New York bustle

It’s 1968, and I’m sitting on a rug in the garden. My mum is reading from the story of Rosa-too-little. Rosa lives in a brownstone in New York and I want to be there, dancing with her in the bright sprays of water that gush from fire hydrants on hot days, then sitting on her stoop. Because of Rosa, I fell in love with New York. The thing that made me happiest on my first visit there, was that the Empire State Building wasn’t swanky. It was nearly Christmas and the pots of poinsettia in the lobby were covered in old crinkled aluminium foil. I thought it was exactly as it would have looked if I’d visited with Rosa in 1968. For me, the hot dog carts, the Italian’s red sauce, the little cardboard cartons of Chinese takeout, are as much a part of New York as the Statue of Liberty. In late spring and summer, the city smells of hot pavements and food: garlicky pizza, hot sugar-dusted doughnuts, salty pretzels.

I’m a small town girl, not given to ennui, so New York is still a source of wonder for me. I make a note of places I see from buses and taxis. What is more exciting than driving past block after block of neon signs that light up the most intriguing-looking dining destinations and imagining what stories you’ll find there? I never got the life with

Rosa I once dreamed of, but it’s never too late to have a New York kitchen. In this city, everything is possible...