13/50 NYC Adventures: DUMBO (& Juliana’s Pizza!)

DUMBO

"Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass", has been fondly shortened to the term DUMBO, which is a section of Brooklyn located over the bridge from Manhattan. A hub for entrepreneurial, creative and tech startups who have since gone mainstream (such as Etsy, Makerbot & HowAboutWe), DUMBO is the kind of place where you can ride your bike to work, bring your dog to the office and lounge outside over a workday picnic lunch. This is also an area where (both fortunately and unfortunately), all the hipsters were born and continue to multiply at a maddening rate. Everyone here is so urban, mangy and unstylish, that somehow it became a style.

Don't be alarmed. In spite of the androgynous unwashed hair, excessively tight pants, and mad-scientist-thick glasses crowd that seems to gather here in droves, this area of Brooklyn is super, super cool and laid-back. Showcasing an eclectic mix of stoney buildings, industrial lofts, aged shipping docks, inventive green space and iconic steel bridge foundations, DUMBO is a neighborhood on the rise. When our best friends came to town (and brought the most heavenly weather from Georgia with them), we took our time eating and strolling through this temptingly awesome area of town.

// Rent a Citibike for a hour. It's the way to roll. //

// The lines are CRAZY long at Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, but I hear it's worth it. //

// These. Are the party people. //

Eats.

This area of town boasts delicious eats (but really, what part of New York doesn't?) We focused the majority of our time with the pizzeria masters at Juliana's Pizza. Let me tell you the secret story (my sources shall remain unnamed!) about Juliana's Pizza, which is located next door to the iconic Grimaldi's Pizza.

Apparently, for all of New York eternity, the Grimaldi family has been the reigning authority in New York-style pizza.

Since 1941, Patsy Grimaldi (who, just so you know, is a man) has been making a mean pizza in a coal-fired brick oven. The pizza, unarguably, ROCKS. There are no questions or qualms about that fact. However, a few years back, Patsy's family sold the Grimaldi pizza location (19 Fulton St.), the brand and the name to another guy (we will call him The Dude). The Grimaldi family, later, regretted that decision. In a series of events (the grimy details allude to unpaid rent, public disputes over pizza quality, drama over licensing the family name, increased city taxes, and an unhappy landlord), The Dude who bought the Grimaldi joint ended up moving the pizza place into another building. Which just happened to be next door. The Dude left behind the famous coal-fire brick oven (which ignited the original Grimaldi recipe), and guess who jumped at the chance to move back into his old stomping grounds? That's right. Patsy Grimaldi. Since he had already licensed out his name, he called this new pizza joint Juliana's Pizza, named after his mother. Today, Juliana's Pizza stands in the original Grimaldi location, with the original coal-fire brick oven, serving the original Grimaldi recipe.

The funny part is, no one knows this story. So people line up outside of Grimaldi's Pizza, wait for 2+ hours to eat, and have to deal with the high-maintenance rules (cash only! no slices!), wondering if the rumors they heard about this pizza are true. All the while, Juliana's next door is quietly serving the original New York pizza recipe, made in the original pizza oven, served in the original location. That, my friends, is the definition of TOO LEGIT TO QUIT. Ponder that one for a second.

// Decisions, decisions... //

// Order the classic margherita pizza or anything with the scarmorza cheese! //

Play.

Brooklyn Bridge Park is just a stroll from the concentration of delicious DUMBO eats and treats. What makes this park special is the fact that it's made up by a connected series of green spaces and converted piers. While the boys threw the frisbee (and probably got in some people's way, it was crowded), Tricia & I sunbathed and stared in wonder at the view of the Manhattan urban jungle. That skyline is just crazy.

// I think John was working on his Brooklyn Swag Face. Or something. //

// Can you spot the Statue of Liberty? //

Oh, Brooklyn.

DUMBO is the place to play. And soooo easy to get to from Manhattan. Because we took SO many pictures, I had to divide this post into two. More tomorrow from the Brooklyn Bridge View!

She.

She.

Her laugh is easy and often. Her prayers are fierce and fearless. Her journey? Simply unlike the others. She is a forerunner. Inquisitive. Unafraid to be different. Unafraid of the consequences of being different. She embraces the season she's in. She really looks you in the eye. She knows all the verses. She craves the ocean. And essential oils. And popcorn. She is freakishly disciplined. She jumped out of an airplane once. She is spirited. Stubborn. So stylish. She listens. Does yoga. Doesn't doubt.

She loves hard.

She's the absolute best one I know.

I'd say thank you, Mom, but it's almost silly to try. So I will just revel in your graciousness a bit. You are a stunning, stunning woman.

What a privilege it is, being yours.

12/50 NYC Adventures: Harlem's Secret Barbeque

Harlem's Secret Barbeque

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon. Church was over, all the people were squeezing through the exits, spilling out onto the sidewalk, scurrying along quickly to make their lunch plans. We were some of those people. In the icy spring air, with the rain misting all around us, I looked up, desperate for him to read my mind. He just nodded back at me, thoughtfully. He knew.

It was time. For my feeding.

That beautiful man said, "Why don't we go up to Harlem and get barbeque sandwiches at that place?"

That place!

I almost exploded with glee.

We had been hearing rumors about that place. That place up in Harlem (shhhhhh don't go there at night!), close to the water (be carrrreeeeful, don't go there!), underneath an old bridge (seriously, DON'T GO!) that had the best barbeque in New York. For Georgians? Barbeque is like the ambrosia of the Gods. We are always in the mood for it, always craving it, and never quite satiated in this Yankee-ville we have found ourselves living in. But friends of friends had mentioned that place in passing. It was like a whisper of a recommendation. And we had been wanting to try it, except... well, it's located in HARLEM.

I mean, you don't just go up to Harlem. Not unless you have a good reason. And you need a very good reason. You don't just stumble around Manhattan and find yourself accidentally in Harlem. It's a rough hood. And we didn't think there was ever a really good reason for us to try this place for dinner (since you have to walk about a mile off the subway, mostly on side streets, until you get to the restaurant, which is located on the Hudson River). It just seemed... well, like dangerous work. Like we would need a Jack Bauer escort for a complete sense of security. And we've gotten really lazy, living in wonderful cities where everything can be delivered to your door... so that place had remained simply a rumor.

But on a Sunday afternoon? A rainy one? Well, the exception had to be made. We practically skipped to the subway, rode it for an eternity up to 125th, and carefully stepped out. Time to put on my fight face. You know, to ward off attackers. Reminiscent of the time we avoided thugs in Naples in hopes of eating the best pizza on Earth. (Now that I think of it, we are making a habit of going into unsafe places at just the promise of a tasty meal, hmm what does that say about us?) Anyway, I couldn't let the hoodlums know I was practically panting at the thought of a juicy pulled pork sandwich on a hot bun. With mac & cheese.

Oh dear LORD, I prayed, get to me that barbeque place. And help me look "street"

.

// It's kind of like the journey to grandmother's house... instead of going over the river and through the woods, you go under the bridge and past the scary night club. //

// Yeah. This is my protector. The guy who thought that acting like Batman and running through the streets with his "wings" would ward off terror. Thanks for making us look inconspicuous, hon. //

// Once you've reached the infamous Cotton Club, you're almost there. Don't linger. DO NOT LINGER. //

// Our destination! Follow the hooded gentleman. //

Dinosaur Barbeque.

So here's the deal. Once you're inside Dinosaur Barbeque, this place carries absolutely no indication that it is located on the island of Manhattan. It's wonderfully UN-pretentious, reasonably priced, and full of completely unassuming patrons. Like, there was a biker gang sitting up at the bar. I've never even SEEN a biker gang in this city (where would they park?)  But at Dino Barbeque, they sat loud and proud during our entire visit. Gulping down their brew, Gaston-style. Everyone in the restaurant just seemed like they were from Georgia, Florida, Alabama and South Carolina, not the chic metropolis that is New York City. What a relief. These are our kind of people! There were normal looking families (the kind who TALK, not just shove an iPad in their kid's face to shut them up during the meal, which yes, I have seen one too many times in city restaurants). The waitress actually knew about the different ingredients in the various homemade barbeque sauces, could explain the craft brews (to Stevie, not me. I just drooled while she spoke), and recommended the mac & cheese as their best side. I almost asked her to marry me. Darn it, she got away too quick.

But she came back quickly, like an angel from Heaven, with our gigantic platters of ambrosia barbeque. A silence came upon us for a good twenty minutes. This was feeding time.

// Alright, you can't see the biker gang here, but I was kinda afraid to photograph them. THEY WERE THERE. //

// Pure. Joy. //

The Results Are In.

People. This place. Was gooooooooooOOOD. WORTH THE COMMUTE. Worth the Bauer-less safety risk. Worth it all. If you ever find yourself jonesing for a hit of BBQ in the middle of Times Square, don't settle for some pricy pampered ritzy chef's interpretation (which will probably consist of tiny portions and include at least one french ingredient that you can't pronounce.) Just get yourself to the 123 or ACE train! You can do it. Maybe just throw up your hoodie once you get off the train and take the journey westward... the divine scent of smoky pork and motorcycle fumes shall guide you. And it will be WORTH IT.

A Hometown Baby Shower.

I feel spoiled rotten. Last weekend, Stevie & I took a quick trip down to Atlanta to celebrate our two wonderful friends marrying each other and we snuck in a super duper fun couples' baby shower, too. The weekend was jam-packed, beginning with a most-necessary, 11pm post-flight visit to the Original Chick-fil-A Dwarf House (I was craving those nuggets!) before heading to the in-laws and dropping directly into bed. Over the course of the weekend, I had the privilege of spending some much-needed one-on-one time with my mom that included fish tacos, pedicures and maybe a bit too much laughter. My mother. Ugh she's just the best. I got to see some sweet friends from our time living in Boston, as everyone congregated to celebrate a glowing wedding. And one of the most memorable parts of the weekend? The delicious, decadent baby shower that my best friend, sisters-in-law and mother-in-law threw for me & Stevie. It was a smash, to say the least.

Dinner, Drinks and Bewitching Dessert.

My mother-in-law Lindy and sister-in-law Lauren know how to throw a party. These brainy women could probably do it in their sleep, with their hands tied and their eyes blindfolded. They are geniuses at planning, estimating and producing an immaculate event at a moments' notice. All the years they've invested into putting on mega church events and conferences really paid dividends, I can selfishly say, in this party, because it was just AWESOME. On their dinner menu? Yummy taco salad with all the fixings, some kind of fun alcoholic beverage for the non-preggos and fancy sparkling limoncello for me (and the 6 other pregnant gals who were there!) Dessert was pretty much enchanted. My sister-in-law Katie baked a multi-layered blueberry-lemon cake that was truly TO DIE FOR. I can't wait to get the recipe from her. It was seriously magic cake. Magical and beautiful, because she decorated it showcasing Everett's sweet name. Thank you, Katie!! And Lauren! And Lindy! The women in my family, whew, they are where it's at! They're party girls.

// Hey party people. Look alive! //

// There she is. The master of the dream cake. //

The Hostess with the Mostess.

My BFF Tricia is truly a gem. She is the kind of friend who takes notice of the little things, always keeping her eye on the details that transform an event into the truly spectacular. Along with caring for her precious daughter (whom she proudly wore in her fancy Ergobaby carrier!), she took care of me all night long. She made sure I always had a fresh drink, had eaten enough, and was getting quality time with all the guests. While we opened the gifts, she constantly (and inconspicuously!) kept arranging the presents so that they were easily within arms' reach. She did all these tiny little things that made such a huge difference and made me feel so special and loved. She continues to amaze me with her generous heart and constant servant-hood. I want to be like her when I grow up. Her biggest flaw? She skillfully avoided the camera all night (for the record, I am NOT PLEASED.)

// The fancy baby monitor. I like to call it our newfangled spy machine. MOMMY IS WATCHING. //

// Sweet REI baby backpack. I guess now we have to take this kiddo camping. //

Oops.

Somehow, I didn't get pictures with anyone! Oops! We were having so much fun... but I realized at the end of the night that I didn't get one single photograph with any of amazing ladies who threw the shower, our parents (both sets were in grand attendance), or our siblings... how silly. Well, we just all REALLY enjoyed ourselves. Thankfully, Tricia ordered my dad to take some pictures on our camera, (in his words, "The little one told me to take pictures!"), so we came away with a few great shots of the action :) Bless her, that little one.

// How cutie are these burp cloths? It's a really good idea to make gross, necessary items extremely cute. Baby spit up? Not so adorable. Graphic whales and mustaches on burp cloths? Geez so mega cute.  //

// Practicing his "hold". //

Thank You!

Many, many thanks to everyone who joined us in celebrating our sweet Everett's upcoming arrival! We LOVED seeing so many dear-hearted friends and getting the pleasant opportunity to open his presents (one of my favorite things to do IN THE WORLD)! We can't wait to bust out all this sweet gear and get to using it - but we will wait. Well, except for the baby monitor. I think that we've gotta play with this little spy machine a bit before E's arrival. Watch out!!!

11/50 NYC Adventures: Opera at the Lincoln Center

Opera at the Lincoln Center.

Have you ever seen the movie Moonstruck? It’s this fantastic little film centering around an Italian family in Brooklyn, starring Cher (yes, CHER) and Nicolas Cage. Way back in the day. It’s this hilarious, overly-dramatic story and just happens to be one of my family’s favorite movies. In the film, Cher gets asked to go on a special date to the Met Opera House, and she gets all done up – hair, nails, clothes, the works. And then she gets to the Opera and just cries and cries because the experience is so beautiful and meaningful to her.

That, my friends, was my grid for what the Met Opera would be like. So when Stevie and I were offered FREE tickets from our sweet friend Ina, there wasn’t even a question about whether or not we would go. Yes, yes! A thousand times yes! So off we went. We went to the Opera!

// Lincoln Center Fountain //

// Walking to The Lincoln Center. Check out my epic photobomber. //

// Just warming up my chords. In case, ya know, they need some back up. //

// Inside The Met //

// Our view from the top. //

// That famous gold-leaf ceiling. //

The Show.

This particular opera was Arabella, and it was entirely in German. Now listen, I’m going to be honest with you. I can be honest with you, right? No judgment here? I was really excited to go to the Opera. I was really excited outside, taking all sorts of fanciful pictures by the fountain. I was really excited when we were ushered to our fabulous seats and got to stare up at the epic gold-leaf ceiling. And I was really excited when the curtain went up and the room darkened, signaling the beginning the show. However, my excitement came to a crashing HALT when the performance started. The Opera is… well, operatic. And it’s not ignorant to say that most operas consist of large women screaming singing at each other throughout the performance. Because that’s pretty much all that happened during the first act. I might have fallen asleep. By might I mean that I definitely fell asleep. For about thirty minutes. Don’t judge me. You said you wouldn’t judge me! I didn’t understand what was going on! I DON’T SPEAK GERMAN.

Let’s Get a Disclaimer Going Here.

I am almost seven months pregnant. I have to eat, drink and pee around the clock. It’s obnoxious to anyone who doesn’t love me (and still grating to those who do, lets be real.) I didn’t know that the opera would be FOUR HOURS LONG. I didn’t know that I should have packed snacks and drinks and prepared for a day-long event. I just didn’t know. So my low blood sugar and parched throat (and measly 5 hours of sleep the night before) could have had a LOT to do with my annoyance/lack of considerate understanding during the first act. However, something changed. Something wonderful happened.

When Stevie started laughing.

It may or may not have woken me up. I look over, and he’s laughing (along with members of the audience), at whatever is happening on stage. There he is, giggling knowingly, as if he’s in on some sort of cheeky joke with the cast. I hissed at him,

“How do you know to be laughing right now?! YOU DON’T SPEAK GERMAN!!”

He just smiled and pointed down, down past the row in front of us, where someone had turned on a monitor with subtitles.

Subtitles!

Eureka! I didn’t know we had those!

He helped me find the dark button for a secret screen right in front of my face, and suddenly things got interesting. Suddenly, there was a story to follow. Suddenly I was excited again. Thank goodness, right? Because I was starting to feel guilty. You know, for my attitude, my appalling ignorance, and my lack of enthusiasm for this incredibly exclusive privilege. And also - we had two more intermissions and two more acts to follow. It was time to get on board this train. It was time to get into the opera.

The second act had a gorrrrrrrgeous set depicting a ball in 18th-century Vienna. There was dancing and pretty costumes, too. Thankfully, Stevie ran across the street during the intermission to get me fuel. He sneaked in an iced coffee and a Starbucks protein box, and for this I will be forever thankful. He revived me. Woke me from my low blood-sugary stupor. Which completely prepped us for the third act, which showcased a little bit of scandal thrown in for good measure. Wild stuff. We were pretty shocked by the story’s turn of events. And the voices, well, they remained operatic. But they were incredible. So strong, so incredibly disciplined and trained. These people are renowned, some of the world’s greatest voices in their craft. How can someone sing full-out for 4 hours straight? It’s honestly athletic what those people can do.

// This guy.

He deserves an A+ in husbandry. And also... here he is reflecting on what we just saw. BAHAHA. //

All in All?

I think the opera is a distinctive kind of experience. I don’t think you can expect to naturally love it the first time. It an acquired taste, like when you first drink coffee or try snails or something. It’s just not an automatic LOVE. Which I hate to admit, because I fancy myself a theater person, so I thought this kind of performance would be right up my ally. But I don’t think we (we, being the broader American people) should be too hard on ourselves. It’s not totally our fault that there is practically zero exposure to the opera in our education system – I mean, we are ignorant to this art form, but should we really be punished for not knowing how to appreciate it? I can’t say that I loved it. But at the end, I liked it an awful lot and I can say with complete honesty that the show was a masterpiece. The kind of masterpiece that you KNOW took a really long, tedious time to create, even though you don’t totally understand all that went into it. Like trying to understand… a really hard math problem? That’s a bad example. But that’s all I’ve got for ya.

Thankfully, my beautiful, cultured friend Ina was totally on the same page. She admitted to feeling similarly about the 1st act. Which made me feel better about my audacious and idiotic lack of initial appreciation. What can I say? We can’t all be Cher, welling up with tears at the creative masterpiece that is the opera. Some of us, well, we’ve got to feel bad for not being in on the joke. We’ve got to be shown how to use the subtitles. And we have to fumble our way through attempting to understand something loftier than ourselves. But that’s just a metaphor for life, right? Mmm see how I turned this around? Now you’re not judging me so harshly, are you?

No. I bet you’re still judging me.

Yeah, I’m gonna have to live with that.