There was a wonderful element to my account-settling trip to see my insurance agent in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn–just as I suspected there might be. As I left his office, which was garishly decorated for the holidays, I found a delicatessen called Mejlander and Mulgannon down the block. After pushing my Russian hat up off my forehead and studying the chalkboard menu for many minutes, I ordered two “Dave’s Deluxe” sandwiches—-corned beef, pastrami, coleslaw, and Russian dressing on rye bread. Full of sodium nitrate, I’m sure. Not something I order regularly.

Then I watched the muscular guy with a large skull tattooed on his forearm make my sandwiches, half of one for myself, the other three halves for my kids, who tend to be ravenous immediately after school. When the man behind the counter ceased to be interesting, I located several boxes of brandy-filled chocolates on a table (four dollars each) and purchased them as gifts for all our neighbors. A great moment to stock up! Then (this was the best part) I spied an assortment of untinted marzipan pigs about one and three-quarters inches long. Terrific! Though I know marzipan is laden with refined sugar, it is still mana to me and has been a sacred food since I was a little girl.

(I vividly remember first tasting it on an American Airlines flight to Texas in the 1960’s. The almond paste came in the shape of a rabbit and was served as dessert on my airline food tray. Can you imagine? In those days, we wore gloves and Sunday dresses when we flew on airplanes. Oh, but now I sound ancient.)

So I purchased eight marzipan pigs. Can’t figure out if I should give those as stocking stuffers, or cough them up this Friday for the cast of our school play after my son wears vintage tails and plays one of the Ernests in “The Importance of Being Earnest.”

When I got back into my car, which is still crusty from the light snow we had here in New York last Sunday, I was almost happy we’d come close to having no car insurance. Julia Cameron, author of “The Artist’s Way”, calls excursions like these “artist dates” and she says
all should have them–weekly. It is good to get out of ruts and routines.

Something about the sandwich necessitated the removal of my coat. I was afraid the Russian dressing would get on my lap and sleeves. Then I ate as I drove the car, which was fun and piggy (speaking of pigs). Possibly also dangerous.

Half the sandwich was more than fine. If you’re like me, you would not have wanted to finish this thing. Then, the all-Christmas radio station played Johnny Mathis singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas,” and I turned it up loud.

In that moment, I had found my bliss.