Hautee Cuisine

Corton - SATISFACTORY
239 West Broadway
New York, NY
(212) 219-2777

I have always enjoyed reading the most scathing restaurant and film reviews, the ones that make a reader squirm, that prompt chefs to take out full page newspaper ads to libel the reviewer, and I am pleased to begin my food blogging career with one such entry.

I came to Corton at the urging of a chef friend, an experienced foodie that introduced me in my early days as a New Yorker to Eleven Madison Park, DiFara pizzeria, Blue Hill, and the Spotted Pig - he opened my eyes, and my pocketbook, to the finest cuisine New York has to offer.

Our most recent foray brought us to the Bay Area's Manresa, which was one of the finest, most delicate meals I have experienced. David Kinch, the chef at Manresa, has inspired a growing number of chefs interested in preparing multi-course tastings of minute, painstakingly presented flavors. At Manresa, the flavors are clean, bright, and revelatory, and came to us over the course of a three-hour dinner - a long sit, but memorable. Go for a long walk before your meal and prepare to be blown away.

So perhaps it did not help that we flew in from the West Coast before we took a cab down to Tribeca for our 9:00 at Corton. As we entered with our slumbering four-month-old strapped to my wife's chest, the maitre d' maligned, "We have no strollers, buggies, baby seats, or anything like that here." Hmm, I didn't know some restaurants were offering buggies, I thought.

We were seated in a timely manner and ordered a delicious Chateau Latour from their extensive list of pricey French wines. Don't come to Corton in search of bargains or Nero d'Avolas. We were promptly served three biscuit-like nibbles that were unmemorable and according to my mother-in-law, really dry. Nevertheless, they served to coat our mouths with some butter to help balance the acid of the wine.

The amuse-bouche arrived soon thereafter; a light foam gave way to a rich, buttery foie gras, which hinted at the theme for the night - something like a French bubble bath. The experience was opposite my childhood Dannon Fruit on Bottom yogurt cups - I enjoyed the light, clean top and was slightly disappointed when I got to the flavor bomb at the bottom. Mother-in-law: "I don't like French food." Things weren't looking up.

We ordered the three-course tasting and covered most of the menu. Our family tradition is to nibble and pass, which puts off diners squeamish about sharing, but allows us to taste a wide range of what a kitchen offers. "From the garden," a dish that actually earns its own quotation marks on the menu, is a nod to David Kinch and Alain Ducasse, and was the family favorite. Snappy autumn vegetables and fragrant herbs were indeed reminiscent of a rich vegetable garden, fat and salt took a back seat to the illuminating qualities of well-selected produce.

The downside of passing dishes at a place like Corton is that each dish comes with three or four separate components. Our three-course prix fixe came with no less than twenty-five plates. We puzzled at first over why a chef would not plate these minutiae on one large plate and decided that most of the flavors were not designed to go in one's mouth at the same time. In fact, we puzzled over how, and in what order, to eat each item. It was as if the item on the menu was served in the middle on a larger plate, like a sun, and a series of small plates orbited the larger dish, like satellites. Unfortunately, the flavors rarely belonged in the same solar system.

Worst of all, we waited over an hour between our appetizers and main course, and when we complained, they rushed our entrees out undercooked. The fish, one a cod and the other a striped bass, was chewy, requiring a knife to tear apart, clearly not spending enough time in whatever sous vide or confit contraption it was that took over an hour to cook the diminutive pieces of fish. The sauces were tasty, but come on, fish? Get it right. The duck, too, was a let down. Rare strips of breast meat were topped with a chewy piece of fatty skin - good thinking, mediocre execution.

The brioche is a good dessert. Don't bother with the others. The fruit version of the "From the Garden" paled in comparison, served as the wrong punctuation for a sentence that began pretty well and got progressively worse. On our way out of the restaurant, the maitre d' could not find my mother-in-laws coat, because it had fallen on the floor.

One snooty diner commented not too subtly that she had expected a nice restaurant, not a daycare. Our baby had slept through the entire hours-long experience, attached to my wife's chest, so we were nonplussed, to say the lease. Perhaps it was the food that was at the heart of her discontent, or the pretentious service, or the time between courses. Or perhaps she was delusional, and she liked the restaurant. One can't be sure.

A New Day

It's hard already, and we haven't hardly gotten started. I was never one for the nine to fiver - a ski bum and NOLS instructor, a kayaking guide and sometimes substitute teacher. These were not choices I made to celebrate my early twenties; I was proclaiming and celebrating each day a lifestyle I believed in. I began believing in it in high school English class, having my eyes opened by the pages of The Death of Ivan Ilyich and The Fall, hearing a story from my cherished teacher about a father, unhappy with the choices he had made in his dreary life, that while driving constantly considered steering into oncoming traffic. I did not infer at the time that he must have been talking about himself, but I did get the point - don't let life get away from you. Take it and make it your own. And reflect on it, damn it, or it's empty.

So here I am, in the spirit of reflection and in an attempt to be true to myself, admitting that it's been hard transitioning to fatherhood, and now especially as I get back to my seven-thirty to fiver. I was for a week without Milo - which though people like to joke must have meant a welcome return to blissful nights of uninterrupted slumber - I missed him and the new me like crazy. I'm not whole without my little one even at this early juncture, and to work through the day as an emotionally partial human being makes me short with incompetent colleagues, less willing to put up with my boss's transparent attempts to make employees work much more than they are paid for, and bitter when I get home that my wife has spent the whole day with Milo. And there you have it, the sad tale of every working parent in the history of modern America.

So I'm not asking you to feel bad for me, but letting you know that the same me that resisted the nine to fiver in the first place does not buy in or accept this shopworn model of work and parenting. I plan on carving out a new path (or is it an old one?) that avoids the high-speed superhighway of drivers compelled by their self-loathing to steer into oncoming traffic, the one with speed limits and obnoxious tailgaters, the one where pulling over and taking a break puts a traveller in grave danger of being trampled. I seek a foot path, one that meanders and whose nebulous nature makes it sometimes hard to follow. It's surrounded by untamed wilderness, and thunderstorms will rain down in all their beautiful intensity. But it never misses the best vistas, I can always set my own human pace, and every place is a good one to stop and take a break.

Milo and Desmond

Again, no perceivable reaction to other baby!

Milo and Lucia

Milo and his little playmate/girlfriend Lucia who he has actually
never really noticed. Yet!

More Milo on his first car ride

The loves of my life

Some Advice About Honesty

I'll never forget the time I told my parents I was going to Taco Bell and had to call them four and a half hours later to get picked up from Kyle's squad car-filled driveway. Would it have been better just to tell them that K-man's "p"s were out of town and we were going to throw a rager at his place? Maybe I should not even have gotten that far - good sense should have set in when Kyle gave money to his ex-con buddy (an old friend of the family) to pick up the beers. I'll never forget waking up sloshed and alone on Kyle's bed to the sound of a police radio and someone vigorously knocking on the door. I eyed the second-story window and thought better of it. They sent me downstairs with the rest of the busted, and we lined up to use the phone. The jig was up; it was time to come clean.

A few years of complete and Christian honesty later, I partook in a little gag with a group of friends. We called it the Senior Prank. Jamie stole a key to the school from an oblivious janitor that had left it hanging on the roll-a-garbage-can when she went in to clean the ladies' loo. We also broke the lock on a window just to make sure we would have a way in. Then, at two o'clock in the morning, we climbed in through said window and proceeded to douse the hallways with a few cases of ice-warm Miller Genuine Draft. We had planned well enough that we were unburdened by the task of opening each individual can; we stored the beers in lawn chemical sprayers, with the pumps - you know, the backpack thing. Then we spraypainted the lockers: Seniors '97. I know, not the most creative tag for a group of college hopefuls also hoping not to get caught. The next day was a stressful one, as the administration put the pressure on to catch the culprits. They announced that all seniors would take finals, which were usually waived in the final semester of senioritis, unless the perpetrators turned themselves in. We made it through a tough day of cutting diatribes by some of our most respected teachers ("I am personally offended by this act of utter disrespect..." - you can imagine), but had a big powwow after school in which it was determined that some, but not all, of us would turn ourselves in. Some students just had too much at stake. Allow me to assert that I, and the others that courageously but stupidly turned themselves in, am no longer in touch with the aforementioned. Cowards. But I shall let bygones be bygones and get to the point: we never should have told the truth! We had them by the nuts. We were all smart kids, had covered our tracks, and had not told even our closest friends; we had even raised our hands during that grueling day and pretended to express our outrage at the morally defunct individuals that could have done such a thing. The deans roasted us on a spit. We got mugshots, went before the judge, did all kinds of community service, and paid restitution. In the end, I got a hot girlfriend and the last ten days off of school.

So, if you see your neighbor's cat munching on your weed plant, do you call the dude? He could call the cops! Gray constitutes the many beautiful shades between indigo black and pearly white, and I am not sure that people who go spitting sensitive truths all over the place are much better off than those who guard and mete out the truth parsimoniously. After all, since you know he's gonna be fine, might it be funny just to watch kitty enjoy himself for a while?

Summer of the Nest

Though a glutton for free time, I have never been one for sitting around. I like the idea of lethargy, and I enjoy the first few minutes and even hours of spreading myself out slothfully on the day bed; however, my mind is constantly planning ways to wear out my restless body. As a result, this summer of domesticity has found me digging (you'll understand the pun later) into a few memorable projects that have long been on the to-do list.

My proudest home improvement effort thus far wrapped up at the end of June when I cut the ribbon on the Man Room. Some may take issue with the name, but I have yet to hear an apter title for the smelly garage turned ultimate masculine music room. One of the more hilarious measures I took to pimp out the space was when I changed the hinges on the mini fridge to allow a sedentary couch user to open the door without obstructing his beer view. It's nice enough for in-law stays yet equipped for band practice. Bring your special friend for a romantic evening or just stop by and pick a while; it's all possible in the Man Room.

Behind the structure formerly known as the garage is an earthen hemisphere that has risen from the clay. I've always wanted a pizza and bread oven, and after helping repair earthen ovens on the Zuni reservation in southern New Mexico last summer, I decided to make one of my own (interestingly enough, the Spanish actually taught the Zuni how to build their "traditional" ovens, but civilizations all over the ancient world had some version of the earth oven - tandoori ovens, for example). I borrowed a book from a friend and followed the directions. I dug a deep hole and filled it with substrate. The dirt from deep down in the hole was a rich clay, which I would later use to build the oven. I built a brick and mortar base from old red pavers I had laying around. I created an insulating floor layer with old beer bottles, hamster bedding, and mud. I bought a few yellow fire bricks (hard to find) to make a hearth and archway (what a pain). I made a dome of wet sand, covered it with a layer of newspaper, then began packing on a four-inch thick layer of clay mixed with sand and water. A few days later, I tenuously dug out the sand (touch-and-go) and lit a fire to harden the walls. I added another four-inch layer of mud and hamster bedding and I had myself an oven. I have cooked two delicious meals in it, and I have yet to burn down anyone's house. Pizza and sourdough bread are next. Add that to your reasons to stay a night in the Man Room.

Lastly, the vegetable garden has been going off this year, and especially the zucchinis. Someone remind me to plant only one zuc plant next year, because I have a plethora of squash that likes to go gargantuan overnight. As I brainstormed dishes to help consume my zucchini, I eventually came to pickles. I consulted the comprehensive Joy of Pickling and a more accessible source: my mother. I ended up making a beautiful batch of zucchini pickles that she and my grandmother, Babi, used to make many moons ago. Family recipes are indeed precious - this may be the only one I have - but I don't have any proprietary notions about it, so please shoot me an email if you have a zucchini explosion and want some tips. You may want to wait to see if I get boccholism.

Gotta go, as Leila is starting to have back pains, which could mean something!

Piddling Around

I am waiting, waiting, waiting. I sleep (badly, barely) sitting up. I look out the window for inordinately long. I write thank-you letters. I read the Twilight series despite my scorn for popular literature. Though I cannot really bend down to tie my shoes, I hike miles daily with Sammy the dog in Tilden. My acute sense of smell is driving me crazy: Sammy always smells like maple syrup after running through the underbrush in the hills of Berkeley. The birthing tub smells like a pool. The kitchen smells like chicken because my wonderful husband/chef is making stock. I am waiting.

An Etymology of Summer

The final weeks of school robbed me of my desire to read or write; most of my "free" time found me tied up with a hammer in one hand and a spatula in the other - not to mention the tens of hours I spent writing progress reports. Nothing saps a writer's creative impulses like obligatory creativity. But hark, there was a light at the end of that tunnel, and I have arrived at that warmly familiar state of boredom and inertia that can only be described as summer.

In my newly-won free time, I did some research on this word summer, and what I can tell you is that Old(e) English (sumor) and Proto-Germanic (sumar) etymologies suggest that summer has been around for a really long time. Now this was not in my research, but I think it is safe to infer that people thought it was cool even back then. Shit grew. They ate the shit, fermented the shit that was left over and later drank the shit, then ran around naked drunk on shit because it was nice outside. They made love, had babies, and now you exist. It's all because of summer, really.

So this morning I woke up after eight, made a giant press of coffee, read the New York Times, and watched some YouTube videos. My coffee is cold now, I'm updating this blog for the first time in months, and I feel a few hours of guitar practice in the Man Room coming on. Stay tuned for a blog on the earth oven I'm building in the backyard and an invitation to christen it with a wood-fired pizza party.

37 weeks

So a baby is considered full-term at 37 weeks, which for us is tomorrow. I feel hopeful that this little one will come soon after that, even though the research shows that first-time moms usually have their babies after their due dates. I am tired, tired, tired of being so slow and waddle-y. There are no comfortable positions for sitting or sleeping. It is hot. Come on, baby! I want to meet you.

Henna belly!

Randy Johnson at bat for the Giants

Flight of the Conchords encore!

Busy Saturday

Not being able to sleep in because one is too fat and uncomfortable has its benefits. Today I've graded a bunch of papers (I have a lot, lot more remaining), eaten three meals--all different ethnicities/persuasions, accompanied Mike on a flooring mission for La Casita (the back unit he is fixing up), returned and bought new maternity clothes at Target, replaced Sammy's missing frisbee at REI, and taken Sammy swimming/frisbeeing at Point Isabel. It's a beautiful day and Mike is planting delphiniums which remind me of the Missoula Farmers Market. Five weeks of school left, ten weeks of pregnancy. I can do this!

A Reunion with Point Reyes

Today I returned to Point Reyes for the first time since we left in 2006. The oysters of the Hog Island company in Marshall and the Johnson company on the peninsula sustained me in my years after college, as I tried to eek out a living on sunshine and kayak tours. I felt around in the darkness of my new adult life out there and it provided for me.

My company was my brother and best man, Alec. We rose at 7:30 and packed the car in steadily falling rain. We stopped at Happy Donuts for apple fritters; I laughed when Alec was duped by a jelly doughnut look-alike that turned out to be filled with disgustard, I mean lemon custard. Happy Donuts - what a name. The usual tunes accompanied us on our drive out to Lucas Valley Road and around Nicasio Reservoir. We plotted our course of action.

We began by driving up Mt. Vision and mushroom hunting from the car. We covered tons of ground and found a wealth of fungus: agaricus augustus, the hedgehog, amanita rubescens, and others. We hiked out the Estero Trail to an enchanted forest of white pine - a real anomaly for the area - in search of more mushrooms. Alec came upon two fawns playing dead when their mother ran off. We were able to approach to within five or so feet (and perhaps more, but we feared the mother's retaliation and the possibility of later appearing on a FOX reality show called, "When Deer Attack!"), and we stood watching their chests rise and fall, wondering how their fear could be disguised with such tranquility. On the hike out we happened upon a bobcat hunting rabbits. Alec surreptitiously tossed sharp grass stalks at me that stuck to my shirt with the sole purpose of annoying me.

We stopped for lunch at Cafe Reyes, polishing a dozen oysters, some Racer 5 IPA, and a couple of wood-oven pizzas. We then headed north on the 1, picking up kayaks from a friend and destined for Nick's Cove, a quiet launch up Tomales Bay where kayakers are in the company of crabbers and halibut fishermen. After loading the boats and pulling on our Gore-Tex and neoprene, we paddled across to Hog Island, the Tule Elk Refuge, and up to Rope Swing Beach. We glided through the familiar waters, beheld grebes, coots, loons, buffleheads, a leopard shark, and a bat ray. We pulled up next to some tall, white sandstone bluffs and marvelled at the gnarled figures of bright red starfish gripping the cliffside.

At Rope Swing we got out to stretch our legs for a few moments and I took Alec back to the place where the old swing used to be. The rope swing is broken, now, and I wonder if that rope, tied to an old limb on an ancient cypress tree isn't symbolic of something I've lost and could feel today. It might have been a foot out of reach, and perhaps I could have jumped and grabbed it, but it would not have been the same, and I might have gotten hurt.

I love Point Reyes all the same, and perhaps more than ever, for all the things it has always meant to me: freedom, contemplation, invigoration, biodiversity, and friendship. But the peninsula keeps moving, just a few inches a year, up toward Alaska and the Aleutian Trench, where it will some day disappear into the Pacific Ocean, rope swing and all.

Lazy Saturday

Our internet service is back after a week without--ATT punished us for getting rid of our land line by turning off internet for a while. It was actually nice not to check email fifty times a day!

Sammy and I are gazing out the window at the Josephine Street traffic and at Mike's beautiful front garden. He has worked magic. Mike is off busking at the Berkeley Farmer's Market with Brian. They call themselves the Darryl Brothers, I think.

In terms of the pregnancy, I'm feeling fine, just heavy and slow. Less nausea, more heartburn. Supposedly heartburn means the baby has hair on his head. Mike doesn't exactly pass along hairy genes. I pulled out his one and only chest hair the other day because I was bored!

We are starting to receive gifts from our Target and Babies R Us registries, which makes everything feel a bit more real and imminent.

Ah, I love having nowhere to go and nothing to do (sort of)!

Playing in Cesar Chavez Park

Belly at 26 weeks in front of Umbrian countryside

This one's for you, Kristin Grrr!
And that husband of yours...whatever his name is.

Can you find Mu in this photograph?
How about Milo?

Separate flower from zucche
stuff with mozzarella di bufala
acciughe e sale
twist flower closed
dip in egg
coat with breadcrumbs
saute in olive oil.
Mangia!

Umbria, from our humble lodgings at the Palazzo Cesi (circa 1500).

Unnamed travel companion enjoying a post-lunch digestif.

"No fotos!"
Oops.
I have decided that Michelangelo's David is the greatest thing since
Phish @ Hampton 3/7/09.

Let's all go to church...

Back from Florence and Umbria

I'm sitting in the apartment off Via Flaminia, catching up on email. It's cloudy, and Mike is watching the Rome series on DVD. Florence was lovely as always, home to both Botticelli's Venus and Michelangelo's David, two of the most gorgeous people ever created, in my opinion (Venus and David, not Botticelli and Michelangelo). Mom was ever the patient and efficient guide. Note to everyone who wishes to visit the major museums of Italy: reserve tickets in advance! We slid past people who were waiting three and half hours to get in to the Uffizi. If you know me well, you know what sublime joy this gave me. Jolan was an amazing museum-goer, stopping in front of each work of art, jotting down in a little notepad things to remember. We ate less-than-stellar pizza and pretty good gelato, no match for anything in Naples (pizza) or Della Palma in Rome (gelato). Our 24-hour visit to Mariano and Marie Laure Cittadini-Cesi in Umbria was dreamy. They live in a medieval palace, truly, complete with cavernous fireplaces, heavy wooden beams, frescoed walls. It was stunning. I will post photos later! This week has gone by much too quickly, as we knew it would...

Arrivare a Roma

"Here lies Raphael, whom Nature feared would outdo her while alive, but now that he is gone fears she, too, will die."

-the poet Bembo's epitaph on the tomb of Raphael in the Pantheon

To behold the rosy glow of late afternoon light on the yellow-washed masonry of Roman apartments is to know one has arrived in the profoundly beautiful axis of Italian urban life. Long white curtains run along the tall, slatted hardwood doors opening onto a narrow ledge of a balcony planted with compact spring flowers. The curtains sway gently in the breeze and reflect the tranquil mood of this Palm Sunday. Zio Carlo's extensive, tidy shelves of books on classical subjects - art history, mostly - repose on the far wall. A Renaissance painting - not a reproduction - graces the entirety of the adjacent wall with a baptism scene. Darkness all around, the artist paints a beacon of light on the penitent sinner mid-canvas. I took time out to write this blog from preparing a plate of burrata with pomodori, sweet olives, bread purchased by the kilo, and parmiggiano reggiano good enough to slice and eat with one's fingers. I can get used to this life. I think I will return to my Peroni and finish the last pages of the pocket paperback I started on the plane yesterday. Rome, take me away.

Sammy modeling baby's overalls

Goat Rock

Here we are about two hours north of Berkeley at Goat Rock. Mike bouldered and Sammy and I walked along the cliffs above the Pacific. Sammy got to chase deer--he immediately started mimicking their bouncing action--it was too cute. Then we went to Nash and Tanya's house in Sebastopol for food and friends and music. We slept in a tent--our baby's first night "outside." I used two mattress pads!

Eastern Sierra

As the sage brush flew by at 70 mph, a finger of nimbostratus reached down into the Owens Valley, and I thought back on the last day and a half of nonstop exhilaration. I had climbed at the world-class Happy Boulders near Bishop, fished the middle Owens River and pulled nineteen trout out in under three hours, skiied waist deep powder and taken numberous face shots at Mammoth, cooked homemade gnocchi with fresh sage, lemon, and bacon, and soaked in geothermal tubs near the Green Church - all in less than thirty-six hours. I had been drunk on dry mountain air, and best of all, I enjoyed the company of my brother and favorite sidekick for all the aforementioned.

I bolted Friday after work, sped back to my house and loaded the car with the gear I had packed the night before. I called to Sammy the dog, "Load up!" and he hopped in his seat in the rear of the 4-Runner. Sammy was to be a surprise for my parents, whom I still thought I would be picking up in Reno, half-way through the drive. We were gone by three, headed at a slow crawl through Friday traffic east on the 80.

I did not arrive in Mammoth until 11:30 that night; escaping the Bay proved brutally difficult, as it often does. Throughout the drive I felt the creeping anxiety of my aloneness, and further still when I learned my folks had missed their flight. It would be just the brothers then, and what my brother called the "Hippie Triathalon."

We would wake early Saturday, boulder for a few hours, fish for the next few, then hike a nearby peak and ski down to a hot spring. In true hippie fashion, we made it through the climbing and fishing (yes, nineteen fish in just a few short hours!), and opted to skip the skiing, buy a six-pack of small batch beer and head straight to the springs.

While I reclined in the liquid biproduct of volcanic activity, wind and building cloud cover confirmed what Alec had told me upon arrival: snow was on the way. The next morning we woke to over a foot of new snow. It would be epic, and the hand-rolled gnocchis of the night before would provide ample sustenance for us to charge. With Alec as my guide, I skiied from nine til noon, dipping into glades, skirting powdery faces, and generally reaping the fruits of a frozen Eden.

I was out of town by two, as my bro had to go to work, and I had the task of a long drive in front of me. All said and done, I drove sixteen hours - exactly a third of the weekend - which is too much...in most cases.

Happy at the Happy Boulders

This is Alec and Sammy in the Eastern Sierra, where Alec lives these days.

22 1/2 weeks

Adi asked me to be better about updating everyone on the pregnancy. It's hard! My body does change every week, but I don't find the joy in it that some women describe, and I don't want to be a complainer. The truth is that I feel very heavy and off-balance, and if I am not incredibly conscientious about my eating, I feel sick all the time. I know that my belly looks beautiful, and I am very much in love with the life growing inside me, but being pregnant hasn't exactly been "fun." Teaching surly seventh graders hasn't helped! Two things that have helped are our meetings with our amazing midwife, Amrit Khalsa, and new friendships with pregnant women in our neighborhood. If all goes well, Amrit will deliver our son into the world in the comfort of our own home in Berkeley, just as Cristina my sister and I entered the world in my parents' home in Cincinnati in the late 70s and early 80s. I know this could be considered a controversial decision, but Mike and I feel very comfortable with it, and would appreciate if you do not try to "talk us down" from it! Amrit has being delivering babies at home for 40 years, and has attended about 1,500 home births, an average of 3-4 per month. She is a force of nature and we trust her implicitly!

What else can I tell? I have surrendered my full time position at Prospect Sierra School for next year and hope to find a way to work part time, either there or elsewhere. It will be a financial stretch for us, but Mike and I want for one of us to be present for those precious first months of life of our first-born! We can only guess at the ways in which our lives will never be the same!

California live oak

This is Mike's mushrooming basket. He's been obsessed with mushrooms lately. Ah, fungi!

Our dog Sammy

We love this guy. He turns six on Sunday, the ides of March. Six years young!

Sammy and the Cat

In the fading light of this Wednesday afternoon, Sam the dog and I ambled back from the dog park. He lagged behind, out of breath from a brisk game of Frisbee, I in no hurry to get home and put on the water for dinner. We passed a bunch of dried-out mushrooms, the stems withered so only the dessicated caps remained, graying in a hilly lawn. I paused for a moment at a box on a neighbor's curb, in which was a small give-away pile of books: The Whale and the Reactor and two books in a series named Judaism for Young People. Sammy the dog took interest in an all-black cat preening in the subtle light of late day on a low wooden railing. The cat sat erect and proud, took notice of Sam but did not budge as the gap between them diminished. I, in no hurry, stopped to let Sam marvel at this mysterious and wild creature whose owner released to the suburban wilderness, who was seeming to do better than thrive, was the king of his domain and to whom a dog much larger in stature posed no threat. Sam the dog minded his manners, even as I paid slack into his leash - never letting go, but tempting his instinct. The regal cat eventually lost interest, his eyes gazing elsewhere, and we moved on.

Baby's first stylin' duds

Thanks, Kristin! Can't wait to nerdily match the baby!

Corporate supporters

Happy robot

The mothership

It's a boy!

Today we had our 20-week ultrasound and found out that our baby is a boy. Mike is all starry eyed.

Rainbow on the way to work

Teach to Live

What will happen when once wealthy parents pull their children from private schools and place them in the public system? How will the already underfunded bureaucracies of urban public schools deal with this influx? I especially wonder how these parents, accustomed to being heard by administrators and teachers and used to paying for a say in the way their children's school works, are going to adjust to disenfranchisement. Arnold Schwarzenegger will be their head mistress; good luck getting a private audience. I have heard that two in three private schools with under four hundred students will close in the next few years. I do not know the statistics, but I do know that means my school is likely to close. I am likely to be looking for a job, along with the other good and bad teachers that have lost their jobs. This is the first time in my career I have felt subject to a possible institutional failure, and I should be grateful - I have heard so many times (every year?) of public school layoffs for lack of funds. When one signs on to be a part of a culture of the wealthy, even as a minion he or she nevertheless becomes subject to that culture, and the culture of the rich that has seemed so invincible for so long all of a sudden feels vulnerable.

Rainy Monday

Mondays are always rainy, I suppose, yet this one, with its deluge that started some time before dawn, seemed somehow tranquil. The time-sensitive emails some thoughtful being composed over the weekend were replaced by raindrops - a simple inconvenience for which Gore-tex provided an elegant solution; I have not yet found such an effective repellent for those multi-paragraph, carefully-worded emails. I love inclimate weather, because routines are swept away in the overflowing gutters, and life is what one does beneath a tiny umbrella.

Phish

Sammy look-alike

This dog was sitting outside Little Red on Sixth Avenue. It looks like
Sammy!

DiFara pizza

Always worth the trip.