Saturday, August 14, 2004


the return of blanche

every day in new york remains an adventure in beauty. devoted readers will recall that my beloved 5-yr.-old kitchenaid stand mixer, blanche, tossed her gear teeth and required repair.

the only authorized repair center for kitchenaid is far, far away in the mysterious bensonhurst. this means taking both the n and the d train to 86th st. & bay 17th ave. which i did.

the n is a normal train, but the d is not. bklyn is a giant place: if manhattan is a judith leiber clutch purse, then bklyn is a kenneth cole weekend roller tote.

the d goes places nobody knows.

at pacific st., the d was just closing its doors as i stepped from the n. two tiny ancient vietnamese ladies rushed by me despite their burden of bok choy and pea shoots to pound on the slamming doors. that then mysteriously opened.

one of those little new york miracles that give hope! the d has it all: it's part subway, ground train, and el.

the ground view is very 70s: dirty train yard, crumbling concrete trestles, trash fires. the el reveals some truly inferior specimans of graffiti art: inept tags, clumsy lettering, poor sense of scale and design.

hopped off at 18th ave. and wandered down 86th, past the historic new utrecht public library. imagine! a public library in new york city that still has funds to stay open.

i can't remember the last time i saw an open branch library, personally. the neighborhood was classic, with tiny hair salons, gelaterias, take-out delis, bad fake italian furniture stores.

despite this aura, most of the people i saw on the street were actually asian. i found the repair center, a tiny cramped cardboard box on the corner.

i waited 10 mins. for someone to appear. and then another 30 mins. while they found my mixer, which cost me $125. i was so happy to see dear blanche again i nearly wept.

then it began it rain.

thank you, hurricane charley! obviously, carrying this 30-lb. mixer base back thru the rain up the stairs to the train line was a no go; call for a car service.

while i wait for the car, the people of bensonhurst arrive, little old ladies needing pressure cooker gaskets, new carafes for their coffee pots, an extension cord for the iron. does anyone still iron? i asked myself.

as a kuhn-rikon lover, i was pleased to trade stories about pressure cooking with them. they seemed to use theirs to make borlotti bean soup with radicchio (pasta e fagioli alla contadina).

the car comes and the driver, in a queens accent so perfect and pure i thought it might have been an act, began decrying the decayed morals of our society with specific reference to the recent scandal in new jersey.

having lived in nyc for so long now, i find myself acquiring a certain sense of humor.

"frankly," i said, "with the choice between the stepford wife and the gay poet, i'd have called an escort service, 'cuz both of 'em look like real woofers to me. plus the 'ho already has a job, you don't have to give 'im two or three."

the driver agreed this was a reasonable course. in the same vein, i announced a new political philosophy, one formed without even the benefit of coffee.

"from now on," i said, "gay or straight, i'm voting for the one with the best-looking mistress." that's the problem, the driver exclaimed -- "not mistress! master!"

and with that, my doorman reached to help me outta the car. i stood for a moment under the awning, watching the lovely rain glaze the delicate carved work that decorates bklyn's historic facades as the graceful trees waved their leaves in the cool breeze.

blanche does work, but makes a funny rattling noise. probably osteoarthritis.

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