At the Magnolia Bakery today, the sweet, sweet smell of sweet was in the air, and the cupcakes were in bloom.

We were in the Village, Andrea and I, walking up Bleecker in the sun, so of course I said, “Oh, yay, this means we can go to Marc Jacobs.” “Do we want to go to Marc Jacobs?” she said. “We totally want to go to Marc Jacobs,” I said, “but we can’t buy anything, we can only touch, and when we leave we have to make this sound,” and I made the sound—softly, helplessly, regretfully, dejectedly, and in a minor key: “Mmmm. . . .” We went to Marc Jacobs, and there was a dress and a dress and skirt and a shirt with buttons and a bag and the most gorgeous white jacket with white frills just so, and I touched, and I held things up in front of me, and then I started walking around the store making the sound, very quietly, but still.

As we headed south and east, kebabs sizzling and smoking on the grill announced a serendipitous street fair on West Fourth, whereupon there was a vintage metal pin of a horse for some of us and a seven-dollar sausage for others of us.

(The horse story is, while I have been known to have two or three conversations going at the same time, sometimes it is hard for me to even have one. “And sometimes,” I said to Maud the other day, “if I really need to say something, I have to close my eyes so I don’t get distracted.” She snorted. “It’s like I’m a horse,” I said, “a goddamn horse with goddamn blinkers.”)



There were snacks a-plenty in Chinatown, including a $1.25 plastic box of turnip cakes just off the griddle, hot in my palm, with chilli sauce and sweet dark sauce. In the back of the little shop, a woman strained tau kwas out of large barrels. Outside on Mott Street, Andrea and I stood, eating, eating.



We walked toward NoLIta under streaks of peach and pink in a pale blue sky.

Later, after the duck confit, when the macchiato and the perfect lemon tart were no more, it was time to follow the stars and Houston to the F train. And the thing is, it’s nice to have a brilliant day out, but it’s nice to get home after a brilliant day out. And it’s very, very nice, when you get home, to unpack your tote to find three little cans of curry paste (green, red, and karee); some dark chocolate and orange confiture in a faceted jar with a label in turquoise and gold; and a bottle of pickled beets, deep red like promise and secrets.