home is where the cast iron is
cooking in bushwick + reflections from the family tree
“Back in Brooklyn” sure has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
In a twist of fate and familial beckoning, I found myself back in New York for most of January.
Home away from home is a stretch of a phrase from start to finish…and all those years in between.
All things considered and generous, it rings true enough.
I’ve moved more in the past six years than I did two decades ago during my college years, and in contrast to back then – which was a rollercoaster of quality & locales across Boston + Cambridge + a semester abroad in a Dutch village – it’s (mostly) been for the better.
Although, once again, all things considered - with yet another local move approaching - I daresay I’m almost getting too old for this. The yoga helps.
So. Home away from home. That would be Brooklyn.
Okay, I didn’t grow up there. Our parents and 3 out of 4 grandparents did.
The outlier, my late maternal grandfather, grew up in Mt. Vernon above the Bronx, which for a bit of personal and regional history, let me share is a greater NYC neighborhood - along with nearby Yonkers - that elected NOT to become an official NYC borough circa 1894. And yet, even Staten Island - which was actually long known as Richmond - wanted in!
The things you learn! The relevancy of watching ‘The Gilded Age’ on the network I will continue to refer to as HBO! How does Cynthia Nixon keep getting even cooler! (of course she does)
For more of the personal history: that grandpa swooped back into his young love’s life after serving in the second world war, which saw them getting married and settling alongside her family in Park Slope. And for those following along, that is very much Brooklyn. This brings us to an even quartet of third generation Brooklyn roots, with the other half of parental lineage over on the east side of Brooklyn in Gravesend, which is closer to the more culturally-familiar-sounding Brighton Beach and Coney Island neighborhoods. The second of those being the first place I remember having to pay coins to use a toilet at. The childhood disbelief.
More charmingly, I recall the car rides into “the city” on the weekends for pasta & piano at then-long-standing “Carolina'' Italian restaurant in Coney Island. My sister was convinced the piano player was Bill Murray, and I just assumed he probably knew Billy Joel, or maybe Mr. Tony Bennett.
These ‘old school’ Italian American family outings were often followed by dessert at the very much still-standing Spumoni Gardens for their signature sweet: seriously creamy pistachio gelato. I have to admit, to younger me, even a vaguely green-hued ice cream coulda/shoulda been mint chip, which meant us kids usually opted for lemon and cherry oh, so Italian ices. And on the way home, I’d return to the back seat to read a paperback in the fading light. Thinking traffic was gross, even then.
Nowadays. There’s no family home to return to for the holidays. That ain’t our bag, or life stories. Those are far more disjointed, real & beautiful, tragic & tender. Life, loss, and healing. That’s how it goes.
I now return to my siblings. They’re home, as is what’s remembered, deep down. Those stories, accents and flavors of our youth.
Home is the rare sibling dinner out, and the even more elusive night of cooking for one another. In recent years, it was the instantly sentimental holiday videochat where we all made meatballs in our own kitchens (duh, something with beyond meat & legumes for me).
Home can be a two-week vacation somewhere with sun, avocados and a kitchen, a rotation of housing options in the interior of Alaska, walking alongside my sister and her dogs at night in Bushwick (honk, honk, and for the unacquainted, Bushwick is a neighborhood *in* Brooklyn), or a brief hiatus back to Portland, that still sees me biking to farmers markets & catching up with friends over cold beers and yeah, hot handcut fries. Where the vibes of my twenties & thirties mesh with the jess of today.
Home is currently a rather cozy situation in a corner of Wyoming, as we try on different abodes. Seeing what fits. Wondering what could be next. Living in national parks. Suffice to say, I never saw this all coming in my younger city years.
It’s the cats, the spouse, the bookshelves and cast irons that feel like home.
Snow does it. A bit of gardening. A cache of multiple sweaters and spices. The cooking, the comforts, the casual. ‘Til the next one…
What says “home” to *you* ?
This trip to NYC was unexpected, as life often is. It had its ups & downs & turn-arounds, as life often does. Tender moments. The sibling dinners. Real life stuff.
I’ve only just returned. Time was a blur. Time was precious. Life moves at a (mostly) calmer pace where I live now, which is damn dramatic compared to New York. And vice versa.
I biked, I strolled, I visited museums and libraries. I did a bit of cooking. To comfort, cope, feed, budget, love.
It was the Big Apple in January: Nothing was in season, and yet, it was all available. I picked up a pink dragonfruit for $1.99 at Mr. Kiwi’s. Organic Californian kale, left and right. Escarole at Wegman’s that kept its bitter presence. Non-dairy normality. The makings of endless pasta nights, saucey tempeh and dinner-time inspiration from (seemingly) every corner of the globe. That’s New York.
If you’ve been to this ‘scrap before, you may recognize that I’m typically such a meal planner. It almost pains me to admit that this mentality / this intentionality / was pushed to the side in the whirlwind spell of my stay.
I picked up an ingredient or two, one day at a time. Not rushing. Contemplating: How does one meal plan when there are so many options? Am I post-the-convenience-of-pizza?
(Nah)
One must eat. One should eat. And hey, I want to cook. That’s home.
Here’s a few dishes my sister and I cooked up during our time together in Brooklyn, often in the rad “vegan cast iron” she keeps in her inventory. We dined and watched snow fall on the city and streets below. I can’t remember the last time I was in New York for snow.
Cooking in Bushwick, 3.0
[Clockwise from Top L to R to Middle] 1) pasta con rapini w/ seared tempeh by my sis 2) cast iron pizza night 3) pasta e fagioli by my sis 4) ‘ludacrisp’ apple cherry galettes w/ whole wheat + blue cornmeal 5) pasta aglio e olio w/ lots of kale + lemon (see links below) + more tempeh ! 6) crispy gochujang tofu in the making w/ fresh ‘fu from fong on in lower manhattan 7) cooking down escarole for even more pasta : ) 8) double chili tofu dinner 9) mortar + pestle pepita pesto, sauéed chard + a heap of dang chickin’ for protein
And let me add, in contrast to my own kitchen these past few months, there was nary a cabbage in sight! Well, save for one indulgent take-out evening from Tofubox in Williamsburg. Just maybe more on that another time.
Thanks for reading this through and perhaps, sharing your own thoughts on what makes a home in your life.
References + Relevant Links:
Before the Five-borough City: The Old Cities, Towns, and Villages that Came Together to Form ‘Greater New York’, New York Genealogical and Biographical Society January 11, 2021
Carolina Restaurant - 1409 Mermaid Avenue, Coney Island History Project
Cynthia Nixon has No Regrets About Running for Governor, TIME March 19, 2019
Inside Mr. Kiwi’s: Brooklyn’s Favorite Grocery Store, Culture Trip June 18, 2018
Spaghetti Aglio e Olio with Lots of Kale, Bon Appétit
Take a Walk Back in Time: Exploring Bushwick History From the Early 1600s to Today, Bushwick Daily January 20, 2022
The True History Behind HBO’s ‘The Gilded Age’, Smithsonian Magazine January 20, 2022 [huh, double dose of dates]
Yet again - and even in New York: Foolproof Pan Pizza, Serious Eats
P.S. You made it this far! I appreciate ya bearing with & respecting the understandably elusive + personal nature of my uh, past, present & what the hey, future. Arrivederci! <3
What a beautiful essay Jess. I am not sure I knew we had shared history in Mt. Vernon? My dad and aunts grew up there and my grandparents and aunts remained there until some time in the late 1970s.
And to answer your question, probably quite predictably, home is anywhere where I am in a kitchen preparing food for those around me.
Love this. I'm missing Brooklyn something fierce right now. I feel you in a place being home without the physical home, so to speak. For me, a restaurant can be home. A street corner. A familiar walk or coffee shop or school