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Music, Right Here in Park Slope!

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Music

I am currently in the process of assembling my summer concert wardrobe despite being ashamed of the blatant vanity inherent in producing a “summer concert wardrobe.” But come on, concerts are hard to dress for! You’ve got to take heat, dirt, sweat, and possible (read: probable) beer spills into consideration. And let’s be honest here, although culturally stimulating, a concert is still a social gathering. So, I’m expected to welcome grass stains on my ass, laugh when a clumsy friend douses me with her drink, and still look like a Park Slope Peach (let alone a presentable member of society)?

This is where festival shorts come in. You see, festival shorts are high-waisted little jean numbers that are gussied up by smatterings of metal studs and splashes of bleach or tie-dye. I can probably make these myself with a pair of scissors and a glue gun. The problem is, I’m not crafty enough to make “the perfect pair” myself, and apparently neither is anyone else on Etsy or Ebay, I tend to think to myself as I hunt through hundreds of search results for the pair of festival shorts that I know I am destined to wear this impending summer to Celebrate Brooklyn! at the Bandshell in Prospect Park. They are hot weather appropriate, comfortable enough to wear all day, and with their spunky accoutrements they seem to say “I am totally stoked on seeing this free show right now at the Bandshell in my rad outfit”. Plus, I don’t care if I get a pair of cut-off jean shorts a little dirty.

What I do care about is going to hear live music all summer long. I’m serious about this–more serious than I am about those shorts. Indoors, outdoors, free, small venue, massive festival, my favorite band, or even a loathsome Beach Boys cover band, I’m there. I would say, “I’m there, weather permitting,” but I am down to see a concert even if it’s pouring Park Slope cats and dogs because concerts define the sunny season for me. My muscles have been thawed out and then warmed up from spring and my body can move to the music with newly acquired fluidity; I feel more social in the sunshine (especially with a Brooklyn Summer Ale in my hand), and in some ways, I think the amplification of an electric guitar is delivered to my core faster in the estival months.

I’m sure you’re aching to hear live music this summer in Park Slope, too, seeing as there are oodles of musicians and bands set to perform in the neighborhood in the coming months. And while wearing festival shorts is optional, attending as many local concerts as possible is not! So, I will see you at all of the imminent Park Slope concerts worth note that I’ve outlined for y’all to jot down in your day planners and refrigerator calendars, okay? Okay!

CELEBRATE BROOKLYN! 2012
Prospect Park West & 9th Street
www.bricartsmedia.org

Let’s start with Celebrate Brooklyn!, one of New York’s longest running, free, outdoor concert series that attracts upwards of 250,000 people from all over the city each summer. I know, so many foreign bodies in our beloved park can make us feel all territorial, but let us all take a cue from my man Biggie: “spread love, it’s the Brooklyn way”. This year we’ve got a veritable rainbow of musicians coming to perform at the Prospect Park Bandshell for Celebrate Brooklyn! 2012, and all of the shows are free! Of course, you can still buy tickets to get seats at the benefit concerts (but you can also just hang out on a blanket behind the seating section and get the same, if not better, experience):

• On June 23, Ghostface Killah, as part of the Bud Light Music Series, is taking the stage. This is the hip-hop highlight of Celebrate Brooklyn!’s summer run and isn’t Ghostface Killah everyone’s favorite Wu-Tang Clan member?

• The first benefit concert will be held on June 26 and features Childish Gambino, Danny Brown, and Schoolboy Q. Childish Gambino has a viral cult following largely due to his impressive hip-hop and lyrical stylings. Alternatively, Danny Brown spews out raw, gritty rap and recently appeared on XXL’s 2012 “Top 10 Freshmen List”. He also has a song called “Blunt After Blunt”, so, you know, lighters up at this show.

• Dirty Projectors. Wye Oak. Purity Ring. Brooklyn-based indie rock band meets Baltimore indie folk band meets Canadian indie electronic band, respectively. Benefit show. I can’t say anything else except !!! and also inform you that you will absolutely see me at this show on July 10 in my festival shorts. Bet on it.

• Although Wilco will be playing two benefit shows at the Bandshell this summer (July 23&24), I suggest going to the one on the the 23rd, when Lee Fields and the Expressions will also perform. Wilco, possibly the coolest dad rock band there is, always brings out a full crowd of all ages. Alternatively, Lee Fields is so awesomely soulful and melodic in his deliverance that you could suddenly fall in love with the person standing next to you just listening to his music. I may or may not know this from experience.

• The Head and the Heart and Lost in the Trees may seem like the titles of poems you wrote in high school, but seriously, these two indie bands are equal parts stunning and intellectual in terms of their music, and they will be performing on July 27. They have both garnered significant praise from outlets like NPR and the LA Times for their American roots revival efforts. I’m expecting a lot of ladies in long floral skirts to be at this one.

• August 3 brings Wild Flag and Mission of Burma to Prospect Park. First of all, are we all excited that Wild Flag front-woman Carrie Brownstein (of Portlandia fame) is performing in our fair borough? And are we stoked on seeing the seemingly resurrected Mission of Burma bring post-punk to the park? Yeah, me too.

• The last benefit concert of the summer is on August 7 and features M. Ward and Yo La Tengo. M. Ward is a member of Zooey Deschanel’s She & Him and also of Monsters of Folk, but I’m on the fence about him. I’m on the fence about anyone who associates with twee-queen Zooey Deschanel. However, I’m greatly awaiting a slew of Yo La Tengo cover songs to kiss my eardrums! YLT cover songs forever.

THE BELL HOUSE
149 7th Street
718.643.6510
www.thebellhouseny.com

Next let’s take a peek at The Bell House’s upcoming summer concerts. Well, what’s been listed so far. The Bell House is known around these parts as a lovely bar and intimate concert venue. Big names, niche musicians, and local bands have all had their time in the sun here. They also have quirky events at the bar pretty regularly:

• On June 24, The Bell House will see the likes of comedian Wyatt Cenac and the Brooklyn-based synthpop duo Chairlift. This event goes by the name of “King’s County” is being hosted by WNYC’s Kurt Andersen and performance artist Lucy Sexton. Essentially, this seems like it’s going to a Brooklyn-pride kind of show, so we should all probably go to this show and rep our bad-ass borough.

• Ted Leo and the Pharmacists have been kickin’ for over a decade now and on June 27, the seasoned punk-indie fusion band will be performing. Funny girl Julie Klausner is also recording her podcast “How Was Your Week?” during the TL/Rx show (clearly, “TL/Rx” is the “cool” way to say Ted Leo and the Pharmacists).

• Friday the 13th (of July) doesn’t have to be a creepy day for you if you head over to the Bell House to the first day of Laura Rebel Angel’s 6th annual Psychobilly Luau Weekender. The luau runs from the 13th through the 15th, and while Ms. Rebel Angel has not released the names of the bands performing at the event, she has assured us all that the weekend will be full of Psychobilly culture, fashion, music, and art. I am going to this thing and making a veteran Psychobilly teach me how to tie a bandana-bow around my head without looking like a goof.

• My little brother keeps telling me to listen to this brother-sister duo band “White Mystery” and I keep telling him I’ll get around to it. I’m sure he’ll be just thrilled to know that on July 21 White Mystery is playing with Shonen Knife and Flown. Oh, hey, Japanese female punk and the band my baby brother keeps nagging me to get into all in one show? Truly, this sounds like a dream situation.

THE WAY STATION
683 Washington Ave
347.627.4949
www.waystationbk.blogspot.com

And finally, let’s look at the Way Station, which may seem like an unassuming Prospect Heights bar from the outside, but the inside is buzzing with live music and a handsome crowd of young locals. If you’re not up for going to a proper concert, but still want to jam to some live tunes, go the way of the Way Station; they have live music performances almost every night of the week!

• On June 21, Ashley Boehm is throwing a nerd cabaret at the bar. She’s known as a jazz singer, but for the purposed of her cabaret she’ll be turning classic pop medleys to Harry Potter and Doctor Who worship songs. If you were waiting for the right time to wear your vanity, non-prescription, glasses in public….now is your chance!

• I have to include the Smith & 9th Ward event being held at the bar on June 30 at the bar due to its punny and perfect title. The Smith & 9th Ward performance showcases New Orleans styled grooves that have been reappropriated with a Brooklyn attitude. I didn’t know Brooklyn-New Orleans fusion was even a thing, so, I want to see how this pans out.

• “Severe”, “2Tens”, “High Definition” and “Hot Lunch” are performing on July 7 at the Way Station, and no, those are not the names of different bands—those are the names of the Hadron the Collider’s band members. Wacky. Hadron the Collider is a self-proclaimed science/art rock band who sound a little bit like Modest Mouse or Built to Spill. I hope they wear quirky outfits!

OTHER PARK SLOPE MUSIC VENUES

There are dozens of other venues in Park Slope to listen to live music or see concerts in the sunny season. Check them out!

BAM Café
Peter Jay Sharp Building
30 Lafayette Avenue
718.636.4100
www.bam.org

Bar 4
444 7th Avenue
718.832.9800
www.bar4brooklyn.com

Brooklyn Lyceum
227 4th Avenue
www.brooklynlyceum.com

Brooklyn Conservatory of Music
58 7th Avenue
718.622.3300
www.bqcm.org

The Fifth Estate
505 5th Avenue
718.840.0089
www.fifthestatebar.com

The Rock Shop
249 4th Avenue
718.230.5740
www.therockshopny.com

Union Hall
702 Union Street
718.638.4400
www.unionhallny.com

Be Cool

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Coffee Culture

Our picks for the best iced coffee in the neighborhood

Now that our neighborhood days are officially saturated with the rays of summer and playing host to humidity filled days and nights, to sip coffee- cold and iced – is seasonally de rigueur. In the modern tradition of the six word memoir, we offer you eight coffee spaces -one on the border of our readership lines – to frequent for reprieve. Each space, described by tasting notes as discerned by our palates, as well as their aesthetic ambiance inspired our list of eight places to bust the heat with cultural cool.

	40 Weight Café 492 6th Ave. btw 12th & 13th fortyweightcoffee.com 6 Word Memoir \| Flavor goes boom. Vintage taste, alfresco. Beans By \| 40 Weight
	Café Grumpy 383 7th Ave. btw 11th & 12th cafegrumpy.com 6 Word Memoir \| Like clingstone peach, sweetness under trees. Beans By \| Café Grumpy
	Crespella 321 7th Ave. btw 8th & 9th crespellabk.com 6 Word Memoir \| Cocoa bitters. Almond tease. Darling Italy. Beans By \| Stumptown
	Crop to Cup 541 3rd Ave. btw 13th & 14th croptocup.com 6 Word Memoir \| Ripened berries. Woodsy charm, urban respite. Beans By \| Crop to Cup
	De luxe Coffee 410 7th Ave. btw 13th & 14th deluxebrooklyn.com 6 Word Memoir \| A spread of blackberry jam. Home. Beans By \| Doma
	Little Zelda 728 Franklin Ave. btw Sterling Pl. & Park Pl. 6 Word Memoir \| Chocolate toddy cure. Transmitting the 1950’s. Beans By \| Toby’s Estate
	Southside Coffee 652 6th Ave. btw 17th & 18th 6 Word Memoir \| Cocoa and Molasses. Palate, whistle away! Beans By \| George Howell
	Two Moon Art House & Café 315 4th Ave. btw 2nd & 3rd twomoonbklyn.com 6 Word Memoir \| Moments of mandarin malt. Artists’ terroir. Beans By \| Birch Coffee

Dining out: Va Beh’

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: The Reader On Food

444 Dean Street btw 5th Ave & Flatbush

Nestled in the shadow of Atlantic Yards is an unexpected surprise. Va Beh’ is a sophisticated oasis in the sea of quick bites and fast food restaurants, quietly waiting to serve you delicious, affordable, Italian cuisine. It’s a crisp, intimate setting of three wooden communal tables that sit six each and a row of ten stools along the bar. The whole front wall is a window, which lifts up in warmer weather, giving you the feel of a European café. Vases of fresh yellow tulips and tea candles dot the tables, along with little silver buckets of unshelled nuts and small plates of marinated olives that replace the ubiquitous bread basket. When the waiters (dressed in button-downs, bowties, and jeans and chattering in Italian behind the bar) catch you reading over their wine list written directly onto the marble wall behind them, they offer to do a table-side wine tasting of your top three choices. It’s an extensive list, which also includes prosecco on tap.

The menu is not quite as large, but it still proves difficult to narrow down. While it’s not particularly creative, it manages to hit all of the Italian classics. With only a few options for entrees, Va Beh’s strength lies in its range of appetizers which include crostini, salad, cheese, salumi, and small dishes. It would be easy to treat Va Beh’ as a tapas restaurant, rather than sticking to your standard courses. For the main dish, their homemade pastas shine, with a selection of simple sauce and vegetable or meat combinations. I have trouble choosing between the cavatelli with sausage and broccoli rabe, and the rigatoni with eggplant and primo sale, but I finally decide on the rigatoni, with mussels to start.

I can smell the mussels coming from the kitchen five minutes before they arrive at the table. When they’re set in front of me, simmering in their pot, I can hardly wait for them to cool down enough to eat. The tomato sauce is light, with parsley and whole cloves of garlic, and it compliments the mussels just so without overpowering them. I can still taste the ocean. And while Va Beh’ is a place that inspires you to be on your best behavior, I can’t help but lick the sauce from my fingers, not wanting to waste a drop on my napkin. This is the only moment I miss a bread basket, wishing I could scoop up the remaining sauce after the mussels are devoured. I manage to sneak a few spoonfuls before the pot is replaced with the pasta.

Happily, the sauce for the rigatoni is the same, but I have to pause after my first bite to sit and appreciate Va Beh’s homemade pasta, which has the perfect al dente chew to it. It’s a modestly sized and simple dish, but nonetheless very satisfying. The eggplant brings an earthy smokiness that adds the most interest, which is wonderfully complimented by the light-as-air crumbles of primo sale, a young lightly-salted sheep’s cheese. It’s not difficult to have a three-course meal for $30 at Va Beh’, so by all means you should finish off with one of their traditional desserts, like the sinfully creamy panna cotta, or the tiramisu. What really elevates the meal throughout each course is the standard of excellence for their ingredients. The freshness immediately transports me from the dreariness of my late-Spring visit, to when you’re likely reading this on a long, peaceful Summer day.

In their own words

About
Va Beh’s concept is simple — highest quality ingredients, uncomplicated dishes, no pretense.

Description
Natives of central Milano, owners Andrea Alari and Qiana and Michele Bi Bari grew up immersed in the cuisine of Italys’ Cosmopolitan Metropolis. Milano, much like New York, is a multicultural city whose palette reflects its diversity. Michele and Andrea grew up surrounded by families who migrated to Milano, a city that seemed to always transcend regional divisions. This pride is reflected in the diversity of Va beh’s menu.

With over twenty years of experience in the culinary arts, hospitality, design, and entertainment arenas, Va beh’ was a meeting of the minds for these three. Nostalgic for home, they painstakingly created “one of the most authentic Italian restaurants in New York.” Housemade pastas and desserts, crostini, salumi, are all made even tastier by the enchanting and boisterous atmosphere. Greeted with an enthusiastic “Buona Sera!” by an animated and gracious Italian staff who both nurture and entertain, the atmosphere mirrors the elegance of the menu with marble walls, communal tables, and wine on tap.

Toughest critics- Italian natives and frequenters of Italy have described Va beh’ as their “go to when they are homesick,” a “mood lifter” and a “mini vacation overseas” The goal was to create dishes that stay true to what Italian cooking is all about “ simple dishes that highlight the natural taste of the ingredients…mangiare… “Mangiare Bene”.

The Summer Of Yum

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: The Reader On Food

Summer is a particularly fun time to live in Brooklyn. Whether it’s exploring innovative flavors and formats for pie, offering an opportunity to churn ice cream with a bicycle, or serving up a quirky dim sum brunch, these lighthearted shops, restaurants, and bars should be added to your ever-expanding list on how to make the most of our borough’s time to shine.

Join the Pie Corps

When Cheryl Perry and Felipa Lopez became friends ten years ago, they knew they were meant to go into business together. With a shared love of food, they began throwing around ideas on how they could fit in the burgeoning artisanal food scene. They would get together and spend days in the kitchen, baking bread, making sausages, or experimenting with candy making. None of these ventures seemed just right, but thankfully for us, it dawned on them one day to try baking pies. Cheryl, who had been working in the food industry for years as a chef, culinary arts teacher, and food service consultant, had been making a pie a day because “making a good pie is integral to being a good chef.” She discovered that Felipa, who was an acupuncturist that loved to cook, had also been making a pie a day, and the idea for Pie Corps was born.

“I feel like people are trying pie, but aren’t quite getting it yet,” Cheryl suggested to Felipa one day. They were excited by the endless potential for creating new and exciting pies, and liked the idea of not being limited by choosing something that had to be either savory or sweet. Pies could move through the seasons, and be able to reflect what was happening in New York if they used local ingredients. They spent a summer together in Cheryl’s home in Barryville, baking pies and experimenting with ingredients and flavors. The summer resulted in an amazing crust recipe – perfectly flaky with just the right amount of sweetness – and about twenty different fillings. They started to bring their pies to the local farmers’ market to test their popularity, and they ended up being a big hit, which gave them the confidence to bring the business back to the city. Their presence at the farmers’ market had another important effect on Pie Corps. Working side-by-side with the local farmers introduced them to new ideas. Farmers would come to them with produce they had a surplus of. “I have these ingredients I don’t know what to do with. I’ll give them to you, if you give me one of the pies you come up with in return.”

Now, Pie Corps has a plethora of pies that tend to be “sweet with a savory attitude,” or savory options that are conscientious of what’s in season. Their most popular sweet pie is their chocolate pudding pie, which updates a childhood favorite with a top layer of ganache, a drizzle of rosemary caramel, and a sprinkle of sea salt. Other options include an apple whiskey crumb pie with candied pecans, a lemon buttermilk chess pie, and a ricotta cheesecake with candied lemon. A favorite savory pie that has been offered is their fried chicken pie with baked beans and gravy, or a bulgoki style beef pie with turnip kimchi. Other creations have included a caramelized onion and goat cheese pie and a curried potato and peas pie. All of their pies are made with as many local, in-season ingredients as possible, and they take care in using high quality ingredients. An added benefit is that their pies are sugar free; they use evaporate cane juice instead.

It didn’t take long for Pie Corps to expand their offerings beyond traditional pies, coming up with different takes on pie that are as creative as their flavors. Pie pops and pies in mason jars have been popular for weddings, and their bags of Pielettes are a great snack to sample their wares in miniature two-bite pies. After their success at farmers’ markets like the New Amsterdam and Hester Street markets, they began to be approached with wholesale inquiries, which sparked the idea to open up a permanent location of their own. So, this summer, fans can rejoice in the new Pie Corps store opening in Greenpoint on 77 Driggs Avenue, where you’ll be able to find all of your favorite pies, pops, and Pielettes.

Crossing the Brooklyn Ferry for Ice Cream

It’s fitting that the name of an ice cream shop owned by a writer references a poem by Walt Whitman. The poem in question, “Crossing the Brooklyn Ferry” – which is also etched into the railing of the current ferry landing in DUMBO – is Whitman’s love letter to a city in its infancy. 150 years later, Brooklyn has plenty more to be inspired by than farmlands and corrugated cardboard factories, including the Ample Hills Creamery on 623 Vanderbuilt Avenue in Prospect Heights. Brian Smith wrote sci-fi screenplays, not poems, but still lived a life Brooklyn writers ever since Whitman are all too familiar with: enjoying infrequent success, constantly combating anxiety and rejection, and feeling unfulfilled with what it takes to make writing full-time work. So, he got to thinking what he could be doing instead. He wanted something that was still creative, but more hands-on and community-oriented than the lonely and isolated life of a writer. The answer was ice cream.

Smith started with a Cuisinart machine in his kitchen, experimenting with bases and flavor combinations. Coming up with new flavors was a natural fit. “You borrow a little from here. You steal a little from there. It’s just like writing.” As Smith grew more comfortable with the process, he knew he didn’t want to lose this homemade feel to his product once he was making it for the masses, so he decided to boil it down to a science. He enrolled in the Ice Cream Short Course at Penn State’s College of Agricultural Science (the course, which has been around since 1892, has a roster of notable alums like Ben and Jerry’s, Good Humor, and Haagen-Dazs) to study the technical chemistry involved in ice cream-making and manufacturing. Feeling confident, Smith tested the product out of a cart in Prospect Park and was quickly bolstered by its popularity to open up a shop nearby with his wife.

Now, Ample Hills serves a rotating cast of 24 flavors of Smith’s lovingly made small-batch ice cream. Sure to be on the menu is the shop’s most popular flavor, Salted Crack Caramel, which pushes the classic salty-sweet combination to its limit with the addition of a friend’s invented “crack cookies” made of Saltines, butter, sugar, and chocolate. Other standouts are Stout and Pretzels (made with Sixpoint Otis chocolate stout and chocolate-covered pretzels), Black Cow Float (root beer ice cream with a chocolate swirl), A Lovely Day (white chocolate ice cream with rainbow cookies), and Peppermint Pattie (peppermint ice cream with homemade peppermint patties). The freshness of the ingredients elevates the painstaking process to another level; the dairy products are local, all-natural, and from hormone-free animals.

Ice cream always makes summertime extra special, but what about those of you who are lucky enough to have a summer birthday? If you’ve felt stifled by the same-old ice cream cakes and sundae bars for years, try something different this year by having Ample Hills host a make-your-own ice cream party. Guests work together to design their own flavor of ice cream, then take turns churning it with the help of the creamery’s awesome ice cream bicycle, which powers the ice cream maker attached to it. When it’s all set, the party ends with a sundae bar to enjoy eating the finished product. Of course, it’s a wonderful idea for kids (who come up with flavors like gummy worm ice cream), but Ample Hills also offers after-hours adult parties (who come up with flavors like bourbon ice cream). It’s services like this that separate Ample Hills from other ice cream shops as a true community-gathering spot, where you’re encouraged to linger, catching the ice cream drips in between catching up with your friends, sharing a milkshake with your date, or reading a story to your kids.

Culture Clash

When Dale Talde, David Massoni, and John Bush converged to create Talde (369 7th Avenue, Park Slope) they had decades of experience between them. Talde, known for his run on Top Chef and Top Chef All Stars as well as his work at Buddakan, had been working in the industry since he was nineteen, inspired by his fond memories of eating delicious potluck meals with his large family. Bush had risen through the ranks of bartending to owning neighborhood-favorite, Thistle Hill Tavern, with Massoni. Massoni had big names on his resumé, like opening Chelsea hotspot Lotus and working with Mario Batali at Esca and Babbo, as well as a year-long stint in Italy. The three of them had been friends for years when Talde finally decided to make moves on opening his own restaurant, a lifelong dream of his. He turned to Massoni and Bush for advice after seeing their success with Thistle Hill, and they realized they made a dream team. “I like to say that Dale’s the talent, Dave’s the brains, and I’m the mouth,” says Bush as we sit at the bar, a quiet finally settling over the restaurant after one of their first brunches is over. Together, they created a vision that was authentically Asian-American, in that it reflected the experience of that particular culture, rather than dumbing down Asian cuisine for a (stereotypically) American palette. Talde says, “I wanted the food to draw on what I ate growing up – my mom’s wonton soup, my aunt’s oxtail stew – my travels, and my American point of view.”

Originally, they were imagining a quick noodle joint that was more of a neighborhood hangout than an upscale restaurant. But when they found the carved mahogany pieces that are featured throughout the room, the image quickly escalated into a sleeker, hipper space. Jazz completes the intimate atmosphere. Nonetheless, friends and family are endlessly streaming in and out, along with patrons who are flocking to Talde thanks to his TV credentials and rave reviews. Not to mention, the food itself is exciting. Take the brunch menu, which includes pretzel pork and chive dumplings, lobster bao buns, everything bagel spring rolls, and Korean chicken wings and waffles with a coconut brown butter syrup. This East-meets-West aesthetic continues in the dinner menu with the Singapore chili soft shell crab banh mi, char siu smoked spare ribs with Thai basil and pears, and a crispy oyster and bacon pad thai. The menu is market-driven and incorporates local ingredients, so it changes throughout the year.

You can tell the difference between walking into a place that’s opened by a businessman who has dropped into a neighborhood because it’s trendy, and walking into a place that’s owned by someone who actually lives nearby. Talde, Massoni, and Bush like being able to see the same faces every day, knowing their customers and the other business owners in the area. “I keep opening up places that I want to go to,” says Massoni. “This is my community, I want to be a part of it.” So, the team has decided that they’re not stopping with Talde. Coming this summer to the vacancy left by Aunt Suzie’s at 247 5th Avenue is Pork Slope, a bar that suits Talde’s original vision. “We want Pork Slope to be the bar that we all grew up in,” says Talde, who goes on to describe a local dive in the neighborhood of Chicago he grew up in, where he’d go for pitchers, beer, wings, and sports. For Bush, it was Max Fish.

The scene will be unpretentious with some flair, focusing more on creating a comfortable place to hang out after work than a pristine gastropub. TVs and pool tables will be present, as will 25 beers on tap, an even more extensive beer list in bottles and cans, and a cocktail list that focuses on dark brown American liquor. But with Talde involved, of course there will be good food, available until 2am. While Talde’s menu is Asian with Southern stylings, Pork Slope will flip the formula upside down and serve classic Americana bar food with a touch of quirkiness. Early talks of the menu include bigger dishes like pulled pork, ribs, and wings, but Talde is most excited about the Chicago style hot dogs and, of all things, the tater tots, which will be fried in pork fat. There will also be food served during the day on weekends, but don’t you call it “brunch.” Talde prefers it to be called hangover food – think breakfast burritos, scrapple, and egg sandwiches. Talde, Massoni, and Bush like to say that they’re creating Pork Slope for themselves, as their own bar to retreat to when their shifts at Talde and Thistle Hill are over, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they’ll be sitting in there alone.

How Yoga Can Free Your Body

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Yoga

The provocative title of William Broad’s article in the January 8th New York Times Magazine – How Yoga Can Wreck your Body – has a whole nation of yogis buzzing. The news is that people can hurt themselves doing yoga. But they don’t have to. Bring some mindfulness and sound movement principles to your practice, and you greatly reduce your chance of injury.

Broad’s indictment is, well, pretty broad. His sensational warning overlooks some essential elements: the wild panoply of yogic varieties, the habits of mind and body we each bring to the mat, the vagaries of teachers’ instructional skills, and the risks that accompany all human movement – athletic or sedentary.

What are we calling yoga? Is it restorative — a few select poses with the body cushioned by props to encourage calm and gentle release? Is it Power Yoga, blending yoga’s whispered influence of British calisthenics with America’s gym culture? Are you performing asanas under the watchful eye of a knowledgeable instructor, or going through your yogic paces in a room of 50 others? Is it Bikram’s sweltering unchangeable routine of 26 poses, each done twice with zero individual feedback? Or is it an innovative class, brimming with anatomical information and a skilled instructor’s carefully chosen words and subtle hands-on suggestions? Yoga is a vast, complex field, practiced or taught badly or well.

A longtime teacher of dance, exercise and yoga, I became an Alexander Technique teacher 24 years ago because I saw it as the most fundamental approach to healthy movement, a physical alphabet, an elegant way to help people understand and unravel the chronic tensions that interfere with their comfort, productivity and overall health. I have watched my students bring their own brand of unconscious muscular tension to every activity, including yoga.

With many more people doing yoga, more will get hurt. According to Yoga Journal, 20 million are practicing and another 18 million think they should. They hear from a friend or physician that “yoga is good for you,” yet have no idea of the wide spectrum of styles and approaches. For a novice, going to a class is a leap of faith. Injury and pain result when people don’t know how the body is meant to work – with appropriate effort, ease, fluidity and clarity. That’s what they come to learn. If the teacher is performing rather than observing the class, they won’t give the specific feedback essential to a student’s progress. How can you open your hip joints if you don’t know where they are?

There are other reasons that yoga can challenge the hopeful beginner. Yoga’s popularity means that the class you attend will be shared with a multi-level crowd. Studios and fitness centers make money from high volume classes, so even the best-informed, well-meaning instructors can only lead, not teach, the group. That can make for a dynamic experience, but individual guidance is impossible. The sweat flies and you’re on your own.

The best teachers help their students modulate their efforts. They help them slow down when they rush. They thoroughly warm the body, break down the elements of a new posture and calm students’ unreasonable expectations. They help them smooth ragged breathing and offer props to help them adjust to their limitations, guiding them to build flexibility and strength gradually. They help students build the most crucial psychophysical skill: awareness.

Most injuries result from a lapse of awareness. We compare ourselves to others and, in striving to compete, strain beyond our current range. We look at a picture of an accomplished yogi and think we should look like that. What some call “ego” can lead to an obsessive, extreme asana practice. Broad gave the example of someone who sat on flexed feet for hours in vajrasana and ended up with problems walking. Yikes! You can bet that this yogi ignored his body’s distress signals for a long time. And if someone’s ribs pop out during a spinal twist, that practitioner has abnormally mobile joints or is just working way too hard.

Lack of awareness can also come from the teacher. An instructor’s uninformed, aggressive manual adjustment can push you into an unnecessarily extreme range, causing injury and discouraging you from a potentially beneficial practice. One instructor pulled a friend of mine up into the deep backbend of a wheel before his back was pliable and his hip joints open. He spent the next few weeks recuperating and avoided yoga class for a year. Now, with the all the necessary preliminary increments, he can counter the hours he spends at his desk with this exuberant, uplifting pose.

Props – widely used in most classes – can help. Broad says that noted teacher Iyengar recommends shoulder stands with no prop on a bare floor. This is ludicrous. Any informed yogi knows that Iyengar created the use – some say overuse – of props to help each student accommodate to increments of strength or stretch. Go to any Iyengar class, and you too will be dutifully folding your blanket and arranging your props, learning the detailed method that has inspired many other branches of yoga.

A great support for the new yoga student is the Alexander Technique. All people, including yogis, should learn this method’s accessible, simple principles. F.M. Alexander, to solve his own chronic vocal problem, created a comprehensive approach to the integrated use of the human body. He realized that a light, free relationship between the head and the neck restores the spine’s resiliency, making all movement safer and more harmonious. He called this relationship the primary control, and it is a powerful tool in solving our epidemic of back problems, one reason people come to yoga. When the neck is free, the spine responds.

Extreme neck flexion does not have to accompany any yoga pose. Using the Alexander Technique, we can avoid serious injury by avoiding the extreme neck flexion or extension that puts undue pressure on the entire spine and can cause back problems and spinal injuries. In a sweeping generalization, Broad writes that experienced yoga practitioners encourage extreme neck flexion. But the Technique has already influenced yoga, and recently I have heard teachers use more cues to coach their students toward an easier head/neck relationship.

For example, you can do a classic cobra with a slight, graceful arc in the neck, distributing support and effort through the entire spine. Students without this insight can crunch their heads down on the spine in any pose, not just a wheel or a shoulder stand. In fact, people have gotten strokes from extreme neck extension while having their hair washed before a haircut. And you don’t have to do yoga to acquire back or shoulder problems. You can be sitting at your desk.

Just by hunching over your computer, you can develop stenosis, herniation, sciatica, severe back pain, repetitive wrist strain, chronic headaches, neck and shoulder injuries. One of my former clients threw his back out turning a page of the New York Times. When he came to me for Alexander lessons, we spent the next few months exploring and undoing the chronic tension that preceded that injury, and he learned from it. People need to learn how to move well, whatever they do.

Fitness fads come and go, each with their own risks, rewards and lessons to be learned. In my years as dancer and inveterate exerciser, I’ve joined most of them. In the early 70s, when Kenneth Cooper touted aerobics, I donned my Adidas and ran until, 25 years later, my knees said No more! I became a personal trainer and exercise instructor in the 80s. I taught high impact cardio classes, jumping around to the Pointer Sisters. When fitness buffs’ knees cried out, along came low-impact cardio. When people bouncing along with Jane Fonda injured their hamstrings, we learned that bouncing makes the muscles contract rather than stretch. Now we’re learning that extremity, obsession, competition and inadequate instruction don’t foster a healthy yoga practice. Since physical labor went out and a sedentary lifestyle came in, as a culture we have been conducting a long, varied experiment in exercise. And some of the people Broad describes have learned, the hardest way.

The beauty of yoga is that it takes us desk-sitters and moves us through a full range of motion. We have time to focus on our breath, to find much-needed relief from our hyped-up lifestyle. We join with others who share a common purpose – to explore, stretch the mind, move the body into new realms, to feel the pulse, oil the creaky joints and clear the mind with a fresh infusion of oxygen. How many times have we – students and teachers – been transformed by the experience?

Our challenge is to make yoga a contrast to — rather than an imitation of — our nutty culture. As yoga teachers, we must watch our students and make sure that we help them unravel harmful muscular constrictions as they move. I have taken wonderful yoga classes with teachers who continue to refine their understanding of the body, the self and this integrative practice.

Using the Alexander Technique, I have guided students from teenage to elderly to practice safely and appropriately – for their age, fitness level and individual challenges. Every yoga practitioner can benefit from learning Alexander’s principles of natural breath and ease in movement so they can incorporate them into a safer, more life-enhancing practice.

And really, it’s not what you do, but how you do it. Not everyone has to do yoga, and I hope this fear-mongering article doesn’t stop a curious novice from finding a good teacher and giving it a try. We are stressed out, over-medicated, overfed and electronically bombarded. Yet more and more people find relief from our shattered medical system in the current flowering of body disciplines. Yoga is one, Alexander Technique another. Together they create a synergy, a healthy, expansive way to move through your life, that helps us lift our gaze from the screen, redirect our focus, and restore our natural buoyancy. Blending these ancient and modern arts can teach us how to best use the amazing bodies we’ve been given.

Taking The Heat

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Hi. It’s me again. I hope you’re enjoying this relentless summer heat (I’m writing this before the heat comes, btw, just betting it’ll be relentless). Do you remember our winter? Kind of crummy, wasn’t it? Everyone loves a good snow-in. It allows you to brag to your California friends about the beautiful walk you took to the bodega before the plows came down your street and paved the sidewalk with a perfect coat of dog crap. Yet sadly, that beautiful snowfall didn’t happen for us this year. And now, the heat. Horrible, snowy winters seem easier to endure than record-setting, sweltering summers. Sure, we worry about the less fortunate among us in either extreme, but with the heat there’s another element at stake. Our sanity. Heat makes you go c-c-c-c-crazy.

Ooooh, if there was some literary award for smooth transition in hypocritical advice columns (the Hippies?) I would have to take a break here and accept it. Read the letter and see what I mean.

Dear Hypocrite,

With every hot day that passes, I feel like I’m falling further and further into the abyss. I’ve been aware of climate change for over 20 years and at this point despair is the prevailing feeling I experience in my day-to-day existence. The stifling heat is a constant reminder of what we are doing to our planet and all the creatures who live on it. It all seems hopeless. No amount of publicity, no well-produced documentary, no plain-speaking scientist on a late night talk show can wake us up from our arrogant ignorance. I wish I could assume a state of resignation —that I could “que sera, sera” the whole situation and go on a cruise with my loved ones. But alas, that’s not my temperament. Instead, at night I secretly pray for all of us to be destroyed by a plague. I don’t want it to be too painful, mind you, I’m no sadist, but I’m so disgusted with modern civilization and I see no other solution.

Now, I’m willing to deal with my own crippling state of mind—but there’s an issue: that cruise I just mentioned. My parents, the kindest, sweetest people on the planet, have been married for 50 years and are taking my entire family, grandchildren included, on a 10-day cruise to the Virgin Islands. As you can imagine, I feel like I am being sent to my own personal Hell. I really do enjoy spending time with my family, but a cruise typifies all that is wrong with humanity: the wasteful buffets, the massive expenditure of fuel and the dumping of toxic run-off while we’re all barefoot, carefree and doing the limbo on the Lido deck. It’s too much for me to bear. But it’s equally too much for me to bear disappointing my parents who are over the moon at the thought of this floating celebration. Please, tell me what to do. I’m in agony over this. Oh, and one thing you should know. I’m an alcoholic and former pill addict. Please don’t tell me to just hold my nose and stay close to the bar the whole time. That would be dangerous for my health.

Becky from South Slope

Becky? Really? That’s your name? How can you be so dark with a name like Becky? I was certain your name would be Marta, Genevieve or William. But it’s Becky. That’s adorable!

So, bummer about the addiction issue because you called it, I would’ve suggested you to sidle up to dull the reality that you were complicit in supporting this high seas carbon spewing adventure. I would have further suggested the Dirty Martini as the perfect hypocrite’s blues buster. I have to admit, I never really considered the environmental impact of the cruise ship until yesterday, when I happened to choose the most recent EPA Cruise Discharge Assessment Report as my bathroom reading. You were right, Becky! What a toxic nightmare! On the average, the boats generate 21,000 gallons of sewage and 170,000 gallons of graywater a day. Graywater is the wastewater that drains from sinks, showers, and laundry machines so you can imagine the crap thats in it (detergents, oil, grease, and food waste as well as oxygen-depleting nutrients and various pathogens). I couldn’t find any numbers on how much food is thrown out or what the methane emissions are after Fiesta Mexicana night but I did find some surprising news. The Bush administration along with our friends in Canada created an emission reduction plan which requires the use of lighter fuel for all large vessels by 2015. The cargo industry is complying. The cruise industry? Not so much. Their lobbyists are putting pressure on lawmakers to allow them to stick with the same heavy fuel they’ve been using even though the EPA estimates that when the emission reduction plan is fully implemented 31,000 premature deaths per year will be prevented. Hmmmm. Methinks something about the plan must eat into the cruise industry’s profits. Insert sound of my blood boiling here.

Sorry about all that. I don’t think that research helped you with your problem. But because I’m a self-aware hypocrite, I like to know my facts so I can sense the exact way I’m acting contrary to my strong belief system. Back to your problem. The way I see it you have two options. 1. You don’t go. 2. You go. Let’s discuss option one.

No one can force you onto the boat (unless you are Jack Bauer who was bound and gagged and thrown onto a cargo ship headed for China at the end of the fifth season of 24). If you decide not to go, I suggest you write a very thoughtful letter to your parents thanking them for such a generous gift while also explaining to them that going on a cruise would be against every principle you have. Then suggest another way to celebrate the joyous occasion with them. Here are some possibilities: A local bird-watching excursion with a catered picnic lunch; a stargazing party with a quasi-notable astronomer from the nearby community college; a Who Dun It?™ murder mystery night aboard a working antique train. The suggestions must be able to generate a lot of excitement so tailor them to your parents’ interests. Then, via telephone, you must briefly explain to your brothers/sisters your reasons for staying behind and then quickly offer to watch their beloved dog/cat/plant. Your siblings have known you all your life. Chances are, it won’t come as too much of a surprise that you’re boycotting the cruise and ruining everything. Be prepared for some fallout in the form of a good lecture from your older sister including the following words: selfish, selfishness and selfish-ability.

Option #2. You go. This is only an option if you promise to shut the hell up about anything regarding an ecological nightmare. Once you set foot on that boat you owe it to everyone around you to keep your doom and gloom on lockdown. You don’t have to overdo it and vow to become shuffleboard champion, just be there. Haven’t you ever been to a wedding that you thought was a horrible mistake? Of course you have because most of them are. So you know that you sit there and make a toast and drink the wine and go back to your hotel and pour out your reservations about the couple to the bartender there. Arg! I just remembered you have problems with alcohol! Forgive me.

Think on this. Love heals all. Your parents obviously love each other very much. With that love encircling them, they created a family of wonderful thoughtful people, yourself included, who know love and seek it in their own lives. This trip is to honor the love that you all share. If you leave on that boat with your family, you need to keep the kernel of this in your mind at all times. You are a very caring and sensitive person. Your parents had a hand in this. You can thank them for this by being there. Here’s a handy mantra: “I am here because of love. Love can heal the world.” If that is too soft for you, then just imagine that cruises are actually that painless global plague you were wishing for, and the good Lord has graced you with a close up view as he/she slowly wipes us out.

Whatever you decide, follow through with your decision and try to minimize your decision’s impact on others. I never do that. But you should.

Now, Becky, forgive me, I can’t help but think about what your life will be like after the cruise or non-cruise. See, you’re clearly not in a happy place. But you could be. I’m not suggesting you deny the sad reality out there but I am wondering if there’s any way you could make a major change. Is it possible for you to leave your life in Park Slope and go work for clean air and water? Many of us have kids and mortgages and the need for insurance but if you don’t, get out of town and live out our fantasies. Quit your job, give up your apartment and help with the effort to heal the horrific amount of damage that we’re doing to this beautiful world of ours. You’ll know more about the situation and be part of the solution. No doubt you’ll sleep better and your personality will be once again aligned with your adorable name. And nobody, not even your ignorant parents, would ever suggest that you go on a cruise ever again.

As far as the problem with no one listening to the cries of our planet, I’m closing this with a quote from David Abrams, philosopher, ecologist and performance artist. He was also the resident magician at Alice’s Restaurant back in the day. Wise man. Here are his thoughts on how to wake us up:

I don’t think there is a way for those who work in service to the earth — for environmentalists, ecologists — to really woo our culture back into a reciprocal or sustainable relation with the land until we draw folds back to our senses, because our sensing bodies are our direct contact with the rest of the natural world. It is not by being abstract intellects that we are going to fall in love again with the rest of nature. It’s by beginning to honor and value our direct sensory experience: the tastes and smells in the air, the feel of the wind as it caresses the skin, the feel of the ground under our feet as we walk upon it. And how much easier it is to feel that ground if you allow yourself to sense that the ground itself is feeling your steps as you walk upon it.
from The Spell of the Sensuous

Speaking of feeling, I’m feeling sick. My six-year-old coughed in my eye 31 hours ago and Voila! I’m achy, runny, stuffy, and crabby. So, I’m only answering one letter today. Why don’t you take it easy today, too? Go to the park and drink a lemonade under the prettiest tree you can find. Feel the earth under your tush. It’s definitely feeling you. See you next time.

Read more about the EPA report here:
water.epa.gov/polwaste/vwd/disch_assess.cfm

And about the reduced emission plan here:
www.mcclatchydc.com/2012/05/01/147291/cruise-ship-industry-fighting.html#storylink=cpy

Nesting Nirvana

June 27, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville

I almost had a baby at Ikea. That sounds like it could be a metaphor so let me clarify that I am speaking literally. I almost went into labor and delivery while waiting to pay for stylish Swedish lighting fixtures in Red Hook. And it’s not because I didn’t know I was having labor pains.

It’s because I am such an Ikea junky I could not pull myself away. Also, it’s my third baby. These sorts of things tend to happen with your third.

How does a person transform from a savvy shopper with self-restraint to a conspicuous consumer panting through contractions behind a cart filled with faux bear-skin rugs? Well, when you think about it, how does one not?

It started when Ikea opened in Brooklyn. There was a time New Yorkers had to schlep over to Elizabeth, New Jersey to obtain aesthetically-pleasing yet affordable furniture and enjoy the best meatballs outside of Stockholm for under $4. With the nearest Ikea in New Jersey, the world retained a semblance of order and balance. And then, one fateful day, the furniture wonder-shop opened its doors in Red Hook, oh-so-tantalizingly close. Not only was there plentiful parking, there was a free shuttle bus from the Slope, a cafe with views serving kids’ meals for just $2.49, and even free child-care, so my children could frolic in the ball pit while I compared kitchen cabinet knobs. And then there were the cinnamon buns. Yes, the smell of those cinnamon buns was the final nail in the coffin of my willpower. Or, I should say, the penultimate one. What truly killed my willpower was getting pregnant again.

At the end of my third pregnancy, two things happened at exactly the same time. First, a relentless nesting craze took hold of me, compelling me to organize the “Hoarders” level clutter in our apartment. Secondly, with my due date approaching, I began to consider where I’d put the baby. And the stark realization dawned on me that there was, in fact, nowhere to put the baby. We would be a family of five living in a one-bedroom apartment: there wasn’t enough room for my son’s Lego collection, much less a whole new human being and her baby gear.

Moving to a bigger place would have been great but we didn’t have the money. There was, however, a cheap way to get more livable space, and guzzle Lingonberry juice in the process.

“You know I hate going to Ikea,” David said, when I announced the plan for our Extreme Home Makeover, a plan that relied heavily on the phrase “maximize vertical space!”

“It’s like Vegas in there,” David went on, “No clocks so you can’t tell how long you’ve been inside and no cellphone reception so you’re cut off from the outside world — from your loved ones who’d tell you to stop buying crap you don’t need.”

“But we do need this crap,” I persuaded him, “This crap is the lynchpin between us and a happy life!”

“See?” he countered, “You’re already going overboard. Which proves my point that Ikea turns you into a crazy person.”

“Daddy’s right,” piped up my seven year-old Primo, “You start grabbing everything and throwing it in the cart, even if we don’t need it. Like the foot pillow with holes in it to keep your feet warm. That was really unnecessary.”

“So I guess you don’t want to play in the ball pit and eat cinnamon buns,” I said casually.

Even the kids can’t resist that Swedish siren song. And that’s how we ended up at Ikea – the first time.

Though it was still before noon, Smaland was completely filled up. Let me assure you that Hell hath no fury like two children who’ve been turned away from Smaland and forced to shop for closet shelving units instead. Yes, our first Ikea trip could have been made into a piece of scared-straight propaganda to get young people to use birth control.

“This is the worst day of my life!” whined Primo as we tried to find someone – anyone- to answer a pressing question about Pax wardrobes, “Just buy something and get this awful ordeal over with!”

“You LIED TO ME!” shrieked five year-old Seconda, “You told me we could watch a MOVIE and play in the BIG SHOE! And now I have to GO SHOPPING which I HATE more than ANYTHING in the WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD!”

“Oh come on, this will be so fun!” I chirped, buzzed on the smell of unfinished wood, “We can pretend that we live in these beautiful model rooms! We can play family!”

“We already ARE a family,” Primo lamented, “And it is no fun at all.”

By the time we made it into the warehouse, the children were beating each other senseless, both of them crammed into one shopping cart. This public humiliation tipped the balance on my chronic morning sickness, which really pissed me off.

“You people are RUINING this trip to Ikea!” I shrieked, understanding, but not caring, that I’d become one of those archetypal screaming mothers found in Ikeas the world over, “Now I’m gonna vomit and I won’t even be able to enjoy the freaking meatballs!”

By the time we lugged the furniture into our house (well, David lugged the furniture. I watched, clutching my barf bag), my nerves were so frazzled, I resolved never to enter Ikea again. Of course, without a twelve-step program, I didn’t stand a chance. Because as soon as we erected the first two Trofast units and separated the kids’ toy collections into the red and green buckets, I felt such a flood of satisfaction, I could hardly contain myself.

“We need more of these,” I said breathlessly.

The next month, and the next, and the next, I was back trolling the aisles for home furnishings, searching for the magic piece that would somehow metamorphose my one bedroom into a townhouse (or at least a one-plus) and thus solve all our problems, eliminate sibling rivalry, and quite possibly end war and world hunger, too. The fact that I never found it didn’t deter me from continuing to look; in fact it only made me look harder, and buy lots of crap in the process. Buyer beware: if you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself trapped in a nasty Ikea cycle wherein you go to buy furniture to store your crap and by the time you leave, you’ve bought more crap to store and you’re right back where you started. Only poorer. And with less livable space.

“Well, that should do it,” I told David as I slammed the trunk down, having loaded just one more Trofast unit into the car. It was gestational week number 34 and Ikea trip number 10.

“You know how I know you’re lying?” David asked, “We’re at Ikea and your lips are moving.”

Like any great work of art, an apartment’s design is never finished, merely abandoned. And it became clear that I wouldn’t abandon this one until I was on my way to the hospital. Just three days shy of my due date, I somehow managed to convince David to go back to Ikea to solve the lighting deficiency in our living room. I don’t know why I say “somehow.” I know precisely how I did it; by promising him a conjugal visit in exchange for his labors, which offered the added benefit of jump-starting my labor.

“We can leave the kids with my grandmother so it will be almost like a date,” I persuaded him, “You know Ikea makes me amorous.”

Half an hour later, we were gliding into nesting nirvana on the escalator.

“What do you think about the name Stuva?” I asked David, “Am I crazy or is that kind of beautiful?”

“I think the fumes of this place are getting to you,” he replied, “To the extent that I’m worried about their effect on the fetus.”

By the time we reached the lighting area, I noticed something unusual was going on. The elated, out-of-body feeling I usually had while cruising through the model rooms was absent. I walked straight through the marketplace without so much as picking up a colander or box of votive candles. And there was also the fact that I was having contractions — big ones — every few minutes.

“Are you OK?” asked David when I bent over in the middle of the halogen lamps and started huffing and puffing.

“Just a little –“ I panted, “Con – trac – tion.”

He furrowed his brows: “Are you in labor?”

“Possibly,” I replied.

“Then maybe we should leave,” he suggested.

“No, no its OK,” I persuaded him, “The contraction’s over now. And I really want to get this lamp. We’re here already.”

A half hour later, David was dragging a large box to the register while I moaned behind the shopping cart.

“Are you trying to have the baby at Ikea?” David asked, “They don’t have epidurals here, you know.”

“Keep — going,” I panted, “We’re – almost – done.”

There were only three people ahead of us on line. And my water hadn’t even broken yet.

“Are you all right?” asked the cashier as she was ringing us up.

“Yeah,” I said, as a contraction subsided, “But if I do end up having a baby here, is there a deal where I win a free nursery or something like that?”

There is not, for the record.

I guess the baby knew that because she wasn’t born that day. The hot-and-heavy contractions subsided, then started up a day later, and kept on waxing and waning until the day after my due date when I finally managed to coax the little tadpole out.

She’s known in these parts as Terza but you can call her Stuva. And her tiny corner of our apartment is impeccably organized.

To read more of Nicole’s adventures in Mommyland (in and out of Ikea), visit her blog A Mom Amok at amomamok.blogspot.com.

Realities of Small Town Life

March 23, 2012 By admin Filed Under: The Afterlife

When we left New York City, I worried that culture might be hard to come by. Oh the luxury of having film festivals and museums, concerts and exhibitions on your door step! Not that we took full advantage at the time. Still, as Woody Allen says about ordering chinese food in the middle of the night in New York City, it was nice to know it was there.

We do have access to many of those things in the Finger Lakes but further away and on a smaller scale. Not impossible but more difficult, just the realities of small town life. That’s why the vibrancy of the music culture here came as such a shock.

The musicality of Geneva does not announce itself on billboards in the manner of the Lake Trout, who have chosen our town as their “World Capital.” At first glance, the music scene, the concerts and the musicals at the Smith Opera House, the Summer Arts Festival, Musical Moments at the public library and recitals at Hobart and William Smith seem much the same as in any other college town. I am not sure that Genevan’s themselves regard it as anything remarkable. And yet, the more time I spend here, the more I am convinced it is.

My first personal experience of this came in the form of a pale green folder sent home in my son’s backpack. At first I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I flipped through page after page of childish hieroglyphics: primitive”n”s and “l”s carefully printed inside apple or heart shapes arranged in rows. It was only at the last sheet, the progress chart, that I realized they were not letters but symbols marking out a rhythm. Apparently my son is “working hard at developing the skills needed to be a musician.” A musician! O brave new world!

Now I realize this may seem like poignantly basic stuff to Very Musical People. But from the perspective those of us who experienced music in the public schools of the 70’s, it is nothing short of a miracle. Even in the days before fiscal vampires fell upon the music programs, sucked them dry, propped up their desiccated corpses and labeled them “enrichment”, the quality of music education has been patchy.

In many parts of the country it mainly consisted of singing songs like “Bingo” and The (dreaded) Happy Wanderer” while a teacher played upright piano or autoharp. Music class was a break from the real work, pleasant enough but not all that important.

Imagine then receiving a note home about the musical instrument “petting zoo” where third graders will have the opportunity to try all the instruments in the band to decide “which one they will play.” Not if they will play an instrument but which one.

My son’s music teacher, Sarah Humphrey laughed a little when I pointed out the wording. “I think there’s a place on the form where you can opt out” she said, (I couldn’t see it) “but most students do play something.”

Now I know there are many kids who learn to play instruments outside of school, and I haven’t exactly been channeling Amy Chua when it comes to facilitating this for my own children, but I am so very pleased to see the audacity of music education in our schools.

I’m not suggesting that the Geneva City School District is hothousing tomorrow’s musical talent, (though given the success of bands like a Gym Class Heroes and Ra Ra Riot it is tempting to make the case). It’s more that there is a certain ease and normality to music education here, as if it was an absolutely central part of the human experience, not something reserved for the talented or the driven. As if music was as fundamental as reading or writing. As if it was worth doing for its own sake, not to wire the children’s brains, to improve math scores or to make them better people.

Elementary school students attend classes twice a week and making music is a part of every school event. Each grade learns its own set of songs which they perform for the rest of the students. There’s a hand bell choir and most kids start playing an instrument in the 4th grade. The school also offers after hours piano lessons to children who wouldn’t be able to afford to take them otherwise.

Finally, they have the opportunity to listen to great music. Geneva Concerts, the organization responsible for booking most of the artists at the Smith Opera House makes sure all students see the performances for free.

Of course, as in most places, music education in Geneva has faced the chop now and then, but as Humphrey explains “We’ve been lucky to have so much support.” People wrote letters to the newspaper and fought to keep the music program intact.” So far they’ve been successful.

It’s quite an achievement. Here is a town of less than 20 thousand people who support a great concert series and a small music academy. Here is a school system where every kid learns the skills to be a musician and where they are trying hard to make sure that every child who wants to make music can.

The music in the schools reflects the deep regard for it in the city. It’s a culture that reaches far back into the past. It is as old as the Smith Opera House which has been hosting musical performances since 1894. It is as old as the grand homes on South Main street where residents staged Delightful Musicales for friends on warm summer evenings and as long lived as the Tuesday Piano Quartette (eight hands on two pianos) which has been going strong for more than 100 years.

Perhaps that’s why people here seem to take the importance of music for granted though not, the music itself. Perhaps that’s why when I asked a veteran father of four for his best piece of parenting advice a few years back he replied in all seriousness “It’s okay to start Suzuki at three.” Ah the realities of small town life!

To Hell And Back

March 23, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Hypocrite's Almanac

Hey Park Sloper! What’s new? Thanks for all the letters responding to my column last issue. To answer your questions, yes, I do take the time to think about my answers before responding. I do try to consider people’s feelings when I’m giving advice. And yes, I’ve already been to Hell and have no plans on going back. Thanks for the suggestion, though.

Sheesh. Hot buttons on some of you Park Slopers. How’d you all get so sensitive? Is it the parking situation or the overflowing schools? I think I need to remind you that Park Slope is crowded because it’s so awesome! You live in one of the most vibrant communities in the country, maybe even the entire universe! Awesomeness comes with a price. Where else can you live in a college town without having to deal with college kids?

I stand by my reply to the Israeli single mother of two with the disgruntled neighbor (She should move back to Israel). You tell me to be more careful with what I say. Being careful is very foreign territory for a life coach. Theoretically you pay a life coach to boss you around. We aren’t therapists. Therapists make you come to your own conclusions and believe me, that can take forever. You don’t want me to be careful. Tell your brain surgeon to be careful. Tell your nanny to be careful. Tell yourself to be careful. Life Coaches tell you what they would do if they were you (unless, ahem, they’re big fat hypocrites).

Does anyone remember my old columns? Five years ago I wrote about composting, recycling, being more kind to one another. Did anyone read that? Exactly. You live in Park Slope. There are probably over fifty quadrillion people telling you to reduce, reuse and recycle. I honestly feel that a better way to use my skills and your time is by responding to an actual Park Slope or adjacent neighbor in need of advice. If my writing offends, just band together with like-minded Slopers and get me fired. Instead of paying your 2009 taxes or doing the seven trash bags of laundry out on your fire escape, pick up a pen and write an impassioned letter about how offensive my advice was. (Didn’t you read my article on community activism? I never followed that advice, but you should.)

Wow, am I angry or what? I am sorry. This is no way to start the new season of growth and renewal. I take it all back neighbor. You and me, we’re a lot alike. A little misguided, but passionate and loveable as all Hell. We don’t mean any harm. We’re just squirrels trying to get a nut to store for leaner times. If we work together, we can have more nuts and work less. Maybe we could even take up a hobby like some squirrel version of Scrabble. Scrabble even sounds like a squirrel game. Maybe they were the ones that invented it?

Now that we’re friends again, I’m going to answer a letter. And I’m going to go out on a limb here (like a squirrel, remember? We’re squirrel friends?) and predict that my answer is going to piss you off. I’m sorry. I liked when we got along. It’s just hard to sustain. Here goes. Wonder how long it will take for the bile to fill your mouth this time? Stopwatch poised.

Dear Hypocrite,
I have a problem. Or maybe it’s more of an issue. I know you’re going to say that I need a therapist. I do. I know that. But before I make the call, can’t you take a stab? I’ve been in therapy before and I find it incredibly painful. I’d rather just wait to hear what you think. You’re so practical. When I read your answers to letters in your column I find myself nodding in agreement. Please, just let me know what you think.

I am a failure in life. I know that sounds dramatic but it’s the truth. I am 40 and I have no marketable skills, no partner, no kids, no passion. I come from a close family and all my brothers and sisters have excelled at whatever profession they have chosen and have wonderful families that seem like they exist in a Land’s End catalog but with really good food.

Growing up, I was the child that everyone had the biggest expectations of. I was the oldest and was really good at math and an excellent artist. I would spend hours in my room drawing or sculpting things out of clay. My parents would brag about me to their friends and tell me I was special and that I was really going to be something when I grew up. Out of all us kids, I was the one who was bound to deliver.

This never happened. I blew off college, I phoned in grad school and now I’m a manager at a bagel store on Seventh Ave. I’m not asking for pity. I’m just asking for guidance. How did things go so perfectly mediocre for me if I was initially full of such promise? And furthermore, do I get out of my present situation OR just make peace with pushing carbs?

Signed,
Time to Make the Bagels

Dear TMB,
First off, thanks for the compliments. I like you, too.

I understand your situation more than you know. I also know it’s not your fault that you’re a “failure”. You are the result of a psychological experiment that was regularly performed on children growing up in the 70s and 80s. It’s rarely discussed but I’m willing to break the silence in hope of one day learning your true identity and scoring some free bagels.

I’m not going to blame the whole thing on Mr. Rogers but I think he needs to take responsibility for selling the notion that all kids were “special.” It started with the best of intentions. Back in those days some children were most definitely falling through the cracks of society. They were behind at school and had parents that were absent physically, emotionally or both. Mr. Rogers’ heartfelt response to this issue was to look deeply and serenely into the lens of the TV camera and sing songs convincing his home audience that they were truly unique. What Mr. Rogers should have said was they were not “special” but “different” from each other. It’s a semantic game, for sure, but the distinction between the two terms is an important one. Special vs. Different. Worlds apart in meaning.

Those that swallowed the “special” pill came to the logical conclusion that with very little effort on their part “special” things would happen to them. When they got out of school and had to fend for themselves they were surprised at the lack of enthusiasm people had for their “special”ness. Couldn’t the casting director/CEO/human resource drone see their glow of bona fide awesomeness? Many disappointments for these poor souls followed and they were inevitably left with shattered self-esteem and little sense of identity. Those who sneaked under the radar of Mr. Rogers or any other well-meaning yet very misguided adult survived and prospered.

TMB, while everyone around you saw great things in your future, your siblings grew up in your shadow. They learned to expect life to be what it is—full of good things, full of bad things and full of a lot of pretty mundane moments. Because of this, life has not disappointed them. Unfortunately, they have become resilient and successful human beings.

This leads us to the harsh reality. I don’t enjoy being the one to tell you this but I have a feeling you suspect the truth already. Here goes: You are not special. You never were. You had some strong fine motor skills and above average eye hand coordination when you were young. You were adept at addition and subtraction. Special? No. You had some early identifiable talents. I would like to apologize for everyone who made a fuss over you. They didn’t mean to secure your failure later in life. They had no idea what they were doing was wrong.

The good news is it’s not over. You still have a lot of life to live. Here’s a new mantra and one that is admittedly very, very un-American. Repeat after me: “Nothing good is going to happen to me today.” I stumbled upon that marvelous sentence ten years ago and it’s solved so many of my problems. Feeling entitled to a good day is a massive handicap. If you don’t have any expectations you can sail through life. When the show you want to see is sold out, no problem! Just try to get tickets for tomorrow night. When you don’t get past the first stage of American Idol? Oh well, at least you got to meet Randy. He called you a “Dawg!” When you get horrible news from your doctor, instead of “Why me?” try “Why not me?” People get sick. It had to happen to someone. Learn from it in whatever way you can.

Uh-oh, I can hear the critics. “You need to think positively. If you don’t think good things will happen to you, then they won’t. You create your own reality.” I don’t think so. I bought that garbage in my twenties. I was pretty precious about it. It was gross. As it happens, thinking you’re not special is actually a very positive thing to believe. You’ll find it’s much easier to work in groups, much easier to drive through traffic and so much easier to go to Target on the weekends.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t have dreams. I’m not saying you shouldn’t work on things you believe in. I’m saying if you have an entitled mindset, you end up being grumpy and disappointed a lot of the time, and end up feeling like a massive failure.

So to you TMB, I think you’re on the road to recovery. Skip the therapist. Take a drawing class, join an adult math club. They’ve got to have one of those in Brooklyn somewhere. If they don’t, start one. Chances are you’ll meet your mate, make a million dollars and land a fulfilling job. (I’m just kidding. Remember: Nothing good is going to happen to you today.) Please let me know how this works out. You might be my only fan out there. I need to keep in touch with you.

Spring Cleaning

March 23, 2012 By admin Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville

My family lives by the Five Second Rule. But even my five and seven year-old understand that the Rule has its exceptions, that it works in some situations and not in others. For example, if we’re eating dinner at my grandmother’s house upstairs, as we frequently are, and my kids drop a cookie or a grape or a meatball, they’ll pick it up off the floor and pop it right into their mouth.

“I can eat this, even though it dropped on the floor,” reasons my five year-old daughter, “Because Nonnie’s floor is so clean.”

“I just scrub it dis morning,” confirms my grandmother in her thick Italian accent, “With Cholrox.”

As a matter of fact, the Five Second Rule is really the Ten-to-Fifteen Second Rule at my grandmother’s apartment. Hell, that piece of penne could sit on the floor for a good minute and I’d eat it without even dusting it off. I’d wager that Nonnie’s floor is more sterile than your standard tray of surgical instruments. That woman goes through more bleach in a month than I’ve gone through in the three years I’ve lived in my apartment.

In my apartment, the Five Second Rule is null and void.

Woe betide the child who drops a cookie on my kitchen floor.

“Throw it out!” I bark, “That cookie’s not worth it.”

Its not like our apartment would be featured on “How Clean Is Your House?”. We don’t have vermin. We wash our dishes and throw out our garbage. We even manage to take our shoes off at the door, most of the time. And bi-annually, I unearth the vacuum and the Swiffer and tell my husband, David, to man up and tackle the bathroom. You can’t eat off the floor and the beds are never made and you could probably fill a bowl with the dusty, desiccated Cheerios lying under the furniture, but its not like our house is condemned or requires an intervention or anything, though you’d think so from my grandmother’s reaction.

The state of my apartment is a cause of immeasurable shame for my grandmother — her mad wife locked in the attic – and she goes to great lengths to insure that the shame stays secret. If I mention that the super’s stopping by to fix something, she will be at my door in five minutes, in her mumu, irate.

“I’m gonna help you clean,” she grunts, “You can’t let him see you house like dis!”

We’ll spend the ten minutes it takes to make the apartment presentable (the upside of a tiny living space is that though it only makes a few minutes to make a colossal mess, it takes the same amount of time to set it right again). I’ll be feeling satisfied and ready to tackle my deadline, but when I suggest that the place looks pretty good, probably good enough to let in the super, she gasps audibly.

“You CRAZY?” she’ll sputter, getting red in the face, “Dis is a disgrace! Looka da dust behind de TV! Che disgrazia!”

When I suggest she calm down before she gives herself a heart attack, she’ll become even more chagrined.

“Please! How I gonna calm down with alla dis DUST? Hurry up and help me move de couch!”

Unlike Mommy Dearest, Nonnie is not just mad at the dirt, she’s mad at me too, for allowing the dirt entry.

But I have a good enough head on my shoulders to understand that as close as I am to being a slob, it’s at least as close as Nonnie is to being obsessive compulsive and this, combined with the fact that she’s related to me, makes her an unreliable judge. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past three decades, it’s to never give serious regard to the input of family.

Now, the input of people outside my family – that is altogether a different story.

A few weeks ago, one of my mommy friends came over with her two kids after school for an impromptu playdate. The kids entertained themselves by jumping on the bed and applying zombie tattoos while we sipped tea.

In the middle of our chatting, she offered this unexpected compliment: “I love coming over here because you’re not one of those moms who’s worried about making her house always look neat and tidy.”

My hackles were instantly up: “You mean, my place is a pigsty?”

“No, no,” she laughed, “I just mean, its very honest that things aren’t . . . perfect. It makes me feel better about my own house.”

She could tell her clarification was only making me more dejected, which made her rush to clarify even more: “I only mentioned it because I know you don’t get offended by this sort of thing.”

I stared at her blankly while she tried to illuminate the ways in which the compliment was indeed a compliment: “Plus, sometimes those people with their immaculate houses are the unhappiest people. Whereas, look at you, how happy you are!”

Happy is not the word I’d use to describe my emotional state at that particular moment. And she was wrong on another count – that I’m not the easily-offended-type. Of course, I take pains to foster the illusion that I’m brimming with self-acceptance, but in fact, I am desperate for the approbation of others and wildly sensitive, as are all people who hide behind self-deprecating humor. Now, I was heartily offended, and a chain reaction of defensiveness unleashed itself on my unsuspecting guest.

“Oh. My. God,” I reeled, “You’re right. I am such a slob!”

I walked over to the couch and started putting the pillows, which the kids had tossed to the floor, back in their rightful place. I fluffed them, for extra measure It what people do in sitcoms. Meanwhile, I rattled off a whole list of excuses:

“If I waited ‘til my house was in order to have people over, we’d never see anyone!” I told my friend, who hid behind her cup of chamomile and strategized about how best to beat a hasty retreat with her kids.

“And every spare second I have, I’m working or attending to the kids’ needs, which never, ever end,” I went on, “so when can I clean?”

“Oh, I know,” she agreed.

“Plus, as soon as I clean this dump up, the kids walk through and mess it up again!” I lamented, picking up stray Legos and discarded pajama pants and pairing shoes in the closet.

“Totally,” she nodded.

I continued on this over-zealous cleaning jag, ala Joan Crawford, for the rest of the playdate, which made my house look picture-perfect and my poor friend rue the day she’d ventured honesty with me.

When David returned home, he was alarmed. “What happened?” he asked, “Why does the house look like this?”

“Did you know its not just my grandmother who thinks we’re slobs but regular, mentally-balanced people, too?” I asked him, “We need to mend our ways. For the sake of the children. People will talk.”

David, who unlike me, is immune to guilt and the threat of public disgrace, was not perturbed: “We do the best we can. We’re not great at keeping house, but we’re not bad either. And we’re great at other things. Don’t worry about it.”

As is my habit, I did the exact opposite of what he suggested and fixated on the matter. While I couldn’t manage keeping the house in tip-top shape, I could manage not letting people visit until it was. But even that required too much energy to sustain and eventually I caved and consented to a last-minute visit from an old college friend and her toddler.

The house was not just in its usual state of casual disrepair but a real, authentic hovel. The kids’ room looked like the scene of a crime: all the drawers of the bureau open with clothes spilling out, the entire surface area of the floor covered with books left open and undressed dolls, some of which had lost their heads at the hands of my daughter. Milk cups were on their sides on the nightstand. Picture frames were crooked. It was like the sack of Rome.

“Your house,” said my college friend, laughing, “looks like a tornado hit it.”

“I know,” I agreed, walking out of the kids’ room, ”Just don’t tell my grandmother. And don’t let the baby eat anything off the floor.”

To read more of Nicole’s adventures in Mommyland, visit her blog A Mom Amok at amomamok.com.

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