spirit of food

i first mentioned the spirt of food back in september and am finally getting around to reading it. absolutely sumptuous: eloquent storytelling, deep spiritual insights, and truths small and simple but richly profound. 34 writers exploring the connections between community and God through food. i cannot stop raving about this book - it is akin to eating a delicious meal that you wish would never end and one that you want all your friends to partake in.

each chapter (an individual essay) provides so much fodder for thoughtful digestion. here's one of my favorite passages, quoting from robert farrar capon's (a talented chef and episcopalian priest) book, the supper of the lamb:

"For all its greatness, the created order cries out for further greatness still. The most splendid dinner, the most exquisite food, the most gratifying company, arouse more appetites than they satisfy. They do not slake a man's thirst for being; they whet it beyond all bounds."

the whetting of our appetites, the insatiable desire that longs beyond the things of this world for something more glorious and everlasting....this is the holy hunger of mankind - the hunger for God Himself. the hunger for beauty that bursts the very seams of our metaphorical bellies, desiring for the thing that fills us to rapturous overflowing.

in our fallen world, what we experience is what capon terms "the inconsolable heartburn":
"The Inconsolable Heartburn...by which the heart looks out astonished at the world and in its loving, wakes and breaks at once." the longing for the here and not yet.

this passage from the chapter written by karen baldwin sums up the essence behind my love for food and hospitality:

"On nights like that night in Colorado, we've orchestrated dinners for a crowd of our children's friends, and on other nights we've eaten a quiet meal with just the two of us. And in the same spirit of openness, invitation and hospitality we like to begin each meal by thanking God and lifting our friends up before the one who invites us to come and eat of the bread of life that he gives. Our friends may not share our deepest convictions, they may not understand the great significance we place in this time at the table, but we can't recall any expectant mothers or anxious students declining our request to pray for them. So we never feel timid about raising a glass of wine or a plate heaped with fragrant food, and then, with simple gratitude and joy, extolling the Creator who celebrated his creative power and genius by resting and blessing his handiwork. And as we say amen, we recognize that in our Creator's image, we have also completed a work of preparation, and so we enter into a celebration-rest together at the table where there is both food to nourish our bodies and fellowship to revive our souls."

- karen baldwin, the spirit of food

cups of coffee:  1 + 1 green tea with lemon

mood:  hungry

jazz age lawn party

ever since i first heard about the "jazz age lawn party" via the sartorialist, i've dreamed of getting all glammed up great gatsby style and picnicking on governor's island with other costumed revelers.

well, yesterday, my dream came true.

 amazing orchestra playing swing tunes

 stylish baby buggy...the owner was using it as a food cooler

 shopping for the perfect hat

 this woman knew how to picnic in style. i need to be friends with her in time for next year's lawn party.

 mother and son - note the adorable slingshot in his pocket!

trying to eat a peanut butter sandwich with class

 amazing couples were tearing up the dance floor

 i think this guy actually time traveled from the 1920's

thank you, friends, for a fun afternoon!

and new york - honestly, can i love you more?  i don't think it's possible.....

cups of coffee:  2

mood:  comfy

stoop life

There’s nothing better on a warm summer evening in Brooklyn than sitting on the stoop of my brownstone, sipping a beer and reading a book. As the day settles into muted dusk, I drink my Negra Modelo contently while plowing through “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay”, which I embarrassingly started months ago.

Directly across the street from me is a funeral home. I watch a couple of cars pull up to the curb tonight and the occupants clamber out to make their way to the door. Most of them are chatting, even laughing, bearing not at all the sort of mood I would expect of visitors to a funeral home. I wonder what kind of person died. The valet for the funeral home is a young African-American man, looking bored in his white shirt and black trousers. He spends most of the evening texting on his phone, sometimes propped against a parking meter, sometimes perched on the hood of a car.

The street is never quiet here. There is always the rumble of the R train as it burrows far beneath the pavement, roaring like some underground monster tearing through the tunnels. The traffic’s symphony is never ceasing, swallowed occasionally by the relentless wailing of an ambulance.

A straight shot from the subway station, the sidewalk in front of my apartment proves to be a runway of sorts. There is the Hispanic woman, curvy and brown, with her long ponytail sashaying behind her, chirping Spanish loudly into her mobile phone. There is the young couple walking hand-in-hand, he with his square-framed glasses and ironic t-shirt, she with her hair pulled into a messy-yet-stylish bun on her head with a canvas bag slung haphazardly on her shoulder. There is the bevy of dog-walkers, all carrying serious countenances while their canine companions prance happily before them, smiling broadly with their tongues lolling.

An elderly man paces up and down the street, looking for his cat. With a shock of white hair, he is shirtless and paler than the underside of a flounder. In his left hand, he carries some sort of breathing apparatus with a long transparent tube snaking its way up to his nostrils. In his right hand, he carries a walking cane, which he forcefully thumps twice on the pavement after every five steps.

“Muffy!” he cried out. “Muffy!” Passing by my stoop, he pauses and squints up at me.

“Have you seen a grey cat?” he asks me gruffly.

I shake my head and smile. He thumps his cane and continues his course. At one point, he leans forward against a tree, the breathing machine tapping against the trunk. I hope he’s okay. I hope he finds Muffy.

cups of coffee: 1 + 1 iced tea + 1 negra modelo

mood:  lovin' it