This article has been updated. Originally published on October 31, 2011.
Every Halloween, in the elevator of my apartment building, there’s a sign-up sheet for residents willing to welcome treat-or-treaters. It’s never a long list, mostly just a smattering of names of people pressured into opening their apartments so desperate parents have a few places their kids can beg for candy. See, in the city, it’s considered poor etiquette to hit up another hi-rise for Halloween hooch—some parents would even say it’s dangerous without a background check and 23andMe DNA sample of every tenant.
And every October, with all good intentions, I promise myself that this will be the year I’m one of those people every parent is grateful for and every kid loves. The one who dresses up in some whacked-out bizarre—but not child-molester bizarre—costume and hands out high-sucrose booty by the Dutch oven-full. I’ve even gone so far as to come up with schematics of how I’ll transform my apartment’s gallery into a chamber of horrors rivaled only by The Walking Dead, with synthetic cobwebs, red Karo-syrup blood, and a gnawed hand or two poking out of the coat closet for added effect. Read more “Trick or Treat for the Childless”
Twenty-four years ago tonight, October 4, 1993, at precisely 9:45 PM, I met a man who would forever change my life and revive my heart. That was the night The One and I had our first date–a blind date–as a result of a personal ad I had placed. But as you’ll learn in this excerpt from my memoir, Notes on a Banana, the night was almost a non-starter.
And if you’ll indulge me for a moment, I’d like to say to The One: My love, we’ve been together for almost a quarter of a century (which, as you know, is something like 69 in straight years), and we’ve faced incredible, seemingly insurmountable challenges. But I can say, from the cradle of my soul, I’m a better person for having fallen in love with you. Happy anniversary, Poppy.--David Leite
The first batch arrived from the magazine after a week. A fat manila envelope, full of letters from self-described eligible men. I dropped onto the couch and stared at the packet in my hands. I should be more excited, I thought. The last time I’d placed a personal ad, the one in the Village Voice, it had been a sideshow of gay oddities. It reminded me of Mystery Date, a board game I used to play with some of the girls on Brownell Street. In the middle of the board was a plastic door. When it was your turn to open it, fate would match you with a swimmer in sexy tight trunks, a dreamy Ivy Leaguer wearing a Baracuta jacket and carrying a bowling bag, a tow-headed skier in his lodge-appropriate sweater, or what I dreaded most: a bum. Filthy clothes and all. If recent history was any indication, my chances for a happy date had been better when I was eight. Read more “My Mystery Date With The One”
Baker and author Zoe Nathan says that this cherry tomato and goat cheese cobbler recipe is one of her favorite summer breakfasts. I get that. I do. Tomato, thyme, goat cheese—all warm-weather flavors. And though neither The One nor I are big fans of tomatoes for breakfast, we’ve already found plenty of non-morning ways to serve this spectacular gem of a recipe.
One such occasion was last night, when we whipped this up to usher in our first autumn dinner. (Even though, seasonally speaking, we have seven more days until fall, the weather in Roxbury this weekend had us reaching for sweatshirts and scarves as we sat around the fire pit.) The cobbler was pretty in our fresh-off-the-assembly-line Fiesta bowls in lemongrass, scarlet, lapis, and shamrock. It was the opening act for a superb fennel-crusted roast pork loin with apples and onions. Read more “Tomato and Goat Cheese Cobbler”