Love and Happiness

Here I am in New Orleans. Eating oysters--raw, grilled and fried. Listening to music. Vibing at Jazz Fest. It is definitely strange being here without Steve, without the party bus and all the attendant hoopla but it's OK all the same. I've hung out in the Blues tent, grooved to gospel, had a lot of fried food including a soft shell crab po boy one day and a stuffed artichoke the next. The highlight of the weekend was definitely the Reverend Al Green, looking a little older and a little heavier, maybe moving a little slower but still singing ever so sweetly all those old songs.

My Day in Books

I am having a weird day.  Part of the weirdness is the weather.  It's freezing.  A few days ago I had all the windows open and the apartment was hot from the sun streaming in all afternoon.  Today, I am walking around inside, dressed in a fleece, trying to stay warm.  This weather doesn't help my mood.  It's a good day to stay inside, crawl back into bed and feel sad.  I've resisted the urge for the most part.  I got myself to the gym early in the morning but then the rest of the day loomed in front of me. I had no meetings, no set agenda to follow.   Too miserable out to take a walk or go for a run.  Too depressing to go the movies by myself.  Consumer therapy was not to be considered:  Shopping seemed a joyless activity.  So instead I decided to spend the day reading.  Yes,  that is something I do more often than not but this time I had a plan.  I decided to take a tour of all the places to read in my apartment, and at each location to read something different. 

First off, the kitchen counter where I propped the latest issue of the New York Review of Books while I ate my lunch.  I skimmed through a few reviews but nothing grabbed me.   Next, I stretched out on the futon in my study and read from start to finish a thin volume of poetry, "What the Living Do," by Maria Howe.  It was Liz's copy and I read her notes too.  The poems are all about loss but reading them didn't make me sad.  I knew where they were going.  Then I went downstairs and settled on the sofa in the den and read some essays in "Pulphead" by John Jeremiah Sullivan.  I read essays about Axl Rose and Michael Jackson and a piece about reality TV.  Comic relief.  Cold air leaked through the windows and I wrapped myself in a blanket to keep away the draft.  I moved next to the velvet upholstered sofa in the living room, propped myself on pillows and read a chapter of "Light Years" by James Salter which a friend had just given to me to read.  I'm not sure if I'm going to like it but I feel bound to finish.

Now it's time to get up, get dressed and go out for dinner and conversation with a friend.  But I already know what I am going to do when I get home:  Get in bed and read a book before I turn out the light and go to sleep.

The Bathroom Muse

While trawling the internet--something I do much too often--I came across this delightful little essay, "The Bathroom Muse" in the New York Review of Books blog.  It  made me think back to the bathrooms of my past.  In my childhood home, my mom kept a well thumbed copy of "Pride and Prejudice" on the hamper in the bathroom connected to her and my dad's bedroom.  It was her all time favorite book.  Somehow I doubt my father took advantage of its placement there. 

I don't remember reading in the hallway bathroom that my brother and I used at the end of the hall.  Mostly I remember retreating there to furtively smoke cigarettes.  I'd sit on the toilet and blow smoke out the window in the vain hope that no one would smell the evidence of my transgression.  The window looked out over the alley behind our house.  I could stare at the windows of the Seltzer family who lived across the way and imagine what was going on inside or watch the boys in the alley playing stick ball.   Maybe that's where I developed my penchant for staring out of windows.  One of my favorite activities is to sit in the window seat in my kitchen or bedroom or study.  Usually I have something to read on my lap but every now and then I take a break and look out to see what's going on outside, check the sky, watch the traffic.  It's never boring.

Positive Transformation

My horoscope today:

You may be feeling a strong urge to express something that you have known for a while but were too scared to share. Now, however, your emotions are being pulled into the open by circumstances beyond your control, encouraging you to reveal previously hidden elements of your life. You are on the edge of making a major breakthrough, even if your current direction is unclear. Don't resist; today's struggles are a part of your positive transformation.
 
 I especially like the part about positive transformation.  That's a process I am very consciously embarked on--how to reconcile all the little bits and pieces of my past and present and hopefully future lives into one cohesive whole.  Yesterday I spent an hour on the phone talking to the woman who was my very best friend in college.  Thanks to the internet, we found each other again after 40 years of no communication at all.  After college, she moved into a different life.  And it didn't help that she didn't like Steve at all when they met.  Yesterday, she confessed that she was sure I would be divorced in two years! 

Her life has been completely transformed from when we were together as college students at Brandeis, class of 1968.  I tried to match my image of her with how she described her life since we parted--living somewhere in northern California in a house with no electricity, no phone, days spent home schooling four children, doing lots of physical labor.  A very dramatic transformation.

It's hard to give a sense of all we've been through and who we have become in just an hour's phone conversation.  Mostly we traded memories, told stories about our four years together at school.  She said she always remembered me sitting in bed with a book in my lap.  Some things never change.

Passover Weekend

This weekend we kicked off a new tradition--seder at the Billamoria/Kaufman residence.  The table was set by Jeelu.  The service was led by Elliott; the food prepared by just about everybody.  It was a wonderful evening.


On Sunday morning, we all headed to the sunny apartment in Brooklyn Heights where Aaron and Asha have set up house.  They served us an amazing brunch including enough matzo brei to feed an army.

And, yes, Wilbur, that nice Jewish dog, was there for both events. He absolutely loves gefilte fish.

Cannonballs

Today I spent the afternoon making matzo ball soup for tomorrow's seder.  Soup was easy.  Matzo balls not so sure about.  I think one must have years of experience to make the light and fluffy balls pictured on the can of matzo meal.  This was only the second time that I attempted to make them and I don't think I have gotten the touch right.  I followed the directions diligently but they are definitely sinkers or, as they are affectionately known in my family, cannonballs--headed with a solid oomph to the bottom of your stomach.

Although I remember my mother's cooking at Passover as particularly delicious, if truth be told her matzo balls were never a sure thing.  There was always a good chance that cannonballs not floaters would dominate.  I guess I'm following the family tradition.

Update: This morning, I looked again at those lumpy balls sitting in my refrigerator and thought there is not way I can serve these leaden clunkers tonight.  So. . . I tossed them out and started over.  I am praying for floaters this time. 

Tonight

An article today in the New York Times talked about all the Russian billionaires that are buying up New York real estate--fantastic multi million dollar apartments paid for in cash that they don't even live in.  A broker characterized these buyers as people "who roll around town in customized Rolls Royces where the doors open at the opposite hinge to allow women to step out easier in heels."  I'm trying to wrap my head around that concept--cars designed specifically for women who wear 5 inch stilettos, women who  must wear 5 inch stilettos or who are banished to the back of the bus, men who refuse to be seen with women who don't wear 5 inch stilettos.  You get my drift. 

I am going to New York this Friday to celebrate Passover with my friends.  None of us will be we wearing 5 inch stilettos.  I am making vegetarian matzo ball soup, an oxymoron.   I live in a different world than those Russian plutocrats and their girlfriends.  Who lives in that world, I wonder.

Tonight I went to dinner with an old friend of Steve's.  He's a friend of mine, too, which I really appreciate.  Sitting near us was a young woman who was absolutely beautiful, actually she was  breathtaking.  She had long dark hair, almond shaped eyes, coffee colored skin.  She wore a simple tank top and a long skirt. She had on a beaded necklace of many colors.  I couldn't see if she was wearing 5 inch stilettos.  Across from her was a much older man, dressed very conservatively in a blue blazer, khaki pants, a pale pink shirt and a tie.  He was the oldest man in the room with the most beautiful woman in the room. What was their story, I wondered?  Did he know what a prize he had before him? Did he have a car with the doors that opened at the opposite hinge?