the great leslie

Riding the bus uptown from Fairway tonight, I saw a black leather glove left on the seat across from me. It reminded me of an E.B. White essay I once read: A dapper fellow was standing on a subway platform when he dropped his glove on to the tracks. He immediately dropped the other. The fellow and Mr. White shared a look; they both knew he meant a subway worker to find a new, usable pair of gloves on the tracks.

I thought I'd find it in "Writings from The New Yorker, 1927-1976," but I didn't. I think I had another book of such "Talk of the Town" pieces, but I couldn't find it. And I looked in both rows of all of my bookshelves.

I have my own "This is New York" story, not that I'm any E.B. White. My friend Angela, of triathlon fame, came over to bake some Valentine's cookies with me tonight. We made two batches (I'm taking them to work tomorrow as a promotion for Memphis in May!) and the baking sheet was a bit longer than the rack in my toy oven. Halfway through the first three sheets, the smoke alarm went off. I frantically waved a sweatshirt around to dispel the smoke, but the alarm would just go off again in five minutes. I tried to cover it with a dish towel and duct tape, but, right after I said "I think that worked," it went off again. I had to open the bathroom window (I waved to my neighbor, who was sitting on the couch across the air shaft) and turn on the fan to create a cross breeze. So, we stood near the oven eating dough and getting warm. Such is life in a NYC studio.