Grandma Throws Gang Signs In Brooklyn

We have an extremely leisurely NYC morning, not leaving Amy & Lenny's apartment until about Noon. Rehearsal is in full swing, as Amy gives us a big hug, seeing us out the door. Plan A is to pick up some lox and bagels at Russ & Daughters and head to Central Park for a picture with the teacups and Adam. This gets scrapped, since we are running late. Plan B: swing by Tal Bagel on Broadway between West 90th and 91st, then head to Central Park. At the bakery, I read reviews touting their chewy hand-rolled water bagels, and how affordable they are while waiting in line, so when the cashier tells me the total, I nearly choke. It's $46 for three everything with cream cheese, lox, tomato and capers, along with three coffees and two spanakopita-like concoctions for our lunch later.

When we find my parking karma malfunctioning near Central Park, the time once again forces us to change tack. On to Plan C. Damn. So we're speeding south on Broadway toward Penn Station, and as we close in on Times Square, I think, "Jeez, this would make a great pic, too." We pull over and jump out of the car in a mad teacup fire drill. And when I say "jump" out, I use the word incredibly loosely: Grandma doesn't jump (except at loud noises -- that seems to light a fire under her tiny tush. She explains the pain associated with sudden, loud noises and her hearing aids. Great, more awesome things about getting older. I may need to start writing a handbook: "What To Expect When You're Aging".)

Getting everyone out, teacup in hand, is quite a production ... and quickly destroyed by the evil glare of the sun, shining in precisely the wrong direction. We throw our hands in the air and take off again, dropping Adam at his bus with about 20 minutes to spare.

As we circle looking for the stop, I spy B & H, from which I have ordered photo equipment before, but never seen the inside of. Grandma doesn't seem to mind, so we find a parking lot that is free with purchase. I park her, as directed, on the saidewalk and run in, intending only to replace my severely scratched up polarized filter.   

The place must be owned and operated by the world's largest sect of Hasidic Jews. There are so many men with payot and kippa, that along with the green vests, you'd think it part of the uniform.   

I have never, ever, in my life seen such efficiency. Now mind you, this place is utter chaos, but in the most unbelievably organized fashion I have ever seen. Each department in it's own unique place, I pass videography, audio, lighting, computers and more as I beeline it for photography. Stopping at a desk selling used and refurbished equipment, I explain my dilemma with the filter and ask if they sell them used.

I walk away with a slip of paper and the promise that the new macro lens I've decided I can't live without will be at checkout. I'm pointed toward another area of the store to get a proper lens cleaning cloth, stopping along the way to check out a hand strap to replace the beat up neck strap I find more of a nuisance than anything. My slip is collected, my new item added on to my order and I am handed an updated piece of paper. At another counter, the lens cleaning cloth is added and a new slip issued.

When I walk toward checkout, I see these tracks on the ceiling, zipping blue bins above customer's head to the front of the store. It is absolutely brilliant, for two reasons. One, I am unsure how anyone could steal anything from this place. Second, there are a crap ton of people in here and I wait in line all of two minutes to pay, then am ushered along to the next counter to collect my purchase.

The only drawback: the peyot-free nitwit at the "baggage claim" drops by new lens, which lands with a thud on the counter, wrapped less than securely in bubble wrap. I inquire again about the warranty before hustling off to collect Grandma.

I nearly have a coronary when I near the parking lot and the car is gone, fearing she has been carjacked. Then I notice her smiling serenely, the car moved to a corner of the lot near the sidewalk. She's intently watching the passerby, and when I get in, remarks with a smile on the game of chess the lot attendants have been playing with moving cars. She is quite amused.

Then we're on our way to the Brooklyn Bridge. I've decided to take lemons and make some lemonade by hitting up this particularly charming park that my pal Sarah and I visited when we were in NYC in May for my Dad's 60th birthday party. There is a lovely view of NYC across the harbor from there that will make for a lovely pic, as well as a carousel. Thankfully, my parking karma is back in full effect, and we find a stellar spot. There's a little food vendor market set up by the waterfront. We sample cold pressed coffee and salted grapefruit jam before I find the perfect thing for our teacups: kombucha. Grandma says it's better than beer. I may have to get her a kit for Christmas.

It's late when we get on the road to Stonington, Connecticut. Traffic is a beast, and grandma and I are chatting in the car on the way. I see this billboard with a nude woman on it and point it out. Grandma says it reminds her of this photo I took in college when I worked for The State News. That, she says, was tasteful, launching into a tirade about the TV commercials advertising lubes and lotions. She complains about having to see the supposed aftermath of people using these products.

"Geez," she says, "I don't need to see that crap. Most of the people watching that haven't had an erection in six years."

Seriously -- I'm not creative enough to make this stuff up.

We arrive at Laurie-Annya's place around eight o'clock. She's had a small dinner party with her girlfriends, Francine and Nancy. We offer to go get dessert to let them finish up, but she's graciously invited us to have dessert with them. We haven't eaten much today, but surprisingly, neither of us is very hungry. That is, until out lovely hostess offers some of their leftover pasta, looking bright and delightful with fresh figs, nuts and orange zest. The foodie in me simply cannot resist, and I guarantee it is a recipe you will see on my food blog, We The Eaters. The peach galette she's made is also divine, as is the conversation. We sit and chat for more than two hours, and I am surprised when we get up to go to bed that it has gotten so late.

Our room is darling, well appointed with antique linens on the windows, a beautiful old wardrobe and large solid wooden bed with heavy, cozy blankets to ward off the chill. The windows are open to let in the crisp night air. Everything in this house is so sweet -- just the right touch here and there. I found myself drawn to several pieces as soon as we walked in the door. Antique canning jars caught my eye, and through our conversation this evening, I've discovered that Laurie-Annya is crafty. She makes the loveliest things with antique silverware, which grandma is just tickled with -- from tie tacks to herb stakes. The jars are transformed into solar lights with beach glass and soap dispensers filled with lovely stones, something I see in my kitchen. All of this is part of her business, For The Birds.

As Grandma and I check out, I am struck watching the process. It's such a juxtaposition, I couldn't help but snap this photo.

My nearly ninety-year-old Grandmother, signing her name with her finger on an iPad.

Who says you can't teach an old girl new tricks?