So here we are back in Rome. Unfortunately, we are not at Vicolo del Cedro 12--it's been rented for a year--but we are comfortably ensconced at the St. George's Hotel on Via Giulia, a beautiful cobblestoned street across the river from Trastevere. After an afternoon nap or at least an attempt to nap on my part, we head out to pound the pavements and, most importantly, get our first glass of prosecco at our favorite wine bar, Ferrara, on Piazza Trilussa. Fulvia, our favorite bar maid, isn't there but it doesn't matter. We are here and feeling wonderful.
We take a sentimental walk past our old house--the shutters are open and the lights are on--and then walk around the corner for dinner at Quirino on Vicolo della Scala in Trastevere. The owner recognizes us and the pasta is perfectly cooked--al dente!
How wonderful to be back in Rome.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
On to Italy. . .
. . .but first a stop off at my 45th high school reunion last night. Unlike the 40th which was held out in King of Prussia, miles and miles from center city and Yeadon, this one was downtown at the Moshulu so I had no excuse to bag it. And, unlike the 40th which was our first reunion in 30 years so full of suprises--I swear I didn't recognize half the people there--last night's party was pretty low key and not so well attended. Maybe, it's the times, maybe it's our age, but people seemed very relaxed and genuinely glad to see each other. It's like everyone was thinking, "Whoa, we're still here, we don't look bad, life goes on."
The best part for me was the way some classmates remembered my parents. Joan Cantor remembered my mom as "the first modern woman" and thought of her as a role model. I felt flattered when she said that since I always thought my mom was very special. I don't even think my mom was back at school or working when I was in high school. Joan must have thought that because, unlike so many of my friends' mothers, my mom was slim and good looking and interested in things other than housekeeping.
Lee Malit, himself now a doctor, said he always considered my dad the ideal of what a doctor should be--totally professional, a good mix of the compassionate and the competent. He must not have been alone since so many of my friends and their families were patients of my dad.
When I was growing up in Yeadon, I often berated my parents for making what I considered the wrong choice in not settling somewhere more upscale and suburban. Cheltenham or Lower Merion, where most of my camp friends came from, seemed the ideal place to live. I couldn't wait to get of Yeadon once I graduated and boldly chose a college where I was sure my true intellectual nature would finally be appreciated. Once I was married, my parents, too, moved out and left Yeadon behind with no regrets as far as I could tell.
I keep saying that soon I'm going to take a drive out there, walk down my block, stroll past my friends' houses, my old elementary school, the high school, but I haven't been to Yeadon in 15 years. Maybe I should ride the 13 trolley again and walk all the way up Church Lane to our house, then knock on the door and ask to look around.
I don't think so. It's safer in my dreams.
The best part for me was the way some classmates remembered my parents. Joan Cantor remembered my mom as "the first modern woman" and thought of her as a role model. I felt flattered when she said that since I always thought my mom was very special. I don't even think my mom was back at school or working when I was in high school. Joan must have thought that because, unlike so many of my friends' mothers, my mom was slim and good looking and interested in things other than housekeeping.
Lee Malit, himself now a doctor, said he always considered my dad the ideal of what a doctor should be--totally professional, a good mix of the compassionate and the competent. He must not have been alone since so many of my friends and their families were patients of my dad.
When I was growing up in Yeadon, I often berated my parents for making what I considered the wrong choice in not settling somewhere more upscale and suburban. Cheltenham or Lower Merion, where most of my camp friends came from, seemed the ideal place to live. I couldn't wait to get of Yeadon once I graduated and boldly chose a college where I was sure my true intellectual nature would finally be appreciated. Once I was married, my parents, too, moved out and left Yeadon behind with no regrets as far as I could tell.
I keep saying that soon I'm going to take a drive out there, walk down my block, stroll past my friends' houses, my old elementary school, the high school, but I haven't been to Yeadon in 15 years. Maybe I should ride the 13 trolley again and walk all the way up Church Lane to our house, then knock on the door and ask to look around.
I don't think so. It's safer in my dreams.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Sick In Bed
I'm sick with a classic head cold of major proportions--head weighs about 50 pounds minimum; nose keeps flowing; cough sounds like a barking dog. I hate being sick now when you have to be both nurse and patient. It used to be almost fun when I was a kid and I had my mother to take care of me. Bring me orange juice and buttered toast in bed, let me drink ginger ale in the afternoon, cool me down with a sponge bath. The TV from their bedroom would get rolled into my room and I was free to watch TV all day--Queen for a Day, The Price is Right and other harmless inanities. When I had the measles and my eyes were affected, she read to me every afternoon--Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer, I remember.
I haven't been able to read the last few days which for me is quite unusual. Just can't seem to concentrate. Instead I've been surfing the TV relentlessly, watching terrible movies and even more terrible TV shows. Last night I wound up on The Learning Channel and watched two really nasty people make fun of a really sweet woman all in the name of updating her style. I switched channels when I saw the promos for the next two programs--I Didn't Know I was Pregnant! and, I kid you not, a reality show about dwarfs or little people.
I haven't been able to read the last few days which for me is quite unusual. Just can't seem to concentrate. Instead I've been surfing the TV relentlessly, watching terrible movies and even more terrible TV shows. Last night I wound up on The Learning Channel and watched two really nasty people make fun of a really sweet woman all in the name of updating her style. I switched channels when I saw the promos for the next two programs--I Didn't Know I was Pregnant! and, I kid you not, a reality show about dwarfs or little people.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Outrage
At last, some outrage over the torture memos. I know it's long but this post from Andrew Sullivan is really worth reading.
And did you know that Jay Bybee, one of the primary legal minds responsible for these memos, is now a federal judge, appointed by Bush, of course, but approved by Congress. What a chilling thought.
And did you know that Jay Bybee, one of the primary legal minds responsible for these memos, is now a federal judge, appointed by Bush, of course, but approved by Congress. What a chilling thought.
The End of An Era
Today I am bidding goodby to the last vestiges of my working woman/executive director wardrobe. Bundled in a bag, waiting to be picked up are a choice selection of silk blouses all featuring bows that needed to be carefully tied, fancy designer labels and, of course, the requisite shoulder pads. Nestled in the bag as well are a random selection of skirts, pants and jackets all dating from the 80's and early 90's, my era of power dressing.
Those were the days when every morning I threw on my office uniform consisting of a sharply tailored suit--short skirt, broad shouldered jacket, jewel-toned silk shirt and always black tights and heels. Those days are long gone and over the years, I've quietly de-accessioned a large proportion of my working woman wardrobe. (Although I still have bags of opaque black stockings stashed at the bottom of a closet. No chance of ever running out of that still essential item.) But for some reason, I just wasn't ready to say goodby to those particular blouses. Their utter impracticality (brilliantly colored silks that demanded to be dry cleaned) and inappropriateness to my current way of life (not suitable for wearing to the gym or hiking up a mountain) were part of their charm. And, I admit, there was a tiny voice in the back of my head that said, "Maybe, just maybe, you might just want to wear them again."
Those were the days when every morning I threw on my office uniform consisting of a sharply tailored suit--short skirt, broad shouldered jacket, jewel-toned silk shirt and always black tights and heels. Those days are long gone and over the years, I've quietly de-accessioned a large proportion of my working woman wardrobe. (Although I still have bags of opaque black stockings stashed at the bottom of a closet. No chance of ever running out of that still essential item.) But for some reason, I just wasn't ready to say goodby to those particular blouses. Their utter impracticality (brilliantly colored silks that demanded to be dry cleaned) and inappropriateness to my current way of life (not suitable for wearing to the gym or hiking up a mountain) were part of their charm. And, I admit, there was a tiny voice in the back of my head that said, "Maybe, just maybe, you might just want to wear them again."
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter Dinner
I don't think I ever celebrated Easter dinner before. Well, how would I? I'm Jewish and baked ham has never appeared on any menu I've ever experienced. Can't say I've missed it. But tonight we were invited to the Pignataro's, Liz's future in-laws, for dinner and if this is Easter dinner let us please have more of these in the future.
Alphonse's menu: Flatbread with clams and potatoes; Ravioli stuffed with roasted eggplant and goat cheese in a fabulous tomato sauce; halibut with a blueberry sauce (memo to self: must recreate this in Maine); turnip and parsnip puree (ambrosia!), roasted root vegetables, roast pork shoulder brined in maple syrup; asparagus; poached pears and berry sauce; chocolate cake layered with whip cream and almonds. We leave the table groaning and fully sated.
How lucky are we that Liz is marrying Giuliano. Not only to we get a project manager for a son-in-law but our family dinners are enriched in every sense of the word by Alphonse's desserts and Anita's good humor.
Alphonse's menu: Flatbread with clams and potatoes; Ravioli stuffed with roasted eggplant and goat cheese in a fabulous tomato sauce; halibut with a blueberry sauce (memo to self: must recreate this in Maine); turnip and parsnip puree (ambrosia!), roasted root vegetables, roast pork shoulder brined in maple syrup; asparagus; poached pears and berry sauce; chocolate cake layered with whip cream and almonds. We leave the table groaning and fully sated.
How lucky are we that Liz is marrying Giuliano. Not only to we get a project manager for a son-in-law but our family dinners are enriched in every sense of the word by Alphonse's desserts and Anita's good humor.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Carp in the Bathtub
As a postscript to Liz's latest post, I can add that most of my childhood memories of Passover are definitely linked to food. For example, the dry-as-a-bone turkey stuffed with an equally heinous, cardboard-like farfel mixture served at my Aunt Roz's seder. No comparison with the tender and flavorful brisket with winey gravy featured at my mom's house. (Despite being a committed vegetarian, I am dutifully serving the same brisket at our seder. If I didn't, I think Steve would refuse to come! BTW, his mother always served beef fillet, asparagus boiled to within a inch of its life and then sherbet for dessert. Josie did make the best ever chicken soup and the lightest matzo balls in the world but her "secret" ingredient I learned one year was baking soda, definitely not kosher for Passover.)
Then there was the time my mom and I actually made gefilte fish from scratch. No carp in the bathtub but we spent hours hand chopping the fish in a big, wide wooden bowl scarred from years of use that once belonged to her mother. We topped off the afternoon by nearly asphyxiating ourselves by grinding horseradish root in the kitchen. Choking and wheezing from the fumes, we moved the entire operation outside to the porch. Needless to say, the whole gefilte fish/horseradish experiment in Passover authenticity was never and will never be repeated. I have a cousin who serves an gefilte fish terrine and claims it is fabulous but I think the very concept is an oxymoron.
Then there was the time my mom and I actually made gefilte fish from scratch. No carp in the bathtub but we spent hours hand chopping the fish in a big, wide wooden bowl scarred from years of use that once belonged to her mother. We topped off the afternoon by nearly asphyxiating ourselves by grinding horseradish root in the kitchen. Choking and wheezing from the fumes, we moved the entire operation outside to the porch. Needless to say, the whole gefilte fish/horseradish experiment in Passover authenticity was never and will never be repeated. I have a cousin who serves an gefilte fish terrine and claims it is fabulous but I think the very concept is an oxymoron.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Mission Accomplished
Thanks to Liz, of course, who had final edit, to Joan Shepp, buy local not Barney's, and to Tuesday Gordon, incredible stylist and even more wonderful person. This time, good vibes all around.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I Am On a Mission
My assignment this April: Find a dress for Liz's wedding. So...Tuesday, Liz and I go up to NYC together and spend a few hours at Barney's looking for a dress for me. No good. Everything looks too Mother of the Bride-ish (Hey, I am the Mother of the Bride but I'm still hip and happening, I hope) or something Demi Moore might wear. In other words, too sexy and definitely inappropriate. Plus salesgirls are just plain bitchy. Bad vibes all around.
I've scoured most of the stores in Philly. First stop--Boyd's where all the salesgirls are very curvacious Russian ladies with thick accents and even thicker makeup. I say I'm looking for something for a summer wedding in the woods and they look at me pitifully. Does that mean no caviar? No go at Knit Wit and Plage Tahiti unless I want to pretend I'm 20 something with lots of uplift and a penchant to bare all.
Most depressing is Sophy Curson. I shopped there last years and years ago with my mother. It's where I bought my first and only prom dress, a full length fantasy of pink lace. (BTW, I never did make it to my senior prom, a narcissistic injury I have from which I have never recovered. I wore the dress to my cousin Sue's wedding where I first met my husband at the tender age of 17. But that's a whole other story.) Now it's a fading temple to women in their 60's and 70's. I don't think you're allowed in unless your hair is cut and sprayed like a army helmet and you're wearing a St. John's suit and Ferragamo flats. I was definitely out of place in my jeans and T shirt but I thought I would give it a try for old time's sake. Bad idea. Everything was satin with ruffles and a matching jacket and wrapped in plastic. How long can this place last, I wonder.
To be continued...
I've scoured most of the stores in Philly. First stop--Boyd's where all the salesgirls are very curvacious Russian ladies with thick accents and even thicker makeup. I say I'm looking for something for a summer wedding in the woods and they look at me pitifully. Does that mean no caviar? No go at Knit Wit and Plage Tahiti unless I want to pretend I'm 20 something with lots of uplift and a penchant to bare all.
Most depressing is Sophy Curson. I shopped there last years and years ago with my mother. It's where I bought my first and only prom dress, a full length fantasy of pink lace. (BTW, I never did make it to my senior prom, a narcissistic injury I have from which I have never recovered. I wore the dress to my cousin Sue's wedding where I first met my husband at the tender age of 17. But that's a whole other story.) Now it's a fading temple to women in their 60's and 70's. I don't think you're allowed in unless your hair is cut and sprayed like a army helmet and you're wearing a St. John's suit and Ferragamo flats. I was definitely out of place in my jeans and T shirt but I thought I would give it a try for old time's sake. Bad idea. Everything was satin with ruffles and a matching jacket and wrapped in plastic. How long can this place last, I wonder.
To be continued...
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