I’m just glad to be in my deliciously comfortable, if not exactly trendy, Uggs this morning. Last night, after half an hour of enduring a freezing cold tushy on a hard plank bench, I decided I couldn’t spend one more moment inhaling eau de farm, so I stumbled off to try to find Aunt Miranda on my own. Here’s an insider tip: when the president of the United States is on the premises, one is not at liberty to wander around a venue. I was denied at every exit.
In the end, I gave up and managed to make it to the edge of the Plaza just as the ceremony peaked. Hudson and I may not have been up close and personal as originally promised, as we finally waded through the throngs to reach 51st Street and find a cab, the sky caught fire. Not only did great bursts of fireworks tear through the blackness of the night sky, we were bathed in blanket of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ as everyone within sight of the spectacle joined in a shared moment of awe. We could smell the gunpowder’s tang as it cut through the scent of evergreen and hot chocolate.
Huddie and I stopped in our tracks and looked upward, mouths hanging open when the statuesque spruce was set ablaze, lighting up the New York City skyline, and everyone joined in to sing Joy to the World. Honestly, it stole my breath.
As much as I appreciate having experienced it, I am nothing if not a creature of habit. I won’t lie to you. Once I was home in my cozy apartment, swathed in flannel and curled up on the sofa, I was a very, very happy girl. Hudson was my star, as usual. He crawled up into my arms, burrowing into my bathrobe, and lay on my chest. His heart beat fast against mine, as it beat slowly. Still, except for the comforting in-out of his breathing, Hudson lay on me without falling asleep. It’s like he knew I needed the soothing after being so exposed out in the chaos of the city.
I thought it was odd that Aunt Miranda hadn’t gotten in touch, but I’d chalked it up to her perpetual business duties and frankly, her self-centeredness. Well, maybe that’s not entirely fair. She did want me there. It’s just that she’s always on the job.
AT&T doesn’t do well in that part of midtown, and when I checked my phone, ten texts that never reached me last night flooded in from Aunt Miranda all at once. They ran the gamut from Beavering away, can’t catch my breath, to R U here yet? to Don't miss the mini marble cheesecakes in craft services. They’re a triumph. And lastly, About to hit “go” on the tree! Find me! In a cherry picker 20 floors up on the west side of the plaza!
In a flash of anger born of wounded pride, I dashed back a quick text selling Henry Wentworth up the river and ratted to Aunt Miranda about how abysmally he’d treated me.
Didn’t bail on you last night! Was there, but held hostage in a pig pen by security, no thanks to that plummy ASS of an assistant of yours. But glad I saw lighting. Congrats. You nailed it, naturally! Will call later today x C
I hit send, but immediately regret being so hotheaded. I know Aunt Miranda all too well, unfortunately. On a good day she fires three people before her first cup of tea. I don’t want that kind of blood on my hands. Left alone, I’m sure in short order that pompous poser would have dug his own grave. I push it out of my mind, and take a deep breath of the frosted air, laced with the promise of snow to come. The less I think about him, the happier I am.
This morning I decide to detour to Broadway to my favorite coffee place, Zabar’s, to pick up a latte and a bagel before we hit the park. The sky is a clear, bright blue, and the air is crisp and cold. Walking briskly feels good; my muscles warm as my blood pumps. Hudson’s short legs are moving a mile a minute. The chill seems to make him even friskier than usual.
Several passers-by call out “Cute dog!” and “What a sweetie!” I beam with pride. I have to admit he looks extra-dapper today in his quilted red tartan coat.
I tie Hudson’s leash to a bike rack outside the big front windows of the cafe so I can keep a careful eye on him. Pushing open the door, I am enveloped in the smell of warm, yeasty bagels, and strong, black coffee. My mouth literally starts to water. When it’s my turn to order, I get an oversized everything bagel with lox so I can give Hudson a few treats. He goes wild for salmon.
We stand on the corner, basking in the warm sunlight, and taking bites of the fresh-from-the-oven bagel and creamy Nova lox while I drink my coffee. The breakfast gives me a pep, or maybe it’s the sun, so I feel like stretching my legs and start walking south, toward 57th Street, where we’ll enter Central Park. Work can wait just a little while longer today.
“It’s still early, Huddie. Let’s take a long walk down to Columbus Circle, and we can cut into the park and walk home on the paths.” He’s not even listening to me. He’s too busy greeting every dog that passes, and trying to hoover up food scraps from the sidewalk. He looks so happy; it melts my heart. Just then, a burly man, staring at his cell phone, smashes into my shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going!” he growls, and keeps on walking.
Spun around in the opposite direction, I wind up jerking Hudson’s leash, and halting from the shock of it. Hudson lunges out after the guy to protect me.
I open my mouth to yell after him, willing the people around me to brace themselves for hair-curling profanity, but what’s the point, really? I breathe in a cleansing breath, scratch my dog’s head, and plod on. People are going to act how they act. Nothing I do or say can change that, and trying is a fool’s errand. Better to keep to myself. I learned that a long time ago.
I look at Hudson’s little half tail, spiked up in the air on high-alert, as he trots ahead and I feel a smile rise from my heart to my lips. I love him so much. So what if people can be jerks? Dogs never are.
All along Broadway, the shops are displaying the holiday spirit. Wreaths and garlands adorn the windows, and snippets of festive holiday music push out onto the street with every determined customer. Even New York City itself has started to deck the halls, so to speak. Arches of lights in snowflake patterns cross the wide avenue, and greenery flows down the poles of the gas lamps and the signs declaring the names of streets and avenues.
We pass Fairway Market, with its outdoor stalls featuring brightly colored cranberries, pumpkins, cabbages, red potatoes, and myriad other fruits and vegetables shining like jewels on the sidewalk. Live trees of all heights and shapes are being unloaded from a huge double-parked truck and piled into a much-coveted parking spot. The balsam scent gives me itchy fingers. I can’t wait to get home to dig into a mixing bowl full of pie-crust dough. Some make their crusts with a stand mixer or a food processor. Not me. I like to feel the texture of the pastry between my fingers. It’s how I know it’ll turn out perfect from the oven.
The smell of Christmas trees makes me think of Spiced Apple Tart with plenty of clove. I’ll make one of those when I get home, I think to myself, shivering with excitement, and since I have apples, I’ll do a platter of Apple-Stuffed Pork Chops with Rosemary too. The thought of spending the afternoon in my oven-warmed kitchen with my Pandora radio to the Vintage Christmas Carols station gives me a lift till I’m practically skipping.
The blocks melt away as I enjoy the feeling of sunlight on my chilled cheeks, and watch Hudson delight in the sounds and aromas of a New York pre-holiday morning. As we near Columbus Circle, we veer toward the park. The crowds thicken as we approach the Trump International Tower Hotel, and holiday tourists are gathered around the impressive Globe Sculpture snapping shots. There’s the entrance to one of Manhattan’s most famous upscale restaurants, the sublime Jean-Georges, and I remember ducking in there out of the rain one summer afternoon. James and I had planned to rent bikes and ride around the park, maybe grab a hot dog from a cart. The shower hit fast and hard, and we ran for the awning. Before I could protest about the state of my elderly sundress and wet hair, we were standing at a desk with two models in white blouses and black suits in front of very discreet three-inch letters lit by a subtle golden spotlight, spelling out Jean-Georges. Every seat in the place was reserved, but we didn’t mind eating at the bar. We shared Charred Corn Ravioli, and Line-Caught Hake in Lemongrass Consommé. It was early on,