the fourth weekend in new york

This weekend was the fourth of July as well as the fourth weekend I’ve spent living in Brooklyn. It began with a market (see previous post) and continued with Superfine portobello sandwiches, my wonderful friend Andrew, and the restored Jane’s Carousel, which was playing “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as it spun.

blurry carousel (that was playing "Battle Hymn of the Republic"

A few doors down, the new Jacques Torres ice cream shop—next to his chocolate shop—was similarly dizzying in its superior sugared goodness (and you wonder why I work in the DUMBO area of Brooklyn?) that carried us to the New Museum’s “Younger Than Jesus” exhibit and then Pier 17 for Here We Go Magic, part of the River to River Festival.

bridge

Andrew folded the boat in the program (he’s always been good with the origami and the paper airplanes),

Andrew with the boat and his crackberry (and an awesome sweatband, where'd you get that?)

while we listened to opener Bachelorette from New Zealand. Andrew’s name for the paper boat references the recent Voice article we read while waiting for the bands, where Mike Powell skewers Wilco.

he named it after the biting critique of Wilco in the Voice this week
here’s the larger version

And hearing about the artistry at Locanda Verde (I’ll return for the breakfast menu instead), we topped our dinner there the next morning with new red potatoes from the Prospect Park Farmers’ Market,

inspired by freshly-dug red potatoes

that provided a base for baby onions, fresh corn, red chard, flowering thyme, and Parmesan.

potatoes with red chard, fresh corn, and flowering thyme

We discovered that pheasant eggshells are blue inside,

pheasant eggs are blue inside!

and headed off to find more visual fabulous in “We Know The Secret of the Colors,” an ambient Manhattan adventure that started here,

started here

led to a piece by Paul Richard,

at the top

paused for a public fountain,

even the fountain as special

directed us to look up,

looking up

at a nest on the side of a building,

it's a nest

to unscrew the cap of a fire hydrant,

noticing fire hydrants

pass a park with a rusty bike,

rusted bike

that gleamed almost at brightly as Kee’s incredible confections at Kee’s Chocolates, where Andrew and I forked from the ambient adventure for one involving tasting the fennel and the tiramisu truffles (the truffle oil macaron is sparkly, but go for the truffles that didn’t last for a picture).

truffle oil macaron from kee's chocolates

Then we developed our own progressive dinner tour—snacks at the Park Slope Food Coop, sandwiches from the lengthy Bar Reis menu (there are 95, and yes, each is a thesis unto itself), and then pizza at Franny’s with local beer.

It was a day where we spied Shel Silverstein’s name etched where the sidewalk did, indeed, end,

shel silverstein written in sidewalk. where it ends.

under red leaves that sheltered birds calling out from hidden branches,

red leaves

where even plastic strips forming a curtain to a receiving area were noteworthy,

even plastic strips can be beautiful

and a stationary mailbox encouraged taking risks.

boite aux lettres

So we climbed to my roof, listening to sparklers going off in the streets below, and talked about the subtle explosions of everyday life, the small events that trigger cycles, in the way old friends observe patterns—Andrew’s toasted to four jobs with me now, and I heard the little crackles portending his meteoric rise through the worlds of science, policy, and (perhaps, perhaps) epidemiology…

Related posts:

  1. a market to begin the weekend
  2. in a new york day
  3. sweetgum, floating words, eating by color