NYT Metropolitan Diary
Jan. 4, 2026
Edible Arrangement
Dear Diary:
I walked up Broadway toward my neighborhood fruit stand at the corner of 73rd Street, hopeful that the gruff stand-minder was on duty.
He was, and I swept strawberries and blueberries into my arms as he watched. Other patrons milled around, among them a woman examining avocados and a lanky man considering the lemons.
“Nice raspberries, nice raspberries,” the vendor said, moving toward me. “Some sweet potatoes? Very fresh, very fresh.”
I retrieved my wallet to pay and leave. The vendor slipped his usual extra, and free, bananas into my bag alongside the fruit I had purchased.
The bananas were an equalizer of sorts. To him, they signaled appreciation that I listened to his advice without objecting. To me, they were a generous offering from a hard worker.
As I took them, I thought about our ongoing exchange and its evolution toward a relationship.
Then I heard a man’s voice from behind: “Miss. Miss.”
In New York, I had learned that turning to acknowledge a voice from behind could mean facing something untoward, or it could indicate someone saying I had dropped my wallet.
“Take this,” I heard the voice say. Turning, I saw it belonged to the lanky man who had been eyeing the lemons.
“Here, take this, please,” he said, his extended hand holding a lemon. “I bought three, but I only need two.”
“No, thank you,” I said.
“No, really,” he said. “I don’t need it.”
He thrust the lemon toward me as if it were a bouquet.
“OK,” I said, accepting the piece of fruit. Then I reached into my bag, snapped a banana off the bunch and quickly handed it to this stranger.
“No, no,” he said, “that’s not part of the arrangement.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” I said with a smile.
— Janet L. Schinderman
Uninvited
Dear Diary:
It was a sunny lunchtime in Lower Manhattan, and a group of us had gotten sandwiches and decided to eat them sitting on the side steps at Trinity Church.
As we sat there, a woman dressed entirely in peach (hat, gloves, suit, pumps) made her way through the tombstones toward us.
“You can beg,” she said, “but you’ll never get in here.”
— Susan Johnson
https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/04/nyregion/metropolitan-diary.html
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