It's a Wonderful But Different Life

Who goes to the movies on Christmas day? Apparently everybody. My family drove 50 minutes to a 16-plex in Middletown, NY hoping to see Les Miserables at 3:30. The parking lot was surprising jammed, and when we went inside we found that the movie was sold out. We got tickets to see The Life of Pi instead. We'd all read the book so wanted to see how a film was made from the novel.

Since we arrived early, we were treated to a half an hour of local ads. Then we sat through 20 minutes of coming attractions. I was ready to leave at that point.

The film followed the book closely. Some of the philosophy was left out, and the action made the book
seem more exciting than it was, at least in my memory. The scene where the ship went down was breath-taking. The animal photography captured air, sea and land creatures in their natural habitats. Only the tiger and the surviving Indian teenager spend their time together in an unnatural habitat, a life boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

The book and film end with two endings, one fantastical and the other amazing but more logical. Viewers are left with much to discuss; readers of the book have even more.

I told my sons that when I was young, nobody went to the movies on Christmas Day because they were spending time with their family. Jews go to movies on Christmas, although I didn't know that when I was young. My son Harry suggested that people want to get away from their families on Christmas Day because there was too much tension at home. Maybe we just aren't able to spend an entire day at home without spending any money.

We ended the day with Chinese food, the only kind of food you can get on Christmas Day in most of the U.S. My family had a wonderful day

Four Dead in Rural PA

Four people were killed this afternoon, one a woman decorating for Christmas inside a church. The gunman was eventually killed by police when he tried to ram their car with his.

They'll find the gun and see to whom it was registered. If it's the gunman, they'll search his house, go to his place of employment, check his car registration, and talk to neighbors who said either he kept to himself or was a nice guy. Don't you watch Law and Order?

Motivation? We'll probably never know.

Let's keep track of every murder in America everyday and not bury it as a stat in a newspaper. Do it on a National level so we can see which states have the most murders/per capita/per diem. Then we can move (not usually a choice), scorn the states with the most deaths by gun, identify the type of weapon and ammo,  whether or not it was in self defense and put pressure for gun control where it needs to be put.

MADD is an example of a successful grassroots organization that made drunk driving go from a wink and a nod from Officer Mensclubmember to a major crime. Do cars kill People?

It has to have a catchy acronym so people remember it. And group has to have the funding and the balls to fight the NRA.

Disaster Master

My brother Charlie has a tee shirt with the words Disaster Master on the front. I wish I had that shirt, because I'd be wearing it.

I am falling slowly, tortuously over the Fiscal Cliff. My husband lost his job in August and we can't staunch the bleeding. Every day I crank the tourniquets tighter and change the bandages, but the slow bleed continues. There's hope on the horizon, which is hard to see when you're hanging upside down. I think my husband has a job. There are checks in the mail, but you know how that goes.

None of this matters because tomorrow the world ends according to the Mayan calender. Hmm. The Mayans had a lunar calendar. There was no 12/21/12, which may seem special to us, although it's not a palindrome and 12/12/12 seemed more propitious as a doomsday. For the Mayans, tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, the day of least light but the beginning of more light. It's a happy day.

If by chance the world ends, my debts will all be erased.

Hallelujah.

Gallo Pinto In the Catskills

Yum!

Today we did what the Costa Ricans do. We took leftover rice and leftover beans, sauteed in olive oil with shallots and garlic, added some ground coriander (no fresh cilantro on hand) and cooked until hot. Added a splash of Lizano sauce and voila: semi-authentic gallo pinto, topped with fried eggs, accompanied by a side of toast.

We had our first gallo pinto at Steve and Lisa's, a small restaurant by the sea in Puntarenas. We stopped there every time we headed for the beach. It was a perfect place for families because the kids could play ouitside on the rocky beach, and we could see them from the window. Gallo pinto, we learned, is a breakfast food only. When Marty requested it as a side dish with a roasted chicken, he was set straight on this. However, the woman took pity on him and made up a batch.

Lizano sauce is liquid gold for people who can't get it. I can assure you there's no Lizano sauce in my local supermarket. When we first moved back from Costa Rica, we brought several bottles. Then we relied on Costa Rican friends to bring a bottle or two. We had to share with Mariel when she went to college and then had her first apartment. Of course you can by Lizano in Spanish markets anywhere, but we don't have one in our little town.

The Lizano quest continues. We used most of the bottle.

You've Been Booked

Has this ever happened to you?

You frequently donate books to your local library. Some books fill holes in their local collection, but most stay in a dusty box, free to anyone who wants to take one (or more).

You go into the library to return a book, when you see a sign for a holiday book sale in the basement. It won't hurt to look, will it?

When you scan the titles in the fiction section, your head swells slightly from the fact that you've read many of these books. Maybe you should read them again? No, you have many books at home waiting to be read, some snatched from the free book box at the library.

Then you see a book that you've read and realize you donated it several weeks ago. Danger! Danger! Go look at the non-fiction section. Most of the books make you sleepy, but one, by Umberto Eco, author of The Name of the Rose, attracts your attention. It's titled  On Literature and it's a series of essays and presentations he's made over the years. You start reading it once you get home even though you're in the midst of a re-read of  Cloud Atlas.

Do you escape with a $1 purchase? What do you think? You drift back to the fiction section. You see a book by an author you've read but haven't read his latest novel. Then you see an 800-page tome you've always wanted to read but never had the chance, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. If you buy both novels and the paperback, you'll escape with a loss of $5, but a gain of three books you want to read. You will lug them around town as you do your other errands.

When you get home, Infinite Jest, your albatross, mocks you from the bookshelf. You began reading it in 2007, getting to page 50. You picked it up again two years later and started over, reading the first 200 pages. Last summer, you read through page 351. There are hundreds of pages to go, but other books call you and you can't resist.

You're booked.  

Where the Oxycodone Is

A reliable source tells me that my little town has the highest rate of Oxycodone prescription abuse in the state. This seemed strange at first. I know that drugs are sold in on Main Street, mainly by 20-something loser types. I've read that legal drugs have surpassed illegal ones in terms of US consumption. Kids steal them from their parents' medicine chest. I don't have to list who takes them and hypothesize how they got them. I'm more interested in the why.

Why do people self-medicate? Alcohol is the choice of many people because it's legal and relatively cheap.
Alcohol numbs the brain so that minor physical and psychic pain are masked. Under a doctor's care, drugs can be beneficial. Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills can be very effective if taken as directed. I keep Oxycodone around for severe pain. Did you ever pass a bladder or kidney stone. Worse than natural childbirth. Just-in-case scenarios include tooth pain before you can get to a dentist, and possibly a compound fracture, although I've never had one.

Drug abuse for psychic pain is another story. I've felt so low mentally that I've sometimes popped an Ativan before I sank any lower. I may do this once in a while, not long enough to become addicted. As I said, I use Oxycodone in moderation, and only to reduce severe pain. I'm lucky though. I have great medical insurance, the support of family and friends, and the ability to "Just Say Sometimes." You have to walk a mile in someone's shoes to understand why they're hurting. I've walked maybe a quarter mile. I don't want to walk any further on that road. I just feel bad for the residents of my little town who've become addicted.

Feeling Gravy

"Be thankful for what you have, and what you don't have."

My yoga teacher says this at the end of every class when we sit in angeli mudra, just before "namaste." We all need to be reminded that there are many things you don't have that you may want but you're better off without them. End of philosophical musings.

Twelve of us sat down to a feast that included turkey with traditional gravy, goose with bourbon-maple syrup sauce, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato fries, mixed vegetable saute and cranberry relish and sauce from the can. Dessert was apple pie with vanilla ice cream and tiramisu. Prior to this, we had cocktails and a myriad of hors d'oevres brought by my friend Doug.

We were an eclectic group, ranging in age from 20 to 89, 7 family members and 5 friends. I did almost all the cooking and my sister and mother-in-law did all the dishes. The fridge is stuffed and we even have food in a cooler on the unheated enclosed porch.

Thank you to my followers.

Moving Back to the Woods

I began this blog in Rhode island where I lived in the woods with family and dogs. Foxes, coyotes, fisher cats, skunks, mice, chipmunks, voles and of course, hundreds of rascally squirrels passed through or nested on our property. The bird life was eclectic and richly colored. Every year a house finch built a nest on the light outside the side porch. Out of the the three or four babies that hatched, perhaps two would fly off, the rest falling out of the nest and scooped up by the nasty next door cat.

Today, I'm returning to the woods with my husband and dog. No more urine odor on the streets, no more alternate side parking rules, no more death-defying rides through the clogged streets of Manhattan. There will also be no more nearby restaurants with great food, grocery stores on every corner, fewer music concerts and other cultural events. We'll miss our NYC friends.

But the country life seems right right now. My husband and I will find jobs, spend a lot less money, and play scrabble instead of going to jazz joints and the latest films. We know people up there, but we haven't established many real friendships. Buck, our big black furry dog, prefers the country to the city. In the city, there's only the sidewalk on which he does his business. Our Upper East Side neighborhood is filled with small yappy dogs that Buck just wants to silence by violent methods. In the country, the dogs are large and usually friendly. There's a big field one block away where Buck can run around and go wild. He's welcome in all the non-food shops and businesses. The house is big enough, and it has a brook running through the back yard. I can walk to the village two blocks away, which includes my bank, the library, my yoga studio, my insurance agent, restaurants, shops, the Post Office, a great bakery, and a small but well-stocked supermarket.

Green acres here we come.

Karl Rove, Surgery, Cloud Atlas, Northeast Regionals, Jazz Piano and Percussion

A note to my readers: Do not click on any highlighted words. They are not my links, but ads that have mysteriously crept into my posts. I'm trying to communicate with google, (grrrrr-oogle) but that's like calling President Obama and expecting to be put right through. If anyone has any idea what's happening, please comment.


To say a lot's happened in the past week is like saying the Pope is Catholic. The Presidential Election was an exciting night for me, Marty and our friend Doug who can recite all the presidents frontwards and backwards. We started with Chinese food but couldn't decide what to drink with it. We thought Scotch would be a stoic Republican spirit.

We surfed through many channels. Marty and Doug were feeling down, but I was positive that we were not going to change horses in mid-stream. I do think Florida should be sliced away from the US and floated out to sea. At least their election officials should be.

At 11:30, someone said, let's check out Fox, which we should have tuned into a lot sooner. That's where where we heard that Obama had snagged enough electoral votes to stay in office. Has anyone seen Karl Rove lately?

The next morning, I was up bright and early for cataract surgery. I once was half-blind, but now I see.

As a matter of fact, I saw Cloud Atlas, the movie, the next day. I've always raved about David Mitchell's book of the same name. The film is nearly 3 hours long, but it's fascinating to watch, with terrific special effects and enough action to make you gasp. Well, to make me gasp. I plan to re-read the book, which I've put a hold on at my local library. See the movie, read the book. Repeat. You'll still be challenged, and the images will haunt you.

Saturday morning, we drove to Madison, CT to see the Division I Northeast Regional Cross Country Championships. Columbia had a strategy the proved highly successful. Running in a pack, their score garnered them 2nd place, sandwiched between powerhouses Iona and Syracuse. My son Mark came in 2nd for his team, running a 30:32 10k The team now goes on to the National Championships in Lousiville, KY on November 17th.

On a final note, we went to see a jazz concert down the road apiece. It was packed, and all donations are going to the local food pantry. The son and husband of a woman I know in our town gave a great concert. The son was featured, playing jazz, salsa, classical and a Beatles tune. His father, who's a jazz percussionist and professor at Bard College, played a piece on his own, and joined his son for a piece he played in a concert in NYC we saw two weeks ago. It was a great night in a great little town we we are moving to permanently this week.

The Word returns to the Woods.

Marathon Brunch

The 26th Annual Fort Greene Marathon Brunch was held today. It was all eating and socializing, not a bad thing. The actual Marathon was canceled at the last minute so there was no cheering along the route a half a block away.

The Brunch began at our house in 1986. Thirty or so people would show up, and we'd join our neighbors on the corner shouting encouragement to the runners. One year, a friend brought her friend Martina Navratilova. She brought her little dog which she had to hold the entire time because our dog Spree would have swallowed her whole. The brunch moved to our friends' house when we moved to Costa Rica.

Last year I ran the Marathon in memory of Dori Brown. It was great to have the brunchers come out and cheer me on.

Next year, we'll have the 27th annual Marathon Brunch, cheering the runners as they pass mile 8 on their way to glory.

Tea Time

I'm still in the Catskills, hoping to return to NYC on Saturday morning since my niece has invited us for dinner. Also, the NYC Marathon is Sunday. I'm not running in it this year but will attend the annual brunch which originated in our house in Fort Greene, and then moved to our friends Sandy and Dianne's (also in Fort Greene) house. This is the 26th year.

We're still prepping the house for the move. I was a little chilled so I made tea in ane English china pot and used one of my grandmother's English china teacups. I used loose English Breakfast tea and had it with milk, like a proper Englishwoman.

The cup is a beautiful ocean blue patterned with gold-leaf fleurs de lis and and other leaves pointing to the center which has peaches, cherries and grapes (or blueberries), a still-life you yourself may have painted in high school art class.

I would take a photo of it but my camera's in the shop and I have no idea how to use the camera on my phone. Maybe Marty will help me do it later.

In the meantime it's birding hour. All this shows that you can be hip in your 20's and 30's and suddenly you're wrapped in an afghan sitting in a rocking chair drinking tea.

High and Dry

When Hurricane Sandy skirted by NYC it was blissfully silent on the street. The howling wind was a comfort compared to honking, jack-hammering, sirens, heavy trucks and buses clanking over utility plates.

I got up, made coffee and tried to go on line. We hadn't lost power but our internet was down and we had no running water. This was a minor inconvenience compared to what many of our fellow New Yorkers were facing. Our old neighborhood near Battery Park was under four feet of water. There were power outages. The subway system was severely compromised by the water. There were evacuations in all five boroughs. New York is a port and surrounded by water.

We watched TV and saw the devastation in other States. I was supposed to have cataract surgery today but my surgeon called me to say it's postponed. I suggested we go to Jeffersonville to see what was happening at our house there. Marty was reluctant, but after listening to traffic reports, calling the parkway police and calling neighbors in our town, we decided to drive up. It was like being in a dream as we cruised uptown, crossed the GW Bridge and had no traffic issues the rest of the way. There were no trees taken out on our property and we had power. Of course, Sandy just skirted the Catskill region.

Please take a moment of silence for all those who lost their lives in this epic storm, and healing thoughts for the thousands whose lives have been severely disrupted.

The Party Finally Ends

My weekend in NYC made me realize I used to be a party animal. I used to work, go to grad school and helped renovate our house. That didn't stop us from going out every Friday and Saturday night. We went for dinner and then out to bars, mainly in the Greenwich Village area. We went dancing. We went to CBGB's, The Village Vanguard and The Cookery. We got home at 5 am and slept until noon. Those were the days.

This past weekend started with a jazz concert at a church on 35th Street. My friend Lucette from Jeffersonville (aka my massage therapist) told me that her husband, Thurman Barker, a jazz percussionist, was playing there with his quartet. The warm-up band played contemporary jazz that had my ears hurting, my body vibrating and threw me into a deep zen state so I could survive the dissonance. Thurman's band was a lot more mellow, and interesting too, because he played about 20 different percussion instruments. The pianist was great and so were the guitarists. It was contemporary jazz in a style I could relate to.

Up early the next morning, we drove to Princeton, NJ for the Ivy League Cross Country Championships. We did a lot of walking and cheering. Columbia, who'd hoped to finish first, came second. All the guys were disappointed, including my son Mark who didn't race well.

We drove back to New York where Hurricane Sandy panic was in full swing. Marty couldn't find a parking spot, the pharmacy was overflowing--you'd think the world was about to end. We had a party to go to in Brooklyn so we changed into party wear and took the subway to Downtown Brooklyn. Our friend's mother was celebrating her 90th birthday. The food was great, we knew most of the guests, and the entertainment was a mentalist. We went to the "after party" at our friend's house and didn't get home until 12:30.

Yoga was at 8:30 Sunday morning. We were having a friend over for dinner so we went to the market and spent 40 minutes trying to push our way through the amazing crowd. We didn't need that much. I have to say it was a party-like atmosphere with real New Yorkers actually smiling about long lines.

We decided to do an old-fashioned Sunday afternoon dinner, just in case the hurricane hit, which of course it didn't because it was still hundreds of miles away. I roasted turkey legs and a breast, made stuffing and a raspberry sauce. We also had asparagus with Hollandaise sauce. Shortly after dinner, while we were relaxing in the front room sipping wine, I became undone. I excused myself and went to bed. This was at 5 pm. I forced myself to get up later to have some ice cream, but even that didn't palliate the morose state I'd fallen into. I was physically, mentally and morally exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep, which I did, for 11 hours.

My party days are over.

Water World

My dreams are filled with water. I live on a raging river that seems to be a water park, a very dangerous one. I seem to own the property, which is in Rhode Island. Water Buffalo cavort in the mud, leaving their prints when they sit on the chaise lounges that dot the slippery slope, when it's not flooded. Ducks, geese, osprey, cranes take wing, but not one flamingo.

I once wrote a story in which I gave birth to a frog. I suspect his progeny are jumping around this liquidy park.

Ironically, I cannot cry. My tear glands have gone dry and all I can do is crumple my face and quiver my lips while water flows from my nose. To my frustration, I carry 20 lbs. of water weight in my body. I'm an enigma of desert dryness and a pond of wetness across my belly and down my arms. 

It's true that I have a country house which has a narrow brook running through the back yard. But even at its height, the river of my dreams flows violently and spills its banks, Noah's charges desperately trying to survive a watery death.

Times Square is Square

It's been a long time since I've been in Times Square. When I moved to New York City in 1978, Times Square was a curious mix of the the seedy, the needy and people from New Jersey. We never hung out there, although we occasionally stood on line for half-price tickets to the theater. We never ate there because we couldn't afford tourist prices. It was a place that served its function, no more.

We were meeting people for dinner at a BBQ restaurant on 44th Street. We stumbled out of the subway into the bright lights and teeming crowds. Disney characters were everywhere, and the pan-handlers, drug dealers and tattoo artists had moved to new locations. I once had a traumatic experience with Goofy at Disneyland in the late '60s. I remember wearing a pink and green miniskirt at the time, so it was probably my fault when Goofy fondled my butt.  As a result of this trauma, I've never been to Disney World. I've never even taken my kids there. Bad mother.

Getting over the shock of arrival in Disney World, we elbowed our way to the restaurant. I'm not a BBQ buff but the food was decent. Everything tastes good with a margarita. Dinner done, most of the crew went to see a musical, leaving us to grab a cab and make it back to the real world of the Upper East Side.

May Last Night's Dream Come True

I had a dream, such a nice dream. Someone called me to say I had to come in for my new job on Monday, to figure out what I'd be doing. Then, I was handed a bag of money by Marty's former boss. Money and a job--yay! I mistakenly thought the bag would be full of $100 bills. What was I thinking? Instead, it was filled with $1 bills and candy. There was maybe a total of $10 and a lot of sucking candy, which I don't like, such as peppermints.

There's zero psychology involved in this dream. I'd love to be able to work full-time. It would mean I'm healthy. Money is always nice, especially coming from left field. Speaking of left field, how 'bout them Yankees?

Gotta Serve Somebody

Or some thing. We went to see The Master yesterday. I think it could be pared by 15 minutes and not lose its drama or suspense. This film will assuredly be nominated for Academy Awards: best picture, best actors and perhaps score.

This long, ponderous film isn't one I'd recommend to everyone. If you liked The Tree of Life, The Master is for you. Joaquin Phoenix is superb as the post-traumatic stressed former Navy man (World War II). Philip Seymor Hoffman is riveting, his character both attractive and repulsive. The relationship between him and Phoenix is a pas de deux that is well, masterful.

The Master is an expert at controlling people. His movement, a cult, promises to connect humans to their past, cure leukemia and lead happy productive lives. Basically, he is a quack. A very powerful quack. One wonders if he could even exist in today's world of instant Internet connections. Maybe he could do worse damage.

The Master eventually gives an ultimatum to his young protegee: stop drinking and join the Cause, or leave. He leaves. He'd rather serve no one but demon alcohol. I admire his choice, a free choice. Better to reign in hell than serve wherever.

Learning to Make Rugeluch

I promised to bring rugeluch to my friend's break fast meal. Yom Kippur is a day of fasting, followed by stuffing yourself silly when it's all over. It's almost always a dairy meal--no meat but plenty of fish. Last night we had eight kinds of fish, along with cheeses, tomatoes, onions, scallion cream cheese and bagels. I'm not a smoked fish eater, but there was plenty of food for me to enjoy.

I have never baked rugeluch before. The dough is made with cream cheese, butter, sugar and flour. All the recipes I read said you have to chill the dough before using it, which I did. I was making chocolate and jam rugeluch, preferring chocolate myself.

I rolled out one piece of the dough into a 4X12 rectangle and filled it with the chocolate mix. I'd already made my first mistake in that I didn't chop the chocolate finely enough. Oy, what a mess. When I went to roll it and cut into pieces, very few retained the filling or the correct shape. When I bake them, most burned.

Why does someone in a tiny NYC kitchen attempt this? The truth is, I did it for the compliments. The second batch was better, and the third and fourth, made with jam, were the best, although by then I saw where wax paper came in. Sweating and cursing, I finally produced two dozen imperfectly shaped rugeluch.

When dessert was served, I was showered with an embarrassment of compliments. I said thank you and grabbed a slice of babka.

Eat More Butter

Now that my husband and I are middle aged and more demanding about our creature comforts (okay, we're cranky), there are certain things we just won't tolerate. For Marty, it's packaged bread. For me, it's run-of-the-mill butter. I want unsalted imported butter. I buy average butter for baking.

Why I'm writing about this is that there was an article in yesterday's The New York Times about a woman celebrating her 107th birthday. She has all her marbles and even got up on the dance floor. Naturally, everyone wanted to know her secret, which came down to this: no exercise, no pills, eat as much butter as you like, and never look back.

Since the health/medical world flip-flops on exercise being good or bad for you, I can see why people throw in the towel. Personally, I believe moderate exercise is good for most parts of the body, especially the mind. I take a lot of pills, but I have a chronic illness and it would be counter-productive to stop taking them since I'd die. But I constantly try to talk my doctors into reducing them. Don't look back is a valuable mantra--you won't see Time's winged chariot drawing near. Or that guy chasing you with a steak knife. Seriously, looking back at your life can be informative, as long as your regretometer stays at a very low level.

My mother loved butter. No nasty margarine for our family. Sometimes she would eat a glob of butter. I remember her spreading butter on her pizza crusts. Eating lots of butter didn't kill her, cigarettes did.

Another Good Read

It's been a long time since I've read anything by Peter Carey, perhaps since A True History of the Kelly Gang. Carey's newest novel, A Chemistry of Tears, is excellent. Catherine Gehrig, the horological curator at the Swinburne Museum in London, is grieving over the death of her lover, coming so close to the abyss that her boss decides to give her a special project involving a mechanical swan that eats, digests and excretes according to precise movements. Catherine's job is to make the swan, which was created in 1848, work again.

The book goes back and forth in time, from the present day to 1854 when an Englishman named Henry Brandling takes the mechanism to Germany to try to have it fixed. The texture of the story is immensely intricate and intriguing. You have to read the book quickly to keep the details straight, but that's not a problem. It's short, and compelling.

Reading this book made me want to read more Carey so I checked out Oscar and Lucinda from the Jeffersonville Library which has a large collection of his books. More on that when I finish it.

Sound and Fury

It rained all day yesterday in Jeffersonville, 5.25 inches according to Weather Underground. Sometime around 5pm, my cell phone started beeping. It was a weather alert for my area that included flash flooding, tornado watch and high winds. The town fire alarm also sounded. Yikes! The brook in our back yard, which had been merely a trickle lately, was a raging river of mud, the highest I've ever seen it. Allegedly, the brook has never flooded. At its crest yesterday, it was approximately two feet below our property level. Our lights flickered several times, but except for minor moisture in our basement, we escaped unscathed.

La Shana Tovah

Usually, we spend Rosh Hoshana at Marty's sister's house in Pennsylvania, a big family affair where food never seems to leave the table. Whatever time you wander into the dining area, there is food. I always have a good time, catching up with my nieces and nephew, barely contributing to the work involved (sorry, Esther).

This year, we spent the holiday in Jeffersonville. This year, I did all the work. I baked a round challah, made chicken matzo ball soup from a box, cooked a brisket and baked an apple strudel. We had local honey and apples.

Marty went to temple with our Israeli friend Lorraine. I went to yoga where it turns out most of the students are Jewish, obviously not the temple-going kind. I abstain from services whenever I can but will attend bar or bat mitzvahs and weddings.

I made a dairy lunch and we ate outside on the patio. It was a beautiful day. Later in the afternoon, Marty led a Tashlikh service by the brook, attended by me and Buck. The tradition involves taking bread or crackers and casting them into the water with your sins attached. All Buck could think was, "why were they throwing away those tasty stale crackers?" Then Marty blew the shofar, a ram's horn. In ancient times, before cell phones, important signals were sent via blowing a ram's horn. Other bouviers we've had hated the sound of the shofar, getting as far away as possible from the offending noise. Buck, however, seems to like the sound. There he is next to Marty beside the brook.

Marty blows the shofar by the brook with Buck

For me, it was the best Rosh Hoshana ever.

Simple Country Pleasures

We haven't been to Jeffersonville in almost two weeks. There's something addictive about this place. It's peaceful, pretty and smells fresh. Contrast that with jack-hammers from sunrise to sunset, little greenery and the constant stink of the the street, and you'd wonder if there were even a question as to why I prefer the country. Would I prefer it if I lived here full-time? I would miss New York City, but I can always visit and mooch off friends.

Yesterday was a big day here, filled with events for the young and the restless, the bold and the beautiful, the old and the crotchety, and lots of average folks. Jeffersonville is not a hole in the wall. It has a Brazilian restaurant, a book group, and one of the most diverse radio stations this side of the Hudson. If you want more culture, you don't have to go far. Bethel Woods is ten minutes away, and there are numerous galleries and art shows close by.

But I digress. Have you ever been to a tractor parade? Fifty or so tractors drove through town yesterday, the oldest from 1948 (the driver was older). The variety of vehicles and drivers was amazing. The weather was perfect. Vendors lined the way, most selling yellow rubber ducks that would later float down the Callicoon Creek. The top three ducks win cash prizes; the pokiest ducks gets gift certificates to local stores. The money raised goes to projects that enhance Jeffersonville. I missed all but the end of the race due to an urgent need for a massage.

The second oldest tractor in the parade and possibly the oldest driver

The local volunteer fire department hosted a pancake breakfast. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners are a staple here, although I've never been to any because when I'm in the country I like to cook.I have a huge kitchen, too big really, and not very well designed. Still, it beats my NYC pocket kitchen.

A crane just glided up the brook, packing his things for the winter in Mexico.

When the Cat's Away

Saturday night, we went out to dinner with our friends Patty and Jeff who had come to New York to move their daughter Sarah into her new apartment not far from us. Their dog Quincy, a friendly golden retriever, came with them and hung out with Buck. They got along very well, too well.

When we returned from a wonderful dinner, we found that the dogs had had a party in our absence. No booze or anything like that, but they opened Quincy's food container and ate the contents. Fortunately, there had only been a couple of days worth of food inside. Buck was the one that suffered though. Marty did, too. Buck has a sensitive stomach to begin with. Eating a different brand of food gives him the runs. Poor Marty. He felt so responsible about the mess on the sidewalk he went down with newspaper and a watering can to clean it up. What New Yorker would do that?

Quincy's back in New Hampshire and Buck is fine. How they opened the container is something they will never reveal.

My Zagat

There was an article in The New York Times this week about new restaurants opening this Fall. I don't have enough time or money to visit them all. There are so many restaurants in our Upper East Side neighborhood that we rarely go to to other areas of the city.

We have our favorites. Often, when friends stay in our apartment without us, they ask for recommendations. These are my choices, listed in no particular order.

We rarely go out for breakfast but The Green Kitchen on 1st and 77th is a typical diner. Like many diners around here, you can get an inexpensive meal or spend more on waffles, paninis and lobster. The setting is typical diner though, so we tend to not want to spend extra on food in a boring atmosphere. As far as I can tell, there's nothing green about this place, but perhaps the kitchen is painted green. Service is efficient.

For lunch, Johnny Foxes on 2nd Avenue between 80th and 81st serves great burgers and other bar-type food. It's inexpensive, and has a great happy hour which I've never been to. Service is spotty at lunch.

We have so many dinner choices here. My favorite Italian restaurant is Caffe Buon Gusto on 77th between 2nd and 3rd. The pasta is excellent, and they have half-priced bottled wine on Monday-Wednesday. The atmosphere is nice and the service is great.

Beyoglu (no website I can find), a Turkish restaurant on 81st and 3rd, is a great place to go for felafel, but it's also a fine choice for dinner. The menu choices are well-priced and feature lamb and other meats in yummy sauces. My vegetarian niece found options, too. There's a lot of beautiful tiling and dark wood. Service is very good.

The Atlantic Grill on 3rd between 76th and 77th specializes in fish. One of the best restaurants in my neighborhood, it's also one of the most expensive. We recently went during restaurant week and it was a good value at $35 prix fixe. They have a terrific sushi bar. Seafood bisques and fish entrees are superb. The service strains under the volume of diners. It's also quite noisy. For a really nice meal, this is the place to go.

What we lack, believe it or not, is a good Chinese restaurant. There used to be a good one nearby but it went out of business. We're surviving.

Take-out is a whole other story, one you'll have to wait for.

Cloud Atlas, the Movie

If you check my profile you'll see that one of my favorite books is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. It's a wise and intriguing novel consisting of six separate stories, two of which take place in the past, two in  the present and two in the future.

No one, not even the author thought it could be made into a movie. But the Wachowskis, sister and brother film makers who helped create The Matrix series, saw the possibilities. Together with Tom Tykwer, they fought to make the film a reality. In a genius move, they convinced Tom Hanks (who didn't need much convincing) to play the main character in each of the six segments of the book. Hanks is the perfect Everyman. Still, I can't wait to see how this is achieved.

Cloud Atlas is being shown at the Toronto Film Festival, and opens in theaters October 26. I have to see this movie, and perhaps reread the book.

What New Yorkers Do

On Thursday, Marty accompanied me to a minor surgical procedure on 53rd and Third. My doctor's instructions were to elevate the affected leg as much as possible for the next 48 hours. We planned to hop on the 6 Train but passengers were scurrying out of the trains like ants on fire, deciding that at 20 minute wait was too much to bear.

We walked over to 1st Avenue to take the bus. Bad idea. The buses were full and not stopping. We hailed a cab, but after 30 minutes and 4 blocks abandoned that idea and decided to walk the remaining 20 blocks. Normally, 20 blocks would be nothing, but I'm sure the surgeon would not have approved.

There were police everywhere, in cars, on the street, parked on motorcycles. Must be something big. Maybe Obama's at the U.N. No, it was Michelle and Barack making a few pit stops in Manhattan to raise money/awareness/polls/shop for souvenirs.

The next morning, there was a shooting at the Empire State Building and midtown was closed like a pit bull's jaws. No trains, buses, cabs--not even a skateboard. Fortunately, this didn't effect us. We (me, Marty, our nephew Mark and his wife Brie) were able to walk over to the 2nd Avenue Deli on ironically on 1st Avenue to enjoy Old-World kosher delicacies like pastrami on rye, matzo ball soup (balls the size of tennis balls) and potato pancakes with applesauce. The waitress brought us shot glasses of chocolate soda to end the meal. L'chaim.

The plan was to pack the car and go to the country for the weekend. The car, however, had been side-swiped and the side mirror ripped off since last we'd seen it at the end of Alternate-Side Parking. There was a note on the car that said a Penskee rental truck had done it and driven off. They gave the partial plate as XX4138. We called the police, we took photos, we cut the wire from the dangling side mirror. We waited. We called Penske and put in a claim. We called our insurance company. I called the police back. They were very busy drinking coffee and eating donuts and would be with us asap. We decided to drive off into the now-rush hour streets and sit on the FDR Drive for a while.

We arrived at our house 3 hours later and drank cocktails while watching the Yankees beat the Indians 3 to 1. Last night, Marty dreamed the car had been totaled during the night. It hadn't.

Weekend With the In-Laws

Esther, Lenny, Frances, Doug, Me, Buck

 
Mariel and I drove up to Jeffersonville Friday morning. Actually, Mariel drove because I'm still recuperating from cataract surgery. My mother-in-law, Nana, and sister- and brother-in-law arrived late afternoon and I made eggplant Parmesan for dinner. Peel it; don't peel it. Thin-sliced, thick-sliced. Salt and rinse; leave it alone. Olive oil; vegetable oil. Fry; bake. As Frankie said, I did it my way. And it was delicious.

Mariel enjoying quiet time

On Saturday morning, Mariel and I walked to Yoga. Marty and family made a traditional bagels-lox-cream cheese-tomato slice-onion slice breakfast. I apologize if that punctuation looks funky. I should've used back slashes.There was also sable and whitefish salad. Saturday night we grilled lamb, steak and shrimp, served with fresh corn, insalata caprese and red wine. My friend Doug joined us and we had martinis.

Sunday morning was filled with more copious eating, mainly a dill, cream cheese and lox omelet. At this point, I just had a bowl of cereal and milk. Some of us went to the farmers' market in Callicoon where I bought lettuce, real tomatoes, Swiss chard and radishes. We went to visit Harry at his country club job and then all went out to dinner for a delicious Italian meal at Al Buona Fortuna.

Harry, Mariel Matt play Settlers of Catan

Harry and his friend Matt arrived at 2 am after they finished the evening shift. More BLCC for breakfast. Now the whole family was here except Mark so we had a big dinner involving leftover lamb and steak, bbq chicken, grilled salmon al pesto, baked potatoes with sour cream and fresh chives from my paltry garden, tomato salad and green salad. There was nothing special for dessert so I made banana and apples Foster with whipped cream.

Nana, Marty, Buck

Tuesday morning, the sound of Marty's cell phone ringing woke us. An idiot from work was calling Marty even though he's on vacation. Harry was leaving for college at 9 anyway so we had an earlyish breakfast with half the crew. By now, I don't need to tell you what was served, although I had something else. More breakfast, more goodbyes. Mega clean-up.

It's really quiet and peaceful now, We're sitting brook-side and working on our computers. I plan to get back to my book in a bit. In case you're wondering what we're having for dinner, it's something healthy and easy to make: grilled white pizza and green salad.
  

Read This Book

I love Dave Eggers' books. My kids even like him. His newest novel, A Hologram for the King addresses the issues of global economics, the complexities/absurdities of modern Saudi Arabi, and modern technology. The King is King Abdullah, the city, Jeddah. The story is told by an American businessman, Alan Clay, who's lost everything and is trying for a last-chance miracle in the desert.

The writing is spare, which I both appreciated and lamented. So many modern novels seem so repetitive to me, like the author's being paid by page. Because I enjoyed the new Eggers book so much, it was too short. This isn't a criticism, just the way I feel.

Alan Clay, who is rather pathetic, has a huge mass on the back of his neck that he is convinced is cancer. One night, under the influence of strong locally-made alcohol--booze is illegal in Saudi Arabia, but everyone drinks it--he sticks a steak knife in it. He ends up at a clinic in Jeddah where a doctor declares it to be a lipoma and schedules surgical removal.

Why does Saudi Arabia, with its unimaginable wealth and ambitious plans to grow its economy to even more incredible levels, resemble Florida, or any other coastal southern area that uses a look of pink? It's not on my travel wish-list.

The book ends with disappointment for Alan, but also a measure of hope. You'll have to read it to find out how he does it.

Water Polo 24/7

I'd never heard of water polo until last week. I thought polo was played on horses. Water polo is much less dangerous and much less interesting, in my opinion.

Synchronized diving, synchronized swimming, swimming--the Summer Olympics is filled with wet sports or things in the water such as rowing, steeplechase and horse jumping. Let me know if I've left anything out.

I like some of theses sports, I really do. I hate to swim, but enjoy watching others engage in this strenuous activity. I watched Michael Phelps interviewed by Bob Costas, and truthfully, I'd rather watch him swim than compare himself to Michael Jordan.

Gymnastics is exciting; beach volleyball less so. I watch the Olympics for Track and Field. It's the sport I know the most about. I watched the men's 10,000 meters the other day and it was thrilling.  Question: why is it they show 6 minutes straight of water polo but only several minutes of  of distance running before cutting to a commercial? They even cut away with 3 laps to go, the most exciting part of the race. At least they showed the last 2 laps in which Mo Farah of Great Britain and Galen Rupp of the USA won gold and silver. I was literally jumping up and down. 

Sunday morning I got up early and watched the women's marathon. I have no problem with commercial breaks in a 2:20:00 race. It too had an exciting finish, gold and silver for the Ethiopians and bronze for the Russian. 

I didn't see any of the sprint semis or finals live. They happen outside of prime time. Okay, they show Usain Bolt win over and over, but that's because it's a sub 10 second race and everyone can pay attention for that long. I wanted to see the steeplechase because I know someone running in it who my son Mark has actually beaten in a high school race. Nope. No mention. It's really fun to watch though, with obstacles and water pits installed along the track.

The 5000 meter? It's another of my favorites, but either I've missed it or they'll be showing water polo. The mens's marathon is the final event and I know that it takes place next Sunday at 7 am. I'll be there. Unless they're interviewing the men's water polo team.  

It's History

Parts I loved. Parts I hated. Parts bored me. I guess that sums up my view of history, and also my view of Ida Hattemer-Higgins book The History of History, a Novel of Berlin. The book is confusing and has a lot of gobbledegook in it. 

A young woman, Margaret Taub, goes to Berlin to study history. She gives tours of Berlin. She goes crazy from the weight of her history and how it may or may not fit into the Nazi past. The Holocaust weighs heavily on her. Should she murder a surviving Nazi, Hitler's body guard, as vengeance for the six million slain, or should she atone for her own sins and those of her family?

I was interested in her exploration of the Nazi past. My grandfather's family emigrated to the United States long before Hitler appeared, but there must have been family left behind. Were they Nazis? They lived in the northwest part of the country, were of aristocratic background and were no longer wanted in Germany after the Unification of States. That's all I know. I want to do two things: visit Germany in the Spring when my son studies abroad in Copenhagen, and speak with cousins who may know more about the family's history than I do. 


What I didn't like about the book was the florid nightmares/experiences that Margaret had every few minutes it seemed. The buildings became flesh, she took rides on the wings of a hawk who was really Magda Goebbels and she played cards with a woman who'd gassed herself, husband and children before the Nazis closed in. It was a bit much. I found these sections boring after a while.


I almost quit reading this book in the middle. What kept me going is that I dragged out Infinite Jest again and read maybe 20 pages. I didn't lug this up to the country, taking the Berlin book instead. Now, the only book I have to read is Jest. Maybe Dave Eggers' new book will arrive later today.

Cool Running, Light Eating , and Heavy Reading

The weather made me do it. When I saw it was a mere 72 degrees with 44% humidity I had no choice but to don my running gear and go. I didn't run fast or far (leg cramped and I've turned wimpy), but at least I wasn't suffering from sweat dripping into my eyes.

Our favorite food--soft-shell crabs--are still available in the local market. They must be farming them these days because they used to be available for just a 4-6 week period in May-June. I bought some today and will dip them in cornmeal before frying. Salad (I still have that arugula) and perhaps a ripe Jersey tomato with fresh mozz (a cliche, I know) will keep the meal light. I have to check what white wines I have.

By writing this post I'm putting off reading Infinite Jest which I've been reading for 4 years now. The first time, I got through 50 pages. The second time, I started over and read to page 250. Then I read another 100 pages last summer. I'm determined to get through this book. I'm also reading The History of History by Ida Hattemer-Higgins, a book given to me by my friend Emma. It's bizarre. I'll review it when I'm done.

Yoga later. I haven't been in a while.

When You Just Want Arugula

Chicken stuffed with arugula and goat cheese

I had a yen for arugula today.I wanted to make it with chicken and goat cheese, which I already had on hand. I knew I could get it at the Farmer's Market here in Jeffersonville today. What I got was a dozen eggs of many colors (all chicken) and a baguette. No arugula!

This forced me to go to Peck's Supermarket where I bought a package of organic arugula on sale.

If you crave a food, you should eat some right away. Whatever's in arugula, I need.  

Update: In the future , I'll serve this on a bed of arugula since I was unable to stuff much into the chicken breast. FYO: Arugula has a lot of vitamin C and potassium. I take potassium pills daily. Arugula has served as an aphrodisiac since ancient times.

Happy Ending in the Bush

Paul Theroux's latest novel The Lower River  tells the harrowing tale of a 62-year old man returning to a village in Malawi where he'd served in the Peace Corps 40 years earlier. The village
has been sucked dry and bears little resemblance to the place to which he always wanted to return. The people despise him and his money but they want it. His only friends are a leprotic dwarf and a 16-year old virgin.

They hold him captive, steal all his money and most of his clothes and gear. Why does this village bear so little resemblance to the one he cherishes in his memories?

The novel tries to explain the whys. If anyone could explain them, it would be Theroux, who has intimate personal knowledge of the African bush. The book has a happy ending but comes on the last two pages. I don't think he could bear to do anything else. 

Israeli Lunch

Our friend Lorraine invited us for an Israeli lunch yesterday. She's an attorney working for the Israeli Embassy in New York and for some reason lives here in Jeffersonville, alone with her dogs and cats. She travels to Israel every couple of months to see her family, husband and children. We like to joke that she's a Massad operative, but I guess that's no joke.

Four other people were there. Lorraine served pita and chumus and grilled eggplant, along with a few none-Israeli dishes. It was a lovely lunch and Lorraine, who's been sick lately, looked well and happy.



Most if not all of the people there are Romney supporters and hate Obama. I mentioned the selling points of Obamacare, which to them is anathema. I used myself and my family as an example of why it helps the average middle-class family, and that it will probably save us money. Marty works for a small-midsize company, and their rates won't go up the usual 5% annually. We'll also be able to deduct a higher percentage of medical expenses on our income taxes. Beginning in 2014, I can't be denied coverage for pre-existing conditions. Thank you.

Lorraine is a hoarder, maybe because she lost everything to the Nazis, including her parents. She lived in a death camp as a baby and was adopted by a Belgian Jewish couple after the war. They lived in NYC on the Lower East Side for a number of years. Lorraine emigrated to Israel when she was 14, where she met her husband. She's a character. Her smallish house is filled with multiples of an eclectic melange of products: 25 pounds of rye flour (she makes her own bread), 4 vacuum cleaners, a stack of really nice quilts, 40 rolls of paper towels. Her clothing and shoe collection, which she keeps neatly arranged by color in (lucky for her) ample closets, is extensive. Marty's mom, also a concentration camp survivor, doesn't hoard things. Maybe she doesn't have the money Lorraine has, but she hates clutter. She couldn't stand four vacuum cleaners parked in the kitchen.

Buck came with us. When Turbo died, Lorraine sent us a sympathy card. She couldn't wait to meet Buck. Her 3 dogs were kept in her bedroom most of the visit, but she let them out to meet Buck. All was very friendly. No barking, biting, just a lot of friendly sniffing. Dogs are so civilized.    

Reading Theroux

Free books are the best, especially when you wouldn't have been exposed to them otherwise. I was in a cheese shop in Callicoon and saw a bunch of books I thought were for sale but were free. I'd read Paul Theroux's The Mosquito Coast and The Old Patagonian Express (I might be confusing it with Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia). The free book I picked up is My Other Life. Told in the first person, it reads like a memoir, covering the writer's life through his years in Africa, Singapore, London and Cape Cod. He writes about visiting a leper colony, marriage and children, writing his books, the end of his marriage and move back to the U.S., where he can no longer write. He sees a shrink, hangs out with young people in a housing project, and gets together with his old friend George from high school, friends despite the fact that he's white and George is black. Medford, Massachusetts, where he lived until he 18, has changed, of course, it being more than 30 years later.

At the library this week, I saw a new book by Theroux, The Lower River. Written in the third person, it tells the story of Ellis Hoch who's lived his entire life in Medford where he's managed a men's clothing store inherited from his dad. He sells the store, just as his marriage is ending. He decides to return to Africa and visit the area where he spent his Peace Corps days. Before he leaves, he gets together with his high school friend Roy, who seems like George, not just because he's black.

I'm up to chapter 5 in The Lower River. I'm sure there will be many more events that echo My Other Life. I'll let you know.
 .

Country Life

Happy Family

Last week we went to visit Harry at his job at a country club. Notice he's growin' the fro. He's definitely Marty Junior. Marty had a huge afro in college. 

While we were there, Marty did a little fishing and I hung out in the grass working on a little yoga. I haven't donned a bathing suit in years, since I was at my friend's house in France and wore an itsy bitsy bikini. Amazingly, the green maillot I'm wearing still has its elastic after 10 years.

A Small Perch

 Yoga on the Beach

 Wet and Sandy Buck

On the weekend, we drove to our friends' place in the Poconos where we learned that Buck can swim. He fell off the dock head first, calmly righted himself and scrambled up the rocks and back onto the dock. Unfortunately, he was the only dog that enjoyed the weekend. His friend Sadie had a skirmish with another visitor's dog and when it was all over, Sadie had 7 bites on her leg. The other dog, named Motley, had a light bite on her head.

I'm back in Jeffersonville now where the drama is low, the weather is fine and Buck doesn't have to worry about dog fights.

Chicken on the 4th of July

Ages ago, when I was a teenager, my mother was grooving to the beat of Chicago's Saturday in the Park. Like many people do, she misheard the lyrics and sang (off-key--she was tone deaf), "Saturday, in the park, chicken on the 4th of July" instead of "you'd think it was the 4th of July." I think of this every Independence Day, and try to have chicken.

Of course, I think of my mother, who died at the ripe old age of 53 from lung cancer. She was an avid smoker. She had her whimsical side, which considering her trying life, made those moments very special. I can't hear Paul Simon's Slip Sliding Away without hearing her tunelessly singing along as we tried to drive the car post-blizzard. We were living in Hampton Bays, NY taking care of her mother, my grandmother, who was recuperating from a hospital stay. This was in 1979. I was lucky to be able to spend three weeks with these two women who were smart, funny and irreverent.

Now it's 2012. "Time keeps on slippin', slippin,' slippin' into the future"(Steve Miller Band). But we'll always have chicken on the 4th of July.   

Brook Bath

Restorative soaking 

That's Nick and Mark cooling off in the brook after a run on Sunday. Nick and his dad Steve, old friends from East Greenwich, RI were in town to see the Dave Matthews Band. They're groupies, seeing them whenever they can, including the night before in Hershey, PA.

It was great to see them. We had a BBQ Saturday before the show, and brunch on Sunday before they headed back to EG. 

Last night, Mark, Harry and his friend Matt came for dinner. I excused myself so they could chat without their embarrassing mother around. Privately, Harry will say I'm cool, but they both berate me for the faux pas I make. I wouldn't make them if I knew what they even were.

Hot and Steamy Even in the Mountains

I'm sitting outside by the brook, dripping with sweat. It's only 81 degrees but it's airless and humid. The house, at least downstairs, remains cool, and that's where I'm headed after I post this. My thinking has been until now, I paid for paradise, I'm going to use it. Maybe it'll be better later. 

At 7 am it was still cool in my bedroom. I went downstairs for coffee and to walk Buck. Since Mark was driving the car to work (and picking up Marty later), I made a quick run to Pecks to buy dinner items. I'm making a cold bay scallop pesto over pasta with an optional topping of tomato-zucchini saute. I made the pesto last Fall and froze it so I'm way ahead of the game. Scallops aren't great here but they're inexpensive. I wouldn't use pesto on good scallops and you shouldn't either.


I ate a light breakfast while Mark went running. Then I went out to do two chores before it was too hot. I guess I should've done it at sunrise because it was already steamy. In what seemed like two hours, I fixed the composter ( won't last long--I need some heavy spikes that can be driven into the ground) and picked up the debris I'd cut yesterday. Time passes slowly when you're hot, if it passes at all. I'm reading a Paul Theroux novel that takes place in Africa. What am I complaining about? My "work" was followed by a cool shower.


Since I can't sit still for a minute, I vacuumed the kitchen rug, cleaned off the dining room table where one of my projects (photo sorting) has been sitting for months. We're having overnight guests tomorrow so I'm trying to straighten the downstairs at least. Steve and his son Nick are from our old haunting grounds in Rhode Island and are making their annual pilgrimage up to Bethel Woods to see Dave Matthews. I hope it's cooler tomorrow night because we only have one fan. Marty might be going on a fan mission tomorrow.


Sitting in front of that fan, I called AT&T to get my final bill, due today. I can no longer access the detailed bill since we no longer use their (atrocious) service. After finally getting a live person (who might as well have been dead), I just begged for him to mail me the final bill. He said okay but it would carry a $5 surcharge. I got really mad and demanded to speak to a supervisor, which he claimed he couldn't do. Then he put me on hold, a place he never came back from. I called back, spoke to another person who was much more helpful. He promised to mail me the final bill and didn't mention a word about a surcharge, which I of course won't pay. 

I'm going inside to cook. It'll make the kitchen warmer, but you know what they say about if you can't stand the heat.

Zen and the Art of Dog Maintenance

My new dog Buck is into leather. Soft, supple, expensive leather, smooth or suede. He has eaten a very expensive teal Arche shoe, a green sandal, part of a pair of brown sandals, which I was able to save by snipping off the back straps, an orange handbag I bought in Barcelona, and yesterday, a handbag that belonged to my mother. Buck has also nibbled on other shoes but not quite destroyed them. My neighbor says hot sauce is the way to prevent this from happening. My husband says he must be trained but we are at a loss as to how to do it. I am inclined to take the Zen approach.

I've been going to yoga a lot. Chronic illness makes me super inflexible. I can't be flat on my back without my arms popping up from the floor. My balance is precarious and when I have to stand up from a seated position, I look and feel like a very old person. Muscle weakness rounds off the trilogy. I do what I can and feel better for it. 

Yoga emphasizes breathing and emptying the mind of details that keep you in a constant whir. My mind is particularly active--it works so much better than my body--so shutting it down requires effort. The breath can help the process. I don't meditate, because I don't know how, but I am capable of thinking of nothing for short periods of time. I give the credit for this to my teachers, who have a way of soothing and calming the spirit. 

I'm not a Buddhist by any means. When I use the word "zen," I'm using it in the sense of a quiet way of living. Living in the Untied States, or many countries for that matter, challenges the concept of zenishness at all turns, at least my concept. I don't pretend to live the lifestyle, but it has its benefits.

Anxiety can be treated with drugs, but quieting the mind through breathing can have a faster and sometimes better effect. I admit, when I came home from yoga yesterday, relaxed and peaceful, only to find that Buck had chewed my mother's handbag, I became enraged. I screamed at him and put him in my bedroom as punishment. It was not my finest moment. I was more upset than usual because my mother died in 1985 and I have very few of her things. I was sad and mad.


I fully admit to a shoe and handbag weakness. I have a ridiculously large collection of shoes in every color, with handbags to coordinate. I recently put a moratorium on shoe purchases, although the Aerosoles store right next to yoga is having a sale and I went in yesterday right after yoga and right before coming home to the eaten handbag. How can I blame Buck for consuming tasty bits of leather when I'm obsessed with consuming shoes? How many shoes do I need?

What I've decided to do is keep my shoes and handbags in a safe place at all times. We will buy Buck leather chews to keep him happy. Marty will try to train him and maybe we'll even hot sauce all the leather. I will not mourn for leather lost. I will be philosophical about future leather lost. I will breathe deeply and not think or, only think about the important things in life.
 

First Loss

Don't worry. Nobody died. In all the years I've been going to see the Yankees play, they've never lost. This includes the game I watched from behind a pole when I was 10, the games in the renovated stadium and in the new one, plus all the games I've seen on the road. They had a 10-game winning streak going. All good things come to an end. The Yankees lost to Atlanta 4-3.

We took Marty for his Father's Day/Birthday present. Our seats were pretty good. Mark and Harry enjoyed the game. We had over-priced food and beer. The crowd as usual was great. 75% are decked out in Yankee gear (I wore my Mariano Rivera shirt). Only one fan had to be dragged away by the cops. Well, only one that we saw.

For me, one of the best parts of the post-game ritual is taking the train packed with fans. Win or lose, they are your friends at that moment. LET'S GO YANKEES!

How to Have a Cheap Day in Brooklyn

 

 Time Traveling

Yesterday, we bit the bullet and went under the river to Brooklyn. The train ride was long and lurchy--no wonder none of our Manhattan friends wanted to visit us when we lived there. We didn't make the trek for social reasons, however.  We had tickets to a Harold Pinter play at BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music), my Fathers' Day gift to my husband.

When we finally arrived, we went to the theater to find out that they'd cancelled the performance. We were welcome to see the evening performance or tomorrow's matinee, neither of which worked for us. They refunded our money and gave us free passes to see the movie Moonrise Kingdom, a quirky film with some very famous actors, directed by Wes Anderson. I recommend it.

It was early so we decided to walk around our old neighborhood. We lived in Fort Greene in more challenging days, when a crack house threatened from across the street, gunshots rang out in the middle of the night, and muggings and murders were the plats du jour. And we weren't even the pioneers, who'd preceded us by a decade. 

Adelphi Street is still quiet and sleepy. We didn't see one person. We walked around the block to the Brooklyn Flea Market which was overpriced. We ducked into a small bar/restaurant on Lafayette and had some really good mojitos. A little more wandering brought us to another market which was more reasonable. I bought a long flowing dress for $40 bucks. This was more like the old Fort Greene. Not-so-rich folks trying to make a living selling their wares. I didn't see any hipsters, just a nice blend of ages, colors and backgrounds.

My friend Dianne, who lives in the neighborhood, had recommended a restaurant called "7" for dinner. It was quite good. The entrees were a bit pricey so we had smaller dishes like salad, strawberry gazpacho, steamed mussels in coconut milk and a turkey/eggplant sandwich with poblano sauce, all of it delicious.

The trip back to Manhattan went well. We got off at 86th Street and stopped at Fairway for local strawberries, cherries and oranges. When we got home, Harry was there working on his dinner. He'd been away for a couple of weeks, attending a concert in Tennessee, Bonnaroo. I would so like to see those musicians, but my hanging out with 80,000 exuberant youngsters is never going to happen again.

 If you're wondering how this was a cheap day, consider that we saved $170 on BAM tickets, saw a movie for free, and consumed about $130 in drinks, a dress, and dinner. Add in the subway fare, and we were still ahead. .

Literary Devices

Don't you just love literary devices? There's a conversation stopper. My kids can identify many of these writing elements because they took AP English and have me for a mother.

Here's some of my favorite devices, in no particular order. Can you guess what they are?

1.  The day was cold, cloudy and cursed.
2.  He used his anger like a switchblade.
3.  Cook. Clean. Collapse.
4.  He swallowed a container of death.
5.  She was learning to read and reading to learn.

Back in New Yawk

It's great to be back in the land of alternate side of the street parking, fruit vendors on the street, and a mobile phone store that sells every model that exists right now. 

I met Mark on 86th Street and we shopped for a phone and had lunch al fresco. Mark put in a job application at a running store. I went to yoga and shopped for dinner. Marty brought home sushi and we had a chicken, leek and mushroom casserole. We walked Buck to the ice cream store and had some cones. 

Today, my car was on the correct side of the street so I was free to be a slug. I ran some quick errands, read my book and went to yoga. Home to eat lunch and indulge in my Young and the Restless addiction. I've been following the story on and off for 24 years. The Dickensian plot line is terrific, even though some of the situations are worn and ridiculous after all these years. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Y & R has at least explored interracial relationships, leukemia (and other cancers, but this was pretty accurate), and people with disabilities. I don't think they've touched LGBTQ issues.

My son Harry went to Bonnaroo, a music festival in Tennessee, and hasn't been heard from in more than a week. I'm sure his phone is dead. Should I assume he'll be home for dinner tonight? 

Now I'm going out in the rain to do some more errands. This is NYC at its least exciting, but I enjoy anytime I'm not living on the edge.

Nanking Requiem

Ha Jin, who wrote the novel Waiting, is the author of the recently published Nanking Requiem which I just finished reading. In a nutshell, here's what I learned: war is (fill in negative adjective--they all seem like cliches); my knowledge of world history is pathetic; I need to brush up on geography.

The war in this book takes place just before World War II when Japan attacked China apparently for land expansion. The Chinese woman who tells the story is the president of a girls' college that becomes a refugee camp when the city of Nanking falls to Japanese forces. An American named Minnie is the heart and soul of the school-turned-camp. Whatever brutality or atrocity you've seen, heard of or imagined takes place in this book. The author seems to imply that all war, except for a country's defense against foreign invaders, is indefensible. This justifies most wars, at least in the minds of the country who believes its sovereignty has been threatened. Afghanistan, maybe; Iraq, ridiculous. Then there are civil wars. But let's not go there.

I know next to nothing about non-Western world history, only what I've pieced together from books, television and other media that hasn't been historically vetted. The American educational system doesn't teach you much about the rest of the world. In AP US History, you barely make it to the the late 50's before they run out of time. I should have taken more history courses in college.


As for geography, I've always been interested in the topic but was never schooled in it. Most people are like ants, seeing only what's in front of them. I actually know where all the United States are and could fill in a map of Central and South America, Western Europe and much of the Middle East and Africa. Forget about Eastern Europe, the Balkans, and the Stans. Nanking is in Eastern Central China according to my Atlas..

One more point about the novel. Jin describes facial features in a way that brings them alive. He tells you the shape of the head, the hair type and style, the eye shape and positioning, et cetera. I will note this for my writing.


Now I'm reading The Tiger's Wife  byTea Obrent and Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut. My son Harry recently read Slaughterhouse Five and Breakfast of Champions. Then it's on to a re-reading of Catch-22. My son Mark read it in three days. He said he liked the non-sequential structure. Talking about books must be genetic.

Consumption in NYC

The day's still young and I feel as though I should be going to bed soon. The weather is fine and we started by walking Buck to Central Park and back. Marty and I decided to do a little shopping, so we brought our red cart, $ and list to 86th Street. In Fairway we bought limes for margaritas. We bought a lot of fruit from a street vendor. Then we priced portable air conditioners because our built-in units don't work too well, and they use a lot of electricity. We had higher bills last summer in our 800-square foot apartment than we had in our 3700-square foot house in Rhode Island. 

We're switching from AT&T to Verizon, and stopped at the Verizon store where Marty didn't get a phone because he says he can get a free one on line. 

There's a street fair/flea market on 3rd Avenue starting at 86th Street and going south who knows how far. I left Marty at 79th Street, shopping for records.


Here's what we consumed: a vegetarian crepe and a gyro, washed down with fresh lemonade, spices (5-spice powder, gram masala and a mix for lamb), a gift for a special friend who reads this blog, a spa headband for yoga, a mozzarepa (grilled sweet corn meal stuffed with mozzarella cheese) and zeppolles .

Marty just got back, albums in tow. We're listening to Mel Torme now. I'm going to yoga in a bit, and then we're having margaritas on the roof. I was going to make a chicken curry for dinner but I think we'll go out instead. My kitchen is mini Hades. I season the food with my sweat. Just kidding.

$15 Makeover

The Sitting Room

We had a loveseat sitting in a room filled with clutter. Nicknamed the mudroom, this space rapidly turned into a junk room. Piles of shoes and boots, recycled cans and bottles spilling out of their containers, and unpacked boxes made a room where dreck and detritis trapped massive dustballs and decayed leafy matter.

Underneath this chaos was a lovely room waiting to be transformed into something, anything. Filled with light from 4 screened windows, it has a wood floor and a wood-paneled  accent wall. I spent a few hours emptying the room of everything but an old loveseat, an Adirondack chair Mark made in wood shop and an antique deacon's bench we bought from the previous owner. I planned to sell or donate the loveseat. I wanted to replace it with 2 wicker chairs.

Jeffersonville was having a town-wide sidewalk sale on Saturday. Anyone could rent a table and haul their  knicks and knacks into town to try to unload them. We live 2 blocks from town, and didn't have that much to sell. We set everything up outside our house waiting for cars to stop and shop.

We sold the loveseat for $15, as well as a few other items, for a total of $26. At 4:30, I was bored by the concept and put everything away, which wasn't much.

The next day, Marty and I were driving to a barbeque in Pennsylvania when I saw 2 white wicker chairs on the side of the road. They were 2 for $15! This was meant to be. Marty loaded them into the car and drove off to PA. Buck was a little squeezed but he didn't mind.

That's the new and improved mudroom above. It will only be used as a sitting room in the warm months due to lack of heat. Then it will revert back into the mudroom, which I hope I can keep  relatively free of dust bunnies.

John Irving's Latest

I've read a lot of John Irving. A Prayer for Owen Meany is by far the best in his oeuvre. Most of the time, Irving annoys me with his repetition and silliness. His new book, In One Person, has those characteristics in spades.

The topic is unique: sexual choices that don't necessarily fit neatly into categories. He  explores the infinite forms of desire, leaving out only the celibate and the addicted. LGBTQ is the contemporary shorthand for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning. There are characters in the book that fall in these broad categories and there are ones who fall somewhere in the spaces between. Hermaphrodites aren't considered. You'll have to read Jeffrey Eugenides Middlesex to learn about that.

The only admirable non-heterosexual in the book is Ms. Frost, a transgendered former wrestling champ who works as the village librarian. She's someone I'd like to know: thoughtful, accepting and widely-read. I don't think I've ever know a Ms. Frost, but then I only know people who fit into neat categories. Transgender is squishier. At least these people are able to carry out their preferences in ways they couldn't before.

Irving's treatment of the AIDS epidemic is superb. He presents it like a murder mystery, dropping clues along the way. Some of us know more than we want to about how AIDS ravages the body.There's a lot to learn in Irving's book about the disease.

Irving takes a shot at snooty people who quibble about terms like transsexual and transgendered.

"I just love it when when certain people feel free to tell writers what the correct words are. When I hear the same people use impact as a verb, I want to throw up."


Between you and me, Mr. Irving, it's best to ignore the idiots.

This One's for You, Jim B.

Today I went for a short run in the country, the first time I've run since early January in Peru. There were many reasons for the drought: boredom with running; overall body weakness; the weather (just an excuse). I kept saying I was going to start up again but just didn't. My son Mark kept asking me when, ma?

Today I had a cup of jo and put on my running gear. It was cool and sunny. I ran about 1.5 miles in a loop back to my house. I felt great. Now I have to make sure I do this every day and increase my miles.

Running made me think of you, Jim. I love to read your commentary about running because you're honest. Thanks for the inspiration!.

A Night With 21-Year Olds

I'm tired this morning, having stayed up until midnight. Mark and three of his friends came for dinner. All of them are on the track team. I don't think I've laughed so much at a gathering. My son is very witty, and his friends encourage him. We had meatballs, pasta, salad, garlic bread, washed down with beer and sangria. The youngins are all in training, so mostly water was imbibed.

We had an extended discussion explaining the difference between seltzer, club soda and sparkling water. It got pretty esoteric We went on to tonic and cognac. There was a lot of talk about running strategy. We went for ice cream at 10:30, bringing Buck along. Marty drove them back to the dorm and I started the massive clean-up in the kitchen.

It was great to spend time dipping my toe into the fountain of youth.