An Adventurer is Me!

I an quickly becoming completely enamored by Jenny Lewis, solo albums, work in Rilo Kiley, and all things in between. This "Hee Haw" inspired video was a good way to start the morning, with a smile and a wink.

By now, a lot of you have probably heard Duffy's single "Mercy," as it makes its rounds on the top 40 radio stations as well as its feature as a dance number on TV's "So You Think You Can Dance." Duffy brings to the table '60s throwback soul, not unlike Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black." However there's a certain beautiful refinement to Duffy's work. She sings with fragile emotion, with little electric flourishes masterfully intertwined with wall of sound-esque inspiration, reminiscent of Lulu in her heyday. "Mercy" is infectiously catchy, however her other songs I've been able to sample from upcoming Rockferry are a little more mellow, somber, and full of heartbreak, loss, and hope for the thereafter.

In less than a week, I will be on my way out to wine country on North Fork, Long Island, for a 66 mile trek by bike. I join my coworkers on this excursion, a somewhat impulsive decision on my part. However, I very much wanted to be able to say I accomplished something great this year, and this will be it.
In preparation, I've been incorporating long rides into my staycation plans. First came a ride up the West Side Highway Greenway, landing me in Inwood. The 26 mile round trip was a bit much for my still green legs but it wasn't long before I grew restless and planned out another training trek, this time a 35.5 mile jaunt down to Coney Island and back. I was amazed to find that in the two years since I've ridden much of Brooklyn and Queens, there has been a remarkable boom in road striping for bike lanes. I think I may have ridden a total of 1 mile round trip off lane, in fact. Most of the road was well paved, and much of my trip involved straight shots south, the longest stretch being Ocean Parkway, a long highway-like bit of road finishing off the journey with a craggy Greenway. I recommend that if you have sensitive road tires you don't try to go full speed on this part, as I was awarded with a front flat once I reached my destination. Luckily I had had the foresight to pack the right tools and a spare in my bag before I took off.
Coney Island is by far one of my most favorite places in New York. The smiling stretch of beach adjacent to the boardwalk beckons visitors to its water, while Astroland drones with the sounds of laughing kids and the rowdy young-at-hearts.
It was unfortunate that I had made this journey alone, as I was unable to truly partake of the thrill rides and carnival games, my bike being a burden. I'm unwilling to lock it up anymore, for fear that my baby would be stolen if I did so. But I was content to stroll along the boardwalk, taking in the familiar and comforting sights of Coney.
I figured, while I was there, I needed to christen my summer with a helping of boardwalk food. As I perused the various booths for something appealing, among the fried clams and shrimp, the funnel cakes, the Italian ices, the soft serve ice cream, I came across Nathan's Famous hot dogs. I thought it only proper I commemorate such a trip with one of the most New York meals one can acquire: a well cooked hot dog. However, I'm still a bit wary of hot dogs on their own, so I decided to go with a safer bet that I knew I'd respond better to: a corn dog. And boy what a corn dog it was. Nathan's does something incredibly right with their boardwalk food. The hot dog is flavorful, meaty, everything a hot dog should be but so rarely isn't. It was coated in a generous but not too thick layer of corn bread, which, to my surprise, lacked the sickening sweetness I expected. Combined with a generous helping of mustard, it was exactly what I wanted in a corn dog, and more. It was delicious and satisfying, and I was better for the experience. Coupling that with a Nathan's lemonade, and I was all set for the ride back. After snapping a few more pictures, discovering my flat front tire, changing it out, and dusting myself off, I was ready to return home. The trek went smoothly, and I landed back home in the early evening, wishing I could've spent more time with Coney. But heck, its only a train (or bike) ride away.

A few weeks ago, as I walked along the most polluted and desolate part of Astoria Blvd., I noticed a tiny black kitten, huddled and not moving next to a step of an abandoned building. Fresh off of the loss of Spider, I immediately decided I needed to save the animal. It was extremely small and weak, initially darting in a panic back and forth between my hands as I scooped it up. I clutched her to my stomach and started toward my vet's office. She settled into my arms in a slump, sort of seeming to give up and accept what was happening to her. She sometimes licked my arms and hands and squirmed a bit, but for the most part, sat still.
The vet was closed, so I decided to take her home. I placed her in my bath tub, grabbed some towels, food, litter, and tried to clean her up. Brown poured off her as I washed her in the sink. One of her eyes was almost sealed shut due to a head cold. She barely moved, crawled into the small litter box I provided and didn't get up. It was then that I noticed the insects crawling along her skin, between the fur. Then I noticed several fleas had hopped into the tub. I panicked. I had no idea what to do. I picked the animal up in the litter box, and placed her back outside, just outside my building. I had no idea what to do. I felt horrible. But I didn't have much of a choice at 10 at night, other than risk infestation or let it go. So I did.
The next day, my neighbor knocked on my door, asking if I had any numbers for the Humane Society or other shelters. I asked if he'd found the kitten, and he had. Now, my neighbors happen to have a back porch with high walls, something my apartment lacks. So where I warned them about the kitten's buggy state, he assured me they'd taken care of it.
Later on in the week, the neighbor explained that no one would take the poor thing. However, he'd found something of a crazy cat lady, a woman who spent much of her time rescuing cats off the street, and had won several awards for it. The woman showed my neighbors how to de-flea the animal, and even provided a free blood transfusion. It turned out that all the brown I had washed from the kitten, was actually dried blood, and she had been suffering massive blood loss from all the flea bites.
Several weeks passed and I didn't hear anything about the kitten. I wasn't sure if the kitten was even alive. Most who had seen her, including the crazy cat lady, didn't expect her to live out the week.
But tonight, I found out what happened to her. After many rounds of cold medicine, de-worming medicine, and various inoculations, the little fighter pulled through and is a happy healthy babe. She's gained considerable weight, with a nice round belly, her eyes have opened up wide, her fur is nice as soft, and I'm told she's been playing tons with my neighbor's other two kittens.

Well now its time to find her a home. My neighbors love her, but they already have two and three is just one two many (though they expect their boys will miss her when she's gone). I'm not sure I'm ready for another kitten in my life at this point. So I'm passing the word on to everyone else. She's a sweet animal and a tough fighter. She's very quiet and not mean tempered at all. My neighbors are willing to let her go for the price of all the medical bills that they spent to resuscitate her. I don't know how much that is but I'd be happy to inquire.

They named her Asha, which means "full of life." Asha needs a home.

it's not as if new york city
burnt down to the ground
once you drove away
it's not as if the sun won't shine
when clouds up above
wash the blues away

are we breaking up?
are we breaking up?
is there trouble between you and i?
did my heart break enough?
did it break enough this time?

here's to all the pretty words
we will never speak
here's to all the pretty girls
you're gonna meet

am i breaking up?
am i breaking up?
is there trouble on the line?
did your heart break enough?
did it break enough this time?

ooh it feels good to be free

betrayal is a thorny crown
you wear it well
just like a king
revenge is the saddest thing
honey, i'm afraid to say
you deserve everything

am i breaking up?
are we breaking up?
is there trouble between the lines?
did your heart break enough?
did it break enough this time?

ooh it feels good to be free

Fatty's Cafe
25-01 Ditmars Blvd
Astoria, NY 11105.
718.267.7071
http://www.fattyscafenyc.com/


After several weeks of healthy eating and exercise, the roommate and I could not stop listing all the foods we missed and wanted. Primarily - Meat. We wanted burgers, and we wanted them NOW. And yes, it was in fact as bestial as that sentence implied. So we decided that Saturday would be a day of great burgers. I had been reading up on Fatty's in the local Astoria blogs, namely Joey in Astoria, who had stolen my attention when they compared the allegedly two best burgers to get here in my hometown in Queens, Fatty's and The Sparrow. I listed these two places off to my roommate and after some research of her own, we demanded we tromp on over to Fatty's Cafe for our meat fix.

Fatty's offers an Hispanic twist to most of its items, including a generous portioned burrito (one of my dining companions compared it to the size of a small child), chuletas, or pork chops, recommended by the Foodista herself, and a smattering of yummy sides including maduros/tostones (two delicious takes on the plantain) and black beans and rice. But I came for the burger, so quickly glancing the varied list of choices (They offer three kinds of beef burgers along with a fancy jalapeño turkey burger, a salmon burger, and various grilled and pressed sandwiches), I decided on the Charity Burger as my weapon of choice.

The burger was phenomenal. So phenomenal (and so hungry was I) that I was done before my three companions had gotten halfway through their picks. The Charity Burger is a large Angus burger served with avocado, sprouts, garlic aioli, and anejo rum ketchup on top, plus your cheese of choice. I went with cheddar, and asked for a side of maduros as I have something of an obsession for sweet plantains. I'd pass on the maduros next time, maybe try the tostones as I hear good things about them, but the burger knocked my socks off. The burger itself was cooked to perfection, juicy, tender, pink, but not rare in any sort of threatening way. It had that smoky grill flavor that sets a well cooked burger aside from something fried up on a stovetop. The flavors all mixed together well and complimented each other, not overpowering the flavor as one might expect, but covering many aspects of the palette. In short, it was phenomenal.

I'm hoping to go back soon again. Just need to find a new victim to drag along with me.

Its hard when you lack a significant other to find companions to pull for summer outings. Well, its hard for this writer. I'm sure its significantly easier for others who have freakish social abilities that constantly suck their companions in like inescapable black holes of partying and beer.
But...that's not the life for me. And my low key friends are often more willing to spend the night in than be out and about at a constant frantic rate, so making the most of this summer has been a bit more challenging.

But I think I've done well so far. I was able to go paint balling for the first time, and took a hard hit in the shoulder like a "pro" as they say. I traveled to other cities and got to know them a bit better, saw new sights in my own city, and went to a few concerts.
I even suckered Z in for a trip down to Prospect Park for a free concert featuring Philip Glass and his ensemble performing a live score of Godfrey Reggio's Powaqqatsi, which, I must say, was a fantastic use of a summer night. It had all the elements that make summer in the city brilliant: free concert, skilled musician and composer, good food, warm clear summer night free of humidity, giant movie screen, multicultural exposure. It was perfect. I'd rate this among my best summer nights of recent memory.

If you're in the NYC area, I highly recommend taking full advantage of the free summer events. I'm going to be a bit more diligent and begin attending the movie nights in Astoria Park and Socrates Sculpture Park, respectively. The latter offers a thematic food vendor to go along with the film, next week's promises a double feature of "The Red Balloon" and "Persepolis" along with French food provided by local favorite Bistro 33. I highly recommend you join me (feel the social black hole suck you in...). Meanwhile Astoria Park offers "Rattatouille," though as far as I know, thematic food is not included.

I've had the pleasure of dining at Kabab Cafe twice now. On both occasions I took full advantage of the depth and talent of chef Ali El Sayed, brother to the owner and chef of Mombar, which I reviewed earlier. As you enter the tiny restaurant, a handful of tables arranged around the wall with an open kitchen domineering the center, Ali welcomes you and asks what you'd like to eat. A little vegetable? Some meat? A little of both? Contrary to the minimalistic menu posted on the front door, the possibilities of culinary delights that Ali produces right out of his imagination are endless. I made the right choice when on my first visit, I came right out and said "We're adventurous eaters." Ali immediately rattled off a list of dishes he'd like to serve us and we dared not disagree with him. He set forth, grabbing a number of ingredients, all fresh, from around his workstation. We watched as he simultaneously flipped multiple pans of simmering spices and meats, vegetables and aromatic herbs, while keeping up friendly conversations with all of his clientèle. He is a dynamic, friendly man, always with a joke or an anecdote up his sleeve.

Dishes of note, for everyone to try: Ali opened up both my visits with an appetizer of lamb cheek, sliced and diced and slow cooked, served in a hot dish with a barely cooked egg cracked over it. Ali mixes the concoction at your table, allowing the egg to cook in the hot pan, then dishes it out to you in equal delicious portions onto plates already garnished with herbs and salt. It is by far one of the best dishes I've ever eaten, tender, flavorful, light, rich. I was immediately hooked on Kabab Cafe.

Following that came a series of experimentations. I tried sweetbreads for the first time, tender, cooked in olive oil and basil, almost sweet, with a delicate flavor nearly but not overpowered by the basil and vegetables that accompanied it. Next, a dish of goat chops served in a pomegranate sauce so delicious we were dipping our pita into it long after the meat was devoured. And finally, just to prove something to ourselves, we ordered a round of brains. Oddly, of all the exotic meats I've stomached without a care in the world, the thought of what I was eating actually brought on a slight wave of nausea. Perhaps I was in the process of devouring the fearful parts of the animal's brain, its adrenaline panic seeping into my stomach, sabotaging my ability to fully enjoy this bizarrely textured chicken-tender-meets-fried-egg flavored prepared brains. But pulled through. The flavor was actually quite delicious. I just could never fully get by what I was eating. Oh well, another dish to check off my list.

On visit number two, I decided to try the rest of what I felt I'd missed out on the first visit. But first, more lamb cheek! )I'm quite addicted to this dish, I wish I could bring everyone to the restaurant just to try that one item.) Then came dishes of kidney, heart, and liver, all simply prepared so as not to mask the joy of their unique flavors, and then an order of tongue, tender, juicy, served in yet another amazing pita-dipping-worthy sauce.

There are other simpler items on the menu, prepared with the same skill and flourish that the complicated and more exotic dishes. The falafel, for example, is completely greaseless and quite light. There are chicken and beef and lamb kabobs to be had, and a list of vegetarian dishes to rival the number of meat dishes that exist. So if you are dining with a particularly squeamish friend, you can assure them they can be guaranteed a safe and normal experience.

Deserts run a normal Egyptian routine: honey cake, baklava, fruit. I tried the baklava, it wasn't disappointing, but nothing exceptional. Save that extra room for another serving of lamb cheek.

I can't say much more, so I'll leave you, dear reader, with this to conclude my culinary journey.

I'm slowly removing the remnants of old friends from the online scope of my world. In a way, I'm bringing equilibrium to my life, the online must match the reality so that I'm socially balanced. Most of them have long ago stopped talking to me. Most I lost in the divorce, their loyalties lying with the original friend, not the interloper whose quick exit ended any obligation to relationship. The removal isn't hostile, it isn't meant to offend. Its a survival tactic. My ties to the past have been burdensome and the reminders they bring have aided in my dwelling on the past.

Letting go is the most difficult part of change. Sometimes I hate to admit it, but I miss the way things were. Some things, at least.

When I was a little girl, no older than 5, I begged and begged my mom for a puppy. I wanted a puppy more than ANYTHING, and told her so, and that I'd take care of it and play with it and feed it and love it (and every other thing I'd seen on kids television that involved coercion of parental permissible animal acquisition). So, shortly before my 6th birthday (or maybe after, the memory is a bit fuzzy), as we were vacationing in Maine and visiting with my uncle, my mother called me out to her car to present me with a surprise. Under a blanket, in a tiny cat carrier, was a tiny kitten, no longer than my 6 year old forearm, lanky and lean and wide-eyed. If I remember correctly, I was confused and taken aback, because, as we all know, this was no puppy. But I accepted the little bundle of black and white fur as my own charge, and became determined to love and adore her as long as I had her to myself.

So within 24 hours I had already lost her. Well, not lost per se, although I was frantic and convinced the tiny thing had slipped out the door and was halfway to the next county by now. But then I heard a meek little mewl coming from beneath the cushion of a Laz-E-Boy chair most likely older than I was. Somehow, the kitten had wedged herself firmly between the springs and underside of the chair, then forgotten how to get back out. She was as panicked as I and I clutched her to my stomach and melted into my kitten.

My mother gave me two choices for a name. The shelter had been calling her Butterfly McQueen, apparently after an actress who had died four years after I was born. I scrunched up my face at this suggestion. Even at 6 (or 5), I knew a pretentious pet name when I heard one. But they had nicknamed the kitten Spider, because of her awkward gangly gait when she walked much resembling that of the arched-legged arachnid. I was sold. Spider became the love of my life.

I remember odd memories. I cried when my mom had her spayed. I wailed "YOU'RE KILLING SPIDER'S BABIES!" I was assured we weren't, but I was still upset. Spider loved to get into everything. She used to slip down into the basement of our first house in Plainfield, NJ, and then squeeze into the air ducts to hunt mice. I was deathly afraid she'd once again forget her way back out but she seemed to figure it out. She'd often return from her netherworld adventures with a prize to lay at our feet: the corpse of a tiny mouse. Spider was an excellent huntress. When she was still very much a young kitten, Spider contracted ring worm. I was told to stay away as ring worm was highly contagious. It was growing around her head, and it prevented petting or any face to face contact, and she remained locked behind our laundry room door, alone except for feedings. I couldn't stay away, I felt terrible and I finally broke in and visited her. And as my mother was treating the itchy ring worm rash on my shoulder (no joke), I felt solidarity with my animal. We were at the very least going through this together.

One night, while we the family were all away celebrating my birthday, interlopers took it upon themselves to literally smash down our back door (made of solid wood), and help themselves to my mother's jewelry. My brother came home to them still in the house, and they ran out the front door before they could grab the TV, but after they had helped themselves to a few irreplaceable and otherwise sentimentally priceless pieces of gold and silver. Unfortunately, the door they smashed lead directly to the laundry room, where we locked Spider during her sick days. My brave little guard kitten jumped 5 feet into the air, clung to some high hanging curtains on the far wall, and tore them clear down. I'm pretty sure this is why she was practically afraid of everything for the rest of her life.

I once tried to run away from home. When I was 7. I believe most 7 year olds go through this. I packed bananas and a pair of sweat pants into a suitcase and then I grabbed Spider and squeezed her and felt conflicted about leaving her. My mother walked in then and in a mocking tone said "Oh, are you going to pack her too?" I resented this and decided, begrudgingly, that I'd stay, for the cat if for nothing else.

I liked to dress Spider up, among my many torturous activities with my animal. I had many large stuffed animals that wore clothes and I decided that it would be fantastic if Spider could wear those clothes. Spider did not agree. I'm thinking this is why in later life, she wasn't so much a fan of the cuddling, for fear that at any moment I'd try to put aprons and hats on her.

But despite all these things, she loved me, more than anyone else in our house. She always slept on my bed. As a kitten she had a habit of constantly kneading and suckling my blanket until it was soaked. This may sound disgusting but I found it adorable. I once exposed the blanket just over my back and treated myself to a back massage from my cat.

When I went away to college, she was devastated. During holiday visits home, she'd snub me for a day or two, then give in and glue herself to my side, hoping I'd never leave her again. Sure, she'd sidle up to my parents while I was away, but upon my return, she went right back to my bed, and to my side. When I'd practice piano, she'd jump up onto the bench and sit with me. I swear to god she enjoyed the music, and would retire to a chair directly behind me and lay there for as long as I played. She was my biggest fan.

She had such character. When we moved to our second NJ house, my mother chose to endow her bathroom with a bedet...a contraption that was hardly used for any purpose, other than a kitty water fountain. Spider gained the habit of marching in to the bathroom once a day, and sit staring at my mother until she turned the water on, wherein she'd sip daintily til she was satisfied. When my parents decided it was finally time for a puppy, Spider retreated to the upstairs, where she'd sit day in and day out staring with abject horror at this insane animal, simultaneously studying her and teasing her, as the dog was not able to chase her up to the second floor due to our crafty wiring of the house with an invisible fence. At times, in turn, the dog would bark her head off to no avail as Spider mocked her from her perch high above.

In her old age, Spider's favorite thing to do was be near me. She'd nestle onto my lap as I typed up homework for college classes, for as long as I sat at my computer. Sometimes, if I wasn't scratching her head enough, she'd climb up onto the desk, and sit in front of my monitor til I removed her or til I payed her enough tribute. If I sat on the couch to enjoy a movie or a little TV, she'd park herself right next to me, sometimes just oddly holding her head against my arm, completely still, always making contact. She still joined me on the bed until her old age habits became so problematic that I had to shut her out of my room. That was a day that marked a nearing of the end.

Spider was my best friend. She remained devoted to me for 17 out of 23 years. She is intertwined with countless memories of my childhood. She was with me through defining prolific moments of my life. She was always there to lean up against me when I was upset. She could tell when I was sad and needed companionship. She never judged, she always forgave, and she never forgot me, even when I disappeared to college. She knew me and loved me, and I loved her. I miss her terribly. I had this contrived notion of exactly how she was going to go, and when this didn't pan out as I had planned, I fell apart. I don't think she deserved the end she got and I wish I could have given her more. I feel like I failed my best friend. I never felt completely alone when she was with me.

I have decided to take my foodie-ism to a new level of appreciation. Those of you who know me well, know I have a healthy appreciate for all things culinary. One of my greatest pleasures in life is to experience new foods, especially of the exotic variety. Hanging out with MR more often has brought to my attention his like-minded approach to edibles, culminating in last night's revelation that we could put our powers to use for the greater good. Combining his powers of website programming and my nose for a good meal, we have decided to open a blog reviewing a once a week meal we indulge in. We had already decided once he moved here we'd begin a Tuesday tradition of dining out, so it was a natural progression to begin a blog about it. So, my dear readers, keep your eyes and ears out for the new blog. Hopefully, it will be coming soon. To kick off the momentous news, here is a review of my dining experience at a much beloved restaurant neighboring my apartment. Enjoy!



Mombar
25-22 Steinway St., Astoria, NY

Mombar is a little known Egyptian restaurant, nestled between many an outwardly deceiving rundown looking building along Steinway Street. You couldn't miss it if you walked by; owner, chef, and self-proclaimed artist, Moustafa El Sayed, designed the exterior, as well as the interior, decorating it in all manor of ancient and modern Egyptian art, found objects, drawings, paintings, ancient looking lanterns, and ceramic tiles, crowning the outside of his establishment with a giant Eye of Horus which always I tell people to look for when meeting up with them there. Inside, El Sayed graciously greets and seats you, sometimes having his family help out with serving and taking orders. I have visited there three times now and every single time I have felt like I am nearly intruding on his family's kitchen, only to find they are graciously inviting us to sit down to dinner with them.

The atmosphere is incredibly laid back. You may find yourself lounging against a stack of pillows as you're seated at a mosaic lined table (most likely decorated by the chef at some point). Its quiet and cozy inside, full of interesting things to look at. This is not a place where you rush in, eat in a hurry, and leave. El Sayed employs maybe one to two other cooks to help create his dishes from scratch, and as the saying goes, good things take time.

And OH the food is so good. So very worth the wait. Every meal is kicked off with some of their home made Egyptian bread, a modest looking flat bread somewhat similar in texture to croissant or phyllo dough, layered with butter, and served with olive oil laced with black sesame seeds and aromatic herbs. For the particularly hungry, I caution you, you'll find yourself inhaling this stuff at an alarming rate.
The specialty of Mombar is their clay pot cooking, native to southern Egypt. Stews are created with tender cuts of meat, fish, or vegetarian concoctions, aromatic spices, and baked in round clay pots which continue to keep things at a high temperature for the duration of your meal. I highly recommend the rabbit tajeen, as it is served with bits of dried fruit and dates in its delicious stew sauce, and I couldn't get enough of it. The chicken tajeen is also delicious, served with olives and vegetables and in a particularly aromatic sauce. Other dishes of note are their Egyptian steak, and their Rabbit served in a very unique herb sauce which has the appearance of pesto but tastes quite different as it is infused with an herb native to Egypt.
Every time I've gone, the appetizer specials have been the same, but they are well worth a try each. Roasted beets served with sauteed apples and onions was my favorite. Then came an almost equally delicious sautée of spinach and chickpeas, and a dish of the most tender artichoke hearts you may ever sample in the States.
The entrées are more apt to change from one day to the other. This time they offered salmon baked in phyllo dough, a fish tajeen, and vegetarian tajeen with vegetable balls.

I started off my meal with a traditional Egyptian dish of pureed fava beans and olive oil and spices, served with crisp pita. It evoked ideas of hummus, but was more flavorful and rich. Perhaps it was my roaring appetite speaking on my behalf, but it was one of the best tasting things I've had in quite some time and I literally cleaned my plate. I also picked at one of my dinner guests' beets and apples, cooked just to evoke a delicious crispness from each of the elements. Following this, I dug in to a chicken tajeen, which came with a pyramid-shaped mound of couscous, studded with dried cranberries. Unfortunately, by this point I had inhaled so much food, I was ready to keel over, and ended up opting to take most of the meal home with me. Following this, I closed the meal with a glass of their Egyptian mint tea, served with a fresh mind leaf in the cup and a tiny tin teapot. Although I opted out of dessert this time around (for fear I'd explode), I must say the deserts are pretty darn amazing. You have your choice between baklava, Egyptian bread pudding (my absolute favorite and a must try!), or chef's surprise, which includes a scoop of vanilla ice cream, grilled pineapple, and some sort of pastry/tart slice somewhat like cheesecake.

Mombar is one of my favorite local restaurants and I do hope to encourage business there so if you are in the mood for trying new things that are guaranteed to wow you, please come out, just off the beaten path up to Steinway and 25th Ave. I'll often find Mombar a bit more empty than I'd like it to be and I'm always concerned about this beloved local restaurant and losing what could be some of the best food one can find in Astoria.

Cash Only. Beer and Wine Only. Offering takeout. Prices: $7-$25
Directions: Take the N,W to Astoria BLVD, walk East to Steinway Street and turn right. R train to Steinway Street, walk North to just below 25th Ave., or take the Q101 from Broadway to 25th Ave.
Hours: Tue-Sun, 5pm-11pm; Mon, closed

It took me nearly six months, but I finally finished Eat, Pray, Love. I began the book shortly after Christmas, when my mother bestowed the book upon me as a gift. Returning to my then broken home thusly co-occupied my my ex, M, I found it apropos to crack open a book about the end of a relationship and the beginning of a woman finding herself.

And suddenly I found a kindred spirit. Elizabeth Gilbert writes of experiences I'm sure many women have faced: having to face up to a dying relationship, clutching for dear life at the next love that comes into your life only to find you can't handle living with yourself let alone living with another who has expectations of you, the grief, the anger, the crippling fear of loneliness. And then the recovery, that first sigh of relief when you find yourself coming out the other side of a painful life change, the internal peace one finds when they discover they no longer need someone to feel whole.

I never experienced the heartbreak that Liz Gilbert experienced. And to be fair, my breakup with M was neither crippling nor life changing. I had given too much energy in the past to let it be so. I'm sure it impacted me more than I'd even admit to myself, as I found myself not crying every night, not wallowing in self pity, but losing a fair amount of weight and, at one point, bursting into tears at some New Agey meditation circle I accompanied my mother to, and falling head over heels for a boy I had no business falling head over heels for. Luckily, that was short lived.
But I was never where Liz Gilbert ended up at her lowest point, not even close.
However, I still found much solace in what she had to share. I even began mirroring parts of the book. When Liz painted her new apartment bright colors, so did I. When Liz bought herself fresh flowers every week, so did I. When the harrowing fears and depressions began closing in on her and she told herself she would no longer harbor unhealthy thoughts, that became my mantra. And it worked.

This book became a how-to guide to recovery for me. Not that I was able to follow her across the world to Italy, India, and Bali. But it showed me things I needed to see. That it was ok to spoil myself with a good meal at a restaurant regardless of my budget - I needed it. It mirrored back questions of my own faith, and answered a few of them, showed me new aspects of my personal spirituality I was still defining and in search of. It kept hammering home how much healing one must do before they dive head first into relationships with other people and I finally started listening.

Just to give credit where credit's due, this may in fact have also been because of the hammering my mother and my friend A were doing to me. But the book provided a great visual aid.

Gilbert has a passion for food that may rival my own. She does well in Italy, not only describing her culinary conquests, but ascribing them their own personalities. At one point in the book, she gives an entire cultural dissertation on Sicily, and by extension, Italy, based on bawdy seafood stews and rich wines which she encounters on the island. She came to Italy to pamper her soul, it seemed like such an obvious move for one who has gone through years of pain, to then pursue pleasure. Not a lifetime of excess, mind you, just three months of healing. I envied her.

In India, Gilbert found discipline, both bodily and spiritually. But not without putting up a fight. Her frustration with falling endlessly back into pits of self-loathing and depression were all to familiar, as she tried exhaustively to train her soul into searching for God. When she finally begins to quiet her mind and begins to make meditative progress, you silently cheer for her. Even if not because you are particularly religious or even share her beliefs but because as she learns to love God, she is invariably learning to love herself.

Bali was my most favorite destination of the three. Her writing made me seriously consider booking tickets immediately. It is both a beautiful paradise and home to many tragic stories which Gilbert touches upon, ranging from a kind and gifted guitar player who was unjustly torn from his wife and deported from the US after 9/11, to a smiling ancient Balinese medicine man who greets Gilbert with "Pleased to meet you!" even when she's routinely been visiting for weeks. It is here she finds balance, between God and pleasure, and almost as if it were unavoidable, that very middle ground becomes love.

I felt a very personal connection with this book. There were times I had to put it down because as Gilbert was making quick and steady progress through the pages, I'd find myself silently protesting in my head, "Wait! I'm not ready yet! Come back and grieve with me!" Which is one of the reasons it took me so long to get through it, despite the fact that I enjoyed it quite thoroughly (it also happens that I am pretty terrible at sticking with a book, so its saying something that I finished this one at all). But it worked well for me. Each time I picked up the book I was immediately connected with Gilbert again, as if I were constantly opening to a page and saying, "Alright, lets see how I'm feeling today." And now that I've closed it, I feel a sense of peace, and of clarity. Perhaps because someone I admire was able to find these things. Who knows. My bottom line is, this book was wonderful, and one might do well to read it, no matter which direction their life is going in.

Some years ago, my mother took me to the hospital to visit my ailing grandmother, close to passing on at this point due to a losing battle with cancer. I have an unexplained aversion to death, sickness, dying, and hospitals and had to be coaxed and almost dragged to visit my grandma. I felt horrible. Horrible about avoiding her, but dreading the visit. My mother brought me in to her room, and I sat in the corner. My eyes darted between a half full catheter bag and my grandmother's face. She seemed to have shrunk. Her skin was loose around her face, her eyes were yellow and bulged. Her mouth opened and closed. I kept thinking she looked more like a fish that my grandmother. I hoped to convince myself that this in fact was not my grandma, she was something else altogether. Some sort of mask of cancer, that had stolen the outline of my grandma but never actually captured her vibrance, her personality, her sharp mind, her strong will. No, this was a freak show freak, and I didn't know her. She scared me. I looked at the floor. Back to the bag. Then to the floor. To the TV. Anywhere but the bed. My mother left. I was alone in the room. Alone with this stranger. Who opened her mouth and told me "I'm not going to make it."
I felt the color drain from my face. I felt pain. I felt fear. I felt blackness inside myself and the walls were closing in on me. I had to escape the room. I ran. I don't remember saying anything to my grandma. I just got up and left. I found a waiting area down the hall. I sat. I cried. I could not stop crying. I cried for all the awful things I'd seen in my thusly short life. I hated everything that was happening. I hated seeing my mother so exhausted, so lost. I hated that I was losing another member of my family. I hated that there was little I could do and the things I could do, be with my grandma, I couldn't bring myself to do then because I was so full of fear. So I kept crying.

I don't know how much time passed in that yellow, sterile waiting room. A man, young, maybe 25-30 yers old, Hispanic, sat next to me. He asked if I was alright. I told him why I was there. He asked if there was anything he could do for me. I shook my head no and looked at my feet. He got up, grabbed a handful of tissues, brought them to me. He found a magazine, brought it to me. He found a few Jolly Ranchers on the reception desk, brought them to me. He told me, when his brother was sick, someone did the same thing for me. He just wanted to pass on the kindness.

I don't know what his name is, or where he was from. But tonight I'm thinking of him. I have two regrets from that day: that I didn't tell my grandma I loved her, and that I never properly thanked him.

I'm not sharing this to be sad or a downer. I merely want to release this thought to the world, as its been within my mind for a long time now.

Its quickly becoming apparent that Queens is a condensed version of the world. I live in in Egypt. To the West and North of me is Greece with a splash of Italy. And far far East of me, at the end of the 7 train, one can find Korea, India, and a whole lot of China.

After emerging from the subway, I headed South down Main Street, quickly being swallowed by the mass crowds and neon signs of a place more reminiscent of China than New York. It was so familiarly foreign to me, it was delightful. Better than Chinatown in Manhattan, I'd say, its own unique island in the microcosm world of Queens.

My staycation to Flushing began, as most of my adventures do, with good food. I have never had proper Dim Sum, and I was hell bent on introducing it to my palate. I began spying for dim sum amid the multitudes of ethnic shops vending foreign fruits and spices I'd never seen before, and food complexes inviting you in or at least hoping you'd come to their express window. The windows especially grabbed my attention. There was one for steamed buns, one for chicken legs, one for dumplings, one for something that appeared more to be Indian dosas than Chinese food. And then there was the Peking duck window. For 75 cents a pop, you could get a pancake wrapped around tender pieces of Peking duck, slivers of cucumber and scallion, topped off with a generous glob of plum sauce. Passing by, I made a mental note to stop there after my dim sum. A block later, I began to ponder my surroundings as to where I might find some food. I was pretty much blindly wandering through this new country. As I turned at the corner of Main St. and 41st Ave., I noticed on that very corner a large sign reading "Dim Sum" amid a long list of other things I liked as well. So in I marched, where they seated me and I quickly perused the menu offerings. There were the usual ethnic offerings of noodle and rice soups, congee, and a long list of Chinese food lacking the Americanized turn. It was altogether joyful because I haven't seen menus that read that way since I was on the other side of the world. The kind waiter dropped a glass of tea in a deceivingly tall water glass, and pointed me to the dim sum menu, a short list of little delicacies, all going for the reasonable price of $2.50/dish. I settled on shrimp dumplings, sticky rice, and something called "tofu skin wrapped around meat" along with a bubble tea. The dumplings were the best I've had in a long time, maybe even since China. The sticky rice came wrapped in an enormous lotus leaf, which the waitress unfolded for me. Inside, I found many hidden treasures, bits of tender juicy pork, a little sausage, a large black mushroom cap. It was delicious but I had to quit halfway through as my stomach began to remind me I wasn't used to eating such edible oddities. The tofu wrapped meat was the strangest of my dim sum trio, a little greasy, and filled with completely unidentifiable stuffing. I think there was a bit of shrimp in one, what I can only guess were bamboo shoots, maybe a little pork and...some other things that will always be a mystery. Ah, I was back in China.

I'm sad to say the restaurant in question had no sign I could translate, (my Chinese is limited to counting and bargaining), so I can't tell you its name, but remember the location, and just look for the giant noodle bowl on top of the building.

I became so enamored with my little Asian hideaway that I temporarily forgot I was still in Queens. When I finally sidled up to the window for my Peking duck tacos, I signaled to the woman the number three, and was shocked to find that she spoke perfect English in return.

I wandered around Flushing for a bit, at one point following the sound of marching band, only to find the band was not marching. A protest against China's treatment of the Falun Gong practitioners was happening in the midst of a thunderstorm, the band members standing at strict attention as they performed.

I wandered a while longer before picking up my Peking duck tacos, and another bubble tea (which really just made me feel like a walking tapioca pearl) at an adorable Chinese bakery. I regret not picking up one of their gift cakes which ran in a variety of bright colors and flavors from Mango to Green Tea. I will have to return at some point in the near future to grab one.

I took my foreign foods and hopped back on the 7 train, a new destination in mind. As I had been wandering through Flushing, at one point I caught a glimpse of the 1964 World's Fair Unisphere off in the distance. After determining there was no way I was going to walk all the way to it, I retraced my steps to the subway, determined to get to it. I had driven by the Unisphere and the towers I deemed spaceships (after "Men In Black" came out), many times on my way to and from JFK Airport, but I had no clue how to actually get to them. I never realized they were just one stop away from the end of the 7 line, across from Shea Stadium and Arthur Ashe Stadium, which is even odder, because I've certainly been to Shea, but had no idea where the US Open was held either. Clearly, I don't know NYC very well just yet.

I strolled slowly through the expansive Flushing Meadows Park, following brief glimpses of the top of the Unisphere and spaceships through the trees. At the base of the Unisphere, I ate my Peking duck tacos as I read the third part of "Eat, Pray, Love" and felt sublime. I was disappointed to find that the other relics of the World's Fair were no longer accessible to the public (Grand Theft Auto IV lied to me!), but I did my best to capture it all on camera, along with bits of the beautiful park, before departing for home.

All in all, it was a highly successful staycation.

At the beginning of the year, I had huge aspirations for European/African exploration travels. While those aspirations have not necessarily shrunk, my wallet has, as has my span of remaining vacation time. Therefore, I have declared this the summer of my Staycation: a planned series of travels to the far and wide expanses of New York City and its Outer Burroughs. There have been a series of destinations I've never roused myself to pursue, and I've decided enough is enough, I need to feed my inner explorer with fodder a little more close to home. My list of destinations is always open for recommendations, and if you have a favorite restaurant/bar/happening you know of in the neighborhood I'm seeking, please, by all means, tell me.

Last weekend, I made my first walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. I had previously biked the Brooklyn Bridge, but I wanted to slow down and take in the view a little more. Upon arriving on the Brooklyn side, I found the large high tech art installation known as the "Telectroscop" awaiting on a pier just to the side of the bridge. If I had the patience for all the line waiting on that pier, I surely would have stopped to take a gander into the broad lens to wave at a few passers by in London. However, I was much more concerned with the line leading to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, and stubbornly held my ground for nearly an hour in the blazing sun (umbrella held overhead to prevent immediate roasting). Then we (MR, my adventuring companion, and I), sat in the shade of a very beautiful nearby park, covered in the shade of large and lush trees and surrounding by beautiful blooming flowers. We briefly considered jumping into a line for some Grimaldi's Pizza, but after surveying its length, we decided it best if we headed back to the confines of Astoria (nestling instead in the Bohemian Beer Garden during an unexpected Czech festival).

Tomorrow, I plan on hopping the 7 train out to Flushing, Queens, to investigate the vast Korea Town I've heard rumored to be nestled there amid the Indian and Chinese communities. I don't know much about what may be out there but I hope to get my hands on some Dim Sum, Bubble Tea, Mandu, and some Korean fried chicken from Cheogajip, rival to Bon Chon Chicken whose KFC I sampled in Manhattan and immediately fell in love.

In the coming weeks, I hope to make my way to these places, thus compiling a lengthy list of Staycation destinations (which I will proudly dish about upon my arrival back home).

Red Hook, Brooklyn:
I've heard rumor of beachy-themed buildings, quaint little piers, outdoor markets, a bakery called Baked, and a Food Network-famous eatery called GoodFork, which will continue my indulgence of dumplings from one staycation to the next.

City Island, Bronx:
There's a trolley! Its supposed to be small town but with many a cafe and apparently there's good surf and turf at Sammy's Fishbox.

The Cloisters, Inwood:
I've been meaning to do a bike ride up the West bank of Manhattan for quite some time, and this medieval museum might be just the ticket to a perfect destination. None of the details are quite hammered out yet, but if not the Cloisters, there is in fact a gorgeous naturally wooded park at the top top of Manhattan: the only remaining natural forrest in all of the city.

Governor's Island, NY:
I hear rumors of beautiful lawns and gardens and a great view, plus wholesome family fun! (might not stick around for that part, but we shall see). Its a bit touristy but enough not so that I will probably enjoy it, and at least I'll be able to say I've been there.

Sheepshead Bay, Brighton Beach, and Coney Island, Brooklyn:
Coney Island has long been a favorite destination of mine, for the beach, the amusement park, the Cyclone, the Wonder Wheel, and the freaks; but I've never explored the bordering neighborhoods. My primary interest lies within Brighton Beach, a Ukrainian/Russian community with cafes, restaurants, and boutiques with a decisively Eastern European feel. I'll grab some good russian food and hit the beach, maybe ride a ride or two, then follow my exploratory compass down to "Little Odessa."