can we go play outside? (may pt. 1)
drinking beer on the beach, tofu summer rolls, jenny slate
I was reading in the sun, sitting in the grass and not minding the itchy ankles, when the kids beside me started to play. There were three of them, no older than four or five, dressed in springy pastels, with streaky lines of sunscreen running up and down their legs. They giggled and screamed and ran in circles, taunting each other with their open, full water bottles. I had abstractly found them adorable (their tiny hats! their even tinier shoes!) until they got close and it was my book getting soaked. Careful not to let their mothers see, I grumbled a little under my breath—my gorgeous hour had been cut short, the decibel level simply too high to get through a sentence, so I closed my book and stuffed it into my bag. But when one of the three (the most polite, British child to ever exist) paused his sprint, bent down, and urged an “I’m sorry about the water!” I beamed and told him not to worry. Impressed at his manners and tickled by his posh little accent, the pendulum of course immediately swung back to the other side, leaving me to coo over them once again.
Leaning back, I watched them spin around and laugh with their entire bodies, feeling jealous of their ability to play. Of their uncomplicated senses of wonder. They weren’t thinking about dinnertime or even yet dreading the car ride home. Their worlds began and ended with each other, their water bottle game, and the close, watchful presence of their moms seated on a picnic blanket nearby. No meditation app or boxed breathing required, no ticket for admission or WhatsApp group for scheduling, either—they were entirely embodied in the present, in play, and in their skin. Lucky bastards.
I carried on with my sun-soaked afternoon, heading over to the riverbank to listen to music and stroll. It was a breezy spring day, so the path was full of people. I carried on for miles, mesmerized by the weeping willows dipping low and grazing the water, and all of the buzzy Sunday sights happening around me. It was lovely—all of it. But one specific glance pooled my eyes with instant tears: a crew boat passing by with rowers of all ages, gliding smoothly across the water. Seated one in front of the other were older adults with shiny grey hair and young, wiry students, too.
I was so struck by the image. How innocent and sweet it was to see these athletes, across truly maybe 50 decades of life, sitting in that boat together. Their lives and daily dramas probably couldn’t have been more different, yet they’d made the same decision that morning to lace up their shoes and head to the riverside. Out of what, a love for the sport. The sound of the wind in their ears. The heavy muscles they’d get to gloriously soak in a tub later that evening. The exertion, the teamwork, the disappearance of everything else for that single morning hour. I don’t know, I’ve never rowed—but I can imagine.
Obviously, tears haven’t come from witnessing the simple “beauty” found in “humanity” much of late. Yet still I wondered why it had affected me so much. If it was the Carole King in my ears, or just the feeling of warm sun finally hitting my neck after several weeks of grey. But as I kept strolling, I realized it was because I still had those sunscreen-streaked kids on my mind.
Even if in adulthood it all gets lumped into lackluster categories of “cardio” or “leisure time,” we are near constantly seeking moments and afternoons that will drop us right into our bodies, and get us as close to that simple, water-bottle-soaked joy as we can muster. I think we really do spend the rest of our lives chasing that uncomplicated, embodied feeling. We veer so far from it, and yet on the first sunny, springy weekends of the year, that chase is splayed out in vivid color. My hour-long river walk was evidence enough.
It was in the man on his canal boat strumming his guitar for no one but his two collies sleeping contentedly at his feet. And the family I glimpsed through the trees, mindlessly kicking a ball back and forth in their backyard as they talked. The dad teaching his son how to hold a tennis racket, and the cluster of adults in line to order chocolate ice creams—not for their kids or grandkids, but for themselves to devour right down to their wooden sticks. Girls stepping out of their flats with nothing but journals, pens, and picnic blankets tucked under their arms. Students kissing in the grass.
As every day feels increasingly bogged down by the weight of adult life, bills and politicians and savings accounts, I am especially welcoming to April, to May, to June. To the sun and sky-ushered reminders that yeah, the best thing to do, still really is to just get outside and play together. To sweat, and run, and get dirt on the backs of our jeans and not care if it stains right through. Because while I won’t say we need to “honor our inner children” (there has been enough written about all of that), at the end of the day it’s affirming, and oh so endearing, to remember those same simple cravings are still there, and guiding us, all the time.
Anyways. Hi, hello, how are you? How was your month? My May has been really wonderful. I thanked the weather gods for somehow delivering another few weeks of pure London sunshine. I went to Brighton for an afternoon, drank a beer on the pebbly beach, and smelled three kinds of vinegar at all times around me. I wrote and read and thought about boys and watched an ungoooooodly amount of television.
I also went home for the first time in 9 months! Home as in the USA. Home as in the ugly highways of the Northeast. Brooklyn. The wooden tables of the cafes and bars that I love, where I got to talk and nibble on bites with the people that I really love. But of course, there’s too much to say on all of that. So, this round up will only touch on the first half of my month. More on New York later. My foods, my feelings, et. cetera et. ceteraaa.
ICYMI—
My Personal Encyclopedia of Sandwiches, A - Z. Tuna and matzo and beach subs, oh my.
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Everything I’ve Cooked
Soups, Salads, and Sides
Proteins, Pastas, and Mains
One of my all-time favs, the NYT Coconut Fish and Tomato Bake.
A jumbo Cast-Iron Roast Chicken with Lemon.
Creamy, Garlicky Zucchini Butter Beans, inspired by these guys. Served with spongey slices of sourdough.
Stir-fries with rice noodles, roasted broc, edamame, soy sauce, and sesame oil.
Sweets, Brekkies, and Baked Bites
A lot of Fried Eggs on Mustardy Bread.
Everything I’ve Ordered
Loved every bite of our picnic takeout from Lower Clapton’s Hai Cafe, but my favorite may have been the summer rolls stuffed with braised lemongrass tofu, oyster mushrooms, herbs, pickles, shallots, sesame seeds, and rice vermicelli.
A stellar, gooey, chewy chocolate chip cookie from Layla Bakery. Not my usual bakery order, but the only thing still in stock after noon.
My first London “bagel” at B Bagel on Swain’s Lane. Tuna mayo (which actually rocked, spread-wise) on “everything” (which yes, unfortunately, does also need to be put in quotes, because simply combining poppy seeds and sesame seeds does not suffice).
To bookend my day trip to Brighton: Bankers Fish and Chips first for lunch, and then a can of cold beer and the last 20 pages of my book on the beach before running to catch my train home.
Okko really hit the spot on a breezy evening. Not the best noodles I’ve ever had, but a solid London contender.
So-so vegan vanilla-chocolate-swirl soft serve from Peggy Loves Ice Cream. An unbelievable pistachio gelato from Oddono’s.
Everything Else
For those who read last month’s roundup: the Girls re-watch has indeed commenced. And god, it’s hitting especially hard.
I made my sister a 35th Birthday Cookbook through Heritage Cookbooks and frankly, I’m obsessed? It compiles all of her go-to Internet recipes, plus nostalgic meals like It Takes Two Sloppy Joe’s, Dad’s Fried Grits, and Buttered Bowtie Pasta. Easy to do & I highly recommend it for a gift.
I’m a few months late to it, but Derek Thompson’s The Anti-Social Century is a stellar, extremely important read. And one that has really seeped into my brain, and made me re-think a lot of what I’ve been telling myself about alone time.
“For decades, we’ve adopted whatever technologies removed friction or increased dopamine, embracing what makes life feel easy and good in the moment. But dopamine is a chemical, not a virtue. And what’s easy is not always what’s best for us. We should ask ourselves: What would it mean to select technology based on long-term health rather than instant gratification? And if technology is hurting our community, what can we do to heal it?”
This profile on History for Hire, a historic LA prop house. Such amazing pictures, too.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Dying for Sex. Emmys for Michelle Williams and Jenny Slate, both. What a stunning show. It feels banal to say you’ll laugh and you’ll cry more than you thought possible—but it’s such a unique, raw blend that really does reach in and yank at your core. I sat and sobbed for 20 minutes after it ended, if that’s your jam right now.
the most gorgeous of friendships depicted on screen On the same note, I’d never listened to any of Jenny Slate’s interviews with Sam Fragoso of Talk Easy. She’s recorded four of them since 2017, the most recent of which she discusses being a part of the show^. I can’t get enough of Jenny and her emotional honesty across all of these conversations (which happen post-divorce, post-pandemic, post-falling in love again, then post-motherhood). Binge them like I did, you won’t be disappointed.
It’s happened. For readers of my November post on Sundays Roasts and Bath-taking in England…….it’s happened. I’m officially a bath-taker. I can’t stop bathing. And it’s kind of changing my life?
Lena Dunham’s Why I Broke Up With New York. As just another gal who can’t get over how wide the streets are in London, and who has unsettling associations with
manymost streets in New York, let’s just say it resonated.The Hyper-Visibility of The Star Making Machine, by Brendon Holder. A really great piece on Lorde’s apparent and “uncharacteristically enthusiastic embrace of the new pop star marketing machine,” as evidenced by her release of What Was That?
Grief is For People by Sloane Crosley. A refreshing memoir that I read (and did quite enjoy) over just a few days.
&
’ first print magazine arrived! It’s mighty sexy, and I can’t wait to dig in.
Thank you for reading! See you again (soon!) for my trip debrief.
The way I said "we all just want to play" yesterday at our drinks before I read this....our brains!!!!!!! Felt like I was there in the London sunshine with you!!!
You finally went to Brighton!! I'm glad you did