goods and heroes

happy grad (and corn bread too)

I made a quick trip to Boulder, CO this past weekend to watch my sweet niece Maddie (and 249 of her classmates) graduate from high school. The day after the ceremony Maddie and her best friend Melanie hosted a party at the farm. Since Maddie is going off to University of Kansas and Melanie is going to University of Colorado at Boulder, the theme was "KU vs CU." They chose cupcakes for their dessert and they were a raucous group effort that spanned state lines and involved a lot of lively banter. Ted and I made the little cupcake toppers, my niece Cassidy and my sister's best friend Kelly made the cupcakes and I made both chocolate and cream cheese frosting. (Note that I made enough frosting for like, 500 cupcakes and we only had something like 80.) And then the morning of the party Maddie and Melanie frosted them and topped them with sprinkles. 

For the food, of course Sylvia and Lyle went all out. They did two menus, one Kansas-inspired and the other Boulder-centric. So for KU there were pulled pork sandwiches, pickles, potato salad, coleslaw and cornbread. (I think they might have momentarily forgot that Kansas City, MO and Lawrence, Kansas are two totally different places and locales, but hey, why quibble? The food rocked.) For Boulder there was grilled tofu, chicken and buffalo skewers (the Mascot of CU Boulder is Ralphie the Buffalo) edamame and a Quinoa salad. 

A few hours before the party my sister ended up having to make a run to the store so she asked me to make the corn bread. Using her favorite Fanny Farmer cornbread recipe I quadrupled it and prayed that well, that it wouldn't completely suck. My sister is quite the accomplished baker and I am not so I was a tad concerned that I would somehow blow it. Not to mention I had high altitude working against me.

I am happy to say that not only did my corn bread not suck it was actually pretty darn good. It was moist and it rose well and crisped up on the edges. I adore Fanny Farmer, her recipes always come through for me.

Maddie liked it too, she told me so. (And isn't she gorgeous?) I can't wait to visit her out in Lawrence, Kansas, a town I've never visited. Maybe we can figure out together what the local cuisine really is. And maybe we can make cupcakes and cornbread together. 

stone soup terrariums

We had a lovely Easter up in Michigan last weekend . . . how great it is to be with friends and watch all of the kids tear around rather happily, whether it was playing in the woods or hunting for eggs. (And then eating entirely too much candy in a very short window of candy eating time.)  

When Ted and I and the boys had been up in Michigan a few weeks prior, I was struck by how lush and velvety the moss was in the woods. And there was a lot of it, just carpeting the ground everywhere. So I got it in my head that somehow during the Easter weekend we should make terrariums. (Because there wasn't already enough to do, with you know,  boiling and dyeing eggs and stuffing plastic eggs with candy and foofing up each kid's Easter basket with a few special trinkets and hiding the eggs and going out and hunting for them and making all the meals and just hanging out with each other.) I shot an email to everyone coming and told them to bring some sort of a clear glass vase so that each family (or kid) could make a terrarium. The next day I scored two small vases for a buck each at the Brown Elephant thrift store.

So on Sunday, after the egg hunt and after lunch (and before a glorious Easter supper) Sarah and I decided it was time to make the terrariums. I looked to her to be our ad hoc terrarium leader as I knew she'd taught a class on how to make them years before. She informed me matter-of-factly that we would need gravel, sand and potting soil and then of course the moss, which we would go collect from the woods. Hmmmmmmm, for a minute there I realized I was in a bit of a pickle. I had brought my thrift store jars and that was it. I didn't bring any gravel or sand or potting soil. All I had been thinking about was moss and jars.

But then I remembered that the vacant lot kitty-corner from the house in Michigan is basically this hyper-mini dune, when you drive by you can see the sand sitting on the plants. So we grabbed an old bucket and a beach shovel and headed over. As we walked across the lawn we noticed under a big old Maple overlooking the driveway there was a tattered but mostly intact bag of topsoil from last summer, about two-thirds full. So we set that aside. We started toward the sand again and then we noticed that at the spot where the street meets the driveway in front of the house was a nice little river of busted up and loose gravel, right there free for the taking. So we shoveled that into our bucket. And then we walked over to the little corner dune which when we go there wasn't so little and was covered with sand but also this really cool moss that has a slight red tinge to it. So we collected sand and this "surprise" moss. (Who knew moss could grow and thrive in dull sun?) Then we came back and headed to the woods where we collected more moss and some sticks. In a very short time we had gone from not "having" any of the key items we needed to make a terrarium to having then all and then some.

We called the kids out to join us when it quickly became apparent that four of the kids had not brought glass vases. Eyes started to get very big at the thought of not being able to make what everyone else was making. But Ted thought quickly and remembered that there was a stash of pickle jars in a drawer in the kitchen. And so disaster was averted and every kid (and even a few moms) got to make a terrarium to take home.And I gotta tell you, a pickle jar makes just as fabulous a terrarium as any vase.

Sam made a "desert" terrarium (in a cool old olive jar -- we gave one of our vases to one of the wide-eyed kinder when it was apparent that we didn't have enough to go around) with the dune moss and I made a woodland terrarium with the moss from the forest. It was so easy and super satisfying and here, one week later I have managed to not kill my moss. So that's a good thing right? I added these two tiny mushrooms that Sarah had given me for Christmas, sort of kitsches it up a little but I like it just fine.

And so now when I look at this sweet little terrarium sitting on the window sill in our dining room, it reminds of a lovely Easter weekend up in Michigan but it also reminds me how good it is to be thrifty and resourceful and to cobble things together creatively with friends. Kind of like making stone soup. In a jar. With moss.

ps if you'd like to make your own terrarium there is a ton of info on the web. This site and this blog both offer very straightforward directions.

gravy, part 1

I hope you had a festive and happy Thanksgiving.  We celebrated with Grandma and Grandpa (and all the Chicago cousins and Aunts and Uncles) in Hyde Park on Thursday. Over the years this has evolved into a such a happy and easygoing gathering. Franny makes the turkey and the guests bring all the sides. I woke up on Thursday, skipped the parades on TV and made my bread, sausage and water chestnut stuffing. I just love the simplicity of bringing one pot to the celebration and adding it to all the others on the table (Larry's bread, Carole's sweet potatoes, Rachel's cranberry sauce, Allison's salad). It sounds corny as all get out, but I think this communal approach is very much in the spirit of the original Thanksgiving gathering, no? Only, I don't think the Pilgrim's stuffing (if they even ate it way back then) came to the supper in a much loved Le Creuset after rattling around the back of an old Volvo wagon . . .

No matter, do you know what my very favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal is? It's the gravy. Ah, the gravy. I believe strongly that the gravy can make or ruin a turkey gathering. A so-so turkey, most people are willing to overlook and happily douse some gravy over the top. Ditto for dry stuffing or too lumpy mashed potatoes. But if you have bad or (gasp!) no gravy, well it just doesn't seem like Thanksgiving to me. Of course, I am biased and sentimental since my mom made a righteously good gravy and it was the very last thing that was set on the table. When the gravy appeared, we had the green light to start passing all the other platters.

But the last five or so years we have celebrated Thanksgiving here in Chicago and we have looked to Ira, a second cousin of Ted's (by marriage)  to make the gravy at Thanksgiving. And every year, he totally delivers. He melts the butter and then makes a roux with flour and then adds the pan drippings and stirs and stirs and lets it reduce. I am usually standing around, watching, talking, being somewhere between a busy-body and a truly interested witness. As I am typing this, it is dawning on me that I almost always hung very close to my mom as she did the final phases of the gravy, so I bet I like to be by Ira and his gravy making because it is where I was always was as a kid. But to be totally honest, in those first years of the Ira-graving-making, I stood close guard because I wanted to make sure he was doing it "right." Not that I am any whiz at gravy-making, that's for certain. But I am an obsessive observer of how proper gravy is made. That seems to be an annoying culinary skill of mine, I can tell you how it's supposed to be done, even if I haven't made it or haven't stepped forward to make the thing itself.

But back to Ira and the gravy. It's not as rich as my mom's, and it's actually lighter in color, but I also think it has half the fat, which isn't necessarily a bad thing at all. But it is thick and full of the flavor of the bird and so, so good. Plus, Ira is able to make the gravy and entertain the ever changing throngs who zip, bump and waddle through the kitchen, ranging from pets, toddlers and guests who want to chat and even a certain pesky cousin-in-law who insists on peeking at her stuffing in the oven.

Just as you know, things often don't go as planned, especially around the holidays and when you are in the heat of gravy making in a kitchen that isn't yours. And so Ira had his gravy done and was ladling it into the two gravy boats. As he was ladling the gravy in, something happened, I still don't know what, but I came in and the pan was upended and there was a glorious rich, thick wall of golden gravy flowing over the top of the stove (think Niagara Falls) and onto the kitchen floor. Ira was standing there, with his wooden spoon in his hand, sort of frozen and gasping and chewing back words that would make a sailor blush. It really did feel like slow motion the minute I saw it. But then a spoon was grabbed and a wide bowl came into play and we managed to sort of squeegee all the gravy floating on the stove top into the second gravy boat. The gravy on the floor was lost, lapped up by the dogs and an assortment of wet rags. 

Ira was blue for a short spell and I so understood why . . . after stirring and making this liquid gold, this humble but beautiful concoction, he had to watch more than half of it literally be washed away. Onto the the floor. But after a little time to breathe and a Zen-like moment to be reminded that we had two very full boats of gravy, his spirits were up and he was ready to enjoy the gathering and the array of dishes. And so we went and piled up our plates with amazing food and yes, poured the wonderful gravy on the parts where we wanted it. Every last drop of gravy from those two boats was devoured. Scoured out in happy gleaning.

That was grace under fire, for Ira and that was good gravy.  I am so thankful for that.

dia de los muertos, part 2

We had ourselves a little Day of the Dead fiesta here last night. I figured it was time for me to get together with friends and honor my mom in an upbeat, colorful and communal way. (It was her birthday on Friday and so it made twice as much sense to celebrate.)

Both Sam and I really enjoyed the art activities they had at the Mexican Fine Art Museum when we went last week. So we set up a table for the kids where you could decorate a skull and make a couple of ofrendas. Over at Secret Agent Josephine's blog I found this whimsical ofrenda download, so I printed some of those up. 

I went to the Dulcelandia store to get some cajeta lollipops and I noticed they had blank sugar skulls for sale. Blank as in you get to decorate them yourself. I was so excited when I saw them I let out a little yelp. I bought a box of 20 and the lollipops and smiled all the way home. For the party I made a super basic royal icing, dyed it different colors and set everything out.

It was messy going with the skulls but the kids dug it. I mean, come on--hyper-bright sugary icing stuck to your fingers which you have to lick off? Not such a bad deal. Plus, I put out these tiny gum drops which the kids used as little fetching hats and then popped a few in their mouths. 

 
Oh and we ate, how we ate! I made sopa de tortilla and picked up a couple dozen tamales down in Pilsen. My neighbor Beth brought an enormous bowl of guacamole, my friend Sarah brought a gorgeous bowl of brothy beans and my other neighbor Maria brought dozens of delicious chicken and green chile burritos (made with chiles we brought back from Colorado) and a wonderful bowl of Mexican red rice. It felt like an old fashioned neighborly pot luck, in the best way. We had good conversation, the kids were tearing around the house, we went back for seconds and we just got to hang out with each other. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. Exactly. 

 

thoughts

I must admit that I am feeling a little hesitant and a tad self-conscious with this post. Not sure what the tone of the post after I posted that my Mom passed away really ought to be. So I think I am going to just go with my gut on this one and try and be myself and share a tiny little sliver of the somethings happening in the last week or so.

Well, basically, it's an odd and relatively mundane thing that happens when someone you love very much dies. Life around you still goes on. The kids still need to be fed and bathed and you get a postcard that your Saveur subscription is just about over and dogs still bark out the window and dirty clothes pile up. Cars honk, leaves fall gloriously from the trees, you walk by a condo and you smell garlic simmering. The checkout person at the little produce shop gossips in Spanish to the checker on the other side of you as she scans your apples, pears and bananas. You get an email from school saying lice has appeared in a certain classroom. You try to make chocolate chip cookies and end up with puddles of oozing dough and try really hard not to cry because crying over chocolate cookies at this time would be really stupid. You walk to the bus and rejoice in it, you go to birthday parties and pumpkin patches and a harvest festival. You walk to school and kick leaves. Your son starts a list of how many decorated Halloween houses he see and is currently at 158. You curse someone in traffic since you are running late to a meeting and they are in your way. You eat lukewarm Ramen straight from the pot and it tastes superb. You do a late night run to Target for diapers and walk the aisles like you're in slow motion. You clip you nails on the bus even though you know you shouldn't.

But in the middle of all of these things . . . you get a card. Or twelve in one day. Or someone at work stops and puts their hand on your elbow and says how sorry they are. Or you walk into your neighborhood bookshop and they stop the registers, get off the phone and get off the computer to come hold you, tightly. All three of them. Your gorgeously sensitive husband with a terrible cold is fuzzily aware that you got up, packed lunches, changed diapers, filled cereal bowls and then takes one look at you and says, "It's okay to go back to bed." And you do. Your neighbor (that you want to know better) locks your gaze in the narrow hallway as you prepare to carve up pumpkins, hands you a foil-wrapped burrito and asks questions about the mom she never met. You get emails from across the globe and a call from a college friend driving to Fresno, CA and she didn't even know you were born there. People you know are extra kind to you and you feel it and you appreciate it on a level you never thought you would. And even though it is hard, you know it will get easier and you know you will be okay and you even know it's okay to miss someone like crazy.

And then you go and you buy a jar of hot fudge from Margie's, since your mother adored Margie's and was adamant that you should only ever have real hot fudge (not chocolate sauce!) on ice cream. And you put it on the dresser that was your mother's mother's, your Grandma Ruthie's. And you decide two things. To make a bit of a shrine to your mom, since you want to and you know she would love it. And also that you will leave the hot fudge on the shrine until your mom's birthday on November 6th and on that night the whole family (and maybe a few friends) will enjoy hot fudge sundaes. After a hearty but simple supper of really good soup and excellent bread and salty butter.

And so it is.

 

(Thanks for indulging the second person action, it was just easier that way.)

paris, pastures and pie

We flew to Colorado for a little party last weekend. It was my sister Syl's 50th and so a soiree was in order.

The theme for the party was "Paris" since that's where Syl wants to go next. We figured, if she couldn't get to Grand Paris for her birthday, why not bring a little Frenchie action to the farm?

If you're going to act French, you must don a beret. A black one, of course.

And you must have glasses of bubbly and kissing

and a basket of macarons . . . (with a petit Eiffel Tower tag).

And if you want to get extra fancypants extravagant, you will have a towering, gilded croque en bouche.

But if you are partying on the Pastures of Plenty farm and you are my sister, it doesn't matter where you are or how old you are turning, what you really must have at your party is pie. Not just one pie, but eight. Eight pies made with fruit grown on the same road you live on. Peach pie. Apple pie. Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie. Peach-Raspberry Pie. Pies made by your daughters and your neighbors and your best friends.

And two coconut creme pies made by 70-something Belle, who could bake blindfolded.

And then you drink your bubbly and eat grilled lamb and quail and get silly 

and then move the party in the house and dance so hard that the glasses rattle in the cupboards and the floor bounces. You dance until 2 am. And you fall into bed. And when you wake up, you have pie for breakfast. With a slice of cheese. Maybe even a little glass of champagne too.

At least, that's how we did it.

a party amidst the packing

We had Sam's 5th birthday party on Sunday. In the backyard, as per his very adamant request. We all joyfully obliged especially when we realized it would probably be the last family celebration held at 1444 W. Berwyn.

It was a picture perfect day and we had a perfect bakers' dozen of children running around the yard and in and out of the house. They decorated masks, "fished" for prizes, dressed up in costumes . . .

chased "monsters."

And the twisted balloon guy that I wasn't quite sure about was actually a hit.

Even with the little ones . . .

And Sam was pleased with his Batman Cave cake. Good old Dinkel's bakery, they've never let us down.

Sam's actual birthday is Thursday (another cake! more presents! a birthday celebration at school!) and then the next day the moving truck will pull up and transport all of our belongings all of four blocks away.

Lots of big transitions coming our way, but for now, I am just going to enjoy my almost five year-old boy.

almost turkey time!

We have had such a whirlwind, wonderful week around here (my mom was in town, we went to our friend Sarah's super festive 40th birthday, we went to our second hypno-birthing class, last night the author Richard Louv was in town . . . ) that it was just today that I realized Thanksgiving is only one week away. Holy turkey feathers!

It might seem an easy statement to utter, but Thanksgiving truly is my favorite holiday, because it isn't about a particular religion or gifts or excessive candy. To me it's about being gracious and thoughtful and gathering with family and friends--over food, can it get any better? I do wish the distance between Chicago and Colorado was not so great right about now, but other than that, I am looking forward to an easy going meal next week with Ted's family and I am such a sucker for all the side dishes: Larry's homemade bread, the stuffing, potatoes, gravy (is gravy a side dish? um, on my plate it sort of becomes one) and the catching up and conversing.

I was at Marshall's a few weeks back, trying to score a warm coat that would fit over my protuding belly when I spotted these treats by the checkout line . . . I think they will be a hit with the younger crowd rocking over at the kids table.

I love the vintage graphics and the plump pumpkin!  I know chocolate isn't a seasonal as say, candy corn or pumpkin cookies, but still, I just couldn't resist. (Check out this blog, which Ted turned me on to, she has this lovely page featuring the packaging of candies from all over the globe. It's nice to know I have a British counterpart who buys sweets more for how they look in their packaging than what they necessarily taste like--if one is even willing to disturb the stunning packaging at all!)

And my mother (who brought all sorts of fun treats inside her Mary Poppins suitcase) brought this timely wood carving for us. It's from Farmington, New Mexico. There is a gallery there which specializes in Navajo wood carvings. 

He certainly is plucky, isn't he? (Pun intended!) If not a little mysterioso with that wise far-off look. I think he'll look just right by a little pot of mums or maybe flanked by a couple of candles. My mom always has us name the turkey that's being cooked in the oven, since I won't be in her kitchen to name one (and I can barely come up with a name for the fella cooking in my belly) I'm going to name this one Thomas. Or should it be Thomasina?

Anyhow, there's so, so much to be thankful for . . . (I plan on doing a separate post just about that in the next few days). For now, I am thankful there is chocolate ice cream in the freezer and a cozy bed to curl up in afterwards and a new New Yorker and two fantastic fellas who I'll wake up to in the morning who love me as much as they do.

Cheers.

ahoy mateys!

Happy Halloween! Arrggggh, Captain Jack "Sam" Sparrow wants ye all to know he hauled in a mighty fine booty of lollies on this chilly night of goblins and ghouls and ninjas and princesses . . . and now he's sleeping like a baby.

Hope yours was sweet and full of treats.

from provolone to patisserie

Ted and I snuck off to New York last weekend for a belated 10th anniversary celebration. This is the first time ever that both of us have spent two consecutive nights away from Sam, so we were a little nervous. (And of course, he was completely content to be staying with Irma, his Nanny and her daughter Andrea.)  But we were also a little giddy with the prospect of 48+ hours to do . . . well, to do whatever we could think of to do in Manhattan on an October weekend.

I am sure no one will be shocked to learn that much of the adventure was pivoted around food and food-based adventures. We weren't maniacal in our quest for NY edibles but I did have a couple of places on my wish list--and we happily managed to experience almost all of them.

On Friday evening we had a lovely autumn-inspired dinner at Hearth in the East Village. As the name implies it was confortable and warm and we enjoyed dining in an establishment that didn't have a dancing hot dog on the wall nor did it serve our meals in bright yellow plastic baskets (not that I'm knocking our old fave Huey's, but we all need a change of pace every now and then). I'd compare it to North Pond in its approach to featuring seasonal, local produce. We had pillowy home made gnocchi, a divine fennel, arugula and anchovy salad, Ted had tender lamb chops and I had robollita, a hearty white bean soup. We were very, very satisfied. The dessert really sealed the deal: warm apple cider doughnuts served with maple cream and applesauce. My doughnut fervor has been especially intense this fall (and I don't think it's just the pregnancy, but who knows?) and I was just so happy in that moment--we were in New York and cozy and relaxed and grateful---and grinning over a plate of crispy, sweet, warm doughnuts. Heck, if I am willing to drive all the way to the far south side of Chicago for a Dat or Old Fashioned doughnut, why not get on a plane and go to New York?

I didn't take many pictures over the weekend, which seems to be this new laziness that has set in of late. But I also like to think it's a healthy thing to be in the moment just enough that I don't keep reaching in my cluttered bag to get the camera and snap photo after photo.

After dinner we walked around the Village, ending up at the Strand Bookstore. That's a pretty darn lovely date for Ted and I--good conversation, excellent food and sniffing around an enormous but well-stocked bookstore looking for good reads.

The next day we really pulled off a healthy urban hike. First thing in the morning we went to the Greenmarket at Union Square, then we went down to SoHo where I scored some quiche and tea from the uber-popular and enormous Balthazar. We "shopped" around SoHo like teenagers--checking out cool shoes we couldn't afford, eyeballing trendoids, window shopping at silly fancy places, troving through the Pearl River Mart . . . and then we skipped over to Little Italy. I was determined to get us a chub of salami and some good cheese so we could have a decent snack for the plane ride the next day. We came across DiPalo's, an old neighborhood "dairy" and salumi shop, and wedged our bodies inside with all the other Saturday shoppers and took a number. It was a wait, but it was worth it.

Is it silly to wait 20 minutes to procure a small chub of Hunter's sausage and a quarter pound of imported aged provolone? I don't think so. And besides, a neighborhood market is a great way to get the feeling of a place. I realize that when travelling, either solo or with Ted, I always like to find the food markets first, because that makes me feel centered and connected. And New York can be so overwhelming, it's nice to find yourself in a tiny neighborhood grocery, waiting behind the little old lady who knows all the staff by name.

We continued hiking on for lunch. I did put us on a bit of a wild goose chase looking for a noodle spot called Momofuko that everyone is supposedly raving about. But our bellies were crying out, our feet (and my back) were aching and we were starting to get just a teentsy bit cranky with hunger, so we opted instead for plan B, another ramen shop called Rei Rei Ken. (Thanks, Rachel for the New York mag Cheap Eats issue--it saved us on this very day!) If you've ever seen the film Tampopo, this is the closest you can get to feeling like you're eating on the set. It's a tiny hole in the wall joint with about 10 stools. There were only four different types of ramen to choose from. The noodle guys are on a level slightly higher than you with these enormous pots billowing steam up behind them and they silently slide your enormous bowls over the worn wooden counter.  We slurped rather quietly over our large bowls, getting what I always think of as a "soup facial." (A good thing, to be sure.) It wasn't fancy, it wasn't hip, it was actually bordering on cramped. But it did feel so good to be off our feet enjoying simple, tasty noodles and hot savory broth. (If anyone knows of a ramen joint in Chicago, let me know, I don't believe we have one, other than the food stalls at Mitsuwa.)

After our noodles, our bellies were warm and we were happy but beat. So we caught a cab back to the Upper East side, where were staying. We were looking for a toy store to buy a couple of items for a certain special somebody back in Chicago. As we were walking down Lexington looking for the toy shop, we came across Payard.

Payard! The ultimate in exquisite and precious French pastry. My sister Sylvia had urged us to go, if only to make us feel like we were in Paris. It was on my list but I hadn't even written down the address. It was fancy, it was filled with extremely well-dressed New Yorkers speaking a variety of languages and it gave off an air of exceptionally confident sophistication.  (A combination that would normally have me go into shrinking violet mode.) But I was as tickled as a school girl. "Can we go in, please, can we?" And Ted said of course. So we first went and bought Sam a couple of toys and then backtracked to Payard.

There were rows and rows of pastries that looked like little gifts or sexy soft sculptures. It made deciding extremely difficult. I got that panicky "What if I don't choose the most perfect one?" feeling but then I just snapped out of it and went for what I know and love: a tart filled with creamy caramel, dried fruits and nuts and topped with a delightful dollop of chocolate mousse. Ted got a small bowl of chocolate mousse and a cappuccino. The two women next to us were speaking in both Russian and French, behind us Italians were drinking champagne and laughing, in the back of the restaurant people were taking in afternoon tea with those three-tiered platters on each table. Our waiter, in a jacket and tie, gave off an air of slight indifference to my girlish excitement. Another waiter chided me for taking a photo of the pastries. Everything was golded or chocolate colored. Yes, it was like we were in Paris, I suppose.

And every bite tasted just like I had hoped it would--insanely rich and buttery and crunchy and extravagant. And it truly felt like we were on vacation, indulging in something we normally wouldn't, which is exactly why we'd gone away. We went back to the apartment, loaded down with packages (salami, Chinese tchotkes, a Mr. Potato Head and a knock off leather bag . . .) and napped easily. Not a bad way to polish off an autumn afternoon in New York.