Roebling paste up

There was a period of about six weeks where my bike was out of commission thanks to a busted rear axle. All of a sudden, everything became so much further away: what used to be a 7-minute ride was now a 40-minute walk. But there was one celebrated ritual, albeit a short-lived one, that I developed during those days as a pedestrian. The 25-minute walk to the Saturday farmer's market took me passed one of my favourite neighbourhood coffee shops to pick up a cup of drip or americano (depending on my mood), and then down Roebling towards the park where the market was set up.

It was on the northern end of Roebling, where it turns into a warehouse wasteland with forgotten loading docks infringing upon the sidewalk, that I encountered some of my favourite graffiti in the city: paste ups by some unknown artist. Every week on that walk, I would pause, coffee burning my fingers through the paper cup and mitten, and admire these beautiful portraits.

Now I'm back on the saddle, and though I love my two-wheeled steed, I often wonder how much I miss when my feet push pedals rather than pavement.

CONSUMED: Roebling Ave, between N9th and N10th; Williamsburg (Brooklyn)

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P.S. If you can identify the artist, please let me know! I would love to give her/him credit for their work.

peach rhubarb pie

Rhubarb has finally come to my farmer's market! I couldn't resist buying several healthy stalks last week, knowing it would force my hand to make pie this week. And what a glorious pie it was. I still haven't figured out the secret of how to prevent any of my rhubarb pies from bubbling over ... but maybe that IS the secret considering how Dory loved the gooey mess it left behind. Rhubarb will be purchased again this week, because only God knows how much longer I'll have access to a farmer's market this year.

CONSUMED: Greenpoint greenmarket; McCarren Park, Greenpoint (Brooklyn)

banner for the Prince George-Norwich Meadows CSA

Two out of the three summers that I lived in Manhattan, I was a member of the community-supported agriculture (CSA) program in my neighbourhood. It was an awkward sort of organisation only because it was trying to stir up food awareness and organise a local food culture in a community that didn't want any of it. (This was exemplified by the struggling Murray Hill Greenmarket, which is only able to support one or two small farmers each week during its short summer run.)

Thus while I was looking for some semblance of a progressive community during those first years in New York, I realised early on that Murray Hill was not going to be the place to find it. And so I shirked my duties as a CSA member and never signed up for the requisite 6 hours of volunteer time at the sign-in table. Yet the guilt grew over the months of vegetable collection that by the summer's end, I broke down and offered my (limited) services to re-design their pamphlet one year (with Dory's artistic touch), and their street banner the second (recruiting help from Ainsley).

Here is the fruit of my labour, displayed high above 28th Street between Madison and 5th. I unexpectedly passed it the other day and decided to snap a shot as I brimmed with pride seeing it out in the wild. This project is particularly sweet because it was the first and only time I've submitted by (*extremely* limited) drawing skills for public consumption. And it didn't turn out too bad, if I may say so myself.

CONSUMED: The Prince George; 14 E 28th St, Murray Hill (Manhattan)

cover of Diner Journal

I've been trying to write a mini blog essay about how New York has changed my outlook on food. If Toronto was where I received my fundamentals in politics, and Montreal where I learned about the importance of community, then I can safely say that New York is by far and large the city in which I have received my food education. But the essay-in-progress is awkward and wordy and doesn't say anything new.

I was inspired to write the essay, however, because I kept stumbling upon this incredible cover (Click on the image to enlarge. Go ahead! You won't be sorry!) from Diner Journal, a small food magazine published by a local restaurant. Turning the patchwork of neighbourhoods into crop fields is many a New York foodie's wet dream. As one of the most inspiring images I've seen this year, it speaks volumes about the politics of food that many in the city are aspiring to change.

CONSUMED: at my friend Emily's house, then on the F train, then finally at Brooklyn Kitchen

mustard tasting

EAT MORE MUSTARD. That's what the sticker on their kiosk said. And though I am not a mustard connoisseur, the variety that was presented by Kozlik's Canadian Mustard definitely made me think that I could be. Ranging from sweet to triple-X spicy, you could basically find a mustard for every occasion, depending on whether you were planning to snack on pretzels or use it to baste a roast. I didn't have the energy (or time) to try and choose a mustard on the spot, but the next time I return, I think I may have to become better acquainted with this multifaceted condiment.

CONSUMED: Kozlik's Canadian Mustard; St Lawrence Market, 92 Front St, Toronto

Harmony Organic milk

Ever since I starting shopping at the greenmarket here in New York, I've become obsessed with local foods. In particular, I've grown attached to buying milk from the local dairy, Ronnybrook, even though it's not organic. Something about the wistful (but environmental) use of glass bottles, knowing the milkmaid, and buying into the "local is better than organic" mantra.

But Toronto has a one-up on New York: it has Harmony Organic, a dairy farm within 200 miles (beats the Stonyfield coming from Vermont) that is also organic. Good to know for that time when I move back, whenever that will be.

CONSUMED: St Lawrence Market; 92 Front St, Toronto

americano walk-up window

"You guys really need coffee at the farmers market." I was talking to my friend over bread loaves stacked high at his bakery stand at the Greenpoint greenmarket.

"Well at least there's Five Leaves now."

"What?"

"It's that new place on the corner. They have a walk-up window that only does americanos."

"Really?"

I was aghast. I mean, it wasn't farmers market coffee (under the rules of being local, coffee doesn't qualify), but it was the next best thing (choose the closest storefront to the park and sell coffee there). And so we went for americanos, served to us from a window on to the street. And all of a sudden, the market became THAT much more amazing.

CONSUMED: Five Leaves; 18 Bedford Ave, Greenpoint (Brooklyn)