flashback to fall: home.


I’ve been homesick again. Is there ever a time when I’m not missing New York?

Cut to:

A Sunday in September. Visiting New York. Hungover but happy to be back home and determined to spend the day outdoors.

After drooling over pictures of the pancakes at Clinton Street Baking Company, I knew I had to head there for brunch, 90-minute wait be damned. Yes, that is the price you pay for competing with all the other hungover New Yorkers for a brunch spot at a small, popular restaurant. (But sometimes, the universe is on your side and you end up waiting only an hour, and you get a super charming table in the corner.) I may have wanted pancakes, but what I actually needed was a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich.


And, while I couldn’t eat much of it at that moment because my stomach was being uncooperative, the bites I did take were amazing. (And in case you were wondering,  yes I did have it wrapped to go and shoveled it in my mouth at around 6pm when my hunger came roaring back.)

I also managed to taste my friend’s chicken and waffles. OMG. So good.


And I sucked down a lemonade because the thirst was real, and the tartness was strangely soothing.


Then, it was time to head to DUMBO, where the Brooklyn Flea was set up, offering its usual mishmash of awesomeness.

I knew it was going to be a good day when I saw this:






Every writer’s dream.

A healthy helping of childhood nostalgia, coming right up!





I’m not saying I purchased these sneakers because they reminded me of the My Little Pony dolls I treasured as a kid, but I’m not not saying that, either.

Also, I’m kind of mad that someone stole the perfect title for my future memoir:



I didn’t buy it, but I wished I would have at least flipped through it. Ah well, the cover will have to be enough for now.

After strolling through the market, we hit up West Elm, where the universe once again not-so-subtly spelled things out for me.


But neither the Flea nor West Elm compare to the real feature of DUMBO: the view.






I know there are roughly 2385739457345 thinkpieces out there about why New York is either the best or the worst place in the world, and that’s fine. I’m not here to add to the pile. I just really miss home.




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