Peppers & Arias

Polenta!

2012-01-22T16:58:00.000-05:00

I’m always looking for cheap and nutritious options for dinner these days. Quick is good too. Combine all three features and you have me humming in the kitchen.

I want to share with you my new discovery – cheap, nutritious and quick – Polenta!

I found this recipe in a cookbook that I received as a Christmas gift in 2010. I forgot about the book, put it on the shelf and never opened it until last week. A hidden treasure on my bookshelf, The Best Simple Recipes from America’s Test Kitchen, touts the claim, “More than 200 flavorful, foolproof recipes that cook in 30 minutes or less.” I’ve only made four, so far, and they have all been amazing, but the most versatile and interesting one was the recipe for “Polenta with Mushroom Sauce.”

We had this recipe as a main course the first night with a green salad on the side. I am allergic to dairy products, so I had to substitute the heavy cream in the recipe with a fantastic all natural product called, Mimiccreme. The ingredients in Mimiccreme are: purified water, nut blend (almonds & cashews), dipotassium phosphate, natural flavors, rice starch. I use it in all recipes that call for milk or cream and no one can tell the difference.

I had never used porcini mushrooms in a recipe and was quite surprised at the heavy earthy smell they emitted. Besides the fact that they are ugly as hell, the smell was so strong – like dirt and fish and old socks - that I almost didn’t use them because I thought there was something wrong with them. After I soaked them in water, the old socks smell was gone and I was left with light scents of musky and salty, combined with the piney fragrance from the fresh rosemary, I thought, “If nothing else, this is going to be interesting.”

The first few bites made everyone around the table pause. The flavors were so different than anything we had ever had. The porcini mushrooms added a delicate salty earthiness – a kick – to the softer creamy texture of the white mushrooms. The polenta had a buttery flavor, slightly grainy, and when eaten together with the mushroom sauce, was perfectly divine.

These vegetarian meals always cause my son to ask, “Is this it? No meat?” This particular night he said he was going to order some Chinese food after dinner because he didn’t think this meal would be enough for him. But everyone filled up enough and there were even some leftovers.

The next night I fried some chicken cutlets and, instead of cooking a potato or rice, I cut up the leftover polenta with mushroom sauce into small cubes and added some additional polenta. I sliced a small to medium sized onion, added about 3 garlic cloves, a little olive oil and cooked them in the oven in a 9x12 Pyrex baking dish for about 10 minutes. I then added the cubed leftover polenta from the night before, plus a little more polenta, with some chicken broth (about 1/3 cup) for moisture, so the polenta wouldn’t stick. I baked the polenta cubes in the oven for about 20 minutes on 350° and the result was a wonderful side dish with barely any prep work.

Polenta is a lot like tofu, that other cheap, nutritious and quick food that is so versatile. Like tofu, polenta takes on the flavors of the foods and spices around it. One afternoon, when my sweet tooth was acting up for something tasty, I reached into the refrigerator, sliced off a piece of polenta and microwaved it for 30 seconds. I topped it with maple syrup and chopped walnuts and found a new quick substitute for a slice of cake in the afternoon.

This morning I fried a slice of polenta in butter. This gave it a slightly crispy outer crust with a soft warm inside. I topped it with maple syrup and walnuts, a few strips of bacon on the side, and voilà! Polenta for breakfast.

Okay, okay, let’s get started… Here is the recipe for Polenta with Mushroom Sauce:

¼ cup dried porcini mushrooms, rinsed and patted dry (don’t be scared by the looks or smell of these things. They are downright ugly and stinky!)

¾ cup water

¼ cup olive oil

1 onion, chopped fine

2 garlic cloves, minced

2 teaspoons minced fresh rosemary

1 pound white mushrooms, sliced thin

1/3-cup sweet Marsala

¾ cup heavy cream (or mimiccreme, as noted above)

Salt and pepper

1 (18 ounce) tube polenta, cut into 8 rounds

I could not find prepared tube polenta in my grocery store, so I bought a bag of dry instant polenta and made it myself. It took about 3 minutes to mix up. I put the cooked polenta into a bread loaf pan and let it cool and harden up. Then I sliced 4 pieces about 1” thick and cut them in half to simulate the 8 rounds. That left me with extra polenta that I found other uses for, as explained above, during the week.

1. Combine porcini and water in bowl and microwave, covered, until porcini are soft, about 1 minute. Line fine-mesh strainer with paper towel and strain porcini, reserving liquid. Chop porcini fine and set aside.

2. Heat 2 tablespoons oil in saucepan over medium heat until shimmering. Cook onion until soft, about 5 minutes. Add garlic and rosemary and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add white mushrooms and chopped porcini and cook over medium-high heat until browned, about 8 minutes. Stir in Marsala and reserved liquid and simmer until pan is nearly dry, about 5 minutes. Add cream and simmer until thickened, about 3 minutes. Season with salt and pepper.

3. Meanwhile, heat remaining oil in large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat until just smoking. Cook polenta rounds until well-browned and crisp, 2-3 minutes per side. Serve with mushroom sauce.

A New Calendar For a New Year

2012-01-02T11:14:00.000-05:00

Every year before I hang a new calendar, I take down the old one and look through each month to see what I was doing during the year. My calendar is a boring tabloid of doctors' appointments and tax filing dates, haircut appointments and birthdays that I already have committed to memory. I don't know what I'm looking for when I review the prior year's calendar - something interesting that I want to remember? A date that should stand out in my mind?

This year I was surprised to see that each month in my 2011 calendar featured a quote by an author. Of course the name of the calendar was, The Reading Woman, and I had not been aware of that until today. Why hadn't I noticed these interesting quotes all year? After reading through each one, I added two more resolutions to my list: Be more aware in 2012 and READ MORE!

Here are the quotations, month by month:

January: Poets are those who know how to give shape to my dreams...Comtesse Diane

February: Children are made readers on the laps of their parents...Emilie Buchwald

March: He who draws noble delights from the sentiment of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life...George Sand

April: I come to believe that every book should be read in the most incongruous surroundings possible, for then it imposes its own unity that startles the reader when he has to emerge again into his own world...Vita Sackville-West

May: A book holds a house of gold...Chinese proverb

June: I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves...Anna Quindlen

July: Writing and reading is to me synonymous with existing...Gertrude Stein

August: Literature is the last banquet between minds...Edna O'Brien

September: If I were a young person today, trying to gain a sense of myself in the world, I would do that again by reading, just as I did when I was young...Maya Angelou

October: Even if you drift away from fiction, a great book can drag you back by the throat...Regan McMahon

November: There are many little ways to enlarge your child's world. Love of books is the best of all...Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

December: I shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help me through the day...Louisa May Alcott

My favorite? June, tied with May.
What's yours?

Christmas Past, Christmas Present

2011-11-26T06:41:00.000-05:00

It was around this time last year, in early November, that my father became ill. The slant of the afternoon light through sparse ochre colored leaves reminds me of those afternoons driving home from North Shore University Hospital on the Northern State Parkway with my mother in the front passenger seat, both of us talking about treatments and our hopes for his recovery in time for Thanksgiving.

As the holiday approached we both reconciled ourselves that he wouldn’t be coming home for Thanksgiving, but hopefully Christmas. On Christmas morning we brought gifts to his hospital room and we opened them for him because he was too weak to do so himself.

I was relieved when New Year’s Day had passed. At last, the holidays were over. I remember feeling alienated last year in my shroud of grief – like there was a big party going on, but I wasn’t invited. I felt like I had taken a drug that distorted my vision of the world around me. The Christmas decorations seemed larger than ever before - too gaudy and bright. The Christmas music was louder than usual - tedious and intrusive. I wanted to be quiet in my thoughts and prayers.

This year is different; I desperately want to be happy for the holidays. I’ve already found two radio stations that are playing Christmas music. But every Christmas song I hear reminds me of the sadness I felt this time last year, and I find myself slipping into a listless malaise. I don’t want to start Christmas shopping or baking cookies or planning the Christmas feast– all things that brought me so much pleasure in years past.

The other day, I tried to order a set of Spode Christmas dishes from Macy’s, a purchase I’ve wanted to make for the past 35 years but always thought was too frivolous and expensive. Seeing those little Christmas trees on my plate every morning and night would surely cheer me up, I thought. But my Internet order never went through – some glitch in their system, I was told.

I know these trivialities will never fill the void that was left in our family since my father passed away. But I’m trying to salvage what could become another melancholy holiday season without my father. He was the one who brought music to our family and laughter around the table. He was the one I loved to cook for.

I remember once catching my foot on a piece of lifted sidewalk and flying into a slow motion fall. It was such a long stumbling clumsy attempt to catch my balance, arms flailing in all directions, feet trying to outrun the fall. I actually had a split second when my mind’s eye saw this spastic tumble ending with me falling on my face. I didn’t, though. At some point my arms and legs coordinated with each other, my balance was restored and I continued walking along as if nothing had happened.

I often feel like I did that day, stumbling along, trying to find the balance again in my life. I’m trying to make sense of all of this. For as long as I live, I’ll never understand how life can be here one day and gone the next. But as long as there is life, I want to be happy. And, knowing my father, he wouldn’t want the music or the laughter to end. He especially wouldn’t want the cooking to stop.

So tomorrow I’ll try again to listen to some Christmas songs, to get in the spirit, to plan my Christmas feast. Soon I’ll hang some decorations, buy some gifts and start baking the cookies. I’ll do it all with fond memories of Christmases past when the family was whole, when my dad was still here.

My First Dance

2011-08-19T15:54:00.000-04:00

I'm taking a writing course at my local library. We are given an assignment and, since there are 20 or more attending each week, we are asked to keep it to one type-written page - a very difficult task, but a good exercise in brevity. Last week our assignment was to write a short story or a memoir piece. I can't develop characters for a short story in one page, so I wrote this memoir piece about my first dance.

It was New Year’s Eve 1965; I was thirteen years old. Mom was in the kitchen slicing the ham, grandma was pushing bits of anchovy into the swollen pizza dough and dad was mixing up a batch of Manhattans. When I heard the opening beats and the clear voice of Frank Sinatra singing Fly Me To The Moon, I knew dad had already served himself the first Manhattan and the party was about to begin.

“Come on, baby! Get out of the kitchen; let’s dance!” he called to my mother, his hand held out, beckoning her for a dance before the guests arrived. As he swung her around in her apron, she threw her head back and let out a laugh and, for a moment, I saw my parents in a different light. Dad was charming; mom was beautiful, and they were lovers.

The playroom off the kitchen became a ballroom for the night; our kitchen table was the bar. I watched as my aunts and uncles were transformed for the evening, from housewives and mechanics, into high society folks. The women dressed up in fancy dresses with high-heels and black stockings, adorned themselves with large hoop earrings and heavy charm bracelets, wore too much make-up and teased up hairdos. The men were clean-shaven, and doused with strong cologne. All traces of dirt and grease had been removed from under their fingernails. They had on their best suits and ties, pinky rings on some, and as the room heated up, they removed their jackets and rolled up their shirtsleeves to reveal large gold watches.

I sat in a chair in the corner of the room watching them, mesmerized by their quick dance steps and graceful movements, as they floated across the floor to songs by Sinatra, Louie Prima, Jerry Vale and others. I yearned for the day when a man would hold me in his arms and move me around the dance floor like that.

My wish was granted when my uncle appeared before me with his hand out, bent over in a bow before me.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

“I can’t,” I stuttered… “I can’t dance like that.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, as he pulled me out of my seat and put his strong arm around my waist. “Like this,” he instructed, placing my left hand on his shoulder, grasping my other hand in his, and pulling me in closer. His cologne filled my head and a warm tingle went through me as he began slowly, at first, talking me through each step, guiding me with his firm hand gently pushing and pulling at the small of my back.

“That’s it,” he whispered in my ear, “one-two, step-step... You got it! Now we’re going to speed it up a bit,” he said as we began moving in time with the music.

So this is what it feels like to be in love, I thought as my feet picked up on the rhythm and our bodies moved as one.

On that magical night, where reality and dreams blend together, in that playroom turned ballroom, filled with working class mechanics and housewives playing the part of gentry, I, too, was transformed from a clumsy little girl into a beautiful dancing princess.

Life Lessons Learned at (almost) 60

2011-06-24T16:19:00.000-04:00

I will be sixty years old in two years. I can’t believe it myself. There are some benefits, however, to growing old gracefully, especially if you learn a few lessons along the way. Here are a few very important lessons I have learned through the years…

Don’t believe everything you see in the movies…everyone has bad breath and looks ugly in the morning. Don’t worry about it; just roll over and go back to sleep. You can deal with it later.

No matter how much exercise you do, eventually your breasts will sag and your ass will acquire dimples around age 50. If I knew that fact when I was younger, I would have spent less time sweating on the stationary bike and more time sitting on my dimples writing. I might have won the Pulitzer Prize by now.

There is no law written that says you can’t wear the same dress to your cousin’s wedding, your nephew’s wedding and your friend’s son’s wedding. The truth is that, unless you come out swinging upside down from a trapeze in an outfit designed by Lady Gaga, no one - not even your husband - will remember what you were wearing at the last wedding.

Remember how much weight you lost last summer? Remember how you swore up and down that you would never gain it back? Well, take my advice and hold on to those big black stretch pants a little longer, because they may be the only things that fit you when winter is over and you start your diet all over again.

Most people look ridiculous when they dance, so get out there, enjoy yourself and cut loose. Unless you’re dancing like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers, nobody is watching you.

No matter how much you swear that you won’t become your Italian grandmother with a mustache and flappy arms…you become her. You can’t fight genetics, so don’t even try. Just remember how much you loved your Italian grandmother.

Viagra does not make sex better; it just prolongs it.

Sixty is not the new thirty. Sixty is sixty, and you should be happy you made it this far!

Chinese Love Letters

2011-05-19T10:19:00.000-04:00

As I was rearranging the bookshelves in my office this week, I found some old books that once had a lot of meaning for me – books that I thought I would never throw away. I turned them over once or twice, wondered, why the hell am I still holding on to these? and quickly tossed them into a large plastic garbage bag before I could change my mind. Throwing them away was a real Zen moment of spontaneous action followed by a lightening of the spirit.

One of the tossed books was a small spiral sketchbook that I used to practice writing Chinese characters in college. I thought I was pretty smart in college, majoring in Asian Studies, studying the Chinese language. I was sure that the world was just waiting for me to graduate so I could go forth and make my mark on it. Of course I would change the world. There was no doubt in my mind that I was meant for bigger things – for graduate school, maybe even a PhD some day.

The application for graduate school at the University of Hawaii arrived a few weeks after I ran into my old flame. After stoking the glowing embers of our old romance, the flames of passion erupted once again, and two months later the engagement ring slipped onto my finger. Six months later we were married. Within two months I was pregnant.

I buried the University of Hawaii application, along with the school’s catalog, bursting with pictures of paradise, in the bottom of my desk drawer. Over the next twelve years, I would take it out at various times and stare down at the pages, imagining the other life I had in mind for myself so long ago.

I took it out when money was tight and we argued a lot over the bills and expenses. I took it out in the winter, when sick children kept me immobilized in the house for weeks. I took it out with each pregnancy, as my body ballooned out of shape and I felt like my brain was slipping out through my ears, and when life became so boring and monotonous it brought me to tears.

That catalog was moved from desk drawers to moving boxes to dresser drawers. It survived an apartment, three rented houses and two purchased homes before I finally threw it into the trash one day while I was cleaning out my desk to make room for the crib that would hold our third child. It was a relief to let go of that application. Right before I tossed it, I took one last look through the catalog and thought those pictures weren’t so great and those happy students walking around campus looked almost as young as my oldest son. Who was I kidding? That part of my life was over.

It was harder to get rid of that spiral sketchbook. I held onto it for another twenty-three years after I tossed the University of Hawaii application away. There was too much of me in that sketchbook. The marks on those pages were proof of the hundreds of hours of practicing brush strokes and memorizing strange tonal sounds. My youthful dreams of a future so different from my mother’s and her mother before her were poured onto those pages while writing the characters of a language that would be my ticket out.

I held onto that notebook to remember a time when I had a mind and dreams of adventure and travel to foreign lands. What happened to me? What happened to my mind? - was the more troubling question. I used to be able to read a Chinese newspaper and now I couldn’t identify any but the most basic Chinese characters in that book.

And then I saw, on a page dated April 1, 1976, I had written a character over and over next to what would become my new married name in just nine days. The pictogram consisted of three sections: the top portion was the symbol for family and marriage, the middle section was the symbol for heart, and the bottom was the symbol for friend. Together they formed the Chinese symbol for love.

I turned the sketchbook over in my hand one last time, opened the garbage bag and threw it in without a second glance. All my regrets of the past thirty-five years over the person I should have become went into the trash with that little book. There I stood, fifty pounds overweight, disheveled grey hair flying in all directions, creases forming on my upper lip, unable to remember the name of the book I finished reading (in English!) the night before - definitely not the image I thought I would become back in 1976, on the eve of my wedding, as I practiced writing my new name next to the Chinese symbol for love.

I didn’t need the book anymore. The world had never been waiting for me to change it. Without realizing it at the time, the world had been waiting to change me, to show me what really mattered in life.

As I glanced around my bookshelves and saw the beautiful faces of the family my husband and I had created through the years, I realized that I already had everything in that Chinese pictogram; I didn’t need to practice writing it anymore.

Girl Wearing Pants

2011-04-07T09:53:00.001-04:00

The young female technician, drawing blood for my cholesterol test, was grumpy and sullen. Hoping a little conversation might lighten her mood and, ultimately, make this blood letting a little less painful for me, I asked her how she was.

“I’m tired,” she said, tying the band around my upper arm a little tighter than I was accustomed to. “I’m going to school at night,” she grumbled.

“Oh? Are you studying to be a nurse?” I asked cheerfully, hoping that needle coming at me would slide in smoothly.

“No,” she finally answered, tossing the used needle into a red container. “I’m taking pre-med - to be a doctor.”

I felt a little silly, embarrassed to think that I had dated myself. In an attempt to explain the slip and hide the generational gap, I explained that when I was growing up, girls were limited to the few “girl” professions: secretary, nurse, teacher or stewardess. “That was back in the 1950’s and 60’s,” I went on.

As I was speaking, she turned her back to me and began typing something on the computer, uninterested in my banter, she had tuned me out. The silence in the room told me the conversation was over, so I pressed down on the band aid, as I was instructed, and kept my mouth shut.

Later that day, I was still thinking about that young female technician. Her attitude bothered me and stirred a memory that I hadn’t thought about for over forty years. I wanted to go back and finish the conversation. I wanted to tell her what happened in 1970, during my senior year of high school...

...During lunch one day in January, 1970, we were discussing pants - and why we girls weren’t allowed to wear them to school. It was absurd that we had to wear skirts or dresses to school during the winter. Some girls, who had to walk to school, would wear pants under their skirts, then remove them in the girls’ room before homeroom. This, we decided, was going to end.

After weeks of hashing it out, a group of us senior girls finally decided that we were going to challenge the dress code and wear pants to school. We picked the day and crossed pinkies with each other as a solemn vow to go through with our decision. No girl had ever worn pants to school. It was strictly prohibited and we were all stirred up and, to be honest, a bit frightened about the outcome. Would we get suspended? Sent home for the day? My friend settled everyone’s fears when she said, “Hey! What are they going to do to us? Kill us?”

As we got closer to the chosen day, a few cowards dropped out of the group of rebels, but most of us - about ten in all - remained true to our vow. There were whisperings throughout the student body as the day approached. No one thought we would go through with it. You could feel the tension in the air when school let out the day before “pants day.”

In front of my mirror that night, I had a mock trial and practiced defense arguments that I would have with Attendance Officers about the unfair rules that prohibited girls from wearing pants. I would point to my fellow female students, all of us dressed in pants, and finish with my closing statement: “What are you going to do to us? Kill us?” I decided then and there that I wanted to be a lawyer. I was very good in front of my mirror.

The morning of “pants day” I awoke an hour earlier than my normal time. My stomach was in knots, my face felt feverish, adrenaline was pumping and I was ready for a fight. I dressed in a pair of navy blue hip hugger bell bottoms and a white blouse. Instead of a belt, I wove a snazzy striped sash through the belt loops, the excess hanging down to my left thigh. If I was getting expelled that day, I thought I should do it with a little flair.

My mother was a late sleeper, so she wasn’t aware of my outfit that morning, but my father noticed.

“What’s with the pants?” he asked.

“They’re letting us wear pants to school now,” I lied.

When I got to school I saw that all of my friends had chickened out; every one of them. I was furious and scared. I felt like the foolish emperor in The Emperor’s New Clothes, strutting down the hall with a spotlight on my back. I had no time to go home and change my outfit, so I walked with my head up, and pretended that everything was just as normal as could be. In my head, I kept repeating, “What are they going to do to me? Kill me?”

Despite all the practicing arguments in my mirror, my mind became jelly and I knew I would be a stammering stuttering mess if I had to defend my actions in front of a screaming Attendance Officer.

As I passed through the halls, kids jerked their heads around, giggling and pointing for others to see the girl wearing pants. Teachers stood at their classroom doors, with arms crossed, suspiciously watching the commotion in the hall. In English class that day, of all days, I was called up to the front of the classroom with another student to read the dialogue from an Ibsen play we were studying.

“Nice pants,” the teacher whispered, as I walked up to the front of the classroom.

And that was the only comment from anyone in authority that day. The school officially proclaimed “Pants Day Friday” soon after that, allowing girls to wear pants to school on Fridays only, but, before the year had ended, girls were wearing pants to school any day of the week.

And that’s how revolutions are started.

That year and the next, young women our age were amongst those taking over administration buildings on college campuses around the country, they were marching alongside men to end the Vietnam war, they were speaking out for equal opportunity for women, and for changes in admission policies to allow more women into those male dominated medical schools.

That’s what I wanted to tell that female technician. I’m not just some old lady from a lost generation. I once was a young girl who challenged the rules and wore pants to school so that your life would be filled with limitless possibilities.

A Dog’s Show Of Humanity and the MTA Warning

2011-03-24T10:08:00.000-04:00

MTA Warning: Don't Get Sick On The Train

It is a noble thing to reach out to those in need. We all know how to write checks to the Red Cross when the levees break in New Orleans. There are stories of Americans flying over to Japan to help the tsunami victims. But what happens to our sense of humanity when someone sitting right next to us needs our help?

Last week, my son felt sick and fainted on the subway. When he came to, he found his bag had fallen from his hand and was opened with the contents strewn on the floor. As he bent down to pick up his things he noticed the two women, who were sitting across from him before he fell over, never moved to help him. They were still talking about the bargains they would find on Canal Street, as if the entire episode in front of them had never happened.

As he stood to get back into his seat, he felt faint again, so he stretched out on the seat with his knees up. At that moment, an MTA employee walked through the subway car and poked him saying, “Get up! You can’t lie down on the seats.”

“I feel sick,” my son told him. “I think I might faint again.”

“If you’re sick, get off the train or sit up; you can’t lie down on the seats,” was his reply.

So he crawled out of the subway on all fours, afraid that if he stood up he just might faint again and fall over onto the tracks.

“And not one person helped you?” I asked incredulously as he recounted the story.

Not one.

That same week, my husband called to ask me to pick him up early from the Amityville train station because he, too, felt sick. I saw him weaving from the bottom step of that long staircase down from the train platform, and before I could get out of my parking spot, he slithered down the wall onto his knees.

I watched men and women of all ages walk right past him as I tried to maneuver the car closer to the curb. As I got out of the car to help him up, I panicked, thinking, how am I going to carry him into the car?

Just then, I heard a woman ask, “Sir, are you alright?” One woman. I wish I knew who she was so I could thank her personally.

I watched the Today Show covering the earthquake and tsunami in Japan last week. They aired a segment on two dogs who were abandoned in a devastated area. One dog was lying down, obviously injured, and the other dog was hovering over him, stroking him with his paw and occasionally licking the injured dog’s face.

What a show of compassion and humanity. Too bad dogs can’t travel on mass transit.

In case you missed the link at the beginning of this piece, you should be aware of the MTA's rules on getting sick on the trains. Here they are:

If you feel sick, it's best if you don't get on the train. Help can reach
you much faster if you stay in the station. So, if you feel sick go to the station agent or a police officer - they will help you.

If you become ill when you are on the train, notify the train crew.The train crew has the means to call for medical assistance or the police.

You will not be left alone if you become ill. Someone will stay with you until you are well enough to be on your way or until you are in the right hands. And, during rush hours there are EMTs at various key stations who are ready to help customers who get sick. Really? Nah, you don't mean that.

Never pull the emergency brake. It will only delay the train and keep help from reaching you.

My Christmas List

2010-11-08T11:26:00.000-05:00

My son has been asking me for my Christmas list for two weeks now. He wants to be finished shopping by Thanksgiving this year. I finally sent the list by e-mail to all three children and my husband this morning, and already I’m feeling anxious thinking about all the things I forgot to include. Now what?

It’s cute when a child says they forgot to put something on their Christmas list and you tell them: Don’t worry, honey, Santa knows everything that you want.

It’s not so cute when an adult sends an e-mail attachment every few days and the subject line reads, addendum to my Christmas list - hope you haven’t gone shopping yet!

I don’t like making a Christmas list at my age. I stopped making Christmas lists at age seven, after Santa disappointed me two years in a row and failed to bring me a Barbie doll.

I thought my husband was kidding, during our first year of marriage, and laughed him off when he asked for my Christmas list.

“Christmas lists are for kids,” I told him.

“Make me a list anyway,” he insisted. “Everyone in my family makes a Christmas list. My parents need a list from you, too. They don’t know what to get you.”

I worked on the list for days, wondering, am I asking for too much? Not enough? Can I include clothing on this list? Boots? Housewares? Am I forgetting anything? I needed so much in those early years when all we could afford were the weekly groceries and a small bag of M&M’s for a weekend treat.

“Are you kidding me?!” my husband laughed when I finally handed him my Christmas list on an 8x10 sheet of loose leaf paper, filled front to back. He didn’t know I was holding page two behind my back. “Do you really think you’re going to get all this stuff?”

“What?” I asked. “Did I ask for too much? I wanted to give them choices, in case they couldn’t find some things.”

What did I know from Christmas lists anyway? Was there an etiquette to submitting a Christmas list? If the list is too long, does that mean you’re presumptuous and demanding? If it’s too short are you insecure, lacking self confidence? What was the proper length for my first Christmas list to my new in-laws?

“That’s my list,” I told him. “I’m not doing it over. Just pay close attention to everything that has a star next to it. Those are the things I really want.”

“Do you want my list?” he asked, handing me a short piece of paper with about four items on it.

“Nope,” I answered, holding my hand up to the list. “I already bought you something.”

Of course, I hadn’t, but I just had to get back at him for making fun of my long list. And the look on his face was worth all the items on my list put together.

Colonoscopy Prep: Do’s and Don’ts

2010-09-21T10:29:00.000-04:00

I had a colonoscopy on Monday afternoon, so you know what I was doing all day Sunday. It wasn’t so bad, though. This time I did things right.

I had my first colonoscopy in 2000. What did I know back then? They sent me home with the instruction sheet and the directions said, “eat a normal breakfast and a light lunch and begin drinking the prepared liquid at 3:00 PM.” So what did I do? I ate a large breakfast like it was Fat Tuesday and a lunch the size of the Last Supper.

While I was scoffing up a plate of spaghetti and meatballs for lunch my husband was shaking his head in disbelief. “You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“Why?” I asked flippantly, while buttering another slice of Italian bread. “If I’m going to lose it all anyway, I might as well enjoy it going down. Besides, I won’t be able to eat again for 24 hours...I’ll need my strength.”

I spent the rest of the evening gagging over the kitchen sink trying to shove down another glass of golytely (that godawful drink that tastes like slimy salt water) on top of my already pasta filled stomach. I didn’t sleep all night - for obvious reasons. My stomach was blowing up like I was 9 months pregnant as I cursed every crumb, every bite, every piece of food that had to push through my gastrointestinal tract. I even got mad at my husband - the sound of him snoring in a deep sleep, while I was suffering.

This time I did it right. I was prepared and wizened to the do’s and don’ts of the colonoscopy prep. I tried to have a positive attitude about the whole process. I bought some lemon jello, white grape juice, chicken broth, blue Gatorade. I tried some reverse psychology with everyone, saying, “These are my special foods for tomorrow and you can’t have any.” But they just laughed me off - sure, mom, no problem.

The night before, I hummed a happy tune while stirring the jello, I admired the beautiful blue of the Gatorade, I lined up a book to read and began thinking of the one good thing about a colonoscopy: those few moments before you drift off into that happy sleep. It’s the only time I don’t mind a doctor coming at me with a needle in hand.

It’s only a few seconds, between the time the anaesthesiologist says, “you might feel a little dizzy, a little tingly,” and the time you are totally knocked out. But in those few seconds, there is a bliss that comes over you - a tingling around the forehead, the relaxation of all tension, a warmth flowing through the body. It’s the best feeling - that twilight moment before the dead sleep and no feeling at all.

So, how pitiful is my life, you must be thinking, that I have to look forward to feeling high from anaesthesia? The truth is, I can’t drink alcohol; it makes me overheat with just one sip. I don’t smoke pot. I get hot flashes and itchy skin when I drink wine. So I found the one bright moment in a colonoscopy - when I can get high and enjoy it.

Call me weird, but I had to find something to look forward to in this whole process, or I would never schedule another one again.

School Bus Rant

2010-09-10T16:53:00.000-04:00

I got stuck behind a school bus today. I forgot how annoying that is. It seems like you wait forever for the kids to saunter on and off the bus. Kids don’t run anymore, do they? They take their sweet time. I swear they do it just to annoy all the drivers sitting in their cars behind the bus.

And whatever happened to bus stops? The bus I was trailing stopped at individual houses, put out the big STOP sign off the side of the bus, opened the door and patiently waited for the kids to finish their toast and brush their teeth. Take your time! I’ve got all day here!

Worse than the kids, though, are the mothers who stand there in the morning gabbing with the bus driver. They usually have a cup of coffee in their hand, pajama pants under a raincoat, hair all messy, no makeup. They’re in no hurry. They're going back to bed once all the little kiddies are safely on the bus. They don’t care that there are five cars idling behind the bus with very anxious drivers who are probably already late for work.

I’m sitting there this morning watching the clock on my dashboard turn over another minute, wishing I could blast my horn at the back of the bus, but really wishing I could run over the mother gabbing and laughing it up with the bus driver. When they finally finish the conversation, the doors of the bus close and the mothers stand there frantically waving and blowing kisses to their little darlings. Knock it off! I wanted to yell out my window. They’re coming back in six hours!

How I Blew My Father's Retirement Fund

2010-09-02T23:38:00.000-04:00

I got on the internet today out of curiosity. I wanted to see the value of a Kennedy half dollar. I found a 1964 coin with 90% silver content valued at $129.95. A 1965 half dollar in perfect condition was valued at $299.95. I almost cried.

My dad started a collection of Kennedy half dollars back in the sixties. I guess he figured he was going to retire on their future value someday, since he had no retirement plan to speak of. My dad was a mechanic. He worked with his hands and got paid in cash for his labor. Yes, back in the sixties people paid with real cash.

I never had an allowance as a kid. I sold lemonade on the side of the road for 2 cents a cup in the summer. And then there was the occasional happy accident. A penny in the street, a nickel between the sofa cushions, a dime on the floor! It was my only source of income back then.

I would hop on my bike with my pennies in my sweaty hand and ride down to Tony’s Deli to buy some junky candy: sugary liquid in colored waxy bottles, artificially colored hard sugar dots on strips of white paper, jaw breakers, gum. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was sweet and cost under ten cents.

Getting a dime under my pillow when I lost a tooth was like Christmas for me. It meant I could buy a chocolate bar the next day and still have change left over. Yes, a dime went a long way back then and a fifty cent piece went even further.

I don’t recall why I was in that particular kitchen cabinet that particular summer day, but I remember reaching way back behind the pots for something. It was dark back there, I was kneeling on my knees and my hand fell onto an open can. I couldn’t see inside the can so I stuck my hand down into it and I felt coins - cool, large and heavier than any penny, nickel or dime I had ever held. I shoved my hand way down into the can and heard a ching-ching sound and I knew I had found treasure!

I grabbed a handful and brought them into the light and gasped. I had never seen anything like them before. They were so shiny and cool in my hand, I couldn’t stop rubbing them between my fingers. I had a feeling of fear and excitement all balled up in my throat. I felt an ecstatic scream coming on, but had the good sense to stifle it before it erupted. Something told me I wasn’t supposed to know about this secret treasure.

I put them all back except one. I had to keep just one to look at it later. A few days passed and all I could think about were the coins in the kitchen cabinet. When no one was around, I would check to see that they were still there, running my hand through the can and listening to the ching-ching music I had come to love.

One day, I decided to spend my fifty cent piece at Tony’s deli. I couldn’t even carry all the candy that coin bought. When I realized my father didn’t notice a few coins missing, I became greedy and would snatch a coin every other day, running down to Tony’s deli for more upscale foods like potato chips and ice cream.

Finally, one day, Tony asked me, “Hey kid, where you getting all these coins?”

“My father.”

“Oh, yea? Well, bring me some more,” he said.

And I did. Until, I got sloppy, and in my brazen wanton lust, I was caught one day by my younger brother. To keep him from tattling on me, I had to share my secret, which meant the pile of coins was being depleted now by two.

My father kept dropping coins into the can at night and we would empty it by day. At some point he must have realized that something wasn’t right. Who knows? Maybe the ching-ching sound got too hollow or maybe he reached in one day to see how high his retirement pile was growing, but that was the day my high life at Tony’s deli stopped.

“Who’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars?!” my father bellowed through the house. “When I catch whoever’s been stealing my Kennedy half dollars I’m gonna kill ‘em!”

I was practicing for my piano lesson when the hollering started. I tried to play through it, but my fingers started shaking and sweating and I had to stop when he stormed into the room.

“Have you been taking my Kennedy half dollars?!”

“Me? No,” I said in my meekest voice. “Maybe Freddy took them.”

It was as simple as that. I sold my little brother down the river. I’m not proud of that moment in my life, but that’s just how it was. When you have a younger sibling that you can blame things on you do what you can to save your own neck.

I got my own bad karma right back at me in the next few months while I was sitting in the dentist’s chair having the cavities drilled out from all that candy I ate all summer.

Come to think of it, the only one who made out was Tony. He got most of my father’s Kennedy half dollars - the real silver ones. I wonder where he retired to.

Weekend Pirates

2010-08-29T22:14:00.000-04:00

My sons are playing pirate this weekend. The three of them left on our sailboat this morning with food and drink for two days. While loading the boat, one of them asked if the pillows were on board yet and the other two laughed at him.

“We’re not bringing pillows on this trip. We’re roughing it,” said my oldest boy. But when the youngest one came out with his fluffy pillow under his arm, the other two reluctantly called out, “Oh, alright; get ours too!”

I stood on the dock going through a mental checklist asking, “Do you have the bug spray?- yes - Do you have the sunblock? -yes - Water? -yes - Matches?”

“Mom, we know what we’re doing. You don’t have to ask us if we packed everything.”

It’s true. I don’t have to do that every time my boys go off somewhere, but I can’t help myself. Besides, I can’t tell you how many times I asked an obvious question like, “Do you have your dorm room key? your wallet? your license?" and got a blank stare as an answer, followed by the boy running off to his room for the missing object.

As the boat pulled away from the dock, I cupped my hands around my mouth to make a bullhorn and yelled, “Where are your hats and sunglasses?!”

They looked at each other with that blank stare and turned the boat around. My husband ran inside to get three baseball caps, and as I threw a line out for them to grab, I asked, again, “Are you sure you have the sunblock?”

“Yes, mom!” my son said, rolling his eyes, “it’s on the boat already.”

“You really have to stop doing that,” my husband told me as we watched the boat take off again. “They are grown men.”

“Grown men who forget their hats,” I replied.

As the temperature reached into the 90's, I found myself wondering if they were applying sunblock regularly, or if they remembered to put it on at all. I knew they wouldn’t be spreading sunblock on each other’s backs. Pirates don’t do those things.

One of my sons was on a medication this week that required him to remain out of the sun. How would that be possible on a bright hot summer’s day at the beach? Was he going to stay down in the cabin all day? They forgot to pack an umbrella. But then, again, pirates don’t pack umbrellas.

I worried about the rip tides we were having this weekend. I warned them to beware, but would that be enough? Pirates don’t listen to their mothers. They swig rum and dare each other to walk the plank, or some such thing.

At 3:00 PM the phone rang. It was my youngest son calling to see if we would be coming down to the beach to join them. Odd, I thought. Pirates calling for parental companionship? I was perfectly content under our shady tree, reading a book, so I told my husband to go ahead without me.

“I’ll just be there a little while,” he told me. “I have to bring them some things.”

“Oh? What things?”

“They forgot the wood for the fire, and I’ll bring an umbrella so Paul can get out of the sun… And the sunblock," he mumbled. "They forgot the sunblock.”

The Lawnmower

2010-08-19T08:51:00.000-04:00

I went for a walk this morning at the John Burns Park in Massapequa. That's where I saw five men - employees of the park - hovering over a lawn mower. One was poking it, touching and prodding like a doctor would do to a patient on his examining table. One was kneeling next to the lawn mower, hand on the base. And the other three were standing in a circle around the lawnmower, just observing.

A walk around the park is marked in tenths of a mile, for a total of one half mile total. It takes me about ten minutes to walk a complete round. My first round brought me back to the starting point and the five men, still hovering over the lawnmower...ten minutes.

As I approached the completion of my second round, there were now four men standing around the machine, arms crossed, as the fifth man hopped into a golf cart type vehicle to fly off somewhere. Was he going for help? One guy shuffled around and kicked some stones into the path. They were obviously very concerned about the lawnmower. No one wanted to leave it alone for a moment. One man kept his hand firmly on the handle offering comfort to the ailing mower.

I was listening to a great song on my iphone so I contemplated another walk around, another ten minutes. Nah, I thought, better get home and get ready for work. Besides, my legs were starting to get tired and I was starting to sweat. I hate sweat.

I did some stretches to stall for a few moments so I could finish the song. The guy on the golf cart cruised back weaving the cart in a playful pattern over the roadway, then parked up on the sidewalk next to the lawnmower. He remained seated under the cart's awning, out of the sun, observing the other four meandering listlessly around the lawnmower.

I couldn't wait any longer. I had to leave. But I'm wondering how the lawnmower is doing. It must be pretty serious - to have five grown men so concerned. I wonder if they are all still standing there trying to figure out what to do.

Giving Up Coffee - The End?

2010-08-13T07:13:00.000-04:00

It has been a difficult journey. Coffee is everywhere. People are either drinking coffee or offering you a cup of coffee. It is the social drink of choice and to refuse a friendly offer of a cup of coffee seems to suggest that one's social skills need polishing. "I would love a glass of ice water," just doesn't cut it.

I remember a Valentine card I once bought for my husband. The illustration on the card was of two steaming cups of coffee on a cozy kitchen table. I can't imagine the same illustration with one steaming cup of coffee and a tall glass of ice water. What would the message say inside? "You're hot; I'm cold. Be my valentine" I don't think so.

It's funny how we link associations to a cup of coffee. Coffee is a friendly drink. It bonds people. It makes us warm and cozy. Just the smell of coffee makes people perk up and smile with anticipated pleasure. How many times, I remember, enduring a bad cup of coffee, and when I was done saying something like, "Ah! That hit the spot." I believed that, even if it tasted like tar infused engine oil, coffee just made me feel better. It's what I went for when I was tired, depressed, bored, relaxing, or making a pit stop on a long road trip. I drank it to wake up, wind down, warm up or calm down.

I just finished reading the three books by Stieg Larsson: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. What amazed me, while reading those books, was how often the characters were drinking coffee. In almost every scene - except the ones where someone was being chased on foot - someone was either offering coffee, brewing a pot of coffee, or sitting in a cafe drinking coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee! I think that's what helped me commit to giving up the stuff. I would find myself sighing with impatience every time a character would start brewing another pot of coffee. Why were they sitting around drinking coffee when they should have been chasing the bad guys? Why, he probably could have condensed all three books into one if there weren't so many coffee breaks in between the action.

So how do I go from the person I was when I wrote my blog, The Coffee Party on March 29th of this year to the decaffeinated dud that I am now? Not by choice, I can tell you that. I loved coffee. Coffee was my friend. But like anything that doesn't agree with you anymore, or a friend that turns out to be a jerk, you have to painfully admit that it is time to end the relationship.

Sure, I still have fond memories and I still have weak moments when I think about my old friend and contemplate a brief encounter. Who would know? I could sneak into any one of the thousand Starbucks on every street corner. I would blend in with the crowd and no one would know that I was cheating. I could make a 12-cup pot at home, when I'm alone, and spend the afternoon dancing on the tables and singing opera at the top of my lungs (with the windows shut, of course). Who would know?

Who would know?

Giving Up Coffee: Day Three

2010-07-05T17:04:00.000-04:00

My third day without coffee started with an upset stomach that, to put it nicely, turned into a "cleansing" of sorts. When that was over, I realized that I no longer had the headache, but the brain fog wasn't letting up and all my joints were aching. Was I getting sick, or was this part of the detoxing, I wondered. I popped two extra strength Tylenol and jumped into the shower to prepare for a long day in the city. My son was graduating from Pratt at 11:00 AM and my body had to be on the train in the next hour, with or without my headache and aching joints. With my stomach still rumbling, I also took a Lomotil pill - a prescription drug that stops stomach cramping and calms the digestive tract. It also makes me very drowsy, but given the alternative, I decided I would rather sleep on the train than be running between cars to look for an unoccupied toilet.

When I think back to that day, I realize that I spent most of it in a mild stupor. Sure, I saw my son walk on stage and receive his diploma. I hooted and hollered when his name was called and then I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep. The auditorium was dark; I needed no other explanation.

About midway through the day, my other son, who had met us in the city to share in the festivities, asked me what was wrong with me.

"Mom, you seem a little zonked. Are you O.K. today?" he asked.

"This is my third day without any caffeine."

"What?! Why?!" he asked.

"I gave it up."

"No way! Why?!"

"Because the doctor said it would help my acid reflux. And for the first time in two months, I'm sleeping through the night."

"But you're also sleeping through the day," he observed. "What kind of life is that?"

"It won't be like this forever," I told him. And I believed that. I had to have hope that it would get better.

Walking through the streets of Manhattan, on our way to the restaurant where we had reservations for lunch, I noticed that sounds in the street seemed excessively loud. Honking horns sounded like they were aimed directly at my ears. Sirens were piercing my head and the light of day was hurting my eyes. I started getting hot flashes and my stomach felt queasy. I knew the symptoms very well now, and, sure enough, by 2:00 PM the migraine headache began again with a vengeance.

But I was still optimistic. After all, it was 2:00 PM. I had made it almost halfway through the day. Perhaps tomorrow, the headache would show up later in the day, and maybe one day, it would not be there at all.

I began to get angry at my body's dependence on this socially accepted drug and I prepared to do battle. I was determined to win this fight and swore never to drink another cup of coffee again. Problem was, at that very moment, all I could notice were the coffee wagons and Starbucks stores on almost every corner and I wanted a cup, or maybe just a sip. I would even settle for a sniff of steam from a cup.

When the waiter came to our table to ask if we wanted a drink to start before our meal, everyone ordered an alcoholic beverage but me. My son suggested I order a cup of coffee.

The waiter asked, "cup of coffee for the lady?" smiling and writing on his pad.

"No thanks," I replied, "I'll stick with the water."

"Just the water?" he asked, clearly disappointed.

"Yes, just the water," I repeated and tried to muster a half smile.

He crossed out the coffee with an emphatic slash across his pad and repeated, "Just the water." So now, I wondered, would he drop my food on the floor before he served it to me? I was that person. The one who says, "just water for me" in restaurants and disappoints the waitstaff.

To be continued...

Giving Up Coffee: Day Two

2010-06-29T11:34:00.000-04:00

The next day was a Sunday and all I can remember is the non-stop headache which was immune to Tylenol, Advil and Aleve. I slept most of the day while my husband worked around the yard, planting the flowers we had purchased the day before.

I remember passing by the window from time to time, watching him work, hoping he wouldn't ask me to help him. Whenever I heard the back door opening, I would get up and start folding laundry or pick up a broom to fool him into thinking that I was already so busy with my own chores. When the door closed, I returned to the recliner to doze.

My recliner was my new friend. It cradled me and held me gently while I slept through my caffeine withdrawal. It demanded nothing of me and was always there waiting for me when I needed the comfort of a silent support system.

I also remember turning to drink of another sort that day - water. The more water I drank, the more energy I had and I could sense a slight relief in my headache. I slept a little less that second day.

"How's your headache?" my husband asked as I swallowed some Aleve.

"Better!" I told him. "Someone pulled the axe out."

"Great!"

"Yeah, now I have a vice wrapped around my temples." But, I reasoned, a vice was an improvement, a step up. The headache was no longer debilitating and painful. It was just annoying. Annoying I could deal with. And tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

The next day we were going into Manhattan for our son's graduation at Radio City Music Hall. Just the thought of trains and subways and hot crowded streets made the vice tighten. How would I get through the long day tomorrow feeling like this?

To be continued...

Giving Up Coffee: Day One

2010-06-12T09:55:00.000-04:00

I planned to start my caffeine free life on a Saturday. I didn’t have a bookkeeping job until Tuesday afternoon. Three days should be enough time to detox myself from the effects of caffeine, I reasoned.

To be honest, I don’t remember much of the events of that first day. The headache started around 9:30 AM, dull at first, but ever present. By 10:30 AM, my ears had clogged up and my head felt like it was filling up with water.

My husband asked if I wanted to go to the nursery that morning to pick out some flowers to plant. I asked him to repeat the question because, although I heard the words, my brain hadn’t connected the dots; the fog building up in my head was getting thicker by the minute. I think I said yes, because next thing I realized I was sitting in the front seat of the car. We were moving in slow motion – like a dream.

I know I was walking through the nursery, but I felt like I was swimming underwater. Sounds were muffled, the sun was burning my eyes – even with sunglasses on; the colors of the flowers were too intense to look at directly. My husband kept asking me, “how’s this?” and “maybe these?”

“Yes, fine, anything,” I mumbled. Just get me out of here. At one point, I felt like I could fall asleep standing up – like horses do, so I held on tightly to the wagon and pushed with my arms, dragging my feet behind in a slow-mo shuffle. “Are we done yet?” I kept asking, like some four year old child.

“Wow!” my husband exclaimed on the way home. “Those plants were expensive; don’t you think?”

I heard the question, but my lips wouldn’t move. The part of the brain that controls speech was already asleep, the rest of my body would soon follow. I floated through the front door, not feeling my feet on the ground, and dumped my body into the recliner. My head was buzzing now, the headache was of migraine intensity, my eyes were pin holes trying to focus, there was a slight feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach and sweat beads were building up around my forehead and upper lip. I gave up, too weak to hunt for the Tylenol, and closed my eyes.

I woke up a few hours later, drool dripping down the side of my mouth, stomach burning from hunger. “Is there an axe stuck in my head?” I asked my husband.

“What?!”

“That’s what it feels like,” I told him. “I feel like there is an axe stuck right through my head.” He ran upstairs to get the Extra-Strength Tylenol and handed me two. I ate lunch and returned to the recliner to sleep away the remainder of Day One off of caffeine. It had to get better tomorrow, I thought.

To Be Continued…

Giving Up Coffee :(

2010-06-04T09:53:00.001-04:00

I guess what I miss most about giving up coffee is the morning ritual. Crazy as this may sound, I liked thinking that my day couldn’t start until I had at least 2 cups of coffee. Some mornings, the thought of a fresh hot cup of coffee was the only thing that got me out of bed. In the winter chill, huddled over the steaming cup, I would write in my journal in the wee hours of the morning. In the summer, I would go out on the deck with my mug of coffee and inhale the fragrant salt air blowing in from the Great South Bay. Salty air and coffee – it doesn’t get sweeter than that.

When my children were young and wanted to go to the park or the beach before they even ate breakfast, I told them, “Don’t bother me until I’ve had my coffee.” They understood that, and as long as I still had that cup in my hand, they kept busy by themselves for awhile. Sometimes I walked around with an empty cup just to stall them a little longer.

It is an excuse I’ve heard and even used myself at work when someone comes into my office before I’ve had a chance to take my coat off and settle in. “Can we hold off on this,” I tell them, “until I’ve finished my coffee? My neurons haven’t fully connected yet.” We share a knowing chuckle and the annoying person disappears for awhile.

I don’t know if it was psychological or true that coffee in the morning made it easier to deal with things. With a steaming cup next to my calculator, my sewing machine, or my laptop, I knew I could do anything. Coffee was a ritual, a habit, a comfort, my friend.

Recently I developed a condition called GERD, short for Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease. It’s the medical term for heartburn, or, agitta, as my father calls it. I lost sleep at night for a month, forcing me to drink more coffee during the day, which exacerbated the problem further. I developed a slow constant burn in my stomach, and whenever I fed it, a fire roared up. I wasn’t digesting my meals, no matter what I ate.

An upper endoscopy revealed everything was normal, but the doctor gave me a list of foods to avoid:
Coffee and caffeinated beverages (my friend)
Chocolate (my lover)
Carbonated Beverages (seltzer with lemon – my drink of choice)
Peppermint and peppermint tea (my favorite tea after dinner, Mentos!)
Citrus Fruits and Juices (love my navel oranges! And lemon ices!!)
Tomato Products (I’m Italian. Need I say more?)
Pepper (Put pepper on my toast in the morning. Love hot stuff.)
Fatty or fried foods (don’t care about these)
Alcoholic beverages (don’t drink ‘em)

“What’s left to eat?” I cried in disbelief on the ride home.

“I’m sure you can have coffee,” my husband said. “Just limit it to one cup a day.”

Was he kidding, or what? May as well give it up altogether, I thought. Besides, I reasoned, if I had to give up my favorite foods, I may as well suffer the full blunt of the blow and say farewell to my longtime friend and companion – my coffee.

…To be continued

Shut That Dog Up!!

2010-05-26T12:48:00.000-04:00

Every night as I gently slip into those first moments of peaceful slumber, I am awakened by a constant piercing high pitched yap! yap! yap! I’m beginning to think that my neighbor watches my house to see when the lights go out so he can let his dog out.

The other night the dog was yapping outside until midnight. I was so angry that, even after the barking stopped, I couldn’t calm down enough to fall asleep until after 1:00 AM.

After walking around in a sleep deprived stupor all day, I retired to bed last night at 10:00 PM. My husband fell in a few minutes later.

“Maybe we can fall into a deep sleep and we won’t hear the dog barking when they let him out at 11:00,” he said. But within a few minutes, the barking started.

Yap! Yap! Yap!

“But it’s too early to let the dog out,” he said, confused, looking at his bedside clock. “It’s only 10:15.”

“They’ll probably let him out again at 11:00,” I said.

“But he’s out now. Why would they let him out again in 45 minutes? He couldn’t possibly have to go again that soon.”

This absurd conversation about my neighbor’s rationale and his dog’s poop patterns continued for about ten minutes until I jumped out of bed and began pacing the floor.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll walk over there in my pajamas and ring his doorbell. Do you think I should get dressed first or go over there in my bathrobe just to make a point?”

“He’ll stop barking soon,” my husband said as he reached for his ear plugs.

I stood in front of the window for 20 minutes, peering through the dark night, trying to locate the yapping mutt, wishing I had a high powered bb gun. Would I shoot the dog or shoot the owner, I wondered. When you are sleep deprived, all sorts of vicious things run through your mind. With no weapon at hand, I did the next best thing. I kneeled down in front of the window, lifted the screen up and leaned out into the dark night screaming, “SHUT THAT DOG UP!!”

I was even more frustrated now, hearing the rotten hair ball yapping away showing no fear from my sudden outburst.

“What should we do?” I asked my husband, pacing.

He answered me with a sleepy, “hmmm?”

“Take those ear plugs out! Why should I be the only one suffering here? What should we do??!!" I repeated.

“Don’t scream again,” was all he could offer.

“Let’s call the police. What are we paying all these village taxes for? There must be an ordinance about barking dogs.”

“OK,” he said, “Call the police.”

“You call them,” I said, dialing the number and handing him the phone. “You’re the man; they'll listen to you. They’ll think I’m just some hysterical woman.”

I stood in front of the window, watching for the police car that never came. They were just humoring him when they told him they would drive by and take a look. I could just imagine them laughing it up at the station. Just wait until I get another envelope from them asking for a contribution.

“You should have sounded meaner, been more forceful. You should have told the cops that this mutt barks every night, not just tonight. This can’t go on all summer! We have to get up early for work and we need our sleep! Why didn’t you tell him all that?” I realize I’m ranting, but can’t stop myself.

On our 5:30 AM morning walk, today, my poor husband was tripping over his own feet. I was still angry and the adrenaline made me walk even faster than I usually do. My mind was also racing, thinking of strategies.

Do I pay a visit to our neighbors at this wee hour of 5:30 AM, ring their doorbell and say something pithy like: “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

Do I ask my son for his bb gun? Should I get a laser pointer and shine it through the window on their foreheads at night? Maybe I’ll bang some pot lids outside their windows just before sunrise?

I’m trying to remember a Seinfeld episode. What did Elaine do with that yapping mutt in her apartment complex? Did she hire someone to get rid of it?

Should I write a letter to them? My husband did that with another neighbor several years ago, when their sprinklers woke him up every morning at 4:00 AM. The letter was not received well and they have remained aloof, but the sprinklers were reset to go off at a later hour and the problem was resolved.

I wouldn’t care if the neighbors never talk to us again as long as the yapping stops at night. I thought about submitting an editorial to my local newspaper, signed anonymously, of course, hoping they read it and see themselves in it.

My husband says we should just go outside when we see them and talk to them about the dog.

“You do it,” I tell him. “I hate confrontation.”

My Writing Hiatus Ends

2010-05-21T10:05:00.000-04:00

It has been five weeks since my last blog. Somehow this sounds like the beginning of a Catholic confession. If I say three Hail Mary’s will I be forgiven?

No! says my writer’s conscience.. A serious writer writes every day. No excuses.

But, I had a good excuse. I bought an iphone and have been downloading apps, looking at subway maps, listening to books on tape, checking out the latest new apps.

You should have been writing!

But, truthfully, no one is reading this blog anyway – except my mother, my family and my close friends. They have to read it. I have them set up so they receive the posts in their e-mail box, whether they want them or not.

It doesn’t matter if no one reads your blog. You write because you must. You write for yourself, if you have to, just to hone your skills.

But the iphone is so much fun! Who knew a phone could do so much? I can check my e-mail, play games, read books, listen to books, listen to music, take pictures and videos. Why, I just posted a video I took on my phone to You Tube this morning. How cool is that??

Cool, schmool. That silly video isn’t going to get you anywhere. I’ve seen it and it stinks.

I know, but I had fun learning how to do it. The next one will be better. I promise.

OK, OK, you are forgiven. Are you ready to start working on your writing again?

Yes.

Well then. You can start by saying three Hail Mary’s, and two Our Father’s. Begin with the Act of Contrition.

Oh, my God, I am truly sorry for having offended thee…

{pause} I forgot the rest of the words. Luckily there is an app for that. It’s called Pocket Prayer Pro – and it’s free!

Sleepless in Long Island

2010-04-15T08:58:00.000-04:00

I just returned the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. Thirteen dollars for return shipping, but, honestly I would have paid anything just to get the damn thing out of the house. It was sitting on my dining room table for three days - brand new and not even unpacked completely. I couldn’t even lift it out of the tight styrofoam packaging. When I removed the outside box to reveal all the pieces, I found an instructional CD as well as a booklet of instructions for assembly. That did it for me. Anything that complicated was too scary for me. And I feared that I would never be able to get it packed exactly right when I wanted to return it, so I just left it sitting there.

On the second day, waving his arm over the dining room table full of boxes and blender parts wrapped in plastic sticking out of styrofoam packaging, my husband asked, “What’s all this mess?”

“Just ignore it; I’m returning it,” I answered.

I wouldn’t even try it for the sixty day trial period. I knew the moment I hung up the phone, after the woman took my order, that I would be returning it. Even before it arrived, I was thinking, I wonder how much it’s going to cost to return the darn thing.

I’ve done this before. I wake up at 3:00 in the morning, roll over and realize that I still haven’t digested my dinner. Something is wrong somewhere in my digestive tract and I feel like if I could just sit up and burp everything would be alright. Except, when I sit up, I realize the dinner I had at 7:00 PM isn’t going anywhere fast.

I stumble downstairs, boil some water for a cup of peppermint tea, settle into the recliner and find that position that will make it tolerable for the next hour or so until I can burp or do whatever gastronomical emission is necessary to get this sludge moving down the pipes and on its way.

At 3:00 AM there isn’t much to watch when you have the cheapest cable TV program money will buy – channels 2 through 21. But that particular night I hit on something big. Montel Williams was doing a show on the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. I watched in awe for almost an hour while they pulverized vegetables, fruits, nuts and even a piece of brick. Yes, a piece of brick was actually ground down to grey sand. I leaned forward for a closer look and burped. Ahhh

I was feeling better already and thought, this must be fate that I’m up at this hour to see this amazing Health Master Blender! I reached for a pencil and wrote the phone number down, but I wouldn’t call just yet; I wasn’t 100% convinced that I needed another appliance in the house. After all, I’m not new at this. I’ve done this before. Sitting up all alone at night, you order stuff just to feel like you’re not the only one awake at this god forsaken hour. Who else can you call at 3:30 in the morning besides LL Bean or the Health Master Blender order taker?

A few months earlier, while I was trying to digest another heavy dinner, I ordered the amazing Mandolin Slicer-Dicer-Shredder. I knew I had to have this appliance. The guy doing the demo was slicing vegetables with the speed and accuracy of a Samurai and spinning around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. Watching him, you would swear he had more than two arms working at once. In a mere ten minutes he had an entire kitchen table and two countertops full of an assortment of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, olives, hard-boiled eggs and even a rubber ball.

I never bothered to return the Amazing Mandolin. After slicing my fingers up just trying to get it out of the packaging to put it together, then mashing every vegetable I tried to slice into a mushy blob, I threw all the pieces into a large paper bag and tossed it into the garbage. I couldn’t risk losing a finger trying to repackage it and I didn’t want my husband to know I had ordered such a stupid thing in the first place. Except for a few band aids on my fingertips, that I explained as quilting mishaps, I left no trace of my foolish late night purchase.

But now Montel was introducing real people who had used the Health Master Blender and lost 30, 40, even 50 pounds, drinking nutritious vegetable smoothies. How fortunate I was to be up at this hour, to witness this amazing appliance that would change my life forever. I was dialing, credit card in hand, so excited I could feel a little ripple of gas escaping. Ahhh, more relief.

“Yes, I want to order the Montel Williams Health Master Blender! I’ll pay in the four easy installments,” I said, when the sweet talking southern woman answered the phone.

“If you pay in full tonight, we’ll upgrade you to the professional blender – the chef’s model– at no extra charge..”

“Yes! I’ll pay in full tonight.” Burp! “ Excuse me.”

When it came time for me to begin reading off the numbers on my VISA card, I faltered slightly and began asking more questions: Can you really grind up a brick? How strong is the motor? What kind of warranty is offered? Is the container glass or plastic? Is it very heavy? How much does the whole thing weigh? What are the exact dimensions? and, finally, Where is the blender made? Because if it’s made in China, I don’t want it. I don’t trust anything coming out of China!

All of my questions were answered satisfactorily except the last one. After she put me on hold for quite a while, the phone assistant finally came back on the line and admitted that no one there at the switchboard knew where the unit was manufactured.

“Why don’t you just order the blender,” she said, sounding more exhausted than I was. “We have a 60-day, no questions asked, return policy.”

And true to their sales marketing, there were no questions asked when I called to return the Montel Williams Master Blender that had arrived three days earlier in an oversized, very heavy box that had Made In China stamped in bold lettering and in plain sight.

With the Montel Williams Master Blender out of the house, at last, I know I’ll sleep much better tonight.

That Russian Orphan

2010-04-13T07:44:00.002-04:00

Have you been listening to the news these days, following the story about that Russian boy who was adopted by an American woman and then returned to Russia? The media slant - and the media always takes a slant - is portraying her as some cruel, irrational person. Who would send a child back, unaccompanied, on a plane to Russia?

The Russian foreign minister is outraged by this incident, saying, in an interview with ABC News' George Stephanopoulos, that the actions of the American parent were "monstrous, immoral and against the law." I watched the Today Show interview this morning as Matt Lauer asked the American author, who wrote a book about the adoption process in Russia, if there were any unique issues about that process. Here is her answer:

I got my child from Baby House #6. There were 106 children there where they were lined up in pack-n-play cribs. The children were cared for and loved.

He then asked if there was a higher incidence of emotional issues in Russian orphans. Here was her chance to shed light on the truth of how Russia treats their orphans. She came close, but I doubt anyone will pick up on her last sentence before the interview ended. Here is what she said:

Well, to some degree there is. There are attachment issues and sensory issues. It's very difficult for these children who spend almost 20 hours a day in their cribs.

I'll repeat that, in case you missed it: these children spend 20 hours a day in their cribs.

If you want to read further about the real abuse these children go through at the hands of the Russian orphanage system, I urge you to go to your local library and look for the book: The Boy From Baby House 10. From The Nightmare Of A Russian Orphanage To A New Life In America, by Alan Philips and John Lahutsky

This book is so disturbing to read; I often get a queasy stomach and have to put it down for a day or two. The conditions described in Russian orphanages is so horrific that they would be illegal in America. In fact, they would be illegal by ASPCA standards.

The book follows the life of a young Russian boy born prematurely with some disabilities, and, as a result, is diagnosed as retarded. He is bounced back and forth between the orphanage, an insane asylum and a hospital. Each place is worse than the one before it, and you start to pray that this child will simply die, just to escape the inhumane vile treatment he receives.

He is confined to one room for his entire first seven years and told to keep silent whenever he tries to speak on his own. He spends most of the day in a high-sided iron crib, lying in his own excrement, screaming himself to sleep. He never learned to walk because his muscles were unable to develop from lying in a crib all day. Instead, he would slither on the floor like a snake when no one was watching, because if he got caught out of his seat at mealtimes, he would be punished. I wouldn't give my pet dog the slop he was fed at mealtime. If the caregivers cited in this book ran a facility like that in America, they would have gone to jail for the cruel treatment they bestowed on these helpless children.

That's why I'm appalled by the sanctimonious reaction of the Russian foreign minister and others in the Russian orphanage system who are now threatening to withdraw any further applications for American adoptions. They are citing incidents of death among Russian children who were adopted by American parents. They do not cite the condition that these children are in when they arrive in this country, a result of the atrocious unhealthy upbringing during the most formative early childhood years in their Russian orphanages - conditions that could possibly contribute to their deaths after they arrive here.

Putting this boy on a plane back to Russia is not the outrage we should be focusing on. The real outrage is the immoral and inhumane conditions these helpless children are forced to endure in Russian orphanages. The Russian foreign minister should be outraged at his own country and their lack of adequate care for innocent helpless children in orphanages and their erroneous medical diagnoses that doom some children to a lifetime of hell when they land in an insane asylum.

I urge you to find a copy of this book. If you don't have time to read the entire book, open the middle of the book at page 112 and look at the horrific pictures. I guarantee you won't be able to put the book down. And, if nothing else, you will see the other side of this story, the side the Russians don't want the world to know about.

My Day OFF

2010-04-08T17:46:00.004-04:00

I had a day off today. Accent on the word: OFF

In my mind a day off means exactly that. A day off. Off from work, off from responsibilities, appointments, demands. It also means a day off from fun, if I choose it to be that way.

On my day off I put the alarm clock under the bed and wake up when my body decides to awaken. If I decide to stay in my pajamas until 1:00 PM, and eat M&M’s and coffee for breakfast, no one is going to stop me. The idea of lunch might not occur to me at all because I’ve been picking on cookies and fruit all day.

I won’t make the bed, clean the bathroom or straighten up the kitchen all day. It’s my day off. I will take in the mail, but I won’t open any bills.

I don’t want to feel like I have to justify a day off or do something on my day off to make the off-time worthwhile. Why should I? Haven’t I been busy enough all week? Don’t I deserve to just do nothing on a day off?

So why, then, do I stutter like a guilty child when my husband calls in the middle of the day and asks, “So, what are you doing on your day off?” I draw a blank, I falter and pause and try to think up something –anything - that I’ve done in the past three hours that might justify my free time.

“I did some laundry and got an idea for my blog,” I say, hoping that those are adequate activities to justify the past six hours.

“It’s beautiful out today,” he answers. “Haven't you been out yet? You should go out somewhere today. Why don’t you take your mother to the beach and walk along the boardwalk, or pack a lunch and go to the park?”

I want to tell him to butt out of my day off. Don’t be planning things for me to do. Damn the sunshine. Why couldn’t it be raining today? Do I have to feel guilty here because it is such a beautiful day and I’m still in my pajamas (I didn't tell him that) and I’ve wasted the entire morning and half the afternoon sitting in front of my laptop watching the new Mac iPad demos and seeing what’s new for Spring at Talbot’s online?

“I don’t know if I’ll be going out today; I’ve got a lot of things on the agenda,” I lie.

“Oh, too bad,” he says. “Well, try and relax a little. After all, it is your day off.”

Why Men Are Happier

2010-04-06T07:01:00.005-04:00

I'm experiencing brain drain this week. I don't know if it is the beautiful weather that beckons me away from this desk, or just a fog in my head from the newly bursting flowers and pollen in the air. Whatever the reason, I do not have an original piece to post for this week. Instead, I am sharing with you something that still gives me a chuckle, no matter how many times I read it. This was one of those e-mail chains I received and passed along to some of my women friends, but it is so good, it is worthy of a reprint for all of you who haven't seen it yet. Hope you enjoy it and find some humor - and some truth - in a few of the observations.

Men Are Just Happier People-- What do you expect from such simple creatures?
Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack. You can be President. You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park. Car mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky. You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character.

Wedding dress $5,000. Tux rental-$100. People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them. The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet. One mood all the time. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about tanks. A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase. You can open all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.

Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are more than enough. You almost never have strap problems in public. You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes. Everything on your face stays its original color. The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades. You only have to shave your face and neck.

You can play with toys all your life. Your belly usually hides your big hips. One wallet and one pair of shoes - one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.

You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25minutes.
No wonder men are happier!

The Coffee Party

2010-03-29T12:17:00.011-04:00

Someone should tell the new Tea Party members that coffee is the preferred beverage in America. A National Coffee Association survey done in the year 2000 found that more than half of the adult population of the United States drinks coffee daily, and 25% of Americans drink coffee occasionally. That leaves very few tea drinkers – a minority, to be sure. Phew! Well, that makes me feel better about things.

Reading the New York Times Week in Review section this weekend, an article by Benedict Carey, Mad as Hell. And…Then What? had me on the edge of my seat. This new Tea Party seems bent on creating havoc and violence in our country, but we, in the Coffee Party, far outnumber them, so no matter how loud they scream, we can surely drown them out by our numbers alone.

We, in the Coffee Party, know that tea just doesn’t cut it when you need to wake up in the morning and perform at your best. You can spot a tea drinker a mile away. They are the dreamy eyed sleep-walkers who block your way on the steps leading down to the subway platform. They are the poky drivers who plant themselves in the left lane. They are the slurred talkers, the pasty-faced bank tellers, the slow-as-molasses cashiers, the dopey faced waitress who never smiles and always gets your order wrong. You know them; you’ve seen them, worked beside them.

Some days, the smell of coffee is the only thing that makes my body rise up from the mattress and walk down the stairs. I take a thermos to work with me – just in case there is no coffee pot on the job. I even ask if there will be coffee served before I commit to attend a late night meeting. My son says I’m no different from a drug addict. I tell him, “So be it.”

When my son’s freshman college average was teetering on the borderline of losing his scholarship, my husband gave him a serious lecture about time management, priorities and hard work. I simply told him, “Try drinking some coffee now and then.”

Offer your surly boss a cup of coffee some time and watch the transformation from animal to gentle-human. And think about this…If a cute guy asks, "Would you like to go out for a cup of coffee sometime?" who wouldn't say, "yes!"? If, instead, he asked: "Would you like to go out for a cup of tea sometime?" tell the truth, now - you would be thinking, Is he straight? Is he weird?

Coffee is embedded in our culture. It is as American as apple pie. There is a reason the original Tea Party tossed all that tea overboard. Once they had a taste of coffee, they knew there was no going back to King George's rule or his sissy drink.

So what am I worried about? Let the new Tea Party scream all they want. Most of them are over 50, anyway, and will be in bed by 9:30. Tea just doesn't have the staying power that coffee does. Coffee rules.

That's The Way Boys Are

2010-03-22T20:21:00.003-04:00

One of my favorite songs of the early 60’s was, That’s The Way Boys Are, by Lesley Gore. This song was #12 on the Billboard charts when I was twelve years old, in 1964. I heard it on the radio the other day and cranked up the volume as I threw down the potato I was peeling and started dancing and singing into a wooden spoon in my kitchen. For a few silly moments, I was twelve again. I was young and innocent to the ways of life and love and men and it was wonderful – until I listened to the words. I had to stop singing. The fact that my husband had just walked through the door had nothing to do with it. It was the lyrics; they were ridiculous!

It’s a good thing Aretha Franklin came out with Respect a few years later, in 1967. She may have, single handedly, saved a generation of women – myself included!

I've written the lyrics to both of these songs and juxtaposed them together in a different font. See which one you identify with!

When I'm with my guy and he watches all the pretty girls go by
And I feel so hurt deep inside I wish that I could die
Not a word do I say, I just look the other way
'cause that's the way boys are
That's the way boys are

What you want
Baby, I got
What you need Do you know I got it?
All I'm askin'
Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)

When he treats me rough and he acts as though he doesn't really care
Well I never tell him that he is so unfair
‘cause he loves me and I know it;
but he's just afraid to show it
cause that's the way boys are
That's the way boys are

I ain't gonna do you wrong while you're gone
Ain't gonna do you wrong, 'cause I don't wanna
All I'm askin'
Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)

Oh, when he wants to be alone,
I just let him be
'cause I know that soon enough
He will come back to me

I'm about to give you all of my money
And all I'm askin' in return, honey
Is to give me my profits
When you get home

When we have a fight I think that I won't see him anymore
Then before I know it, there he is standin' at my door
Well I let him kiss me then,
'cause I know he wants me back again
That's the way boys are
Yes the way boys are

Ooo, your kisses,Sweeter than honey
And guess what?
So is my money
All I want you to do for me
Is give it to me when you get home
Whip it to me (respect, just a little bit)
When you get home, now

Oh! I love him (that's the way boys are)
Well now, that's the way boys are (that's the way boys are)
I said, that's the way boys are (that's the way boys are)

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Find out what it means to me
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Take care, TCB

(re, re, re) 'spect
When you come home
Or you might walk in
And find out I'm gone
I got to have
A little respect (just a little bit)

Now, I'm glad Aretha had the last word on this.

Romancing The Storm

2010-03-18T21:31:00.003-04:00

Before this weekend’s Nor’easter blew in, my idea of a cozy storm went something like this: There is a blazing fire roaring in the fireplace and the room is toasty warm. My husband and I are lying on a soft furry rug sipping wine and gazing into each other’s eyes. The wind is roaring outside and tree limbs are snapping off. We snuggle up. And then the inevitable happens: passion and romance. In my dream, there was always romance when the lights went out.

But things never turn out the way you imagine them. Anyone who knows me, can tell you that I romanticize a lot about being stranded in a cabin during a winter storm with nothing but my books and a few dimly lit candles. But when the dream comes true, it is a nightmare.

I realized, this weekend, that dimly lit candles are only romantic when they are an option. When they become your only source of light for three days, they become annoying real fast.

And there is nothing romantic about going without a bath for two or three days. When the only options for personal hygiene are an ice cold shower or the tepid murky water of a sponge bath, you opt out of both and choose to stay a safe distance away from your mate.

My primary concern this weekend was simply keeping warm. It was all about building up the layers from the inside out. It didn’t matter if the shirts were ironed or the colors matched because my top layer was a down-filled coat that covered everything down to my shoes. In fact, contrary to my previous feelings about being stranded in a storm, romance never entered my mind this weekend - until my husband came up with his idea for keeping warm.

“I know one way we can keep warm,” he suggested with a wink and a gleam in his eye, “but I’ve got to freshen up a bit first.” With no hot water for a shower, he took the other option - an old fashioned sponge bath.

A half hour later, he swaggered into the kitchen, and fixed himself a cocktail, extolling the wonders of the sponge bath. “I feel so fresh!” he exclaimed. “You should take a sponge bath too.”

A weak, “M-a-y-b-e,” was all I could muster. With the thermostat reading 50 degrees indoors, and the wind blowing through the walls, it was going to take a lot more than a wink and a sponge bath to get something going with me tonight.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that cold,” he chuckled. Then, seeing my hesitation, he added, “What do the Eskimos do?”

We ate dinner by candlelight, with lots of wine, and I finally began to warm up enough to remove my coat and hat. My husband offered to do the dishes so I could “get ready.”

“Go take your sponge bath,” he urged me, and I left him humming a tune over the static on the transistor radio, happy in his task and full of expectations for the evening ahead.

“Don’t forget to boil the water first,” I reminded him, “so you can clean the dishes with some nice hot water…” and as I said the words, I realized that I would not be taking that murky sponge bath, after all, since he was using the only kettle we had to boil water to wash the dishes. Oh, well.

I headed upstairs anyway, a little groggy from too much wine, but very mellow and very warm. I began undressing and redressing for bed. Layers came off and new ones piled on: a turtleneck cotton shirt, long undies, woolen socks pulled up to my knees, a heavy flannel nightgown, gloves and hat.

I took a book and a lantern to bed, but in a matter of moments, my eyelids began to droop, so I blew out the lantern, burrowed into the chilly sheets and pulled my hat down over my face.

Some time later, my husband awakened me from a distant dream as he slid into bed, grunting and gasping in quick shortened breaths from the shock of cold air on skin.

“Still feeling romantic?” I murmured from under my hat.

“Are you?” he asked.

“I asked you first.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Tell you what,” I dared him. “You start. Take off your hat and socks and let me know if you’re still in the mood.”

“Brrr! Jeez!” was the romantic response I got from the other side of the bed.

I waited a moment and nothing more was forthcoming, so I pulled my hat back down over my face, leaving just enough room for my two nostrils to take in the cold night air.

The Princess and The Queen

2010-03-08T10:27:00.002-05:00

My granddaughter turned three last week. When I saw her in her poufy party dress, sparkly pink shoes, pink gloves and little costume jewelry pearls, I had to remind myself to inhale. She simply took my breath away.

Having raised three boys of my own, and having grown up with two brothers, I never experienced the wonder of a little girl turned princess. As a child, my older brother’s outgrown pants became my play clothes and my Buster Brown leather tied school shoes were also my party shoes, just polished up a bit.

When I asked my mother, recently, why she never dressed me up like a princess she told me they couldn’t afford to be frivolous. "Besides," she told me, "those Buster Brown shoes were better for a young child’s developing feet." My mother was frugal and practical – a bad combination for nurturing a little princess.

As I was growing up, my mother told me many stories about the women in her family. One was about her cousin who was always dressed up in frilly clothes and was called “princess” by her father, even after she was married. As a child, she wasn’t allowed to get her pretty clothes dirty when she played outdoors. Later, as a young woman, she would spend hours primping herself to get ready for a date. “So much for being a princess,” my mother told me. “She ended up marrying a bum who smacked her around. And she didn’t have the guts to stand up to him.”

Then there was her aunt, a delicate beauty in the Roaring 20’s, with dark wavy hair who “dressed to the nines” and was very popular with the men. She married a very attractive man who loved to go out dancing at night – without my aunt. She ended up with an indelicate social disease that prevented her from having children and a marriage that ended in divorce. My mother always ended this story with a warning: “Don’t marry a good dancer. He’ll leave you home alone when you’re pregnant and go looking for a good time.”

Then, there was a sister-in-law who ignored her husband when he belittled her and talked down to her in company. She would giggle, as if his nasty comments were humorous. “He gives her nice clothes to wear and treats her like an imbecile,” my mother would say. “Don’t ever let a man treat you that way.”

Back in the 1950's, there was the woman on our block who dressed in tight fitting pencil skirts and high heels, wore makeup and red lipstick every day, and walked with her chin a little higher than the rest of us. Her hair was done up on top of her head, not pushed back with a headband, like my mother’s. We would often look out the front window and catch her striking leggy poses while watering the front lawn with a garden hose. “Who does she think she is?” my mother would say, laughing and imitating her poses, “a princess or something?”

These, and other stories about the women in my family, were the influential anecdotes that shaped my little girl mind. Without lecturing me directly on the subject, my mother was teaching me that the value of a woman lies not in her physical appearance but in her personal strength and knowing who she really is inside. She taught me the importance of standing up for yourself and your integrity – even if it means standing up to a man and the authority he may hold over you. That may not be proper behavior for a princess, but, perhaps, without knowing it, my mother was grooming me for a higher position.

So, when we were studying English History in high school and my best friend asked me one day, “Who would you rather be back then? The princess or the queen?” I answered without a moment’s hesitation.

“The queen,” I said. “Definitely, The Queen.”

Let It Snow!

2010-02-26T11:01:00.003-05:00

It has been forty-plus years since I’ve walked the halls of my neighborhood high school and I still get a thrill out of hearing the snow report school closings. My husband doesn’t understand my thinking. I don’t work in a school and I no longer have any school age children living at home. I am a bookkeeper who finds my own clients. I make my own hours and can reschedule a job any day of the week to give myself a day off. Yet, I get excited when a fierce snowstorm shuts everything down.

There is an electrical charge in the air right before a snowstorm. Total strangers will strike up a conversation about the impending storm. People are united in their fear and anticipation. Excitement builds throughout the day before a storm, when people at work start talking about the predicted snow accumulations and asking, I wonder if it will be bad enough to give us a day off? I get pulled into the frenzy with them and express my hopes for a snow day off, even though I know I will be postponing any job I have for the next day if I awaken to see just one flake of white stuff in the street.

Everyone you speak to, from the street vendor to the sales clerk, ends the conversation with an enthusiastic, “good luck tomorrow!” I call my husband at work and tell him we must go grocery shopping after dinner to prepare for the storm and he reminds me of the freezer I have in my garage that is already full of loaves of bread, home made cookies, cooked soups, tomato sauce, meatballs and other frozen leftovers that I squirrel away for nights when I come home late.

“But you are almost out of milk!” I tell him, my voice edging on panic. “Let’s at least get you some milk and toilet paper; just the necessities, in case we can’t get out for a few days.”

We always split up in the grocery store: two wagons, two lists. I make up both the lists and I put him on the cold cuts line, to buy me some extra time to read package labels and pick out the best fruit. I tell him to buy anything he thinks we might need, even if it isn’t on the list, because, normally, he will put nothing in his wagon that isn’t on his list.

When we are finished shopping my wagon is spilling over and he has the original six items on his list, plus one bag of potato chips. My wagon has M & M candies, Devil Dogs, bags of flour and sugar for baking cookies in the storm, some butter cookies - in case the lights go out and I can’t bake cookies in the storm.

The total comes to $243… just the necessities for two people in a snow storm.

Sex, Drugs And Baby Boomers

2010-02-22T11:44:00.002-05:00

I am a Baby Boomer, a member of the generation who said we would never grow old. With all the anti-ageing tricks available - hair coloring, face lifting, tummy tucks, hair implants, breast implants – you can go on fooling yourself for a long time. But if you happen to catch The Who performing at Super Bowl half-time, you just might run to the nearest mirror and wonder: Do I look as old as they do?

The pharmaceutical companies have us duped into believing that we can turn back the clock and feel like we did when we were 30. They advertise pills that can cure anything from an overactive bladder to erectile dysfunction (conditions that our parents might only whisper about behind doctors’ closed doors). Now we are bombarded with TV commercials showing two sexually satiated giddy 50-ish people dancing, golfing and soaking in hot tubs, while a high-speed garbled voice-over lists the possible side effects from dry mouth to death.

With the development of Viagra came a plethora of drugs for sexual enhancement for those of us who are at that age when our mind has enough spark to jolt the engine but not enough to get the pistons to rise to the occasion.

One sex drug promises that if you take their pill once a day, “you can be ready anytime the moment is right.” But, it also warns, if you get chest pain, dizziness or nausea during sex you should get medical help right away. Bummer! You might also get a headache and an upset stomach, ringing in the ears and loss of vision. Can you hear me now??? And here is the kicker… In rare events, you might have an erection for more than four hours. Now, I wonder, what would my husband do with that problem all night after I’ve rolled over and nodded off to sleep?

I say, instead of spending millions of dollars in research and development for more powerful sex enhancing drugs, for a generation of old farts who’ve already had their heyday, why don’t the pharmaceutical companies develop a medication that can cure a sinus infection without giving you diarrhea for a month?

We had our time, when hormones ran wild and our bodies were virile and sexy, and love and lust were blended into one emotion. There is one reason alone that nature made us such horny beasts between the ages of 18 and 45, and that is to procreate. Once we’ve done that, in the eyes of mother nature, we’ve used up our usefulness in the great Mandala of life. Because we are living longer, we think that we should continue to behave like young people, but I’m telling you, don’t believe the hype; 50 is not the new 30, no matter what little pill you take.

By now most of us Baby Boomers are already ushering in a new generation of grandchildren. Remember learning the facts of life and imagining your parents doing it? That was bad enough. Do the poor kids today have to look at grandma and grandpa with the same creepy thought?

Forget those sexual enhancement drugs that can kill you with a severe drop in blood pressure and heart attacks. Who wants to go blind and lose their hearing before their time? Besides, most of the women I know over 50 would much rather see their partner reach into their tool box and pull out a screwdriver or a hammer. And if you’ve got four hours to kill in the middle of the night, and you need a little action, you can quietly paint the ceilings.

What Really Matters

2010-02-13T15:57:00.002-05:00

I had a wake up call the other day. It came in the form of an incapacitating dizzy spell that lasted for 24 hours. One day I was going about my normal activities and the next night I was crawling back to bed on my hands and knees, unable to stand upright for fear of falling down. I spent the entire next day lying in my recliner, getting up only to make the necessary trips to the bathroom, and holding onto the walls for balance.

Do you ever wonder what goes through someone’s mind when they are lying incapacitated, unable to read or listen to music or watch TV? Not much; I can tell you firsthand. You lie there and focus on a spot on the ceiling until you fall asleep. You notice all the details in the room: the cracked line where the paint meets the molding on the ceiling, the flaked paint around the unfinished door, the curtain that doesn’t quite hang straight. You just stare at these details and let your mind go blank until you don’t even see the thing you are staring at.

You leave the world behind and cringe at the sound of life beyond your window – people slamming car doors and driving off to their destinations, the mailman filling your mailbox and slamming the lid down. The worst sound of all is the telephone ringing because it cracks a hole in the comfortable silent cocoon you have wrapped around yourself and trys to yank you out by your hair.

Nothing matters at all when you feel so sick that you can’t even sip water from a straw without the accompanying ripple of nausea. And the familiar twinge telling you that you must walk to the bathroom now! makes you break out in a sweat. And making that trip with your head spinning upside down, like the worst roller coaster ride you ever had, eats up all of your energy for the entire day.

You forget about the work you are missing that day. You don’t care that the boss may be annoyed that you missed the important meeting and didn’t take the calls from the office. You know everyone is thinking, no one get’s that sick that they can’t even answer their e-mails! Everything that was so urgent and important yesterday seems like silly nonsense today.

You don’t think about the trips you never took or the career path you should have gone down. You forget the important appointments you missed and the chances you passed up. You don’t care that you haven’t taken a shower and your hair is dirty and there may be hairs growing out of your chin that no one should ever see.

I will tell you what did matter as I started feeling better that day. When I awoke from a long sleep and sat up to realize that my head was no longer spinning, I became aware that my mother was still in the room. She had been there with me all day, silent and napping in the recliner beside me when I was sleeping, jumping up to help me walk to the bathroom several times, then hovering outside the bathroom door asking, are you alright in there?

This is what really matters: To have people who care for you and love you when you are at your lowest point. To have someone sit beside you all day and have the energy of their concern and love and prayers be the healing energy that pulls you back from the edge and drags you back to life. You can’t buy that kind of love. No promotion, no vacation, no thrill, no amount of money matters as much. To feel that kind of love is to have everything you need on this earth and to know that that is all that really matters.

Beware of Dog

2010-02-06T09:18:00.013-05:00

The lopsided rusty Beware of Dog sign still hangs on the gate leading into my parents’ back yard. There hasn’t been a dog in the yard for over forty years, so I asked my father recently why he keeps it hanging there.

“Leave it there,” he said. “It makes people think twice about coming into the yard.”

When Duke, our German Shepherd, was in his prime, there was a game that the kids in the neighborhood would play. It was a game of dare. Someone would dare some clueless kid to simply lift the metal latch on the gate and let it fall back into place. At the point of contact there was a single note, a clink! Then the count would begin: one -one thousand - two - one thousand - three - one thousand… No one lasted much longer than a few seconds with their hand on the gate before Duke would come charging around the side of the house, teeth barred, ears pointed, hair standing up on his back, barking and crashing into the fence. The fence is still bowed out, to this day, from Duke bashing it in his attempt to get at his tormentor.

When we got Duke he was a sweet little puppy, very loving and gentle. But soon, my father was training him to respond to sounds of entry, like the tinkling doorbell or the metal latch clicking open at the outside gate, or the front door opening. When the doorbell rang, my father would call, “Duke! Duke!” then he would growl like a dog, bark and grit his teeth while commanding in Italian, “Mangia le! Mangia le!” (Eat him!). This is how my father taught our pet dog to be a watch dog.

It is no wonder that my father often opened the front door to find no one there. Who, in their right mind, would stick around on our porch with a vicious German Shepherd barking behind the door, and my father barking and growling beside the dog, while bellowing out, “Who’s there!? Mangia le!”

When I started dating I would have such anxiety thinking about the scene my would-be boyfriend would eventually encounter when he came to my house to pick me up. It was a true test of character that my boyfriends had to endure just to pass through the threshold of our home. Before I would agree to a date with a guy, I would access him myself. Could he pass the test of my father’s vice grip hand shake, the steely eye contact? Would he make it past my overprotective dog? Was this guy really worth it?

If he could make it through those first few minutes out on the porch, he would then be face to face with my father - a large, broad-chested man dressed in a semi-transparent undershirt that revealed his full muscular chest of dark curly hair and bulked up biceps that stretched the very fibers of his t-shirt to their limits.

Before he even greeted the boy, my father would open the front door while he continued yelling commands to our barking German shepherd, who leaped up to greet the house guest at eye level, slamming into the glass storm door with his front legs. Dad would then show his own strength by flexing his huge bicep, grabbing the dog’s collar and yelling in a deep throaty dog-like growl, “Sit! Sit! Sit, goddammit! I told you to SIT!” The dog would take a few moments to calm down, his tongue would be hanging out dripping saliva and he was alert and ready to leap at the next command of Mangia Le!. This went on with every first greeting. It was a show of strength and warning. Don’t mess with my daughter!

If the young man had any ideas of impropriety with me before ringing that doorbell, they were certainly replaced by primal fear and silent prayers of redemption.

My calm well-mannered boyfriend, the one who many years later would become my husband, found that display of brute strength by man and dog humorous and would not be intimidated or deterred by it. He continued to ring my doorbell and even went so far as to kiss me in front of the overly protective growling Duke. This boy and that dog had a hate-hate relationship for months, pushing it to the limits, until one lovely spring day when we pushed Duke too far.

My boyfriend was walking me home from school that day. We approached the gate with the lopsided “Beware Of Dog” sign hanging from years of Duke bashing into it in his attempt to get the mailman, the UPS man or anyone of the neighborhood kids who played their game of daring Duke. After loudly clanking the latch a few times, we paused a moment, as we always did, to be sure he wasn’t in the yard. I called out, “D–u-k-e, D-u-k-i-eee?” in the sing-song voice I used to get his attention.

My boyfriend, laughing aloud, imitated me in a high falsetto, “Oh, D-u-k-i-e; Dukie boy?” We were only met by the sounds of chirping birds and gentle spring breezes so we proceeded boldly around the back of the house, my boyfriend walking in front of me, both of us laughing as he continued his silly dog calls.

It all happened so quickly: my boyfriend crouched and running across the lawn, his books scattered in his path, Duke running after him, boyfriend on the ground rolling and moaning with his hands in his crotch, Duke yanking at the end of his chain, trying to break free so he could finish the job, hovering with his tongue hanging out only inches over my boyfriend’s head. I stood frozen in my tracks. What happened? I never heard a growl or a warning bark to let us know he was there.

My mother ran out of the house chasing the dog with her dust rag, calling, “Duke! Duke! Get back on this porch!” The dog pausing a moment to think about this, then loping back to his place on the back porch alertly watching his prey as it writhed on the lawn like a caterpillar that’s been poked with a stick.

“Is he alright?” my mother called out to me. We had only been dating six months, so I didn’t know how I would check his injuries. All indications were that he had been hit in that spot that makes guys curl up and die.

“Are you alright?” I asked meekly, still standing far away from him. He only moaned louder.

“Can I get you an ice pack?” my mother called from the porch steps. “Was he bitten?” mom asked me. “Should I call an ambulance?”

We heard a low groan from the lawn. “I think he said no,” I reported back to my mother. I looked over at Duke and I swear that dog was gloating. Is it possible for a dog to smile? I could see one curling on his mouth as he was panting, his tongue hanging out, eyes all sparkly.

“Bad dog!” I said to him and he lowered his head a moment and then took a quick peek at his victim in fetal position, lying motionless on the lawn. Yes, that dog was gloating.

The amazing miraculous thing was that this boy kept coming back for more. He continued to ring my doorbell and walk with his arm around my shoulders and even kissed me in front of the growling Duke.

The dog continued to assert his alpha male dominance over my boyfriend in little ways. There was the time Duke devoured the entire heart shaped cake I had made for my boyfriend on Valentine's day.

Then there were the times we would sneak inside after a date, when we knew everyone was asleep and Duke was tucked away in the garage for the night. We would watch an old movie, snuggled up on the TV room couch, but the minute we would start kissing and getting a little frisky, Duke's radar ears would pick up on the heightening emotions and start barking in the garage in an attempt to wake up my father.

The war of dominance eventually ended with Duke's passing. My boyfriend is now my husband, and with thoughts of Valentine's Day approaching I'm thinking about making that heart shaped cake that he never had a chance to see or taste. As for my husband, he does not need to worry about buying me some useless token of love. He already proved his love for me some forty years ago when he defied the Beware of Dog sign and walked into hell and back again, and again and again.

Psychic Tony

2010-02-01T11:31:00.003-05:00

I went to a psychic about five years ago. I brought my mother along for a little coraggio. I’ll admit I was a little nervous and my practical minded 78 year old mother was the perfect companion to soothe my nerves.

“What are you nervous about?” she asked on the drive over there. “You don’t believe this stuff, do you?”

“If I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be spending $75 to hear it.”

“Seventy five dollars? Are you nuts?! Keep your money and let’s go shopping instead.”

“Let’s see what kind of neighborhood he lives in first. If it’s a rundown shack with candles glowing through the windows, we’ll bolt.”

When we pulled in front of the house, my mother summed up the neighborhood with an approving, hmmm. “This is a better neighborhood than we live in.”

When we reached the front door I decided to test Tony’s psychic abilities. “I’m not going to ring the doorbell,” I whispered. “Let’s see if he can feel our presence.” We were a few minutes early, anyway. I was still a little timid about going in – afraid that I might hear bad news. My mother and I had already agreed, on the ride over, that I was only going to believe the good news and discount the bad stuff.

“Nice geraniums,” mom said, pointing up to the hanging pots that filled the wrap around porch. “They are all so healthy looking.”

“Take a closer look,” I told her. “They’re all fake. Who hangs fake geraniums in June?”

“I like this wooden porch,” she said.

“It’s not wood. Touch it and see; it’s that pressurized plastic. Everything is fake here -except these butts.” The tiny table between us held two packs of opened cigarettes and a soup bowl full of burned up cigarette butts.

The front door was suddenly yanked open and out flew a slim man with a slight paunch, and long skinny legs. His receding hairline was slicked back with a thick greasy gel that pasted every strand of dyed black hair in place. A slight red rash creeped below the well manicured matching black goatee.

Seeing us, he stopped short, clicked his heels together, and with a mime's exaggerated look of surprise, he stood with both arms outstretched waiting for us to introduce ourselves.

"I'm Chris, your 9:00 reading," I said.

He ignored me as he grabbed a cigarette from the table, snapped his lighter open and sucked in three short puffs until the tip glowed red. Studying my white haired mother with a peering eye, he squinted through the cigarette smoke, cocked his head to the side and pointed the lit cigarette at her left shoulder. She glanced quickly to see if there was something there to brush off, a bug perhaps.

"There is a gentleman on your left,” he said looking at the air over her left shoulder. “He is there all the time, watching over you." His cheeks caved in as he sucked hard on the cigarette, watching us closely, as my mother and I discussed who it could be.

"It's your father, of course!" I told her, as Tony blew a smoke cloud above our heads.

Mom's mouth was agape as she watched him in awe. Was it the information he gave her that caused her jaw to drop lower, or her latent desire to suck on that cigarette he was flaunting in front of her? I couldn't tell.

He paced back and forth in front of us, head down, concentrating on something. He stopped abruptly and, turning to my mother, said, "He was a piece of bread; capese?" He leaned between us to stub out his cigarette in the cereal bowl and grabbed another. Suck, suck, suck - three short puffs got it glowing red.

"A piece of bread…" mom repeated. “Yes, but he was unhappy,” she added.

"No he wasn't,” his words coming out in puffs of smoke. “What makes you think so?"

"People made a fool of him," mom said, her mouth turning down.

"No! He knew who he was. Anyway he's happy now," Tony dismissed her mood with a wave of his hand, blowing smoke around the top our heads.

"He is?"

"Of course! Everyone is happy up there. They don't have desires or anger or lust or any of the things that we have down here that make us pazzo - crazy - capese?"

"No?" she asked, not quite convinced.

"Of course not! And your father is in a good place. He's very happy. You have to believe that," he mashed his butt stub into the bowl to make his point. “Let’s go inside and begin the reading.”

As the front door opened we heard a mechanical sing-song voice announce, “Front door opened, making entrance.” There was a small camera and a TV screen recording our entry.

I asked to use the bathroom before we began. I locked the bathroom door and searched for cameras behind the mirror and around the ceiling moldings. Nothing. When I was done, I walked out to find Tony and my mother had vanished. I heard voices and followed them toward the kitchen. Empty. I walked back in the direction I came from, peering into a darkened hallway where every door was closed, I knew they couldn't be in there, but I still heard the voices. Muffled voices - they were behind a wall somewhere.

I had the feeling I was being watched – hidden cameras? - so I tried to visually take in the whole house without looking like I was snooping around. I kept my head straight and rolled my eyes around as far as I could to see beyond my peripheral vision. My sneakers made a squeaking sound on the polished wooden floors as I walked slowly back toward the kitchen. I was getting the creeps and would have fled on foot if my mother wasn’t hidden behind one of those doors somewhere. If only I could find her and sneak out. We would go shopping all day and forget this psychic escapade. I called out in a frightened whisper, “mom?”

Tony surprised me and came in the room from a direction that I wasn’t watching. He walked me to the kitchen table, and, pointing randomly, he said, "You sit there," as he scooted off into the darkened hallway and disappeared again behind a door. I wasn’t sure which seat he wanted me in, so I stood there waiting for him to return. Psychic auras being what they are, I wouldn't want to provoke the wrong spirit.

After a few minutes, he burst back into the room, his unbuttoned shirt billowing out behind him like a parachute. Grabbing a bottle of Windex, he sprayed the kitchen table, then vigorously wiped it down.

"I didn't know which seat you wanted me in," I said, still standing where he had left me.

"That one," he said, pointing to the specific seat. "I sit here," he said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table. It figured he would sit at the head of the table. It had to be the best place to channel the spirits. "I can only hear out of this one ear," he explained pointing to his left ear. “That’s why I want you there – on my left. Did you bring a piece of jewelry and the deck of cards?"

I handed him my wedding band and he slipped it halfway up his pinky finger. As I handed him the deck of playing cards, unopened, as he had instructed on the phone, he said, "First, let me tell you that the reading I give you is not the final word. You must listen to a power higher than me. And that is God. He is the supreme power and you must trust in him only. O.K.?" Aha! So that cleared him from anyone blaming him for bad luck.

"Well, I've been praying for guidance," I answered. "some answer to my question, but I haven't seen it yet. That's why I called you."

"O.K. Let's begin."

He slapped the playing cards into neat piles, observed them while scratching his chin, then his forehead, slapped a few more down, squinted at them than looked up and said, “The cards show me a state of confusion. You are trying to come to a decision about something” Didn’t I just tell him that? “….your job?” Good guess.

I answered, “Yes!” a little too quickly. I should have let him tell me more, because for the remaining hour Psychic Tony became Career Coach Tony.

“You’ve got to reinvent yourself,” he told me. “You’re too quick to give up when it gets tough. You’ve got to stick it out, nothing worthwhile comes easy… blahblahblah…”

We went on to discuss cooking and recipes for eggplant parmigiana, pizza dough and meat balls. He told me stories about his old neighborhood in Brooklyn and I laughed alot. He was very entertaining, but not very psychic. After about 45 minutes, I could sense that he was getting fidgety as he kept glancing over to the counter where his cigarettes were. “OK, let’s have a look at the photos you brought.”

He tapped on the faces of the people in the photos, looked at another photo, tapped his forehead and closed his eyes, and, finally the third photo. He shuffled the photos around on top of the table - like that game you play with the cups where you try to find the hidden item under one of the cups. Finally, he said, “Someone is getting married soon and a child will be on the way. There will be a death in the family. A male. Your husband loves you very much.”

“Who is getting married?” I asked. “Who is going to die?” I wasted all my time talking about recipes, and now that I finally had some psychic revelation, it was over.

I jumped out of my seat when, from nowhere, a black cat leaped onto my lap and flicked his tail in my face. “Cleo likes you,” said psychic Tony. “That’s a good sign because cats are psychic too and they know good people immediately.”

“Well, maybe Cleo can tell me who is going to die,” I said. That’s the only reading that I wanted more information about because I knew neither of my sons were ready to get married and I had no doubts about my own marriage.

“Come back for another reading and we can go into more detail,” said Tony. “Do you want to make another appointment now?” he said reaching for his crinkled pack of cigarettes, squeezing them tight.

“Let me see what my schedule is like,” I told him. We both wanted to get out of there for different reasons. I checked my finger to be sure I had my ring back. “Where is my mother?” I asked, as he yanked open a door to reveal her happily knitting in a chair in front of a small TV.

Back in the car my mother wanted to know what he said.

“He said I should work harder to build up my business, someone is going to get married and have a child and my husband loves me. He told me stories about the old days in Brooklyn and we swapped recipes.” I didn’t tell her about the death coming. Even though we decided not to pay attention to the foretelling of bad fortune, I knew it would weigh on her mind, as it was now on mine.

“So what’s the big news?” she said. “That someone is getting married? I wonder who? Peter?... James?... Paul is too young.”

“I’m sure every one of them will be married - eventually. And they will probably all have children – eventually. I already knew my marriage was good. And who doesn’t know that hard work builds up a business? The guy is a chain smoking quack who didn’t tell me anything I don’t already know! And I’m the idiot who just gave him $75 cash!”

“I told you to save your money. Now what are we going to do with the rest of the day?”

“I don’t know, mom. Let’s see if you can read my mind.”

“Well, we already travelled this far, why don’t we go to the Huntington Mall, grab a bite at Starbucks and have a look in Talbot’s?”

“Amazing! And you got it right on the first reading.”

Family Pets

2010-01-22T09:26:00.003-05:00

In the winter, when the weather is cold and nasty, and I’m indoors a lot, I think about getting a pet to keep me company. The children are all grown and moved out, the house is quiet, and I long for a friendly face and a wagging tail to greet me when I come home at night.

My husband pooh-poohs the idea and promises to smile more often and waggle his tail when he greets me at night, and when that doesn’t work he reminds me... “Remember the expense?... Remember what a hassle it was when the dog was sick?... Cleaning up the mess?...Remember when she would roll around in that muck outside and prance through the house smelling like sh..”

I raise my hand to stop him. The urge to have a pet has passed. We have had a few pets through the years – it was never a very good experience, I’ll admit. We just aren’t good pet people. Or maybe we chose the wrong pets.

We went to a shelter to adopt our first pet - a cute little tabby cat that they assured us was a female. I insisted on a female because I didn’t want to deal with a male cat spraying my furniture to mark his territory. I saw one flea on her the night we brought her home, but I caught it, and killed it, and thought that was the end of it.

Within a week, my house was flea infested, and on the first visit to the vet I was informed that my she-tabby was a he. Tabby grew into a huge monster that we all feared. Cuddly was not a word that I would use to describe this cat: nasty, snippy, lazy and fat were more like it – a demonic Garfield.

We had the cat spayed in the hope of sweetening his disposition and to avoid that awful spraying that males will do. This only made him meaner and fatter. The vet suggested having him declawed to stop the vicious scratching. But after his claws were removed, he came after us with his front paws, swinging like a prize fighter, perched up on his two hind legs, running after us.

I packed the cat in a cardboard box in my trunk one hot summer day and headed back to the shelter. From the moment I shut the trunk lid, he began to wail a high pitched screaming howl that sounded like some supernatural demonic beast. I caught the driver next to me looking over at my car when I stopped for a red light, but I looked straight ahead as if all was normal in my world. What sound? Coming from my trunk? Can’t be!

When I got to the shelter, I lifted the box out of the trunk and gently placed it on the ground. The cat was silent, but I knew he was still alive because I felt him pressing against the top of the box, trying to get out. I was so frightened to open the box with my bare hands, so I found a stick to gently pry the folded box top open. Crouching down a few feet away from the box, I gingerly lifted the top flap and the cat sprung out like an electrocuted jack-in-the-box and bolted out of sight. Good riddance!

I told the kids he ran away from home on his own free will, but they still searched the neighborhood for weeks. I hid behind the living room curtains, chewing my nails off and listening to their plaintive calls: “Tabby?” around the front bushes, then “Tabby?” in the neighbors’ yards.

The more they searched, the more fervently I prayed to God that this cat would never find its way home. I knew the cat would find a way to kill me if he did return, just for putting him through the ride from hell in that cardboard box in my trunk.

It took two years of sad eyed begging from the kids before we were convinced to try another pet – a dog this time. We went to a breeder, spending a small fortune, and came home with Bailey, the Springer Spaniel. True to his name, he kept jumping over the fences we built to contain him in the yard. When he was indoors, he was a streak of light blazing through the house like the Road Runner cartoon character, knocking things off of tables and leaving behind a cloud of dust and broken pieces. When we left him alone at home, he broke through all the gates and barricades we set up, ignored the doggie toys and rawhide teething bones, and had a grand time chewing our door jambs and wooden furniture. We sold him after six months.

Soon after Bailey, the children were begging for another cat, so we went to another shelter in a different – more upscale – neighborhood. At this shelter, you had to pay for your pet, so we were convinced that we would be coming home with a better – more upscale – cat. What we weren’t prepared for was the intensive screening process.

First we had to complete a four page questionnaire and list three personal references (not family members) that could vouch for our character, disposition and moral fiber. Then we were split up from each other and taken into separate rooms to be interviewed – like they do in those police shows when they interview multiple felons involved in the same crime. My husband went into one room for an interview and I took the kids into the room with me, rather than leave them alone to wander among the animals. Big mistake.

When my interviewer asked how we would discipline the animal, my son butts in and says, “Remember when you chased Bailey through the yard with a hairbrush after he chewed up the dining room chairs?” He ignored my scornful look. “Don’t you remember, mom?” he laughs, turning to the interviewer who asked him to please continue.

“Mom was so mad. She was yelling, I’m going to kill you! while she was running after Bailey, but she couldn’t catch him. Bailey was such a fast runner. So she reached into her pocketbook and grabbed her brush and threw it at him and the brush landed on his back and broke in half! But Bailey just kept on running around the yard like he didn’t even feel a thing! It was so funny!”

We did not go home with a cat that day, but, a few months later, we went to another breeder and came home with the most loving, adorable, sweet tempered West Highland Terrier. We had the best of both worlds with this dog because she thought she was a cat. She was so affectionate and gentle and loved to cuddle.

I was welcomed home every night with so much enthusiasm. She greeted me with a big doggie smile and ran circles around my feet, wagging her tail and leaving a trail of pee in her wake. She peed in her cage every night, too, and liked to pee on the rugs from time to time. As she got older, she peed wherever and whenever she liked. She was a lady, however, and was discreet with her bowel movements, leaving them out of view and neatly piled at the top of the stairs.

As much as I would sometimes like to get a pet now, I know I’m not ready to make that commitment again. I would much rather rent my neighbor’s cat, Max, when I’m in the mood for some purring.

Max thinks my yard is his territory and I’m happy when he strolls over for a visit. I rub his belly and call him sweet names in a sing-song voice. He purrs as he slinks in between my legs and rubs his cat hair all over my pants. In the summertime I let him into my screened-in back porch and he sits there with me - just chillin’ – while I sip a drink or read a magazine.

With Max there’s no commitment, no responsibility. I don’t have to offer him a snack, I don’t have to pay for his vet bills or clean out his litter box. We just have fun together – like a date. And when I’ve had enough of him, I send him home.

Sometimes I feel bad leaving Max outdoors in the dead of winter. I think I would like to open the front door and let him come into my house, but I know that will be the end of our beautiful relationship. The next thing you know, he will be looking at me funny if I don’t clean out his litter box, or turning up his nose at the cheap cat food I bought in the discount pet store.

You know how that is. When you’re dating, it’s all fun and laughs and money is no object. And then you get married and, well, let’s just say things change. It’s always better to keep it casual. Everyone stays happy that way.

Simple and Cheap: Broccoli Soup

2010-01-16T20:28:00.010-05:00

There wasn’t much meat at our table when I was growing up. If we had a piece of meat for dinner it was a small chop or a thin cutlet served as a second course. The first course was usually a soup made of pasta and beans or pasta with broccoli or cauliflower. This was my mother’s strategy for filling your belly a little so you wouldn’t want much meat. She would pull out some of the vegetable that was in the soup and that would be served with the cutlet as part of the second course.

I learned to cook by watching my mother and my grandmother cook. At a young age, I was fascinated with the creative process in the kitchen. The kitchen was a symphony of sound and motion, smell and taste, and all things wonderful came out of my mother’s kitchen. I never saw her use a recipe to cook dinner. Dinner was simple. Ingredients were cheap. There were no cooking shows or fancy cookbooks, or blogs with pictures to show you step-by-step preparations. My grandmother, an Italian immigrant, once told me this story about how she learned to cook back in the early 1900’s.

When I married your grandfather, I didn’t know how to cook. My mother never taught me anything. All she cared about was work. ‘Work and give me your pay,’ she said. I gave her some of my pay and kept the rest. She never knew what I made. My sisters, Mary and Sadie, gave her everything – all their pay. Stupid!

Your grandfather tried to eat the meat I cooked for him one night, but it was so tough he couldn’t chew it. He spit it out, grabbed his hat and went to the door. He said to me, ‘Why did I marry you if you can’t cook?’ and he went out. Can you imagine that? He stayed out all night and came back in the morning.

When he came back, I told him, ‘If you ever do that again - stay out all night - don’t come back here.’ What does he think he can make a fool of me? So he didn’t go out at night anymore and I learned to cook.

I watched the woman in the next apartment. She thinks I’m there to talk and drink coffee, but I watch her clean the broccoli, chop the garlic, fry the chicken cutlets… Soon, I cook better than her.

During the Depression, my grandmother had to return to work all day in a sweat shop so, at the young age of ten, my mother became the “little mother” in the household and was responsible for taking her younger brother to a babysitter before school, cleaning the apartment and preparing dinner every night for the family. She developed her own strategies for precooking and partial cooking so that she could start dinner early and sneak out for an hour to play handball or run down to the beach at Coney Island and still have dinner on the table on time.

One of the soups that we ate a lot, when I was growing up, was a simple broccoli soup with macaroni. It was delicious and cheap and I often make it to this day. It can be partially prepared ahead of time and sit on the stove until the last step, when you are ready to add the pasta – leaving you plenty of time to go out for a few sets of handball or a quick swim at the beach.

Broccoli Soup with Macaroni

Wash a bunch of broccoli. Chop off the bottom two inches of the hard stem and discard. Peel the hard skin off the stems and discard. (It comes off easily if you place your paring knife at the base of the stem, make a tiny cut and just peel it back.) Slice the stems down in halves or quarters to cook the broccoli evenly in water.

To judge how much water to use, place the raw broccoli to a 2 qt. pan and add enough cold water to cover the broccoli completely, plus about another inch or two over.

When you have the adequate amount of water, remove the raw broccoli and bring the water to a boil.

Cook the broccoli a few minutes in the simmering water until the stems are softened enough to break easily with a fork.

Mash the broccoli in the pot with a potato masher or a large fork, leaving some pieces whole. You can stop at this point and when you are ready for dinner bring the water with the cooked broccoli to a boil, again, and add some pasta.

My grandmother gave me a good guide for measuring how much pasta to use. She would break off the edges of spaghetti or linguini into ½ inch pieces and place them in a bowl. Then she would measure one palm full for each person.

My grandmother and my mother did not own measuring cups, so I still measure the pasta this way. Just cup your hand to form a small “vessel” in your palm and use that to measure: for a medium sized head of broccoli I would use about 4 palms full of pasta. You may like your soup thicker, so experiment and use your own judgment.

When the pasta is cooked the soup is ready. Add a tablespoon or so of olive oil to the pot and stir before serving. Season with salt and pepper to taste. You may also make this soup using cauliflower.

Photos by Tom Vanderberg

Searching For My Roots

2010-01-08T10:34:00.003-05:00

Why is it so important to know where we came from? This search for one's roots is a national preoccupation with us in America. We are a lost nation, a people with no unified cultural history, in search of something that will link us together with unknown relatives in foreign lands. It is a basic human need to know where you came from.

Back when my ancestors first came to this country in the early 1900's they were searching for something better - escaping hardships I can't even imagine. I say "first came" because the man in our family tree went back and forth a few times, finally deciding to return to Sicily for good, leaving behind his wife and 5 children to fend for themselves in America.

This story, as told to me in bits and pieces through the years, has become a haunting tale that consists only of a few dots on a page in random order. My family was robbed of their personal history because my great grandmother wiped her husband's memory away along with all the history of the life she left behind. She murdered him in her mind because she was so angry at him for abandoning their family and starting another family when he returned to Italy.

My great grandmother may have tried to erase the memory of her past by not allowing her husband's name to come into a conversation, but I doubt she ever forgot the hurt and the loneliness he left behind.

This story of a strong woman surviving against all the odds of a foreign land, the Great Depression, World War II and raising five children by herself has been a salient force in my own personal life.

As I get older, I feel the need to find the beginning of the story so that I may connect all the dots and complete the line that will lead me back to where I began. So I posed a question to myself the other day: If my great grandparents were never divorced, shouldn't the land my great grandfather owned in Italy be transferred to my great grandmother in America, and, subsequently to her offspring?

I remember stories my grandmother told me of acres of property that her father had, in addition to a villa with tile floors and a factory where he made men's shoes. She picked lemons off of trees that were so sweet she ate them like we eat oranges in this country.

Just on a lark, I contacted an Italian search engine site that traces property owned in Italy and had a very pleasant conversation with a lawyer in San Francisco who does title searches for Italian-Americans.

"You would be amazed," he told me, "at how much people own in Italy that they aren't aware of." I told him my story and he said I could very well be one of those people who have land ownership rites in Sicily. "The second marriage in Italy is null," he writes in an e-mail back to me, "and the property may still be there and no update to the title ever having taken place (very common)...we should check the title to the property..."

Then he tells me about someone who became the property owner of 360 acres of abandoned property in the Province of Genova in the town of Varese Ligure.

I have begun searching fervently now for my ancestors in Sicily - specifically around the Catania area. Today I viewed antique maps on line, in search for a little town called Militello di Colania, Sicily. It probably doesn't exist anymore. Click on the link to see what I did find. (I'm not sure I want to go there!) I need the birth year and town where my great grandfather was born to begin a title search. It would be great to trace my lineage for my family history and nostalgia, but, hey! - now there also might be the possibility of land ownership over there too!

My mother laughs when I tell her this. She doesn't remember those stories. And she doubts there is anything left of his property, if he had property to begin with.

"They sold all their property when they came to this country. They needed the money for the passage," she tells me.

"No!" I disagree. "The ship's manifest, according to the Ellis Island website, documents him coming into this country with only $12 on his person."

She is laughing. "Do you think they told the government how much money they had? They sewed their money into their hems and lined their coats with it. The government is the last person they would admit to having money."

So, I'm a little naive. But I'm still searching. If anyone reading this has any information of the birth town of a Mario Riccioli, born around the year 1869 - give or take a year or two...because my mother says they also lied about their age, let me know. She also says that no one in his native town would know his name as Mario. Everyone in those little Italian towns had a nickname that was given to them when they were a child. No one would ever admit to knowing a Mario Riccioli. Maybe his town name was Frankie Soup or Mangia Bona.

So I'm searching for property somewhere, owned by someone, born at sometime.

Lost and Found

2010-01-02T09:47:00.002-05:00

I lost my keys last week. For four days I searched everywhere - under every bed in the house, under every chair, sofa and recliner. I pulled out all the seat cushions, felt around in dark places - under bureaus and behind desks, even in some garbage bags. I worked myself up to a frenzy – jumping out of bed at night when I had a vision of where my keys might be, only to return to the cold mattress, empty handed.

In my frustration, I finally offered up a reward of $20 to anyone who found my keys. Before the reward was posted, no one bothered to help me. Now, with the promise of a mere $20 bill, everyone was getting into the search effort. Suddenly they were scurrying about as I heard the opening and closing of drawers and closet doors, rustling of papers, lifting and pushing things off of table tops.

Then the courtroom interrogation began:

"When did you see them last?" If I knew the answer to that, they wouldn't be lost.

"When did you last use them?" On December 23rd. I remember I drove home that day, so I had to have them to get into the house.

"Where did you put them after you walked into the house?" If I knew that, they wouldn’t be lost!

They were legitimate questions, and ones I had asked myself already, but my brain was not making the connection between when I last had the keys and when I realized that I didn’t.

When so much of a day is routine, you don’t pay attention to details. Our repetitive actions form little ruts that grow into paths and, over time, become trails that we follow day in and day out. Sometimes I’ll be driving - working out a problem in my head or thinking about a report that I was working on - and I will pull into my driveway and I don’t even remember the drive home. I don’t remember a single song that was playing on the ride home. Did I have the radio on?

I asked for a whistling tea pot for Christmas this year, because often I’ll put up a pot of water for tea, walk upstairs for something, start working on my computer, get distracted and lose track of time. When I finally go back downstairs, the kitchen has become a steam bath and I think, Oh, right; the tea!

A holiday like Christmas can throw a life of routines into chaos. Furniture is rearranged to make room for a tree, so my mindless path through the house is disrupted and I'm bumping into walls and tripping over wooden soldiers in my way. There’s a basket holding Christmas cards where the key plate used to be, and a tin of cookies is sitting on top of two days worth of mail, so the mindless act of placing your keys down where they usually go becomes an exercise in mental acuity for four days. Where is the Cablevision bill? Was the mortgage paid yet?

The interesting thing that happened, and what eventually led me to find my keys, was that I was forced to rewind the events of the past four days and examine every detail. What I found most distressing was that, in trying to remember the details of a day, I realized that most of the time I was not paying attention. I was moving on auto-pilot, following my trail, going through the motions of a day and not remembering anything about it.

Losing my keys forced me to wake up and pay attention. At first, I couldn’t remember anything about the past four days. What did I cook for dinner last night? Then, slowly, I began to remember some details – bits of conversation; what people were wearing on Christmas day; the seating arrangement at Christmas dinner; the smell of my son’s cologne when I kissed his cheek in mass on Christmas Eve . I went back another day and began to remember seeing the keys somewhere in the kitchen, but where? I saw myself opening a drawer, cleaning off the counter, moving things off a table to make room for some Christmas decorations.

Reviewing my life over the past four days was like seeing myself floating through a misty dream sequence. I stopped physically searching for the keys and spent my time mentally searching, working my mind harder, trying to see the details in action, as if I was viewing myself in a movie.

Then, finally, one evening while I was lying in bed in that twilight state between the real world and the world of dreams, when the mind is perfectly clear and empty of all thought, I sensed where the keys were. I didn’t bother to jump out of bed to verify my vision because I knew they would be there.

“Ah!” I said the next morning, as I grabbed the keys in my hand and held them up in the air like a prize. Suddenly, all the details that were missing came flooding into my brain and all the empty synapses were ignited and the paths were connected with the memories that were temporarily lost.

This mental exercise of trying to remember a mindless action taken out of a repetitive routine was a wake up call for me. I began to think about all the lost memories that accumulate in a lifetime and how much richer a life would be if we just paid more attention to the details.

So my one and only New Year’s resolution for 2010 is to be more mindful - to pay attention, to wake up! and walk through my day aware of my surroundings, to use all my senses and see my world anew. At the end of the day, I want to remember the details.

I also found a clip that I can attach to a ring on my purse handle so I’ll never misplace my keys, and, yes, I did get the whistling tea pot.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Reflections on Christmas: Thank God It's Over!

2009-12-27T09:34:00.008-05:00

If you are a child under the age of 12, you usually start counting down the days until Christmas sometime in September. That was the only way I got my young children through the evening before the first day of school. I would sit on the edge of their bed and rub their back and whisper, "You know, if school doesn't start Christmas can't come."

When my children were young, I was just as excited as they were about Christmas. It was a magical time and I lived all the childlike wonder through their eyes. We decorated the house right after Thanksgiving, made a gingerbread house together, baked a different cookie every day, filled coloring books with Christmas stickers and counted the days until Christmas on an Advent Christmas tree decoration. Martha Stewart had nothing on me back then.

Now that my children are grown and living on their own, it is harder to conjure up some Christmas spirit. Each year, the Christmas season gets shorter and less magical, so the response to the approaching holiday is much like Mrs. Duggar's response to the news of child #19 on the way. (see this blog posting for September 5, 2009: There's another Duggar on the way!) "Ho hum,(yawn) another one."

I would be fine with simply baking a batch of cookies while some Christmas music plays in the background. That's enough Christmas spirit for me. Write a few checks for the adult children in the family, make a nice roast beef for dinner, and declare the season officially over as I load the last coffee cup in the dishwasher and wash the wine stains out of the tablecloth.

But my husband has a harder time getting in the spirit. He wants all the magic of a child's Christmas. It starts every year with us "discussing" the futility of sending out Christmas cards. He wants to send them to everyone in our phone book. I argue the price of postage and the fact that the greeting card industry is the only one making out on our idiotic adherence to old customs. We compromise: he send his cards, I don't send any.

Then, every year we have to find a "Bedford Falls" town and do some shopping (even though our grown children only want cash) We have to stop to get hot chocolate somewhere. (I get coffee since my gut has become intolerant to dairy products.) In the evenings before Christmas, when I want to finish an episode of Mad Men on our Netflix DVD, so we can return it and quickly get the next episode, he wants to make a fire in the fireplace and read Christmas stories beside the Christmas tree. This year he picked the longest story in the book, so the Christmas season won't be officially over until we have finished it.

Without the giddy joy that young children bring to Christmas, the holiday season is simply an intrusion to my well ordered life. The decorations take over my small living area, the rich food makes my delicate stomach suffer and all the chaos disrupts my disciplined routines. I stop exercising, I overeat, I stay up too late, and, worst of all, I have to go to parties. I hate parties. And the mother of all parties - New Year's Eve - falls in the Christmas season.

When we were younger, my husband and I would come close to arguing about what to do on New Year's Eve. For years he tried to convince me to go to Times Square on New Year's Eve. I would throw a party at home just to avoid the possibility of being one of those crazy people in the crowd standing in the cold waiting for the ball to drop.

I remember my favorite New Year's Eve... I was sick with bronchitis so we had to stay home. There was no discussing our options for New Year's Eve that year. We made popcorn and watched The Sound of Music in bed. "The hills were alive with the sound of music!" But we had lights out at 10:00 PM.

OK, OK, I'm Scrooge. But enough, already! Christmas is over and that's a good thing. Because if Christmas wasn't over, the summer couldn't come. And when the summer comes my husband can get back out on his sailboat. That's my new mantra, and the one I'll tell him as he sadly takes down the Christmas tree next week.

The Silent Hondler

2009-12-18T09:21:00.005-05:00

Our 2007 car lease was about to expire on January 4th, so my husband and I decided to start looking at cars this past weekend. We thought about buying the car we had been leasing. It had low mileage and a slight crack in the right front bumper. It was hardly noticeable to me.

The leasing company inspector wrote it up as “excessive damage,” valued at $650, and informed me that we were responsible for the repair or the payment of $650 in full. After reading the report that evening, my husband let out a few descriptive expletives and vowed to fight this.

“Excessive damage my (expletive)! What about our $1,500 maximum allowable damage?! I’m going to fight this!” I like to see my husband get riled up once in a while. He’s normally so cool and composed and I’m the one ranting and raving about things. It’s nice to sit back and let someone else take on those annoying little battles in life.

“If they want me to lease another car, they will have to waive the damage fee," he ranted on. "I’m not paying it. If they don’t waive the fee, we’ll weigh our options. We’ll look around at other cars; we have time. I’m not going to be pressured by some car salesman.”

In the dealership we listened to the salesman read aloud the fine print on the back of our three-year-old lease contract. “It’s written very clearly here…you owe the money for damages.”

I waited patiently for my husband to begin his rebuttal. Instead, he scratched his chin and bobbed his head in agreement. They were like two old school chums, lounging in matching wing chairs, discussing the finer points of a legal document. I stretched my foot across the floor and poked his shoe, trying to stoke the embers and get the fire started, but he just looked at me very calmly and said, “It’s right there in black and white, I guess.”

The salesman had my husband on his team now and was revved up to make a sale. He pulled out a lined notepad and wrote down a number: $499, and underlined it with a hard bold stroke. “That’s your monthly payment to lease this new car,” he said.

We both stared back at him. Then he crossed out $499 and wrote underneath it: $479, glanced up at us, crossed that price out and wrote $459. “Do you have a good credit rating?” he asked. “If you have a good credit rating," he said, crossing out the previous price, "I might be able to talk my manager into going down to: $439, but I can’t go lower than that!”

We just sat there and said nothing.

“OK, look,” he said, taking a deep breath, crossing out the $439, "I can probably get it down to $429.” I looked over at my husband, and waited for him to say something. He locked eyes with the salesman and didn’t blink once. Another cross-out brought the price down to “$419 -it's the lowest I can do... and you can have the car tomorrow!” The poor man was squirming in his seat, clicking his pen top waiting for some words to come out of my husband’s mouth.

“You folks just wait here a moment; I’ll go talk to my manager.”

“What’s going on?” I asked my husband.

“I’ll be damned if I know. Maybe if we sit here long enough he’ll give us the car for nothing.”

The manager came back and took our orders for refreshments and sent the salesman scurrying off to get them. He sat down across from us, leaned in over the desk and sotto voce asked, “How can we get you in this car?”

My husband finally opened his mouth. “I want to put zero down and have a monthly payment of $330, like we had with the old car.”

“No way! That’s impossible! I would be giving the car away.”

“Well, we’re not ready to lease a car today, anyway,” I said. “We want to go down the street and take a look at the Volvos,” I said, glancing at my watch.

When the salesman came back with our refreshments, the manager asked for my husband’s driver’s license and a major credit card. “Let me see what I can do,” he said, and he took off with the salesman. They both returned, beaming. “You both have an excellent credit score,” the manager said. “How about if we go down to $399? Would that be more reasonable?”

We remained silent, sipping our refreshments.

“$379; that’s my final offer. Can’t go lower than that. We’re taking a huge loss on this car.”

“Let’s take a bathroom break,” I suggested, “and then we’ll test drive a smaller model. We might have to downsize if we can’t afford the model we want.”

After the test drive, I wanted to leave. I wasn’t happy with the smaller car; the engine had no pep, it was already dark out and I was getting hungry. We still had three weeks left on the lease and these salesmen were starting to get on my nerves. What is it about car salesmen? No matter how nice they are, you just don’t trust them. They were both starting to look like sinister characters in a Punch & Judy puppet show.

As if he was reading my mind, the salesman said, “Look, I know you don’t like the smaller model and I want you to be happy. Can you just go up a little bit? – say to $370?”

I just wanted to go home and sit in my recliner, so I blurted out: “$350; that’s the highest we’ll go.” My husband shot me a glance with flames coming out of his eyes and I tried to recant the offer, but it was too late. Our salesman was rushing off to the manager’s office again. “Let me see if I can work with that!” he called over his shoulder.

He returned with the manager who asked us if we needed more refreshments. At this point, I needed a hot meal and a shower, and if he had offered us that option, I would have signed on the dotted line just to go home and be done with it. We had already invested 3 hours in that place. As annoying as they were, I was beginning to feel an intimacy growing. They were trying so hard, I was starting to feel sorry for them. My husband and I opted out of more refreshments and took another bathroom break instead. We met at the water fountain to talk conspiratorially.

“How high can we go with this offer?” my husband whispered. “I just want to get the hell out of here.”

“Me too,” I agreed. “We’ll offer $360 and not a penny more. Jeez, it’s only $30 a month more than we were already paying. And I love the car.”

“Can we cut out $30 a month somewhere?” my ever frugal husband asked.

“We could cut out the movies… going out to dinner…”

“We don’t do those things, anyway,” he said. “What else could we cut.”

“We could stop getting the New York Times weekend edition.”

“But we just started the subscription; I don’t want to cut that. What else?”

We must have been gone too long because our salesman came looking for us. “If I could get you the car for $360, you can pick it up tomorrow. What do you say?” Did they have hidden microphones in the walls? Did he just overhear our conversation?

“Do you have a black car in stock?” I asked.

“No black. We have a nice grey.” I wrinkled my nose. “Let’s go take a look. I have one in the lot,” he said.

“How am I supposed to see colors in the dark?” I called out to him, as we huddled against the cold wind to hunt for a grey car.

“Let’s just humor him,” my husband whispered. “We’ll tell him we don’t like it and then we can leave. I'm starving.”

When we finally found one I repeated, “I don’t like grey, and I’m not walking outside again in this cold weather. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I want to go home.”

“I have a white car. Do you like white?” he called out as he ran through the dark car lot. “I’ll just run out and get it and pull it up to the showroom while you folks wait, nice and warm, inside.”

“We have to buy this car, please,” I whined. “We’re never going to get out of this place alive if we don’t buy a car tonight. I don’t even care about the $30 extra a month. I’ll take on a new client if I have to. Say something, will you?!”

I turned to look at my husband who had a big smile across his face. “I know where we can cut $30 a month out of our budget,” he said. “We’ll cut out meat and chicken and eat more tofu!”

“Well, what do you think?” the salesman said, walking us around the white car.

“We’ll eat tofu!” I said.

“Huh?”

“We’ll take it.”

Dinner - Simple and Quick

2009-12-09T21:49:00.006-05:00

Were you ever so tired that you didn't care if you ate dinner? You toss the words around in your head a few times to make up your mind: eat? or sleep? sleep? or eat? I only had about four hours sleep last night, put in a full day at work and came home in the dark. The last thing I wanted to do was cook dinner. But I've been trying to eat healthy lately after I recently failed my blood test - that's my father's joke: "I have to study tonight; I'm having a blood test tomorrow." Har! Har!

My cholesterol levels came back high (what else is new?) and my triglycerides were creeping up too. Maybe it was the tub of chocolate covered almonds I hid from my family back in October? You know the behemoth size container you buy in the Price Club? I ate it all by myself. I started with one, then three, then ten, until I lost patience with that game and just said the hell with it! and grabbed a fistful every time I passed the cabinet where they were hidden. When I put the empty container by the back door for my husband to add to the trash one night, he looked quite surprised.

"I didn't know we had these in the house," he said, turning the empty container upside down.

"We don't," I answered, and walked upstairs to weigh myself.

So now I'm trying to eat healthy and move around a little more. I wouldn't exactly call it exercising because I stop the minute I feel the sweat coming. I hate sweat. But I hate taking medicine even more. I cringe when I hear folks my age at a party excitedly comparing their cholesterol medications and shouting out their HDL vs LDL numbers, like they were competing with each other. I refuse to get sucked into that medicine spiral where you take one medication for something and you get a side effect that drives you to take another medication. Ugh! Pass the chocolate covered almonds and watch a funny movie. That's my kind of medicine.

In the past, when I would come home so tired, we would order some take-out food or drive to the local diner. Tonight I remembered some tofu that I had in the refrigerator. I usually buy the stuff with all good intentions and end up tossing it, unopened, a month after the expiration date. But I'm really trying to be good these days, so I pulled out the package with the most recent expiration date (I found 3 packages buried back there!) drained all the liquid and put the square of extra firm tofu between two paper towels to dry it out a little. I cut it into 1/2 inch segments, across the length of the block, dipped the segments in egg, then bread crumbs. (I mixed about one cup of 4-C Ready Flavored Bread Crumbs with 2 teaspoons of powdered cumin, one teaspoon of curry powder and some salt to taste)

Next, I cut up 3 small zucchini squash and 2 yellow squash into 3/4 to 1 inch chunks and tossed them into a large baking pan with a little olive oil, and set them in a 450 degree oven to roast for about 15 minutes, turning them to brown evenly, after about 7 minutes.

Often when I cook a meal, I think about the color presentation at the table and that will serendipitously create a natural, very pleasing flavor combination. Tonight I needed something dark for color contrast, so I pulled out an 8 oz package of fresh small Portabello mushrooms, plucked the stems off and rinsed the caps. They would be fried in some olive oil and butter and sprinkled with salt, pepper, paprika (for color and flavor) and topped with fresh, bright green parsley.

The mushrooms were frying in one pan at the same time that I was frying the breaded tofu rectangles in some fragrant virgin olive oil in another pan. After about 12 minutes in the oven, I added some cut up fresh Campari tomatoes, a sprinkle of sea salt, pepper and dried basil to the roasting squash.

The entire meal, from the moment I decided to eat instead of sleep, took about 30 minutes. You couldn't get a take-out meal delivered that fast. It was colorful, delicious and healthy. I felt satisfied, but not stuffed. There was room for dessert or chocolate covered almonds - if I wanted them. But, I repeat...I'm trying to be good. I'm trying to be good. I'm trying to be good.

No Backsies

2009-12-01T09:53:00.015-05:00

I went to a Christmas fair two years ago and purchased some plates that were on a white elephant/flea market table. They only cost about $5. Here’s how the deal went down. The plates caught my eye first. They were cute. There were five of them and each one had a different woman posing in early 1900’s fashion painted on the front. What caught my eye was the perfect condition of the plates and the fact that there was a signature on each one. My first thought was, “Hmmm; these might be valuable,” as in treasure found on the Antiques Roadshow.

My mother was with me and I showed her the plates. “Oh! Those are so nice,” she said. “If you don’t buy them, I will.” As she uttered the words, they suddenly looked nicer and even more valuable to me. My mother never buys anything with such sudden conviction. It usually takes several trips to a department store for her to be sure about something, and, even then, it must be marked down before she will commit to the purchase. I paid the $5 for them. They were mine. Five minutes later I was doubting my purchase. “If you don’t like them,” mom said, “you can give them to me for Christmas. I love them.” Great, I thought, mom is so hard to buy gifts for; problem solved for this year, I’ll give her the plates.

When I got home I decided I really didn’t like them at all. I could happily part with them. Mom got the plates all wrapped nicely for Christmas and I didn’t hear a word about them until just the other day when she e-mailed me to ask, “Remember those plates you bought at the Christmas fair a few years back? I’m thinking I’ll put some of my homemade cookies in them and give one to each of the girls in the family for Christmas this year. What am I going to do with them?"

At the thought of her giving them away, I suddenly wanted them back. “Let me take a look at them one more time,” I replied, “I’ll pick out one that I like for myself.”

As I was looking at them one more time I realized that the young people in the family wouldn’t like them anymore than I do. They are too old fashioned looking. I turned the plates over to see the manufacturer’s name, Villeroy & Boch, and I suddenly became very interested in them again. I had recently purchased a set of Villeroy & Boch everyday dishes and I knew how expensive they were.

“I’ll take these off your hands,” I told mom. “Let me do some research on these. Maybe they are worth something.”

“If they are, I want them back,” she said.

“Nope,” I told her. “You wanted to give them away a minute ago. No Backsies!”

“You didn’t even like them a minute ago!” she said.

“Too late; they’re mine now. No Backsies!”

Some preliminary research on the internet made me like them even more. In fact, given their value, I’m going in search of additional pieces at the annual Christmas fair this Saturday.

St. Peter's Episcopal Church Annual Christmas Fair

500 South Country Road
Bay Shore, NY 11706

Saturday, December 5, 2009

9:00 AM to 2:00 PM

Cookies, Wreaths, Books, Poinsettias
Vendors, Toys, Baked Goods, Jams & Jellies
White Elephant Table (where valuable dishes were found!), Christmas Items, Raffles
and for the children
Breakfast with Santa
9:00 AM to 11:00 AM
Tickets: $5.00Includes a photo with Santa.Santa will be serving juice, bagels, donuts, coffee and tea.Stay for hours of fun at the Christmas Fair! For information and reservations for Breakfast with Santa.

Please call the Church Office at 631-665-0051

Thanksgiving Without Lasagna

2009-11-29T09:42:00.002-05:00

My father and my grandmother had conflicting opinions when giving me advice about choosing a husband. My father wanted me to marry an Italian, my grandmother hoped I would marry an Americano.

“Don’t marry an Italian,” grandma advised me on several occasions. “Italian men think they are big shots! Marry a tall man,” my four foot tall grandmother added, as she stretched her arm up as far as she could, and patted the air above her head. “A tall Americano!”

As I got older, Dad’s advice to marry an Italian became a command. “You have to marry an Italian,” he told me. But after my older brother married a blond blue-eyed girl of German descent, and I became engaged to a tall Americano of Dutch descent, his command became a whimpering plea as he turned his last hope to my younger brother, who was already dating an Irish girl, and asked, “Isn’t anyone going to bring home an Italian?”

Dad’s pleas went unheeded, for none of us married Italians. He was in for another surprise that first Thanksgiving at my brother’s house when his wife did not serve lasagna as the first course.

“Where’s the lasagna,” he whispered to my mother. Her answer was a gentle elbow poke into his ribcage. But my father, who never responded well to subtleties, bellowed across the table to my sister-in-law, “Where’s the lasagna?”

“Lasagna?!” she laughed. “The pilgrims didn’t serve lasagna on Thanksgiving.”

“The pilgrims! Humph! What did they know?” he grumbled. “Italians have lasagna on Thanksgiving.”

Not anymore, I thought, as I looked around the table at the three new non-Italian members of the family.

“You know,” my mother added diplomatically, “I think I like this better. When you fill up on lasagna, you have no room for the turkey.”

“Who cares about the turkey? Italians have lasagna on Thanksgiving,” dad insisted, as he glanced around the table for affirmation and got none. Instead, my brothers, my mother and I, all lifted our heads at the same moment to answer him with silent daggers from our eyes that warned, Don’t start! Only the new in-laws kept eating, oblivious to dad’s traumatic realization that things were never going to be the same now that the family had been infiltrated by “outsiders.” I felt a smile curling at my lips as I remembered my first Thanksgiving at my new in-laws, just a year earlier, when I had my own silent realization of the differences between “them” and “us.” It began at my entrance into my new in-laws home…

My father-in-law opened the door and backed away from me as I leaned forward to kiss him hello. My husband forgot to tell me that they don’t do the “hello kissing” in his family. We sat down to a beautifully set dining room table covered with a white linen (unstained) tablecloth and several different sized (all matching!) plates at each setting. I remained frozen in place as I waited through a rather long prayer of thanks, peaking up from time to time when I thought it was nearing the end. Finally, I heard the Amen! and sat with my arms at my sides to wait and watch the others to see which was the correct fork to use first. Lesson learned: Work from the outside in, or, the smaller fork is the salad fork and sits next to larger/dinner fork which rests next to the dinner plate.. Then I accidentally started eating out of my husband’s salad bowl, causing him to search around the table for an extra one, which, of course, drew attention to the fact that I was ignorant to the rules of a properly set table. Lesson learned: Your salad bowl sits to the left of the forks..

Holidays at my mother’s house were different, more relaxed – or chaotic, depending on your frame of reference. In fact, you were lucky to get a fork at all sometimes, since some relative would think nothing of dropping by at dinnertime with a few extra uninvited guests of their own. My mother’s attempts to create order around the table by counting heads, napkins and forks never prevailed, and soon people were standing in doorways, or sitting on couches, plates delicately balanced on a tripod of fingertips, while others rested their plates on the piano to sing a few bars of whatever my dad was banging out at the moment. Holiday dinners turned into events that lasted well into the night.

At my in-laws that first Thanksgiving, I had observed a new phenomenon around the holiday table: it was quiet conversation – the kind where only two people speak at a time and the others listen silently. The adults even spoke to the children present at the dining room table and listened with interest to their responses. I had only seen this before on television shows like Father Knows Best.

When I was young, the children were never allowed to sit in the dining room with the adults and were exiled to the kitchen table for holiday dinners. Even when we were old enough to make that rite of passage to the adult table, we were not considered a part of their world and were excluded from their conversation as they broke into Italian – their secret language.

I was seated next to my father-in-law at that first Thanksgiving. He had the turkey carcass in front of him with the rear of the turkey facing me. Right in front of me was the prized piece, the much fought over turkey culo. Everyone was focused on one of the little children at the moment and I saw my golden opportunity. I swiftly sliced into the turkey’s ass and the culo fell right off into my waiting fingertips. As I was blissfully chomping away on the crispy culo, daydreaming about past holidays at my mother’s house and making humorous comparisons between my family and this new family I had entered through marriage, I suddenly heard the silence and sensed all eyes on me. I looked up to find seven faces watching me curiously.

“What?” I asked, my face ablaze, a chunk of culo stuck in my throat. My hand stretched out in search of the correct water glass, deftly maneuvering between the wine glasses, praying I wouldn’t knock one over. At that moment, I wished I was eight years old again in the safety of my mother’s kitchen with my other rowdy cousins.

Dessert was served immediately after the dinner plates were cleared. There was no time between courses for the men to walk around the block with their cigars while the women did the dishes. We each received one neatly cut slice of pumpkin pie – something I had never tasted before - and a cup of tea. When dessert was over, the meal was over. The table was being cleared while I was still chewing my last few bits of pie. “Are you done with this?” my sister-in-law asked as she lifted my mug of unfinished tea off the table. I couldn’t swallow fast enough to answer, “no,” and then she declared, “Well, I guess Thanksgiving is over.”

The night was still young so we dropped by my mother’s house to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving. There were nuts, cracked nutshells and tangerine skins scattered across the tablecloth stained with tomato sauce from the lasagna course. Various pastries, haphazardly cut cakes, broken cookies, Anisette, brandy and a pot of black coffee were also spread around the table. These would not be cleared away until the last person was in their car with the engine running. It would be a sign of disrespect to do otherwise. Clearing the table implied that you wanted people to leave.

There were several animated conversations and bawdy laughter going on around the house while my dad banged on the piano to accompany my uncles who were belting out their favorite Italian arias. It was noisy and chaotic, but this was home to me.

As I walked through the living room kissing and hugging everyone, I felt myself relax for the first time all day. Going from my husband’s reserved quiet family to my outgoing emotional one was like crossing over the border into a different country. Now I was back on familiar terrain, and for the first time I understood my father’s wishes for me to marry an Italian.

He had wanted all of this to continue. The common threads of a culture bring familiarity and comfort to people of a common heritage. His wishes that I marry an Italian spoke volumes to me now that I had married into a family so unlike my own.

But in any marriage, there are adjustments on both sides, and over the years I knew we would join and blend our cultures – accepting some traditions and rejecting others. I think this is what my grandmother had hoped when she advised me to marry an Americano. She wanted me to do what she, as an Italian immigrant, was unable to do in her own lifetime – to finally assimilate into this modern new world called America.

Now, at my brother’s house, Dad was working on his own assimilation, even if it meant doing without his beloved lasagna at Thanksgiving. His old ways were suddenly being challenged where it affected him most – at the table. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before he was asking his new daughters-in-law to make him sauerbraten or corned beef and cabbage. My father would assimilate very easily if you kept him well fed. He loves his food and his family and the warmth around the table. He is, after all, Italian.

Below is my mother’s lasagna recipe which she gave me on a 3x5 index card. It’s the one I use to make lasagna on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

Lasagna

2 lb. lasagna
4 large cans tomatoes
2 smaller cans tomatoes (Del Monte)
2 lbs. chop meat
1 packet sausage
2 lbs ricotta + 1 small container ricotta
1 large mozzarella + 1 small

Layer in pan as follows
1 Tomato Sauce
2 Chop Meat
3 Lasagna
4 Ricotta
5 Chop meat
6 Mozzarella
7 Tomato sauce
8 Grated cheese

Presto! Pesto!

2009-11-17T12:15:00.018-05:00

My son called last Saturday night to tell me my pesto sauce had saved his life. I heard the tension in his voice as he explained that he had just missed a multiple car accident that had happened moments before he arrived on the scene. Cars were damaged from bricks and concrete falling off the Wantagh State Parkway overpass onto the Southern State Parkway and he would have been one of the cars involved in that accident, for sure, if he hadn’t lingered those extra ten minutes at my house to have a small plate of pasta with pesto sauce.

Sometimes you wonder about fate and the chain of events that lead from one moment to another. He was in such a rush to leave for a party that night. I'm certain nothing else would have kept him there except that sweet basil and garlic scent, the Sirens' call that no man in my family can resist.

I learned about pesto sauce from my friend's mother back in 1980. She couldn’t believe that I, a true blue 100% Sicilian, had never heard of pesto sauce, so she sent me home that day with the recipe scrawled on a piece of scrap paper and a large bouquet of fresh basil that she had just picked from her garden.

The paper, today, resembles one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. See below:

Pasta with Pesto Sauce

2 cups (packed) fresh sweet basil,( leaves only; no stems) washed and gently patted dry (or put through a salad spinner to dry)

2 Tablespoons pine nuts (pignoli) or walnuts

1 to 2 cloves garlic smashed (or more, to your taste, if the cloves are small)

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup extra virgin olive oil
½ cup Parmesan cheese
________________________________________

3 Tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces
1 lb. linguini or other pasta

I went home that afternoon in 1980 and made many batches of pesto sauce from that big bouquet. There were basil leaves soaking in the sink, basil leaves in my salad spinner, the colander, loose leaves had fallen to the floor, stalks were lying on the counter and the kitchen table, every space was covered with bright green basil leaves. I was intoxicated into a heady stupor by the intense scent of garlic, basil and Parmesan cheese spreading throughout the house. I licked a drop of pesto off my fingertip and let out a hoot of joy! What I had discovered there that day was a taste so divine, so unique to my palate. I felt like I had discovered a new world.

Place the first 4 ingredients in a blender or food processor (food processor is best). Start the processor and pour the olive oil in through the top while the processor is running. Stop the processor after a few seconds and wipe down the sides of the bowl with a spatula; pulse once or twice more until smooth, but not too runny. You want to see tiny pieces of basil in the bowl.

Add the Parmesan cheese and just pulse once or twice to blend.

Inhale deeply and smell the essence of summer! Place in a covered bowl or covered jar until ready to serve. At this point, you may freeze the pesto to use another day. To defrost, leave out on the counter for several hours to reach room temperature and then follow directions below:

Cook pasta according to package directions. Strain pasta in a colander and return to bowl. Add 3 Tablespoons butter to cooked pasta and toss to blend. (Do not use olive oil in place of butter and do not omit the butter. I’ve tried doing both of these things with poor results. Just use the butter and walk an extra mile tomorrow!) Pour pesto sauce over warm buttered pasta. Top individual bowls with additional cheese, if desired, and a grinding of pepper.

The first time I made it for my parents, I watched my father fall into a hypnotic trance as he ate his entire portion without lifting his head once. When he finally came up for air, his lips were outlined with olive oil and his eye lids were half closed. He had to have more, so I found friends and relatives with an overabundance of fresh basil in their gardens. I experimented and learned that you could freeze the pesto, immediately after making it, so I supplied him with several frozen batches in mini Mason jars to get him through the long cold winter.

When you defrost a jar of frozen pesto on the counter in the middle of February and open the lid, your kitchen fills up with the intense smell of sweet basil carried on a warm light summer breeze. You lose the winter doldrums as the aroma fills your sinus cavities and carries with it the memories of sunny summer days in a lush green garden. You stand at the window and laugh at the snow piling up because you have captured summer in a jar of homemade pesto sauce.

Unfortunately, dad loved his pesto sauce so much that his entire winter supply ran out by November, leaving him inquiring about when I was going to start my garden again. “Not until May?!” he cried in disbelief. His desperate plea sent me in search of a supplier of fresh basil. I found one in Michigan and ordered a pound of fresh basil for $40. I lied to my husband and told him it only cost $12 with shipping included. He thought $12 was too expensive for a bag full of leaves.

Watching my father’s childlike glee on Christmas day as he opened his bag of four small jars of fresh pesto was worth all the money in the world. In fact, I did it again for Father’s Day because my own garden basil wouldn’t be ready until July, and, by now, he was hooked, or as my mother would say, he was addicted. He had to have a small plate of pasta every night with a heaping tablespoon of pesto sauce. Why have a boring potato or dry white rice when he could have pasta with luscious garlicky pesto, he would argue.

I was tickled, at first, that I was the only one in the family who could please my father so. The child had become father to the man, as he was now dependent on me for his greatest pleasure, his pesto. “I’m running low,” he would warn me when his supply was down to one or two jars. I couldn’t keep up with the demand, so I started going to fresh markets. I would try to make a single batch at a time from the scrawny wilted bunch of basil that would occasionally be hiding behind the parsley in my local food store. “This batch wasn’t as good as the one from the last time,” he would inform me, as if I didn't already know. There was no fooling him.

The basil must be fresh and perky, not brown and mottled. And don't try to store basil in the refrigerator for any length of time. It will turn brown and lose it's flavor in a day or two. You must buy or pick the fresh basil on the day that you plan to make the pesto sauce, so plan accordingly...

Dad’s dependence on me ended rather abruptly when my brother showed up one day with a large jar of pesto sauce that he had purchased in the Price Club. “You don’t need to make me anymore pesto,” dad informed me shortly after. "I know it's alot of trouble for you, and this one in the jar is just as good as yours."

“This can’t be as good as my homemade pesto!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty close,” he admitted. “Your mother even said so.”

And that was that. All my loving intentions that went into the process of preparing my dad’s favorite food, were replaced by an unfeeling commercial conglomerate. My visits were no longer ones of anticipation and excitement. I could no longer enter my parents home like a rock star calling out, “I’ve got fresh pesto!” because dad’s freezer was already packed with several jars of pesto sauce from the Price Club. My exalted role of chief pesto maker to the patriarch of our family was over. I was demoted back to humble daughter.

I refuse to buy processed pesto sauce - on principle alone. If I can’t make it from my own home grown garden basil, I'll do without it. I rather enjoy waiting for seasonal foods. It makes them even more special when you can only have them at certain times of the year. I tried explaining this to dad, but he wasn't buying it, and by this time, my mother was just as relieved to have a supply of pesto in her freezer just so she wouldn't have to listen to him complaining over a baked potato.

If you are lucky to find a small bunch of fresh basil in your local food store you can try the recipe below from The Big Book of Vegetarian by Kathy Farrell-Kingsley. It only uses ½ cup fresh basil, as opposed to the original pesto recipe that uses 2 cups. It is light and creamy, and I love the combined flavors of asparagus and basil. Try it; you'll like it!

PENNE with ASPARAGUS PESTO

1 pound penne or other tubular pasta

1 pound fresh asparagus, trimmed, stalks cut crosswise into 2-inch pieces, tips reserved

¼ cup pine nuts, toasted*

2 cloves garlic, chopped

½ cup packed chopped fresh basil (I don’t chop it, just press it down into the food processor)

½ cup extra-virgin olive oil

2 ½ teaspoons salt, plus more to taste

1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Freshly ground black pepper

*toasted pine nuts: In a small skillet over medium heat, toast the pine nuts, stirring often, until fragrant and golden, 2-3 minutes

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta, stirring to prevent sticking. Cook until al dente, 8-10 minutes. Reserve 1/3 cup of the pasta cooking water and drain the pasta in a colander. Return pasta to the pot.

Meanwhile, in a saucepan fitted with a steamer basket, bring 1 inch of water to a boil. Place the asparagus stalks in the basket and steam, covered, for 4 minutes. Add the reserved asparagus tips, cover, and steam until just tender, about 1 minute. Transfer the asparagus to ice water to stop the cooking. Drain the asparagus well in a colander and pat dry.

In a food processor, combine the pine nuts, garlic, and basil and process until finely chopped. Add the asparagus stalks, olive oil, and 2 ½ teaspoons salt and pulse until the asparagus is coarsely chopped. Transfer to a large bowl and stir in the Parmesan and reserved cooking water. Add the pasta, tossing to coat and season to taste with salt and pepper. Top with the asparagus tips. Serve hot.

************************************************

Note #1: I found this recipe a bit salty, so I no longer salt the cooking water in the first step. You may want to cut out some additional salt to your liking.

Note #2: If you don't have a steamer, just drop them into boiling water for about 45 seconds to 1 minute to parboil and tenderize them.

Cookbooks Be Gone

2009-11-13T09:07:00.001-05:00

Several years ago, my mother began giving her cookbooks away. With a wave of her hand, like a magician doing a disappearing act, she passed them off to anyone who would have them and freed herself of the burden of using recipes. “What do I need them for,” she said, “after a while all these recipes taste the same.”

I was the happy recipient of a few of them, though I must admit that I never did more than flip through the pages. They, along with a few of my own, are now in a box labeled, “Free Cookbooks”. I can’t bring myself to drag them out to the curb just yet. Each time I open the box I imagine that I see little pouty faces looking up at me. “But you haven’t even tried us,” they cry, as I slam the lid back down on their muffled sobs.

The truth is that there isn’t much in the kitchen that excites me anymore. I’ve tried it all: the mousses, breads, dressings, pies, cakes, soups. I think I cooked myself through five years of Bon Appetite magazines before I realized that the recipes in their new issues were tasting a lot like something I cooked several years earlier. I bought the binder they were selling to keep all the old issues in, put the magazines in there, and now the collection is so heavy I can’t even lift it up.

There isn’t much incentive to baking a cake “from scratch” when I have to answer questions like: “how much butter (or eggs, or cream) is in this cake?” or “is this fattening?” before I slice the first piece. When I work all day on a beautiful cake and then I’m instructed to cut “just a sliver” because everyone around the table is watching their calories, I resolve myself to serving Entenmann’s next time. At least I won’t have to eat all the leftovers because I feel guilty throwing the cake away.

One of the cookbooks in the box going out to the curb is, A Piece of Cake, the cookbook my husband bought me for Christmas one year. I still don’t know why he bought it since this is a man who prefers box cakes to homemade. You know the kind: Duncan Hines, Betty Crocker. I learned this one year after I worked all day to make him the “Perfect Chocolate Cake” from my McCall’s cookbook. After leaving a good portion on his plate, he leaned back and patted his stomach saying, “I can’t finish this; it’s too rich. I don’t really like homemade cakes; they’re too dense.” He was lucky that it was his birthday, because you can only imagine what I wanted to do to him at that moment.

Thirty or so years ago, when I was young and foolish, I devised a ranking system. “On a scale of one to ten…” it began, and my husband would rate the dish in front of him. I strove to outdo myself in those days, trying to prove myself in the kitchen, trying to earn that 10 rating. I was eager to please and happy to serve up my best recipes for the ranking.

We had fun with this until one evening when I served a fish dish at a dinner party and my brother asked my husband to rank the dish. My sister-in-law giggled nervously as she glanced over to me. I smiled smugly, thinking, this would surely be my shining hour when, among witnesses, I would finally rate a 10. The chant began around the table, “ten, ten, ten,” growing in volume as my husband took a piece of fish and slowly chewed, looked up at the ceiling pensively and finally swallowed. He placed his fork gently down on the table and looked around at the group with all the importance of a master chef as we eagerly awaited his ranking.

“9 ½,” he said. Among the shouts of disbelief around the table he simply said, “I had a better one in Bora-Bora back in 1974.” There was no more ranking that evening or ever again, for that matter. In fact, my husband has gone from ranking my meals to thanking me for any meal that I put in front of him now.

Go, Yankees!

2009-11-03T09:32:00.003-05:00

I’m rooting for the Yankees these days. In fact, I’m screaming at the TV like those crazy fans in the seats. Go, Jeter! Yeah! He’s the man! As I swill my cold beer and munch on something crispy – anything will do, as long as it’s salty – my husband crooks his neck to look over at me and ask, “What’s gotten into you?”

I wonder myself, what’s gotten into me? I, who never drinks anything more potent than a cup of de-caffeinated mint tea after dinner, am looking for a cold one as the opening music announces the beginning of game five. I blame the commercials. How can you resist a cold beer after that Budweiser commercial? Everyone on the TV is drinking a frothy beer and laughing. I want to be happy, too!

I want to slap someone’s hand when Damon slides in for a home run, so I lift my hand up into the air and look over to the only other life form in the room. But my husband is fully horizontal on his recliner with his hands locked behind his head. No excitement there.

I never was a sports fan. I find football boring, but at least they have a half time show. What does baseball have? A seven inning stretch? Woo-hoo! Talk about excitement!

These days are different. Now, I go through my day thinking, Oh! There’s a game tonight! I think about my men. Jorge, keep your comments to yourself tonight; don’t anger the ump! I’m secretly glad they lost last night so I’ll have another game to watch on Wednesday. I’m waiting for Andy Pettitte to pitch again. I like to watch his solemn face concentrating before he winds up for the pitch. And he has a strong resemblance to my oldest son. I talk to him through the TV: Come on, Andy, concentrate, relax. And what about that Johnny Damon! Checking his stats this morning, I was amazed to find that he is young enough to be my son.

Maybe that’s why I like watching these guys. They are so young and full of health and life and stamina, vigor and energy, something I lack these days. But for a few hours, I can feel that spark of youth, swill my beer and feel like I’m out there running the bases too. I get the same rush when I watch the Olympics. I want to start an exercise program, go on a diet, improve my health. (So why am I drinking beer and eating salty veggie sticks?)

Now I can understand why people have those Super Bowl parties. Enthusiasm is contagious and it’s such a great physical release to shout and jump like children do every day when they play. We go through our serious work days trying to contain enthusiasm and remain calm at all times. It’s just plain fun to jump up and down and shout with abandon, to do a little jig when the shouting isn’t enough to express your excitement, and to be among people who are acting as ridiculous as you are. It’s a time when we can wear team shirts and silly hats, wave neon noodles, white rags or anything else to show our team spirit. It’s a time when we can be children again.

I’m looking forward to game six, a cold brewski, some salty popcorn and a close loss – so we can have one more game to watch.

Gifting It Forward

2009-10-29T21:16:00.003-04:00

“Do you know anyone who needs a coat?” my mother asked as she lifted the plastic bag to reveal her 20 year old green car coat.

“Why don’t you just put it in the Good Will clothing drop?” I asked, but I knew that would never happen. That would be the equivalent of telling her to throw the coat away. My mother doesn’t throw her things away, she bequeaths them to others.

“Ask Liz if she wants it. I’ll be on death’s door before I can fit into this coat again,” she said. “I love this coat and I want someone I know to have it.” I took the coat and she handed me another bag with two sweaters in it. “Give her these, too. What a shame, such beautiful sweaters, but they don’t fit anymore.”

It wouldn’t be so bad if my mother just gave her things away and forgot about them, but she can’t let go of the bond she forms with her things. Her attachment is very personal. She wants to know how her relinquished items are doing, long after she gives them away.

When my dad purchased a new player piano he gave me their 20 year old piano that he had promised me several years earlier. Then we acquired the 25 year old couch when they bought a new one, and later we got their 30 year old dining room set. We kept the couch for about five years then decided to put it out for trash. We had to make room for the love seat that – you guessed it – my mother was getting rid of and offering to us.

“You can’t put that couch on the curb!” my mother exclaimed, “That’s a perfectly good couch. Ask around; I’m sure you can find someone who needs a good couch.” When we finally found a relative who needed a couch, my mother was thrilled. A few weeks later, at mom's Sunday dinner table, my brother told the funny story about the couch cushion that flew off while his brother-in-law was transporting it at 60 mph on the Long Island Expressway. As we were all laughing it up, I turned and saw the sad tragic look on my mother’s face. “It’s no use,” she said, “when it comes too easy, you don’t appreciate it.”

Ten years later, when I purchased a new dining room set, I gave the old table back to her because I couldn’t find anyone to pass it on to. The table is still in her basement. It is scratched and warped, but mom hasn’t given up on gifting it forward. “Someone your father knows came to look at the table and they said they wanted it,” she told me recently, “but they never came back to pick it up. What a shame; such a nice table. You can put it on the curb some day when we're gone and you sell the house."

Being a member of the Greatest Generation and a survivor of the Great Depression, I can understand my mother’s frugality and prudence. Money didn’t come easy when she was growing up, starting a family, raising children. She reminds me that things like credit cards, medical insurance and equity loans did not exist when she and my father were raising a family. If they wanted something it took years to save up the cash for it.

So if my mother gives you something, even if the thing is twenty years old when you get it, she is also transferring to you all the accumulated memories of what she gave up to save for this thing: all the years of denying herself that new coat, the vacation not taken, the home made dinners of macaroni and beans, the mended clothing, the resoled shoes. When you take a piece of furniture or used clothing from my mother, you had better be prepared to remain devoted to it forever or find a new owner for it when you are done with it, but never ever tell her that you just got sick of it and left it out at the curb on trash day.

She has the same devotion with the gifts she gives. If she spends her good money on something she expects it to last forever, and, likewise, you should keep it forever.

One day, she dropped in unexpectedly on a Saturday afternoon, while my husband was painting the living room ceiling. I followed her eyes as they dropped down to the living room floor where the white bedspread she had given us twelve years earlier for my wedding shower gift was being used as a drop cloth. She became absolutely still and was stunned into silence for a few moments.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

A cool, “Nothing.”

Twenty years later, while working on a quilt for my son, my mother and I were having tea and discussing some concerns I had. “What if his new wife doesn’t like the colors or the design of the quilt and it sits on the shelf in the closet? What if she doesn’t appreciate the years of hard work it took me to finish this masterpiece by hand?”

“Nonsense,” she assured me, “she will love it!”

“What if the cats rip it to shreds with their claws?” I continued. “What if he has breakfast in bed and gets coffee stains on it? What if…”

“…he uses it for a drop cloth?” she finished my sentence and silently sipped her tea.

Did I tell you my mother is also very tactful and will wait a lifetime to drop a bomb like that to drive her point home. Needless to say, I’m still traumatized to think that, as many a philosopher has said: to think a thought is to put it into motion. What if…a drop cloth?! It has been six years so far and I still can’t bring myself to finish the quilt and hand it over to him. So now I’m worse than my mother. At least she gives her things away.

How I Lost My Underwear

2009-10-23T08:21:00.003-04:00

Did I ever tell you about the time my underwear fell off while I was walking home from school? I remember it so well every year at this time, like an anniversary that resurrects all the vividness of the day: a slight chill in the air, the falling leaves, my pounding heart and panic at the thought of my underwear falling off in public.

I was only in the eighth grade in 1965-66 and we were required to wear skirts or dresses to school. Pants would not be allowed in our public school until my senior year in 1969-1970. If I was wearing pants that day, my underwear wouldn’t have fallen down and there wouldn’t be a story to tell.

I didn’t know I had a problem until I started walking home that October afternoon. About five minutes into the walk, I felt a very subtle, but definite ping at my waist. Had the elastic on my underwear just snapped? I wasn’t quite sure, but they definitely felt looser. Within seconds I knew, with every step I took, the underwear were falling ever so slightly to the rhythm of my walk. I slowed my steps and pressed my books to my stomach to hold them up in place around my bellybutton, but I had a real problem because I had no way to hold up the back piece of flapping cotton which was sliding down my rear. I couldn’t get a good grip through my jacket and I could feel them inching further and further down my hips.

I was walking on the main street leading out from school. It was a busy road with buses and cars packed with seniors leaving for the day. All I wanted today was to find a tree that I could duck behind to shimmy my panties up. Some boys were walking a few feet behind me; I could hear their conversation getting louder as they approached. The undies were falling steadily with every step I took and were already about halfway down my ass. I had to do something to stop their downward slide so I spread my legs wide and did a sort of hoola-hoop shimmy followed by a duck-waddle step. The guys behind me burst out laughing like two hyenas and continued to turn their heads to watch my hoola-hoop-waddle as they passed me by.

My face was burning hot; I could feel my heart pounding under my coat. I stood still in place for a moment, legs spread wide to hold up the drooping drawers, until the two guys were out of sight. I stood firmly in that stance and twisted my torso around to scan in front and behind me. I was in luck, at last, with no traffic and no other walkers in sight, I had a window of opportunity that would only last a few seconds. I reached inside my coat and grabbed the outside of my skirt at the top of my thigh where the underwear had been stopped by my quick thinking spread eagle stance. I felt the tip of the underwear and yanked it high. The other side of the undies fell loose and dangled free down my other thigh. My skirt hem was uneven, at this point, with one side hanging down to my knees and the other side halfway up my thigh, but I didn’t care; I wasn’t letting go of that elastic.

Thinking back today, I don’t know why I didn’t just let the darn things fall right there on the sidewalk and continue walking without looking back. I guess panic got the better of my common sense because all I could think about was the gas station on the corner. If I could just make it to the gas station and get into the ladies’ room, perhaps I could tie the underwear up in a knot somehow, just to get me home. Then I would ask my mother to sew them up and put on a new piece of elastic. What logic is this? I can’t even answer that today, but at thirteen years old, the thought of walking home with no underwear on was horrifying.

I was taking my time, taking no chances, walking in tiny baby steps like a Chinese woman with bound feet. I couldn’t risk walking faster and losing my tenuous grip on the minuscule piece of elastic that was already stretching and slipping out of my sweaty fingers. By the grace of God I made it to the gas station, grabbed the ladies’ room key off the wall, and waddled into the grungy bathroom.

Without thinking, I pushed the door shut with both hands, and felt something whoosh down my legs. I looked down to see my underwear nestled between my shoes. I couldn’t move for a few minutes. I just stared down at that formless cotton heap on the dirty bathroom floor and started crying and laughing at the same time. I picked them up with two fingers and threw them in the garbage pail. And that was that. I continued my walk home from school with my jacket open and the cool breeze blowing up my skirt.

I never told my mother what happened until many, many years later. Why? Who knows. It was such a frightening experience, it took me years to find the humor in the whole incident. And then it just popped up in a conversation one day about the high price of underwear. I briefly commented that, “I had better buy some new underwear before they fall off – again.” Now, I recount the story fondly just to think that, at one point in my life, I was slim enough that my underwear could actually fall down with no encumbrance.

Quiet, Please!

2009-10-16T12:15:00.004-04:00

I remember a time when you had to whisper in a doctor’s office, when the loudest sound you heard in the waiting room was the sound of a page turning in a magazine. Even the nurse wore rubber soles.

Go to any doctor’s office today and you will hear a cacophony of noise blasting out from radios and televisions. There is no peace anywhere anymore. We are tuned in, plugged in, tied in, turned on, hooked up, physically and mentally connected to audio and visual stimuli every moment of the day and night.

Remember muzak? That dull lull was boring, but I’ll take that any day over TV ads in the waiting room like the one about penile erectile dysfunction. I would rather hear a numbing rendition of Moon River than the violent poetics of rap music or songs with lyrics like: “I kissed a girl and I think I liked it.”

I can remember, as a child, waiting in the doctor’s office one day with my mother and my grandmother. My grandmother entered the office with white knuckles clutching her little black handbag and soon found comfort from another nervous old woman waiting to see the doctor. As the two spoke in their native Italian, I could see the tension leave their faces. By the time she was called in to see the doctor, my grandmother was smiling and telling my mother about Anna's late husband who came from my grandmother's village in Catania. "Humph," she added, "I have more grandchildren than she does."

The TV in the waiting room today has set up barriers to intimacy and friendly exchange between patients. Look around at the faces in any waiting room. No one smiles or nods when you enter the room. No one makes eye contact. No one speaks. It’s a drug, I tell you, all this noise and mindless visual stimuli, and I’m afraid that most people are already addicted. I have often reached up the wall to turn off the TV switch or lower the radio volume in a waiting room only to be met with icy stares from the waiting zombies.

Sometimes, when we are driving in the car, I like to be quiet: no radio, just the sound of the rubber meeting the road and the wind blowing through the windows. My son can’t sit in the car in silence longer than 10 minutes without asking, “Doesn’t the radio work in this car? Put something on, will you?”

My dentist recently updated his office. Each dental seat now has a flat screen TV inches away from your face. I ask to have it turned off when the dentist is working on me, because I’ve caught him pausing and glancing at the screen while he is supposed to be working on my mouth. The hygienist was disappointed one day as I asked her to turn off the TV when her soap opera was on. “Are you sure?” she asked me several times before she finally got the answer she wanted. After all, I want to keep the hygienist happy while she's holding that plaque removing hook in her hands.

Leave Me Unconnected

2009-10-09T11:42:00.003-04:00

Is it a sign of aging that I just don’t want to be so connected to everyone? I don’t want a page on Facebook. I don’t want to Twitter my every thought. I don’t want to walk around with that clunky earpiece so I can take phone calls every waking hour. I’m just not that important, and come to think of it, neither is anyone else I know.

Walk around any major city today and all you will see is the top of people’s heads because almost everyone is walking with their heads down interacting with some tech device. What could be so important? Am I really missing something here?

I’ve tried Twitter. I think I made two entries before I realized I had nothing to say to that nagging question, “What are you doing now?” I felt pressured to lie and make something up. Who cares if I’m working at my desk or doing laundry or reading a good book? Unless you are making first hand discoveries on a new planet, who really cares about your mundane day to day moments? Some days, I bore myself. Why share it with others?

I tried Facebook last week. I signed up at 3:00 PM and went out to my niece’s birthday party at 4:00 PM. Within that hour, everyone at the party who was “connected” knew I had signed up and welcomed me as their friend in Facebook. When I returned home at 8:00 PM, I had about thirty messages from other people asking if they could be my friend. Only one or two of those people were already my friends, and the others, well, I wish they had never found me.

I started reading the inane comments on my Facebook wall and responded with an assortment of verbal replies that I will sum up nicely here in two words: Who cares?! I saw my future and it wasn’t pretty. Was I going to come home from work and waste hours responding to my Facebook friends instead of donning my apron and cooking the evening meal, something I really enjoy?

Cooking is a sensual experience for me. I relish the colors and textures and scents of the foods. I unwind and clear my head of the day’s tensions as I chop vegetables and meditate. I sing and whistle to my parakeet as he jumps around his cage, pokes his bell and answers me with real tweets.

And when my husband walks through the door, the smell of a home cooked meal makes him smile – a real smile – not a colon followed by a parentheses. We sit down to dinner and have a real conversation – not a 140 word limited electronic quip. I let him concentrate on his work during the day, but when he’s home, he had better twitter my fancy and concentrate on me.

Call me old fashioned, but some technologies are not worth keeping up with. My real friends know who they are. And all those other “friends” will remain unconnected. And that’s just the way I like it.

Anonymous Women

2009-10-02T08:39:00.003-04:00

I have a journal that I write in that has quotes by famous women on each page. Here is a quote by the English writer, Doris Lessing:

"...And then, not expecting it, you become middle-aged and anonymous. No one notices you. You achieve a wonderful freedom. It is a positive thing. You can move about, unnoticed and invisible."

This one struck me as especially poignant, as I have experienced this phenomenon in my own personal life.

It happened slowly, over time. A decision to let my hair go grey, allowing a few extra pounds to creep up and remain where they settled, a slight shrinking of the spine, and suddenly one day I woke up and I just didn't feel like myself. I thought I looked alright, for my age, until I saw an old photo of myself and wondered, "What happened to me?"

This morning I scared myself when I lifted my face up from the sink and said to the reflection looking back at me, "Who the hell are you?!" I try not to look too closely in the morning until I get the makeup on, then I try to smile at the face looking back at me because I know attitude counts for more than looks. And if I've learned anything from my transitions through the ages it is that, to be truly happy, you've got to get over yourself. You must one day acknowledge that you are not the center of the universe.

In a way, this aging process is a wonderful phenomenon because, as the quote says, "you become anonymous. No one notices you." There is true freedom in that, especially for women. As I observed riding home on the LIRR last night, whenever a pretty young woman walked down the aisle to exit the train, men would lift their heads and stare at her. While waiting for the doors to open, the woman would cast her eyes down, shift her weight, move her purse from one arm to another - all visible signs of her discomfort and awareness of the eyes on her.

I was that woman in my younger days. The cat calls from men driving by in trucks, whistles from men on the street, jeers in Spanish, were not pleasant compliments; they were demeaning and frightening. When I was young, this kind of attention from men would make me so uncomfortable and fearful, I would break out in a sweat. Now the only sweating I do around men is when my own body breaks out in a hot flash.

And as I begin stripping the layers of clothing off to cool down, no one is looking at my overweight midriff or my flabby arms. Yes, it truly is a positive thing - this aging. Being anonymous is not such a bad thing. As Doris Lessing put is so well: at last, "You can move about, unnoticed and invisible. You achieve a wonderful freedom."

The LAST Swim!

2009-09-25T10:49:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was the last balmy summer-like day and I spent the entire day indoors working at a desk, crunching numbers, with an air conditioner blasting on my forehead. As I glanced out the window, from time to time, I began to pine over the last days of summer. I never was this way: obsessed with the endings of things. My husband did this to me. After 33 years of living with someone telling me, “This is the last day of summer,” and, “This is the last day of our vacation,” or, “This is the last time we will be sailing until next summer,” it’s no wonder I was fidgeting all day to get out on the water one last time.

At 11:00 AM, I shot a quick e-mail to my husband: What do you say if I make some sandwiches for dinner and we take the boat out to that little spot we found last weekend? We could take one last swim. His immediate reply: Absolutely. I’ll try to be home by 5:45.

And so, the adventure began…

I hurried home and slapped some leftover chicken between two slices of bread, packed a cucumber and some cherry tomatoes to dip into hummus, boiled water for a thermos of tea and brought some cookies for dessert.

“Do you want to bring a bottle of wine?” my husband asked.

“Nah, let’s just throw in some beers and get out before the sun goes down,” I replied. Bringing the wine would have meant taking precious minutes to gingerly pack two wine glasses because my husband won’t drink wine from a plastic cup. In hindsight, we should have packed a few bottles of wine.

Upon arriving at our “little spot” on the Great South Bay we began eating our sandwiches and laughed at the wonder of being alone like this anywhere on Long Island. “I won’t throw an anchor,” my captain said, “because the tide is going out. We’ll just drift into deeper water until we reach the channel and then we’ll head home. By then it will be dark.”

“It seems awful low here,” I said. “Are you sure we won’t get stuck?” My captain, an auxiliary Coast Guard member, chuckled and assured me that he knew what he was doing and I should just relax and enjoy the last sunset. I should have known something was wrong when he finished his sandwich in a hurry and jumped up to look for the one oar he keeps on the boat. He stumbled and landed his big toe in the hummus and I threw my cucumber overboard to the fishes.

“It was just my toe,” he said, “the rest of this hummus is still good.”

“No thanks,” I replied.

I stretched out and relaxed while he went up to the bow and began rowing and testing the water’s depth with the oar. It was still too low to run the engine. I was enjoying the sound of silence interrupted occasionally by the gentle ripple of the oar in the water, a distant call of a lonely seagull, the soft chirping sounds of crickets on the island.

“We’re a lot farther away from the channel than I thought,” my captain called out from the starboard side.

“You know we’re going in circles,” I informed him, “and the mosquitoes are starting to bite.”

I covered my head with my hood to keep the little buggers out and closed my eyes. I was in a gentle reverie imagining that we were teenagers again, stranded out here in the warm dusky evening in a low tide on the last day of summer. I was thinking how differently we would be responding to this situation if we were 18 again, when I was awakened by the sound of a clumsy splash.

“Move up to the bow,” my captain called to me from the water. “I need your weight up front while I pull the boat.” Happy to accommodate him, I lounged in the vee seat in the bow observing how much lower the depth had become and how much darker the sky was and how little progress he had made with his one oar.

“Why is it getting lower?” I asked. “I thought you said we would be drifting into deeper water.”

My captain’s quick response was a firm command: “You’ll have to get out of the boat now and help me push or we’ll never get out of here until the tide comes up at midnight.” It was dark now and I couldn’t see what was in the water – jellyfish? crabs? weed? Did he really expect me to jump in the water beside him? Did he take me seriously last weekend when I playfully called him, “my captain,” and assured him that when we were boating he was "my commander" and I would follow his orders – no matter what? The alternative was to sit out here on this dank dark night and get eaten alive by mosquitoes.

I pushed while he pulled, then we both pushed. I’ll admit that I was faking it at some point, making pushing sounds and not exerting much effort until my foot landed in some mucky mush that pulled me down like quicksand. I screamed and let go of the boat and moved back a few paces.

“What happened?” my captain called out.

“Mush! I stepped into a pile of mucky mush!” He continued to push the boat without me, ignoring my cries and I stumbled after the boat screaming, “Don’t leave me out here alone!”

Then my heart sank at the sound of sand pressing into the hull as the dead weight of our 17 foot boat was in front of us. We were now firmly beached in the pitch black dark in the Great South Bay. I remembered the old joke my brother used to tell my mother when he went boating as a teenager. “Don’t worry so much, mom,” he would reassure her. “If we get stuck out there, we can just walk home.” Har! Har! Har! I was now living that joke. I thought of the wine bottle we left at home and longed for a swig.

For a split second I saw the look of defeat pass over my captain’s eyes. “NOW WHAT!” I screamed. He quickly snapped out of it and began shimmying the boat from left to right and I followed his lead. We were slow dancing with this boat, creating a rhythm of motion as I was whispering endearments to it under my breath, “come on, baby, let’s go, let’s get out of here, we can do this!”

At last! I felt it loosen and the water was up to my knees. “Can I get back in the boat?” I asked timidly at first, and as the water inched up to my thighs I was almost in tears as I cried out, “NOW?? Can I PLEASE get back into the boat?” And then those beautiful words, my captain’s orders: “Get back in the boat.”

The engine started up in deeper water and I saw the green and red buoy lights ahead. We were home safe in the state channel. So why was my captain heading away from the buoys? The engine stalled when we hit bottom again, and then I remembered, the captain was color blind. The oar came out again and I guided him back to the colored buoys. I heard him click the switch to turn on the boat lights but saw no lights. He tried over and over, and I realized all the clicking in the world wasn’t going to turn those lights on as I panicked and called out to alert the captain of an approaching boat. “Don’t worry; I see him!” he shouted out above the roar of the approaching engine.

“I see him, too!” I screamed, “but he can’t see us because we have no lights!” I grabbed a life jacket and clumsily fumbled with the strap to adjust it to my girth. Worst case scenario, I thought, at least they will find my body after the crash. I saw my grandchildren’s faces flash before me. I thought of all the people I loved in my life and gave each of them a two second farewell hug in my mind. I closed my eyes and prayed.

I kept silent for the remainder of the ride home. My life jacket was so tight I could hardly breathe, let alone speak. My heart took awhile to get back to a normal pace. Before my captain could finish tying up, I jumped onto the dock, and in a final gesture of farewell to the summer of 2009, I flung my ruined wet, muck covered sandals across the lawn. That was the last time I would wear them. That slow dance with the boat was, undeniably, my last swim of 2009. As for my captain, those were the last commands he would issue me and the last time I would call him “captain” -until next year.

The Cookbook In My Head

2009-09-16T11:48:00.003-04:00

My grandmother’s cookbook was a 3 x 5 inch spiral notebook with recipes that she wrote in broken Italian-English. Here is one of them in its entirety:
2 fico
la flour
12 egges
1 patata bollita

Before my grandmother died, she instructed me to go to her house and take anything I wanted before the vultures got there. (Those were her exact words, not mine.) I didn’t want anything except that cookbook. I thought I would find the secret recipe to my favorite cookie in there – the one that she made for me every Christmas. It was a cookie made with a soft dough in the shape of an empanada and filled with sweetened ricotta and tiny chocolate chips. I had asked her for the recipe many times but she never gave it to me. Instead, she would tell me to come and watch her make it. I thought she was holding out on me, but, in reality, she didn’t have the recipe written down. It was all in her head.

My mother’s best recipes are also written in her head. But, luckily, I grew up watching my mother cook, so her recipes have been passed down through my genetic code and my personal observations. I enjoyed being in the kitchen with my mother. It was our place, the one place in the house where the men in my family kept out. As a child I would stand with my nose level with the counter and watch her methodical chopping. As a teen, I would help her with the chopping and mixing, not realizing that I was also learning to cook. The meditative rhythms were soothing and, inevitably, we would open up and talk about anything and everything. There was no conversation that was off limits in the kitchen. It was there that I learned some of the family secrets that only we women would share.

Like my grandmother and my mother, my favorite recipes are also in my head, but I’ve written down a few too. When my boys went off to college, they asked me for a cookbook of recipes that they had eaten all their lives – the ones in my head. I put one together for them, as best I could, in my own language. It consists of a list of ingredients (measurements are approximated) and my instructions, which are more like essays rather than directions. They know a good cook doesn’t follow someone else’s directions. A good cook works with their senses by seeing, smelling and tasting. In a lot of ways, my boys have already surpassed their teacher.

I listen in rapt attention as my son, James, explains how he roasted a chicken in fresh herbs and played with a white wine basting sauce to produce the most succulent meat that fell off the bone. My son, Peter, amazes me with his robust tomato sauce with lots of “meats” in it. And even my youngest son, Paul, surprises me when he produces his favorite meal: breaded chicken wings with white rice. Who knew the kid was paying attention to my activities in the kitchen?

My husband is another story. He wants to learn, and he may be my biggest challenge. He insists on measuring and timing everything according to the recipe. I tell him cooking is not a science, it’s an art. We read the recipe and then we do what we want. But nothing ever tastes exactly the same, he argues. That’s what makes life interesting, I counter. It’s a basic philosophical difference between us. He likes assurances, I like uncertainty. He likes consistency, I like excitement.

I guess he doesn’t want a repeat of the time when I was having 15 people over for my mother’s birthday celebration and I ruined the rice. I calmly instructed my sister-in-law to hold the back door open and I walked the pot of rice across the yard and dumped it into the garden. I then proceeded to throw together one of the best serendipitous pasta dishes with a creamy mushroom sauce. We were having leg of lamb and the recipe I threw together was actually a better choice for the menu.

The recipe for “Mushrooms in Sour Cream” was taken from The New McCall’s Cookbook by Mary Eckley, Food Editor of McCall’s. (Yes, I measured everything) The book is out of print, but I will share the recipe with you now. This recipe has a lot of liquid, so I thought I would stretch it by pouring it over a pound of pasta. It was delicious! It would be a complete meal with some leftover lamb added to the mushroom recipe below. The entire dish only takes about 20 minutes to prepare.

Mushrooms in Sour Cream

3 Tablespoons butter or margarine
1 cup chopped onion
1 ¼ lb fresh mushrooms, sliced ¼ inch thick
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon paprika
½ teaspoon pepper
¼ cup chopped parsley
1 cup dairy sour cream

In hot butter in medium skillet, sauté onion until golden – about 5 minutes.
Add mushrooms and ½ cup water; simmer, covered (adding more water, if necessary) until mushrooms are tender – about 15 minutes.
Add salt, paprika, pepper, 2 tablespoons parsley, and the sour cream. Heat very slowly, stirring until thoroughly hot. Before serving, sprinkle with rest of parsley.
Makes 6 servings.

Other ingredients you can add to kick this up a notch: frozen peas, cubed leftover lamb, or cubed leftover London broil, some fresh minced garlic.

Boil a pound of linguini (or other pasta of your choice), drain and toss with Mushrooms in Sour Cream and any or all of the above ingredients. Serve with some crusty Italian or French bread and a salad.

Why Are Republicans Always So Angry?

2009-09-14T11:16:00.003-04:00

I noticed it during the campaign. Republicans were always so angry. I'm noticing it again now with the health care issue. Why is it that Republicans always seem so angry? Seems like you can't have a discussion with them. It always turns into an argument. Is it just my family, or are Republicans, in general, a mean spirited group of people?

The recent outburst by South Carolina Rep. Joe Wilson was the perfect example of what I am talking about. Did you see those Republicans holding up papers, making remarks during the president's speech? They were acting like a bunch of disrespectful ill mannered elementary school kids. What an example to show our children. If these guys in high office can't behave in front of our president, how do you expect the children in our classrooms to respect their teachers? Come on, guys, let's try and set an example here.

I try to avoid conversations in the workplace that have anything to do with the current issues of health care and the economy. I don't want to start any arguments or polarize myself from people that I have to work with every day. But, I wonder, why do I have to be the one to back off? Why are the people with the most irrational ignorant statements the ones who get their opinions heard? I usually let them grunt and groan and turn red in the face while I stand there and nod like a bobble head, stirring my coffee, walking backwards toward my desk - all to avoid an argument, to keep the peace.

I can usually weed out the Republicans by asking, "Did you watch the president's speech the other night?" The Republicans will laugh and reply with an adamant, "NO!" I don't argue with those folks and the conversation ends. Funny, they are never interested to ask me if I watched it. When George W. was in office I watched all his speeches on TV. I wouldn't miss an opportunity like that. I had all my shoes lined up and I would toss them at the TV yelling obscenities until my face turned red. But first I made sure that all my windows were shut tight - just to avoid an argument with my neighbors in the morning.

September 11, 2009

2009-09-11T07:18:00.003-04:00

Every year, at the beginning of September, I feel a sense of doom. The weather is cooler, dryer, the sky is crystal blue and my mind makes the flash connection to a similar day eight years ago. I remember that morning. I had the day off and I was getting ready to go shopping with my mother. My husband called to tell me he was alright. I didn't know what he was talking about.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked. "Did you have trouble on the train?"

"You didn't hear?" Then, "Turn on the TV; two planes went into the World Trade Center."

As I watched the images on my television I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I couldn't speak as I held the phone to my ear and listened to my husband's breathing. I wanted him home safe with me. Was I safe? Where was my other son? Had he gone to work in the city that day? My hands began to feel tingly, staccato thoughts flew through my head. Were there other planes flying across the country dropping bombs? My oldest son was in the navy, stationed in California at the time; was he alright? My youngest was in high school. Would he make it home safely? Why did we have to be so scattered?

My mind raced frantically trying to think about all the other people I knew who traveled to the city to work: my son, my uncle, cousins, my friend. I began calling my son and couldn't reach him; same with my friend who was seven months pregnant. I began to feel the rise in my throat, the panic and tears at the thought of losing them.

I remember going around the house locking all the doors and windows, as if that would keep me safe. I pulled the shades down around the house. I wanted to crawl into a safe place and stay there until the reality could penetrate. What was happening? My legs were shaky and I felt as if the ground was shifting under my feet.

My son finally called from his ship to make sure everyone was safe. The navy was on high alert and he wouldn't be able to call again for a while. He asked about his father and brother. Did they ride the subway today? He had been warning them for weeks to take alternate transportation to work. Did he know something that we didn't? I told him I loved him as silent tears fell and I grabbed the phone with white knuckles. As long as I could hear his voice, hear his breathing, I felt some sense of relief in his safety. When he hung up I kept the phone to my ear as if this could hold him to me a little bit longer.

The silence after that phone call was palpable. I broke down and buried my face in my hands and cried. I had flash memories of all of my children as babies, then toddlers, teens and now young men. Had I told them I loved them enough throughout their lives? I wanted to go back in time and hold them safely in my arms to protect them from the evils in the world. Had I prepared them enough for this new world to come?

Long Island Woman Publication Disses Women

2009-09-09T08:52:00.003-04:00

I picked up a free copy of Long Island Woman the other day from my local library. There was a picture of Patty Duke on the cover of the September issue. You may have seen it in your local library or on the window ledge of your local Chinese restaurant. I urge you to grab a copy and look through it sometime. I'm interested in your opinion as one woman to another. Did you find it as offensive as I did? Am I overreacting? Please forgive me as I rant on a bit about this...

For one thing most of the articles are about self improvement - but only in a physical way. Here are some articles and advertisements you will find in the September issue:

"Fall Into Shape " - an article by a male doctor outlining all your options for cosmetic surgery
"The Mommy Makeover" - an advertisement. Here is the first line: "Children change everything but that doesn't have to include your figure." (incidentally there is a comma incorrectly placed after the word "but")
"Why a Mommy Makeover?" is an advice column written by another male doctor.
"Breast Surgery Combined With Tummy Tuck and/or Liposuction" is another "Good Advice" column, but this time it is written by a female doctor.
Other advertisers include: The Women's Imaging Center, Botox Clinics, Lumiere hair removal, laser medicine and dermatology doctors, weight loss centers, plastic surgeons, cosmetic dentists, medi spas that offer an underarm laser hair package, bikini laser package, Botox, Evolence, Perlane, Restylane, Juvederm, Permanent Fillers and Chemical Peels. The Naturapathic Solutions company can help you "Get Your "Sexy" Back!" by offering relief from hot flashes, mood swings, low libido and vaginal dryness, fatigue, weight gain, hair loss and poor concentration.

More Good Advice columns follow with headlines like:
"Not All Facelifts Are Created Equal: Understanding Different Types of Lifts" - authored by another male MD
"Consider This When Choosing Your Cosmetic Dentist"
"Weight Loss: A New Way to Achieve Your Goal"
"Resolving Stress to Heal your Body & your Life!"
"Know Your Options When Considering Divorce"
"Do You Need to Avoid Probate?" an empty article that ends with the author's phone number and firm name. Yes, the author is an attorney looking for business.

There is a two page article about handbags and all the frivolous non-essentials that we women need to carry in them. Here are some quotes from the article which is actually a two page advertisement for cosmetics to carry in the handbag:

"Adding a little more blush on your cheeks will also make you look awake."
"Ditching the Blackberry in favor of evening cocktails is a mid-week must for busy girls about town."
"Date night hair and flat hair just plain don't mix."
"If you decide to break out the blow dryer during a weekend, make sure it is a ceramic dryer which cuts down on frizz as well as drying time"

The feature story about Patty Duke focuses on her abusive lifestyle, her multiple unhappy marriages, sexual molestations, her stay in a mental institution and other negative elements in her life like her battle with weight gain. If only Patty Duke had read the Long Island Woman during her life. She would have solved all of her problems. She would have had an array of spas and cosmetic doctors to change her look and her mood. The divorce lawyer could have handled all the divorces and the probate lawyer would have written her will correctly to ensure the ex-husbands wouldn't be arguing about her assets after she is gone.

It's no wonder women today have self image issues. My question is, why are libraries - promoters of education and the printed word - allowing rags like Long Island Woman to be displayed at the entrances and exits of their buildings? As far as I can tell the Long Island Woman is just a big advertisement for insecure women who probably sit with a mirror beside them as they read the advice columns for liposuction and face lifts. I found this publication insulting to my intelligence and disrespectful to women.

The message of Long Island Woman is: "You aren't good enough as you are. Make yourself beautiful, lose weight, tighten your skin to hide your age (because getting older is a bad thing in America) and you will be happier and fulfilled in life. You just have to look like Barbie to be happy.

My message to the editors of Long Island Woman is: I'm going to burn your rag publication in my fireplace and ask my library to remove it from their building. The Chinese restaurant can use it to line the cardboard box that they put the food in. There's always a greasy leak at the bottom of the box when I get the wonton soup delivered.

There's Another Duggar On The Way!

2009-09-05T00:42:00.002-04:00

Big surprise announcement on the Today show this week: the Duggars are expecting child #19. Hey, Jim Bob, maybe it’s time to get a hobby. And, Mrs. Jim Bob, once in a while you can just say no! I mean, come on, 18 kids weren’t enough? Can you even remember all their names? I only had three boys and I got their names mixed up all the time. I still get confused. Every phone call starts with me trying to guess which one is on the other end of the line. James? Peter? Paul? Which one are you? I even get the facts of their antics blurred from time to time. Which one of you burned a hole in the sheets playing with matches? I can’t remember. I do remember the night two of my boys had one of those “high-low” stomach viruses and I slept on the floor outside the bathroom door with one child on each side of me and a puke bucket balanced on my chest, just in case they couldn’t make the three foot crawl to the toilet bowl. How the hell can you do that with 19 kids? How can you run through the house with a thermometer checking fevers all night long? Or keep track of medications and doses for all of them?

I don’t buy it: the posed photos with the children all smiling, some holding musical instruments, as if the photographer interrupted their practice session. Others are holding younger siblings, all of them smiling – even Jim Bob and the Mrs. have frozen smiles on their faces. Are these people real, or has Sesame Street made some gosh darn amazingly lifelike puppets? Were those strings I saw above Jim Bob’s head?

I did some figuring. I averaged time throughout the day that it took to take care of personal hygiene, cook meals, home school the children, pick up the house, do laundry, empty the trash and sleep a minimum of 6 hours. I figure, on a good day, Michelle Duggar must only have about 20 minutes left to spend with Jim Bob at the end of the day. If you already had 18 kids and you only had 20 minutes to spend with your husband at the end of the day, would you spend that time trying to make another child? I think I would do something more creative and fun. I would invent games like, “Let’s see if I can tie you up, honey.” Then I would string him up from the ceiling joists, and leave him there suspended in mid air, like Tinkerbell, so I could get a solid uninterrupted 6 hours sleep. Let’s see if he’s still smiling in the morning when we lower him down for the photo op.

See You In September

2009-08-30T14:32:00.007-04:00

As the sun sets on another summer, I feel a certain melancholia setting in. It starts with the soft music of crickets chirping me to sleep at night. It's an old memory association, a reminder that school will be starting soon. There are subtle changes in the day's light; sun's rays are more angled, casting long shadows early in the afternoon. And if you go sailing on the Great South Bay on Long Island in late August, the wind off the water carries the briny scent of the sea.

I spend the last few days of summer watching the red sunsets with a pouting face and a feeling of gloom. It's comical, really, because summer is not even my favorite season of the year. In fact, I get a feeling of dread every year as summer approaches. I hate the heat, the green flies and mosquitoes, and since I am out of shape I am not happy wearing the summer wardrobe of shorts and swimsuits.

Fall is my favorite season with bulky sweaters to cuddle in, boots and long skirts, tweedy jackets and the smell of a new leather shoulder bag. I relish the cool nights in October that bring relief from summer heat and the dramatic skies that follow in November. In winter, I delight in the sound of hail pelting my windows and gusty winds blowing against my door as I watch a winter storm and sip a hot cup of tea near the fireplace. So why this bluesy feeling every August when summer ends?

Summer's end brings to me a feeling of loss. No other season has the dramatic sense of ending that summer does. All the other seasons seem to overlap, to blend into one another, as if time and season will go on forever, but summer clearly ends. When it is over the lifeguard stands topple, the clam bars close, the children are gone to school, the streets are silent and the bay is still. Even the sun disappears. Before we get a chance to set dinner out on the picnic table in these last days of August, it is already getting dark.

So we close up the house, lock the windows against the coming chill of fall and freezing nights of winter and mourn the sun's absence like Demeter mourned her Persephone. Farewell to summer 2009. I'll see you in September.

(photo by Paul Vanderberg)

To Grey or Not To Grey

2009-07-22T09:18:00.001-04:00

...That is the question

For several years I have been wrestling with the idea to let my hair go grey.

My hairdresser tried to discourage me. “You’ll look like an old lady,” he told me. “Don’t do it.”

I doubted his sincerity, since he stood to lose the $50, plus tip, that I paid every six weeks to color my hair. As my roots began to grow in, he made me feel worse about my decision.

“Whenever you’re ready, we can put a rinse through this,” he said one day while bunching my hair in his fist and letting it fall into a mess around my head. I found a new hairdresser.

My friends and co-workers’ opinions were mixed. I distrusted the ones who said, “Yes! Let your hair go grey.” They just wanted someone to look older than they did. I didn’t listen to the ones who said, “No! Continue to color your hair.” They must be insecure with their own identity, I reasoned; I was not.

My husband never considered the Grecian Urn when his hair started turning grey. He laughed when I suggested he color his hair to hide his age when he was looking for employment several years ago. When I asked him why I had to continue to color my hair and he didn’t, he answered, “I’m a man. Grey hair looks distinguished on a man. Grey hair on a woman looks old.”

Deciding to let your hair go its natural route is a tough one. It requires you to be self confident and impervious to the comments and opinions of others. On a good hair day, I strut my stuff and let my hair blow in the wind. I’m proud of my grey roots and what they reveal about me: confidence, assertiveness, intelligence. Grey roots tell the world that there is more to me than meets the eye. I have ripened and mellowed with the passing of time - like a mature smooth wine. On a bad hair day, I wear a hat, look down, count the cracks in the sidewalk and avoid mirrors.

It has been two years since I made that decision to stop the coloring process and my hair is much thicker and healthier for it. Men are also holding doors open for me again. That hasn’t happened since I was 19 years old and wearing a size 5. Department store sales staff are once again asking me, “Can I help you?” Absolute strangers smile at me and have even stooped to pick up something I’ve dropped. People behind the counters of delis and coffee shops are speaking louder and slower to me than to the younger people on line. One of these courtesies by themselves would be a nice gesture, but several of them in one day makes me a little suspicious. Can it be the salt and pepper in my hair or has the world become a friendlier place?

My resolve has become a little shakier these days after two recent incidents. The first one happened several months ago while shopping with my 81 year old mother whose hair is completely white. A sales clerk referred to us as friends. My mother was flattered. I feigned a weak smile and admitted that, yes, my mother is also my friend. We all laughed at the misunderstanding, but later that night I stood in front of the mirror for a long time questioning my decision to let my hair go au naturel.

The other incident happened the other day in the grocery store while I was helping my 83 year old father look for his brand of coffee on the grocery shelf. Another shopper was standing nearby when I told my father to try another brand because his brand wasn’t there. As I was packing my dad’s groceries, someone tapped my shoulder and said, “I wanted to tell your husband that I found the coffee he likes; they just changed the label. It’s back there on the shelf.”

That night, I called my mother and asked, “Should I go back to coloring my hair?”

“Yes!” she answered, “Why don’t you? You’re too young to be grey.”

Later that same night I asked my 21 year old son the same question. He answered, “No way, mom! Your hair looks great; much better than that fake dye. Your face looks younger, more natural… you look…distinguished.”

Now, I’ve never listened to advice given to me by anyone younger than 35, but in this case I would have to make an exception. After all, the kid was so honest. If I doubted his honesty for one minute, I was reassured by his next comment.

“No offense, mom, but what you should do is lose weight.”

Who asked him?

Women In The Kitchen

2009-07-21T09:27:00.004-04:00

There was a time when women spent most of their time in the kitchen. Cooking took longer without all the fancy gadgets we have today. When I was growing up in the 1950’s, my mother mashed garlic, sliced potatoes and diced onions with the same knife. In fact, I don’t recall any other utensil being used to prepare dinner. She did not own a set of measuring spoons or cups. I watched her use her eyes and her hands to measure a little of this and some of that. She cooked with a secret sense and was always able to stretch the pot to accommodate an unexpected guest or two.

“I’ll just add some more water and throw in a little more pasta,” was her mantra.

I spent a lot of time in my mother’s kitchen learning to cook by watching her prepare food for company, helping her slice vegetables, stirring the pots, smelling the steam and adding more seasoning when needed. But the times I enjoyed the most were after the meal when all the women would retreat to the kitchen to wash the dishes, leaving the men to talk about worldly matters and smoke their cigars on the porch.

I would help out drying the dishes just so I could listen as my aunts told their intimate stories of love and marriage. Half the time I couldn’t understand them when they started talking Italian, but I knew whatever they were saying was risqué because their bawdy laughter would rock the dishes in the drain board and my mother would steal a quick blushing glance my way as she covered her mouth in laughter. Sometimes I would catch one of my aunt’s dabbing her eyes with a dishtowel while the others gathered around her in a show of strength.

As an adult, I know now what those women were talking and laughing about. They are the age old tales that any woman can share from any era: they are the stories of love and marriage and women and men and the incompatibility between the sexes. Sometimes there are tears shed over the sink with the admission of infertility or the confession of an unwanted pregnancy. Sometimes we brag about our children, and sometimes we console someone whose child went astray. It would take a man several years of visits to a professional therapist to open up like women do with each other while drying the plates and scrubbing the pots.

Sometimes a curious man will wander into the kitchen to see what all the chatter and laughter is about, but he is quickly booted out by a swarm of women wielding wet dish towels, protecting their domain - and their secrets - from intruders.

Happiness Karma

2009-07-13T09:29:00.003-04:00

If you bang someone on the head long enough with a hammer, they are very happy when you stop.

I was so happy after the birth of my first child because, finally, the hammer had stopped. “I’m so happy this is over,” is the first thing I said. But my husband only heard the first part of the sentence – the “I’m so happy” part because my parched cracked lips had stuck together and couldn’t get the rest of the sentence out coherently.

When my son was awarded a scholarship to attend the college of his choice he was happy and I was happier. It meant the noose around my neck had loosened and I only had to take out the 20 year loan; I could cancel the application to remortgage the house.

The more I think about what makes me happy, the more I realize that happiness is just the opposite of what makes me miserable. Happiness and misery, black and white, yin and yang: one must follow the other in life to one degree or another.

You lose your job; you’re miserable. You find a job; you’re happy.
You get sick; you’re miserable. You get well; you’re happy.
Your boss treats you badly; you’re miserable. You learn the IRS is after him for tax evasion; you’re happy.

When I think back, it seems that my wonderful simple childhood happiness ended when I was about seven years old, at the “age of reason,” when I became aware that life just isn’t fair. The kind of happiness I had as a child would never exist again as an adult. I wasn’t always going to wake up happy, be happy all day, and go to bed happy.

Happiness is like the sunset. On the most beautiful magnificent summer day, no matter how long you keep your eye on the setting sun, thinking if you can just hold the sun in your view, you can hold on to a few more seconds in the day, it disappears. And so it is with happiness; it doesn’t last. But there is comfort in this, for as happiness does not last, neither does the misery that follows, and without the misery, the happiness would not exist. For when misery leaves, happiness takes its place. Remember the hammer?

My mother is such a believer in this balance of happiness to misery that she will try to stop herself from laughing too much in one single day. Why? “Because if I laugh too much today, I’ll cry tomorrow,” she tells me.

So as I get older I try and fool fate and find happiness in small things: an hour a day for quietly reading or quilting, a cup of hot coffee on a cold winter’s day, a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day.

I’m not asking for much. Something small, like being able to zip up my pants all the way and still being able to sit and breathe comfortably throughout the day would make me happy. Finding something on the sale rack that isn’t ripped, stained, purple striped or too tight would make me very happy. And if just once Macy’s would take one of their own 20% off coupons without giving me a song and dance about why that coupon doesn’t apply to my purchase, I would be very, very happy. In fact, I would draw the line for happiness on that day - the equivalent of my mother’s “don’t make me laugh too much” adage.

I want the Gods to see that I want only small happiness, so when the sun sets on my happy day, they will consider the balance of yin and yang and bestow on me only some small misery like a stubbed toe or a flat tire. They’ll give the big misery to someone else, someone with too much happiness. When it comes to happiness, I hope I’ll get my fair share of misery, balanced with my meager little happiness - and not an ounce more!

Drop The Soap!

2009-06-13T11:04:00.002-04:00

There are so few pleasures in life; after 50 there are fewer yet. So I relish the small things, like a long hot soapy shower with a bar of my special floral scented soap. I don't buy them for myself. They're too expensive. Some of those soaps can cost between $8 and $12 a bar! So I wait for a holiday when gifts are exchanged, and the first thing on my list is: scented soaps. When I get them, I hide them in my underwear drawer.

Before my shower, I unwrap the soft white bar of soap, press the tissue paper to my face and inhale the fragrant floral scent. I roll the smooth dry bar of soap around in my hands for a few seconds, cup my hands to my face and inhale deeply. Ahhhh.... I am already beginning to relax.

This soap is so rich, the lather foams up like whipped cream on my skin. I'm giddy with the lusty floral scent that mixes with the steamy water sending a beautiful freesia scent throughout the room, down the hall and into my bedroom. I smell my skin as I leave the shower. I smell like a walking flower.

When my husband comes to bed that night, he glances my way and raises his eyebrow. This silent communication for his romantic intentions is accepted with my smile, but something is amiss. Am I correct? Does he, too, smell like a flower?

"Come closer," I tell him. He smiles broadly, misinterpreting my urgent command.

"Did you use my scented soap?!" I ask, my nose sniffing his shoulder.

"I used the soap in the shower." He answers, dreamily, moving in closer.

"But was it my soap?" It is an accusation now, as it has already been confirmed by my superior olfactory senses.

He backs away a little, sensing the mood shift, "I used the only soap in the shower."

I leap out of bed to see how this could have happened. And there it was. My beautiful sensual floral scented soap sitting in the soap holder. How, I wonder, could a man who can't find the mayonnaise jar in the refrigerator, when it is sitting on the shelf in front of his nose, ever find my tiny round bar of scented soap that I hide behind two voluminous bottles of shampoo and conditioner??

Needless to say, the mood is lost as I begin a lecture on the price of that soap, my need to have my own feminine things - separate from the men in this family - and my inability to find him sexually appealing when he smells like a gentle flower. I doubt he will ever use my soap again, and I vow to be more vigilant, to check the soap holder every night and be sure to replace "their" soap when they run out.

But mishaps happen, and I'm not as sharp as I used to be. Otherwise I wouldn't be screaming through the bathroom door this morning as my son was taking his 45 minute shower. It stopped me dead in my tracks as I was making my bed: the steamy scent of my floral soap, swirling around my head.

I pounded on the bathroom door yelling, "Drop the soap!"

"I'll be done in a minute," he replied.

"Drop the soap!" I repeated as I banged on the door.

"What?" he answered through the thick flower scented steam.

"Drop the soap!" At this point I was almost in tears as I imagined my tiny round soap reduced to a sliver and then to just a few bubbles drifting down the drain.

"I can't hear you; wait 'till I get out," he answered.

I thought about setting off the smoke alarms, but he would ignore that too. There were too many times that I burned the toast and no one took them seriously anymore.

What can I do? Give up the fight? Go back to using that bland bar of Ivory soap? How do you go back to drinking water with dinner after you've sipped the Beaujolais? Shall I start carrying my soap back and forth to the shower, like students do in college dorms?

Maybe I should just calm down and accept the fact that these mishaps occur from time to time, pick your battles, as they say, and be grateful for other small victories- like the fact that they all leave the toilet seat down.

Rain

2009-06-10T07:00:00.005-04:00

Are we sick of the rain yet? I, for one, like rainy days - when I can stay home and observe them. I don't relish slopping around in puddles or driving in the traffic jams that rain seems to produce. Staying in on a rainy day is one of my favorite pastimes. I'll make a pot of soup and some home made bread, catch up on some reading, work on my quilt and maybe even take a little nap at 3:30. You can't get away with doing any of those things on a beautiful sunny day - unless you fake being sick. And you certainly can't enjoy a rainy day if you have young children at home. For you, being stuck in the house in the rain is a nightmare.

Although, when I think back, I did have fun on rainy days when the kids were young. I would throw a large sheet over the dining room table and make a fort. Sometimes we would have picnics on a beach blanket in the living room or watch movies with popcorn. And then there were the dioramas and play dough. When they got a little older I would teach them how to make meatballs or pizza dough on rainy days, among other things. That was all before video games and computers came out. Nowadays, the young kids splinter off alone in their bedrooms on rainy days. That could be a good thing too.

The world is so hectic today and there is so much worry and tension about the economy and world affairs that I feel like a rainy day is the excuse we all need to calm down, stay indoors and be still for awhile.

Here are two haiku poems that will help you pause for a moment and contemplate the beauty of rain.

Rain went sweeping on
in the twilight, spilling moons
on every grass blade
by Sho-u

Ho, for the May rains
when frogs swim in my open door
for a visit!
by Sanpu

Enjoy the rain...it should be around for a few more days!

Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New

2009-06-08T14:01:00.003-04:00

Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New
Previously published in the New York Times, Sunday, September 30, 1984

One evening, while visiting a chic new espresso café in Massapequa, I watched the waiter serve someone a plate of “peppers and eggs.” When the patron smiled approvingly after the first bite, I felt triumphant as I thought back to an event in my childhood, 30 years ago, in that very neighborhood.
When I carried a grease-stained paper bag to elementary school and unwrapped my “peppers and eggs” sandwich at the lunch table, I heard comments like: “What’s that gook you’re eating?” and “How come your mother never gives you normal food –like bologna, or peanut butter?”
Now, in this Italian café, “peppers and eggs” is the specialty of the house.
Back in 1950, we were the new – and only Italian – family on the block. Granted, our eating habits may have seemed a bit peculiar: When my friends were eating roast beef for dinner, I was twirling spaghetti with garlic and oil or eating an artichoke omelette. But they were even further bewildered by our Sunday afternoon dinners that lasted well into the night.
Every Sunday at 3 o’clock, the relatives arrived.
After a long drive out to “the Island” from Brooklyn, aunts, uncles and grandparents would emerge from their voluminous cars, pausing a moment to stretch and groan. They smoothed down their wrinkled coats, adjusted their hats and formed an orderly procession marching single file up the front walk, all of them delicately balancing little white cardboard pastry boxes in their right hands.
After dinner the entertainment began. My father gave the cue with a slow nonchalant stroll over to the piano; Uncle Vittorio coaxed him on (although he never needed much coaxing), and soon all the men were clearing their throats, standing in a semicircle around my father, who was planted firmly on the piano bench.
With arms outstretched, each man sang his favorite aria with such passion and fortissimo as if he were competing with the others for the title role in a Verdi opera. They supported each other with back slapping and cheers of “Bravo, John! Bravo, Vittorio!”
My mother ran through the house closing windows and doors, muttering something about keeping the neighborhood quiet. When the concert was over my father retraced my mother’s path around the house, reopening windows and doors and exclaiming, “It’s hot in here! Who closed the windows?”
On Monday morning my friends wondered what the racket was at my house the night before.
“How come you always have so much company on Sundays?” they asked.
“What company? That was just my family,” I answered.
I liked Sundays – that is, until I grew up. Then, as a teenager, Sundays meant I couldn’t go out with my friends, or do anything for that matter, since I had to be home for dinner by 3 o’clock. My social life sadly waned.
It wasn’t long before I hated Sundays. I didn’t like those arias; I couldn’t understand the Italian words. Uncle Vittorio always squeezed me too hard, and kissing all those relatives got on my nerves. I was sick of eating macaroni every Sunday. Pastries were too fattening for a 16-year-old trying to fit into a size five. And besides, the espresso tasted like mud.
I would retreat into my bedroom with the excuse of homework. But I couldn’t concentrate; the laughter and applause that accompanied the singing were much too loud.
As the years passed, Sunday dinners became very quiet. The older relatives died; some moved away, others lost touch. We started talking politics at the Sunday table, and I soon began to long for the music and laughter of “the old days.”
Then, while sitting in an espresso café one night, I recognized a familiar tune. It was Pavarotti singing Uncle Vittorio’s aria! Then he sang Uncle Sal’s, then Uncle Tony’s. I listened carefully for the first time and realized how beautiful those songs really were, and I longed for my uncles who sang them a little too loud and a little off key.
The next day I bought a music book of Italian songs and learned every one that I could recognize from “the old days.”
Now I’m the one being coaxed over to the piano to accompany my dad. He sings alone, since the others have gone, but he sings loud enough and strong enough to make up for the rest of them. In fact, he sounds so good that I won’t let my mother close the windows.

Welcome To My World

2009-06-08T10:10:00.002-04:00

June 8, 2009

Welcome all who visit "my world".

I write this blog from a tiny room off my bedroom. I call this room: "my world," because it is my own space. It is a room of my own with all my favorite books, and things: paintings that my son has made, shells collected off the beaches of Long Island, a framed photo of me holding my first grandchild, an antique rocking chair, my journals, candles, hand cream, hidden candy.

Leading you into "my world" is a beautiful 3x5 Arabian hand made rug that my son brought back from his tour of duty a few years ago. When I step on it I feel as if I've passed through a portal into a magical place. There is an energy in this room. I'm always happy here and time does not exist.

I sip my coffee as I gaze out a window that faces a canal. In summer I can see only glimpses of water between spaces in a lush maple tree that provides total privacy from all the homes across the canal. I could sit here naked if I want to and no one would know! When I have the window opened, I feel as if I am sitting in a tree house.

To say I love being in this room is an understatement. At the end of the day, I yearn to walk through the door and sit at my desk. Sometimes I make an entry in my journal, sometimes I just sit here and look out the window until they find me and ask, "What time is dinner?"

Before bed, I'll sit in the rocking chair and read a short story from The Best American Short Stories edited by Salman Rushdie, or a few pages in Conversations with God, book 1 by Neale Donald Walsch.

It was my son, Peter, who had the idea that I start this blog. You can visit his site at http://www.pvanderberg.blogspot.com/ It was this same son who, several years ago, told me to make this little room into a writing room. "Get rid of all evidence of work," he told me, "and just use this room to write." Well, I still work in this room, but the work files are now hidden, so wherever my eyes land, I see only books of inspiration: books on screenwriting, copies of The Writer's Market, books by my favorite authors: Amy Tan, Anna Quindlen, inspirational books like Goddesses In Every Woman by Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D., The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, The Collected Works of Guy de Maupassant, Italian Folktales by Italo Galvino and many more.

My other son, James, filled my walls with inspirational paintings. You can visit him at http://www.dekooningspleen.blogspot.com/ or at his website http://www.jamesvanderberg.com/ to see the type of paintings hanging on my walls.

And my youngest son, Paul, an illustration major at Pratt Institute has contributed a black and white illustration of me with my beautiful granddaughter, Sara. It, appropriately, rests against The Art of Happiness by His Holiness The Dalai Lama and a collection of poetry books.

Their contributions to "my world" are all around me, but, still, they know that they cannot enter without permission. If the door is closed they are not allowed to disturb me unless the house is on fire or my mother is on the phone.

It was my son, Peter, who came up with the idea of "Peppers & Arias" for this blogspot. Back in September, 1984, I had an essay published in the NY Times called, "Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New." The blog name is perfect for the type of writing that you will see on this blog. There will be opinion pieces, recipes, everyman slice of life, humor, poetry and personal rant.
"Who cares what I have to say?" I asked him.
"I do," he said.
Now, who amongst us has a child who cares about what we have to say? I figured I better take advantage of that and blog away.