Depression Cooking with Clara...and My Dad

Recently I came across the videos of this wonderful 93-year-old grandmother, Clara Canucciari.  Her grandson is a film maker and he has put together these documentary videos, which show Clara teaching us recipes from the Depression.   Sprinkled with her simple and lovely stories of slices of life during that time (in one episode, she speaks of having to leave school because she didn't have stockings), she provides a hopeful picture of the life lead during those lean times. 

We can all learn lessons of self-preservation and how families thrived from those times as they apply to now.  Plus, Ms. Clara's recipes are really quite easy and delicious.  There are a lot of potatoes and pasta and legumes, and sometimes all combined in the same dish.  Rib-stickin' stuff.  Food that stays with you.  Every culture has some type of cuisine that meets that criterion.  It has to do with creativity, hard work and hopefulness.

I am the daughter of parents who lived through and during the Depression.  My mother less so, as her age puts her entering this world at the end of the Depression.  My father, born in 1907, was a real product of the times of Prohibition, Depression and life on the Lower East Side of New York City in the first part of the 20th Century.  My siblings and I always discussed at least getting my dad on tape telling his stories.  The interesting thing about his stories is that until he was in his later years, starting in his 80s, he only gave us little snippets of his life.

"$1.50 for a frankfurter!  What the H....!  When I was your a

ge, we used to go down to Nathan's at Coney Island and get a frankfurter and a root beer for a nickel."  

"What the H.... is this...$20 for a pair of dungarees (jeans, and that was during the mid-70s)?  Here's $5.00."  

I found out that I used too much toilet paper (we got detailed instruction on how to take one sheet and fold it).  I know, too much information.

We were schooled that showers were only to last three minutes, and no more.  I am an expert at taking the fastest shower in the world, still.  My college roommate used to ask how I got all the shampoo out of my hair in that short amount of time.  But like a rat who is waiting for the shock at the end of the experiment, my siblings and I learned to finesse the art of the fastest shower because, at the end of three minutes, my dad would shut the hot water off.  How's that for motivation?

My mom talks about "sleeping sufficience," which means, to her, sleeping foot to head, and with five people in one bed, it meant someone fell out of bed at some point. 

Like my good friend Bob said the other day about all the stories we share (in our case, about our time at Manhattanville):  "You can't write this stuff."  My parents have and had some amazing stories.  Funny stories.  Touching stories.  Of family and laughter and sorrow and somehow, survival.

As Dad neared his 90s, he opened up even more with his stories.  Since my siblings and I felt he wasn't going to be with us too much longer, we talked a lot about getting his stories on tape.  We never got there, as he left us at the age of 92 in 2000.  But before that, he shared anecdotes I had never heard before.  And yes, we need to write a book.  

Here is a taste of the stories that my dad told me, not too long ago.  A lot of policemen are involved in these stories.  I think (okay, I know) that some of the things my family did were just a little bit illegal in those days.  But I like to think all of those policemen really had a good time with my family...

They lived on Delancey Street, all 10 of them:  Grandma, Grandpa, Dad (the eldest), and his six siblings.  During the winters, they would have to chop ice off the floor of the tenement they all lived in.  

My dad and grandpa owned a speakeasy and ran bootleg whiskey during Prohibition.  My dad used to hide the whiskey under a blanket in his car (one of those large black affairs with big windows and a running board).  One time, a cop (gotta call them "cops") suspected there was something amiss under that blanket and chased my dad on foot, running after my dad's car (which, as you can imagine, reached a top speed of 25mph) and jumping on the running board.  Another time, my dad had a batch of whiskey for the speakeasy (located in the Bowery).  He asked Grandpa where he should put the whiskey...there was a cop there and he chased my dad up the stairs and they jumped from building to building.  My dad outran him.

Another cop was named Chew Tobacc'a Joe.  He ran the streets of the Lower East Side and kept order by hitting the bums on the soles of their feet with his nightstick, to wake them up.

My poor Aunt Ruthie was stopped by another police officer who had been engaged to give her a hard time:  one of my father's and my Uncle Leo's practical jokes.  Although she had the family reputation as the best driver, I don't think she ever drove again after that.

In the midst of/after all the illicit and fun activity, though, my dad worked at whatever he could get.  All his life.  During those early days, though, in addition to being a hansom cab driver in Central Park, fixing automobiles in the Bronx, and other odd jobs, my dad was also a participant in the WPA.  He helped build Laguardia Airport.

With the mettle of their souls and strength of their bodies, they built not only the city but their characters.  Not only the city, but the country (see the photographs of Walker Evans, Dorothea Lange and the other WPA photographers).  

When President Obama talks about the fact that "We are not quitters," I believe he is looking at the big picture.  There isn't one of us on the planet that is programmed to be a quitter. Everyone of us has the DNA to go forward and create from seemingly nothing.  If we are here on the planet now, we are all the product of someone who had to survive.  We ain't quitters.  Never have been.  And so we shouldn't start now.

My dad wrote me a lot of letters during the time I was in college (and since I was the first kid in our family to go to college, he was pretty darn proud), and in all of these letters, as well as in our phone conversations, his advice to me everytime was, "Keep on punching."  Use what you got to make something soul-satisfying.  Through Ms. Clara's cooking, and my dad's life, we learn a little something about the things that make us live.  Not just thrive...but live.  And keep on punching.

Whew

Yesterday was a rollercoaster of emotions.  

I was in relative obscurity at the venue for the Inauguration Brunch downtown.  It helps when you are generally recognized for your curly hair and your hairdo is nothing like that for once.  

Channel 4 stuck a camera and a microphone in my face and asked me "why would you come to a place like this to watch the inauguration?"  Well, let's see.  What do you mean, "a place like this?"  I looked around.  Um, there are people here for a common purpose?   

I told them I was there for the universal sense of community during a time such as this and that this was the most important inauguration in our lifetime.  WORD Radio also stuck a mic in my face and I have no bloody idea what they asked me or what I answered.  I was on the way out after joy, tears, jubilation, and a really good serving of grits.

What happened first is that Aretha Franklin sang "America the Beautiful" and that moved me to my first round of tears.  

Then the announcement that it was a bit past 12 noon and, even though Barack Obama had not yet been sworn in, he was now indeed the 44th President of the United States.  I lost it there too.

Then Obama was sworn in.  And they introduced him as the President. And I was rueing not honoring my original plan to buy waterproof mascara that morning.  Nor bring tissues.  Thank God for the napkin they gave me.  Well worn by the time I left.

When I originally arrived at the brunch venue, it was a grey day, freezing.  As I walked out the door right after the benediction (which was beautiful and also humorous) and WORD's mic, the sun was shining.  It was still freezing but I was warm.  Main Street was empty of any cars in that minute I crossed the street toward the Hyatt garage.  I was smiling.  We were finally home.

Yes We Can, Did, ARE!

OH HAPPY DAY! (and a little spiritual accompaniment...)

The love of God surrounds us, 

The power of God protects us, 

The presence of God watches over us

For where ever we are, God is,

For We Are One.

Dar Williams and Joshua Radin at The Handlebar

Saturday, January 31 (my birthday!) at 8:00!

Happy Birthday, Sandy!

That's a pic from my mom when she was 40, eating Cumberland Farms ice cream. Yum. Anyway, Sandy is 72 years young today. Happy Birthday, Mom!

I guess I am feeling a bit nostalgic today as I am listening to music from the '60s. One of my faves is "Like to Get to Know You." by Spanky and Our Gang. Do you LOVE these outfits?

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Check out the guy in the back with the groovy turtleneck. The magenta velvet jacket is something I also covet.

There were some outfits I had when I was a wee one that were almost as groovy. My mom had good taste. I remember having a hot pink and hot green striped mini dress with hot pink stockings (yes, stockings: little garter belt and all. Thank God for pantyhose's advent a few years later. Not that I wore those til the 80s.). And the baby blue go-go boots. I wore those proudly to Mrs Donovan's first grade class at PS 27. I was the coolest chick on the playground.

Well, thanks, Mom, for the cool clothes and the lessons and most of all, your love. Happy Birthday!

The Beach, The Park and Other Things

Sometimes I have a problem understanding native vernacular, as well as where I live in relation to other parts of my adopted state.

Folks 'round here, during the summer, go to "the beach." This has always baffled me, because, as a New Yorker, there were lots of different beaches. Jones Beach, Robert Moses, The Hamptons, Rockaway, Coney Island. You said, "I'm going to the Hamptons this weekend."

Here, "the beach" means any beach, I think. And then I need to ask which beach, because I just don't know. There's Myrtle Beach, Litchfield Beach, Folly Beach, and all kinds of beaches on the South Carolina coast, but you have to ask because that information is not offered.

So this Saturday, urged on and accompanied AND driven by my best friend Bill, we set off on a 45 degree morning to THE BEACH. We told people, though, that we were going to Charleston. Which we did. Dressed to the hilt in Nanuck clothing and making us look just like the Northeasterners we really are. Hoodies and jeans jackets and all manner of long sleeved attire.

We drove a lot around Isle of Palms and marveled at the homes. We had lunch, drove around downtown Charleston, and made our way to Folly Beach, where the above photo was taken. My drink is non alchoholic and my shoes are waterlogged. Just thought I'd let you know.

But so amazing. We live in South Carolina, in a part of the state that was freezing when we left, and landlocked. Three hours and change later, we are on a beach in 85 degree weather and I am digging my toes into wet sand and loving every second of it.

I just kept saying, "I need to see water." And my good buddy took me to water. He rocks. He so totally rocks!

We got back and then Zack took these two photos of the two "guys" in the house, Biggie (again, in his present size) and Elliot, who is our real nice guy. He's got some issues but he is a love (he's 8).

Le Chat Qui Mange

Now, we all like to eat.

Our dearly-departed Brigitte, a full-figured gal from the Bronx (much like her owner...), had, in her later years, forgotten that she'd had brekkie or din and "mehhhhhhhhhh"ed her way to largesse.

Biggie is another story.

He's only about 1.5 years old and already the size of Kansas. The photo above is about 5 months old. He's about 10 times that size now. He looks like he is ready to eat the stuffed bear. He may have.

He chases me all over the house letting me know of his displeasure surrounding my failure to feed him 24-7. Since he's missing a couple of parts, he can only squeak. By the way, those parts are flying over Denmark at 1,000 millimetres right now. (For more background on that, you will have to hear the song Zack and I created).

Since I refuse to indulge him a constant stream of free-range kibble, Biggie has been forced to become even more stealthy in his efforts to ensnare me.

Now he is hiding under my bed before I go to sleep. And then, an hour after I have begun dreaming of losing my shoe in the Hudson River whilst wearing crimson tulle, BAM!

Biggie jumps on top of me. Note that this feels the same as if someone dropped a large sack of free-range kibble on top of you. Oh, the lengths he will go to make his point, this one.

I am awakened and very, very unhappy. I can almost see his glee in the dark night but quash that by swiftly picking Biggie up and hauling him outside my bedroom door.

So I am really tired. I also have almost met my demise going down the stairs as he weaves between my legs as I descend. And this goes on all day. And now into the night.

Oh, and poor little Yoda...her bowl is also fair game, so she has to eat really quickly before the Behemoth is done with his bowl and on the prowl for more.

Squeaking all the way. By the way, he is gorgeous and we love him.

Five

This is me and my cuz when we were both five years old. We were secret agents.

He's clearly the better actor (left). I am not sure secret agents are supposed to be yelling anything (me, right).

Twelve

JMJ, my son is going to be turning 12 in ten days.

Let's go back there, shall we? Let's see if you can guess the year. I sure as heck ain't gonna give out that information without a tussle.

It's a cold and snowy after-school day in Yonkers. I am with my friend Janet and a girl from my class who just showed up at Fay Park, named Cathy. We are wearing winter coats and are singing the theme song from "Zoom":

Come on and zoom, zoom, zoom-a zoom!
We're gonna zoom-a, zoom-a, zoom-a zoom!
Everybody's movin' it, everybody's doin' it,
Everybody's havin'a ball, yeah!
So would you zoom, zoom, zoom-a zoom?
Come on and zoom-a zoom-a zoom-a zoom!

During those days, the crush of my life was a kid named Adam. I just thought he was an adonis. He was tall and lean and had a moppy head of curly black hair, swarthy skin, and a big nose. I worshipped him and wrote about him endlessly in my diary. When the Adam entries replaced the Donny Osmond entries in length and attention, I knew that I was in love.

So Adam and his best friend, Blaine ("His name is Blaine? Oh! That's a major appliance, that's not a name!" from "Pretty In Pink") come around the fence into Fay Park. I immediately turn all shades of red and Janet starts whispering. Cathy is the bold one. "Hey kid! You're in our class, right? Hey!"

Adam looks toward us and I gulp and have nothing to say. Then he and Blaine look at each other. They scoop up handfuls of snow and form them into quick but efficient snowballs.

(And now I can hear Mrs. Chapin, the principal. P.S. 27-ites, please note. Also please note that I am now having major flashbacks and that help is probably required to bring me back to this century. Thank you.)

Snowballs flying through the air, the three of us girls create our own quick arsenal and start winging same at the boys.

The sky is grey with more snow. I remember this crispness and know that the cheeks of my light skin are apple red from both the cold and the excitement of the engagement with Adam.

Soon the sky is peppered with relentless snowballing. The boys retreat from Fay Park, around the fence, closer to P.S. 27, still somehow finding their target with the snowballs. We follow in pursuit, with snowballs in our coat pockets, fingers freezing, and run onto Abeel Street. (Note: I had to Mapquest that. I only remember the major SW Yonkers streets).

Lobbing snowballs at us, the boys begin to make their escape onto Valentine Lane, but we are gaining closure. I am so close to Adam now I can touch him, and summon all my nerve. The cloth of his jacket is within my grasp. My boot heel goes out from under me and I crash onto Abeel Street, meeting pavement and a screeching car stops close to me.

As Adam and Blaine make their getaway, Janet and Cathy help me up. I am embarassed and disappointed and still flushed with the thrill of the hunt. Although my prey has escaped, for now, I will continue to pursue him during my year of twelve.

In the land of Yonkers NY 10705.

Where Am I Going, I Just Don't Know Yet

Just to paraphrase Kenny Loggins from his song, "I Would Do Anything" from the album, "Leap of Faith." I first heard the album, in its entirety, on a 1991 flight from Chicago back to my then hometown of NYC, and, at the forefront of the new personal journey I had embarked, this album spoke to me like no other as a reflection of my life. I think I wrote KL an email at some point thanking him for his eloquence and clarity.

I used to like to say that album saved my life. Well, it definitely was a big part of my growth.

We reach crossroads often enough in our lifetimes and have to look at everything long and hard. Glancing is not enough.

So I keep making promises to myself to engage myself more deeply in my music. There are more than a few great loves in my life, and you know who you are, but music. She grabs me and grabs me and I say, jeez, get off my bum. Yet she persists, nudging me daily.

So I happen to be standing on a rock in flowing garments with a guitar and someone happens to take a picture and I say, hot damn, this is going to be a great album cover, who woulda thunk it, that I would just be here hanging out in Maine and my album cover would appear.

I gotta bridge somewhere in Brooklyn for sale too. :-)

All set up, of course, but I didn't have to Photohop a thing. Pure 100% Zonker on the rocks. With a twist.

This will be the photo of my album cover. The first step. After all the other steps I've taken over the last hrumty-something years writing songs from the heart.

So I am on the journey, but I am not sure when I will know just where I am going. Yet.

Stay tuned...

R.I.P. Phil Rizzuto

Here's one Yankee fan who will miss his presence on this earth. Holy Cow, Phil, and thanks.

iHave been bereft of words...

Well, well...It's been awhile. Since way last year, in fact. I've recently discovered more people read my blog than I even knew and so I'm behooved to update it. That being the case, guys, how about posting comments?

I've been busy. I have had the honour (yeah, I am American but such an anglophile and cousin of Canada that the Queen's English is my default) of creating artwork for the first 2008 Presidential Democratic debates, held in Orangeburg at the end of April. I even got to attend same. The whole thing was such an amazing experience. Again, I was honoured to be a part of it.

I've had quite a few new projects that are either finished or still in progress. That in addition to my constant and esteemed regular clients, and I thank you all most profusely. I have had the opportunity to stretch my creative wings in ways that have been appreciated and lauded.

Manhattanville College, my old alma mater, is hosting my 25th reunion this September (no! she's not THAT old. [or, jeez, I thought she was the same age as Methusela]). I have looked up some of my old college buddies and it has been so great re-establishing friendships. I hope to make it up to Mville for the reunion in September.

Brigitte Bardot, my beautiful calico cat who was the embodiment of a soulful Bronx woman (she was in fact from the Bronx), left this earth for Kitty Heaven on January 19th at the age of 18. We waited a few months and invited a new kitty into our midst. His name is Biggie. He's a grey, long-haired BIG cat with a BIG heart and lots of purriness. He is teaching Yoda (our 6 year old black cat leader of the evil empire) bad habits, like stalking the wild pan of risotto on the burner.

July has been and is The Month of Maine. Do you know that this is truly the most paradisical place in the United States? I was just there last week, in the Bangor area, which was new for me. Whilst Greenville was sweltering in the 90s, I was basking in the glow of a bonfire in 50 degree weather. The greenery and the skies are amazing. We got over to Bar Harbor for a day trip so I did get to catch some of my water (I miss my water, y'know). The end of the month will be the Free Family celebration on the coast. Water crashing against rocks...nothing like it in the world. Tidepools with really cool and gross things growing in them. I can do without the seal watch or the puffin watch this time around. At least, we can pay attention to the marine report this time...last time there was a hurricane out in the Atlantic and the choppiness was apparent but we went anyway. An hour and some vomit later...nope...waters need to be smooth as glass if you want me to go this time around. Otherwise, I will be happy to sit outside Shaw's Wharf and feed the seagulls french fries.

Speaking of french fries, I have finally decided to accept the fact that I need to lead a wheat- and dairy-free life. I've been flirting with unhealthy eating (flirting? How about an all out affair) for years, since Dr. D'Adamo told me I needed to stay away from the stuff (that was 1990, do the math). About a month ago, I felt terrible for a few weeks. Since I have cut out the wheat and dairy, I do feel so much better. Trying to tell an allopathic doctor about these allergies is almost hopeless. Doctors 'round here have had the response of "tests for celiac disease are not always reliable." Which usually means that there is not a medication to treat it. I've known that changing my lifestyle will improve my health, my immune system, all that. I've known it for many years but have not integrated the lifestyle nor synthesized the information. Now I know that the difference remains between feeling great and feeling like crap. It was a lot easier to eat the turkey wedge (see: Yonkers jargon, page 7) than leave off the roll. It was hard to finally decide that I would never eat another piece of Ray's Original (the Sixth Avenue one, and don't you forget it). It is, however, empowering to learn that I can be even more creative with recipe development. My new quest is to create the ultimate loaf of artesian gluten-free bread. Wish me luck.

There has been some incredible new music out. Mavis has a new album with a powerful and persuasive message, and her voice is a comfort and inspiration to me in all ways. McCartney's new album is so good I can almost hear Linda in it. Neil Young's Live at Massey Hall is great. But the most incredible work I have experienced all year is my son's. He can write songs and lyrics that are so inspirational that my heart is overfull to bursting with admiration and pride. I can't write more because his work is so far a private affair but hopefully there will be more to write in future.

In the middle of last week's Maine trip, my friend Bill and I had a brief stopover in NYC to see Michael and Harry. It was all too brief but so good to see them and hang out at their digs in Tudor City. The weather was amazing...low 70s, nice breeze. Walking up Second Avenue in that breeze was comforting. Just walking the streets of NYC always feels just right to me. As long as it's the streets and not the super-sanitized Times Square area. Yes, I am now a tourist too but hell, give me the hookers and the SROs from before someone took a Swiffer to Midtown. Luckily I didn't get to encounter that part of the city and could feel my old haunt (back in the old days, I worked at 866 UN Plaza, so it's like old home week there for me) like it is supposed to feel.

I am furthermore committed to continuing my quest to be more green in my life. Thank you Al Gore for the great concert and bringing more awareness to the forefront, and Melissa Etheridge for that great message of "what happened to us?" Think about it...I was taught back in the early 70s as a schoolgirl (that sounds awfully Mrs. Crabtree, does it not?) that we needed to conserve. Weren't you? And why did we ever think that our resources would last forever in a wasteful environment? Did we not learn anything from those who went through the Depression, those of our Greatest Generation? Aren't we more resourceful and creative than any other humans that have lived on this planet in the past? I think it takes more creativity to determine another way, a better way. Status quo is comfortable, but doesn't serve anyone in the long run. This is not another fad, this whole being green and carbon footprint thing. It's our lives at stake. It looks stylish and faddish right now but I think the packaging this time serves the purpose to enlighten and to make people pay attention.

Okay, enough of the soapbox. You may not agree with my rantings...and that's....okay. It's what makes our planet and our discourses so fascinating sometimes.

That's it for now. I hope I've caught you all up. Please let me know what you think. I have more to say but precious little time to say it. I do have more to say on the Yonkers 10705 post (there was Part 1 so it follows that there will be a Part 2, etc.). I will endeavour to write more frequently. I am glad to hear some of you enjoy these posts. Have a lovely week!

What's Nu?

This post is based on a mutual Googling experience my friend The Yant and I had last week.

Someone she knew (nu?) had an email with the domain extension .nu. This was new (nu?) to both of us.

"What the heck is .nu?" I mused, both of us laughing uncontrollably––in the middle of the day, on the telephone. "I've never heard of this." So both of us, she in New York and I in Greenville, begin the Google process.

I hit paydirt straightaway.

"Oh, look, it says it's some country called Nuie that has sold all these new (nu?) .nu (nu!) domains." So, nu? Oy!

Further investigation led us to several websites telling us about this new (nu?) country, around only since 1974 and seemingly a province of New Zealand.

It looks really beautiful. Their main export is coconut cream along with lime oil. The entire island closes down on Sunday because the natives are devout.

Then I read the meaning of the name. "Nuie means, 'Look! There's a coconut!'"

More uproarious laughter ensued.

We apologize to the residents of the tiny island of Nuie for our laughter at their expense. We hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive us.

I really must say I appreciate coconut cream and lime oil in all of its manifestations. And if I am ever in Nuie, and also The Yant will be there with me, we will probably be able to find lots of coconuts for you, if you just invoke the solemn word, "Nuie!" or its English equivalent, "Look! There's a coconut."

Well, you learn something new (nu?) everyday.

I Sing The Party Electric

The Christmas Holiday Party season has officially begun.

The earliest one is always a delightful affair. I have good friends that also attend and this time Bill came with me. We had some good nog with lots of Jack in it and some good discussion. I didn't partake of any food since I figured the eggnog made up for any caloric deficiencies.

Kind of a warm night, so after all the nog, figured I would go out on the back deck. The hostess' mom was out there, a very sweet woman whose (20' x 20') bedroom I fauxed about 6 years ago. She remembers me as "the girl who does..." and then there is a JAZZ HANDS! sweeping gesture. The technique I'd used involved large sheets of plastic placed atop freshly glazed wall parts, and through what is called "smooshing," random patterns are left. I had biceps the size of sides of beef after I'd finished that job. She still likes it, though.

To get to the hostess' mom, though, there was a bit of a blockade.

Is it that I am hyper-aware, or is it just that people are asleep or just pretending to be so?

I opened the door to the back porch. A tiny bit. About a foot and a half in front of me was this bobbed blonde woman. She was standing with a very tight little circular group. Someone in the group was relating a story. The door was open at her back and she just stood there and smiled at the person telling the story. I opened the door a bit more, still not touching her back.

She didn't budge.

A little more. On the edge of touching her back.

Nope.

"Excuse me?" I ventured.

Nothing.

I pushed the door just enough and spoke more loudly. "Excuse me!" and she finally turned around and gave me a look that would have wilted Patton.

"Sorry!" I said. All that time with the Canadians had taught me how to be very properly British. No effect on this woman, who hated me for interrupting her personal space. She merely moved enough to let my friend and I through, as if she too were a door, and swung immediately back into place.

Is it just me? Am I so wrong? or is it just that one cannot break the confines of a circle without some consequence?

A circle is strong. Wedding rings are round. The table at the Algonquin is round. At that moment I wished I were Dotty Parker, and if I were able to be endlessly (like a circle) quick and witty on my feet, I could have said, "Thank you dear, so glad you could accomodate my intrusion." But she would not have got it.

So it's the vicious circle, impenetrable, and what makes that spot so hallowed that you cannot even tear yourself away to recognize that there might be some other bit of life right outside it? Or has it been recognized, but then ignored, so that one's inclusion in the round might never be disturbed?

Either way, it's body language gone awry. Complete and utter lack of awareness, or just basic reactionary hostility? I'm cool where ever I am, and where ever I am is the coolest place in the world, or, this is my space, Bucko, get the hell out of it.

Once I was leaving, going 'round the other side of this circle toward the door, a high heel kicked me right in my knee. "OW!" I screamed. Some tartaned tart had whanged me during her demonstrative full body laughter. Not only did she not realize she kicked me, she didn't realized I'd been hurt when I screamed. Bill was out there by this time, asked what was wrong, told him, no one in this circle had any idea of anything outside their little world. "Ow," I repeated gamely, once the stinging really set in. Nope. Not going to get any sympathy from this group.

So I am voting for the unawareness factor. People asleep in their personal spaces, allowing no one to penetrate their circular slumber, and completely oblivious to the consequences of their dreamlike state.

Walt Whitman was all about a state of awareness and enjoyment of one's surroundings. If you can't sing the body electric, then I guess you're relegated to the party electric, harnessed by group dynamics and a false sense of aggrandisement. Personally, I would like to proceed through life with JAZZ HANDS! and inclusivity.

But that's just me.

Falling for Greenville

I couldn't let autumn slip by without documenting some of the incredibly gorgeous colours and blue skies we here in Greenville have been lucky to experience. Supposedly this is the best autumn in 20 years.

I took to the road (on my way to various and sundry places on Friday, such as Whole Foods and Easley), and, with my trusty camera, was involved in "drive by shootings." This meant I just pointed and clicked whilst driving; didn't even look out the viewer, just shot and hoped for the best. This resulted in some cockeyed images but I got the gist of the vibrance of our Appalachian foliage:


The foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where we are located, is ablaze yet the leaves are beginning to fly like snowflakes.

I am not feeling particularly prolific this evening but wanted to show some of the beauty of our area. So a picture speaks a thousand words.

Cuban Food

¡Buen Sabor!

Just felt the need to write about what we are having for dinner–-again. "Again" because this meal is a frequent eat here in our household.

Piccadillo, made with ground turkey to lighten it up; garlic, onions and peppers; cumin, oregano, cinnamon, a can of salt free tomatoes, all sauteed in olive oil and then raisins added and my son's portion plated. Then I add the chopped green olives for the rest of us.

Boniatillo, which is sweet potato pudding. First you have to infuse water with lemon and stick cinnamon (about 20 minutes at the simmer) and then make a syrup with some (a cup of) brown sugar (soft ball stage). Smush up two cans of sweet potatoes, drained, in a food processor. Add that to the sugar mixture. Add two egg yolks, tempered with the sweet potatoes, and some low fat milk (I know, with all that sugar and egg yolks...I had to health it up somehow).

This is my son's favourite meal. I like it too; it's got that sweet/salty thing (the olives pack the salty punch).

I gotta go and infuse some water now.

Nerdyrappinghood

Speaking with my sister this weekend, she mentioned at some point during our conversation that she liked Firefall. And that there was nothing wrong with that. I of course immediately concurred.

We are children of the '70s. Back then, growing up in Miami, there was an "elevator music" station called WLYF, Life-FM. My brother used the music from the station to create some of his incredibly silly and wonderful taped "commercials" about wheelchair races and "the Norland Senior High Art Show." WLYF was so sappy and so not even Mancini that it was truly only meant for parodies. I have learned that WLYF still exists, but has evolved to "adult contemporary," which means, in essence, they now play Firefall. And there is nothing wrong with that.

In all likelihood, they also play Ambrosia, and England Dan and John Ford Coley, and Player and Ace. Oh my. It's today's elevator music. I am now qualified and perhaps certified as a big nerdy over 40 child of the 70s.

Don't get me wrong. I am also the hip mother of an 11-year old and I know my Kanye West from my Ludacris (clean versions only, thank you very much). I still bop to a world beat and I still like my Sid Vicious with a sizzling side of Elvis Costello. I mourned the demise of CBGB the other day. I did my best "Wayne's World" imitation to "Bohemian Rhapsody" in the car today.

But I am not ashamed to admit: I like Firefall. And all those other guys. Half of my iTunes library is testimony to that. Maybe that doesn't make me so hip. But it sure is comfortable and wonderful and will most certainly augment those future wheelchair races with aplomb.

Drivinghood: North and South

When I was living on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and one of the incredibly insane owners of an automobile, I figured out that there was an unwritten, unspoken code shared by taxi drivers.

Taxi drivers own the streets of NYC. They know exactly how to navigate each pothole. They can tell Just how far any other vehicle is at anytime.

There are no lines on Madison Avenue (at least there weren't last time I drove in NYC). At least they are not painted lines. They are energetic lines.

Like meridians up and down the body (any fan of acupuncture knows what I am talking about), these lines keep everything in working order. And then there is the cooperation between each taxi driver, sharing this unwritten code, this brother- and sisterhood of maneuvering, watching out for one another. It is fast and furious but completely organized, and part of some zen-like flow that I am pleased to engage in. It's fun for me to figure out this code and ride the wave. And you become part of this Northern drivinghood yourself, with fraternite, egalite.

I am still trying to suss the code between pickup truck drivers here in the Deep South. There is one, that much I have figured out. Sometimes it involves ensuring that my little Honda does not get in front of them. There is nothing so grand as a Ram perched at the front of the lineup at a red light, especially one that has the satisfaction of having edged everyone else smaller than they out of the way.

This is different than the other lack of etiquette I experience from the SUV drivers. They like to bear down on us little vehicles, huge behemoths on my tail. But they also like to bear down on their own. No egalite, fraternite.

The trucks, they take care of each other. Just like the taxi drivers, they somehow work together so that they navigate traffic as a unit. Did I mention that there are sometimes as many pickup trucks on our roads as taxi drivers up Madison Avenue? Now just picture these trucks all travelling in symphony (Hmmmm. Trucks=symphony. This is a new one. Do we have something here?). They allow the other trucks to be part of their flow. They work in concert. (More musical references to trucks. I think I will get cussed out now.)

I have to figure out how to become part of that flow. How to cruise effortlessly through that little bottleneck on East North Street, the one right at Main Street, big red pickup on my right, big white pickup in front of me. Once I can determine the unspoken language of pickups, perhaps I can, in some small (read: Honda) way also become part of that great drivinghood of the South.

Romantic Notions of Autumn

Whilst growing up in Florida during some of my Wonder Bread years, I missed autumn something fierce. I also missed snow, but that is another story.

So I moved back to NY...I lived on my college campus amongst some of the most vivid colours in nature (Westchester) and then had the good fortune thereafter to work in Connecticut and drive up the Merritt Parkway to experience even more chroma and hue in its maximum glory. Oh, and yeah, and then back to NY and Westchester and curving around the Sprain Brook Parkway, all trees and rocks and orange-reds at 50mph...

I love fall. My body loves fall. Once the humidity drops away, once the air crisps, my humor rises and my energy begins to explode. My senses come alive. I have found that others agree. Fall may come a bit later here in South Carolina, but it is no less intense. Let it be said, though: I am no fan of Indian Summer...let's just get on with fall (and snow, let's have some snow...). I like the cool and the cold.

I think this weekend we will be going up to Flat Rock, NC to pick apples. North Carolina and its Blue Ridge Parkway boasts some of the most beautiful foliage in the country, I have found. And so close! Still a little early right now for fall colour, but I learned that the apples for pie-making are ready at this time so off we go.

Already, though, the Carolinas have a fully-red maple here, a brief flirt with orange at the top of another tree, and against the deep green, these little bits of colour pop.

Yep, fall loves me too. I am jonesing for more of it, missing the New England component of it, but real content in the glow of my romance with Carolina autumn.

BxM18, WTC, and 9/11

Five years later, I still have a tactile memory of a place I'd left eight years ago. It still hurts like hell to recall five years ago. It still hurts like hell to recall eight years ago, last I set eyes on my WTC, but five years ago still breaks my heart.

I used to work at Harborside Financial Center in Jersey City, which was straight across the Hudson River, straight across from the majesty of the Twin Towers. Most of the time, I drove to work, an endless maze of little roads which took me the shortest route from across the GW and eventually into Jersey City. Other times, though, I let the Liberty Line do the driving for me, and took the BxM18.

The BxM18 (which stood for the Bronx-Manhattan 18 Bus) was the express bus that went between Riverdale and downtown Manhattan, cruising down Broadway for most of the trip, and leaving you off right at Vesey Street. I would walk up Vesey to Church, with the WTC right in front of me. I still don't know which one was WTC 1 or WTC 2. I just knew I would enter the front doors, look at the shoes in the window of the Nine West store, and go right down the stairs or escalator into the WTC concourse.

The concourse was that little diversion right before I made my way to the Path train. There was a coffee shop that prepared decadent chocolate mint coffees that I toted across the Hudson. If I spilled the coffee on that which I was wearing, I could always stop at the Gap store in the WTC and buy a new shirt. I remember buying certain articles of clothing in several stores in the concourse. The newstand (where I recognized the distinctive elderly gentleman who had previously worked at the newstand in the bottom of Rockefeller Plaza) was where I picked up a Daily News or Post once in awhile (snotty NYT reader that I am.;-)). The lunch treks my friend Michael and I used to take across the river just to get the chicken pita at Miami Subs on Liberty Street.

But it was the little diversion I had before even arriving at the WTC that I've remembered in these past few days leading up to today. It was the BxM18.

By the time the bus arrived at 261st and Riverdale, it had probably picked up passengers at two stops. I knew it originated at the Yonkers-Riverdale border, right in front of where the nuns used to play basketball. The folks who had been picked up first had determined their seats on the bus a long, long time ago. I was a relative newbie compared to these seasoned riders, who were older folks in their late 50s, 60s, maybe even early 70s. They had the gravelly voices and accents of southeastern New Yorkers, sounding like all my aunts and uncles from the Bronx and Westchester.

I would sit about two seats back from the driver, as an act of respect to the more established riders who wanted to sit in the middle of the bus. Eventually, I established my seat right there, two rows back. I would take out my NYT crossword to work on. Except that I didn't always work on it. Instead, I listened.

These veteran riders had been riding the same bus together since time immemoriam, it seemed. They all knew one another by name. They knew about one another's jobs, families, lives. Their comfortable patter, in those inimitable accents, was a soothing balm to me during the harried start-and-stop ride down the highway and city streets.

They talked about old times. One gentleman sang the old Robert Hall theme song. They dredged up other 50s and 60s pop culture examples, Maypo commercials, remember what used to be on Johnson Avenue!, what about Father so-and-so over at St. Ann's, my grandson had his bar mitzvah, and oh so many gems. I was rapt. My heart used to swell with affection for these individuals, some whose faces I would never see, only big winter coats and briefcases as they ambled down the narrow aisle of the bus at their stops.

I hadn't thought about these people in years until now. And now I think of the many faces I never saw, only the voices I heard that filled my mornings with a bit of history and times gone past. I wonder how many of these people actually worked in the Twin Towers. I wonder how many of those voices were silenced that day forever.

It was my WTC. But more than my WTC, it was theirs. Their morning journey was a rich part of some rich lives. I am grateful to have been privy to their lives, their stories. And my heart breaks a little more again today.