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Authors: Isabel Vincent
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either of them.
In the 1970s, architects and planners held Roosevelt Island out as an urban oasis with a small-Âtown sensibility. It was conceived in 1969 when the state of New York entrusted the legendary architect Philip Johnson and his partner John Burgee to transform what by then was a derelict penal colony into a vibrant residential community for middle-Â and low-Âincome families. They developed waterfront parks and hired modernist architects to build large apartments with spectacular views of the Manhattan skyline. In 1971, the island was grandly renamed after Franklin Delano Roosevelt, although New Yorkers still referred to it by its derisive 1920s moniker, Welfare Island.
Paula and Edward didnât care. When they made their move back to New York, their old haunts near Washington Square and Greenwich Village had become too pricey. The island seemed like a safe and affordable alternative, and they soon settled into an agreeable routine. Edward walked to Astoria over the Roosevelt Island Bridge, where he patronized a small network of food purveyorsâa fishmonger who called him with news of a shipment of Hudson River shad, a butcher who saved him ham bones for stock. When he wanted to go into âthe city,â as islanders referred to Manhattan, he squeezed into the tram, then journeyed by foot the more than sixty blocks to Chinatown for the duck he liked to use in his cassoulet and to the French butcher in Chelsea for the best merguez.
Although Edward and Paula were fully aware of the history of their new community, Roosevelt Island for them seemed to represent a much better life. They re-Âexplored their beloved Manhattan and spent their last years together taking long walks through Central Park, dining at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central, attending the theater. In fact, they grew to prefer the island, where they soon became well-Âknown among their circle of friends for their elaborate dinners. And everyone begged Edward for his apple galette. The handwritten Thanksgiving menus I found in his photo albums and scrapbooks always featured Edwardâs signature dessert.
He insisted that the secret was crushed ice, even after my complaints. Crushed ice, he repeated. And lard. Tonight at dinner, after we finished the galette, Edward got up from the table, gathered his cane that was draped on one side of his dining room chairs, and walked slowly to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer, took out a rectangular brick of white lard, wrapped carefully in waxed paper, and presented it to me with a flourish.
âVoilà ,â he said.
I was so touched, seeing in Edwardâs gift such kindness, and even meaning. I lingered, slowly pulling on my heavy coat and boots. Outside, a storm seemed to be winding down, but I wasnât looking forward to the cold trek to my apartment. At the elevator, Edward kissed me goodbye and said simply, âI hope youâre happy, darling.â
I trudged through the newly fallen snow, past the silent communal garden and The Octagon. I walked with purpose even as I had no real sense of where I was going until I reached the northernmost point of the island and the Gothic lighthouse, surrounded by the churning waters of Hell Gate. Although it was built in 1872 by James Renwick Jr., who would go on to design St. Patrickâs Cathedral several years later, local legend has it that the inspiration for the lighthouse actually came from one of the patients at the insane asylum.
John McCarthy feared a British invasion, and the diligence with which he began constructing a fort so impressed his minders at the asylum that they allowed him to finish what became a four-Âfoot clay structure, perhaps believing that it was a good form of therapy. For me, the late night visits to the lighthouse had also been theraÂpeutic. As on so many previous occasions, I headed to my usual bench with its view of Manhattan across the river.
But something had changed tonight.
It
In the 1970s, architects and planners held Roosevelt Island out as an urban oasis with a small-Âtown sensibility. It was conceived in 1969 when the state of New York entrusted the legendary architect Philip Johnson and his partner John Burgee to transform what by then was a derelict penal colony into a vibrant residential community for middle-Â and low-Âincome families. They developed waterfront parks and hired modernist architects to build large apartments with spectacular views of the Manhattan skyline. In 1971, the island was grandly renamed after Franklin Delano Roosevelt, although New Yorkers still referred to it by its derisive 1920s moniker, Welfare Island.
Paula and Edward didnât care. When they made their move back to New York, their old haunts near Washington Square and Greenwich Village had become too pricey. The island seemed like a safe and affordable alternative, and they soon settled into an agreeable routine. Edward walked to Astoria over the Roosevelt Island Bridge, where he patronized a small network of food purveyorsâa fishmonger who called him with news of a shipment of Hudson River shad, a butcher who saved him ham bones for stock. When he wanted to go into âthe city,â as islanders referred to Manhattan, he squeezed into the tram, then journeyed by foot the more than sixty blocks to Chinatown for the duck he liked to use in his cassoulet and to the French butcher in Chelsea for the best merguez.
Although Edward and Paula were fully aware of the history of their new community, Roosevelt Island for them seemed to represent a much better life. They re-Âexplored their beloved Manhattan and spent their last years together taking long walks through Central Park, dining at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central, attending the theater. In fact, they grew to prefer the island, where they soon became well-Âknown among their circle of friends for their elaborate dinners. And everyone begged Edward for his apple galette. The handwritten Thanksgiving menus I found in his photo albums and scrapbooks always featured Edwardâs signature dessert.
He insisted that the secret was crushed ice, even after my complaints. Crushed ice, he repeated. And lard. Tonight at dinner, after we finished the galette, Edward got up from the table, gathered his cane that was draped on one side of his dining room chairs, and walked slowly to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer, took out a rectangular brick of white lard, wrapped carefully in waxed paper, and presented it to me with a flourish.
âVoilà ,â he said.
I was so touched, seeing in Edwardâs gift such kindness, and even meaning. I lingered, slowly pulling on my heavy coat and boots. Outside, a storm seemed to be winding down, but I wasnât looking forward to the cold trek to my apartment. At the elevator, Edward kissed me goodbye and said simply, âI hope youâre happy, darling.â
I trudged through the newly fallen snow, past the silent communal garden and The Octagon. I walked with purpose even as I had no real sense of where I was going until I reached the northernmost point of the island and the Gothic lighthouse, surrounded by the churning waters of Hell Gate. Although it was built in 1872 by James Renwick Jr., who would go on to design St. Patrickâs Cathedral several years later, local legend has it that the inspiration for the lighthouse actually came from one of the patients at the insane asylum.
John McCarthy feared a British invasion, and the diligence with which he began constructing a fort so impressed his minders at the asylum that they allowed him to finish what became a four-Âfoot clay structure, perhaps believing that it was a good form of therapy. For me, the late night visits to the lighthouse had also been theraÂpeutic. As on so many previous occasions, I headed to my usual bench with its view of Manhattan across the river.
But something had changed tonight.
It
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