Every time I complain about summers in NYC, someone from a place like Arizona or Louisiana magically appears to gripe about summer weather in his/her hometown. “Man, you don’t know what HOT is until you were sautéed in the scorching sun of Phoenix,” the Arizonian tells me…“ or were marinated in the sultriness of New Orleans,” the Louisianan adds.
I appreciate these individuals’ efforts to assuage, perhaps outrival, my own heated position and disposition with their own summertime anecdotes. Nevertheless, this isn’t Arizona or Louisiana (or anywhere else in the world) but New York, and I invariably take these anecdotes with more than a grain of disinterest and continue sweating to the tune of summer in my own corner of the world. For good reason: it’s extremely hot here!
Weather experts were predicting that July 2010 would be the hottest on record in New York City (for what it’s worth, it was the hottest in Moscow). Unfortunately for history but fortunately for New Yorkers, the last two days of the month finally brought relief; this month wasn’t a record-breaker. For the first time since July 14 (Bastille Day), daytime temps are in the comfortable 80s borne on the waves of thunderstorms ignited by cool air from Canada.
A former dancer (who requested anonymity and facelessness in the above photo…but still manages to look very promising) residing in Prospect Park shared an experience that had afflicted most of us in this part of Brooklyn over the past couple of weeks:
With the stove burning and the air-conditioner too weak to reach her kitchen, “it’s got to be over 100 degrees in that room,” she explained. So after work, she throws off her pants and shirt and dives into a menu heavy on vegetables and cold soups. This has earned her some new fans, though she does not think they are focused on her red pepper and fennel salads.
While this is only a temporary reprieve from summer business as usual in the Big Apple (the torrid days/ humid nights will soon return), it’s better than nothing. Among other things, I was getting tired of barbecuing and preferred something roasted and baked via a moderately slow oven rather than a scintillantly kinetic hibachi. Despite my wife looking as attractively revealing at the barbecue on our terrace as the former dancer looks in the depths of her kitchen, such appetizing sights are dispelled when you’re on the outskirts of Dante’s Inferno.
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