This year has made me question a number of things, my love of New York among them. There was a time I thought that love would be forever unwavering. That, along with my love of writing. Love is funny that way, though. It burns and it burns, white-hot, blindingly hot, until it burns itself out. And I'm all burnt out on New York, on writing, on it all.
For New Yorkers, the most mundane landmarks can hold all the history of Ellis Island. I walked into strange apartment buildings, responding to roommate ads on Craigslist, and walked out with some of my best friends. And on a Penn Station platform and in Tompkins Square Park, I still sometimes step on shards of broken heart.
Between the biking, snorkeling, surfing, lazing in the hammock and cocktail mixing in Costa Rica, we kinda like to eat. Back in New York, I put at least one hot meal on the table every day for 30 years and had a robust repertoire of family-pleasing recipes -- few of which, for various reasons, can be reproduced here.