Park Slope Reader

admin

Just Desserts

By Filed Under: Park Slope Eater

Somewhere along the line, the focus of the holidays shifted from all of the good things they bring to everyone arguing about what the most important of these things is. Is there a War on Christmas? Has it all become too commercialized? Is it about bringing ancient family feuds back up to the surface, who got the best presents, which type of tree to get, which charity to volunteer with? No. I think all sensible people can agree that the holidays are about dessert.

What is truly precious about this time of year is getting a free pass to eat as much dessert as you possibly can, in as many varieties as you are given the opportunity to eat. That’s why I think it’s important at this time of year to talk about what’s happening in the bakeries of Brooklyn. Thankfully, they’re giving us a lot to stuff our stockings with.

The Traditionalist With a Twist

Joe Monaco has not had a quiet life as a baker. In his thirty-seven years working at Veniero’s Pasticceria in Manhattan, he baked a birthday cake for Elizabeth Taylor, a wedding cake for Marty Markowitz, and an anniversary cake for Mickey Mouse, along with being filmed by the Food Network and a crew that flew in from Japan just to watch him make his famous cheesecake. But his two-year-old bakery in Bay Ridge, Monaco’s, lacks the flashiness of what one would expect from a new venture of a man with such an impressive resumé. Instead, you find the familiar, comforting feel of a mom-and-pop bakery, filled with a sense of community and nostalgia.

Monaco got his start in the kitchen of the Court Street Pastry Shop shortly after emigrating from Naples, Italy, eventually making his way to Veniero’s. The owner’s nephew saw potential in Monaco, and gave him his own kitchen to work in, and his innovations greatly expanded Veniero’s repertoire. Along with introducing new types of cake and tarts borrowing from the French traditions of baking, Monaco was the first to suggest that Veniero’s sell seasonal pies during the holidays. His first batch sold out by the end of the day, and when he left, the shop was selling 3,000 pies a week.  Monaco’s simple, traditional baking style hit an emotional chord with his customers, and when they heard word that he was leaving Veniero’s and opening his own bakery using the proceeds from selling his house, they followed suit. Calls started coming in asking for deliveries across the country, and one woman asked if he could have her favorite cake ready for her as soon as she landed in Brooklyn from Arkansas. Everything is baked in the kitchen next door, and you can watch the Monacos tinkering with their recipes through the window of the café. This homestyle baking is the kind you remember from your childhood, without any additives or substitutions and made with a lot of love, but it isn’t simply the baked goods alone that keeps people coming back.  It isn’t unusual for Bay Ridge residents to pop into Monaco’s a couple times a week for a coffee and a treat, or just to catch up with Joe’s wife, Elizabeth, whose friendly presence makes you feel instantly at home.

What makes Monaco’s really stand out from the run-of-the-mill Italian bakery is that he serves up just the right amount of innovation with his goods. The cake that immediately caught my eye in the case was his rainbow cookie cake, which was constructed of an outer ring of rainbow cookies, held together with the thinnest layer of raspberry pureé, and filled with perfectly fluffy Bavarian cream, topped with a chocolate ganache. Thankfully, Monaco’s has mini-versions of nearly every one of their cakes and tarts available, and I was able to devour one on the spot. In fact, this particular cake can be seen as a symbol for Monaco’s as a whole: a slightly modern twist on a classic.  There is plenty to look forward to at Monaco’s this holiday season. The usual will continue to be served – think breakfast pastries in the morning and Monaco favorites of cheesecakes, strawberry shortcakes, and tiramisu in the afternoons – as well as an assortment of pies, profiteroles, and the traditional Sicilian dessert, cassata. Even if you’re not ordering up a custom cake, Monaco’s would be the perfect place to pass a snowy afternoon with a cappuccino and a few of your favorite cookies, feeling like you’re back in the New York of so long ago.

The Treats Truck Finds a Parking Spot

His name is Sugar. (A boy named Sugar? Yes, it’s just how it is.) He’s silver, inviting, and smells amazing. Perhaps you’ve seen him around in his favorite places to hang out in Park Slope, Queens, and Manhattan, shelling his homemade baked goods to hungry fans. He is, of course, the truck of the beloved Treats Truck, run by Kim Ima. They hit the streets together in 2007 after much encouragement from Ima’s friends and family – who had been enjoying the results of Ima’s love of baking her whole life – and has been a hit ever since. Without any professional training, Ima created her treats through years of simply having fun in the kitchen and responding to what her friends enjoyed most. “Not too fancy, always delicious” is her motto, and it rings true with her assortment of cookies, brownies, and cupcakes that can be found in the truck. These are the classics (sugar cookies, crème-filled sandwich cookies, rice krispy treats, and lemon squares) and fun unexpected specials, like cake sandwiches, pumpkin swirl cookies, pecan butterscotch bars, or poppy seed cake.

The Treats Truck’s homegrown roots shine through with the sense of community between Ima and her customers. A favorite feature has always been that, upon ordering a brownie or other bar treat, you’re asked whether you prefer a center, corner, or side piece. (Center is clearly the correct answer.) Ima also holds contests for customers to name new treats or help come up with new ideas. There is even the Coconut Mitch, named after the man who asked weekly if Ima was going to have anything with coconut in it soon. Ima likes picking up trends based on the tastes of different neighborhoods (Park Slope loves their oatmeal cookies), and takes care to stock up before making the rounds. In a way, the Treats Truck is still just like one of Ima’s tasting parties that launched her career.

Fans and curious readers longing for more of a sense of permanence for the Treats Truck have had their holiday wishes come true. In November, Ima released The Treats Truck Baking Book which has recipes for all of the truck’s greatest hits, along with a few new ideas, like ice cream treats. You’ll be happy to know that these recipes even include how to make your ice cream cone cupcake, one of the most whimsical treats offered in the truck. One of the book’s strongest features is how easy it makes it to create your own recipes with mix-and-match suggestions throughout the book, showing how to make even more versions by switching the frosting, filling, or crust, or slightly tweaking the flavor. Just like the truck’s approach to no-frills eating, most of the recipes are easy to tackle and focuses more on fun than perfection. This perfectly designed and compact book is a perfect gift for both seasoned bakers and amateurs alike.

But if you’d still rather just be served a treat rather than make one yourself, Ima is also opening the Treats Truck Stop in Carroll Gardens, at 521 Court Street. The bakery and café will have all of the treats available for sale, as well as light breakfast and lunch options throughout the day. While baking has been done in Red Hook, now customers can watch production happening through a window in the back seating area, continuing to foster that connection between the truck and the community it serves. In contrast to the feel of the Truck, which is constantly in motion, the Stop will allow customers to relax and enjoy. In the end, it’s about a simple kind of joy, one that Ima strongly believes can be created through the power of treats. So treat yourself, or treat a friend, with the Treats Truck, Stop, or Book.

Fool Them With a Vegan Option

The holidays can be a tricky time of year for restricted diets. Once again, your family “forgot” to serve a single animal-product-free dish at the Thanksgiving table, despite having been a vegetarian for the past ten years. Once again, you have to convince yourself that the one gluten-free option for dessert – this grapefruit – is just as delicious as the piles of cookies, cakes, and pies on the table. Thankfully, Sun in Bloom in Park Slope is around to remedy that this year. Inspired by her discovery of her passion for a healthy lifestyle, holistic health coach Aimee Follette decided to open a café and bakery to make those diets more accessible. Offering vegetarian dishes (all of which can be made gluten-free, most of which can be prepared raw), vegan and gluten-free baked goods, and a juice cleanse program, Sun in Bloom provides a warm and welcoming environment for those seeking out a healthier lifestyle, either by choice or necessity.

Many people are skeptical how vegan baking can be done at all, let alone done well, but put any assumptions aside. The cupcakes, muffins, and cookies offered throughout the year are delicious and incredibly moist. It should be noted that “gluten-free” is not akin to “sugar-free,” so they are sweet without being overbearingly so. Last year, during Sun in Bloom’s first holiday season, regular customers returning to the city after celebrations spent with their family raved about all of the compliments they got from their pies, without ever knowing they were eating vegan baking! It would be a great opportunity to introduce those in doubt to the concept that a vegan or gluten-free diet can be just as tasty and fulfilling. And if your family is visiting, take them to the increasingly popular weekend brunch, which has a menu that changes weekly depending on the season and Follette’s whims. One weekend offered apple pie pancakes, a quinoa burrito, and a butternut squash and shitake mushroom soup, among other intriguing dishes.

But we’ve been focusing a lot on stuffing our faces with baked goods and brunch, like one tends to do during the holidays. Come New Years’, losing weight is the most popular resolution for a reason. After indulging for months, perhaps it’s time to test out Sun in Bloom’s juice cleanse. Follette, who has cleansed at least twice a year for the past seven years and credits her introduction to cleansing as how she discovered her Celiac’s disease, has developed a nonthreatening program meant to recharge your system, get back in tune with your body, and reevaluate your relationship with food. She works with people individually to create a cleanse that suits their needs (a much safer option than assuming the cleanses you read about are one-size-fits-all), usually for a choice of three, five, or ten days. The basic program is four green juices a day, along with a spicy lemonade, a watermelon juice, and a brazil nut milk. Options to include a raw food meal are available, and the supplies can be delivered throughout Park Slope and Prospect Heights.

What makes Sun in Bloom’s cleanse stand out is their use of a Norwalk Press, an hydraulic press that has no oxidation effects on the produce it presses, creates a much smoother consistency, and extracts thirty percent more minerals and nutrients from the fruits and vegetables than a standard juicer. Believe it or not, these juices are filling, not to mention tasty. Even the intimidating green juice – consisting of collard greens, romaine lettuce, celery, parsley, and cucumber – is delicious and refreshing, and if I hadn’t been told I was drinking the Sweet Lady Green, I would’ve believe it was the sweeter Green Lady Dream, which also has green apple, kale, and lime in it. This magical drink is the key to the detoxifying properties of a juice cleanse since it is packed with antioxidants and alkalizing benefits.

So, why cleanse? For starters, it has been found that eighty percent of disease starts in the colon, so it has the immediate benefits of ridding your body from any toxins that have been sitting around, unable to be used. But what Follette enjoys most about the cleanse, especially on a three-day time frame, is that it sets you up for success for a more permanent lifestyle change. It discourages the yo-yo effect of dieting and helps you pinpoint the struggles you’ve been having with food once you have a clean slate. Were you eating out of boredom? Were you unaware of an allergy? Now, you can start fresh knowing that it is possible to live without any unhealthy habits. But that can wait until New Years’. In the meantime, I’ll be helping myself to another pumpkin spice cupcake.

A Christmas Legacy

By Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville

When I was a kid, my mother made my sisters and I homemade Christmas stockings. Every December, these craft-tastic masterpieces still assume their positions of honor on the banister of my parents’ staircase, where their multitude of hand-sewed sequins shimmer, palpably emanating peace and joy and all those other elements of the Christmas spirit that aren’t usually my parents’ speed.

It’s obvious that my father conceptually engineered the stockings: his unique design sensibilities are writ large. Instead of adhering to the conventional sock silhouette, the felt of our stockings are cut in the shape of a chunky-heeled boot: Each one is personalized with our names, spelled out in my father’s trademark, much-lauded swirly letters. But it’s in the decorative detail that you see my mother’s hand and the painstaking hours she devoted to the project: underneath each name, an all-felt Christmas scene is affixed – a tall fir tree laden with balls and candy canes and tinsel, surrounded by all manner of Rockwell-era Christmas toys like rocking horses and tricycles, teddy bears and baby dolls. The whole lot of it is slathered in sequins, each one sewed on by hand.

What makes the stockings so impressive, and precious, is that my mother is not a naturally crafty person (at least not in the arts-and-crafts sense): she doesn’t knit or paint or do origami or even arrange flowers in a pleasing way. So, the stockings were clearly a labor of love. I can just see her in bell bottoms and a bowl cut, so overcome by affection for her tiny, tow-headed kids, so driven by a desire to bind us together in tradition, that she unearthed her old Home Ec sewing basket and set about making Christmas history.

Now, fast forward a few decades and you’ll find my own kids celebrating Christmas with stockings I purchased at the 99 cent store. While generic, these velour, furry-cuffed stockings did the job of holding loot quite nicely and there were never any complaints. But last year, when my husband David and I unpacked the Christmas stuff, the stockings had gone missing and it occurred to me that instead of replacing crap with more crap, I could give the gift that lasts a lifetime. I could fashion homemade stockings for the children. If my mother could do it, then certainly, so could I. Better, probably. Mainly, of course, my stockings would be in honor of my mother, an homage to her initial creation, but if they just so happened to surpass hers in creativity, devotion and skill, well, there was nothing I could do about it. Once I realized I could compete with my mother’s accomplishment, it was a done deal. I bought a tonnage of felt and sequins and got to work.

“Children, I have an announcement!” I exclaimed the day before Christmas Eve, “I am making you homemade, personalized Christmas stockings! Just like the ones Nana made for me!”

My six year-old son, known in these parts as Primo, made a vague grunting noise to indicate he’d heard me. His four year-old sister, Seconda, was too busy jamming Play Doh in the bottom of Legos to reply.

“They will be one-of-a-kind!” I gushed, “Irreplaceable! You will keep them your whole lives and hand them down to your children!”

Nothing.

“Isn’t that wonderful??” I pressed, through slightly gritted teeth.

“Oh. Great. Thanks.” replied Primo flatly, not even looking up from the Legos.

After working until midnight that night, I had cut the felt for both stockings, the letters for Seconda’s name and the shape of the evergreen trees that would serve as the centerpiece for the heartwarming Christmas scene on the front. This took me about five hours, and I hadn’t even threaded a needle yet. I realized that to meet my goal — attaching faux-fur trim, affixing the kids’ names, trimmed trees. loads of presents under the trees AND (the tiebreaker) a simple night-scape of shooting stars, moons and candy canes — I’d probably have to work from that moment until New Year’s. There was no way I’d be done in time for Santa.

So on Christmas Eve, I brought the work-sack full of felt to my parent’s place and basically turned the apartment into a Stocking-Manufacturing Sweat Shop. While my mother and father cooked, I barked orders at the rest of the crew – my sister was appointed head of Cutting, David was Official Threader, my cousins were freelance seamstresses. All of these laborers were as unskilled as I was however and it was a real case of the blind leading the blind: stitches dropped, wrinkled felt, crooked names and just sloppy craftsmanship in general. But when my grandmother finally got sprung from her duties preparing the Christmas lasagna, I roped her into the operation and the whole sewing machine kicked into turbo drive.

Nonnie worked as a seamstress in swimsuit factories for nigh on forty years and she knows her way around a needle and thread. The woman is a professional.

“So I want to put sequins on the perimeter of the tree,” I started telling her.

“Ok ok ok,” she interrupted, “I know wat you talkin’ about.”

She slipped on her reading glasses, positioned the thimble in place and what followed can only be described as a Christmas miracle. In the time it took me to knot the end of the thread, she’d already sewed on five letters. I am not exaggerating. It was like having a contest between sometime who was sewing with their fingers and someone who was sewing with their toes.

You know how, when you’re little, you believe that a few elves in Santa’s workshop make all the toys for all the kids in the world, and it’s a plausible scenario because the elves are magical? Well, if those elves have skills like my grandmother, I totally buy it again. Watching Nonnie dart the needle in and out of the felt, through sequins, over fur, her hands a pale blur, I believed.

And that’s when I revisited the 1970s scene of my mother making stockings for my sisters and I. All these years, I’d envisioned her doing it all by herself, sitting cross-legged in a polyester pantsuit. But now I’d discovered her secret weapon: her mother. I’m sure my mother started the project and oversaw the operation, but there was no doubt in my mind that Nonnie, stocking elf, had finished the job. It takes a village to raise a child, but to make their homemade Christmas stockings, all it takes is one super-skilled great-grandmother.

By the time I went back to my apartment on Christmas Eve, I had just a few finishing touches to add before sewing the stockings closed. Of course, these finishing touches took me four hours. I collapsed in a heap at 2am, having hung the finished stockings on the doorknob of the kids’ bedroom, where they glittered gleefully, catching the light from the Christmas tree. You could hear them singing the words “Labor of love!” to the tune of Silent Night. I felt magnificent.

The next morning when the kids woke at the crack of dawn, all bushy-tailed to see Santa’s offerings, I was significantly less magnificent. It took a preternatural amount of self control not to scream stuff like “WHO IS GOING TO CLEAN UP ALL THIS DAMN WRAPPING PAPER, HUH?” as they tore their presents open. But as an antidote to crankiness, I just looked at my kids’ twinkling eyes, all aglow with the magic of Christmas — and when that wore off, I gazed lovingly at my other masterful creations – so much less loud and demanding. There the stockings hung, the white fur so puffy and inviting, the felt trees so symmetrical, the adorable presents lined up in adorable rows underneath.

These stockings would outlast me, serving as a reminder to my children of my love for them, a love so great it caused me to overcome incompetence, laziness and a natural aversion to needles. Sure, my children didn’t appreciate them in the slightest now, but one day, when they had kids of their own, they’d smooth down the distressed edges of the felt trees I’d pricked my fingertips sewing on, and they’d say to themselves – or, dare I dream?, out loud – “You are a great mother, maybe even the best that ever lived.” Then they’d think, “And if she could do it, so could I. Better, probably.” And so, a legacy continues.

To read more of Nicole’s adventures in Mommyland, tune in to her blog, A Mom Amok, amomamok.blogspot.com.

Bending Toward Brooklyn

By Filed Under: Yoga

Is Park Slope becoming the new yoga center of New York City?

It’s a wet Friday night in Manhattan.  Through my apartment window, thick raindrops sound like bullets as they ricochet off the conditioner and scare the pigeons away.  My phone rings.  It’s my editor.  He says he has an idea for a story about Park Slope, how “it’s the new Yoga hub of the metropolitan area,” and he wants me to do the footwork, and check it out.

Right away my internal Manhattan “Don’t Walk,” sign flashes, as I slip out, “Have you been to Union Square lately?  You can’t walk down 14th Street without at least one Yoga mat, sticking out a backpack, poking you in the nose.”

After a spirited, Brooklyn verses NY Yoga debate, I agree to report back my findings, and determine whether Park Slope has in fact swiped the big apple’s Yoga limelight or worse yet, is cleverly plotting to bump it off.

So I venture into Brooklyn, where leaves are crispy, and townhouse-lined streets appear countrified compared to the chain stores, souvlaki vendors, and NYU hipsters that pepper Union Square.  One real looker of a brownstone catches my eye: on the corner of Saint Marks, with a wall of curvy stained glass windows.  But I don’t have time to waste on pretty.  So I dash past.  Then slow in my tracks, realizing, said building in question is my first stop: The Brooklyn Yoga School.

Lily Cushman, the studio’s co-founder greets me inside.  Cushman is a slender young woman with a patient manner.  Her and her husband Jeremy are the school’s founders, and teach the majority of classes, in the Dharma Mittra tradition, along with a handful of teachers.  Cushman tells me, “We opened BYS a few years ago for students interested in the wider practice of yoga.  Classes include a vinyasa series, standing postures, breathing exercises, meditation, relaxation, a little chanting and Yogic Philosophy.”

What makes this place different from the rest?  I ask.  Without hesitation, Cushman says, “BYS is entirely run on donations. There is a $5 minimum for class, whether it’s 60 – 120 minutes.  Anyone interested can practice.”

While discerning the differences between Manhattan and Brooklyn, Cushman tells me she lived in New York City for eight years, “What is wonderful, and challenging about Manhattan is that you can never turn it down,” she says, “it’s always on full blast.  I find there is more space in Brooklyn, both physically and mentally.”

Cushman says many of the students work in the city, “They practice on their way home from work.  You watch them settle down as the intensity of Manhattan melts off them throughout the class.”

Although Yoga is naturally calming, Cushman clarifies, “it’s much more than de-stressing; it’s an exploration of the Self.  It’s figuring out how to be happy and kind regardless of what is happening in our lives.”

Before visiting the Brooklyn Yoga school I reached out to a teacher, Barbu Panaitescu, who wrote me while snowed in, from the Rockies.  Panaitescu told me, “It’s much more humble at our space.  In Manhattan everyone is a yoga superstar, or trying to be one.  At our space, folks can come in sweatpants and don’t need to shell out $300 for a Lululemon outfit to feel like they’ll fit in.”

He made an interesting point, so I ask student, Libby Parks, what attracted her to the school?  She speaks of being “drawn to the studio because of their commitment to teaching the yoga lifestyle.” When asked to recall a specific incident, Parks said,  ‘“I remember the first time I did a proper headstand in Lily’s class. There was a moment, when I was up, that everything aligned perfectly and my fear subsided–I thought, ‘this is what they are talking about!’ It was this complete surrender and trust in myself I never experienced before.”’

Before I leave the School, I ask Cushman if there’s any connection between studio owners in Brooklyn.  Cushman says she often recommends Pre-natal students try a nearby studio called, Bend & Bloom.

Bend & Bloom

As it happens, Bend & Bloom is my next stop so I get directions from Cushman, and head out.

While journeying through the Park Slope streets, I keep a watchful eye on passersby.  Several block later, I don’t spy a single Yoga mat.  But I do however notice something else.  Lots of little ones, children as far as the eye can see.  Some with parents, others heading to and from school with nannies.  Just as I’m jotting down my notes, one spunky five-year-old comes hurling down Sackett Street about to reduce me to sidewalk succotash.

His mom shouts at him to swerve away from my ankle.  After he obeys, the mother smiles at me and shrugs, “You know how kids are.”

I smile back, in appreciation of being spared the emergency room visit, and dash to the next studio.
Bend and Bloom, a former firehouse, consists of two large studio rooms, reception and changing area.  Since studio owner Amy Quinn Suplina had to pick up her children from school, the studio’s manager, Megan shows me around.

Quinn Suplina and I corresponded ahead of time.  She said, “Our primary offering is a creative, sweaty Vinyasa Flow.  We also offer complementary styles of Anusara and Forrest Yoga.”

I can’t help but ask the obvious: do you get many children and mothers at the studio?  Quinn Suplina said, “Kids enjoy yoga fun in one room while parents unwind with an hour Flow practice in the adjoining studio.  The sense of community is particularly strong amongst our prenatal and postnatal program.”

She credited cozy post-class gatherings to the studio’s friendly atmosphere, “We offer free ginger snaps and tea after class so the lobby often feels more like a café than a yoga studio.”

Beginners, she said are especially at home there,  “Our studio puts a lot of effort into nurturing new yogis,” she explained, “You’ll often find our teachers doing mini one-on-ones after class to help a student refine an element of their practice.”

I also contacted Paige Moskowitz, a student, who spoke about how their teachers had helped her practice grow, “I used to be totally fearful of inversions.  Bend & Bloom teachers worked with me and offered me building blocks to build upper body and core strength to do a headstand with confidence.  I never found that attention at other studios.”

After studying at dozens of studios, Moskowitz felt, “Yoga teachers in Park Slope are more compassionate and attentive to students’ needs than in Manhattan. They encourage me to try new postures safely, without judgment.  While Manhattan certainly has phenomenal teachers, those studios cater to volume and you end up feeling like an anonymous body in the crowd.”

When I leave Bend and Bloom, I’m pressed for time, forced to cancel my next studio visit at Bikram on the opposite end of the slope.  During my long walk, I keep my eyes peeled for Yoga evidence on the streets, and think about the scads of other studios in Park Slope I don’t have time to visit.

Last stop is, Bodhisattva Yoga, located above a sweet-smelling French bakery, in yet another beauteous brownstone.  There I meet Jessica Root and Vivekan, who run the floor-thru studio together.  Jessica, a wholesome looking woman with long brown hair, says, “We’re a true mom & pop shop.” Root discovered the studio when she was a student, and Vivekan was running it.  His teaching resonated with her so strongly, she soon made the studio her home, trained in Vivekan’s method, and eventually came to partner with him running the studio and teaching.  Root and Vivekan are the only teachers at Bodhisattva.

Vivekan, the founder of Bodhisattva, welcomes me.  He’s slender, with a light-hearted humor, and busy finishing his healthy-looking lunch.

When I ask about the style taught, Root says,” It’s a challenging, different form of alignment and mindfulness-based Vinyasa.”

Root talks about Vivekan’s style, being drawn from “the classical school of Indian Yoga, Iyengar, and Pattabhi Jois’ Primary Series.” She says she and Vivekan like to infuse the physical with “philosophical underpinnings of Indian Yoga and Buddhism, as well as scientific findings.”

Vivekan tells me that even though he’s a seasoned Yogi he mindfully tailors his classes for students in an accessible way.  Gradually, as a student progress, he introduces more advanced practices, such as chanting, breathing and meditation.  This way it feels natural for them.

I ask what’s special about their studio in particular, and Root says, “if there is something that truly sets us apart, it’s Bodhisattva no-fluff, no-BS, alternative to the commercial, mass-market, Hollywood Yoga that has become the norm.”

On my way to the door, Root tells me she they always maintain a sense of humor about what they do. “Here one can stumble, fall, make mistakes (hopefully laugh), and feel accepted among an unassuming, non-competitive crew.”

A couple of good-byes later, my feet tread down the steps of Bodhisattva, while my mind attempts to cobble together the day’s evidence. My editor was right: there were so many studios hidden in the nooks and crannies of the Slope, I’d need a month and a microscope to check them all out.  But unlike Union Square, where mat-toting locals, showcase how Zen they are, the Yoga colony in Park Slope is much subtler.  What may seem to the naked eye as a friendly old-fashioned neighborhood is actually a hotbed of studios lurking in the brownstone shadows, quietly growing more powerful day.  Hum, maybe I should warn Manhattan, its days are numbered.

Park Slope Studio List

Check websites for class schedules and hours of operation:

Brooklyn Yoga School
82 Sixth Ave at St. Marks Ave
(718) 395-7632.
2/3 Bergen St or Q/B 7th Ave
info@brooklynyogaschool.com

Bend & Bloom
708 Sackett Street
(347) 987-3162
2/3 Bergen St, Q/B 7th Ave, R to 9th St.
www.bendandbloom.com

Bodhisattva
442 9th St.
(718) 499-9642
F or G to 7th Avenue
www.bodhisattvayoga.com

Sage Spa
405 5th Ave
(718) 832-2030
www.sagebrooklyn.com

Jaya Yoga
1626 8th Ave
(718) 788-8788
www.jayayogacenter.com

Jennifer Brilliant Yoga
732A Carroll Street
(718) 499-7282
www.jenniferbrilliant.com

Park Slope Yoga Center
792 Union Street
(718) 789-2288
www.parkslopeyoga.com

Kundalini Yoga in Park Slope
473 13th Street
(718) 832-1446
www.kundaliniyogaparkslope.com

BethYoga
291 14th Street
(646) 206-0514
www.bethyoga.com

 Yoga for People
604 5th Street
(718) 873-3060
www.niany.com

Red Apple Yoga
379 7th Street
(917) 991-0378
www.redappleyoga.com

Maggie Brooklyn, the Girl Next Door

By Filed Under: Reviews

Vanishing Acts:  A Maggie Brooklyn Mystery
by Leslie Margolis
Bloomsbury Press, January, 2012

One of the thrills of being a New Yorker is having an intimate relationship with the setting of a great many movies and novels.  There’s something about recognizing parks, street names, buildings and shops as your own when you are reading or watching. Does it make you relate more closely to the character? I think so.

So what could be a better series for the young Sloper than the Maggie Brooklyn Series by Leslie Margolis. It’s set right here in our very own neighborhood. And it’s not just that Maggie’s middle name is Brooklyn, or that the series is billed as being set in Park Slope. Brooklyn is practically a character. The mysteries that Maggie solves are mysteries that could only unfold on our streets, in our park, our café’s and the conflicts could only be resolved amidst these brownstones.

Vanishing Acts, is the second book in the Maggie Brooklyn Series.  In it Maggie faces not one but two mysteries.  First, who would be sick enough to egg Park Slope’s hapless dog population? And secondly, where has Seth Ryan, teen heartthrob and star of the latest film to be shot on 2nd Street, disappeared to? Maggie is most definitely a Seth Ryan fan, but the mystery of his disappearance is really what she finds irresistible.  Seth certainly doesn’t make her melt in the same way that Milo Sanchez—a tall boy with liquid brown eyes and perfectly floppy hair—does.  Maggie is so wrapped up in her role of detective, however, that she doesn’t seem to notice what’s right in front of her nose—that her obsession with a certain movie star’s plight might be killing her chances at romance or that her best friend Lucy might be involved a little triste of her own.  Will she figure it out before it’s too late? And if she does, will she still have time left over to rescue the canine community?

It’s a relief to know that someone is still interested in writing mysteries for a middle grade audience.  It’s a genre that’s been given short shrift of late. That’s a shame, because they are perfect for the 9 to 12 set—they encourage the reader to make predictions, think logically, and reinforce a lot of other skills necessary for reading comprehension. The mysteries in this particular book weren’t the trickiest I’ve come across—but they were mysteries nonetheless and the story was quite satisfying. Furthermore, this series features an intrepid young heroine–similar to Winnie of Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen—who’s easy to get attached to. Witty and resourceful, compassionate and lovable, Maggie is just the kind of girl that you want your daughter to relate to. And she lives right next door.

Winter Wonderland

By Filed Under: Reader Recommendations

Winter in Park Slope is nothing short of idyllic. The lights, the shop windows, and the food all invite us to celebrate the season.  If you have something you would like to share, send it to us at office@psreader.com

A Friendly Sing-Along

Little Nut Tree by Dan Zanes
[Festival Five Records]

Little Nut Tree is Dan Zane’s first album in five years after the release of his 2007 Grammy-winning Catch That Train. Everything about the new album is fun and eclectic.  Starting with the colorful artwork on the CD packaging itself, which is designed like a colorful board book, to the styles and rhythms of the music. Enlisting the help of renowned musicians like Andrew Bird, Joan Osborne, Sharon Jones and the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars, Little Nut Tree is filled with “family music,” the songs are meant to appeal to parents as well as children.  The musical landscapes move around the globe with the Jamaican sound of the title track, to folk and songs with a more Middle Eastern influence, to the R&B classic “Down In the Basement.”  The English shanty “John Kanakanka” is a catchy and sure-fire sing-along. You can catch Dan live at the Kaufman Center in Manhattan on January 10th. For more dates, visit www.danzanes.com as this Brooklyn native frequently performs close to home.

Party Like A House Elf

Harry Potter Yule Ball at the Bell House
149 Seventh Street
December 17 5pm

This year the Bell House invites you to don your dress robes and join other Potter fans for a holiday celebration.  The Yule Ball is a night where wizards and muggles can mingle while Harry & The Potters, along with other acts including Draco & The Malfoys and Terror Pigeon Dance Revolt! supply the entertainment. It’s a night of fantastic revelry, an opportunity to partake of your favorite potion and celebrate the season in style.  A portion of each ticket price benefits the non-profit organization, The Harry Potter Alliance, which “brings Harry Potter fans together to fight the dark arts here in the muggle world” by encouraging members to use their own creativity towards making the world a better place.  You can learn more and order tickets on the Bell House’s webiste,
www.thebellhouseny.com.

Support the Arts

440 Gallery hosts the 7th Annual Small Works Show
440 Sixth Avenue
December 8 through January 8

In its seventh year, the Annual Small Works Show has become a winter tradition. The artist-operated 440 Gallery offers an eclectic selection of artwork submitted from around the country.  Each piece measures no more than 12” in any dimension, making for the perfect gift or accent for your home. With this event, 440 Gallery provides a wonderful introduction to new artists and the opportunity for you to become a patron of the arts. This year’s show is juried by Sara P. Mintz, Associate Director at Cynthia-Reeves Contemporary Fine Art Gallery in New York.  Each year, as the show becomes more renowned the artwork submitted becomes more diverse, ranging in a wide variety of mediums. Stop by the gallery now to see the show and reserve your favorite piece. For more information visit www.440gallery.com.

Perfect Paw Protection

Protex PAWZ Natural Rubber Dog Boots

Inclement weather always poses a bit of a problem with dog walking.  Although my beloved mutt is a hardy breed, walking after a storm or ice can be perilous.  The cold and snow don’t pose the biggest problems; instead it’s the salt and de-icers that create the biggest headaches.  We have tried a variety of dog boots, which provide a few minutes of entertainment as my dog duck walks around until he kicks them off, but they don’t make it out to the sidewalks.  We try and avoid the areas that look salted, but a mis-step renders my dog limping and crying in pain.  Finally, last year we discovered PAWZ.  These reusable rubber boots not only provide protection, but prove to be a simple solution.  Looking like balloons, these rubber boots are easy to put on and take off.  They not only stay on, but seem to be less strange for your dog’s natural gait.  Durable, they handle the sidewalk tread and dogs’ claws.  Sold in sets of 12, there are extras if one gets lost along the way or develop a hole.  If you’re feeling industrious, holes can be patched up easily with electrical tape. PAWZ come in sizes to fit any breed and are sold at pet stores throughout the area.

Lights Out

Blackout by John Rocco
[Disney Hyperion]

Your children may not be old enough to remember the night all of New York City went dark, but John Rocco does.   In his book, Blackout, the renowned illustrator not only recreates it, but he does so through the eyes of a child.  With curiosity and wonder, our hero watches as the neighborhood and city go dark.  In the darkness, a family comes together to explore, play games and greet neighbors.  John Rocco’s illustrations beautifully capture downtown Brooklyn during this magical evening.  We see all of the elements that make the borough unique: the river, bridges, skyline, rooftops, stoops and street scenes. It makes not just for a great story, but acts as a reminder of the importance of shared family time.

Read Any Good Books Lately?

By Filed Under: Books

Something new:
The Elephant’s Journey, a novel by José Saramago (translated from Portuguese), is an account of the extraordinary journey of an elephant from Lisbon, Portugal to Vienna, Austria during the sixteenth century. Although based on real events, Saramago asserts that the author “must be forgiven for taking certain liberties.” In 1551, Dom João III, King of Portugal, and his queen, Dona Catarina of Austria, decide to give their neglected elephant to their cousin Archduke Maximilian of Vienna as a wedding gift. Solomon, the elephant, and this mahout (keeper), Subhro, along with an entourage of royal guards, porters, horses, and oxen traverse the rugged terrain of Portugal and Spain, cross the sea to Italy, climb the treacherous passes of the Alps and travel up the Inn River. The reader often sees the world through Subro’s eyes as he siteshigh atop the elephant and are privy to his “elevated thoughts,” despite his low rasnk.  Sometimes, we’re shown the empathy of Solomon himself as when he says goodbye to his Portuguese porters, “(Solomon) touched the man’s head and shoulders with his trunk, bestowing on him caresses that seemed almost human, such was the gentleness and tenderness implicit in every movement.” Saramago considers the many hazards of travel, whether from real or imagined enemies, dangerous terrain or lack of food and shelter, but what I loved most about this book are his many keen and often playful digressions on power, on service, on friendship, and on the absurdity and complexity of human nature.

Something old:
I feel pretty far removed from the trenches of warfare but The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien’s collection of short stories about his experiences as a foot soldier during the Vietnam War, powerfully conveys the emotional reality of war. O’Brien writes, “I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.” So while we may not learn exactly what happened in Quang Ngai Province, we really feel it. In the short story that names the collection, O’Brien easily moves from the mundane to the profound, “They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares,….Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77 scrambler radio, which weighed 30 pounds with its battery. They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often, they carried each other, the wounded or weak….They carried the land itself….They carried the sky.” In the story, “On the Rainy River,” O’Brien shares his struggle as a twenty-one-year-old and explains why he decided, finally, to go to war. In many of the stories, we learn about the horror and brutality of war and how some of the men of O’Brien’s Alpha Company persevered and how some of them died. The book also focuses on less tangible things like memory, guilt and forgiveness. Written with honest, insightful prose, O’Brien wrestles with the contradictions of war and of life, “War is hell, but that’s not the half of it because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love.”

Something for preteens:
Schooled by Gordon Korman is the engaging, funny and even poignant story of thirteen-year-old Capricorn (Cap) Anderson who has lived his entire life with only his hippie grandmother, Rain, on an alternative farm commune. Sometimes, Rain and Cap criticize modern consumer culture, “We wanted to avoid the low standards and cultural poison of a world that had lost its way.” When Rain breaks her hip and needs to be hospitalized, Cap who was homeschooled moves in with a guidance counselor and starts attending Claverage Middle School, aka “C Average” by the students. Cap has never been to public school, never watched television, never handled money, and never had a friend. “Cap is like a space traveler who just landed on Earth and left his guidebook on the home world!” The first person narrator changes for each chapter, a nice device that highlights the comical clash of cultures between Cap and the students at “C Average.” Cap is tall and skinny with long, uncut hair, homemade clothes and cornhusk sandals. With his strange looks and cluelessness about middle school, Cap is a target for ridicule and pranks including the biggest prank of all, to be nominated and elected president of the eighth grade. Zach Powers, leader of the popular crowd and mastermind of Cap’s presidency comments, “Never before had anyone screamed for the job of eighth grade president like Capricorn Anderson.”

Something for you and a younger reader:
I love the Freddy the Pig books by Walter R. Brooks. Mr. Brooks is best known for the television show that he wrote in the ‘50s, Mr. Ed, but Freddy is more appealing and fun. The twenty-six Freddy books, written between 1928 and 1958, are wonderful and wise and not quite politically correct. The series features, of course, the clever pig, Freddy. As a master of disguise, Freddy assumes many roles: detective, reporter, cowboy, pilot and politician. Throughout the books, Freddy enjoys belting out a bad song or poem:

“The weather grew torrider and torrider,
And the orange-blossoms smelt horrider and horrider,
As we marched down into Florida.”

Start with the first book, Freddy Goes to Florida, in which Freddy and a group of animals who live with him on the Bean family farm decide to travel to Florida to escape the long, cold winter in upstate New York. Then, try to follow the books more or less in order as they reflect the politics and history of the time. More complex than Winnie the Pooh and less serious than Charlotte’s Web, the Freddy books are filled with loveable, multi-dimensional characters like Jinx the resourceful cat, Charles the pompous rooster, Mrs. Wiggins the practical cow, and Mr. Bean, the farmer who is too embarrassed to acknowledge that Freddy and the other animals can talk! The books include lovely line drawings by Kurt Wiese.

In addition to classic and current fiction, Michele enjoys reading many of her children’s favorites. For over twenty years, Michele has been art directing and designing books and magazines for kids of all ages. You can see her work at www.micheleweisman.com

Jumping Slope

By Filed Under: The Afterlife

Park Slope is like the Island of the Lotus Eaters. Decide to leave and it offers up delight upon delight. Suddenly there will be a thousand reasons why now is not the time.

In the dark night of my soul I have already missed Park Slope. I miss the thing I thought I would miss the least: Two Boots. I miss the cob salad, the undersized, over-filled, warm wine glasses and the reassuring thought that it was always there as a last resort, like watching reruns of Seinfeld or joining the French Foreign Legion.

When I told people I know that we’d decided to leave Park Slope, there was a certain degree of incomprehension, especially when I explained it was not to move to Portland, Seattle or Montclair but to the Finger Lakes of Central New York. This is not something people do as a rule. They mainly move to places that are as much like the Slope as possible.

There is a recurring thread on the Park Slope Parents list in which someone asks, “where is the Park Slope in _________? and everyone chimes in with the names of similar communities around the country. There’s even one in the Finger Lakes: Ithaca.

But we did not move to Ithaca. We moved about an hour north west to Geneva, New York, a little town at the top of Seneca Lake that is home to Hobart and William Smith Colleges, Cornell’s Agricultural Experiment Station and Red Jacket Orchards. It’s the kind of place where people say “heck” instead of “hell”, thank you earnestly for donating part of your change to cancer research and look genuinely crushed if you don’t.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with other slope-like communities or with Park Slope itself. On the contrary. Winding up in Park Slope after we moved from London 13 years ago felt like winning the lottery.

We found ourselves in the most beautiful neighborhood of the greatest city in the world. And the people – so many talented people! Where else would  parents from two local elementary schools win Academy Awards for best documentary? Some days it seemed like every second person I met was an author, an artist or a journalist. And everyone else was just very bright.

The problem, however, was that the constant work-arounds that are the prerequisites for life in the city began to wear us down, especially after we had kids. By the weekends we were too knackered to do much but sort the recycling and fall asleep in front of Netflix. Moving to Geneva appealed to us for a number of reasons.

The house was one. We bought a modernist barn conversion on five acres of wooded property for much less (obscenely less) than the cost of anything in Brooklyn or surrounding areas. In Geneva it’s hard to find anything over 300k. It has stone floors and a groovy wet bar and a library. It has oodles of room in which to lose the children and a wall of windows that allows us to curl up by the fire to watch the snow fall.

The lower cost of living was attractive too. Almost everything costs less – except dry cleaning. Dry cleaning, or “cry cleaning”, as I now call it is ridiculous. Yoga and Zumba (why is it always Zumba??) classes cost a whopping $5 per session at the local fitness studio. Most importantly perhaps, we are lucky that our jobs evolved to allow us to work from home. The economy in Central New York has been depressed for a long time so local jobs are not always easy to find unless you happen to be a scientist, a college lecturer or a wine maker.

Finally we liked that it wasn’t Park Slope in the Finger Lakes. It was less predictable, not just shades of blue, but red, blue and all the sometimes surprising shades of purple in between.

Of course I should admit that most of this rationale emerged after we bought the house. We embarked upon our journey to the center of New York in a frenzy of emotional impetuousness that took nearly half a decade to settle into a coherent plan. I spent most of the first few years of our adventure apologizing to people in Geneva for parachuting in and to people in Park Slope for disappearing to the Finger Lakes on every significant weekend. My standard line was “we’ve done this crazy thing…” and then I’d twitch and mumble something about liking Geneva and being used to the drive. It was almost a text book example of how not to do things and yet it had its advantages, chiefly that it got us out of the Slope.

Park Slope is like the island of the lotus eaters. Decide to leave and it offers up delight upon delight. Suddenly there will be a thousand reasons why now is not the time. Leaving in Spring is out because you’d miss the cherry blossoms and the baseball parade. Summer won’t work because Celebrate Brooklyn has THE BEST LINE UP YET.  You couldn’t possibly leave in Autumn because it is – hands down – the most exquisite season of all. Who would willingly miss the trees ablaze with color, the nip in the air and the crunch of leaves on bluestone.

You could move in winter of course, except that would be insane, and you’d never get out anyway because they don’t plow the streets. Add to these concerns to the specter of losing your parking place and it’s a wonder anyone ever goes at all.

On the flip side of all the attractive things about the slope is the fear of trying something new. There’s always the risk that it won’t work out, that it will all go horribly wrong that you and your family will be miserable. Let’s face it, nobody wants to be one of those unfortunate families who move to New Jersey only move back a few months later, wiser but poorer.

It’s no wonder some people suffer a failure of nerve. One couple I know backed out at the last hour even though they had offers for their apartment above their asking price and another family own a house in New Jersey they can’t bring themselves to move into!

Rushing head-long into buying our house forced us to be some place else, to see different people and made the prospect of leaving more imaginable. We still felt the fear of course. When bears started passing through town a few years ago, my fear became a bear stalking my children. I began casually watching episodes of Hunter and Hunted on the National Geographic Channel just in case.

I have wondered about this fear, which became more intense as our moving date approached. Perhaps it’s only natural to fear change? Maybe anxiety about moving increases exponentially with age, children and real estate added to the mix. Or maybe it has something to do with the times we live in, when Americans have balkanized into communities of commonality and lifestyle which make the distance between Portland and Park Slope seem less than the gulf between Park Slope and Staten Island.

Then again, perhaps its not fair to draw comparisons between leaving New York City and anywhere else. I remember the feeling of elation when I moved here back in the 1980’s. I could barely make my rent, and there were weeks when I lived on not-so-famous Ray’s New York oily pizza slices but I loved every thing about it. My heart beat faster every time I walked to work. I loved the way steam rose from the grates. I loved the sour smell of hot summer sidewalks and the tongue-singeing heat of over boiled deli coffee in blue and white cups. I still do.

I lived in Park Slope briefly then too. I’d walk around the neighborhood at twilight stealing glances into the windows of the brownstones on 3rd street imagining what it would be like to live in one. In that sense, leaving is not so much moving house as ending a love affair.

I would never want to be in the position of arguing that people should leave Park Slope or that one place is better than the other. If I won the lottery today I would split our time between both places (and London – but that’s another story). Still, It seems to me that really great loves stay with us where ever we go and it would be a shame to miss the beauty of the forest because of a few bears.

In the very early morning while the rest of our household sleeps, I like to slip out on our side deck with my coffee and scan the woods. The big cotton wood tree sounds uncannily like the ocean when it sways in the wind. Cardinals and yellow finches dart and swoop and call. No bears yet.

Nancy McDermott, late of Park Slope lives and works in Geneva, New York.

Core Issues

By Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

I’ve been a little off lately. Like I have to jab a pencil in my thigh to stay alert. My dog is strangely mirroring my condition. I throw the ball he just softly gazes upon me. “You want to me to go get it just so you can throw it again? Really? We’re still doing that?” And that’s exactly how I feel.

We’re still doing that ‘get the kids to school, eat breakfast, work, eat lunch, work more, do laundry, go shopping, make and eat dinner, put the kids to sleep’ thing? I can’t really call this feeling depression. I’ve been there and this bares no resemblance. I can still get out of bed and take a shower without crying. So, what is it? After looking through a few of my old psychology textbooks I’ve determined I’m losing my sense of wonder. Why now? After reading a little more I’m confident in the diagnosis of something mid-life crisis-ishy. I’ve been on the planet a while and tradition says I should either purchase a sports car or contact my first love and tear two families apart. Neither of these seems appealing. The accepted prescription for mid-life crisis of an aging hypocrite is to try new things that don’t disrupt your home life. Ugh. How tedious.

If you know me, you know I’ve been very open to trying new things. I’ve dabbled in bookbinding, unicycling, string art, kim chee making, claymation, tennis, reiki, running, canning, caning (chairs, not kids) and dog grooming. I am serious. That list is real. In the past year I’ve paid people to teach me glassblowing, piano and life drawing. Currently, I don’t do any of that shit. So even though I’ve exhausted the new stuff route, if that’s what it takes to get the pencil out of my thigh, I’ll try it again, begrudgingly.

So, this might take something scary but it has to be perfectly safe. I broke my wrist last year in a ridiculous skateboarding mishap that was hellishly awful. Although I really loved my hand surgeon (small, safe crush) I don’t want to see him professionally again. I am hoping I will run into him at the new Fairway in Pelham where he lives but my schedule only permits me getting out there two or three times a week. I think I saw his wife, though. She’s pretty but she feeds her kids waaaaaay too much sugar.

I wrote the above a month ago in the dermatologist’s office while waiting to get a mole removed. Here’s an update:

I decided to take aerial silks classes. It’s the thing they do at the circus sometimes where they climb up a long piece of fabric and wrap themselves up in it and tumble down inches from the ground. I took two classes at Heliummm (google it) and I really recommend them if you’re interested. But here’s the thing I discovered about myself that was kind of a heartbreaker. I’m not completely sure, but I might not have a core. My instructor kept telling me to work from said core that I couldn’t locate. I know where my one remaining stomach muscle is and I know where my spine is. The core, if I have this right, is somewhere lurking between the two. I imagine it’s like the green glowing radioactive rod that lands in the back of Homer’s shirt in the opening credits of The Simpsons. Mine is not there. Or if it is, it’s like that old carrot that you find in the back of your fridge on moving day.

Finding out you have no core is strangely metaphorical. Imagine if someone said to you, “You have no backbone. Seriously. Your backbone is gone.” You’d feel horrible in at least two different ways. Like you were a colossal wuss and you were missing a fundamental body part. That’s how I felt. Not having a core made me feel like a weakling and a shell of human being.

Needless to say, the class didn’t work (I did, however, strengthen my lats). For a good three to four weeks later I was still pretty much left with a sense of wonder-less. I somehow managed to refrain from contacting my old boyfriend and buying a candy apple red Chrysler Town and Country. And thank Christo with a combination of time and a few small changes to my routine, the malaise has lifted. What exactly did I do? I am now reading Anna Karenina (it’s really good once I got over that I’ll be reading it for the next two years). I’m making and drinking a lot of iced tea (perhaps an undiscovered natural serotonin reuptake inhibitor?). I’ve stopped washing my hair (suffered from over washing anyway after the lice gifted to me by the thoughtful Kindergartners in K-117). I’m listening to Heavy Metal music. I put Iron Maiden on my Pandora and man, does it take the edge off of scrubbing the bathtub. Or it gives it more edge. My bathtub is so clean I’m going to make pudding in it after the kids go to bed. Or gin (anyone know a local source for Juniper berries?). Not sure yet. I’ll keep you posted.

And with this simple odd prescription of little things, I’m right again. Still a hypocrite, of course. But if someone were to throw a ball right now, I would go get it and bring it back. No questions asked.

I’ve reached the point in the column where I’m sick of talking about myself. Let me now turn to the sack full of letters I’ve let pile up over the summer. Your therapist went on vacation, right? I might be too late with my free hypocritical advice but I need to fill a couple more inches on this page in order to get paid so let’s see what we’ve got.

Dear Hypocrite,
I am 44 and married with two adorable kids and I am a foodie. A woman I work with is married with kids and a foodie, too. We started having lunch together. At first, the lunches were quick but now we’ve been picking fancier restaurants farther away from the office. Suddenly, it’s feels like we are dating. On the days I know we are going to lunch I find myself dressing up and combing my hair and I’ve noticed she’s doing the same thing. On our dates, we talk about our families, our marriages and our plans for the future. The conversation is so easy. Just recently I’ve noticed there is some sexual tension. And I’ve started always picking up the check even though she makes more money than me. I really like our lunches and enjoy her company but I’m aware this might be a dangerous thing. What should I do?
— Foodie in the South Slope

Dear Foodie
First, don’t refer to yourself as a foodie. Just say you love good food. Foodie rhymes with doodie and you shouldn’t ever willingly call yourself something that rhymes with a word for poop. Unless your parents named you Judy. Or Meces.

Now, as for your situation: Go for it! You’re both married with kids? No problem! She sure sounds awesome. Have fun! And am I to believe from “Even though she makes more money than me” that she’s your boss, too? High five! You’re awesome!

Unfortunately, this medium prevents me from slapping you across the face with all my might. You’re honestly asking me for advice? Good Lord, are you that dumb? Okay, I’ll assume you are and you’re not just wasting my time. Pay attention. Here it comes: Stop, back up the truck. Get out of there now. Unfortunately, that thing that Hermione used to go back in time so she could attend two classes and save Hagrid’s hippogriff is not real or that’s what I would have suggested. Oh, but the sexual tension is unbearable, you say? Having sexual tension with someone is not an open invitation to sleep with them and suffer no repercussions. Sexual tension is everywhere. I have sexual tension with a pair of shoes that my daughter’s dance teacher has. Extricate yourself from this foodie immediately. How? Tell her the truth. Use word couplets like “completely inappropriate” and “disastrous consequences.” Phrases like “while I’ve enjoyed our time together” and “you are such a warm and wonderful person” can help soften the blow. Don’t be afraid to suggest imperfect solutions like “perhaps you and your family could come to our house for a barbecue” or “never speak to me again unless it’s regarding work issues.” Under no circumstances should you include these chestnuts: “let’s take whatever this is to the next level” or “what do you say we see if we can get away for a ‘business trip’ to Vegas to try out some of the restaurants there?”

Here’s the thing. You are playing with fire. You are 44. Next to 25, that’s the stupidest age there is. You’re not thinking clearly. Whether you know it or not, you’re needing a change. If you’re like most of us, you probably have a less than satisfying job that doesn’t pay enough. But starve your boredom and frustration in a less destructive way. I assume your marriage is not perfect, right? But are you considering leaving your wife? Maybe you should examine your relationship and work on making it more solid, shithead.

I have a friend who is a very good marriage therapist and she says most people come to see her seven years too late. SEVEN! So if you are flirting with disaster because you need to get out of your marriage, you are not being fair to your partner or yourself. Find a good therapist seven years ago. Get real and re-commit to your partner. Or don’t. But take inventory. Maybe your partner wants a change too. The thing is, you want to be intentional about this. Not accidental. Then you’ll be able to face yourself in the mirror and your kids won’t hate you and your wife’s friends won’t cross the street when they see you. (I like to hide in the bathroom when my friend’s ex comes to pick up the kids.)

Now, I do have one friend who had an affair who claims that it was all she needed to reinvest in her marriage. It was her wake up call. But what if she got caught? Were the three nooners with her son’s Super SoccerStars coach worth the damage it would do to her family? I bet not. And by the way, next time you write me it better be about how to get your whites whiter and your colors brighter. Advice to future letter writers re: Infidelity: I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT.

That’s it. See you next time.

5 Pit Stops for an Espresso Shot

By Filed Under: Coffee Culture

For the early decades of my life, my only awareness of coffee was the stuff my father let percolate every morning. If black and bitter had a smell, what filled his mug was it.  Sweetness came in the form of a slice of cake, homemade pie or the old fashioned honey bun. Until even today, when I return home, I can still find my dad performing this morning ritual. Like him, many others within the borders of our neighborhoods include coffee in their morning ritual. While I default to a soy latte, others have minute ounces of caffeine concentrated into an offering of ristretto. Given that a new and cooler season is upon us, I decided to taste test our local offerings of the black stuff. To my pleasure, I found five demitasse options worthy of a pit stop that might just become a new fall habit.

Café 474 | 474 4th Ave | www.cafe474.com
Commuters are an earshot from the F/R train when within feet of Café 474. The African-French themed outpost has an exterior porch that doubles as a sitting station for the lingering coffee drinker or a momentary lookout point for patrons on the go. Inside and beyond the island, where spoons, milk types and tear-able sweeteners coexist, you’ll find a straightforward menu including the dark or medium roast espresso as options. The barista pulls me a medium roast which is then pressured by the La Marzocco. A couple of dollars buys me a tempered shot of caffeine with a smooth finish to set me on my morning way.

Konditori | 186 5th Ave | 347-384-2028 | www.konditorinyc.com
At the northern end of the Slope, the six-month old, Swedish inspired Konditori defines itself in name and bean. This is where you come to enjoy friends and coffee. Arrive in early morning and you will find one of the owners, Per, near the Nuova Simonelli energized and chatty. Perhaps, it’s his own consumption of the Peruvian beans produced locally in DUMBO and slow roasted over dry heat. I have the choice of a liten (single shot) or stor (double shot). I opt for the former and consume it while sitting on a wooden stool towards the back of the shop. I look up and see Konditori’s definition and realized I’ve just been defined; “noun: where one goes for a coffee break.” This becomes one of the best mid-day nouns I’ve tasted.

Crespella | 321 7th Ave | 718-788-2980 | www.crespellabk.com
Crepes and coffee have become the quite the pair for foodies and third wave connoisseurs in Park Slope. From the Italian words imprinted on the store’s wallpaper to the ownership of a Rolls Royce-esque espresso machine, the Faema E61, Crespella is an authentic piece of Italy in an American borough.  The beans are from local roaster Stumptown in Red Hook. I order the $2.50 cent Illy, a two shot espresso arriving Italian proper in a ceramic cup. It is an intense yet sophisticated few sips of chocolate-dominated notes, Afterward, I must concur with co-owner Maria Bucca, “this is an Italian place with a timeless espresso, it’s a real pick-me up.”

Dub Pies | 211 Prospect Park West | 718-788-2448 | www.dubpies.com
This Australian outfit is a small package that packs a strong punch. Situated a block from the circled entrance where Prospect Park South meets West, Dub Pies is an ideal drop-in spot. Its certified, organic sustainable beans hail from North Carolina’s Counter Culture. While my feet stand in line upon minimally designed tiles, the smell of freshly ground beans is almost enough to perk me up. And when it comes in its black demitasse, I hurry to consume it before the crema settles. The $2.50, two ounce darkened shot is worth my now happily wired state.

Crop to Cup | 541A 3rd Ave | 917-531-8754 | www.croptocup.com
Slightly beneath the dividing line of Park Slope and Gowanus this bean importer is a fair trade multi-purpose shop that roasts locally with Real Coffee Roaster. Upon entering, a flood of light – natural and incandescent – welcomes you to Crop to Cup’s coffee bar. Their three-part espresso blend is comprised of 50% Uganda Sebie, 40% Ethiopian Harrar, and 10% aged Indian. The $2.00 ounce and a half triple ristretto shot arrives “light, minimally tart and pillowy.” If you’re looking for a real pick me up, order the large “alarm clock,” an iced espresso twice the price and just as nice.

Couleur Café | 435 7th Ave | 718-788-6600
All here is a result of intentional improvisation at neighborhood newcomer Couleur Café. The décor includes counter-placed vintage records, French inspired wallpaper and a reclaimed 1928 wooden door which serves as the bars horizontal front. The Turkish born and French native owner, Murat Ozcan, sources beans from local Brooklyn Roasting Company because of the “mocha java flavor, couleur of the bean and its ability to produce a fresh grind.” His semi-automatic Simonelli offers old school espresso French style in a duralex glass of nearly four ounces.  At first taste, it’s strong but a pleasant bitter chocolate, leaving nothing else to be desired. It’s black and perfect.

After drinking liters of water to clear the taste of black coffee out of my system, I realize I missed the black coffee that I became acquainted with. So, as fall comes and shakes our leaves bare, I’ll be among the locals making a pit stop for the good, black stuff.

Season to Thrive: Kabocha Squash & Sage Butter

By Filed Under: Park Slope Eater

For this issue’s seasonal feature, I’m sharing a wonderful fall squash recipe from Sustainable Table’s friend Brendan Brazier, also recognized as one of the world’s foremost authorities on plant-based nutrition.  Brendan is a professional Ironman triathlete, bestselling author of The Thrive Diet (Penguin, 2007), and just released a new book, Thrive Foods (2011, Da Capo), featuring incredible recipes highlighting his “Nutrient-to-Resource Ratio.” Brendan is also partnering with our EatWellGuide.org to provide resources for buying sustainable produce to create these earth-friendly recipes.  Learn more at BrendanBrazier.com.

Enjoy the harvest and the simplicity of real food and each moment.  Best, Destin

Recipe

In Thrive Foods, the goal is simple: get as high a level of health-boosting micronutrients from food, while expending the smallest amount of each natural resource to do so.  There are also 200 recipes in the book, including a few from Brendan’s favorite North American restaurants (New York’s Candle 79, and Jivamukti Café are among them), as well as a few of his favorite chefs (including Dirt Candy’s Iron chef competitor, Amanda Cohen and Tal Ronnen).  This is one of our favorite recipes from the book and the perfect fall meal, especially after a run or bike ride in the park.

To save time, make the rice and butter while the squash is cooking. Yams may also be used in place of the kabocha.  Time: 1 hour prep; 30–45 minutes for the rice.

Makes 4 servings

1 pound kabocha squash (about 1⁄2 medium squash)
3 tbsp melted coconut oil + 1 tbsp, divided
1⁄2 cup wild rice 1⁄2 cup brown rice
2 cups water
1⁄2 tbsp chopped fresh sage, packed
1 tbsp minced shallots
1⁄2 tsp salt

• Preheat the oven to 400°F. Cut the squash in half, then scoout and discard the seeds.
• Use 1 tbsp coconut oil to lightly brush the cut areas of the squash, and place cut side down on a baking sheet. Bake for 40–45 minutes or until soft when pierced with a fork.
• When cool enough to handle, cut into 1-inch chunks (skin may be left on for extra flavor and nutrition or disposed of). Keep warm.
• To make the rice, combine the rices and water in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to low, and let simmer, covered, until done.
• Meanwhile, in a food processor, blend 3 tbsp coconut oil, sage, shallots, and salt until smooth.

To serve: In a large pan, heat the sage butter mixture over medium-low heat for 1 minute. Add the rice and toss to combine, and cook for 1 minute longer while stirring constantly. Remove from heat and carefully fold in the squash.