My memories of Brooklyn cloud over slowly with time, coated with the city’s grime that films over its fixtures and ghosts. The exhaust of the exhausted, the grit of the grind, the exhalation of industry. It kept me from opening the bedroom windows on Union Avenue many nights, despite the need for air as the steam heat screamed and clanged, caged within the pipes in our apartment, turning us into puddles as we slept. I’d seen that grime when I first moved to the city after college, blowing sooty mucus into a tissue and thinking, Huh? That can’t be normal.
My body got used to the city air quickly, learning to filter the mystery particles or at least disguise them beyond recognition. My muscles got used to the steps in subway stations, to city blocks, and to running. I ran a lot in the early years of living in the city, training for long distance races under the bright lights in McCarren Park, sharing lane one of the track with serious runners, stray soccer balls, and unobservant spectators. The smell of the track overpowered the scent of sweat. The green turf was grass-like enough and soothing to look at. We collected turf pellets in our running shoes and displayed them on the russet tiles by the front door in the kitchen.
We lived about a mile from McCarren Park at one point before moving to our place on Union Avenue and used to run to and from the track on training days. The nights before trash pickup were always the worst. Some people will know that it’s already suffocating to run in a sports bra, but add having to hold your breath past oozing piles of trash bags at the curb and the small heart attacks that accompany rats darting from those piled, plastic lumps and it’s really great training for lung capacity.
The air always seemed fresher inside somehow, in New York, aside from the city’s beautiful parks and green spaces. Even the musty scent of reclaimed wood and damp hops was inviting walking past the local bars and restaurants. I miss that smell sometimes, now that we don’t go for a pint or two on the regular, like we used to.
After a couple of our usual haunts closed down and transformed into one thing and then another, we discovered a great little place on Berry near Bedford Ave called Juniper. Juniper was a cozy respite from the crowded neighborhood a block over on Bedford Ave and it was BYO, something difficult to find at the time in our corner of Williamsburg. We’d pick up a six pack of Abita Amber, glance at the chalkboard specials to see if they still had the blackened chicken sandwich and the chicken pot pie. Then, the cool, quirky waiter with the untamed hair and the loud 90s sweater would come over, bopping to an internal song that didn’t match the one playing over the speakers. I remember I’d always burn my tongue on the pot pie because I was too impatient and it was too delicious. Mike would always nod in approval after the first bite of his blackened chicken sandwich. We’d sip our Abita Ambers and say, “I really like coming here.” The place made us smile and prompted conversations at every little table inside.
I remember we went to Juniper once and the lights weren’t working, but the kitchen appliances were. The staff had strung white twinkle lights in the kitchen and lit candles throughout the restaurant. They ran out of sandwich buns at one point and the owner ran out and got some more from the grocery store down the street. We enjoyed our meal in the dark alongside other Juniper devotees and respected the hustle of the restaurant staff and owner, who appeared to be having fun despite the evening’s setbacks.
One night, we were looking forward to a hearty, cozy meal at our favorite place and made our way across the neighborhood to Berry Street. We picked up our six pack before heading over to Juniper. In the distance, we saw another couple standing outside the door to the restaurant. They had their six pack too, but they did not go inside. The restaurant was dark. No lights twinkled within. The candles were extinguished. We looked on Google and our faces fell at the words Permanently Closed.
New York is like that sometimes. It will whet your appetite and break your heart. It will soot your nose. It will train and test your strength. And you’ll go on and it will remain with you in your brain, lungs, and blood. When we went the way of Juniper and left the city, I took Brooklyn with me. When we walk down Union Avenue now, we’ve been replaced in our old apartment, but it will always be ours somehow and we too will always be Brooklyn’s.
I overpacked for a journey to the past this weekend, but I have no regrets. Our adventure (and our little car) took us across the state to Stockton, NJ, where we decided to treat ourselves to a weekend of luxurious relaxation at The Woolverton Inn. The inn, housed in a pretty, stonework, manor house originally built as a two-story farmhouse in 1792, drew us in with its online photos that captured its elegant pastoral charm, hearty breakfasts, and cozy rooms with lavish soaking baths and in-room fireplaces.
I packed for the weekend, abandoning my typical restraint with the aim of being as cozy as possible while away from home. My suitcase graciously accommodated my uncharacteristically maximal decisions as I stuffed it full with cozy sweaters and flannels, warm loungewear, and my plush bathrobe. The zipper of my toiletry bag was tested with the addition of a large bottle of rosemary and mint bubble bath, and we even prepared an additional bag of sweet indulgences to make our retreat all the more enjoyable.
After loading up the car, we began our journey west in a gray drizzle, with a stop planned at Readington Brewery. The brewery did not disappoint and was replete with cozy warmth and rustic charm. We shared a flight of four beer samples, seated at a picnic table beside a Christmas tree, inside the brewery’s bright, spacious tasting room, sheltered from the chill and damp outside beneath its high, warm-toned wooden ceiling.
After closing out our tab, we continued on toward Stockton, the daylight fading from gray to muted periwinkle. We pulled into the cobbled and gravel driveway of the Woolverton at twilight and hurried across the stone entry path to the front door. We were greeted by a friendly staff member, Janet, who checked us in and led us on an informative tour of the inn and our room. Janet was very knowledgeable about the inn and its history and I was fascinated to learn that Julia Child and her husband, Paul, were married on the property’s stone patio back in 1946 when the manor house was still a private residence. Janet also explained that fresh baked cookies were put out in the dining room by three p.m. each afternoon and that a supply of coffee, tea, and cocoa were always available before directing our attention to a glass decanter of Dubliner Whiskey with Honey, available for guests to help themselves to a tipple or a nightcap if they were so inclined, which of course, we were.
Janet led us to our room, Amelia’s Suite, the original master suite from the time of the house’s earliest construction in 1792 and I immediately felt like a lucky house guest of the Honourable Phryne Fisher as my gaze wandered around, scanning the comfortable environs, thoughtfully decorated and enclosed with ornate Chinoiserie wallpaper in red and beige hues.
Janet left us and we settled into our room. I allowed my suitcase to breathe and explored our accommodations, taking a few photographs for this post. We went back downstairs to sample the mouthwatering homemade chocolate chip cookies, to choose our breakfast time for the next morning, and to pour ourselves each a taste of the whiskey. After relaxing in the room for a bit, we braved the rain and made the slightly harrowing drive across Center Bridge to the Pennsylvania side of the river, following the slightly flooded, dark, winding road to New Hope in search of dinner.
After spending unanticipated time figuring out parking for the municipal lot vs. the street (street is the way to go, if you can find a spot), we escaped the rain and opted to sit at the bar in a snug tavern called The Salt House where the bartender was very attentive and accommodating. We each ordered a whiskey cocktail, Mike opting for an Old Fashioned, and I for something called All The Buzz.
We sipped our drinks and ordered some hearty fare, taking our time, talking, eating, and drinking, elbow to elbow with the bar counter’s other patrons. After dinner, we explored the shining streets of New Hope in the rain, passing by the sleeping small businesses and shops. I pointed out to Mike Bucks County Playhouse where I used to participate in high school theater competitions and we chatted about how I was finding the town much more enjoyable this time around without the lurking stress of competition and sometimes a scarcity of friends to share the day with.
We returned to Stockton via the New Jersey side of the river and passed through the quaint village that was home to our weekend lodgings. The confines of Stockton were pretty and festive, some buildings and streets decorated with Christmas lights and decorations.
We headed back up to our suite at The Woolverton, looking forward to a luxurious soak in the bath after our adventures in the rain. I made sure to add a plentiful amount of bubbles to water as the tub filled and enjoyed the soothing fragrance of rosemary and mint and warm sips of Maker’s Mark while lounging in the hot bath, once again reminiscent of Kerry Greenwood’s 1920s Melbourne upper society lady detective, Miss Fisher.
The only item I forgot to bring that would have ensured a night of proper sleep during our stay was my pillow. I am, shall we say, a very particular sleeper. At home, I have a memory foam pillow and at The Woolverton, I did not. I think most normal people would be able to adjust to the change quite easily, but I had some difficulty. I am not sure if I could have requested a firmer pillow from the inn’s staff the next day, as I did not do so, but if you do plan to visit and are as particular a sleeper as I am, perhaps arrange with the inn’s staff ahead of time to accommodate such a preference or bring your own.
The next morning, we headed down to the enclosed, heated porch for our breakfast of piña colada scones, fresh fruit, eggs, potatoes, and salad. I helped myself to coffee in the dining room and we each enjoyed a glass of orange juice. We planned our day a bit better over our meal and decided to take a twenty-minute drive down the New Jersey bank of the Delaware to visit Washington Crossing State Park, making sure to say a quick hello to The Woolverton’s resident sheep in their paddock on the property on the way to our car.
Hello there!
We were one of three cars in the Visitor’s Center lot at the park and enjoyed perusing the museum’s collection of Revolutionary War artifacts and artwork depicting historical scenes from the era. We then took advantage of the dry weather and embarked on a short hike around the park’s muddy trails, starting out on the Continental Lane trail, following in the footsteps of the Continental Army as they began their historic 9-mile march to Trenton, NJ on December 26, 1776, after crossing the half frozen Delaware on Christmas Night, in pursuit of carrying out General Washington’s plan of a surprise attack on the Hessian mercenaries stationed in what would later become New Jersey’s capital.
Our hike took us down to the Ferry Site on the New Jersey side where a replica of of a wooden ferry was on display in the grass beside the whitewashed, stone Nelson House, which was not constructed yet at the time of Washington and the Continental Army’s historic crossing.
We hiked back to the car and continued our outdoor adventures, heading back up 29 to Lambertville. We wound our way up to the parking lot for Goat Hill Overlook, heeding the posted, yellow, warning signs advising that copperhead snakes had been sighted in the area and that they only attack if disturbed. I was a little bit afraid as we made our way up the path that was laden with copper-colored leaves, but we made our way unscathed to the viewpoint and were rewarded with a pretty, albeit foggy, view of the Delaware River and New Hope below.
We noticed our growing hunger as we headed back to the parking lot, careful not to trod on any leaf-sheathed copperheads, of which we saw none, and made our heading The Dubliner on the Delaware in New Hope for lunch and a couple of pints. I opted for a Half and Half – a combination of Harp and Guinness, which Mike reminded me to photograph for this post as well as a delicious lamb stew, which he did not.
Our day continued with a much needed nap at the Woolverton and then a festive trip to Peddler’s Village in Lahaska, PA to view the their attraction of one million holiday lights. I have never seen Peddler’s Village so crowded, and think perhaps it was due to Saturday night being the only night to escape the weekend’s rainy forecast. We perused a few of the shops and bought a couple of puzzles, forgoing a couple others that captured our attention, due to their staggering piece-count
We escaped the crowds of Peddler’s Village in search of dinner in Lambertville and opted to go to Under the Moon Cafe for some tapas. We ordered a couple of appetizers, a turkey vegetable soup special and some sliders with San Marzano tomato sauce as well as a Tapas Tower of skirt steak, shrimp, and Manchego with pears. We ended our delicious meal with a sweet tres leches cake before heading back to The Woolverton to repeat our rosemary mint soak and Maker’s Mark nightcap from the night before.
We ended our weekend at The Woolverton with breakfast in our suite. Mike opted for heuvos rancheros and I for coffee and French toast with berry compote and real maple syrup. We packed up our things and checked out of our suite, heading out into the rain to make our way home, taking with us the souvenir of the fond memories of our step back in time.
Last weekend, our schedule (and our little car) swept us away to Saratoga Springs, NY for a getaway with Mike’s siblings. Saratoga in the off-season is one of my happy places. I enjoy strolling up and down Broadway and perusing the shop windows and the architecture of the beautiful buildings that line the main street in town. We treated ourselves to coffee and pastries at Sweet Mimi’s and Putnam Market in the mornings, feasted on hearty meals at a few local establishments that I will go into further detail on later, and ended our nights with ice cream and fudge at Kilwins.
Northshire Bookstore called my name the whole drive up and walking into the expansive shop felt like a warm hug from an old friend. I warned the group that I would be spending a while in there and that they should feel free to continue on without me if they wanted, but sure enough, the store had something to capture everyone’s interest. I lingered around the stationary section, knowing full-well that my stationary drawer at home was well-stocked already. I just can’t help myself. Maybe it’s a writer thing, but pretty paper that I can write on is so enticing to me. I practiced restraint and reminded myself that I can enjoy the idea of stationary without buying it and bringing it home. I eyed a few Lang Folk Art Calendars that I begrudgingly accepted I didn’t need and continued on to the puzzle section, where my sense of self-control abandoned me immediately at the sight of the selection before me.
Northshire Bookstore is well-stocked with puzzles from my favorite puzzle company, Ravensburger. Ravensburger puzzles are reliable in that the pieces are actually uniquely distinct, unlike some other puzzle company products where you can’t always be sure that you have a piece in the right spot, by fit alone. Ravensburger claims “softclick technology” and they claim correctly, in my opinion as a frequent puzzler. I purchased a 1000-piece Ravensburger puzzle entitled Welcome to Banff, proud that I was able to limit myself to only one and, my friends, I can’t wait to get my hands on those blue-backed pieces once I reach a big writing milestone that is fast approaching, but more on that later this month.
Saratoga in the off-season is the town at rest after a summer of crowds flocking to its boundaries to bathe in the famed spring water spas and attend the horse races at the historic Saratoga Race Course. When we were there, the race track and baths were closed for the season and a faint chill tinged the air, floating in on a breeze from somewhere up north.
Our Airbnb sat nestled on a side street off Congress Park, opposite the park from Broadway. The house was a cozy split-level with three comfortable bedrooms and a spacious living and kitchen area. We spent our downtime watching movies and playing games in the living room, which had an unlit fireplace and a wall of white-washed, built-in shelves and we put together a 1000-piece puzzle, depicting four National Parks, in the kitchen. We snacked on takeaway treats from Sweet Mimi’s, Putnam Market, and Kilwins and sipped on the pomegranate elixir that is Saratoga Red from the Saratoga Winery.
We cut through Congress Park multiple times to go between our cozy homebase and downtown, careful not to disturb the flock of sleepy ducks that had taken up residence at a pond there. We strolled along the paved path, enjoying the views of a couple of the famed springs that had been enshrined beneath ornate pavilions by their benefactors and encrusted with orange and white mineral deposits from the ever-flowing sulfuric trickling. I much preferred the park in the daytime, but the eerie glow from the street lamps along the path at night did usher me into the fall spirit quickly. Fall spirit aside, I was happy to be walking in a group on those nighttime strolls.
We spent our evenings seeking out hearty meals and drinks at Whitman Brewing Company, Boca Bistro, and The Olde Bryan Inn, the last of which gave me the sense of walking into an American version of the cozy Hogsmeade locale, The Three Broomsticks, from the Harry Potter series.
The Olde Bryan Inn, constructed in 1832, is a tavern located on the site of Alexander Bryan’s former log cabin establishment, est. 1773. Waiting outside the stone tavern for our table to be ready, we caught glimpses of the comfortable environs within. The light glowed warm from the burgundy beam-framed windows and illuminated a first glimpse of the wooden beams and overused colonial pots and pans displayed within on the wooden walls.
Walking through the narrow entrance of the tavern, we passed the pub area, a cozy snug with a dark, wood-beamed ceiling and pewter steins hanging from their handles over the broad wooden bar. The sight made me want to order a Butterbeer, but instead I made my selection from the available, muggle offerings and opted for an apple cider mule and a roasted turkey dinner. The evening was a delight filled with lively conversation and delicious food and drink. The Hermione Granger that lives in me was satisfied.
While in town, we were sure to visit Saratoga Spa State Park, where my sister in law was determined to sample some of the springs. For all but one, we anticipated and were met with the telltale pucker that resulted from the taste and texture of the mineral deposit-laden spring water, which is said to relieve gastrointestinal ailments, if ingested, and to soften the skin, if bathed in. Needless to say, she spat the water out, although she did find one spring with a genuinely delicious output, the State Seal Spring. The water at the State Seal Spring was good, but sampling it required interrupting the constant flow of people filling 5-gallon water cooler jugs with the good stuff. Some people just can’t get enough of it, I guess.
At the end of the weekend, we said our goodbyes and departed for home, going our separate ways and looking forward to our next adventure together, wherever it may take us. A year of time and some pleasant hours of planning are all that separate us from that next reunion and I know it will be a match for how lovely this one was.
Good morning friends! I am waking up slowly this morning with some breakfast and coffee. The plan is to just have a lazy weekend since the next few weekends are going to be busy. I am thinking we might do a puzzle and go for a walk, but any ambitions beyond those are yet to be named, or not be named.
While there is a little bit of summer left, I am starting to feel ready for fall and have been eyeing the weather each morning in hopes of some version of chilly at some point in the day, with no luck yet. My sweaters are still folded in my seasonal clothing bin in the closet but they have been looking at me through the clear plastic each time I go to pull a sleeveless top off a hanger. I see you sweaters and we will be together again soon, but right now, it’s just too hot.
Fall can be a tempting shopping season, especially if you are a person who loves to wear sweaters or are cozy-obsessed (like me!) and I find storing seasonal items away can help them feel almost new when it’s actually weather-appropriate to wear those items or seasonally appropriate to display them around your home. These days, fall advertising begins in July and bombards our attention through November, overlapping with Christmas starting in October and sometimes even earlier.
Seeing fall items on display in stores or in digital ads entices us to fill our homes with earthy tones and orange pillows and blankets and put pumpkin-inspired everything everywhere from inside to outside to in our coffee cups. From interior décor to exterior décor to Halloween costumes to specialty seasonal drinks, it’s hard not to lose some pretty pennies to the season in the process of cozifying.
When we lived in New York, I didn’t have specific fall décor. Our whole apartment was aesthetically warm and decorated with rich colors, cozy lighting, and a long red brick wall. It looked ready for fall more than it did any other season all year round, so there was just no need for additional décor.
When we moved to the shore and switched out our red brick wall for light tan ones, our railroad layout for a wide open space twice the size, and our view of the building across Union Avenue for a view of the Atlantic Ocean, summer took over the interior design scheme. When fall rolled around, I was tempted to put pumpkin things in my home. Our full collection of designated fall décor fits in a shoebox on the top shelf of the linen closet and consists of two small wooden pumpkins and one little fabric one that I thrifted, two hand-crocheted pumpkins – one my friend from work gave me and one my cousin made with my late Nana’s yarn, and a cozy fall candle that another cousin gifted to me for my birthday last year.
All but the candle, which I think may be hiding in with the Christmas stuff
Keeping seasonal and holiday décor manageable can be difficult and keeping it minimal can be even harder. Though we only have a small amount of fall items, they give our living space that seasonal oomph needed to get me in the cozy spirit. Our fall display, if you could even call it that, doesn’t extend beyond the living room, but for me, that’s enough, and the fact that it takes about five minutes to set up and put away is something I’m very happy with.
I prefer to bring fall into our house with baked goods, hearty meals, and October beers or to get outside wrapped up in a sweater to enjoy the crisp weather and abounding seasonal activities in the Northeast. Fall is also the season where my Harry Potter obsession shows in a big way and while Mike would prefer to not watch Harry Potter movies or do Harry Potter puzzles, he’s a good sport about it, but I’ll save that obsession for another post.
Now it’s time to choose a summery puzzle and let you all get on with your weekend. Thanks for reading and hope that wherever you are, you are able to add a little bit of cozy to your day!
During the early days of the pandemic, I missed travel intensely. I grew stir crazy in our home and craved to be transported to places outside our walls. The uncertainty about if that would ever happen again just made me crave adventure even more. Without a vaccine on the horizon and since traveling anywhere beyond the front door risked exposure to Covid-19, we stayed inside our home as much as possible, unless it was necessary to go outside.
The first virtual walking tour video that I watched on YouTube during the pandemic was of London’s West End in the rain. It was refreshing to see a landscape that was new to me and to hear the sounds of a city again, albeit subdued, and to hear the patter of the rain on the sidewalks and streets. Everything shone in the water and the light and I “walked” around London for a while.
My favorite walking tour video that I came across since then was of a snowy walk through Québec City at night. This is a video that I will still just put on in the background sometimes and Mike and I have nicknamed it “The Montreal Crunch Crunch” because I kept accidentally thinking it was Montreal and the “crunch crunch” comes from the sound of the videographer’s boots in the snow. The video takes you on a tour of Vieux Québec and slightly beyond the neighborhood’s borders around Christmastime. When I first watched it, I made a mug of hot cocoa and got cozy on the couch on a gray day and it was just exactly the right thing to do. I wandered the winding streets of the old stone city, climbing stairs and inclines in the snow, and my teeth didn’t even chatter once!
A year ago, Mike and I got to experience Québec City in person and though it was devoid of snow in August, it was no less magical. We stayed at the coziest hotel, Hôtel du Vieux-Québec. When researching this hotel, I was drawn to the sturdy, gray, stone walls and liked the idea of sleeping soundly in a fortress of coziness. Some rooms had fireplaces for that added layer of warmth, but we didn’t need that in the summertime so we opted for a more basic room. Each morning of our stay, we woke to a wicker picnic basket hooked on our door, filled with freshly baked croissants, fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed orange juice. We’d eat at the little table by the window that looked out over the side alley and then prepare to start our day of wandering the old city.
Breakfast Picnic Basket
Vieux Québec, or Old Québec, is a multi-level city with an “upper” and “lower” town and quite a few steep inclines and staircases between them, but even if you are not comfortable with such terrain, there is a funicular cable car that goes between the terrace of the impressiveFairmont Le Château Frontenac down to lower Vieux Québec and vice versa for a small price. We did not end up riding the funicular, but let’s just say everyday of our trip was leg day.
Old QuébecFunicular
Having watched the virtual walking tour of Québec so many times, I felt familiar with the geography of the upper and lower towns, but did get thrown off by a few twists and turns. We really enjoyed wandering around the city and to Mike’s annoyance, I found myself frequently stopping to photograph buildings and murals. We stopped into many of the cozy bars and restaurants and ate hearty meals and beaver tails and decided our favorite place was Resto-Pub Q-de-Sac. We enjoyed sitting at the bar, sipping on Boréale Rousse, a delicious Québec brewed amber ale, and snacking on cheese encrusted soupe a l’oignon (onion soup). Inside, the pub was reminiscent of a cozy chalet and I can only imagine what a respite it would be from icy cold evenings in the winter.
Québec City Mural
We are hoping to go back in the winter sometime to see the city under a blanket of sparkling snow, but before doing so, I learned that I really should brush up on my French which has been rusting over for fourteen years- sacré bleu! Mike and I made a rule that because my French was too rusty to be conversational and Mike does not speak more than a few words, we would walk into restaurants and say “Bonjour, hello” to the proprietor or the host to make them aware from the get go of how poor our handle of the language was. Having taken French for years in middle school and high school, it was definitely embarrassing to not have the confidence to carry out a two way conversation. I found I would ask a question or order in French, but I did not have a strong ear for a local’s fluent response and would get very flustered and turn into a Jersey tomato in the headlights immediately.
“Bonjour, hello” was necessary for us in making our way around the city, where the local language is French. The locals were very friendly and patient with us for which I am so thankful, but I am going to try to get a handle on French again, at least to the point where next time we go, I will have the confidence to have a basic conversation, check into a hotel, or order a meal.
If you enjoyed this post or are interested in reading more about travel, check out my friend Katherine’s new blog, Dear Jane Travel. And until my next post, au revoir, goodbye!
I’ve been struggling to get back to writing, unable to give confidence to any particular idea. Right now, I am just typing and sipping a glass of Malbec, hoping that each word (and my grape juice) will help tug me out of Rabbit’s doorway and into a post worth your time and my own. Thanks in advance for bearing with me and I’m sorry if this is absolute stuff and fluff.
I admit that sometimes, even after reducing the amount of items that we have in our home, the laundry basket still overflows, the entryway table hides beneath the camouflage of grocery receipts and sheathed credit card offers, the throw blankets rest in crumpled piles on the new, blue sofa, and there are shoes seemingly everywhere.
No matter how many steps I climb to get closer to my own ideal of cozy minimalism, I think I’ll always gravitate towards a messy reality. I could have three things and at least two of those would somehow find their way to the wrong spot the next day. I need to learn to accept that.
My mind is a curious, cluttered place that doesn’t match my curated home. I struggle to cope with the mental mess a lot of the time, sometimes leaving the door open to too many thoughts and baseless insecurities, allowing them to sneak in amidst the darkness like unwelcome Heffalumps encouraging self-doubt to take the reins and to make the sensible parts of the oversized, aspic-walnut in my head go numb.
Alas, I run on.
When I am down, I am not able to express what I am thinking in spoken words, and words are supposed to be my rescue ledge. Their abandonment is greatly unappreciated. Sometimes my brain thinks faster than my words which leads to stumbling over them and then a deeper lack of confidence. This is why I need to get back to writing. I know that I am capable of intelligence, confidence, and true expression on the page. I can use my own words as a map to navigate my own creative woods.
When there is clutter in my physical environment, it is difficult to decompress, relax, and feel cozy. I crave cozy constantly and when it’s not there, it’s easy to get lost in my composited mind. Cozy wraps me up in welcoming, warm snuggles and tells me, “You can fucking do this.”
I find cozy in empowering conversations with my husband, family, and friends, in warm cups of tea with too much honey, in dry red wine, and in stretched out sweatpants and squashy coral pillows. I recognize how incredibly lucky I am to have people in my life who love me and to be able to curate a home that fosters my happiness to the best of my ability. In theory, I should never want for more and yet sometimes, I am an absolute Eeyore. In the words of somebody, somewhere who Mike and I quote all the time (most likely the writers on Psych), “That don’t make no sense.”
So here is my attempt at diving back into my pond of words, hoping for a little black rain cloud to float on by with a heavy rain that will irrigate my potential and grow my creativity. I am sorry if it doesn’t last, but I would like to give it a shot. With my strong support system, I know I can never be stuck for long. “He-ho, e-o, there she goes!“
Sitting on the balcony with a cold beer and and the expansive view of a white Atlantic, the muse returns. Escorted on the arm of a gentle breeze on this cool August evening, it seemed as good a time as any to pursue its inspiration.
The sun climbs down the hill behind us after a long day’s journey and the blue and gold sky fades to periwinkle, clouds towering like tidal waves above the horizon, preparing to swallow the shore. The street lamps on Sandy Hook ignite in a synchronized splash and pairs of headlights make their way homeward or adventure bound.
Summer is in full swing though the humid haze called in sick. We don’t miss it.
Nights like these, you can hear yourself think and even turn that off if you wanted to. I tune in to a symphony of birds, crickets, and the exhalation of car engines in the distance. Air conditioners take a well deserved rest and their lack of participation is welcome.
Our eyes adjust to the dimming dusk as the river mirrors the sky. Long Island twinkles animatedly in the distance and the JFK departures rise slow into ombré velvet, brushed just the right way.
I pull up a cozy throw of summer air under my laptop and nestle in with all the other nestling buildings, plants, and people. Together, we all fade from view into one deep blue.
Fully breakfasted and armed with a steaming mug of chamomile and honey, I sit on our turquoise couch, which is turning more green than blue from soaking up the frequent eastern sunshine that streams through our living room windows. Outside those windows waits a perfectly clear fall day. The “Big Blue” suits its nickname this morning, sparkling dreamily up at me. Sailboats drift calmly in a gentle, southward wind and speed boats bounce excitedly on the surface of the water, trailing long, fluffy, white tails.
With only wisps of clouds on the distant horizon, sweeping glows of sunshine, and a cool, lazy breeze, today is simply beautiful and I feel lucky to be an audience to it, comp-ticketed for no reason other than that this is where we live.
We have only one errand to run today and the rest of the time is open and changeable as the Big Blue. Sometimes, having nothing much to do is exactly the right medicine for an overworked mind.
As an over-planner, these sorts of days can be confusing, sometimes even frustrating, to me. Sometimes, I’ll think, I should have planned something to do with all this time; what a waste. Sometimes, I chance upon these sorts of days after cancelled plans or changes in weather patterns and am bored, longing for an activity that I do not have to brainstorm and choose. This is not the case today and I’m excited to make the plan as we go, lagging behind the heels of the day as they race on ahead of us toward midnight. We are in no rush to catch up.
My usual wandering mind is calm and quiet this morning, patient and relaxed, just waiting to go with the flow of where the cool breeze takes us. I am grateful that my brain is not buzzing, as usual, with the need to tidy or plan, to start and complete work tasks, or to make decisions. This morning, it is just living in the moment and that is exactly what the rest of me needs.
I feel calm and rested for the first time in over a week, the anxiety drained out of me and replaced with pleasant, positive thoughts and soothing warm tea and honey to balm the wounds. Looking out at the ocean, twinkling reassuringly, I am reminded that I am in exactly the right place and that I want to go dip my toes in the Atlantic’s crisp, chilly shallows later on, just for a moment, before I chicken out and hide my feet in a blanket of cool sand.
I sit on the porch of our family shore house listening to the morning symphony of foam flip flops shuffling along slate sidewalks to the boardwalk, the gentle rumbling of car engines in slow pursuit of good parking spaces, and the sweet-tuned gossip amongst the birds singing the breaking news of summer from the trees lining the street.
The breeze is cool and a cocktail of salty humidity clings to the furniture as the sun spotlights the modernized facelifts of our street’s once Victorian-style dollhouse homes.
I can usually see the ocean from this spot on the cozy wicker sofa, but the hedges around the porch have grown a little too accustomed to a casually untidy appearance which we can all pretty much relate to from living through a worldwide pandemic. I could use a trim as well but that can wait a while longer. These are those lazy, hazy, crazy days of… well you know, after all.
(The birds’ news reel plays on a loop).
I was too lazy to prepare the coffee this morning and didn’t want to wake anyone sleeping on the first floor with the bubbling gasps of the coffee pot. So instead, I gathered my laptop and headed out to the porch to sit in the breeze and be inspired by summer. Not too long after, I am joined by my cousin and her young son and demands for bubble time take priority. Wobbly iridescence floats heavily on the air and splash lands on the floorboards while the writing takes a rest.
Welcome distractions abound in this family-filled old house. These walls tell stories of use and love – of our own contained family history in this little shore town. The rooms are filled with laughter and conflicting TV volume preferences – with movie decision fatigue and lazy mornings sipping coffee. The scent memory of freshly baked Italian rolls and cinnamon sugar crumb cake permeate the dining room and waft up the stairs like a buttery apparition encouraging everyone to wake up in slow procession.
The memories of past experiences and loved ones long gone remain alive in this magical place, preserved like old time postcards in a frame. This house tells us stories and helps us write new ones. It makes us laugh till our bellies and our cheeks ache or even sometimes, till we pee “our” pants (IYKYK). It is where we have gathered for my whole life- where I got to know my family as a whole and I am so grateful for all that it gives us. We try our best to do right by it and keep the experiences going, even when it gets hard or we don’t have a clue what we are doing.
But now it is time to put away the laptop and enjoy the first day of summer – to bask in the salty breeze of the shore, with the only current task at hand of pondering when to head to the beach.
Exactly one year has passed since we packed up the 15 foot U-Haul that Mike valiantly parked against the curb on Union Avenue outside of our Williamsburg apartment building.
The panic and uncertainty of the looming pandemic shook up the timeline of our move by a week. Fueled by a wild sense of urgency to escape the city and move into our very newly purchased home in New Jersey, we did not know if the growing tidal wave of NYC Covid-19 closures would come crashing down on the shores of Staten Island, barring our escape route if we waited any longer.
Though I had pared down my belongings over the course of the years, the sight of the hastily packed boxes and bags that consumed most of the living room and kitchen still presented a daunting challenge for our time frame.
Exactly one year has passed since adrenaline toughened our muscles and surged through our blood as we carefully and repetitively climbed down the wooden stairs of our apartment building, our arms full of boxes, bags, furniture, suitcases, laundry bags, and loose items – and then up again in what seemed like a Sisyphean effort.
We poured three hours of energy into a grueling operation to amputate the legs of our couch so it would fit through the doorway, the heads of the long screws that connected them to the wooden sofa frame stripped to ragged circles. We earned the rush of victory we experienced when they finally relented only to be gut-punched with a crushing sense of disbelief when faced with the realization that, at almost an inch too wide, the damn thing would not fit through the doorway.
Armed with determination, an incomprehensive tilt, the thought that the furniture movers had somehow gotten it into the apartment, and some aggressive shoves and pulls, we were finally able to get it fully through our doorway and down the steps to the first floor landing, sure to take some of the burgundy paint from the door frame with it, a battle wound tattooed into the turquoise chenille.
Once the U-Haul was mostly packed up, aside from our bed and the items we planned to put in Mike’s mom’s Honda in the morning, we parked the truck under the BQE for the remainder of the night and headed back up to our nearly empty apartment.
Beyond exhausted, covered in sweat, and starting to feel the aches, blisters, and bruises of persistent heavy lifting and screwdriver twisting, we ate plastic spoonfuls of peanut butter straight out of the jar for dinner and drank cups of tap water and Coca Cola. We leaned on the kitchen peninsula for the last time and sat on the cool, brick-colored, tile floor. Dirty and drained, we slept in our nearly empty, sweltering room for one final night, lulled to sleep by the gentle clang of steam pipes and the muted city sounds of early pandemic Brooklyn.
A year later, I sit on the couch with Mike, getting sleepy as I type this post, feeling very much at home in the place where we have spent at least part of every single day for the past year. I am considering grabbing a spoonful of peanut butter from the kitchen before I go to bed and am thankful that there is no U-Haul parked outside hungry to be packed full of all of our belongings.
cozy does it 