if only what to sew next was my most pressing problem

Genevieve playing with bias tape in one of the three reversible apron dresses I've made.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

More changes. The nanny has been fired a second time, and my heart is sad. Because I liked her, and Ike will certainly miss her, and she was getting quite good at making blueberry madeleines. But I couldn't rely on her. Our dear old A is going to take up some of her hours for a few months until we decide what to do. It is for the best; really, I don't need so many scrumptious madeleines sitting around the house.

Genevieve needs surgery, after all. And it seems that not only will she need tubes in her ears, but a full adenoidectomy. Her hearing test on Holy Tuesday had just as poor results as the one she took last month. At this point she's had at least six months of hearing loss due to fluid in her ears, perhaps more. The adenoidectomy more than doubles the time under general anesthesia and requires an overnight stay in the hospital. The recovery time is about a week, while if we only had tubes she should recover in a day. I am still debating, as we could just get the tubes. The tubes will drain her ears and help with her hearing and speech—the reason for the surgery in the first place. However, the doctor believes that her adenoids are so enlarged that she is unable to breathe much through her nose. Removing them would make her less susceptible to colds, would cut down on her constantly-runny nose, and help her sleep better. Whatever we decide, the date for the surgery is set for about a month from now.

For one day last week I was convinced we had bedbugs again. Our now-fired nanny said she'd moved out of her apartment because it was infested. I responded as calmly as I could, and when she was gone began manically washing everything. I took whole boxes of hats, gloves, coats and stuffed animals and dumped them in the drier. I pulled the beds apart (all mattresses covered with anti-bedbug encasements) but found no trace of the bugs. And none of us had any bites. No matter, I was suddenly itchy all over. The next day she told me she'd been wrong, her apartment was not infested. Just one apartment in her building had them. Whew.

And then I got a jury summons and an annoying letter from the IRS about a problem with my social security number. 

But the weather is delightfully warm now, and we spent yesterday afternoon in and around Central Park's Conservatory Gardens. We used to go there often when we lived in South Harlem, and I forgot how much I miss that big old park. We packed a Pascal lunch of chocolate, ham, Pont l'Evêque, Italian truffle cheese, pâté, Belgian framboise, and strawberries. Our friends brought French chocolates, brie, pantonne, sliced cucumbers, and homemade pastries. Genevieve helped herself to a good portion of the pâté. It was as much a Paschal feast as one could imagine.

I am posting some photos here of clothes I've made for Genevieve. If only what to sew next was my most pressing problem.

The back of the apron dress. I used a Liberty lawn for this one.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

A 1960s pattern I bought on Etsy, in an Amy Butler voile. Still a little big on her.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

                                                          It buttons up the back, and looks cute with her lemon yellow crocs.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui 

And finally, photos I've already posted on Facebook, of the blouse I made her. I think I like it best of all.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

pascha weekend

It has been a busy weekend, but today--Easter Sunday--has been quiet and sunny.

Between liturgies yesterday we went to Fairway and stocked up on cheese and meat (Charles thought that hard orange cheese that looks a little like canteloupe was too expensive, but we bought it anyway for our paschal feast, and it is oh so worth it). I also painted some eggs for our pascha pail.

Today we feasted at home for brunch, had hamburgers at Duluxe on Broadway for dinner, and spent as much time between the two in Central Park.

Christ is Risen!

paschal pumps

It was snowing and we were hungry--scouting out a Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side while the theatrical sky funneled sun and snow between buildings. I'd suggested a tiny French Caribbean place with organic escargot, but my companion thought the space too small and dark. So I lit a cigarette and drove South.

It was Holy Thursday. I'd spent the morning singing at liturgy, where (to my surprise) I began to cry during the service. As we drove down Second Avenue I wondered at my tears. This Pascha is the first in five years that I've chosen to celebrate in New York, at a parish I more or less attend. Staying in town for Pascha is admitting I live here--and so many of my friends live far away.

We found a place to park on a brownstone and tree-lined street in the eighties. A turquoise awning on Second Avenue promised Mexican, and we headed in that direction. Half-way down the block I stopped short. An elegant pair of low-heeled, buckle-toed, black leather pumps rested on a brick ledge next to the sidewalk. They sat there, gazing up at me.

I knew immediately they were my size. And, as if I always happen upon shoes this way, I unzipped my boot and nestled my foot down into the stylish little pump. It fit perfectly. The snow continued to fall while my companion stared at me, blinking incredulously. I glanced around. Did someone head out for a walk, forgetting her shoes? Or did she leave them here on purpose, hoping someone who loved them would find them? Garbage bags lined the curb, but the shoes sat by themselves on the opposite side of the sidewalk. No one appeared at the door of the nearest brownstone to scold me. I put my boot back on, set the pumps down and walked away. "If they're here when we return, it's a sign from God that I should take them." I said.

I got about 15 feet before I stopped and ran back for the shoes. The mere idea of somebody else snatching them was too much for me. I picked up the shoes and looked around warily, sure their owner would appear any moment to claim her Parisian slippers, and then stashed them in my computer bag. We walked up to Second Avenue but restaurant turned out to be an unappetizing Mexican-themed sports bar. "Let's go back to the French Caribbean place," my friend said, "We were meant to come here for the shoes. And now we can go back." So we did.

I wore the shoes to liturgy this morning, and stood in them through all the Old Testament readings. And I might wear them to Pascha tonight, if it doesn't snow.

what boston cremes and this paschal photo have in common

An Italian photographer once said to me as I licked the custard of a boston creme from my sticky fingers, "I wish you would kiss me the way you eat that donut." I laughed and involuntarily turned away from him, smirking. "People don't say things like that to each other unless they know each other well," I said, after regaining my composure. He looked at me unblinkingly, his huge brown eyes serious.

This same photographer sent me a batch of photos today, the one posted above included. And with Pascha just behind us I was eager to publish the image. But with the photo comes the memory of its taker.

Antonio had some trouble with work and housing and money and his legal status in the US. That and some sort of evil lawyer father back in Italy. He wanted a girlfriend, and thought I might be just the one.

I have no good excuse for going out on a date with him, besides my naivete--and that he wouldn't leave me alone. I was new to online dating and didn't realize that reservations need to heeded early on. And to my credit (and his) there was his photography. Antonio's work is open and visceral and consistently captures beauty in the small and mundane.

Our "date" began on the way to help his friend move. It was a hot Manhattan afternoon. I bought my own sandwich at the Vietnamese grocery we passed on the way to his friend's apartment. Given the rather strange event helping someone move on a date--much less a first date--I rather liked his friend, a terse and freckled Swedish woman in red pedal-pushers. She owned a managable amount of simple furniture, a bike, and a lot of photography equipment. I liked her more than I liked Antonio, and didn't mind helping her move as long as it meant I wasn't alone with my date.

I should have ditched the guy after sweating up my dating gear lugging boxes into a China Town studio. But inexperiece and a tad too much flexibility resulted in my being subjected to a free ferry ride to and from Staten Island, a trip to Dunkin Donuts, a barrage of uncomfortable information about what Italian men want on a first date, a long walk back to my car, the somewhat terrifying information that my car had been towed by a film crew, a distressing conversation with the NYC tow pound ("we don't have your car, it was probably moved within a five-block radius from where it was parked. If you don't find it, call the police and report it as stolen"), the ecstatic experience of locating my car (I wanted to hug it), and a far-too-long good-bye to a man I never wanted to see again.

Once in the car, doors closed and locked, I sighed. And called Nostalgia. "You won't believe..."

But in his honor, and in keeping with finding beauty everywhere, I treasure that boston creme assertion. No American man would, having paid for a stranger's 75 cent donut on a long summer evening, have said with such sincere longing, I wish you would kiss me the way you eat that donut...

bells and cheese pascha

It's raining in Connecticut: forsythia, grass and sky all drenched in gray.

It's also Pascha in Connecticut. And in New York, Chicago, Portland, Tokyo, Boston, and Moscow. Toru awakes me calling from Japan, "Christ is Risen!" he proclaims, and then inquires as to what I'm eating. "I'm in bed," I say. I yawn and think of my friends celebrating Pascha in Illinois, Portland, Finland, Oxford. I squint at the rainy windows, and then I think about cheese pascha.

Nostalgia is off at church doggedly directing choir, I lie in her bed under layers of down. I remember the way the church bells burst life into the sleepy church. My mind wanders past dreams—a boat, a wave, the whales—and then returns to cheese pascha. I don't think she has any. She doesn't have any milk either, she never does. But she has kielbasi, kulich, red eggs, horseradish, pickled tomatoes. It's too early in the morning for savory Russian food. But kulich will be good, buttered with honey or marmalade. It's a wet Pascha morning, cold and bright.

Last night, when the bells rang at midnight, it was as though they rang from inside me.