Author: ruhlwrite

“I’ve got a lot of stuff cooking.” As Mark Rinaldi says this, he places a plate of pão de queijo on the rustic wooden dining table, long as a church pew, that dominates his apartment. He baked the Brazilian cheese bread, which is shaped like billiard balls, this morning. He says the recipe’s a cinch — cheese, oil, milk and yuca flour. Next he brings out the tripe, the foul-smelling fillet whose innards look like an air conditioner filter. He’s fixing to fix it…

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You don’t see this very often. Eric Mathews is sitting on a park bench at the Astoria Houses promenade watching the fog roll off the East River. Eric, trim, taut and poised to spring like a rubber band, isn’t used to sitting still with his hands, creased like the distressed leather of his jacket, lying idly in his lap. He’s worked far too hard in his 47 years to rest, even for a minute. He grew up in the projects. He’s come a long way since then, which is why he’s…

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It’s the dog days of summer, and Zora is sitting on the front porch watching the people pass by. She’s a puppy — my puppy — and she thinks the world is her bone and that every person is dying to pet and play with her. That’s why her bobbed tail snakes back and forth at every footfall. A new immigrant, Zora is seeing everything in Astoria for the first time. She’s lived here half her life — three of her six months — but she knows she’s sure not…

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Listen. It’s what you don’t hear that makes the biggest sound. There’s no background music playing in Laura Dadap‘s apartment. This is something to take note of because Laura’s life, even before she made her grand entrance squeezed between a bass clef and a treble clef, is centered on music. Laura’s parents are classical musicians, and her dad was conducting an orchestra rehearsal in Flushing when her mother went into labor a quarter century ago. Laura’s…

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It’s time for Jose Morales to put on his happy face. He pulls up two straight-back chairs and sets them in front of a 4-foot-high dime store mirror in the living room/kitchen of his thimble-sized apartment. He places a plastic fishing tackle box on one of them. He opens it, revealing an accordion of shelves that are filled with makeup. Even without the greasepaint and powder, Jose smiles. He can’t help himself because in the circus of life, he’s a clown. Jose in a serious mood. It’ll…

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