Et Cetera Archives - Inside Chappaqua and Inside Armonk: The Magazines for New and North Castle

From Sump Pumps to Sandwiches: My Adjustment to Suburban Living

March 8, 2018 by Daniel Levitz

As we were planning our move to Chappaqua from the city back in 2003 all the big questions had been addressed. Roaring Brook would have 19 or 20 kids in Charlie’s first grade class as opposed to the 27 in his Manhattan kindergarten. We’d convert our oil-burning furnace to natural gas because a knowledgeable source told us to. Bella’s crib would fit in a wonderfully proportionally manner in her new bedroom as opposed to the glorified walk-in closet that was her room in the apartment. And, Laurie would be able to walk to the train which was only a half mile away. With these issues addressed I was able to focus on something that I’d been mildly dreading. How and where would I be able to equal the bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich I’d treat myself to on mornings of happiness and optimism?

You see, pre-move, when I’d walk into the Korean deli on our block I’d make eye contact with the grill-man and before I could grab a self-serve regular coffee the eggs would be cracked, sizzling and within minutes I’d be enjoying the perfect urban New York sandwich. So, over those initial weeks I got the lay of the land breakfast-wise and from there was able to go on with my life. As it turns out, there were a number of local fine bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwiches sampled and each one a little different. One local deli offered a solid and tasty effort aesthetically notable for the fact that they don’t cut the roll in half. Another put forth a hearty two egg affair with lovely fresh bread and egg yolk just runny enough to make the sandwich delicious yet manageable. The bagel store offered an extremely hearty sandwich, which was elevated by the meticulously crisped bacon. Much to my delight, the local delis up here were most definitely on their game.

Other elements of adjusting to life in Chappaqua were a little more jolting. We quickly realized that the 10-minute walk to the train was not exactly safe, nor even doable with snow on the ground, due to a lack of sidewalks on Quaker Road. I investigated alternative routes but realized that the fading dream of living a pedestrian lifestyle like our previous one would not be easy to accomplish. Happily, a number of years into our residency here sidewalks were installed near our house and this game changer of an infrastructure project most definitely opened up the possibility of, once again, being an active daily pedestrian. Ironically, years of driving everywhere, a situation I preached against when I was an urbanite, had become quite comfortable and the conversion to shoes back on concrete would take another mental adjustment.

Getting used to living in this countrified suburb took some time and a steep learning curve. The first house thing encounter was like a slap in the face. I knew intellectually that house-living meant you can’t call the Super when there’s a dripping faucet. Cut to me wading in ankle-deep water in our basement barely being able to pronounce “sump-pump” let alone having any idea of what the hell it even was. A more pressing issue was how exactly to make the damn thing function properly and clear the water out of our suddenly disgusting water logged basement. Now, a veteran homeowner, I’m essentially “Mr. Sump Pump” with a high-end, self installed bad-boy keeping the basement fastidiously dry. And, don’t get me started on my back-up sump-pump because I’ll happily chew your ear off on why having a second one is simply a must.

We’ve been here now for 15 years and It’s gone fast. Of course there’s been physical changes in the community from the aforementioned sidewalks to changing businesses to new athletic fields and so on. For us the changes have been the simple and huge developments that are universal yet unique to any family and probably somewhat indefinable. It’s the concrete things like a good bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich that hopefully remain constant. If not, there’s always another deli.

Local Joe: Many Area Residents Prefer Independent Purveyors

March 8, 2018 by Amy Kelley

They’re ubiquitous – the chain stores that make a business of selling coffee.

Yet in our area, independent coffee shops are outright thriving – and Chappaqua and Armonk both boast several different places to get the beverage by patronizing hometown businesses.

On a recent weekday afternoon, Tazza Cafe in Millwood was a hub of activity. Tables were full of chatting pairs, groups of young women were ordering food, and several employees were busy behind the counter.

Tazza Cafe at this past summer’s Armonk Outdoor Art Show

James Monica, owner of Tazza Cafe in Armonk, Millwood, Katonah and Ridgefield, credits much of his shops’ success to employees like these. “Really a big part of it is the people who work here,” Monica said. He’s been able to retain many workers which he says makes a big difference. Longtime employees “provide a personal touch and connect with the customer more.”

Julie Dickens, owner of Beascakes Bakery and Breads in the Armonk Town Center, has similarly attentive employees. “We have regulars and we have their coffee ready at the cash register as they get out of their cars,” she said. At Beascakes, they sell Lavazza, an Italian coffee.

At Chappaqua Station, 1 Station Plaza, where coffee’s served starting at 4:30 am during the week, better, faster service help them maintain a devoted and large customer base, even though the business is quite close to two large chain purveyors of coffee, manager Erik Gonzaga said. “We do have two big competitors here in town but our business keeps picking up,” Gonzaga said. The coffee is La Colombe, a premium brand from Philadelphia and hundreds of customers are served each day.

During the morning rush, there are usually no less than four employees working hard to ensure quick service: one at the register, one making specialty coffees, one filling and restocking and one handling pastry and other food orders, Gonzaga said, “We have our regular customers and once they come through the door it’s ready waiting on the countertop,” Gonzaga said.

Employees build relationships with customers but that community feel is, of course, accompanied by a serious focus on the coffee itself. “From the beginning we took the coffee very very seriously – from the way we grind it – and the amount we use is probably a bit more than typical,” Monica said. Purveyors like Monica can’t have the economy of scale the nationally-known shops do, yet they inspire loyalty and according to owners and managers, business just keeps on growing.

At Armonk’s Market North, at 387 Main Street, “all of our coffee is from artisanal roasters,” Stephen Mancini, one of the owners, said recently. Mancini and others, such as a chef and manager, regularly taste new coffees in blind taste tests called ‘cuppings’ and currently use beans roasted from Port Chester (Path Coffee Roasters) to Maine. “We try to find small-batch and responsibly-sourced,” Mancini said. Perhaps that’s why at Market North, customers often express praise for the coffee and types of coffee available. “When we change coffees or try different roasters there’s excitement about that,” Mancini said.

The appreciation of Mancini’s customer base is no anomaly. According to the National Coffee Association, an industry trade group, 59% “of coffee cups consumed daily are classified as gourmet,” and “out-of-home coffee consumption reached a high of 46% in 2017.” That’s a lot of coffee purchased in shops, and more and more, it’s very good coffee.

Tazza’s customers can tell the difference, Monica said. “A lot of them would say they would never go to a chain store because the coffee is so much better here.”

Local coffee spots also focus on the quality of other ingredients. “In order to make a really great latte you have to start with the milk. Seventy percent is the milk,” Mancini said, “All of our milks are Hudson Valley milks.” Cashew and almond milks are made in house. Perhaps that’s why one Armonk-based customer wrote on Yelp that Market North has “the best latte in Westchester.”

At Beascakes, details are also attended to. “We’re known for our iced coffee because we make our own coffee iced cubes so we have a real following,” Dickens said. Customers avail themselves of fresh cake doughnuts, scones or pastries or on Sundays, Boston cream or jelly doughnuts. “You know, you got to have coffee with your doughnut, right?” Dickens said.

And these days, more people prefer to shop locally. “People appreciate having mom-and-pop places to go,” Dickens said. “We know when a baby’s due, we know when a first birthday is, we follow the families.”

“From the very beginning I definitely tried to focus on and put an emphasis on the quality of whatever we serve – sandwiches, baked goods and coffee,” Monica said. “The people have been very responsive, and I never take it for granted.”

The Wasabi Incident and other Tales of Aging Parents

December 1, 2017 by Daniel Levitz

(L-R): Lorraine, Dan (the author) and Martin Levitz

Interacting with aging parents, for those of us firmly entrenched in middle age, can be pleasant, painful, humorous, bittersweet, inspiring, odd….and, please, feel free to insert your own adjectives. I don’t believe that there is a universal approach nor experience regarding older parents, however, I do feel that participating in a conversation about that last stage of life with them is a significant endeavor.

Lately I’ve been talking to friends about experiences with their aging parents. A close pal from high school told me that he was having the difficult conversation with his octogenarian father about possibly moving into an assisted living facility. Apparently the conversation was non-conclusive and resulted in what will forever be known as “The Wasabi Incident.” As my friend related, “We took Dad to visit the assisted living building for a tour. Didn’t go well. He pretty much shut down the sales guy telling him he was only there because we made him go and he has no intention of moving. He was happy later though because he got to eat dinner there for free. Sigh. Surprisingly still hungry, we then took Dad to a sushi restaurant and he ordered California rolls. Not sure if he realized what he was ordering. When the food came he immediately reached out with his fingers, grabbed the blob of wasabi and started to stuff it in his mouth. I yelled for him to stop and he only ate some but was definitely surprised by the spiciness of it. He’s mostly okay but does weird stuff like that once in a while”.

My friend’s Dad, as I’ve known him, is a bright, decent, no nonsense kind of guy.

I wish “The Wasabi Incident” could provide answers concerning his state of mind. However, all it raises are short-term questions like what the hell was he doing and, more daunting existential queries about the universally shared reality that with inevitable relentless urgency it is all going to end. For everyone.

Another buddy shared a story about when his father passed. They’d had a volatile relationship going back to his childhood and while always connected, there remained tension. His Dad had learned that he was terminally ill and requested a meeting with his son. My friend was certain that this farewell of sorts would be the moment where they could finally express their true good feelings for one another despite their bumpy history. They sat in his Father’s yard and drank wine on a crisp autumn afternoon. The Father looked into the son’s eyes and hesitated while the son prepared for some kind of emotional revelation. What followed was quite simply a non-negotiable list of people the Father vehemently forbid from attending his funeral. Not exactly what my friend was expecting but he laughs about it now as it was certainly consistent with his Father and, in retrospect, was most definitely a farewell.

My Dad died in 2013 at the age of 89. Martin was the kind of person who really took pleasure in life. He was passionate about collecting art, eating great and abundant meals, New York Yankees baseball and of course his wife of 66 years, my Mom. The last year of his life was difficult because most of these things were taken away from him because of his health. All except my Mom who took care of him in a heroic and remarkably devoted manner. Despite pleas from everyone to get help she took all of this on herself because she felt that’s what he wanted. My Dad would constantly yell out with urgency “Lorraine!” I found this touching (and not to mention loud). One day I convinced Mom to take a walk and have a little time for herself. As the door shut I heard the same demanding exclamation, “Lorraine!” Answering his call I told my Dad that Mom was taking a walk but I was home with him. I thought he might be unhappy about this but a minute later in the same formidable tone he hollered, “Dan!” That he was able to shift his focus so quickly from his wife to his son told me that despite his love for and reliance upon his wife there was a pragmatic element to survival that may transcend even indestructible love.

Lorraine and Martin Levitz, the author’s parents

As for Mom, now 90, she can be found on one of her two daily walks around her neighborhood in lower Manhattan. She lives alone and gets a nice amount of attention from her children and grandchildren who all live relatively close. It’s not unusual for her to meet someone new and within a minute or two proudly note that she is indeed 90. In fact, she began bragging about being 90 when she was only 89 but you can’t blame her as the reaction is almost always complimentary. At a younger stage of adult life, stating one’s age out of the blue would be something of a non-sequitur.

At 90 it’s simply addressing the elephant in the room. A beautiful aspect of this time of Mom’s life is that she is still happy and independent yet fully aware of the numbers that prove that things are definitely winding down. I think that fact is harder on the rest of us than her but it’s inspiring to know that she can talk about it calmly and firmly in the context of what a wonderful life she most certainly has enjoyed.

A Reflection on 9/11 and the Gratitude that Fills Me

October 22, 2017 by The Inside Press

The 9/11 ceremony at Gedney Park was well attended
PHOTO BY STACEY PFEFFER

By Rev. Dr. Martha R. Jacobs

As I was walking up the path towards the 9/11 commemoration in Gedney Park this year, I mused to myself that this was the fourth year I was participating. I remembered the first time I arrived for the ceremony. I had been at the First Congregational Church (FCC) for about three weeks, had been asked to participate (I guess because I was “new” to the community), and when I got out of my car, not knowing anyone and not even knowing where to go, there was Robin Stout, one of my congregants and a Town Board member, seemingly waiting to greet me. He took me up the hill and introduced me to just about everyone involved. At the time, I didn’t remember their names, and had no clue that I would be getting so involved in this community. I was so grateful for Robin’s presence with me.

I had been a volunteer chaplain at Ground Zero for several months following the events of that awful morning, had spoken at several conferences in the years following about my work at Ground Zero and my time as President of the New York Disaster Interfaith Services. But I was now in a new community that, for the most part, had no idea of my history and connection to 9/11. Being asked to participate in that ceremony meant more to me than most people realized. I was so grateful to have been asked.

Local Boy Scouts salute the flag at the 9/11 ceremony
PHOTO BY STACEY PFEFFER

And, now, four years later, I am still being asked to participate.

I knew where I was going and was greeted by so many people, both first responders and members of the wider community and it filled my heart with gratitude. I remain thankful for the opportunity to pause every year to remember those who gave their lives, those who lost their lives and those who continue to struggle with health issues as a result of coming to the rescue of those who were trapped and those who died, as they sought to find the remains of those who died, so that families could have proper burials. And, I pause to remember those police and firefighters and construction workers with whom I sat and talked, and listened to, and cried with and prayed for. And I remember those with whom I walked to the cross that had been found among the rubble of the buildings, that had been placed on a piece of cement for those workers who needed to see a symbol of hope and grace amidst the immense devastation and loss of human life. At the time, there was no explanation as to what happened and why it happened. I will never forget the sounds, the smells and the sights of walking into the wreckage and seeing that metal cross, which also helped me to find the courage to be there with these brave men and women.

My life has been forever changed, forever scarred and forever filled with gratitude for those who put their own lives on the line in order to try to make a difference for those whose loved ones died on that tragic morning. It changed our lives and theirs forever.

Being a part of FCC has changed me forever as well. So has being a part of this community whether through offering prayers at community events at the pagoda, during the Memorial Day commemoration, working with the school district on ensuring the safety of our children, or talking with people at Community Day. I am filled with gratitude that God has called me to serve this community at such a time as this.

Rev. Dr. Martha R. Jacobs is the Senior Minister at the First Congregational Church in Chappaqua.

Now I Meow: Learning to Silence the Tiger Roar Within

October 22, 2017 by Rachel Baron

Let’s play a short game of “Never Have I Ever.”

• Bought the “My Baby Can Read!” Program?

• Enrolled your two year old in Mandarin lessons?

• Prepped your four-year-old for a pre-school entrance exam?

It’s been ten years since I was pregnant with my son. Due to a severe and unannounced complication, Jesse became my only child. All of those proverbial eggs went into this one basket. My husband and I, ignoring our collective DNA, believed our seven-pound,12-ounce baby would one day be a boy of grit and determination.

Why on earth did we think a child born from our creative chromosomes would express an interest in perfect penmanship, homework done without a hint of procrastination, or a sincere desire to conform to school and suburban societal standards? Both of us were boundless daydreamers, not “good students.” Neither of us went to an Ivy League school. It took me 12 years to get a Bachelor’s Degree. Who was I as a parent to have such unrealistic expectations of an infant?

I decided to ignore genetics, and turned to nurture and instead of nature. From before that soft spot closed on his not-so-hairy head, I read to Jesse for hours: Sandra Boynton board books, The Old Man and the Sea. By the time he was two I’d bought a small chalkboard, where I would write out the alphabet every day, singing along with an actual pointing stick. Of course he knew the whole song by 26 months and four days but who’s counting?

Right before Jesse turned three in February of 2011, a bestselling book was released. You know the one. The Tiger Mom. Her Battle Hymn. With children practicing instruments on vacation. This tome was sweet validation for my maniacal child rearing practices. Immediately after reading the book, I began teaching him to sound out three letter words:

Bat, cat, hat, pat, sat. Bet, jet, let, met. Bit, fit, hit. Cot, dot. But, cut.

By the time Pre-K rolled around, he was more than ready for real kindergarten. Imagine my elation at my four-year-olds parent teacher conference upon hearing, “What a smart boy. Such language skills!” That sound you hear? My inner tiger roaring across the Okavango Delta.

September 2013 arrived, and sadly, Kindergarten started with a whimper. Jesse cried on the bus every. Single. Day. I thought to myself, “If he’s so sad, he can’t concentrate. But it’s ok, I’ve already taught him so much.” (In hindsight, I should have been thinking about his feelings, but I was a tiger, not a kitten.)

Fallen crimson leaves replaced fallen tears, and by Thanksgiving, I was most thankful that Jesse was doing better. Plus! The most wonderful time of the year was soon upon us: his very first report card. The day arrived and I tore open the envelope. A grade of “4” was the best. A “1” was the worst.

And there it was, in the right hand column, not under reading or writing or “rithmetic.”

There was a one.

I never realized there was an “emotional” side to a report card.

At his parent/teacher conference, Mrs. Crusher of Dreams tells my husband and I, “Jesse takes no pride in his work. He thinks he knows everything already.”

Of course my son felt this way and it was all my fault. It was time to accept a few truths. My parenting was much like my cooking: overdone. Children should learn things in their own time. And my son was no tiger cub. More like a sloth – cute as could be, moving at his own pace.

Every year since Pre-K I’ve made my son hold up a sign on the first day of school. You know the one. “Jesse’s first day of…” and the date. I always added the line, “When I grow up I want to be a…” First grade it was policeman. Second grade I winced as I wrote “garbage collector.” Last year my heart swelled when he wanted to run Apple. This year, fourth grade, I have done away with asking the question. Because I have finally learned – the only right answer is HAPPY.