knees, my feet still in their boots, a yellow notebook in my lap, the clean smelling city in a mug of rainy air, what could be better? I’ll tell you. When you look up and see that Mark has come to visit, when after the last time you saw him there was something mildly sorrowful about it and you hadn’t spoken to him since. Well, me, I mean. I wasn’t sure if I’d see him again, even though I like him. And, remember my last post? I didn’t plan on saying anything regarding my departure before, well, departing. 

He sat beside me on the stoop, and we discussed this, the future events I scribbled about in my last post, his leading lady, his leading lofty ideas. I gave him a chox chip cookie. That’s my shorthand for chocolate chip. I knew he liked it, because he laughed when he ate it. I told him that Marci was leaving me and he told me about his Marci, his only work confidant. He bowed goodbye, and I think I’ll talk to him again sometime.

I met Marci for a day date in the West Village. We rummaged the bindings at Bonnie Slotnick, and had a currant scone, Americanos, mini croissant, lentil and chicken salads and Jake Gyllenhaal for lunch at Buvette. It’s kind of funny he was there—he is one of the only people we’ve noted as a regular at work (see previous link about what I discussed with Mark). On one particular visit of his, Marci had made one of her first batches of cinnamon buns, which didn’t turn out great, but they weren’t bad)—which he ordered. I know he got one a second time, proving their deliciousness—but I’m not sure she ever got over it. I accidentally talked about cinnamon buns really loudly during lunch. I hope he noticed.

Afterward she and I bought chocolate and walked to the pier at West and Christopher. We sat looking at the Hudson, talking about nothing, talking about Europe, taking ridiculous photos, heckling the runners (out of jealousy… and silliness). It was nice to watch airplanes disappear into clouds and not think about going back to working 6 days next week, and losing a friend.    

We ended our day singing the alphabet in French. As we should all end everyday. 

And then I slept.

After two large mugs of coffee and three pieces of chocolate, I waited around for a bit before P finally decided he wanted to stop waiting on his friend and get brunch with me.

We went to Roebling Tea Room, the first place I ate when I first moved to New York the second time. Matt Yu met me there and we ate in the romantic lighting as I relished in being back among easily beautiful people.

I recently turned P onto going there after a quiet weekday lunch with prompt service and delicately delicious food. And, my favorite—fat slices of toasted Pumpernickel from Amy’s Bread. 

It was busier today so we waited outside on their metal staircase before sitting down to a big bottle of Perrier, a starter of frites with wedge squeezed lemon juice, baked eggs with grits, cheese, and apple butter, and a sardine sandwich. Afterward we went for a walk to the Flea Market, the Artist’s Market, the Food Book Fair, and the park. 

I slept all afternoon.

Perhaps I was tired from my evening of too much beer at Radegast and an embarrassing exchange between a coworker and I at The Wythe Hotel, where from the rooftop we searched for an absent super-moon hiding behind gotham gray clouds. i was with Andrew, a birthday carrying friend to whom I gifted a slingshot. He was off on his skateboard as I wrote emails from a bathroom stall and slipped down the elevator without saying goodbye to anyone in our party. I found myself at home with two slices of pizza, a salad with extra pickles, and two beers that are chilling in the fridge this very moment.

I am living in numbered New York days. And it’s never felt better here. 

To Jessica, who is pregnant with twins.

From me, comfortably seated at a large computer in Brooklyn, to her, bed ridden, pelvis elevated in the hospital (trying to avoid giving premature birth):

[I will] Go to Utah and drive to Montana for a wedding, then drive back to New York. Pack up the car, drive to Kentucky and stay for a few weeks with my friend Marci. Go to Miami and hang with my friend Andrew. Drive to New Orleans. Go to Mississippi, everywhere I have wanted to go.

I’ll go back to Utah and I’ll stay for a little while. And then I will move

far far far far away.

Urgent.

The last time I felt this way was the last time I left New York. There was the same deep sense of urgency, puncturing my sleep schedule and sitting quietly with me through my work day, then as a nanny. What was on the other side of New York then was a man in Reno; one with a warm condo, a black SUV with leather interior, and blue eyes.

Now, it’s fuzzy. Here I am again, and here I’d like to leave. There is no magic wishing pond with marriage proposal promises and free rent. There is nothing. There is no career goal, no something else. Lofty ideas come in spades: move to France, take a cross country road trip. There is no right or wrong choice; there is only me, and only everything I’ve ever wanted to do.  

Yet, here I sit at the top of my career; my own menu, a title, name printed in famous magazines, and all I can think about is how much I will let my peach colored dress go for when I am selling the last of my belongings. “It’s $2”, I imagine myself telling the buyer. “It’s a steal; I bought it for $60 on the Lower East Side from Jessica Flowers. I sat and sang Dream a Little Dream with her afterward. I don’t know what happened to her, but be careful, there is a snag in the left hip.” I don’t worry that she won’t buy it due to the snag. This is Brooklyn, after all, so certainly she is an aspiring fashion designer, already revamping old garments she’s found for less. 

Like last time, I will miss Brooklyn the moment I leave. I’ll wish I was going on a run across the bridge and meeting a friend at Diner and sleeping in the comfort of a small apartment, all at once. Who is playing next week? Where will we go for lunch tomorrow? Can you meet me for coffee? Should we go to a movie? Everyone will ask, and they won’t ask, and I’ll be gone. I’ll be far, far away. I won’t tell anyone I’ve left; not even Mark. I will try to quietly leave my pastry post and later, when people remember me, they will send me a message and ask what I’m up to. “I’ve been on the road”, I’ll tell them. And that night I’ll be sleeping in Kentucky, under stars, by a roadside farm stand.

“I feel like something is wrong,” I explained to my mother the last time we spoke. “I need to leave.”
“What about your job?” 
“I’m giving it up. It’s not what I want to do.”

I told her we could talk about it later. And we will.

I love Utah.

I had such a good weekend in Utah.

Kind.

I didn’t hate Canal Street today, not one bit.
In quiet moments with myself, I can grow very affectionate toward people. Tourists walk in flocks and spend copious amounts of money, haggling for cheaply made things they likely don’t need at all. They wear matching NYC shirts and sweaters and talk to each other about where they should get dinner. I admired them for their new sets of eyes, and I stopped myself in a gaze to think, “I live here”.

I bought nothing on Canal, but purchased from an art supply store nearby the pencil sharpener that was wished for by my niece and nephew. I got some items for myself, just a dainty Spring sweater and some yoga shorts. 

I am reading now, and contemplating my impending trip to Utah in 16 or so hours.
And I am thinking about another thing. Kindness. As C Jane puts it, the “ultimate satisfaction of being kind.”

My mother is kind, and for a few months, in Reno, I showed myself more kindness than I have since. I rented the studio apartment, I had a porch and once, I put two white pumpkins on it. I decorated, I read there. I slept on the pull out bed and on the couch. I sat on a yellow stool, I made tea for myself with a green kettle. I stored dry goods in jars, I hung a framed painting. I played my keyboard and lit candles and invited someone over. I parked my car by the juniper tree and I’d come in through the back door, which had a motion sensor. With Alta around, and without her, I lived with grace in a woodsy town. I drank, I didn’t drink. I loved my job and liked my bosses. 

I gave it all up uncourageously. I wanted to fight for no one, and wait for nothing. I’m glad I didn’t stay, but I wish I could transplant that perfection here. I wish I could know myself like I did then. It was easy, I knew exactly who I was and that there was some greater horizon, and triumphantly I came back to New York and have since been talked about in Magazines and mentioned, by first and last name, in the Wall Street Journal. 5 years ago I was getting that journal on my doorstep for a class in community college. I achieved what I wanted, what my sights were on. And, to no one’s astonishment, my eyes are wandering.

In kindess to myself, there was a natural kindness toward others. There was genuine concern and unfiltered curiosity. I want that again. And I hope I can find more answers this weekend. 

Cheerio.

Ben is 5.

She pierced my heart. “And one in your chest,” she said, then quickly inserted the pin into the center of my sternum. It hurt, it tickled, and it electrified my arms and breasts and I could feel my legs moving in swirls. I fell asleep quickly, and magically woke up an hour later, as I do every week. I wondered if the pin would somehow open up my heart chakra (or something), and I wondered if I would love my boyfriend more, or less, or if these irrational plans I’ve been making would become clearer. They might have.

Afterward I went, zen, to Building On Bond (in Brooklyn) to read more of Just Kids, with a late afternoon coffee (which is never a good idea). I don’t know Patti Smith’s music, but I like her life in New York, and I almost cried when I read that Robert Mapplethorpe’s first studio was at 24 Bond Street (in Manhattan). The restaurant I work for is at 26 Bond. This reminded me that I sometimes selfishly live in New York. I love the places now, the “emerging” Bond Street restaurants, yet I’ve hardly given much thought to the skeletons and ghosts. What was there, who did that. I think about the two of them in the subway stops I frequent, if it looks at all the same. I never used to think talking about making art was productive, but it is in its own way. And certainly I don’t fancy myself an artist, but it lives in breathes in everything. 

I wonder, if I read this later, if I’ll be disappointed in skipping other parts of my day. I began my day at Starbucks on Canal right at 5:30 this morning. They opened late, at 5:33, pushing back baking until 5:40. Marci and I finished our lot by 12:30 and then wasted an hour at Housing Works, buying books I’d never heard of or thought about. After a trip to Whole Foods to score Turbinado and Whole Wheat Flour, We went to the Green Market, where I bought honey from Andrew’s. Couch David met us and we wandered around, deciding where to eat. We never decided, and I had to go to my appointment at 4:10, so they humored my desire for a Jamba Juice. We chatted until I had to get on the train. (I just lied, I skipped that I need to buy more appropriate acupuncture clothing [shorts] due to a poorly planned day, I ended up spending $130 on orange cork wedges and contrived denim cut-off shorts). I got lost looking for the downtown N-R near Eataly and Madison Square Park. The N came right away. 

Over the weekend I went to Angelica Kitchen with Marci, the world’s greatest assistant (okay, well, and friend) and together we had ill brined pickles, backyard bbq pasta salad (I enjoyed the overcooked texture that made it charming), and I had a tempeh reuben that made me question my flourishing vegetarianism (thanks to Eating Animals; a miracle it took me this long). I once saw Ryan Gosling exiting that joint. I hope he doesn’t like it as much as I don’t.

Yesterday I worked, again, with Marina. We work together at least once a year; last year being on New Year’s Eve, and now, this time, for a 5-year-old’s birthday party, where I worked in an open kitchen in Soho with foggy views of uptown. He made his birthday wish out loud, claiming he wished he could be big already. Obviously it won’t come true, as everyone heard.

another woman

I just watched Woody Allen’s Another Woman.
I liked it.
The characters are familiar and complicated and older than me.
The score is immaculate.

I get sad when I forget to write.

Because sometimes, you round the corner at Broadway, and a red balloon strolling though the city goes by at eye level, waving your morning on.

When? Shuffled within the last three weeks.