HOL, the 2012 way

By now you know what's coming: eating, drinking, laughter, merriment, conversation, potentially a movie. HOL always has some generic properties, but the NYC species has its very own flavor, with a new year of innovations thrown in.  

This year we kicked Hash-Out-Life off with dinner at El Ay Si, 

located just down the street from home, 

with food so yummy I accused L & G of holding out on me:
Why, exactly, was this my first visit?

I was skeptical of their attempts to placate me, 

but eventually they appeased me with liquor...

[new favorite drink: whiskey with blackberries and orange....]

A weekend of firsts, Lisa and I sashayed over to her book club meeting at a classy restaurant in Hell's Kitchen on Saturday morning.  Walking into what appeared to be a modernly elegant place, we were told that parties of our size were to be seated in their 'back room'.

Though there is a picture, I'll keep this chaste, because:

  'Back room', we quickly learned, is lingo for: 'the shady place where we invite people of the night to club, under purview of less-than-wholesome wall murals'.  We also learned that--though there for brunch--we were to be treated to pounding club music under the glow of the minimal yet certainly glowing red lights.  Despite these bizarre factors, our discussion and our laughter were genuinely and--quite purely--delightful.

Afterward we hopped into a cab and went to find Geoff, who was playing some ping-pong with the book club husbands.

Lisa and I put our ping-pong prowess into action,
and the men stayed out of our way.
[Afraid of us, clearly...]

After we were through making our ping-pong HOL debut, we made our way home for tea and 'sofa surfing' (in Lisa-speak), before donning our pretties for our annual night on the town:

First, dinner at Blue Smoke, where brisket fell off our forks and into our tummies,

which we followed by descending into the bowels of the building for jazz at the Jazz Standard.

Tucked into my nook to nosh on the jazzing while nibbling my other new favorite drink

[oh yes, good evening, blood orange margarita...],
all while enjoying the company of such sweet and dear friends,
caused me, to put it as simply as possible,

to smile.

[With my pig face.]
[Yikes.]

[Certain others of us felt similarly about the dessert.]

Once under way, the trio of guitar, drums, and hammond organ caused our own organs to sing for joy, being just that amazing.  When their set was over, we smiled out of appreciation, and a slight sadness that our organs could sing no more.  But then, a truly special moment occurred:

The organ player's young grandson climbs on the bench.  He begins to fiddle, while the people in the room look at their bills, finish off their drinks, reminisce about what they have just witnessed.  The grandfather, an old man who has clearly earned the right to be as socially alternative as he darn well pleases, motions to the boy with a flick of his wrist and a shake of his head and says,


'Play!'


The boy is hesitant, unsure.  He fiddles a bit more.  


A few members of the audience notice that the boy is blind, at some kind of disadvantage, and they clap, to encourage.


The boy starts--bit by bit--to play, and bit by bit the audience turns their face to him.  They clap some more, they yell out small encouragements.  His playing is sturdy, good but standard.  They clap a bit more.  They are his family now, joining the old grandfather in his grandfatherly pride.


But gradually, before they even know what's happening, the boy's playing moves beyond, becomes, 


extraordinary.


All eyes are suddenly glowing, taking him in with wonder.  The clapping becomes more than encouragement, the collective warmth more than pride in a boy's accomplishments. 


We are in awe.


The boy, simply sweet, has given us a moment, 
and we belong to it, and to him.

He finishes, to wild applause.  We sit in stunned silence for a moment, until there is nothing left but to gather our bags, our scarves, to leave.


So, we do.

[Selah]

The next morning,

Cafe Henri beckoned us from down the street,

and we agreed that cafe au lait was inevitable,

along with, as if we hadn't eaten enough already, our standard brunch.

We dwelt over the table, soaking in our final meal together.

We extended the moment on our walk home with a stop at Sweetleaf , purveyors of warmth which a certain person that is me has dubbed:  'dang good coffee', while certain others have agreed, unanimously.

We arrived home fortified but freezing, and took some time to pray together, to reflect on what we'd been reflecting on all weekend: the gift of a long friendship, the things we have learned along the way, the blessing of community and the opportunities we have had to share in each other's journey, over many decadent meals and under glorious music.  We reminded each other that we are truly thankful, for the tears, the laughter, the prayers, and the love bursts; all the gifts of a gracious God who has shared His character with us,
and shown to us His heart.

[Selah]

We then drove to the Guggenheim with plans to see an about-to-close exhibit, but the line was long and the weather frigid.  Instead, we snuggled ourselves into a movie theater

and settled in to watch Meryl Streep be brilliant in a mediocre story line.

The credits rolled, and we hit the street, on our way to my bus, and to the brutal end of HOL.

Over for another year, January HOL, indeed.