Vacation: Sunnyside Up

For my first trip to Asia, I'm going to Vietnam. Most of my relatives of a certain age look at me with horror when I mention this. That's fair; but I hope to uncover more there than their recollections.

At this point, all I've uncovered is 22 hours in coach, with 2 more to go. I'm in Hong Kong Airport now, blogging from a terminal near gate 24. My last day of eating consisted of a lot of airplane food. Most ironically, my last option: pasta or noodles? Variations on a theme, but the irony was lost on my flight attendant (noodles, clearly a chinese dish, came with black bean chicken; pasta italiano, came with four cheeses). Why can't we all just get along, culinarily? C'mon, isn't it time for a creamy gorgonzola black bean sauce?

Made me think warmly of one of my last home made meals, a perfect sunnyside up egg. I was making breakfast one morning for a friend who claimed he could show me a trick for a perfect egg. The trick I knew was to heat the oven, get the egg going in a buttery skillet, then finish it in the oven to cook the slimey white that never cooks properly on the stove top.

(Running for the plane...will give the recipe when next I post, in Vietnam!)

Independence: Basil Pesto

It's fourth of July weekend, and I'm not going anywhere. Not to Fire Island, the Jersey Shore, upstate New York, nothin'. I've never had a share anywhere (can't seem to commit for an entire summer, who knows who might invite me where?), and since no one's sweeping me away, I remain.

Fourth of July weekend in the city.

So for those of you who judiciously dole out your 10 vacation days per year, like a goldfish at the meniscus of their living room, gasping gasping gasping for those few minutes (early dismissal on a Friday? We can leave at 12:30? Oh, thank you Mr. Corporation, thank YOU!), who've never spend a long summer weekend anywhere but sitting in traffic for a few hours this way, a few hours that way, for a triple overnight somewhere, anywhere else in a crowded shared bungaloo, washing the whole thing down with a case of beer and clearing out before anyone gets on your nerves too much, allow me to tell you what it's like to spend a holiday weekend in the city.

First, and most importantly, there's one part of the population that's missing, en masse. The group that's outta here are white, full-time-job types (for the reasons stated above). The mail still gets delivered Monday, so the mailman is here for the weekend, as are all government employees; the restaurants that are closed Tuesday are still open until then, so you've got your wait staff, kitchen staff and bartenders. Starbucks staffers, the folks at Commerce Bank, anyone who punches a time card is here, along with those who can't afford a vacation.

A Manhattan friend of mine (though smart and creative, she's collecting unemployment for the summer, which squarely puts her in the city-for-the-weekend category) came out to Brooklyn yesterday to see my new place and hang out in the Park Slope. We had an underpriced Latino brunch, bought some second-hand clothes, drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and walked around Prospect Park looking at dogs and eligible straight boys (more elusive than you might think).

But what we found instead, a-plenty were the New Yorkers I'd heard about, read about, looked for, but never found in Manhattan. The Jamaican immigrants, playing soccer so intensely they mocked the heat, dreads flying everywhere. In the grilling area, there were large extended Black families, with bird-shaped octogenarians and their spectables and shocks of white hair, younger women with posteriors that defy gravity, while their kids play wiffle ball in bright new summer clothes. A Japanese family with a 6-year-old in suspenders (clearly new the US, as no overspoken Park Slope child would let his mom dress him that way), playing frisbee with a plastic plate, lesbians with mohawks and matching tattoos, old Asian women with parasols, a crazy local with American flag spandex and not much else, etc. etc. etc.

And we all enjoyed the park, passing each other with smiles and nods, laying under trees, playing volleyball, running after our dogs, children, ferrets...in our happy, peaceful American way.

I've often heard that when Jews convert to Judaism, they become more interested in Jewish customs and their Jewishness than those born into the religion. In the same way, it seems that no one loves this country more than an immigrant. Those here by choice, with reason and purpose, whether it's to make money and send for their families, open a shop, or take advantage of the freedom to just be.

So while the well-bred, born-into-it, Ivy League Americans flee their nine to sixes for crowded beaches to discuss what an idiot George Bush is, and how they can't believe what they pay in gas just to sit in traffic! This country is going down hill in record speed...), I'll stay here with the new Americans, so in love with this country, the opportunity of to have a day off, sit in the park and fly a kite.

Happy Independence Day!


Basil Pesto
Makes about 1 cup
Basil, the ultimate smell of summer (ah, it's a toss up between that and lighter fluid). This is the best way I've found to preserve and intensify that shock of basil flavor. Enjoy on pasta (hot or cold), or mix with mayonnaise and make a killer turkey sandwich with lettuce and ripe tomatoes, try it in the morning to make your own Dr. Seuss style green eggs. It's intense -- remember, a little goes a long way.

2 tablespoons pine nuts
2 cloves garlic, peeled and roughly chopped
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt, plus more as needed
2 tightly packed cups basil, stems removed
1/2 cup mild extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

In the bowl of a food processor, combine pine nuts, garlic and salt; blend to a paste. Add basil, drizzle in oil, and process until smooth. Transfer to a bowl and stir in cheese. Put plastic wrap directly on surface of pesto (or add more oil to cover pesto -- so that it will not discolor), and set aside or refrigerate.