Any Chance of a Farmer’s Market?

Yes, I’m back. After six months. When I saw on other Queens blogs that I was being widely derided as a bimbo, snob and idiot …. well, it sure does inhibit the urge to communicate. LOL.

But I didn’t dismantle Queensbroad, I just focused on other outlets. Now I’m back, older and wiser.

I have a cause, one that is important to me but in the grand scheme of congestion pricing, the presidential election and global change may seem trivial. But it would vastly improve the quality of my life here in Forest Hills, and I believe help others too.

A weekend farmer’s market.

There must be Long Island or even New Jersey farmers who would be willing to set up stalls on a Saturday and sell their carrots, lettuce, strawberries, onions and tomatoes. I think I remember on Forest Hills 72 that there was a possibility of a market cropping up (sorry, couldn’t resist) right behind the Long Island Rail Road Station, in that quiet cobblestone area. Any developments? Anything that we the people can do?

If bloggers could bring down Dan Rather, couldn’t we make a farmer’s market happen in Forest Hills? The Natural sells high quality produce (on the expensive side), but veggies and fruits grown nearby and sold a day or two off the vine taste so great!

Anyway, the bimbo is back!

 

Spinning out of Control

In the New York Post on Saturday, a front page story:

August 25, 2007 — Stuart Sugarman loved to cheer himself on and grunt in spin class — but now the hedge-fund manager is paying dearly for his vociferous workout.
He was allegedly beaten by a gymmate who snapped at the loud antics — and hurled Sugarman and his stationary bike into the wall of an Upper East Side gym.
The victim, 48, had a concussion and back injuries that required surgery. He grunted a lot, admittedly. He war-whooped. He hollered, “Great song!” and “You go, girl,” and he probably was the noisiest guy in the spin class.

A few things to say about this.

I’ve been going to Spinning Classes at various New York Sports Clubs for two years. It is a great way to lose weight. But it’s somewhat crazy. You strap yourself onto a stationary bike, crowded among 12-24 fellow spinners. An instructor with a mike turns off the lights and proceeds to lead the class–sometimes screaming insults at you, sometimes suggesting you check your form, styles vary radically–while you all listen to very loud music. This is not gentle pedaling. The instructors order you to increase tension on the bikes to simulate riding uphill, then make you stand in “position 2″ or “position 3.” Sweat pours off everyone. There may or may not be fans or air conditioning. You MUST bring water to survive.

Why would someone sign up for this? Well, in my case it’s to lose weight and because I like intense aerobic workouts. And also, to be completely honest, because if I’m having a rough time I can “cheat” on the tension of the bike and no one cares. I also like loud music, a carryover from a misspent youth of rocking out to Aerosmith and Led Zeppelin.

But some of the people who spin take it REALLY seriously. Two women almost came to blows over a bike–one of them put a towel on the seat to hold it but hadn’t returned by the time class started, so another took the towel off. I would never have the guts to do that in New York City. And she did pay for it. What a catfight.

More often the people can be just irritating. Like the women who refuse to slow down and stretch at the end. (What, hamstring stretches are for wimps?) I’ve heard some grunters. And some whoops. Nothing too excruciating. But then I took these classes on the west side, not the east side. A world of difference, according to one of the instructors. East side classes are more stressed-out.

As Stuart Sugerman discovered.

The Natural…too natural?

On Sunday I took the kids on an afternoon playground run to wear out the little darlings, and asked my husband at some point in his errand-running to pick up some food for dinner: “How about some packaged ravioli and sauce?” (OK, OK, I should making from scratch, I know.)

At 5 pm, we all met up at the apartment, and he was thrilled with what he’d bought at The Natural, on Austin Street. I’d given the grocery market a quick spin last week and liked what I saw too. Lots of fresh food, organic produce.

Then I took close look at the frozen ravioli stuffed with feta cheese, and it was sort of….shaded. I tore open the packaging and saw dark patches and, worst of all, slightly green furry patches. It said proudly on the packaging “No preservatives.” “All organic.”

This is the dilemma I’ve had before. I want food to be light on the chemicals and preservatives. But I don’t want it to be furry and green when such states of being are not called for. At Whole Foods, in Manhattan, I had to start steering clear of the uncooked meat and poultry after some hamburgers I grilled made us all feel sick. And I’m not being paranoid. There was a TV story about Whole Foods’ fish being riddled with worms. Sometimes you need to preserve the food, people.

I am really missing D’Agastino. Everyone says go to Stop & Shop but you need a car. We don’t have one.

Guess I should count the hours until Trader Joe’s opens?

They don’t hear the planes?

I have two friends in Forest Hills, fellow magazine folks. One has been here more than 10 years, the other more like 6 years.

I’ve asked them both: “Does the noise of the planes wake you up in the morning?”

Friend no. 1 said, “Oh no. We have allergies and keep the windows shut. I never hear them.”
Friend no. 2 said, “No. We’re off Jewel Avenue, so the buses bother us, but not the planes.”

I didn’t hear the planes the first two days I lived here or most of the weekend.

Then, Sunday night, when my husband and I were trying to watch “Jekyll,” this fantastic BBCA mystery/sci fi show, came the roaring. Spaced apart like labor pains. One would grow…and grow…and peak. Arrghhhh. Then fade. But here comes the next one.

Luckily, we had “Jekyll” on DVR. Because this is a complicated mystery with multiple timelines and strong British accents. Just when the secret history of Dr. Tom Jackman (aka Jekyll) was being revealed, here comes Continental Flight 87 out of Chicago. Actors’ lines drowned out. Stop. Start. Stop. Pause.

Next morning: 6 a.m. Planes again! I have young children so it’s pretty much time to wake up anyway.

I guess when it gets colder I will shut windows too. But I’m an open-the-window kind of person until the temp dips below 60.

Or will I get used to it?

Uh Oh

A 60ish man walking down Austin Street at 4 p.m., carrying a radio blaring a “broadcast” of Rush Limbaugh.

Reason to go on living, part 2

According to today’s NY Post, Johnny Depp will reprise the role of reluctant vampire Barnabas Collins in a remake of “Dark Shadows.”

Reason to go on living

Wayne Newton, joining the cast of “Dancing With the Stars,” premiering Sept. 24th.

Coffee for $1

No, not $1.85 cents, as in a “tall” Starbucks. Or even the $1.25 that the corner mini-deli sold on Tenth Avenue, which tasted awful but it was 20 feet from my door and I liked the Guatemalan woman behind the counter. She always noticed when I got a haircut. She always said my kids were cute.

I will miss her.

But now I get strong, hot coffee, served at a deli near the subway. For a grand total of $1. At a place that also sells fresh bagels with cream cheese, tomato and lox. That is one hell of a breakfast, except it adds up to 10 points on Weight Watchers and I’m allowed 20. It’s not great to blow half your points before 9 a.m. But just seeing the pinkish-orange lox glisten under the glass counter, and inhaling the racks of steaming-fresh bagels, makes me feel good about Forest Hills. About life.

“You should move to Forest Hills”

I can’t stop talking about Forest Hills. Telling editors and moms at my son’s school and old friends about how it is fantastic: lovely buildings, playgrounds, good fresh food. The public school we’re zoned for ranks high.

I told one fellow editor, who said she and her husband were thinking of moving out of Manhattan now that a second baby is coming, “You should move to Forest Hills.”

I got a frozen, fearful look.

“Um, we’re thinking of Park Slope,” she said.

I looked at Park Slope. I have friends who live in Park Slope. I know all about Park Slope. 

No to Park Slope.

Why pay slightly lower rent and live 45 minutes from midtown when you can pay significantly lower rent and live 30 minutes from midtown? And there are more trees, more grocery stores (enough about the food co-op already) and more high-ranking public schools?

But she’s not getting it.

Maybe she never will.

The dishwasher makes me feel like hell

My son waits for me to do it every night.

Load and start the dishwasher. He hands me plates to rinse. He helps me arrange the silverware in the little basket. He watches wide-eyed as I pour crystal cleanser into the plastic compartment. Then comes showtime: I twist, choose “Normal Wash,” and press. The noise surges. He beams in ecstasy.

We didn’t have a dishwasher in Manhattan.

The lease forbade it, along with washer/dryer. Probably the water bill. And my husband and I told each other we didn’t need those sorts of suburban comforts. We washed the dishes by hand in the sink. We lugged bags of dirty clothes to the laundromat.

I occasionally missed the conveniences I grew up with in Michigan.  But we’re literary types  living in Manhattan. Our children are exposed to culture. They play in Central Park. My daughter dances in Alvin Ailey’s Saturday class along with Annie Leibowitz’s little girl. My son plays Little League next to the Hudson River.

What crap.

My son needed a dishwasher all along, just as he needed his own bedroom and a desk and a second bathroom. We’d been living in such rotten conditions, like people in some Eastern European cramped concrete nightmare, because I was overwhelmed with a fulltime job and two kids. I couldn’t lift up my head and see what my family needed.

His delight with the diswasher and everything else about our Queens apartment fills me with shame that I didn’t do this years ago.

Time to rinse and load.