A little over a month ago, I left my job and bravely stepped onto an imaginary bridge that I hoped would take me towards a fuller version of myself. On my last day of work, I was sent off with a delicious peach pie from an Italian bakery in Westchester, NY. I was surprised and flattered by the gesture because I hadn’t worked with this group of people for very long and didn’t expect more than a simple goodbye. My co-workers and I gathered in the conference room for the pie that was then sliced and passed around. We exhibited an array of personalities. One stated that she preferred apple pie while consuming her slice with vigor. One stayed to socialize but abstained from eating because she is gluten free. One sat and ate without saying a word. One nibbled at her piece and mentioned she needed to log “Peach Pie” into the afternoon snack section of the Noom app. I ate a slice ceremoniously even though I usually pass up desserts because I too am aware of “Orange Foods” on Noom. The leftover pie was boxed up and given to me to take home. I’d hoped to find someone to give it to, or share it, with but since I didn’t, I ate the filling with yogurt for breakfast for days.
Since the pie that marked my new journey, I’ve been nourished by a robust menu of meals with friends which includes:
Oysters and martinis at The Mermaid Inn with my art-legacy-sister-friend. Then, after a last-minute drunk decision to see Barbie, we ran giggling and holding hands to get an Uber to take us to a movie theater across town where we ordered a large bucket of popcorn.
A jalapeño margarita at Harper’s in Dobbs Ferry so I could give Margaret a copy of the Crespo Family Cookbook that I’d compiled two decades ago. I hoped that it might help inspire her own family cookbook. She liked the Thanksgiving Popcorn Stuffing Recipe, which I thought was an original from my great-aunt Ruby until I Googled and found it in Dennis Lee’s above mentioned (and hilarious) Substack post.
A week’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners around a large, wooden table in a lighthouse keeper’s dining room with a group of women-writer-friends.
A Duck Duck Goose Mule (served with a prized devil cow plastic duck) at Baylander, raised to celebrate a most generous friend’s birthday, with an wonderful collection of people from her life.
A plate of Frito Misto, squirted generously with fresh lemon, at Via Carota with my adult-found fairy godmother, followed by a walk to Three Lives & Company bookstore where she loaded my arms with hard copy books.
A plate of Greek appetizers and carafes of house wine at Symposium with former colleagues and steadfast friends from Barnard.
Guacamole and chips and margaritas filled a high-top table at an Upper West Side Taqueria where Janet and I chatted about art and life.
Pulled pork sandwiches and beer at Pier 76, where my college bestie and I listened to Zydeco and blues.
Bowls of beans and greens and bottles of wine with friends in M’s magical purple house. She’s a friend I just met in May, but with whom I bonded immediately, and spent two solid days and nights talking and laughing like I can with my best friend from middle school. After dinner we all moved from the dining room to the living room with a peach tart and pignoli cookies to share writing and music until way past our middle-aged bedtimes.
Single-friend-happy-hours that, since the pandemic, have turned into regular Friday night dinners.
Deliciously roasted and hotly spiced cauliflower consumed while watching Iris DeMent perform live, with one of my happy-hour-turned-dinner friends. Where we sat across from someone, whose face we couldn’t place but who looked famous, and shared truffle fries with him and his wife.
Green Shakshuka at Jack's Wife Freda and stories of heartbreak with a re-acquainted college friend.
And this past weekend, I enjoyed a series of comforting meals in community at Omega. On Sunday morning, I set my water bottle at a table, and when I returned with a plate piled high from the breakfast buffet, a white-haired, 80-year-old-sage with horn-rimmed glasses, sat across from me as if she’d always been there. We talked and laughed about finding balance between independence and interconnectedness. And then, she offered to drive me back to the city after lunch. In the car, we talked more while she peered over the steering wheel, driving through the rainstorm, hovering between two lanes as if choosing both. We stopped for tea and homemade pound cake at her home before she drove me to the Van Cortlandt Park-242 Street subway station, the last stop for the number 1 train, from where, a little over a month ago, I carried the leftover peach pie home.
I’m reflecting on two questions that were offered by Jillian Pranksy on retreat:
How have I been participating with myself, strangers, friends, family, and the world?
How do I choose to step forward from this heart-centered place?
I have enormous gratitude and love for my ever-growing community and for the nourishment I’ve experienced this past month. I feel that the bridge I’m on is solid, more solid than I could have ever imagined. I look forward to many more meals with friends, family, and strangers, and to what comes next.
Here’s to delicious moments!
Warmly,
Tiffany
Here’s to more margaritas, guacamole, and delicious conversations!!
❤️❤️❤️