For a good chunk of my life, I didn’t know that there was more to New York City than Chinatown. I assumed that the earth fell off at the edge of Kenmare Street, Frank Sinatra was singing about dim sum, and the Great White Way referred to Mott Street with its rows of fish markets full of pale creatures in white Styrofoam coolers. When I was little my family made countless day trips to New York City, but we never went to Macy’s or saw a show on Broadway. Instead we made a beeline for Chinatown and stayed there. After so many visits, I just assumed that the only thing to do in the whole of New York City was shop for groceries from busy street stalls and eat delicious Chinese food. That was my New York City and I liked it.

Joyce Carol Oates said that “getting a first draft finished is like pushing a peanut with your nose across a very dirty floor.” What a great analogy. My first cookbook draft and whatever masterpiece Joyce Carol Oates was referring to may not have much in common, but I can relate to her sentiment. Lately I’ve been getting a mouth full of dust bunnies on my quest to push the peanut. I write every day. I cook almost every day. But every day I wonder if the things I’m creating are good enough. I guess that’s all a part of the process.

You know that thing where as soon as you schedule a haircut, your hair starts to look extra luxurious? It’s just one good hair day after another, right up until your appointment, and you start to question the impulse that brought you to the salon in the first place. I’m having that problem with New York City. 

My former colleague/current friend Merritt emailed me with a snippet from her dream life the other day. Not her dreamy and beautiful existence in San Francisco but an actual dream.  Apparently, in her dreams, my current morning routine involves at least ten minutes of combing my eyebrows with a rusty old dime. Yes. That sounds about right.