Life is Beautiful

I am in Jamaica where the sun is hot, the water warm and the vibe totally relaxed. I am staying at Jake's in Treasure Beach, just a short walk from Liz and Giul's romantic cottage.

What do I love most about Jamaica--drinking Red Stripe light beer, eating lobster at Little Ochie on the beach, sleeping under a mosquito net while listening to the ocean, watching the sun sink into the sea at Dougies Bar, the amazing stars in the night sky, swimming at Old Wharf beach, eating a calaloo omelet for breakfast, drinking soursop or june plum juice, walking up the lane to see Liz and Giul. . .all good.

No Pain, No Gain

Today was an historic moment for me. I had my legs waxed for the first time ever! I fully expected extreme pain and suffering. I am the woman who cried the first time I had my eyebrows waxed just three years ago. I seriously contemplated having a drink before I went to the spa or even maybe popping an Ativan. But, like a brave soldier, I marched right in, took off my pants and got on the table. I had let the hair on my legs grow for over two months and they felt soft and fuzzy and actually quite acceptable. I was almost sorry to see my hairy legs go.

My Global Christmas

I've traveled around the world for Christmas this year. After seeing Steve off to Hawaii, I took a tour of Mumbai, India while watching Slumdog Millionare along with every other Jew in center city Philadelphia or so it seemed. I'm sure most of them were headed off to Chinatown for dinner but I tramped back updown for an Israeli hummus and tahini sandwich at the Maccabean, the only restaurant I saw open on my walk home. I enjoyed my sandwich with a glass of Italian wine while reading a Southeast Asian cookbook. Now I'm cuddled up in my study about to watch a film by the German director Werner Herzog Aquirre or The Wrath of God, which takes place in Peru. By the way, I'll be watching this film on my computer thanks to Netfix's latest offering, instant movies on demand. Cool!

Drinking Again

I've been thinking a lot about my mom lately. It's not surprising at this time of year. Her birthday was Christmas Eve and my dad's was the day after so every year the four of us--mom, dad, Max and I--would go out for a special dinner to celebrate their birthdays together Now that I think of it, our annual birthday dinner was a good excuse for getting into the Christmas spirit without sacrificing our Jewish principles.

The most memorable of those faux Christmas outings was a trek over the bridge to Zaberer's, a popular, upscale dining room that catered to groups and families. I remember we had to wait a while for our table to be ready and, in the spirit of the holidays, my mother drank a large martini rendering her a bit tipsy. Nothing messy, I remember, no tripping or spilling but just a lot of giggles. But nonetheless, I felt absolutely humiliated, convinced that everyone around us was witnessing my mother's descent into a disgraceful, drunken state. I was probably about 12 at the time with little tolerance for parental indiscretions--not that there were ever any to worry about from either of them. For years afterwards, Max and I teased my mom about getting "zaberized." It became a standing family joke but I wonder, like so many children looking up to and harshly judging their parents at the same time, we were really sending them an urgent message--Please, don't do anything to embarrass us.

The Best Anti-Depressive

It's cold and rainy and just downright miserable outside. (So...what else is new? Does the sun ever shine in Philadelphia?) I'm snuggled up with yet another depressing book. (Is that sentence an oxymoron?) The book is "The Endless War" by Dexter Filkins, who covered the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq for the NYT. Needless to say, there are no happy endings in this book--just horrible stories and unending pain.

So what's the best antidote to this misery? It's spending a few hours with my darling daughter in her cozy house while Ms. Sweet Pea Nourishment cooks up some great smelling meals for her very lucky clients.

Let the Oscillation do the Work

Okay, I admit it. Throughtout the years, I've spent way too money on way too much makeup. But if I no longer have the patience or the skill or the willingness to stare so long into an often cruelly magnifying mirror in order to apply the full regalia, I've never forsaken mascara. However, I have noticed an alarming decrease in the thickness of my eyelashes, yet another unfortunate and unforeseen sign of aging. What's the remedy I've recently discovered--a battery operated mascara that, I swear to god, does the trick. And it even hums. Will wonders never cease.

Enough Already!

Every day we are battered by the bad news. Economy is collapsing, more and more people are out of work, bombings in Iraq, terrorists in India, etc., etc., etc. It's almost numbing. But this story is actually heartbreaking. I can't get the images out of my mind.

Ten Reasons Why I Hate Winter

1. It's cold and I can no longer wear my fur coat without experiencing shame and disapproval. (But it's so warm and soft and cuddly.)
2. I can't wear flip flops.
3. There are no tomatoes, at least ones worth eating.
4. It gets dark way too early. I'm ready to have a glass of wine but then realize it's only 5 o'clock. Uh oh.
5. My lips are permanently chapped.
6. All outdoor sports call for far too much clothing. Who wants to bother.
7. I hate long underwear. It makes me feel fat.
8. I don't eat beef stew.
9. My best friend goes away to Telluride for 3 and a half months. It's beautiful there but I don't ski so what's the point of going.
10. I'm always losing gloves.

Life Update

I have come to the realization that there are certain things I will never get to do. Like, for instance, I will never climb Mount Kilamanjaro in Kenya. Maybe ten years ago but its not happening now. (But, goddammit, I will climb the Inca Trail to Macchu Pichu this spring.) Chances of my going to the North or South Pole are slim to none but, hey, I hate the cold anyway. And, let's face it, I keep saying I want to trek in Mongolia and sleep in a yurt but I wouldn't take bets on my showing up there anytime soon. Besides, there's nothing more disgusting than yak butter tea.

Closer to home, I don't think I will ever be much of a tennis player despite the loads of lessons I've taken with my ever so patient but must be ever so frustrated coach.

And will I ever read Proust or re-read Joyce's Ulysses? Would I understand even if I read them?

However, I feel a real sense of accomplishment at having finished my first novel in Italian, "Io Non Ho Paura." It took me forever because I had to look up so many words but I did it, proving the brain is still working and capable of learning new things. Will I ever be fluent in speaking Italian? Well, that I'm not so sure of but I will keep trying.

Tina Turner aka Living Legend

As if Thanksgiving dinner and all its excess wasn't enough, Les Girls had the privilege of experiencing Tina Turner in all her fabulousness, truly a theatratical, spectacular and inspiring performance. At 69 years old (!!!), she absolutely killed it.

Countdown to Thanksgiving, part 2

Getting down to the wire now. The refrigerator is bursting. There's still room for the turkey but not much else.

Thanksgiving is a time when I really feel the presence of my mom. She's hasn't been around for almost 14 years and she ceded Thanksgiving to me at least 5 years before she died. The transfer was signified by her giving me the special hand painted turkey platter and very specific instructions on how to roast the bird to be placed on it--breast side down, massaged with obscene amounts of butter, draped with butter soaked cheesecloth and obsessively basted every 20-30 minutes with, you guessed it, more butter. Every year, I've considered experimenting with different cooking methods--high temperature, tenting with foil, special glazes, etc.--but every year, that turkey gets cooked exactly how she taught me.

My mom, she really did know best.

Countdown to Thanksgiving

What a balabusta am I!!

This year my preparation for Thanksgiving has reached new levels of efficiency. It's Monday and with three days to go...

Gravy: in the refrigerator
Cranberry relish (two different kinds): in the refrigerator
Apricot chutney: in the refrigerator
Applesauce: in the freezer
Onion confit: in the freezer

To me, Thanksgiving is all about the sides. And this year, thanks to the active participation in planning, shopping and cooking of Ms. Sweet Pea, we will have a dazzling and seasonal array of side dishes, some tried and true but others that will be new to the table. My goal is to make sure that everyone--vegetarians, lusty trenchermen and quirky eaters alike--will have a surfeit of delicious choices Thursday night.

Me and Madonna

Sleeping in an oxygen chamber, schmearing myself with special unguents, eating nothing but nuts and seeds and weird concoctions, working out 4 hours a day--hey if that's what it takes to look like Madonna, I'm almost there.

Last night, Liz and I watched in awe--from fabulous seats just a yard from the stage--as the 50 year old icon showed off her dance moves and her incredible body for two straight hours. In a word, the show was stupendous.

If you want to see us freaking out along with the rest of the audience click here.

Celebrating Jeelu

Something wonderful happened this weekend. Five women--two mothers and three daughters and all friends--spent four days together at Blackberry Farm in eastern Tennessee. During the day, we roamed around the property or snuggled in front of the fire in our luxurious farm house. At night, we enjoyed incredible dinners--think grits with white truffle and lots and lots of cream. But mostly we celebrated the very special and talented and loving Ms. Jeelu Billimoria. Here is my tribute to this wonderful, wonderful woman that I love so much.

TO MY SISTER…

We all know Jeelu. She’s a fantastically talented producer with a shelf of Emmys to prove it; a doting and supportive mother to Sanaya and Asha; a devoted and caring daughter who calls her mother in India every day; a patient, loyal and loving wife to Elliot.

But I know her as a very special friend and surrogate sister. Someone who took off my clothes and put me to bed when I had one too many and never chastised me the next morning about my behavior. Someone my daughter could turn to when she needed help in a crisis when I was far away. And, most significantly, the other half of “couple number one” who is always ready to dance until the music stops and the lights go on.

You know you are really good friends with someone when the “getting to know you” part of your relationship is lost in history. I’ve known Jeelu for over 30 years now but somehow it seems like we’ve always been constant and close companions despite the fact that we haven’t even lived in the same city for some 25 years. We’ve traveled together, mourned together, raised our children together, analysed our husbands together. There’s not much we haven’t done together…except work out, I guess. Although I do remember doing yoga on the roof together in Greece. Maybe there’s hope yet we’ll hit the gym together at some point.

To me, Jeelu epitomizes character, courage and commitment. She left her family and home at age 19 and voyaged half way across the world to a foreign country. Could any of us imagine taking such a giant step at that age? She faced up to the challenge of breast cancer with tremendous fortitude and then used her experience to help so many others through her ongoing TV specials. Her parents, her children, her mate, her friends have all benefited from her wisdom, her love and her ferocious powers of organization. She is truly someone who takes pleasure in caring for others.

For some years now we’ve called each other sister but we’ve never experienced sibling rivalry. We don’t have to share a room, fight over clothes or vie for our parents’ attention. We can laugh together, sometimes cry together and always just enjoy each other’s company. My sister, my friend, let’s promise to keep on dancing for many years to come.

All my love,
Ellen

Diagnosis: PES

I am suffering from Post Election Syndrome. What are the symptoms? A constant urge to surf the internet for news about President-Elect Obama, the country's awesome new First Lady, Michelle, and those two absolutely adorable children, Malia and Sasha. This is a habit that will be hard to quit. Of course, I want to know who's going be in Obama's cabinet. And sure, I'm following the debate on how big the stimulus package should be. And yes, I want to find out if Al Franken beats Norm Coleman. But what I really want to know is where are the girls going to school...what's Michelle going to wear to the inauguration... and other such matters of great national interest.

OBAMAOBAMAOBAMA

Two days after and I am still euphoric. Now can we get Bush to take early retirement? I mean how much more damage can he do before January 20th.

In the meantime, thanks to DJ Abby Klein for sending me this amazing image.


Pass it on.

Yes We Did!

Trite but true: Words cannot express the joy, the amazement, the happiness and, above all, the relief I feel today.

Barack Hussein Obama will be the next President of the United States of America.

We watched the returns come in, hardly believing what we were seeing but when the fairy tale ended with the wicked old ogre banished from the kingdom and the handsome young prince smiling in triumph, we ran out onto Broad Street and cheered and cried and felt proud to be a witness to this incredible story.

Happy Birthday, Moses!

Well, here we are in Utah to celebrate Mo's 21st birthday!!!

I can see snow on the top of the mountains that ring the view from Mo's house but no trace of a Barack/Biden lawn sign or poster in Ogden, the Salt Lake City suburb where Mo lives. Steve and I, of course, are proudly wearing our buttons. Must show the colors even in enemy country.

This afternoon, we went to lunch at "The Cheese Steak Deli." (I think I need to send the very nice lady behind the counter to Pat's for a training session. She was way too pleasant and the place was definitely too clean.) And tonight we're having the birthday dinner at some chuckwagon. Slim pickings here in Ogden for a vegetarian.

Mo loved all his presents so far (pics to follow in a later post)--mostly sports related items picked out by his dad, of course.

We're home tomorrow in time to cast our votes for Barack Obama and then watch the returns on TV. Do you think that when Barack is officially declared the next president of the United States--I can't wait to hear those words!--that people will run out onto Broad Street and start celebrating? I mean what's more important, winning the World Series or saving the country?

Wanna See My Pictures?

For some weird reason, I could never upload photos to my blog while in Italy.

Allora, if you're interested in looking at them, click here.

Best Friends Forever

What's better than spending three weeks in Italy with each other?

Capping it off with five days in Rome with our best friends.

Truly, five straight days of non stop laughter, late night poker, extraordinary eating, incredible wine and, let's not forget, the Phantastic Phillies!!

We continued the party on the return flight on Toll Air, sitting down to a great lunch of Italian food and wine scored at Volpetti before our departure.



Arriverderci, Roma

L and L

It's raining in Rome but the fearless tourists ventured forth once again...for lunch in the shadow of the Pantheon, one of Rome's most important and historic sites.

While gazing at the Pantheon, we enjoyed a dozen oysters and then a sea bass baked with porcini mushrooms, all washed down with two bottles of a Gaja 2006 sauvignon.

L and L. Loaded and Lunch.

YOU MUST LISTEN TO THIS!

In case you missed hearing Barack in Ohio yesterday, please take the time to listen to the close of his speech. It is truly inspirational. One more week...

Fabulous Funghi

I have a new favorite food this season in Rome.

Last winter it was artichokes especially when fried jewish style at Piperno restaurant in the Ghetto. Then in the spring it was fresh fava beans plopped down in the middle of the table to be shelled and eaten raw accompanied by pecorino cheese.

Now in October I have discovered my fall food obsession--fresh porcini mushrooms. Many of the restaurants have baskets of these orange, woody beauties displayed at the entrance. They show up in salads and pastas but I prefer them sliced thin and roasted in the oven and presented on a plate glistening with oil or butter. To this quasi-vegetarian, eating porcini mushrooms prepared that way is comparable to digging into a nice juicy steak.

Real Tourists and Real People

Today, at last, we acted like real tourists. Well, maybe not totally since real tourists would have left the house, guidebook in hand, by 9am. Real tourists wouldn't have been moving so slowly in the morning as the result of another night of eating and drinking and general hilarity to be topped off by Bob and Steve staying up to the wee hours watching the PHILLIES win game four!!

Anyway, at 2 pm, these real tourists started off on from Trastevere provisioned with a few slices of pizza to the Circus Maximus, the Palantine and the Roman Forum, must-see sights on every real tourists' hit lists. However due to our late start we were unable to get into the Colosseum and so we stopped at a nearby enoteca to enjoy a glass of wine and as Steve always says, "a little nibble."

Finally Bob, ever the fearless tourist, convinced us to take the subway so we could see how real people live. It was rush hour and real people and a few real tourists like ourselves were jammed quite tightly into a subway car. We got off at the Piramede in Testaccio and walked home to Trastevere but not before stopping off at one more very important sight--Volpetti, an incredible purveyor of all things delicious and Italian that is frequented by real people and real tourists.

Live from New York...

I couldn't help it. This is too funny.

Buon Giorno

We have no need for an alarm clock at Vicolo del Cedro. At around 7:45 every morning (except Sunday, thank goodness), we are awoken by the rising chorus of students arriving at the high school across the way accompanied by the roar of motorbikes driving into the courtyard. By 8:15, the cacophony subsides and we can snuggle under the covers and go back to sleep or decide to throw open the shutters and greet the day.

That decision often depends on what happened the night before. Last night, for example, we met our friend Christina for dinner in a charming little restaurant on a side street in Trastevere. This morning I, at least, was not ready to face the sun at 8:15. Around 10, I slowly got out of bed to discover Steve, downstairs already and parked in front of the TV watching the Phillies!

Back to Normal

It's wonderful how quickly and comfortably Steve and I have fallen into our old routine here at Vicolo del Cedro.

In the morning I make fresh orange juice (sorry, no blood oranges this time of year) and then head off to the gym to work off last night's dinner. Our old gym is closed but non c'e problema. I now walk another 10 minutes to una pui grande palestra in Trastevere to meet Aramis, my beautiful Cuban trainer. Afterwards, I meet Steve back at the house where we have a delicious lunch of cheese and bread and salami bought in our neighborhood. Then we stroll across the Ponte Sisto and manage to discover streets we've never walked on. At the end of the day, it's back to the house for a tutoring session with Nicoletta, resplendent as always in some fabulous outfit. (Two days ago, she was all in red, today very sexy in a low cut lacy black dress and matching stockings, and always with the requisite coordinated accessories.)

Around 8:30 we meander down to our favorite enoteca at Piazza Trilussa and chat with Fulvia behind the bar. (We've gotten used to the new decor especially since Fulvia is still there.) Last decision of the day is where to have dinner. Last night we ventured out of our neighborhood for a dinner of fabulously fresh fish. (Yes, we are sticking to our post-Sicilian regimen so far!) We finished the evening with a stroll around Piazza Navona before heading back to Trastevere.

Now more than ever, it feels like Trastevere is our little village in Rome. The same characters we saw six months ago are still here and even remember us. Both the old man who sits on the bench with his silly little dogs all day and the really cute mechanic at the motorcycle repair shop gave us big smiles when they saw us for the first time this week.

Welcome Home

After a day and a half in Catania, a beautiful baroque city (at least in il centro--the outer edges are pretty horrible), we are once again nestled in our Italian casa, Vicolo del Cedro 12. We immediately threw open the shutters, the better to hear the steady trickle of the water fountain across the street and the chatter of passers-by. I unpacked our suitcases for the first time this trip and even started a load of laundry while Steve ran out to buy olives, oranges and water at one of the few shops open on Sunday.

So now we are here and facing the difficult decision of where to go for dinner.

Food, Glorious Food

I said when we arrived at Mandranova that we would not be able to leave without carrying an extra five pounds. Today we rolled out of there and, thank god, there was no scale on which to weigh the actual damage.

Last night was definitely the coup de gras. We went out to enjoy a long, leisurely lunch in a nearby seaside town to discover when we got back that a a group of serious foodies and chefs from Los Angeles led by an American cookbook writer and food journalist based in Italy had taken over Silvia's kitchen to prepare a special dinner. Ever curious, I wondered into the kitchen and promptly put on an apron and began peeling shrimp, chopping onions and asking a lot of questions. A few hours later, we all sat down to an incredible, multi course feast that included several antipasti, two different pastas, sword fish with wild fennel sauce and an incredible eggplant dish with mint and cheese and tomato contributed by Silva. Steve and I have vowed to eat nothing by fish and salad until Bob and Jane join us in Rome. Let's see how long we last!

Life is Beautiful

It's 11 in the morning and we are still in bed moaning and groaning after last night's dinner. I swear Silvia and Giuseppe, our hosts at Mandranova, are trying to kill us.

For 2 nights we have been the only guests at Mandranova, a working olive farm near Agrigento on the the south coast of Sicily. The house is incredibly charming, a wonderful mix of comfort and style plus every room is full of treasures that reflect the family's long history in the region--photographs, memorabilia ,antiques. Last night Giuseppe even showed me an old red shirt, worn long ago by a Garibaldino in Silvia's family.

After dinner last night--fried ricotta squares, pasta with cheese and pistachios, Sicilian meatballs in a sweet and sour sauce, caponata (a mixture of eggplant, olives and tomatoes), and last but not least a semifreddo with hot chocolate sauce (hence the moaning and groaning)--we curled up on the sofa and watched Burt Lancaster in the Visconti classic film, "The Leopard.". We felt right at home.

Bada Bing

I think my sense of Palermo has been irreparably influenced by years of watching “The Sopranos.”

All the older men I see remind of Tony—stomachs bulging over their belts, thin gold chains around their necks and wrists. All the young men seem to be shorter versions of Christopher with tight pants and dark, dark hair; the young women look like Adriana in boots and low cut tight jeans with fluffed out hair and big glasses and, of course, I catch several glimpses of Carmela look-alikes with their French manicures and trendy track suits.

Today while wandering through the old section we came across a wedding or some kind of celebration at a church. It was hard not to think that the whole crowd came right from some movie featuring Joe Pesci. Every man was in a black suit of some slick and shiny material. The women, all with long black hair and lots of dramatic eye make-up, had on tight, tight dresses with spike heels and everyone was kissing each other profusely.

Like true tourists, Steve and I stayed away from the main shopping area which our concierge assured us was "safe" and instead plunged immediately into the old historic area where he told us to "be careful." Having braved the back streets of Naples, we weren’t about to be intimidated by Palermo. We spent the entire afternoon wandering through the food market, walking up and down the streets past by a million churches and palazzos, many of which look they have never recovered from World War II and ended up the Cappella Palatina, a medieval jewel box of a church decorated with amazingly beautiful golden mosaics.

Palermo seems a very Catholic city. Every taxi driver has a cross or a religious medallion hanging from his windshield. He needs some protection given how bad the traffic is! Riding back in our taxi to the hotel, we were hit gently but firmly by another car. This caused a great deal of what I assume to be vigorous and colorful cursing by our taxi driver and the driver of the other car and his passenger, an elderly woman. The screaming match ended in a stand off as far as I could tell.

I am Not a Drunk

Contrary to ugly rumors we've been hearing, Steve and I do not spend our days drinking. We restrict ourselves to a bottle of wine at dinner and perhaps a glass of prosecco beforehand. However, as culinary tourists we do like to sample the local cuisine and our last night in Naples was no exception. That night we dedicated ourselves to eating il vero pizza da Napoli which unlike the thin crusted pizza in Rome is made with a thick, chewy crust. We ate outside at an charming restaurant with the obligatory wood burning oven, drank a bottle of the house wine and ate a delicious pizza while listening to the babble of Neapolitan families chatting at high volume and high speed.

I must confess, however, that I prefer the style of pizza in Rome.

Bella Napoli

This is our second full day in Napoli and, despite the fears of family and friends, we have not been mugged, robbed or otherwise assaulted. In fact the scariest thing that happened to us was the cab ride to and from dinner last night.

Traffic here is truly unbelievable. Stop and go, bumper to bumper with the added attraction of motorbikes zigging and zagging in between the lanes of traffic, and all this accompanied by the constant cacophony of horns. The total effect is exhausting and sometimes close to terrifying. Coming home from dinner last light (incredible seafood!) we witnessed a couple of bang ups between motorbikes and cars. Lots of noise but little drama. The bikers just picked themselves and their bikes up and zoomed off. Most cars here bear the scars of battle; I don't think I've seen more than a handful of cars without some dents or scratches.

We drove out to Pompeii today but, fortunately, the autostrada was problem free. Tonight we are going to sample Naples' famous pizza but only if we can walk there!

Andiamo, Andiamo

Here we go again—eating too much, drinking too much and having way more fun than supposedly senior citizens should be allowed.

Our 3 days in Rome are a blur except, of course, for the 3 wonderful meals we had each night at favorite restaurants. First, Da Poeta in Trastevere, our old neighborhood, for perfect thin crust pizza forno al legno. Then, fresh fish at the always crowded Le Mani in Pasta, another Trastevere culinary landmark and, finally, Roscioli or as Steve calls it “the deli”—Famous should only look and taste so good!—for an incredible bottle of Brunello di Montipulciano and a seleczione of proscuitti and salami and fromaggio.

Now we are in Naples. The city is wild—chaotic as one guide book aptly states—noisy and full of people who look they come from central casting for an Italian movie in the 50’s. Chubby bambini running around the piazzas; ragazzi in jeans and tee shirts—the boys with lots of hair gel and the girls with tons of make up (I don’t believe you are allowed in public without dark black eyeliner and several coats of mascara.)--flirting and fooling around; stout little nonnas clutching each other and their shopping bags are all crowding the narrow streets and somehow avoiding getting killed by the scores of motorbikes zooming by in every direction. (Crossing the street here is an exercise in wishful thinking. You walk across slowly but steadily trusting that the drivers racing along the street will see you and not hit you. So far it’s worked.)

Admittedly, the city is filthy—graffiti everywhere, trash bins overflowing and every building seems to be in some stage of decay with weeds growing out of cornices and paint peeling off the walls. Despite the noise and the chaos, Steve and I feel perfectly comfortable and safe. It is like walking through a blown up version of South Philly with everyone gesticulating wildly and talking loudly.

Last night for dinner we walked around the corner from our hotel to Osteria da Carmela. Carmela turned out to be an tiny but energetic woman around my age dressed like a punk rocker in a low cut summer dress accessorized with black tights and motorcycle boots. Her bright red hair was as short as Steve’s except for a single long pig tail that reached down to the middle of her back. It was just Carmela and one other cook in the tiny kitchen but they whipped out an incredible meal—pasta with fresh porcini mushrooms (in season now!!) and cuttlefish, fried anchovies, Steve’s fave, and sautéed tiny clams (so sweet) served on a bed of chopped croutons perfect for sopping up the delicious sauce. The restaurant was full of regulars; we were the only strangers but afterwards we went back to the kitchen to thank Carmela for our meal.

Benvenuto a Roma

Here we are back in the land of pizza, prosecco and pasta. In less than 24 hours of our arrival in Rome, we sampled the first two and I'm hopeful tonight that we will enjoy the third.

The city is golden, the streets are full (although not as crowded as in the spring) and the weather is perfect for strolling. We spent our first full day visiting some of our favorite places from the Piazza del Populo down to the Piazza da Santa Maria in Trastevere. Steve even got a hair cut and beard trim at his barber so he is looking quite the Italian gentleman.

The big news--for us at least--is that our favorite wine bar, Ferrara on Piazza Trilussa, has gone through a major renovation. Although the wine is still wonderful, the new decor lacks the warmth and charm of the original space. Oh well, life goes on.

Mary J Blige is in the house. . .

And so are Ellen and Amira.

I was so impressed. Amira knew the words to every song. We both spent the whole concert on our feet dancing and grooving to Mary J. She was an incredibly powerful and passionate presence on stage in skin tight pants and thigh high stiletto boots. She gave us her all, the highs and lows, the ups and downs, and at the end we were all "Just Fine."

I Missed the Debate and I'm Proud of It

Why I can't stand to listen to CNN anymore, courtesy of Charles Pierce on Altercation:

"For several days, it was made increasingly apparent that the Republican Party has nominated for vice-president a person who is manifestly unqualified to teach middle-school history. (Hint: the default answer, always, is, "Dred Scott v. Sanford, Katie." The Civil War was, like, a bad thing.) And yet, through the entire run-up to the debate, it was argued by serious people who analyze serious politics and make a serious living doing it that Sarah Palin could reveal herself to be non-dim by putting on the correct puppet show for the media in her debate against Joe Biden. Make no mistake. That's what the punditocracy was arguing. Give us a reason, please, not to have to write what we all know to be true, what has been self-evidently true to the entire country since you walked off the podium in St. Paul. . . None of what the Walking Dead on the cable shows were looking to see has the slightest thing to do with her fitness for the office she seeks, let alone the office that might descend upon her. Journalists should not be in the business of perception-is-reality. It is our job to hammer the reality until the perception conforms to it. Hell, even Katie Couric's pretty much figured that out. Any postgame analysis that doesn't reflect this principle is not worth talking about."

One More Day to One Night Only

. . . and I don't mean the Biden/Palin debate.

Thursday night, 7-10 pm, the place to be is the spiffy showroom of Luxe Home at 1308 Chestnut Street for One Night Only, a very special evening to benefit Women's Medical Fund.

What's in store--an open bar, great food from Peachtree and Ward, fabulous music with DJ Abbey Klein and a raffle with incredible prizes. Ticket price is ridiculously low--just $35 for those under 35 (I wish!) or $75 for those $35 and older.

Best if all, you'll be supporting a really important organization, the only one in the area that provides direct financial assistance to women and teens in need of a safe and legal abortion.

You can pay at the door or click here. I hope to see you there!

Happy High Holidays

I'm a culinary jew not a religious one so I knew it was Erev Rosh Hashanah because I cooked a brisket and had the family over for dinner last night. But this morning I forgot all about the holiday and drove off early to Bala Cynwyd for my weekly tennis lesson. It wasn't til I was driving back through center city and noticed quite a few sedately dressed couples on the street all heading towards 18th and Spruce that it clicked. Aha, go to synagogue...that's what you're really supposed to do on Rosh Hashanah.

When I was growing up in Yeadon, it was a big deal to miss school and spend the day at services. For one thing, it was a chance to show off new clothes since no matter how hot the day, it was absolutely mandatory to wear a new fall outfit to synagogue. My friends and I would sit in the back of the sanctuary, well positioned to make an early exit before the sermon which was always excruciatingly boring and way too long. We'd stand on the lawn outside, gossiping and flirting, while we waited for our parents, still trapped inside, to give us permission to go home and really enjoy our day off.

Every year after lunch, my mom and I would change out of our dress clothes and go off to Loehmann's in Drexel Hill for some serious bargain shopping. That little excursion was what made the day really special for me. Somehow my mom, who was much more than a culinary Jew, felt that it was all right to go shopping on Rosh Hashanah but a definite no-no on Yom Kippur. I think I still feel the same.

Domesticity

I feel like a stay-at-home mom today which is weird because I didn't stay home when my kids were little. In fact, I loved going off to work where problems could be solved and nobody was crying.

Anyway, today I got up early and rushed out to Metropolitan Bakery to buy some challah for Rosh Hashanah dinner tonight. I had to be back early because a TV installer was coming to rig up a TV in the guest bedroom. (Yes, dear Kenny, there is a now a high definition TV on the wall in your room, a concession to which I gladly agreed now that you have decided to come to Philly for Thanksgiving.)

Upon my return, I morphed into a domestic diva whirling through the apartment. Changing the linens in my bedroom, setting the table in the dining room, plumping the pillows in the living room and, of course, cooking the brisket, prepping the veggies, making the broccoli salad and then cleaning up in the kitchen. At 4 pm, I asked myself, "What would a stay-at-home mom do now? Go for a run, read a book or scrub some toilets? Or...turn on Oprah!" Guess what I did...

Bragging Rights

How do you cook for e a party of 50 people? Well, thanks to my daughter I learned the secret. You turn on VH1 Soul on the TV and don't turn it off until the job is done.

This weekend I had the honor of assisting Liz aka Ms. Sweet Pea Nourishment as she prepared the food for a large party in honor of the Wilma Theater's 30th anniversary. My job was easy--I provided the kitchen and some four hours of slicing and dicing but Liz worked throughout the weekend creating a fantastic menu that used all organic ingredients sourced from local farms in Pennsylvania and New Jersey.

By Sunday morning, my refrigerator was bursting with good things all ready to be assembled for the party.



By Sunday evening, it had returned to its normal state--bottles of water, some ancient containers of olives of and random bits of cheese.

The Not So Great Debate

Tonight I was supposed to go hear Mary J. Blige and Robin Thicke but the concert was postponed. So instead of getting dressed up and taking Patco to the Susquehanna Center with Amira, I sat on the sofa in my robe watching the debate with Steve. I'm sorry but I would have preferred and evening with Mary J.

Although I am head over heels in love with Obama and think McCain is suffering from acute senile dementia, I found the debate really boring. I certainly can't imagine that watching it would make any difference in how someone is going to vote on November 3.

Really Weird

I'm a pesco-vegetarian (Dr. Weil's phrase, not mine) but when the carnivores in my life and the holiday demand it, I am willing and able to cook, if not eat, meat. So today I took myself to the Reading Terminal Market, source of all good things in Philadelphia, to order my brisket for Rosh Hashanah dinner. (If anyone's interested in my brisket recipe which I can truthfully, if not modestly, say has won acclaim far and wide, give me a holler. In brief, it's amalgam of Julia Child and my mom, both distinguished cooks.)

After placing my order at Harry Ochs, I ran into my ex computer techie seated at a nook next to the meat counter. Now, I always knew he was weird--kind of goes with the territory of techno geek. For one thing, everytime I saw him, no matter how inclement or cold the weather, he would be wearing industrial strength sandals and shorts. Today was no exception.

I stopped to say hello and then suddenly noticed what he was eating. Spread before him on a piece of butcher wrap was at least a half pound of bright red, raw, ground beef accompanied by a stack of bright orange American cheese slices. While we chatted briefly he would roll a healthy serving of meat in a slice of cheese and pop it down the hatch. Yuck!!

Thank god I had already eaten.

Some Enchanted Evening

I went to New York today to see South Pacific. It was such a beautiful day that I walked all the way from Penn Station to Lincoln Center.

At the theater, I had an incredible seat--fourth row and dead center. I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE South Pacific and this production is fantastic. When I was a little girl, I danced around my living room as my parents listened to the original soundtrack with Enzio Pinza and Mary Martin. And one of the highlights of my career at summer camp was when I starred as Bloody Mary in the Camp Greylock for Girls production and brought the house down with my soulful rendition of Bali Hai. (I had auditioned for the part of Nellie Forbush wanting like all the girls to be the ingenue who washed that man right out of her hair but Joan Friedman, that goody-goody, snagged the part.) For years after, I couldn't take a shower without singing the entire score. I still remember the words to most of the songs. And they call me a cockeyed optimist...

Afterward, I met my BFF and sistah, aka Jane and Jeelu, for dinner downtown before taking the train back to Philadelphia.


Wait til I get in the shower tomorrow morning.

There's No Place Like Home

I never am so glad to be back in Philadelphia than when I return from Utah.

Steve and I went for a few days to visit Mo. I bravely wore my Obama pin throughout our stay there, wanting childishly perhaps to show my colors and fully expecting to see a landscape dotted with huge McCain/Palin signs. Surprisingly, there were none. I guess there's no need to spend the money and spread the word in a state that is so solidly in the Republican camp. I didn't experience any dirty looks or hostile comments. Instead, a few courageous souls in Salt Lake City whispered that they liked the button.

Ogden, a suburb of SLC, where Mo lives, is a weird place. The mountains are just 10-15 minutes away and everywhere you go there's a spectacular view of them pasted against a brilliant blue sky. (We didn't see a cloud for the three days we were there.) But the city and its environs are a series of featureless, cookie cutter developments strung together by strip malls and big box retail outlets. It's only when we drove through the canyons or over the North Ogden Divide where the houses are set apart with ample space to breathe that you get a sense of what might have been before the super highways changed things forever.

Mo lives in a tidy house in a development of tidy houses that all look the same. There are children--mostly blond, it seems--playing everywhere, bikes strewn across the lawns, dogs barking in the back yards. All the garages seem to hold at least two cars--one of which is a large SUV or truck--motorcycles or dirt bikes and a full complement of sporting gear. Many of the houses, Mo's included, have basketball nets in the back. One afternoon, I strolled through the development and saw just one vegetable garden but that had a compost bin, a promising sign. Most houses have green, well tended lawns with tame little islands of shrubbery and flowers set carefully within or along the houses.

Mo and Steve shot baskets and I sat on the deck reading. I looked out over his back yard to a landscape of identical rooftops all sprouting direct TV dishes set against the rugged and majestic mountains that loomed on all sides.

Like I said, Utah is a weird place.

I Love My New Car Sooooooo Much

Isn't she adorable? I've been waiting for her since early June. And today, at last, Giul kindly drove me to the dealership and it was love at first sight for Chessie and me. I've named her after a similarly adorable car that Liz and I drove through Sicily about four years ago. Of course, this Chessie is totally up to date, politically correct and environmentally friendly. She's a Prius but she'll always be my baby.

Am I Going Crazy?

I am trying to make sense of this whole Sarah Palin thing. Ok, everyone agrees she's a ruthless, scheming politician, the ticket's designated attack dog, a real "barracuda." Yet because she's a Republican and an evangelical Christian passionately opposed to abortion, nobody's calling her a bitchy feminist, nobody's asking her who wears the pants in her house.

This is really where it gets weird to me. Does this mean, ladies, that we have truly come a long way, baby, now that there is a vice presidential candidate who happens to be a female but is a consummate political hack with no obvious credentials except her fierce ambition and her ability to shamelessly but effectively lie, distort and misrepresent the issues?

Have women made it now that we have our very own Dan Quayle?

I need help!

A Night on the Town

Summer in the city. The nights are warm and the streets are full of all sorts of people.

Last night I went out to dinner with Liz and Amira. Along the way we met a roving troubadour in a motorized wheelchair who serenaded me on Market Street. He had a great smile and an even better voice. What a lovely way to start the evening.

Politics can be sooooooo depressing.

We are governed by crazy people. Literally crazy people. I tried watching the convention in St. Paul--why I don't know--but turned it off after a few minutes each time not in disgust, more in disbelief. Those people are truly insane.

I'm voting for Obama--I'm praying for Obama--I but the process is so horrible and distorted and evil that I wonder how anything good can come out of it.

I scour the blogs each day in search of hope but this paragraph from Charles Pierce, a regular contributor to Eric Alterman's site says it all to me:

"I have no hope for the next 56 days. None whatsoever. Reality's relevance was lost somewhere between Invesco Field and the Xcel Center. We're going to get lofty post-partisan dreariness from both presidential candidates, and a vicious 1992 culture-war brawl under the radar, which will be thoroughly deplored in public by the people who profit from it most. I shouldn't have to watch Karl Rove tell me about the American people and how they vote. I should get to watch Karl Rove being hauled off in chains to Danbury. The major television networks will curl up into a ball roughly five minutes from the start of the first presidential debate. The whole campaign is now going to be conducted on the level of pure mythology. If they had any intellectual honesty whatsoever, the people on TV would dress in white robes and divine the campaign through the movement of waves and the burning of laurel leaves. For a minute back in the spring, it seemed like the country was ready to admit to itself that it poisoned itself with bull***t over the past seven years and was prepared to issue itself a corrective. Not any more. We're back to "personality" and "character" and "narratives" and all the other stuff that keeps anyone from thinking about what's really at stake here."

I need a drink.

What the...

Check out this blog from P Diddy. And, yes, folks, I know who P. Diddy is...

Arriverderci Otisfield

My last day in Maine this summer was absolutely the best day in Maine this summer. A brilliant blue sky with not a cloud in sight. A brisk breeze from the north--fresh Canadian air--causing white caps on the lake. Sitting on the deck, listening to the trees in the wind felt like I was on the deck of a ship going on a happy journey to a beautiful place where Sarah Palin wouldn't force her 17 year old daughter to get married!!!!

Bob and Jane and Steve and I played tennis...if you can call it that. Jane's hip was bothering her, Bob's bum knee kept him from running and Steve swaddled himself in a wide elastic belt that supposedly would protect his back but that made him look like some kind of weird sumo wrestler. Not a pretty picture. Well, there are worse ways to waste time than to play a set of geezer tennis on a gorgeous Maine day with our best friends.

OBAMAOBAMAOBAMAOBAMAOBAMA

I woke up this morning with a serious red wine hangover. We all did. Blame it on Barack and the speech, the speech, the speech. Absolutely amazing, breathtaking, spellbinding, inspiring, unbelievable, stunning etc., etc. etc. I laughed, I cried and ultimately I was left speechless.

We prepped our dinner while listening to Al Gore, Susan Eisenhower and Stevie Wonder. (Wow, did he get old but then he was young when I was young and that's was a while ago.) The Kaufman clan arrived just as Obama took the podium so we all watched and listened together.

Finally, at 11:30 we sat down to dinner...in one of our two homes...high on Obama.

Going to the Dogs

It's quiet here now. Rachel, Noah and baby Isaac have left for the heat of Las Vegas. Jane and Bob are in Denver waving signs at the convention and Liz and Giul and Jake are camping downeast. Steve and I are all alone...with the dogs.

I was left with detailed instructions--put their collars on--check; give DD a pill for her arthritis--attempted but failed; fill their plates with dog food--no problem; put them to bed at night in our screened in porch--they didn't like it but they did go in there. Good thing, too, since there wss definitely a skunk roaming around here last night, especially toward the end of Michelle Obama's speech. Louie smells bad enough despite the fact that Jane had him groomed and shampooed prior to his sleepover with us.

A Great Day

Yesterday, Liz and I woke up early and drove west to the White Mountains of New Hampshire to go hiking for the day. We climbed Mt. Webster in Crawford Notch State Park. It was a hard two hours up and up and up climbing over rocks to the summit. (The guidebook terms the ascent to Mt Webster "strenuous," and "difficult", a description with which we definitely agree.


When we got to the summit, a sea of mountains, green then blue, stretched out before us. Two birds--I think they were hawks--flew in a perfect pattern below us, their wings sparkling in the sun. The sun was hot but the breeze was cool. We laid on the rocks and drank in the view with our lunch.



On the way down, another two hour scramble down down a narrow trail strewn with boulders and still wet from all the rain earlier this month, we saw a magic mushroom but no elves.



On the way home, we stopped for ice cream, the traditional coda to every hiking expedition.

The View from the Deck

This is what I see while I lay on the deck to stretch after my morning run--a collage of blue and green that shimmers with light. (Full disclosure: I got three new mosquito bites while taking this picture.)

At last in late August, we are finally enjoying a run of classic Maine weather--clear, sunny days without a hint of humidity and chilly nights calling for sweaters and a blazing fire. (To the surprise of many, I am a champion fire builder, a skill I acquired from years of summer camp. I build a classic log cabin and pride myself on only using one match to ignite the inferno.)

Weekend with the In-Laws

This weekend we hosted Anita and Alfonse for their first weekend in Maine. Everything was perfect--the weather, the food and especially the company. Classic lobster and corn dinner Thursday night to kick everything off; loup de mer roasted on fennel for Friday night accompanied by a garden salad and potatoes dug up from Jane's garden that very afternoon. The finale on Saturday was steamed mussels and pasta with zucchini, chard and shitake mushrooms.

We drank way too much wine--the bottle count for the weekend was embarrassing--cheered on Michael Phelps as he won his eighth gold medal and watched Usain Bolt cruise to his world record.

We hugged goodby on the dock with an awesome sunset in the background.

At Last...Gazpacho!

Liz and Giul, aka The Happy Couple, are here for the rest of the summmer! And they brought with them a huge cooler of goodies from the big city. My little refrigerator is overflowing with assorted cheeses, meats, olives and tasty bites, along with the left overs from last night's Indian dinner.

Best of all, they brought gorgeous, juicy and incredibly flavorful tomatoes. (We've been deprived here in Maine due to the unrelentingly soggy weather.) Which means I could make this summer's very first batch of gazpacho.

The recipe I use is ridiculously easy. I cut up about 4 tomatoes, a large cuke, a large pepper, a medium onion and a clove of garlic and whirl it all in the cuisinart. Pour into a bowl and add a small can of V8 juice, around a 1/4 cup of good olive oil, a little less of sherry vinegar, salt and pepper and, my special ingredient, smoked picante pimenton. Delicioso!

A Sunny Day

I went to bed last night with a golden moon shining into our bedroom. The moon was almost full and there were stars in the sky. It must have been over two weeks since I last saw the moon and then it was a sliver over the lake. All this time, behind the clouds and rain, the moon has been glowing.

This morning we woke up to a clear blue sky, no clouds, no rain, no thunder. It feels like the beginning of summer all over again.

Rainy Day Activity

Yesterday the weather was totally depressing--cold and rainy all day--I never got out of my robe or out of the house.

Today, Jane and I were so desperate to do something other than play poker that we decided to drive some 50 minutes to Portland in order to buy fish at Browne Trading Company. We did pick up three gorgeous loupe de mer and some baby artichokes for dinner tonight.

We had a yen for fried oysters so we went to Gilbert's Chowder House and sat at the counter opposite the bar. Food didn't make it but I thought the bar was kitschy.


I'm praying the sun comes out tomorrow.

A Typical Night in Otisfield, Maine

We celebrated Jacob's 28th birthday in fine style on the screened-in porch. His everloving Mom made him his favorite pasta, fettucine in cream sauce with prosciutto and peas--a proven artery clogger. His sister provided the decorations including the traditional pinata filled with candy, always a hit with Steve. His father, known far and wide as the Grillmeister--cooked the lamb chops to perfection. And yours truly made the sides--chard from the garden sauteed with hot pepper, garlic and anchovies and spicy, Indian chick peas. And let's not forget dessert, a homemade blueberry shortcake that looked kind of weird but tasted just fine.

A Rant

I live in a tropical rain forest but without the heat. Or maybe it's the Pacific Northwest or maybe its a mushroom factory in Kennett Square because it sure smells like it. It hasn't stopped raining for six days. The sheets are clammy; the towels never dry; I can't hang the wash. I go to bed with the rain and wake up to the rain. I don't believe it will ever stop.

Today we had about 2 hours of sun in the afternoon. I quickly threw on my sneakers and went out for a run before the next round of storms. Thank goodness I could avoid my daily trip to the gym where some punky and very angry 20 year old always seems to come when I am there and who insists on playing his own music--a disc of heinous rap music, the lyrics of which largely consist of fuck you, fuck you, fuck you interspersed with motherfucker all at full blast of course. I've asked him to turn the volume down or wait until I leave, but to no avail. He clearly thinks I am some annoying old bag and I can go fuck myself. Grrr.

You Can Never be Too Thin or Good Looking

Check out this truly bizarre article in today's Wall Street Journal.

The premise is that because Obama eats well, exercises regularly and is damm cool looking as a result he could make voters--especially slovenly, overweight and hopelessly out of shape voters i.e. the majority--uncomfortable and ultimately spell trouble for him at the polls. It will be interesting to see how the Republican attack dogs, the true axis of evil, twist this around.

Yet Another Reason to Vote for Obama

Today's Wall Street Journal has a really disturbing article about the current administration's efforts to draft regulations that would characterize birth-control pills and intrauterine devices as abortion because they work by preventing fertilized eggs from implanting in the uterus.

According to the WSJ, although many Congressional Democrats, including Barack Obama, have signed "letters of protest blistering the proposal," John McCain has "declined to comment."

Somehow I don't expect to hear from him soon on this issue.

A Philadelphia Story

I'm heading back north to Maine this afternoon (yippee!!) but not before making several stops at local purveyors to stock up on all those goodies not readily available in Otisfield, Maine.

I grab my reusable bags--no paper or plastic for me--and my large, red shopping cart and head out this morning. First stop, Metropolitan Bakery where I purchase all the available pumpernickel bread among other things. Then head across the square to DiBruno's, where I spend a large amount of money on everything that Steve loves--cheese, salami and various antipasti. Last but least, I trek down to the Reading Terminal Market to buy Jersey tomatoes and corn for tonight's dinner in Maine.

The market is bustling as always with a diverse crowd of shoppers and eaters. Before beginning my shopping, I sit down to eat my lunch across from a young Asian girl furiously typing on her computer. In front of me is a table full of nuns eating pizza and soda and having a great time. And these are no modern nuns wearing sensible shoes and tailored shirtdresses. No, these ladies are dressed in burka-like black flowing robes to the floor and full black or white wimples that show not one wisp of hair. Each ensemble is acessorized by a heavy crucifix on the front of the dress and another one hanging down from the waist. The effect is quite medieval. What's really spooky is that they are all young, early 20's at most, with clear white skin and rosy cheeks.

I ask one of them where they are from thinking perhaps they are here for some kind of convention or retreat. "We're from upstate New York," she says. "We're on vacation for a day," she adds and hands me a devotion card with a picture of a bleeding heart surrounded by a crown of thorns on the front and a prayer printed on the back. "This is what we pray every day," she says with a big smile on her face. "Would you like it?" How can I refuse.

Un Notte alla Citta con mia Figlia

I'm back on Spruce for a few days where's it's hot and sultry and I'm alone in my dark and chilly air conditioned apartment. I venture out to go the gym, of course, and to hang out whenever I can with my darling daughter, the real reason I came home. Last night, she hosted a BBQ at her little house so that everyone could see the ENORMOUS sycamore tree which took up most of her backyard and which blew over in a storm earlier this week. It now lies dramatically across several neighbor's backyards, a monument to the power of Mother Nature even in the heart of the city.

It was a beautiful night and Miss Sweet Pea Nourishment set out a lovely spread on her now shadeless deck--fresh watermelon and mint juice to mix with vodka or rum, savory crostini and yummy dips with home made pita chips. Later there were grilled burgers and portabellos with a selection of salads but I never made it that far. I skipped right to dessert--a luscious fruit tart, a juicy berry pie and chocolate mint brownies all accompanied by mint flavored whipped cream.

Such a hostess. My mom would be proud.

What is Wrong With this Picture?

Check out the front page of the NY Times today. Absolutely ridiculous, truly shameful.

Two stories get equal billing on the front page--a "lifestyle" story about anxious parents visiting their kids at summer camp and another which highlights how the Pentagon has penalized a photographer who published photos of dead soldiers on his website. Guess what article featured a large color photo above the fold?

Will I Ever Learn Italian?

Now that the weather has turned damp and dismal, I am throwing all my energies into my nascent Italian studies. A girl has got to do something when you can't run on the road or play tennis.

I've been listening to tapes and obediently answering the question, "How do you say...?" courtesy of the Michel Thomas method. Highly boring but at least I get an hour of hearing the language. Then when I go to the gym, I listen to Italian pop on my IPod. The only problem is I have to concentrate so much on deciphering the lyrics, I lose track of what I'm doing with the weights--potentially dangerous!

Last but not least, I have begun reading one of the books that Nicoletta, my Italian tutor in Rome, recommended. This is a truly humiliating experience. It takes me literally over one hour to read about 10 pages of what is probably a young adult book since I have to look up so many words. How many I will remember? Chissa ma io provo, io provo.

Man's Best Friend

I am not a dog lover and my husband is positively phobic. But in Maine we have dogs or shall I say the dogs have us.

This weekend, the Tolls are in Colorado so DD and Louie are in residence here on the deck or, once it began to rain, in my house. DD is fairly independent but Louie is a complete sissy. Once the thunder starts to roll, he scratches at the screen door, begging to be let in. He even follows me from room to room as I close the windows. I don't let him in my bedroom--he stinks!--but he sits patiently outside the door waiting until I finish working at my desk. If I'm in the kitchen, he parks himself in the middle of the floor only moving when I need to open the refrigerator or the dishwasher.

This is the closest I've ever come to owning a dog and it's certainly the closest I ever want to come. When I was young, my brother and I periodically asked for a dog but the answer from my parents was always no. Supposedly dogs would make noise and frighten patients in my father's office but, who knows, maybe my mom and dad were afraid of dogs. Like Steve.

Our Annual Fry Feast

Tonight in lieu of eating in, Steve and I made our annual pilgrimage to The Lost Gull, our local destination for all things coated and deep fried. We ordered two fried clam dinners, one with french fries and one with onion rings accompanied, of course, by tangy tartar sauce and fresh cole slaw. We ate outside at the picnic tables accompanied by swarms of mosquitoes feasting on our ankles. Aaah, the taste of fry still lingers on the palate only to be offset by two organic dates from Oasis Date Gardens.

Down in the Dirt

Jane has left me in charge of the garden. Foolish woman. Being a good friend, I went out there tonight to check it out. As directed, I looked for bugs on the eggplant leaves. I saw nothing I was willing to squash between my fingers as instructed by Jane before she left. Instead, there were swarms of mosquitoes feasting on my arms and legs. I inspected the fava bean plants. The flowers are all turning black. Not a good sign, I think, but I have no idea what to do about it. Everything else looked fine, thank god. Let's hope nothing dies before she comes back.

On the Road

Yesterday I took the Coon Road/Scribner Hill walk. It's about seven miles first through the woods and then over a winding, hilly road with not much traffic. It was a beautiful day and I was by myself so I took my camera for company. Here's some of what I saw.

Aaaaaah

Is there anything sweeter than slipping between the clean, cool sheets of a freshly made bed especially when you are completely exhausted from a full day of activity. And even better is to lay in that bed on the edge of sleep and look out through the trees to a bright half moon beating a path of silver on the lake.

And 15 minutes later...

The rain and wind came turning the lake into an angry ocean. I had a ringside view of spectacular lightening piercing the sky followed by bursts of thunder which shook the house and caused Louie to cower under the table. The only thing missing was hail and maybe we'll get that later with the next round of storms. Maine weather.

Pranzo Italiano

It's too hot to play tennis so instead we had a late and leisurely lunch outside in the woods. The menu: freshly picked arugala and radishes from Jane's garden, bufalo mozzarella and prosciutto from Hannafords (yes!), sliced avocado, olio di olivo da Italia and all of it washed down by a delightfully refreshing Reisling. Oh, yes and dessert--sweet canteloupe and cherries. Perfectto!

After all these years. . .

The man can still party.

What is so special about Fourth of July in Maine? It's not the weather which was picture perfect throughout the weekend. It's not the setting which was particularly beautiful especially when viewed at sunset on the dock. It's not the food which was abundant as always and particularly delicious this year. But, as always, it's the people--family and friends like family, young and old--who just enjoy being together whether it's in the kitchen, on the tennis court, on the lake or just relaxing on the deck, reading the papers and talking, talking, talking.

Maine Morning

I love sitting outside on the deck in the morning nursing my diet coke and reading the papers before every one gets up and the day really starts. The lake is quiet and still, no boats out yet pulling skiers or tubes full of laughing kids. I've got lots to do today in preparation for tonight's big dinner but right now it feels so a good just to be here alone overlooking the water, loving the breeze and, most of all, the silence.

The Real Thing

July 1, the real start of summer. There's no turning back now. Finally, the sun has come out and today and yesterday have been filled with tennis (7 sets in one day for Ms. Ramboette), running and just chilling on the porch while looking up at the trees full of golden light or out to the acres of diamonds dancing on the lake. Also not to be missed a gorgeous blue, red and purple sunset enjoyed with a glass of wine all alone on the dock. Tucked in my bed late at night, I even saw a starry sky, something I thought I'd never see again after all the rain. Now it's on to the 4th. . .

Maine Weather

It’s grey and wet and misty. Water everywhere. I go to sleep to the sound of rain on the deck and wake up to absolute stillness and a view of low clouds over the lake smudging the boundary between the sky and the water. Where has summer gone? No more tennis or runs down the road. It’s cold and damp in the house. My sheets are clammy and the towels never seem to dry. I’m wearing socks and shoes, not flipflops, a heavy sweatshirt and long pants. I feel like eating soup or even stew. Maybe I’ll even make a fire during the day. Maine weather.

There's a lot of water under this bridge!

Happy anniversary to the happy couple. Would you believe it's been 39 years of. . . well, you fill in the blank...the possibilities are truly limitless.

We celebrated with ice cream cones at Pears. We both had Maine Birch Bark--vanilla with chocolate chips, caramel swirl and, last but not least, cashew chunks coated with white chocolate. Quite tasty.

There is something to be said for hanging in there.

Looking Ahead

Sometimes, in fact a lot times lately, I get the sense that I am living in a era of massive change in the way we as Americans live and think. Yes, it's scary--the potential for wrong turns or disastrous decisions is huge--but it's really exciting to think that at age 61 I can still be a witness and even a participant.

Of course, it helps to have a daughter who's right out there on the cutting edge, building a business and a lifestyle that's based on a new paradigm that makes so much more sense. Despite the steady flow of bad news that rains down on us, I am still hopeful about the future when I look at the life and community that she and her friends are actively creating for themselves.

Summer Solstice, continued

The most beautiful day of the year.