My dad

Today's my dad's birthday. If you've been reading along for a while you know that he's a spectacularly great dad. Smart. Funny as hell. Handsome. Big bearded. Thoughtful. Quiet, too. A little intimidating to every boy I've ever dated (and I wouldn't have it any other way). But you knew all of this already.

One thing you don't know is that his childhood nickname for me was little shit. And if you knew me at 13, you'd know he was being generous. Thanks dad, for guiding me even when I was un-guidable. Happy birthday.

At Bakeri

BakeriI have been living, pretty much exclusively, for the lavender shortbread cookies at a cafe called Bakeri. It's a small place, always full of suspiciously clean people sporting that sort of new rumpled elegance that has grasped Brooklyn and won't let go. The girls behind the counter wear blue coveralls and vintage scarves to keep their hair out of their face. There are only 4 proper tables and getting one is harder than getting into Harvard. 
So when you get one, you stay. As long as you can. As long as you can get away with it, an hour at least. Bring a book, bring a friend (preferably one who puts up with fretting). Drink more coffee than you need to just so you don't have to give up the little table. Cling to the little table for dear life. It's a jungle out there so you might as well take your time.

Dead Horse Bay

There was a day last week so shockingly sunny and windy that it left my cheeks slightly burnt and my lips hopelessly chapped. Some truly spectacular girls were in from out of town and to celebrate the meeting of the minds we went to Dead Horse Bay to do some overdue bottle digging.  
The girls were (of course) my favorites Alice and Francesca, the bottles were (of course) totally filthy and free for the taking. When the plastic bags were full, we went to Coney Island and gorged on the year's first hot dogs with onions and peppers. I forgot to wash my hands first but I survived. Quite happily, too.

Sunday Morning

I woke up to a pair of mourning doves at my windowsill cooing, it was 6:40am but felt much earlier and darker. (Hello, daylight savings.) On went the slippers. On went the music and the frying pan and the butter. It's rare I do myself a bacon breakfast but when you have it in the fridge resistance is futile. 
Bacon. Just crispy enough to hold its shape but not so crispy that it breaks when you bite into it. Yolks runny enough to soak in toast but not so runny that they're still cold. Ground pepper big enough to get endearingly stuck in your teeth. Coffee. And a lot of it.

This song is absolutely in order.

An acquisitions freeze

I'm suffering from a severe case of antiques apathy. I go to an antique store. I look around. Up and down. Then- a big old yawn and shrug. It's funny, I still like to look but the little chip that triggers the wallet grab is malfunctioning. It's not really a money thing, since I've always had the cheery ability to overlook financial prudence. It's a bored of stuff thing. A full house that's rapidly becoming less full thing.

I've been heaping the cast offs on my sidewalk for my neighbors- rusty bird cages and typewriters and straw hats and mirrors and desks and dressers and thrift store paintings. Out out out. The only thing that's called, shouted, screamed my name and demanded to be bought is this Merrick thread display case. I got it back in the fall from my favorite of favorite folks in Brooklyn and I think we're going to grow old together. Love is a beautiful thing.

It cost as much as it would if you took a boy you liked (as if!) out to dinner on his birthday and you let him get dessert with your rare steaks. A bottle of wine, too. You know, a white table cloth-y kind of place. Since things like that don't happen in my life, I ate nachos for dinner and it all worked out in the end. How could I pretend for a minute I wasn't going to snap it up immediately? It's got my name written all over it.