the people who make pickles in your neighborhood

The New York Times ran this article yesterday about the new wave of Brooklynites who like to make their food the old-fashioned way. I too thought this was interesting, particularly as it pertained to pickles.

Back in September, when my graduate program required me to pitch an idea for a broadcast news package I simply said, "pickles are the new black?"

Our teacher (click) loved it, so my partner Lois Desocio and I were off an running. My strength proved to be hunting down picklers, while Lois was the savvier scriptwriter. Neither of us had ever done any work with film or editing, so while the result is rather amateur, we're also sort of proud of it.

Click To Play

Keep an eye for a few of the same faces from The Times' article, like Steven Manning and Bob McClure. A special prize goes to the first person to identify the girl in the mirror at the Bushwick Country Club.

Perhaps I would have posted this months ago, had I known an article on a similar subject would be The Times' most emailed story. The video may make you glad I chose to pursue print journalism over broadcast, but if Beth Linskey (click) doesn't make you smile you should have your pulse checked. Fast-forward to her, if you must.

This won't be the last of the pickle reports. Be warned.

what I like about Lynn

See here.

reset

As I drove through Central Park at the wheel of my convertible, I felt myself bathed in a flickering light, like that of a fluorescent bulb emitting a series of livid, blinking flashes before it turns on fully.
Italo Calvino, The Daughters of the Moon

Someone on NPR the other day talked about the financial crisis as a chance for New York City to press "reset." Italo Calvino painted a picture of what that might look like on a cosmic level in "The Daughters of the Moon," (click to read for free) which appeared in this week's New Yorker.

Here's a photo of the full moon outside my kitchen window a week ago. I read once that as it wanes from full to new, we're supposed to think about what we want to change in anticipation of the new month ahead. The new one is just a couple of days away, so get ready for reset...

Fashion Week: Fall 2009

It's a far cry from where I spent the Fall 2008 shows. Remember this little muse?

This year the models in New York are out-pouting Bella, while she continues to inspire the Southern Hemisphere. Read more about it here.

sunday.

love, instructions included

It doesn't always have to be so complicated.

Here, Tom Slaughter keeps it simple with a DIY Valentine:



1. Click
2. Print
3. Write
4. Stamp
5. Send

love!

who's fit now?

Happy 200th Birthday, Charles Darwin!

grammy whammy

I can't remember the last time I sat down and watched an awards show, so watching the Grammys on Sunday was totally novel.

The ability to fast-forward commercials and rewind to repeat awkward moments (and there were so many, thanks to the Jonas Brothers) was lovely, and something I don't remember from the days of Billy Crystal hosting the Oscars.

Read a little more about MIA saving the show here.

these boots

One Sport Boots, 1994-2009

The New York winter finally did in my oldest pair of shoes. These beautiful boots carried me through Arapahoe National Forest, to the top of Telluride Mountain, to the bottom and back out of the Grand Canyon, over the hump of Half Dome and god-knows-where in the backwoods beyond Ojai. But after six winters in New York, on Broadway in Williamsburg, under the JMZ train, the left one said: No more. I can't go on.
I can't say I blame it. The roller coaster of wind, salt, radiators, subway steps, ice and snow ain't easy. NYC is for many kinds of people (and accessories), but the faint of heart are not included.

I love you, boots. I'm not mad at you. Thanks for taking me so far.

Joe Ades

photograph from ekonon's Flickr photostream

The inimitably dapper Joe Ades, an icon of style and salesmanship, passed away on Sunday, at age 75.He was a fixture at the Union Square Greenmarket, where he famously sold vegetable peelers on the sidewalk in impeccably tailored suits. The first time I saw Mr. Ades on his seat in Union Square, I bought a peeler. He enchanted me with eccentric energy, flecks of spit flying from his mouth as he furiously skinned a bright orange carrot, practically shouting about the peelers' Swiss precision, a thing of beauty.

The New York Times closed their profile with Mr. Ades' daughter remembering the bits of carrot he left behind at the day's end. I know I'm not the only New Yorker who will sorely miss his sharp-cut shreds of color on the sidewalks of Union Square.

night at the museum

Tonight I got to see the final moments of Pipilotti Rist's installation at MOMA. It was a special occasion, and the gallery was nearly empty, so it was lacking in the energy that Logan Hill listed as an example of #9 on New York Magazine's reasons to love New York: "Because the Avant-Garde is our Playpen."


Tonight it felt more like an aquarium than a playpen, or than a museum, for that matter. It certainly didn't feel like any MOMA I had ever known on a bright echoey afternoon. It was utterly silent as we came up the stairs under that spectacular green helicopter. Magnificent.


It's been a weekend of nights at museums. Friday found me at the City Reliquary, that cabinet of curios here in Williamsburg. You can read more about that night here, in my food file on Dossier. I'm still waiting for the opportunity to have a sleepover like Jerry Saltz's at the Guggenheim. In the meantime, my neighborhood museum and a quiet moment in the MOMA are reasons enough for me to love New York.