It’s not everyday that I’m bringing my big camera to the grocery store. In fact, I’ve lived in New York City for almost a decade and never had the impulse to snap a photo of the Brooklyn Bridge or the Statue of Liberty. I find myself taking photographs to document experiences, not filling a mandatory checklist of sights to see or brag about the places I’ve been to. I’m not saying this is neither good, bad or even intentional; it just works out that way.
So, there I was at the Hawaii market — which is actually a Vietnamese market — in the San Gabriel Valley in Los Angeles with my parents taking pictures of packaged items in the frozen foods section.
I realize I’ve strayed from the “travel” part of my blog, but I shall return to form after my South Africa trip in November. Meanwhile, I’ve been practicing my portrait-taking abilities at dinner parties in the neighborhood.
I live for a good dinner party. So when Emily suggested a cookout with our blogging-minded friends, I jumped at the opportunity.
But the “North Brooklyn Bloggers Banquet” would not be a spectator event, I was alerted. Each participant would either cook or assist in the preparation of a dish and then publish their experiences in a blog post. So, with my camera and a curried squash soup in tow, I joined the group at Liz and Joe’s lovely apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.
There, I found a kitchen full of delicious aromas and Sunday conversations. Beans and corn were being shucked, avocados expertly peeled. Breads and tarts came in and out of a very busy oven. Someone plopped a case of PBR into a bucket of ice. All the while, Kenan, inconspicuous sketched portraits on a simple notepad and Jake screwed on his brand new 50mm 1.2 lens to his 5D Mark II (jealous!).
I helped myself to some delicious rosé from the fridge and then got down to work. And by “work” I mean snapping tipsy shots, sampling sliced tomatoes from the balcony-garden, refilling my glass one more time.
A quick thunderstorm. Some strong sun. Occasionally, we took our drinks to the balcony where a hammock was stretched and looked down at the garden below.
Brooklyn continues to exist as the most magical place I’ve ever lived in.
Last weekend, I went to my first-ever pig roast, dubbed “Swinefest 2009″ in Pine Plains, New York. The affair included four roasted pigs, 40 kegs of beer, and fireworks so close I tasted ash on my beer. It was all miraculous!
Apparently, these huge gatherings centered around a barbecue and hillbilly music — we camped at the edge of a cornfield and woke up to the lyrics, “she was rocking the beer gut” blasting from a pickup truck — are fairly common in the Midwest, and Kelly had been to more than her share of them. Yet, as a newbie and a creature of city-life, I enjoyed it. I even took part in the dance party under a white tent filled with hay to the Jock Jam beats of Sublime and Blink 182.
Nothing says, “we’re no longer in New York City” than standing on top a picturesque hill overlooking the beautiful Catskill mountains and all of Hudson Valley in full greenery with the smell of burnt flesh in the air and a bottomless plastic cup in your hand.
Jake watching fireworks.
