Some Almost-Winter Pictures

25 Things I'm Thankful For

Ted made a list, inspiring me to do the same.

1) That I was wrong about thinking I shouldn't move in with my boyfriend.
2) A warm bed filled with my kitties.
3) Art on every wall, everywhere.
4) The complicated relationship to your writing that being published creates.
5) Good reviews.
6) New York City's utter, unflappable, inspiring awesomeness.
7) Kip.
8) Kip's patience with my everything.
9) Friends who live very close by.
10) Parents who get it.
11) Central Air.
12) The Greenmarket community.
13) My editor & my agent. Because everyone said that Yield wasn't publishable except for them, and turns out, it was.
14) That I have a desk job where I can iChat with Cory and Robert and Jeff.
15) That Howie made enough of the best maple syrup in the world to keep me employed another year.
16) Complicated questions that people ask and struggle to answer well.
17) The DVR.
18) Antibiotics.
19) The MoMA, The Met Museum, The Whitney, The Guggenheim, etc.
20) Jokes.
21) The Theater Development Fund.
22) The incredible bounty of local food.
23) Poets.
24) Homosexuals.
25) Having friends in so many lines of work: dentists, psychotherapists, drummers, photographers, teachers, graphic designers, fashion thinkers, singers, DOT workers, performers, artists, writers, journalists, bartenders, farmers, waiters, chefs, lawyers, zine-makers, dancers, yoga teachers, real estate agents, puppeteers, activists, old folks home managers, playwrights, actors, film editors, sound technicians, and circus performers.

Sold for $20

Back in the early spring, a photographer from Getty Images came through the Greenmarket and gave a bunch of us twenty dollars* each for taking our picture. Here's what emerged from that brief session--me and David looking slightly uncomfortable, but twenty bucks richer:


Here's how Getty categorized our picture:
People, Casual Clothing, Confidence, Happiness, Freshness, Table, Jar, Abundance, Retail, Vertical, Looking At Camera, Waist Up, Outdoors, 20-24 Years, 30-34 Years, Front View, Stubble, Cheerful, Caucasian Ethnicity, Standing, Smiling, USA, Day, New York State, New York City, Adult, Young Adult, Mid Adult, Syrup, Large Group of Objects, Two People, Young Men, Mid Adult Men, Only Men, Portrait, Photography, Farmer's Market, Adults Only.

*It's certain that I am violating the model's release that I signed by posting this picture here--or at least I am violating the Getty Image Bank's rules about who can post what without payment. But I loved the categories too much not to post it, and were I to go through the motions, and I priced this vaguely via the site, it would cost me about $600.00. So....

As Featured In

Many months ago, they made a movie called "The Backup Plan" with Jennifer Lopez. In it, she is a single lady who falls in love with a cheese farmer. And this cheese farmer sells his cheese as a farmer's market that, at least in the film, is a Hollywood-looking version of the Union Square Greenmarket. Deep Mtn. Maple, whose farm I work for, sent dozens of empty bottles to be filled with tea, or some other brown liquid, so that the maple syrup stand in the film--this is supposed to be the Northeast, remember, not a California backlot--would look real. This attention to subtlety would give the film's audience an almost unconscious sense of place. Or maybe it would be totally unconscious, since this is as much screen time as we got: (See that yellow tent behind JLo that says "Deep Mountain?")


Interestingly, or perhaps not interestingly, there is also a shot of this stand.....Northeast farm fail.

Recalibrating

Saturday, for me, was one of those days when I don't have patience for anything. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me--the customers were perfectly tolerable, the weather was bright and unseasonably warmish, the day went by without incident. But somewhere, my molecules were out of order, shifted perhaps. Uncertain. This feeling has continued through the days, and I've decided that the only way to shake it is to clean out the closets. Literally. Or maybe figuratively. Both?

Jennifer said today on the phone, "That sounds awful, reliving every past moment with every old piece of clothing." But I feel the opposite. It frees me. I feel released from the promise to hold that memory forever. I feel released from the need to carry around the object that contains the history. The old, the unwanted, the style-less--notice that I didn't say unfashionable, and note the difference--will go either to the Salvation Army, or to the Greenmarket's textile recycling program.

The Get-Rid-Ofs:
--The Tommy Hilfiger plaid button-down that I wore every other day when Meg and I went to London. I wore it underneath the hand-altered sweater that Becky made for me when she was at RISD, which I am keeping.
--The woven white Oxford that I wore to Meg's memorial service.
--The Club Monaco striped thing which I wore only once, to a few compliments, I think, but which now strikes me as unlovable.
--The handmade, very expensive shirt that I wore to Amanda's wedding dinner. It was always too big for me, and looked a bit sloppy, but back then I didn't know better.
--Shorts, shorts and shorts.

The Keeps:
--The REI anorak that I wore every day in Iceland. It was lost for a few years, living inside an old coat that I never wear--like Jack Twist's shirt was folded inside Ennis Del Mar's. It might find a new life.
--The English Laundry shirt from a few years ago, before they went all too-too. Anybody have solutions to a little yellow around the collar? Bodies betray us, there, I said it.
--The train conductor's cap which was handed down to NYU by the costume department of the musical "The Capeman." Andrea thought I should have it, and I still do.

The Uncertains:
--The fabulous vintage Wrangler shirt bought from eBay for only $5.00, but which I can barely fit into now. Create a new, thinner you? Or accept the you that is now?
--The insane Edwardian overcoat, which fits me beautifully, but, like, can I work it?
--Some AMOK costumes that I've worn over the years. They are flawless, singular pieces. But do I need one more bit of frippery?

Next week, the chest of drawers.....

Weekend Update

It took me about an hour and a half to drive home from the Greenmarket on Saturday night. We ended up getting about 9 inches of snow, with parts of Brooklyn getting as much as 14. After closing up the syrup stand, we went to have dinner at The Spain Restaurant, which is one of my favorites. When people ask me what it's like, I say, "It's 100 year old drunk waiters in polyester bolero jackets." It's also the place, when asked if they could bring something for the vegetarians, said: "I'll bring some potatoes." So, after dinner, we made it back to our parked trucks and slogged ourselves through the oncoming blizzard. Taxis were sliding all over Third Avenue. On the Queensboro Bridge, the visibility was so bad that you couldn't see any light from the city, from Queens, from the cars in front of you. I'm glad I made it home without incident. I was glad that I had a large heavy vehicle, and not some tiny plastic car. Perhaps the most New York-ish of images, was, of course, some delivery guy on a bike, at 10pm in a blizzard. How we do love our delivery.

I'm writing a set of discussion questions for Yield, which will be in stores in Sept 2010. I'm not sure what do to about this. What do people want to talk about, or think about, after they have read my novel? In some ways, I think that the author is the worst person to write these questions. Perhaps I am the best person to answer the questions once they have been written? Or, maybe the readers are the best people to answer these questions? I'm not sure what to think about this.

Kip and I are headed to South Carolina and Tennessee for a few days after Christmas. We hope to see Laura and Amy while we are all in the same place--perhaps convening at a Waffle House, which Amy has learned to love.

I'm taking a short break from the blog--and will see you in the beginning of the new year.

Love to everyone.

A New Kind of Movement

I started biking to and from work on Monday--from Astoria to South Williamsburg. Already the novelty has worn off....okay, not really. But biking quickly becomes just work when you are commuting--one can't read a book and bike, not in this town. However, I'm noticing how different the movement is from anything I've experienced in the city in the last 12 years. This is perhaps something that other people would have considered before riding their bike inter-borough, but not me. It didn't occur to me until it was happening.

The scale is different. I like to walk everywhere, if possible, and I'm used to driving the huge syrup van around town for Greenmarket and other random syrup deliveries. Walking, of course, is slow. It becomes about the pavement, about the storefronts and the other people on the street, weaving in and out. Driving is this other beast, about the other cars on the road, about braking, about using force of will to make lights and other drivers do what you want them to. Biking is some kind of hybrid of the two. You're moving much faster than walking, but your scale is generally the same. So the disconnect is new for me. A new speed, at a new scale.

Where you look is different. I find myself looking--aside from the road and the cars and the people--in this middle distance, just about the second and third floors of buildings. That, and the open space above smaller buildings. Somehow, for me, biking gives New York City a new kind of spaciousness. Or, perhaps by traveling through it in a new way, it gives you a new response. The city is alive like that.

Plus, you arrive at work stoned on endorphins. I sit at my desk sort of mesmerized by all the things around me--stapler, pencils, paper clips, scissors--looking at the objects as if they are alien, as if I could never figure out their intended use. Scarfing down breakfast, gulping water and Gatorade, staring out the window at the subway train rumbling over the Williamsburg Bridge--so small, tiny people reading and checking their voice mail.

How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons from a Syrup Slinger, Vol. 3

"How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons Learned from a Syrup Slinger" is a blog series that emerged from my years of experience selling maple syrup at the Union Square Greenmarket. The mission of this sporadic, multi-part series is to teach the citizens of New York how to be polite, intelligent, interested consumers, without acting like imbeciles.

Lesson #3: What, Do You Think We're Dragging our Minks through Monaco?

A woman came to the stand yesterday and opened with "I don't want to pay that much." Seriously, that was her answer to my initial "Hello." She seemed to think that she was the one who decided the price, with this carefree whoop-dee-do about it. She wanted a gallon of syrup. "I'll take one of these for forty-five," she said, just like that, case closed. "I'm sorry, I can't do that," I said. Then she said the thing that people say when they want to be assholes: "Well then, I'm going to talk to the manager."

People who say this are often disappointed to discover that 1) We are not like the grocery store, where one dude is in charge of all the aisles. Hello, each stand is its own entity. 2) I am the manager, and you're not getting your gallon of syrup for $13 less. 3) The Greenmarket managers could give a shit.

Let me just say this. If you think that prices at the farmer's market are inflated then you're an idiot. And if you think that the farmers and their workers are living it up, renting penthouses in Vegas, downing bags of blow and laughing their asses off because you were foolish enough to pay--$8 !!--for that eight ounces of syrup, then you need to get over your sad-sack miserable-me of a self.

Vestal, Cracked Ice, & Other Details

First: "Swine Flu Spreading" is the leading headline on the newspaper that the man next to me is reading, coming home from a reading/signing by Vestal McIntyre at McNally Jackson books, on Prince Street--one of the world's great writers, at one of the city's great indie book stores. The audience is mostly friends, other writers, gay guys from around, a certain kind of community that feels right, even a regular maple syrup customer that I introduce myself to, officially, even though I've known him (in a certain limited context) for the last few years. He recognizes me, but doesn't know from where, and I explain. Vestal is fabulous; he is disarming and casual, and also willing to go there with it. The room laughs, cheers, quiets, listens. Everyone lines up for his signature. I get Kip to take a picture of us together. The book is great--what I've read of it on the train ride home, only a few pages. I'm going to take this one slowly, carrying it around a while, reminding me of itself in my bag, on my bedside, in my brain.

Then: The show is going well--more than well, great--big houses, small houses, it doesn't really feel any different. The circus plays this way--a few thousand people at some parks, then 25 people at others. It doesn't change your performance, but it does change them. More is better only because they feel more together, they function as a singular unit more cohesively. Smaller audiences are usually more shy, less fluttery, somewhat serious. This is part of the fun, actually. You don't really see people in Prospect Park, or Tompkins Square. But East New York, or Marcus Garvey, when you can really hear their individual squeals and squawks--that's pretty fucking fantastic.

A couple of reviews have been posted--only one of them what you might call a "rave." The first was so utterly off the mark, and so (I hope) unconsciously homophobic and classist that it made me think that perhaps the reviewer really enjoyed the show, despite himself, but in the end, felt outside of it, like he did not belong, and that colored everything. Perhaps understandibly. The next reviewer that came seemed to simply enjoy the show a lot more, really got what we're trying to do up there, but still said it lacked a something. I'm interested in reviews only in that they say a lot about the reviewer. And, also, how they can--if you do it right--let them become a point of dialogue between yourself and the theater you've created. You get to think about things differently, and ask yourself questions, think about images, essentially hear the show differently.

Next idea: There was a small item in the New Yorker about a woman who called the police because, she said, someone had broken into her house and vomited on her stove. The police reported that it was kitchen grease. I'm stealing this idea for my new novel--but turning it around slightly, like writers always do. I've been feeling so grateful lately, I'm trying to funnel that into the work--hoping that it infects the pages in some virulent way that it actually brushes off onto the readers fingers. I think about these kinds of things when I write--the physical nature of writing is so ephemeral, the nature of "having readers" is so obtuse, so outside of you, that I try to imagine a more direct link.

Finally: This whole Swine Flu thing feeling so strangely silly to me, the hyperspeed with which the news latched onto it, the hysteria--and yet people are dying. Aren't they? And reading my friend's book, seeing how he's poured himself out, more grown up than his first book of stories, but still so totally him. And being reminded, in such a fantastic way, how good theater feels, being a part of something hilarious, campy, draggy, fun, and loose.

I want all this to circle back around, be more cohesive. All these ideas feel like they have something to do with each other--performing, Swine Flu, vomit, audiences, books and readers. I don't know exactly what it is, but something is saying to me It doesn't have to be so difficult.

How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons from a Syrup Slinger, Vol. 2

"How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons Learned from a Syrup Slinger" is a blog series that emerged from my years of experience selling maple syrup at the Union Square Greenmarket. The mission of this sporadic, multi-part series is to teach the citizens of New York how to be polite, intelligent, interested consumers, without acting like total douches.

Lesson 2: How Should I Know? or WTF are You Talking About?

I guess I have high standards. I like it when you ask questions; I want you to know the answers. I want you to understand the differences between one syrup and the next. I want you to understand how the syrup is made. I want you to know about why buying from us--or another farmer--is important. I want you to know about the amazing things that Mother Nature does so that you can enjoy your pancakes. But please, think about what you are asking. Here are some actual questions asked by my customers:

--"Why are there different sized bottles?"
--"Can I buy a bigger size?"
--"What if I want to buy four?"
--"How will I know if I like it?"
--"What if my sister doesn't like it?"
--"Will this fit in my refrigerator?"
--"Can I take this to my country house?"
--"How much do I need for my recipe?"
--"Is this cheese?"
--"Do you put eggs in this?"
--In January, 18 degrees: "Are you cold?"
--In April, complete downpour: "Why is everything wet?"
--In August, 92 degrees: "Are you hot?"
--"How much for a few pieces of soap?"
--"How much are the roasting chickens?"
--"You don't have any roasting chickens at all?"
--"How am I supposed to get it out of this jar?"
--"Won't I need a funnel to get it out of this jar?"
--"Why do I like this better?"

How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons from a Syrup Slinger, Vol. 1

"How to Be a Good Customer: Lessons Learned from a Syrup Slinger" is a blog series that emerged from my years of experience selling maple syrup at the Union Square Greenmarket. The mission of this sporadic, multi-part series is to teach the citizens of New York how to be polite, intelligent, interested consumers, without acting like fucking idiots.

Lesson 1: It's Not an Apartment.

Many people fret about whether or not they are making the right decision. We can't decide what outfit to wear for that special date, what flavor chicken bits they should have the Mexican guy toss into their $12 salad, what color to paint the nursury (Princess Tiara, Manly Tan, or Wattle*), or how to properly invest your Powerball winnings. I know these are issues that I am constantly grappling with.

But, in the end, it's just syrup. At the most basic level you are making a choice that will improve your life, not hinder it. If you buy the wrong syrup, give it to your neighbor, pour it on your head, paint by number, feed the ants, kill some ants, put down a Voodoo line, who gives a shit?

This is really an issue of self-confience. Be confident that if you buy too small a bottle, we are here every week for your convenience. Be confident that if you buy too large a bottle, perchance you could research what other uses for maple syrup might excite you. (Did you try it in lemonade yet? Did you add some to your salad dressing?)

Be confident that this small decision is not one that will determine 1) your entry into heaven, or 2) your fundamental happiness for the rest of eternity, (okay, sorta the same thing, but whatever.) Remember, I want you to have what you want, I want to sell you the syrup that will make you feel like every choice you made in your entire life up to this very moment has been the right one. But I can't do that if you are fretting for 5.5 minutes** over 3 ounces. Really.

*Actual paint names.
**Actual time spent hand-wringing by a lady who couldn't decide.

Not Johnny Depp At All

"It's not Johnny Depp at all," she said. "More like George Michael meets BeeGees." They were discussing his new haircut, sardined in with the rest of us on the F Train this morning, rolling our eyes, wondering when, exactly, we'd reach signal clearance and continue on, away from the stink of West 4th Street. "It has some better shape," he responded, "but it's not what I told her to do." They looked at each other, considering. Finally, she said "Give it a few shampoos." At first, groggy from the morning, from having to spend a third of the night sleeping on the couch to avoid my boyfriends snoring, I thought she meant some kind of medication: Take two of these and call me in the morning.

I was sitting, hooray, and reading, but not focused much on the book. A fat lady had crammed herself into the space between me and another guy, then she pulled out a chunky worn paperback romance. Sometimes when a stranger touches you like this, in a remarkably intimate way--sustained and quiet--I wonder if they're not doing it on purpose, trying to drain the life from me because of their own loneliness. (Perhaps this is a bit dramatic.) I tried to read over her shoulder, I tried to memorize a few good lines to share with you here, but my short-term cache was already filled with Johnny Depp and George Michael meets the Bee Gees. And there was only pale backs and promises, nothing else that really struck me. Her red acrylic fingernail looked shoved down into the chubby end of her thumb, like a cherry stuck in the white icing of a cupcake.

This afternoon, I'm driving to Vermont to bring back the first crop of 2009 maple syrup, which is being boiled as I write this. By the time it cools, filters, is brought up to the house, heated again, canned and boxed, it will be tomorrow afternoon, and then I can bring it back to NYC for selling on Saturday. I'm looking forward to the long-ish drive, about 5-6 hours. I relish the time alone. I need to spend some time thinking about the first novel, and it's pressing future. And I need to allot some real uninterrupted brain time to figure out a plot device, or plot problem, in the second one.

If you're nearby Union Square on Saturday, come by. The first syrup is a thing to behold.

The Weekend Was....

....chock full of friends and happenings and nights in the theater, and men in latex with their asses hanging out, and short ribs and Oscars and bad sleep.

On Friday night, Kip and John and I, plus Oren and Tom, went to see Bradford Louryk in "Christine Jorgensen Reveals." We saw it back in 2006, and it was lovely to spend another hour with Christine. The show only runs through March 15 or something, so rush out if you're near. It's a quality evening, folks.

Saturday was crazy day at the syrup stand. Was there a full moon or something? Not only did He-Man stop by with his girlfriend and talk about maple candy for five minutes--that's a long time to stand and ask questions, when you think about it--but we did roughly triple the business that we normally would for a Saturday in late February. And oh, just for the record, one last time, Yes, we're cold standing out there when it's thirty degrees. Please don't ask me if I'm cold. Please don't tell me to "stay warm." Please don't ask me "how do you stand it out here in this cold?" It's my job, and that's that. Your job has some shitty aspects, too, right?

My friend Aaron from Phoenix came through NYC on his way to Mardi Gras in New Orleans (such is the way of the buddy pass, a perk for friends of flight attendants, which gives you free tickets, but strange routing.) Also, Frankie came in from New Jersey -- look, a shout out! -- plus Aaron's friend Cooper who lives out in Queens....we all ended up at Stonewall for a round of beers and something called Tokyo Tea, which, Aaron says, is his favorite drink. I met Aaron and Frankie years ago through an internet chat room for gay boys, and we've stayed in touch in real life since then--I'd never met Aaron in person. This is the great, amazing thing about the Internet, that it can, sometimes, actually connect people from across the globe, and it feels like I've known them for years--sort of, I have. Stonewall on Saturday night was having their fetish night, which included a big bull dyke shining the boots of any Mary who wanted to step up and have it done, and a bunch of normal-bodied men in lycra, latex and even an old flame of Kip's in neoprene. It was nice to see real people, a very different look from the Chelsea bars. Watching all of them in their gear, getting turned on a bit, enjoying the public aspect of their play, I realized: Fetish stuff isn't really about sex, it's just about clothes.

For the Oscars, I had Cory and Sean over to lay on the couch and be catty, and I made short ribs braised in an ancho chile/coffee sauce, plus polenta and steamed kale. It was fantastic. The first time I made the short ribs, I managed not to seal the pan with foil tight enough, so we lost a lot of the sauce as it just cooked out. This time, I added some beef broth to the mix--maybe too much--and then sealed the pan ridiculously well. The sauce was a bit too watery, but to no real drama. They still tasted fantastic, if you ask me. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. If you want the recipe, lemme know.

Oh, Oscars. Best: Hugh. Worst: That horrible number about how musicals are back. Are they? If this is any indication....

Then, I have this cold-thing that's hanging on inside my head. Snot dripping into the back of my throat. Ugh. This made for horrible sleep. Plus, my cat has taken to stretching out as long as he can, taking up as much room as possible. So, I'm squeezed between Kip and the Cat, snorting and wheezing and generally being unhappy. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

Oh -- good news coming soon....

We Say It's a Slow Burn

I forgot this was out there in the universe. It's not all that uncommon for people to drag a camera crew around the Greenmarket, and sometimes they stop and ask you questions, although you never get to see what it finally looks like. I am not at my best -- and I will spare you the million things that I'd like to change about my performance....

Check it out.

Off to Chicago / My Sisiphean Moment

I am off to Chicago for a few days of frolicking through their city blocks, seeing beaucoups de old friends, and hopefully eating lots and lots until all I can do is lay flat. I'm back in the middle of the week.

People ask me sometimes what it's like to work at the Greenmarket. One of the things I sell is maple candy, and just because today was one of those days where the sun is shining, the leaves are beautiful, the breeze is cool--and the people don't stop asking the same friggin' question over and over--I thought I would sort of be grumpy about the whole thing and give you this, the standard exchange:

-How much is the candy?
-It's $15 per pound, with no minimum.
-Can I just get a few pieces?
-Yes, there is no minimum.
-Well how much for a little bit?
-It depends on the weight.
-Well, like how much?
-Anywhere from about 50 cents up to a pound.
-But I don't want to buy a pound.
-I said there is NO MINIMUM.
-So how much is just a little bit?

Now try that 9,000 times in a row.

Away in Chestertown, Part 1

I am sitting in the kitchen of the big house upstate, where Circus AMOK comes to put our show together every year. It's a flurry of work and conversations--work happening amid conversation, conversations about work, working through misunderstood conversations. I often forget, since most of the year our circus is a smaller team, just how many people it takes to get the thing on the road. Three, maybe four others arrive tomorrow--mainly "art people" which is our code for people who paint, sew, make things, design, or any combination of those skills. I'm not one of them.

We arrived on Thursday, after a horrendously long day of packing and travel--none of it was particularly impossible in any certain way, but everything took longer than we had planned (duh) and eventually, 14 hours after I woke up, we arrived at this beautiful barn, which they made into a house years ago. It feels like we've been here for a week--but it's only Saturday evening. The time is compressed--the same faces, the same images, the same geography. There is no "going to work" or "coming home," and in that way the entire week feels like a single experience. You don't move in different social circles up here, know what I mean? You are never invisible to the rest of the group.

After our afternoon work sessions, we go swimming in the lake, which is just cold enough. It's bracing, but welcome. I like how we sort of take over the small beach there, with our crazy gender-bending troupe and people of all ages. I see the locals watching us, unsure of who we are, what we are, what to make of us. Most of the time I think that, in the end, they think nothing that concrete.

I managed to talk our cook into letting me make a carrot thing tonight--she had the idea, and then I sort of knew a recipe that I thought would work out better--and so she let me go for it. Carrots, yogurt, olive oil, garlic, cumin, cilantro, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Oh, the carrots are steamed and then it all goes into the food processor. I don't know what the exact recipe is. Just everything to taste. The troupe sort of scoffed at it -- but it's all gone.

Now they're serving up the peach kuchen--plus a blueberry sauce made with the syrup that I lugged up here from the city. Work, in the right form, is so fulfilling.

The Exploding Plastic Inevitable

At the Greenmarket on Friday, Laura, my syrup-slinging cohort, got into an argument with a customer about a plastic bag. The woman bought an eight-ounce bottle of syrup, thanked us, then said, and I quote: "I'll just put it in my purse." She started walking away and I thought the transaction had gone like all 1000 others that day, simple, quick, without any particular interest. I was wrong.

When she got about ten feet away from the table, she turned and came back. "You know what, I have a bad arm, maybe you can give me a bag." We hear this kind of thing all the time. People lay their insecurities out for you for no reason. "I have a bad arm, so I need a bag." "I'm worried about it, so I need a bag." "Do you think this is a good gift, I need a bag." I'm never surprised at people's endless ability to just tell you things you didn't need to know about them, just to alleviate their guilt about taking ONE MORE plastic bag.

Because what it always comes down to is people not caring enough about the problem. Smart, educated, well-meaning people, with an armload of plastic bags. One for eggs, one for tomatoes, one for fish, one for maple syrup. "I can't put it in her because there are vegetables." What? The syrup doesn't care if it nestles in with the cousa squash. Or the canteloupe. Or the frozen links of Russian sausage.

The truth is, if you are careful, and care enough, all of these things can go in your canvas bag. This will make the farmers very happy. Because not only does it save the planet, it saves us from having to buy more plastic bags. Everyone wins.

We need to get rid of them. We, the farmers, should just stop all together. If none of us had plastic bags, then no one could use them, or over use them, and I think it would take about two weeks for everyone to start using canvas, or reusable bags. I think it's our job to lead the way. The people are sheep, and farmer's have always been intrepid idealists (well, sort of).

Laura then said to the customer, "We like to discourage people from taking plastic bags, if they already have one." At this point, the lady went basically insane. "Where is the person in charge?" At first I thought she was talking about me, as I am, ostensibly, Laura's boss--whatever that means. But no, she meant the Greenmarket managers, whom she promptly brought over to my stand. After some back and forth about who said what, and her "bad arm," I gave her the bag she so desperately needed. She balled the bag around the bottle of syrup, and put both bag and syrup into her purse.

See what I mean?

"I'm going to write a letter!" she screamed. I hope she does.

Hard Day's Work

Saturday at the Greenmarket was one of those days. By 9:00am, here's what had happened:

--I got chewed out by someone who claimed I was not at the market the week prior. I was. I would know, wouldn't I? I think I know where I am, usually.

--A woman berated me for not warning her that she should not put the aluminum can of syrup into the microwave to heat it up. "You should really tell people about that," she said. "Where have you been since the dawn of microwave technology?" I wanted to ask.

--Someone informed me that I could make a lot more money if only I had "better containers." I don't know what containers would be better. And she didn't suggest any, but just walked away.

--A father suggested that I be careful to sweep up the area around the candy jars so that children don't pick the tiny bits off the ground and eat them. Seriously.

Vermont / Back Forty

--Vermont was lovely, despite all the bleary-eyed work we did. We canned about 45 gallons of syrup for the coming weeks of Greenmarket, so that I can have basically every grade of syrup in every container. (This means taking the syrup from huge 30 gallon drums and putting it into tiny containers from 3 ounces up to a gallon.) Our market table is becoming too small to hold everything, perhaps we'll need to expand. Also, I seem to have forgotten how much room it takes to have everything available, since over the winter we're usually down to one or two grades in most of the containers. So, the good stuff is here, too, the Deep Mountain Special Reserve, which tastes so utterly fantastic and subtle that I think the best thing to do with it is, um, just drink it out of the bottle.

--Howie, the sugarmaker, and I were walking through the sugarbush, talking about price points and candy sales. "This is where I almost died," he said. "What happened?" I asked. In the trees above us was a huge branch, broken and dangling from the trunk. "The wind was really crazy, and I got stuck in the snow right here. That branch was waving all around, ready to snap off and come down on my head." He paused, and I took in the reality of it--the situation was very real. "What was going through your head?" I said. He answered: "You never think it's going to happen. But some part of you does."

--The drive from New York City to West Glover, VT doesn't really get interesting until you're in Vermont. Until then, it is only the wavy stretch of I-95 through Connecticut and Massachusetts, which is spotted with rest stops infested with McDonald's. The radio, also, lacked excitement. We did have some interesting conversation.

--Last night, Kip and I took my friend John out to dinner for his birthday at Back Forty, the casual new foodie joint from Savoy's Peter Hoffman. Here's what we shared:
-Pork Jowel Nuggets, with jalapeno jam
-Buttermilk Biscuits, with maple chipotle butter
-Wintered Over Broccoli Rabe, with garlic and balsamic
-Green Wheat, with mint and yogurt sauce
-Toasted Fregola, with marscapone, caramelized onions and guanciale
-Drunken Potato Melt, with spring onions, fontina and appenzeller
John had the Grass Fed Burger, one of the most press-given dishes at the restaurant, and Kip and I shared the Whole Rotisserie Chicken. The kitchen, or somebody, mistakenly sent out the half-chicken instead of the whole, and they made quick note of it, and sent the other half. Then, as an apology, they sent out fresh doughnuts with a lemon thyme glaze. "For, you know, that whole chicken thing," the server said. I thought that was classy. Also, the server must have overheard us talking birthday, and saw us give John a birthday card, so without any of us mentioning it, they brought a slice of the seasonal pie with a candle. It was a citrus cream thing, much like a key lime pie, but better. The food was great, and the vibe was totally casual and classy. I thought the service was also superb--even with the chicken error, they were gracious, relaxed without being too friendly. Thumbs up, Mr. Hoffman.

Home Again

I've just returned from a few days in Vermont, walking through the maple trees, canning syrup, catching up with old friends, eating lots.

More soon, when I get back on track....