the joy of cooking

I only slept a couple of hours last night so I felt crap this morning. It was T’s fault – he woke me up in the middle of the night when he phoned, and then of course I couldn’t sleep again. I was too excited. We have a scheme now, which involves several things I’ve never done before. One of them is flying halfway across this enormous country to a part I’ve never seen - with deserts, which I’ve never seen either, where it is so hot right now that people have to skip from one air-conditioned place to another.

I’m doing that on Friday, and when I get there; best of all, T will be waiting for me. He says it doesn’t feel like 105 degrees because it’s a dry heat. I don’t quite know what he means, but it sounds interesting. He also knows a bar where they make Pimms with ginger beer so we will go there, and then who knows what we’ll do. I expect whatever it is, it will involve laughing, so I am looking forward to it.

But in the meantime I feel crap and I have to go and do something for Zach. “Bring me back the joy of cooking because I have lost mine” he said the other day. You can never assume anything with Zachy, so I checked and it is a book he was talking about. It’s very odd – I can’t imagine him cooking anything and he doesn’t look like he has eaten much lately. Maybe he will when I find his book for him.

It certainly isn’t a dry heat here. It’s humid and 90 degrees and it’s only nine in the morning. I had a bagel and an apple yesterday – it was too hot to eat – and I don’t feel so good, but the man at the desk says it’s only a mile or so to Union Square. I sit in the lobby and work out how to get there. I love the lobby. It’s full of mismatched chairs and sofas, and everyone gathers there; some for the wifi, some to pass the time of day with each other.

They’re more careful about who they let in nowadays. It used to be a bit of a dive. A Spanish girl fell asleep in an armchair the other afternoon, and the woman wearing a guard’s uniform went to wake her up. “No sleeping allowed Miss!” she said firmly.

Around the corner, by the desk, a couple are being filmed. The girl is pencil thin and tanned a shade of chocolate brown I haven’t seen since 1980 something. She is wearing shoes she can barely stand in, and a skirt made of two layers of red frills. There’s a man with her – he’s in black, and a girl in a flowery dress is interviewing them.

The walls are covered with colour – crowded with wonderful paintings. Hanging from the middle of the ceiling is a life-sized papier mache woman on a swing. She’s naked and very large, and her head hangs down as if she’s drugged.

I’m smiling because I can see the old woman whose portrait is in my sitting room upstairs. I am so glad she’s still alive. She’s put her carrier bags down for a while and she’s chatting to a man with a little beard. He’s just come in with his dog who flops onto the cold marble floor after the heat of the street.

The dog gets up after five minutes and comes over to me and licks my face while I scratch his chin. He is so sweet and friendly, and I end up having a dog conversation with the man and the old woman about how lovely pitt bull terriers are, and we say all the normal things about how it’s the owners who are the shits, not the breed. Then the dog licks me again and I really have to go while I still have the willpower, so I say goodbye and open the door to the street.

The heat hits me in a great wave. It’s horrible at first, but then I notice a very slight breeze and I think I can make it. I love walking in Manhattan – it’s so full of interesting people. There’s a woman coming towards me – she is wearing a business suit and she looks like she is power-walking because she struts aggressively along with a fierce expression on her face. Every few seconds she takes a spoonful of something that looks like porridge from a cup she is holding. I have never seen anyone do that before – I am impressed at the multi-tasking – going to work, exercising, and eating breakfast all at once!

A man says something to me from a doorway but I’m listening to Thom York singing about Harry Patch, so I just smile and carry on walking. I don’t want to stop until I get there. The street system is so well organised – you just follow the numbers – every road is clearly marked. I can see why they get so irritated with us when they come to England.

The traffic rules here are shit. When the pedestrian light goes on, the cars still edge past the crossing and it unnerves me. I know how to work it though – it’s a game of who dares wins – you have to stare straight ahead and not drop your stride by so much as a second. It suits me fine today – I will give up if I stop. I am really not feeling very well.

Eventually I get to Union Square and by now the sun is beating down. There’s a farmers’ market today. You can get absolutely everything here. Stuff you didn’t even know existed. Every other stall has huge ears of fresh corn, with hand written notices telling you what kind it is. I didn’t even know there were different kinds before today. The bread stalls have hundreds of different loaves – all colours and shapes and sizes. People walk more slowly through the market – it’s obviously a very big thing. They have earnest expressions and carry baskets on their arms, or push futuristic looking brightly coloured shopping trolleys in front of them. They don’t trail them behind like old ladies do in England.

I try to hold my breath as I go quickly past the fish stall – that is really not a good idea on a day like today. As I reach the big sign that says “NYC honey from NYC bees”, I realise that I’ve come too far and I have to walk back a little before I can escape into the freezing cold of Barnes and Noble. I am so pleased I made it. I instantly feel better. It’s huge. Everything is huge here, but bookshops seem especially so.

Cookery books are on the third floor. I would love to linger, but I have to get back. I really need some more sleep. I do slow down a little and scan the sections as I pass. Self-help books take up half of the second floor. I start smiling because I remember what Celticman said the other day about how a self-help book would make the perfect murder weapon. I think I can see exactly the right one. It has a plain black cover, and in big white letters it says “All About Me”. If only I knew his address I would buy it and post it to him.

The cookery section has wide wooden benches down the middle. A man is sitting on one of them, quite blatantly copying a recipe out of a book. It’s very funny. I walk along the shelves, searching for the joy. It doesn’t take long before I spot it. It’s fucking huge; twice the size of Mrs. Beeton.

I am a bit pissed off – Zachy could have said something. I take it down and it weighs about the same as a six-month-old baby. There is no way I am carrying that back to the hotel, and even if I did, it would make my case unbearably heavy. I’ll order it for him from Amazon when I get home and then we’ll both be happy.

The man is still laboriously copying down the recipe as I leave. It must be a very complicated one. I take my last breaths of cool air as I go back down the escalators before heading out into the heat again. I’m not cross about the wasted journey. I’ve enjoyed every second, except perhaps the fish stall. I hurry back to my room to book my flight, because then I can go back to sleep.