Bon Appétit's Vanilla-Scented Plums & Blackberries

Summer in the city is supposed to be more relaxing.  But by mid-June, I start to get anxiety over a Tuesday night routine—picking up goodies from our local Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) that we’ve come to refer to as “The Share.”  For five years now, we’ve been trendy little urbanites buying into a program supporting Windflower Farms in upstate New York and marveling at whatever produce is on offer each week.  For several years, Chef has enjoyed his own “quick fire” challenge—what to make with all the root vegetables—while I am left to deal with a range of characters at The Share pick-up spot.

Each week, Chef blasts a medley of Cher songs on the iPod while I download him about my latest confrontation at what is supposed to be a lovely, neighborhood bonding ritual.  He rolls his eyes at my antics like he’s Ricky Ricardo to my Gay Love Lucy.  But I can’t help it.  Somehow The Share is never quite the calm experience I would like.  Last year, I wrote about my issue with parents letting their children finger vegetables with their germy hands.  This year, my problem is with line hijackers.  I’m always behind some earthy crunchy women who have decided to split their share—on the spot.  The discussions over who might enjoy more Bok Choy while the rest of us are waiting have become excruciating.

“Ladies, you’re going to need to speed this up!” I shouted from two spots back.

“We’re just discussing who might better put this to use.  See I’m leaving town in two days and not sure I can use it all,” one of them told me.

“And I don’t need to be held hostage by your decision making process.  Take it to the curb!” I huffed.

The ladies pretended they didn’t hear me, so I skipped ahead of them and gave them an evil eye.

I suppose my own tension is enhanced by the stressful new cooking duties I have assumed.  Since Chef often gets home later on Share evenings, I thought it might be nice if I tried my hand at the CSA Quick Fire Challenge.  The results have been, well, mediocre, at best.  I’m very good at whipping up a leafy green salad and roasting some kale.  But staring at just one garlic snape and two beets can flummox me.

Last week, though, I nearly peed my pants when the fruit takeaway was a cornucopia of plums!  The August issue of Bon Appétit had the perfect suggestion for a lazy unimaginative challenged home cook like myself—Vanilla-Scented Plums and Blackberries.  So easy—cut up some plums, add blackberries, 6 T of sugar, ½ vanilla bean split lengthwise and scrape in the seeds, stir and let stand for about an hour.  It makes this delicious topping that can be served over angel food cake.

Later on our patio, while Cher sang out Dark Lady, Chef and I enjoyed my new go-to light summer dessert.  And I made a mental note to consult the rules of CSA membership—I didn’t want to be evicted over poor behavior.  Food that tastes this fresh and delicious will pretty much make me put up with anything.

Schlepping to the East Side

New York City may be the crossroads of the world—practically every ethnicity is represented in the metropolis—but many of Gotham’s residents never venture outside their comfort zone.  For the most part, my days are spent navigating the sidewalks between where I live—the spicy rhythms of Washington Heights—and where I work—the sexy pecs of Chelsea.  But Chef enjoys breaking out of that bubble, especially when food is involved.  He complains I don’t take him to Astoria enough for Greek delicacies, or any number of stops in Jackson Heights.

With Chef’s 40^th birthday barreling down the tracks, I figured it was time to break out of our routine, and see what it was like in one of New York’s most storied neighborhoods—the Upper East Side.   Granted, Chef has a glimpse inside this world thanks to his work in the kitchens of some well-to-do-families in this tony ‘hood.  But I thought I’d treat him to something that didn’t require him to walk through a door marked “Service Entrance.”

A few weeks ago, the lovely folks at Loews Hotels reached out to me—well, to Frida, let’s be honest—with an offer to escape the heat of the city by enjoying a “Dog Days of Summer Package” at the Loews Regency Hotel.  From my first days in the Big Apple, I have enjoyed special moments at that property—Angela and I dined often with an important client at the hotel’s famous Power Breakfasts where I was introduced to some of New York’s important players.  Later, they opened an intimate cabaret Feinstein’s at the Regency, and I was lucky enough to interview/drool over its namesake Michael Feinstein.

Looking a little "ruff" at check-in

With the temperature nearing 100 degrees and our poor A/C working overtime, the hotel didn’t have to offer twice.  And despite Chef’s insistence that we do nothing big for his birthday after a fiesta in Mexico, a plan took shape for a mini-break.

When you’re on a budget, it’s not easy to get to the lower Upper East Side from the upper, upper West Side of Manhattan.  So we must have looked like quite a site stepping into the Loews Regency on Sunday, sticky and wet from a late afternoon thunderstorm that soaked us as we dragged our bags and dog across Central Park from the 59^th Street subway stop.  But like a caring Aunt welcoming us to her grand apartment, the staff at the Regency didn’t bat an eye, and instead rolled out the red carpet for Frida, including a special gift bag from the cast of Cats and Dogs staying in the hotel.  Frida wagged her tail and added an extra kick in her step as she ran down the hallway to our room.  We’ve raised a spoiled little girl who loves a hotel—much like her Papa.  Once inside, she surveyed the other doggie goodies—special bowls, charms for her collar—demanded one of the Loews supplied treats, then jumped into bed for a well-deserved nap.  Meanwhile, Chef popped open the champagne and started in on the chocolate covered strawberries—this was life on the Upper East, indeed.

For dinner, I chose The Mark Restaurant by Jean Georges, mostly because Sam Sifton’s New York Times review suggested it was a great neighborhood addition, so I thought we’d see the natives in action.  As we walked up Madison Ave towards the hotel, we marveled at how empty the streets were—not a soul in sight.  I wasn’t sure what to make of the crowd at The Mark as we sipped a cocktail before dinner.  Every woman seemed to either be in a black cocktail dress or a dangerously short swimsuit cover-up, and every one was texting and shouting at each other simultaneously.  The conversation at the table next to us:

“Jessica, you look terrific.”

“Right?  Look at my back.  You can see my spine.  Mother thinks I should go to an eating disorder clinic.”

“You should.  I hear they’re a great getaway.”

I’m just going to leave it at that, no comment needed, right?

Through a sleek wine tunnel, the dining room is a world away from the crassness of the bar.  Bathed in shades of red and beige with beautiful lighting, everything looks so elegant and comfortable.  We had read up on the menu before our arrival, and weren’t disappointed by our choices of a Warm Shrimp and Avocado Salad in Champagne Dressing, Black Truffle Pizza, Linguini and Clams.  The “simply” prepared Veal Chop was nicely done but served with a foamy sauce with a fiery kick  that the waiter couldn’t explain.  And therein was the problem.  Although the food was just about up to Jean Georges expectations, the service was not.  An amuse bouche was placed in front of us that no one explained—a particular annoyance to me.  What if I’m allergic to what’s in it?  After flagging down the waiter, he called it a “Lime Gazpacho,” with no explanation.  After we tasted it, he came back to tell us it was a “Honeydew Gazpacho,” which made more sense.  But really?  The sommelier pointed to the most expensive selection on the half-bottle list not offering any alternatives until Chef suggested we needed a few more reasonable choices.  The waiter stumbled through the dessert tray needing a reminder for the word for “kiwi.”  And although they were told of Chef’s birthday, there was no special item or thank-you or best wishes.  All in all, the food scored highly, but unless I’m in the neighborhood, I’m not rushing back.

The next morning, we took advantage of our Upper East Side adopted address for a morning trip to the Guggenheim for Haunted—an exploration of artists have explored memory and thoughts through the use of photography and performance art.  It was an intriguing and thoughtful, if not exactly uplifting, beginning to celebrating Chef’s actual birthday.  Afterwards, we managed to rouse Frida from her lazy slumber in the Loews Regency and convince her our time on the East Side was drawing to an end.  She pranced her way back through the lobby and into Central Park where we paused for a special picnic.

One of Chef’s favorite pastimes is experiencing Central Park and he keeps count every year of how many times I take him there.  Once again, we must have looked like silly tourists as we dragged a rolling bag through gravel and shouted at Frida to keep up.  Once we took up a spot in the Great Lawn, we all relaxed.  And like a teenager who has spent too much time with her parents, Frida laid down as far away from her Papas as she could.  With the skyline of New York as a backdrop, we talked about dreams and goals and what more we wanted to accomplish.  We marveled that 10 years ago, Chef was despondent at turning 30, never believing he’d find true love.  And that less than a month later, an Internet chat changed all that.

Over the years together, life has taken twists and turns, been up and down, and we’ve celebrated Chef’s birthday in fancy restaurants like Alain Ducasse, at concerts by Madonna, in exotic locales like the hills of Portugal, and closer gay getaways like Provincetown and Fire Island.  But at the end of the day, what really matters, is not that we’re traveling the world or staying close to home, but that we’re together.

Happy birthday, Chef.  You’re truly my passport to love.

Lil JP enjoying summer reading

Just before we departed for the airport for our recent Mexican mini-break, I realized I had forgotten to plan for one of the most important events in my life.

“Oh my god, I don’t have anything to read!” I screamed to Chef.

“Sweetie, just grab something from that bookshelf,” he said.

Chef was referring to a special display area I created when I was implementing tricks for cutting our budget.  I downsized my frequent newly released book expenditure by rounding up all the novels scattered about the house that I hadn’t read.  My reasoning was that if I could see them all in one place that I’d be less tempted to add to the collection.  It would be my own little in-house display of “new arrivals” or “suggested reads.”  I could keep myself stocked in bestsellers-at-one-point-in-time for nearly two years!

Instead, books languished on the shelf.  Every time I passed, a thought bubble popped up labeling the books “old and uninteresting.”  The more they sat on the shelf, the more I thought, “well, if I haven’t read them by now, they must not be that good.” Christopher Hitchens’ God Is Not Great and Al Gore’s The Assassination of Reason are grouped together—at what point was I so pretentious that I asked for that duo for Christmas?  Now they just languish in the “probably outdated” category of the shelf along with the dog-training treatise Cesar’s Way and Cherie Blair’s Speaking for Myself.  Oh, and don’t forget the laugh riot, page-turner Pol Pot: Anatomy of a Nightmare.  Those heady and heavy hard covers were certainly not breezy summer reads.

JP's "haven't yet read" bookshelf

And now here I was stuck.  Having been so busy traveling the country pitching Alphabet City as the “perfect beach read,” I was now without one for vacation.  In a panic, I grabbed In Cold Blood out of the “Southern Gay Writers with Alcohol Problems” section.  My father very nicely helped create this category a few years before he died when the last Christmas gift he ever gave me was a complete set of Truman Capote’s work.  Truthfully, I am new to this (in)famous writer’s work.  Having only watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I secretly thought my gay literary history badge might be revoked if anyone found out.

A few days later Chef caught me crying early one morning in the living room of his family’s home with the paperback by my side.

“Maybe true crime stories are too much for you.  Sort of like why you don’t like vampire stuff,” he said.

“It’s not that.  I find it so sweet.  Makes me think about having kids,” I stammered through tears.

That’s right, Truman Capote’s ground breaking examination of the 1959 multiple homicide killing of the Clutter family in Holcomb, Kansas was making me reconsider my position on parenting.  Capote’s writing is so captivating and lyrical when describing the interaction of the tight-knit clan that I found myself engaged from the first page—and then couldn’t put the book down.  Like a master manipulator, Capote had me practically wishing I were part of the family even though I knew they were about to get mowed down mercilessly.  Then, just a few chapters later, I was almost rooting for the pathetic criminals as I sat alongside them on a brilliant narrative ride on the lam through Mexico.  At points, Capote’s book is less a revolutionary narrative of an appalling true crime and more of a travel narrative.  The love and concern he lavishes on a middle-of-nowhere Kansas town gave me a new appreciation for the dynamics of small town America.

Every moment I could steal for myself at the family retreat outside Mexico City, I would set up a chair by the pool and read.  At one point, Juan Pablo’s Aunt Jacqueline came traipsing over.

“I see you’re reading Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood,” she said.

I eyed her suspiciously.

“I read the original in The New Yorker, you know.  He quite captures a loving family and the lawlessness that can be Mexico, don’t you think?”

I smiled and motioned for her to sit by my side, delighted to hear about what she thought when Capote’s articles about the case first appeared in The New Yorker in the early ‘60s.

The problem I have with a really great read, though, is the mild depression that sinks in after I finish one.  I find myself casting about for a replacement, not quite loving anything else I pick up, not finding what I need on the special shelf.  I decided Naomi Klein’s Shock Doctrine was not what the doctor ordered, and that I couldn’t quite stomach Gael Greene’s Insatiable.

Then I saw a little book hiding in the corner—the cover featuring a quirky little man with red pants, a jaunty hat and a dog, reminding me of my eccentric Uncle Cleigh.  Bingo.  The Complete Stories of Truman Capote.  Now there’s a book that could last me a lifetime.  After all, he’s an author whose true crime book made me consideration adoption.

An issue of fairness raised itself on our recent trip to Mexico.  It had nothing to do with gay marriage—Mexico City allows it, most of the US does not.  And it didn’t come courtesy of Mexican Customs’ seemingly inefficient requirement that everyone entering the country push a stop-light button before proceeding: Green means go, Red means a thorough luggage search.  It’s laughable the number of times I’ve been held up with a small wheelie bag while others fly by with carts suspiciously piled high with luggage, TVs, microwaves, and other assorted taxable imports.

This new situation came courtesy of Continental Airline’s “Guaranteed Extra Legroom Policy” a.k.a. airlines’ efforts to squeeze more pennies out of travelers.  On the way down, I happily paid the $85 offer to upgrade to business class—I considered that an amazing bargain, especially since the extra bag I was going to check would be free instead of the $50 for a coach passenger.  Hoping to score the same deal on the return, I logged on 24 hours in advance to check-in but was presented with a different offer—$75 to get “Guaranteed Extra Legroom” a.ka. sit in the Exit Row.  In comparison to a comfy seat and warm cookies in the front of the plane, that seemed like less of a deal.

But I get it.  Many airlines are charging these fees.  Since I don’t hold elite status on Continental—always flying a few thousand yearly miles under the radar point screen—I figured paying for the Exit Row would give me a little more comfort on the 4 ½ hour journey.  Especially on one of my least favorite aircrafts: a cramped 737.

Turns out, I was the only sucker who took Continental up on its “offer.”  When the boarding doors closed, only one seat out of 12 in the two exit rows was taken—by me.  Lucky me—I paid for the privilege and now had even more room.

But as soon as the cabin doors were “cross checked,” a steady stream of passengers filled every seat.  Now wait a minute.  Why should I have to pay when everyone else gets the privilege for being bold and aggressive?  If Continental is going to sell those seats, then shouldn’t it be incumbent on them to monitor their usage as well?  They don’t just let folks take any open First Class seat because it would undervalue them.  To me, the same holds true for the Exit Row fees.  I seethed all the way to Newark unable to enjoy the in-flight “entertainment” Valentine’s Day.  Well, I’m not sure I can blame that on the airline.

On the ground, I did some research and discovered that other airlines have figured out this issue.  JetBlue told me

“Customers can move into unsold Even More Legroom seats onboard the aircraft, and our inflight crewmembers collect payment using our “cashless cabin” device.”

Don’t you love all the specially created marketing jargon that allows everyone to talk around an issue?  But JetBlue’s policy seemed right on target to me.  And I wanted my money back from Continental.

As I hit send on the online customer “feedback” form, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t hear back anytime soon.  So I made some outreach to the media relations team at Continental playing up my credentials as a “respected” blogger and freelance travel journalist just to see what their policy was on this issue.  Frankly, I wanted to know if they had even thought through this problem.  It took a few days of back and forth with the PR team, but I did get a response,

“Customers have embraced our new premium seat program and clearly value the ability to reserve premium seats up to 24 hours prior to departure. Based on your comments, though, we may need to reevaluate certain aspects of the program to ensure we are meeting our customers’ expectations and providing optimal service.”

A day or so later, I got a call from someone on the Customer Service team.

“They told me to call you and tell you that we are refunding your $75 but that this is not our policy and a one time only event.”

I particularly loved the genuine customer service attitude of “they told me to call.” But alas, Continental did respond.  Although it sounds like if you didn’t flash around some blogger credentials, you’d be out of luck.

And I’ve now figured out that I’ve expended way more time and energy and valuable blog space on this issue than the original investment of $75.  So here’s my tip: unless Continental changes the policy soon, book yourself a seat in the row immediately in front or behind the exit row.  And as soon as you hear the cabin door close, make a run for the border.

As a young gay in Texas, my first brush with Fire Island was the 1989 Oscar-nominated movie Longtime Companion about the early days of the AIDS epidemic.  The movie’s powerful last scene of three surviving friends walking on a deserted Fire Island beach was (and still is) breathtaking.  At the time, I assumed the idyllic homo holiday community was a Hollywood story telling invention.

That changed the sophomore summer of my New York sitcom life when I found myself dating a doctor with a house in The Pines.  During the drive in his Saab convertible with his Corgie sitting in my lap, I fretted that I had been cast as some boy toy and was expected to put out in exchange for my weekend accommodations.  I wasn’t necessarily averse to that, just wanted to be clear on the expectations.

Doc put my mind at ease when he showed me to my own room, and then gave me a tour up and down the boardwalk dotted with charming red wagons (no cars allowed).  He provided a brief tutorial over the rules of engagement on the island—cocktails and dancing at something called Low Tea ended promptly at 7pm with a mass migration to High Tea and depending on day of the week ending hours later at Middle Tea.  If you still hadn’t successfully hooked up after all that, a trip through the wooded Meat Rack was in order.

Although those rules have changed much over time, I have been lucky enough to get to know Fire Island much better and understand the not-so-subtle differences between the two gay communities of The Pines and Cherry Grove.  My doctor friend was the perfect specimen of life in The Pines—fantastically decorated house, impossibly toned abs, finely tuned regimen.  In the Grove, things are more shabby chic, anything goes and devil may care.  Everything’s just a little looser—in so many ways, including bathing suit tops and bottoms that seem to loose themselves on the beach.  Turns out, I’m pretty much a Grove Boy who enjoys an occasional Meat Rack meander to drink in some Low Tea.

Neighbors on the left, with party hosts Chris and Tom on the right

Lucky for me, dear friends Chris and Tom purchased a home in the Grove nearly seven-years ago and began welcoming their city friends with open arms.  Over the years, they’ve renovated the original pillbox house into a charming cottage perfect for Coastal Living.  The couple met at the very first Condé Nast Traveler Hot List party, and I suppose as a sign of appreciation they let me steal out to the house and pound out pages on Alphabet City.

So this weekend was a homecoming of sorts for the book when they hosted the Fire Island stop on the book tour.  Frankly, I was a little nervous given my recent experience with self-professed non-reading gays at a NYC event.  But it turns out summering folk appreciate when the perfect beach read comes to them.  The guests listened to my reading with rapt attention and an audible gasp was heard during the excerpt about meeting Tyra Banks.  Two-dozen sales later and it was the most successful home book party yet.

JP with Chris

The next morning, Chef and I continued our Cherry Grove tradition of walking around the “town” taking in the new seasonal stores—last year’s ice cream shop, this year’s liquor store—as well as the perennial standbys—Floyd’s muffins, the everything-is-$5-grocery store.  We play the game “Where Would You Work” followed by “What’s Missing?”  Usually we debate the merits of starting a fine dining establishment.  But this year, given the voracious reading appetite of Chris and Tom’s friends, we’re thinking maybe a summer Book Nook.  That means I need to get cranking on 40, Love to have it in stock for Summer 2011.

Even Edie enjoys Alphabet City

Frida, on the other hand...

Swingers in Mexico

My trip down the wedding aisle has been a long time coming.  But after a recent trip to Mexico City, and a groundbreaking decision by a Massachusetts federal judge, I suddenly hear the bells drawing nigh.

Nearly nine years ago, I spontaneously popped the question to Chef on the balcony of our Mykonos hotel room balcony as the sun set over the white washed island landscape.  I knew that I needed to spend the rest of my life with a man who could survive my insistence that we move hotels in the middle of the night because my Condé Nasty snobbery couldn’t handle a gay ghetto dump.  We still reminisce about some of the best times of our lives lounging poolside at the comfortably hip Belvedere Hotel (not associated with the Fire Island “legend.”)

But our sitcom life took some funny detours and hit a few mandatory speed bumps that delayed any nuptials.  Before we knew it, ten years had passed as a couple, and I was left wondering why exactly we should go to the trouble (and expense) of getting “officially” married.  To our friends, we are firmly ensconced as a couple—after all, they refer to us as “The JPs.”

“If I do it, I want some kind of rights.  I want it to actually mean something,” I explained last month to my friend Kathryn.

She knows a thing or two about the complicated feelings around gay marriage as the head of GayWeddings.com, the leading online boutique dedicated to providing resources and information to same-sex couples who seek to affirm their life-long partnerships.

“Understandable.  But keep in mind that gay weddings can also be transformative.  And not just for the couple, but for guests at the event.  Sometimes it’s the first time straight people witness up close the love and commitment of a gay couple.  Often they end up becoming advocates for gay marriage rights,” Kathryn explained.

Indeed, the rights associated with gay marriage seem to be on a fast track for approval.  While I’m not sure Judge Tauro’s recent ruling in Boston that DOMA is unconstitutional will stand (it reminds me of my own father’s historic stance striking down Texas’ sodomy statute), it’s an important step for the United States in the right direction.  And I say U.S. for a reason—guess who’s doing it better?  Our South of the Border neighbor, that’s who.

During our recent trip to Mexico’s capital city, I asked an attorney friend what rights I might acquire should I marry Chef in his hometown.

“You can become a Mexican citizen!” he announced with a flourish.

Despite the fact that this is an incredibly progressive stance from a very Catholic country, I wondered what exactly would be gained from becoming a naturalized Chilango (slang for citizen of MX City).  Chef chimed in immediately.

“Skipping the lines at immigration, and buying property on the beach,” he offered.

“I’m not finding those so persuasive,” I replied.  Chef took a deep breath.

“Well, in case there’s a nuclear catastrophe in the States, it’ll be easier for us to come live in Mexico,” he said ominously.

“Sold!” I laughed.

How could I not marry someone with an overactive imagination fed by watching too many Hollywood apocalyptic movies?

It’s not happening any time soon, but a wedding in Mexico sounds like the makings of a very special episode—possibly a transformative one—for two lovable sitcom characters.  Stay tuned.

Escaping the heat, Frida settles in the library at her Woodstock estate

Ay caramba!  Several things were seriously out of whack last night when Chef and I returned from his 40^th birthday celebration in Mexico.  You know something’s wrong when a plane full of South of the Border citizens gasps upon hearing the arrival temperature of 100 degrees.  The ghastly remnants of our garden looked like an early sketch for Tim Burton’s next movie.  Our brownstone’s lights were mysteriously dark courtesy of a blown master fuse.  And to top it all off, there was no pitter-patter of little feet accompanied by a wagging tail and sloppy wet kisses to greet us.  No, Frida had decided to stay at her country estate in Woodstock to beat the dog days of summer.

You’d think being from Texas that I would be accustomed to prolonged periods of heat.  But there, everything is over air-conditioned—the most you’d suffer was the walk to your car from the icy entrails of Dallas’ NorthPark Mall (unless of course you valet parked).  But Big Apple heat is another beast entirely requiring odd clothing combinations like a tank top when leaving the house, paired with a summer sweater for the possibly meat locker cold subway ride, finished with a cotton button down left at the office for any last minute meetings.

Loews' winning dog gets Scooby BBQ Sliders!

This morning I am running around the house getting it ready for Frida’s return.  Susan says she’s like a matron from days gone by returning to her city penthouse from her country manor.  No doubt, that dog has quite the life, enjoying her summer.  In celebration of pampered pooches like Frida, my friends over at Loews Hotels are running a “Dog Days of Summer” photo contest—upload of a photo of your dog enjoying summer and you could win a 3-night package at any Loews Hotel in US and Canada that includes a special room service meal of “Scooby BBQ Sliders.”  Even if you don’t have a photo to enter by July 11, you can vote on your favorites beginning July 12.  The entries are worth a look—if at least to distract you from the heat.

Speaking of distractions, back to work.  Mistress Frida arrives soon and the house is a mess.  Hay dios mio.

Chef with his parents

Barely two minutes after my arrival at Chef’s home in Mexico City and already I had lost a bet thanks to his mother.  In the taxi on the way from the airport, Chef and I laid down our wagers.

“I’m thinking she might wait to ask until lunch,” I said.

“Nope, sooner,” Chef replied confidently.

A half hour later, on a sweet street just steps away from Chapultepec Park, my Mexican mother-in-law Susannah embraced me warmly, then eyed me seriously.

“Ay, mi hijo, how come you aren’t staying longer?  5 days isn’t enough for a proper visit!  Now come inside and eat.”

Chef laughed as I handed him 200 pesos.

We’ve come a long way, Susannah and I.  Our first meeting nearly eight years ago filled me with terror.  Chef came out to his Catholic parents when we fell in love and decided to live together.  At first, his mother refused to meet me, but over time as I got to know other members of the family, her defensive barriers wore down.  Chef’s parents make an annual visit to New York City and stay with their son.  Now that we were living together, that meant me, too.

My nerves were fried during the weeks leading up to the encounter.  And my Condé Nast Traveler boss Publisher wasn’t making it any easier.  We were on week-long cross-country trip, traveling back from Los Angeles, when she asked about my apparent agitation.  I gave her the background, and told her that by the time we arrived in New York City, my in-laws would be asleep in my apartment and the first time I would meet them would be in the morning.

“Oh that’s a big deal.  Big, big deal.  What’s your plan?” Publisher asked.

“What do you mean plan?” I replied sheepishly.

“It’s the first time you’re meeting them.  You have to have your game face on.  You don’t want to meet them in your robe and bed head!  Gotta beat them to the punch.  Get up, get ready, get the upper hand.”  She advised ominously.

There was a reason this woman was one of the most successful executives in magazines.  So far, she hadn’t steered me wrong.  Seemed like this was shaping up to be a showdown at the Alphabet City corral.

All was quiet on the East Village front when I arrived home at 1am.  Chef roused from his sleep to say his parents liked the apartment and were looking forward to meeting me.

“What kind of under handed attack is that?  Thanks for making me even more nervous,” I complained.

He rolled over and started to snore.  I laid down and stared at the ceiling, plotting my counter attack.

By 5am, I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Publisher was right—get my game face on.  I showered, got dressed, made coffee, and settled into a seat at the dining room table with a clear view of the guest room door.  I couldn’t hear anything.  6am.  7am.  8am.  I was in full panic.

Chef appeared dressed and ready for work.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.  You’re leaving me here with the enemy?” I whispered loudly.

“Look, there’s no way my mother is getting up before 9.  Just go to work.  You’ll meet her later,” he laughed.

He gave me a peck on the cheek.  But there was no way I was leaving now—I was prepped for battle.

I piddled around the apartment, but by 9:30am, I realized that I couldn’t be late for a morning meeting.  I rushed back downstairs to change my shirt—having nervously sweated through the previous one—and when I re-emerged, there she was.  My mother in law nemesis was barely 5 feet tall, in a house dress, with mussed up hair, sitting at the dining room table—in my spot.

“Buenos dias,” she offered, not moving from the table.  “Is there coffee?  And maybe some cereal with fruit?”

“Absolutely!  Of course!”

I sprung into action bringing to her all the breakfast fixings.  She smiled as I placed the coffee cups, bowls, cut up fruit—the works.  Wait a minute.  What was I doing?  I didn’t do this for my family or Chef for that matter, let alone an enemy combatant.  She touched my hand and smiled.

“You’re going to fit in just fine,” she said.

All together at Chef's citizenship ceremony

In that moment, I knew she had the upper hand and held all the cards.  If my own mother was the unassuming Miss Ellie/Barbara Bel Geddes of TV’s Dallas, my mother-in-law was more Angela Channing/Jane Wyman of Falcon Crest—the undeniable matriarch of her clan.  She wasn’t going to be just an occasional guest star in my sitcom life, I was auditioning to be a regular in her telenovella—and I had just gotten the part.

Over time, we’ve developed an easy rhythm.  While at first I felt like the quirky Gringo character, now I’m just like my fellow sisters-in-law married into this tight knit clan.  I bring her hotel shampoos and soaps from all my travels for her guest bathroom.  She brings me elaborate mirrors, pewter trays and a dramatic Arbol de la Vida on display in my Mexican-themed living room.

This year, we even conspired to throw a 40^th birthday fiesta for Chef at the family vacation home outside Mexico City.  Unlike me, Chef prefers to ignore his birthday.  But Susannah and I weren’t having any of that.  And when the two of team up for battle, there’s nothing we can’t do.

Kindle edition of Alphabet City with a Tanqueray cocktail at Little Dix Bay

A few weeks ago, maybe closer to a month now, my Kindle broke.  My lackadaisical memory of the exact date of Kindle’s passing should be a telling clue that I’m not all that torn up about the loss.  The Kindle and I always had an awkward relationship.  Angela gave it to me as a present for my 40^th birthday dragging me into the modern era of e-books.  At first, I found Kindle useful in some situations—last minute instant purchase of Kathy Griffin’s autobiography was the perfect poolside vacation read.

But slowly, Kindle started making me nervous.  I eyed flight attendants suspiciously hoping they wouldn’t make me switch it off on the runway, forced to flip through the SkyMall catalogue again.  Sometimes, I wouldn’t even display Kindle on my subway commute because someone invariably asked me, “Do you LOVE your Kindle?”  That’s an awfully strong verb to use for an inanimate object.

Over time, I purchased certain types of books for Kindle—ones like Andre Agassi’s memoir, not likely to be shared with, or even interest, Chef.  Or runaway bestsellers that I happily hid on the Kindle, not wanting to broadcast that I’m a sucker for good marketing.  The Help comes to mind—although I’ve now recommended that book widely.

“If the Kindle breaks do you lose your library?” Chef asked early on—not because he’s a Technology Chicken Little, but because he’s spilled coffee cups near laptops enough times to make us both nervous.

“The books exist not just on the Kindle, but in Amazon land somewhere.  Like a back-up,” I replied nonchalantly.

I wasn’t too worried about what would happen should the technology fail because I purchased Kindle books to which I didn’t have a strong emotional connection.  And then it happened—Kindle went on the fritz while visiting Angela in Woodstock.  One quick call to Amazon confirmed the device was beyond repair—and a week out of warranty, of course—and that it could be replaced for $150+.  I shrugged it off, said I would give it some thought, and shoved the Kindle into a drawer filled with techno paraphenalia that time forgot—old Blackberry chargers, a now vintage Palm device, some Apple cords for laptops gone by.

“Real books don’t suffer technology failures,” I told Chef, as I packed for the Alphabet City tour.  Since I would be visiting indie bookstores around the country, I vowed to support them by purchasing printed books while on the road.

In Philadelphia, at the famed Giovanni’s Room, I picked up a copy of Eric Poole’s funny memoir Where’s My Wand? about his life as a kid believing he had the magical powers of Bewitched.  In San Jose, I finally had a moment to crack open the spine and chuckled through the first 24 pages.  Then on page 25, I thought the grueling nature of book tour was really getting to me.  Was that the title page repeating where page 25 should be?  Next page was the library of Congress info.  Flipping several more pages and it hit me—the entire first 24 pages of the book repeated—in the middle of a chapter.  Don’t panic.  These things happen.  I’m sure it just picks up again with page 25 after the misprint.  Nope.  Page 57.  The book was missing what seemed to be a critical 30+ pages.  I couldn’t go on.

No quick call was going to solve this dilemma.  I wasn’t planning on heading back to Philadelphia anytime soon.  And I didn’t think it fair to lie to Borders to score a replacement.  Not really the author’s fault.  And the title page offered little help with an undecipherable mishmash of companies listed: Amy Einhorn Books published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons a member of Penguin Group.  Hmmm.  After tooling around online, I finally registered a note on the Penguin website and opened “Incident #100624-000251.”  We’ll see how that works out for me.  With all the drama unfolding in the publishing world, somehow I’m not convinced my misprint will make the top-of-the-list.

For a few days, Where’s My Wand? has been eyeing me longingly from the bedside table. I wish I could just twinkle my nose and fix a technical glitch I never expected from a printed book.  But unlike my brokeback e-reader, there’s something about the book’s hiccup that makes me love it even more.  It won’t be joining Kindle in the land of the technology misfits anytime soon.

UPDATE 6/29/10 3:00PM: The helpful folks at Penguin’s online trouble-shooting department emailed me to say that a new complimentary version of Where’s My Wand? is on the way.  There’s hope for printed books after all!

This just in: Kimpton Hotel‘s sponsorship of the Alphabet City Book Tour landed us in the Gray Lady’s Media Decoder column written by influential journalist (and die hard Mets fan) Stuart Elliott.  In addition to efforts by the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Bureau and Macy’s, Alphabet City gets a nice shout out:

As part of its pride marketing, Kimpton Hotels and Resorts is sponsoring a book tour by Jon Paul Buchmeyer, the author of the memoir “Alphabet City.”

Mr. Buchmeyer is appearing during the guest wine hour events at many Kimpton properties this month. And customers who have booked the “Summer of Pride” discount deal at the hotels or resorts will receive a 32-page excerpt from the book as part of a welcome package.

The Alphabet City Book Tour picks up again in August and continues through the Fall.  Check out the Book Tour schedule for information on upcoming appearances in cities including Austin, Lubbock, Chicago, Madison, Atlanta, Baltimore, San Diego, Denver, Portland, Seattle and of course—New York City!