Culinary Delights in Jackson Heights

I have a shameful, shameful secret

before yesterday the only Indian food I had ever eaten

were run of the mill samosas with cooling yogurt sauce

out of greasy paper bags while walking around the

empty streets of Woodside,

that all changed yesterday

when I went to the famed Jackson Diner in Jackson Heights

Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake

(great, amazing book, please read it)

inspired me to look at Jackson Heights differently

to walk out from 74th street train station

and not just focus on the bus I always have to catch

but instead, to emerge from the F train

to confront all the sights, the sounds, the pleasant congestion, and the assorted aromas

and watch the way the gold embellishments on saris

are complimented by the yellow of traffic lights

the way their jewel tones glint in the sunlight

and how the blaring Bollywood tapes and the clank of yellow-gold bangles

contrast the sounds of traffic, and the hurried conversations

so, out of the many days I spent in Jackson Heights

yesterday was the most special, because I was the most aware of its

raw, almost foreign beauty, although I had walked those streets

a million times

now, to the food,

anyone wanting to try deliciously authentic Indian fare

Jackson Diner is the place

I loved the eccentric array of plates, from rainbow ceramics to metal bowls and trays

I died for the cilantro and tamarind dipping sauces

and was literally eating spoonfuls (and fingerfuls)

of sauce between courses, not very ladylike

but who gives about manners when food is so delicious

I enjoyed vegetable pakora (battered & fried)

and malai kofta, croquettes in a curry sauce

which was more like a stew

a deliciously thick hearty bowl of everything amazing

and the rice, with its long, sticky grains,

topped with the dal (lentil stew)

was to die for, and let me tell you,

this Puerto Rican girl knows good rice & beans

anyhow, the best part of the whole day was dessert (of course)

and I enjoyed some burfi from Delhi Palace, a sweet, creamy,

neon pastry of milk & sugar

I picked it because of its beautiful florescent color

and found that the it tastes just as good as it looks,

I'm totally addicted, and it helped cool my mouth down

from all the preceding spicy greatness

all in all, it was a culinary adventure, in a familiar place: the best kind.

rows of beautifully bright pastries

obsession worthy burfi

pakora nom nom

I could eat this malai kofta every single day, more croquettes please!

such authentic presentation

it felt so homey, warm & comforting

I'm so smitten.

Take Me Back to Coney Island

I want a kiwi, and a bag of cherries

just the way my grandma would bring them to me

after a day of ambling around Chinatown buying little round buddhas 

and various statues of elephants,

some emblazoned with the American flag, some jade, some big, some small

to add to her collection that sits among old school pictures of me and my cousins

in mismatched frames, our awkward smiles accentuated by the cloudy looking colors behind us

I remember the picture day form where you could pick from red, blue, green and purple

none of which were very flattering

I would practice my smile in the mirror, 

and screw it up as soon as I got in front of the camera

the picture lady would mess with my hair

with one of those little plastic combs she would use on everything else

not only did the lights make me feel weird

but I also had to deal with the anxiety that that comb had lice on it

knees together swiveled to the right, head tilted painfully to the left

snap, and that was it

a document of an entire year crammed into 3 seconds

and over the years the problems would keep coming, missing teeth, crooked bangs,

and a god awful school uniform, turned into 

too much glitter eyeshadow, and hot pink lipstick, 

you always find the best, sweetest, and most potentially embarrassing memories

at your grandmother's house

I'm realizing how much I miss her right now

because we are so far away from the days when Coney Island 

was better than Disneyland

the waves crashed onto the dirty beach, littered with beer bottles, 

shards of sea shells, and glass

dirty, gritty, but more beautiful to me than any vacationer's beach

because in the distance I could see the Wonder Wheel

its red and blue carts swinging as it turned

slowly, the same it had been doing since 1920

the boardwalk, with its squirt gun and basketball games

riddled with neon stuffed animals, 

elephants, the pink panther,

and the lingering smell of sand, saltwater, and french fries and the loud sounds

of bachata, merengue, and salsa escaping from various radios

it never got old, me and my grandmother would walk along the boardwalk

and she'd occasionally stop to dance to the salsa blaring out of 

an old man's boom box 

we would buy cotton candy, 

its thin pink wisps melting on my tongue as we waited on line for the 

Tilt-A-Whirl, Thunderbolt & Spook-a-rama

sending us into fits of dizziness and giggles

amidst the 90s pop songs & Michael Jackson that blared out of the DJs speakers

the rides were always too short, as were the days I spent with her there

I'd finish with a bubble gum icy, tiny chiclets scattered throughout 

creating rainbow swirls in the icy pink

buying a candy apple, its red smooth coating glistening 

in the sunlight that streamed into the train windows

we'd finish our day, 

just to ride the F train all the way back home

passing Neptune Ave, & Avenue X

to arrive at Essex St., where we'd emerge into the familiarity

of the Lower East Side, nearly a whole world away from that fantasy land.