Today, the action contrasts with images of bucolic calm. A dogfight--all noise and no blood. A big brown pitbull put its head down in the Nethermead and did the slow attack-walk towards a Henry, who never backs down. Dog bodies snapped and snarled, the clueless owner wandered up saying "What are you doing?" to her 75lb hunk of jaw and muscle as if it was a naughty kid in a scrape. They stopped as suddenly as they started, and this time it seemed I was more shaken than the dogs, knowing too well what could have been.
Whenever I look at the view from my balcony I am reminded of another river, the Humber estuary, unromantic despite Andrew Marvell's best efforts, its brown whorls almost always covered by a steely lid of cloud. Growing up in Hull, we would go to the pier late on a Sunday afternoon for an ice cream. My Grandad, a rollup cupped in his hand, would walk along trailing sweetly pungent smoke while Grandma sat in the car watching the New Holland packet come in to dock.
Behind the ice cream kiosk began the series of abandoned docks with cobbled wharves, rusting rings, bollards and weeds, that evoked a feeling of proximity to a lost world, as if the ships and shouting stevedores were still there behind a veil, thriving in a pool of light.
When all else fails, eat a Crunchie bar. It occurs to me that anyone from the British Isles who finds their way to this blog might actually want to know some survival tips. In Manhattan you have Myers of Keswick for a taste of home. They carry all the things we are supposed to crave like Marmite and pork pies. Those of us who have made a home in Brooklyn can find a few of these items at Java Joe's on 8th Street near 7th Avenue in Park Slope. 
This specialty coffee and tea shop carries basic supplies such as Digestive Biscuits, Hobnobs, baked beans of the proper kind, that disgusting Marmite in its precious little jars, and candies, including the best candy bar in the entire world, a confection of cinder toffee surrounded by milk chocolate, the Crunchie bar. At Christmas they also have mince pies, Quality Street, Roses chocolates, selection boxes and crackers (not the kind you crunch, but the kind you pull. We know what we mean.) The Irish owner does not seem to mind selling her wares to the English, although on the day I visited she was wary of my request to photograph the interior, suspecting me of being a commercial spy about to steal her business model. So let me take this opportunity to reassure all coffee, tea and spice merchants that I am not about to leave a job with union benefits, that used to be secure but is now somewhat less so, to set up a business serving the twenty UK and Irish exiles living in the Park Slope area. After a frosty reception to my first request the owner relented, but my delicate hand was shaking so badly by that time that the interior pictures didn't come out. I had to leave and take a bite of Crunchie to calm my rattled nerves.
In the days when I knew her, Miss Crackles drove first a Morris Minor then a Ford, which she carefully garaged at the end of the block until arthritis began to trouble her. It was said that in her younger days she had ridden a motorcycle to school. A misfit in a neighborhood of working class families, Miss Crackles ploughed her own furrow. She had a brother, we heard, but no other family. When she was awarded an MBE and went to Buckingham Palace to receive it, we heard from a neighbor who helped her prepare that she took out her pearls and her twenty-year old tweed suit and found them good enough for the occasion. And possibly they were. My admiration of her independence was equaled only by my dread of ever resembling her--a woman alone in a shabby house, an object of bemused gossip among the housewives, a stooped and knotted figure with a strange name, stepping too close to the only person she would talk to that day. And yet of course her real life held riches we knew nothing of.
My whippet Henry will be seven in July. Today at the end of our walk Simone started her little play bow ritual, asking Henry to chase her, and soon off they both went at about 30 miles an hour over the grass. Simone sails over the ground in huge playful leaps, while Henry, altogether a more serious fellow, waits until she passes close by and then puts on a burst of speed while she zigs and zags out of his way. At least ten pounds heavier than his sister, Henry is usually left flat footed. Today he revved up to overtake and stop her in her tracks, but at the end of the chase he stood in the middle of the field licking his leg. I thought maybe a graze on the other side of the knee had broken open. Then he walked up to me, and I saw a huge swelling from the knee down. He can put weight on it and is a stoical chap, but it looks like a bad soft tissue injury, so we are off to the vet this morning.
A really good egg custard, with caramel and a hint of nutmeg, is a rare thing. Last night's flawless mould made by my trained pastry chef friend garnered a round of applause. My mother used to bring home custard tarts from the local bakery that had a similar nutmeggy sweetness, but a heavy pastry shell made those leaden compared with the impeccable lightness of this smooth offering. Brava!
This little guy was sitting on a bench all alone around six o'clock this morning. He wasn't tied up, but looked as if he had dragged his leash there and was wondering what to do next. He's fit and apparently well cared for. There was no one around, so I brought him with me on my walk with the whippets, who normally don't like pugs and puggles, but seemed undisturbed by this one. He answered to the name that was scrawled onto his sweater, which happened also to be the name of one of my park friends. "I have a dog here with your name on it," I said, but her last adoptee is still with her and is quite a handful, so I knew there was no room at that inn. My preference is for dogs with proper noses, but I quickly grew attached to this fellow, who seemed calm and in good spirits despite being lost or perhaps abandoned. However, with two whippets, a daughter, a fourth floor walkup and a full-time job, I knew I couldn't take on another dog.
Posts
All Comments
