Recipe for New York.

There comes a time in every New Yorkers life when they think to themselves: am I really going to be able to do this forever?

Case in point last weekend having to go to Port Authority to get on a bus just to go to someone’s house in New Jersey for a barbeque. It was a friends office summer party, and I came with them because in this day and age he and I are both younger-than-usual people trapped in a late-twenties-early-thirties world. These sort of office functions we go to, as not only singles, but (gasp!) unmarried, makes us feel like we’re from some alternate universe upon arrival.

I decided that in order to make a great first impression on this married and older co-workers of his who all work at an admired magazine, that I would charm this backyard gathering with a homemade blueberry pie. So I spent my Saturday afternoon baking, from scratch, a lattice pie. (Fact: most of my ideas sound really great upon their initial burst into my brain, and not until I’m deep in it do I realize how far from great the idea really is).

Running late we decided to hop in a cab to Port Authority. The pie, still warm, was placed in a paper bag and set on the seat between us. We didn’t want to miss the only bus that we knew would bring us safely to this little town somewhere across the Hudson. Close to 42nd street I lifted the pie off the seat, and saw, much to my chagrin, a pool of thick blueberry syrup had pooled within the entire bottom of the bag and was currently falling over my hands and consequently, over the entire aluminum covered pie. Shit.

My friend and I looked at each other with shock, and as I held the pie in my hands, fingers burning, I realized something else was wrong the way you know when a big storm is about to break, and began looking frantically around the cab in a very blood-covered-Jack Woltz-pulling-the-covers-back-in-his-bed sort of way. Pools of blueberry syrup were all over the back seat, and the largest of them was alongside my leg, covering the entire left leg of my madras plaid pants. Shit. Shit. Shit.

All I remember at that point was running from the cab into Port Authority holding a pie like it was on fire with blue syrup streaking down my arms as people watched in confusion and horror. Sure, it was no horse, but it was still pretty shocking. And any New Yorker who has any foul play cab experiences knows that the only thing to do in a situation like that is to simply throw money at the driver and run before they can realize what you’ve done.

There was then the line of women in the bathroom who watched as I tried to wash the blue from my arms, and I hate whoever came up with the idea of getting rid of paper towels in public restrooms and opted for those hot air dryers. There were people watching as I ran back and forth from the bathroom to the gift shop grabbing a new bag, napkins, all just in time to board the bus and show up at this party and be introduced (and sure to leave a lasting impression for all the wrong reasons), with blueberry all over my pants with a large spattering over the chest of my white shirt for good measure.

On the bus, my friend looked at me and through laughter and disbelief over how sometimes it seems like I just can’t catch a break, asked: will there come a time when we just can’t do this thing anymore?

This thing that he was referring to, of course, was New York. There are a lot of times in this city when you wonder why you go through so much just to bring a pie to a party. Perhaps there will come a time when I won’t have the energy left, and fleeing Manhattan will be the only option.

Until that time, however, I’ll tough it out, I think, for a while anyway. Or at least until I run out of unstained clothes.