10 years in NYC and all I can talk about is bread
it's the simple things.
It’s 11:25 am and I’m writing this in bed, eating a piece of sourdough toast with butter and drinking a cup of English breakfast tea because that’s what you do on a cold December morning.
Christmas Jazz is playing in the background while Boy Smell’s ‘Italian Kush’ candle burns on the dresser. It’s a vibe. When times are hard it’s natural for us to want to go back to simplicity. Play. Joy. Ease. Lately, I’ve been finding comfort in the small things, paying attention to how good they make me feel. I think about the bread and the work that went into making it. Flour, salt, water, and a starter. Simple ingredients. A complex process.
Walking to a different bakery each week to buy a loaf of sourdough is one of these comforting acts. The smell of fresh bread wafting through the air, greeting my nose. Me, wrapped in a blanket of layers as I walk back home with a warm loaf nestled in one arm, an oat cappuccino in the other. In moments like this I wonder if this is what it means to live. To surrender.
And then a giant ass rat runs by, completely fucking up my Coltrane-esque mood, reminding me that I am in the middle of pure chaos that comes with living here. Less karma, more balance?
I moved to NYC 10 years ago in September 2014. I thought I would have all the words in the world to encapsulate what this past decade has meant to me. The enormous changes that have taken place between a 24-year old bright brown-eyed, bushy-tailed girl and the 34-year old I see in my Ikea mirror today (s/o skincare).
I was meant to throw a party back in September to celebrate. Some fab to do at a wine bar somewhere in Brooklyn to commemorate the big ten where I could get out my peacock feathers for a night of glam. I pictured a small version of a Gatsby party, but I couldn’t make a decision. Instead I’ve quietly been meditating on the journey. On becoming.
Ten years ago my ritual for buying bread looked and felt a whole lot different. I was counting pennies and deciding whether or not to buy a sugary tasting loaf from the local Keyfood. I couldn’t believe how expensive bread in New York was let alone how many ingredients found their way into a single loaf. I didn’t care for bakeries let alone the moments of joy to be found in walking there. I did a lot of things in a hurry, and my sentiment around home wasn’t inside the Harlem apartment I shared with 5 other people, but in the backyard of Manhattan where I could frolic and do whatever the fuck I wanted, whenever. It was a freedom I’d never experienced.
Before I moved, I dreamed of this big full life in this magical city. One where I worked in fashion, owned a sick wardrobe, had a fine ass man with a fine ass arm to link with, a brownstone, a couple of kids, and plenty of red carpets lol. I believed so deeply that all of this would set me free; make up for past lives.
Now, I feel less disappointed that things didn’t work out this way.
I think a lot about snakes and shedding and liberation and what the word care means. In September, my mum came to spend a week with me, and I held a small gathering of friends who hadn’t met her yet. We sat around my round dining table, shared pizza and wine, laughing into the night. Every time I remember it, I smile.
The other day it hit me: This was my 10 year celebration. Deeply deep and simple. Just a few key ingredients reminiscing on this complex process.
For an emo, a decade is a relatively long time. The kind of time passage that deserves proper thought and processing — not just a party, although there will definitely be one at some point lol.
My toast is now cold but I still scrape up some residual drops of butter with my last bite of toast and savor them.