For a good chunk of my life, I didn’t know that there was more to New York City than Chinatown. I assumed that the earth fell off at the edge of Kenmare Street, Frank Sinatra was singing about dim sum, and the Great White Way referred to Mott Street with its rows of fish markets full of pale creatures in white Styrofoam coolers. When I was little my family made countless day trips to New York City, but we never went to Macy’s or saw a show on Broadway. Instead we made a beeline for Chinatown and stayed there. After so many visits, I just assumed that the only thing to do in the whole of New York City was shop for groceries from busy street stalls and eat delicious Chinese food. That was my New York City and I liked it.

New Yorkers are not unkind. Ask one of us for the time or for directions and we’ll gladly help you out. We’ll tell you where the best bagels are. I’ll even swipe you a ride on my Metrocard if the transit authority guy isn’t looking. But we do keep to ourselves. We maintain a respectful distance. And we don’t often make eye contact.

Imagine a soft pudgy marshmallow. Naked and vulnerable. What would happen if you put that marshmallow on the surface of the sun? Exactly what happens when a kid plunks her baby-soft finger in molten hot caramel. How do I know? Don’t worry. I’m alright now.

I’m so glad that Birkenstocks are acceptable again. Almost cool. Over the past couple of years I’ve seem them on fashionable New Yorkers, and I just bought a pair. I had forgotten how comfy they are. They’re still not exactly good looking, but I like them. They feel sort of age appropriate in a nice way.

What the heck are black currants anyway? I’ve been watching old episodes of Louie so I feel entitled to phrase all my questions really aggressively. 

I was at Whole Foods the other day. I had a short list of things I needed and a long list of things I needed to do. I had a strict schedule to follow. And then I got carried away by the currants.

Yesterday I didn’t step outside of my apartment once. I didn’t take a shower until just before bed. I won’t even tell you at what time I remembered to brush my teeth. It’s countdown to book deadline around here! 

One week. I’m feeling great. I have a plan of action. I even have a social plan or two for the evenings to keep me sane. And I know, in the back of my mind, that my contract includes a 45-day grace period should I need it. But that’s a crutch I’m going to try to run away from with my two good legs.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably read the title of this post and shook your head. Maybe you scrolled through the pictures disapprovingly. “My land,” you thought, “this woman is obsessed with custard.” And you know what? You’re absolutely right. It’s shameful. I am. But this week I have an excuse. This week I’m passing the buck. This week I’m blaming three other people. Custard haters, please send your complaints to John Cheever, my husband Gus, and John McPhee.

Joyce Carol Oates said that “getting a first draft finished is like pushing a peanut with your nose across a very dirty floor.” What a great analogy. My first cookbook draft and whatever masterpiece Joyce Carol Oates was referring to may not have much in common, but I can relate to her sentiment. Lately I’ve been getting a mouth full of dust bunnies on my quest to push the peanut. I write every day. I cook almost every day. But every day I wonder if the things I’m creating are good enough. I guess that’s all a part of the process.

Someone was on our roof at 5:38am on Tuesday morning. Only about 2 inches of ceiling separates our apartment and the sky. I know because we can see the bottom half of all the nails that hold our roof together. Any movement above us basically sounds like Bigfoot doing a lively jig. At first I was mad. Then I decided to get up, make coffee, and get an unpleasant gym visit out of the way. Beauty rest be damned. 

You know that thing where as soon as you schedule a haircut, your hair starts to look extra luxurious? It’s just one good hair day after another, right up until your appointment, and you start to question the impulse that brought you to the salon in the first place. I’m having that problem with New York City. 

My former colleague/current friend Merritt emailed me with a snippet from her dream life the other day. Not her dreamy and beautiful existence in San Francisco but an actual dream.  Apparently, in her dreams, my current morning routine involves at least ten minutes of combing my eyebrows with a rusty old dime. Yes. That sounds about right. 

I always feel sort of bad for an angel food cake. Somewhere in the past twenty years food writers pushed it into the fat-free food world and it got stuck there, only celebrated for what it wasn’t rather than what it was. Then once that whole fad became a joke, and we all decided to put down the Snackwells and eat more vegetables, angel food cake never seemed to recover from the stigma.

I recently fell asleep at the movies. I think I've entered a new stage of life. The I’m-perfectly-rested-but-now-I’m-old-so-if-I get-too-comfortable-I’m-going-to-pass-out stage. Strange. I didn’t feel the transition. 

If you close your eyes, can you imagine the sound that chocolate cake makes? I can. It’s one of my favorite sounds in the world. And it’s very specific. Nothing makes a sound quite like chocolate cake. 

I'm talking about the sound of cutting a chocolate cake. Rich, audible decadence. Soft and squishy. I especially love the muffled, chocolatey knock of the knife hitting the plate. So deep and promising. My mouth waters just thinking about it. 

Do you make New Year’s resolutions? I usually don’t, but this year is going to be a big one for me, so I thought I’d psych myself up. My resolution is to show the meringue who’s boss. 

Let me explain.

The outside of our refrigerator is wallpapered in clutter. A ridiculous caricature. (Who are those weirdos?) Sweet baby Agnes’ birth announcement. An outdated Christmas card with our cute nieces running amok. An ugly magnet that touts the benefits of green tea that I like to gaze at while drinking my coffee. It's anything but sleek and stylish, but each strange artifact makes me happy.

About 30 years ago LeVar Burton ate a fig. I was just a chubby-cheeked kiddo watching Reading Rainbow but I remember it like it was yesterday. I had never seen a fig and I wanted one desperately. LeVar made them look so heavenly. Pretty purple. Jammy. Sweet. I longed to try one myself. Maybe while reading a book. Figs were so special. So unattainable. So mysterious. So lovely. I might have also had a little crush on LeVar.

We should talk about crêpe cakes. If you ask me, everyone should talk about crêpe cakes. Why aren’t more people talking about crêpe cakes? I think it’s because crêpe cakes are sneaky. They look boring from the top. Practically bland. There’s no swirly frosting or whipped cream to seduce you. And they’re tan. Just tan. You might look at a crêpe cake and want to walk on by. But I urge you to stop. Crêpe cakes have this seductive split personality that you’re going to want to explore. The crêpes are all proper, prim, and vanilla-scented lace. They’re ladylike and discreet. But between each crêpe is a layer of oozy, out of control, luscious custard that just wants to sneak out of its crêpe cage and give you a kiss. Together they’re just amazing. Not too sweet. Rich yet restrained. Simple and so tricky. A perfect dessert.