How I Spent My Summer Vacation

As the season winds to a close tonight, I cannot think of a summer I've spent more enjoyably in my adult life than this one. I teetered on the brink of having more fun than I was comfortable having--than I even think I deserve. 

I sailed the Grand Canal and scaled the Acropolis. I had a date in Constantinople who was waiting in Istanbul. I sampled ouzo in Mykonos and pizza in Napoli. I walked the ancient streets of Pompeii and clambered to the top of the Coliseum in Rome. I straightened out that Tower business in Pisa where I also had a great meal. I saw Castellers castelling in Barcelona.

After all these years, the Mayor showed me his boyhood neighborhood in Barcelona and we celebrated his memories and the beauty of the city with wine and tapas on La Rambla de Catalunya.

My sister, herself, and I spent evenings on the Mediterranean photographing the sunset then drinking wine at the piano bar. I developed an obsession with the samba and blamed it on the Bossa Nova.

I saw my beautiful niece marry her true love on a shell beach in Sanibel. It was as lovely as that sentence makes it sound.

I watched the boy grow taller and the girl grow happier.

I added more blue to my life with an impromptu painting project.

I survived a hilarious night at dive bar karaoke.

I spent a week at a beach with blue skies and gentle waves.

I've never felt readier for the fall.

Nuns I've Known

This week, I picked up my crochet hook again after many years. Inevitably, as I formed my slip-knot and began my chain, my mind turned to nuns. It always does when I crochet because it was a nun who taught me to crochet.



The Meek Years

These days you've got to travel far afield to find nuns in any kind of threatening numbers, but in my early years we couldn't swing a cat without getting pounced upon by one. Swinging a cat would, of course, be perfect provocation for a tongue-lashing, ear-boxing or other potentially damaging nunly form of attention. But frequently, the nuns could be provoked with far less effort. For some, mere existence would suffice. I once caught the wrath of a particularly mean nun for holding on to my empty juice box after lunch. As a third-grader I was a living definition of the word meek. As I stood in a line of students terrorized by Sister Barbara, my heart nearly stopped as I realized she was glowering right at me and demanding to know why I was still clutching garbage. "I need it to make a log cabin, Sister," some brave part of me piped up. "A WHAT?" she bellowed, eyes ablaze. "A log cabin, Sister, with pretzels glued on," I tried. "WELL MAKE SURE IT DOESN'T LEAK ON THE STAIRS." She spoke each word slowly, like you might imagine John Wayne or Dirty Harry would if they didn't want juice on their stairs. "Yes, Sister," I managed, fighting back tears.

All tolled, that was my worst personal encounter with a nun. But I witnessed far worse and the horror of it kept me a goody-two-shoes certainly for my entire Catholic school career and in truth, for many years afterwards. In retrospect, I can reason that they needed a bit of fear on their side. During the baby-boom they could have easily 40-50 kids in a class with three such teeming classes per grade. They ran the whole show back then with a small cadre of lay teachers to help them keep the peace and the learning going forth. While it couldn't have been an easy job, there were definitely some who took more pleasure than was strictly necessary in keeping the fear quotient high. As a kid, you had to be on your guard.

Sr. Mary Regis, aka Auntie Sister

My sisters and I always felt a little bit protected by the fact that we had a nun for an aunt. Sister Mary Regis was the name she went by. Auntie Sister is the mortifying name they settled upon us calling her. In later years, my friends would call her the Anti-Sister. My sister's friends called her Sister Hyatt Regency. She was my mother's sister and we were not afraid of her although I suspect she could more than hold her own in the classroom. The worst she would do to us is nag and we always had my mother to run interference. She had an operatic voice which the powers that were limited to church use although she had other options before they overruled them. Her Ave Maria could make a stone weep. In her heyday, she took us to Radio City Music Hall and introduced us to the ballet. She humanized the whole nun experience for us and we always figured she was our ace in the hole if we had any nun trouble ourselves.

You don't see nuns in the numbers you once did and it's little wonder why. Because of the crueler ones, their reputation was all shot to hell. Unlike trying out for the priesthood, convent-joining entails a vow of poverty. It seemed like some nuns back then were man-fearers or man-eschewers. A woman who wanted nothing to do with men, could take refuge in the convent without having to explain an "unnatural" lack of interest in marriage or baby-making. But these days, we can stay single without stigma and if we want to teach or nurse, we can do so and get paid right for it. Incentives for the nunnery are down and now, as a result, it probably consists of women who are in it for the right reasons. Less scary women, no doubt.

Random nuns at Panera Bread

But the nuns weren't all bad. In fact, some were in it for the right reasons back then and those are the ones I remember quite fondly. I still recall Sister Margaret Thomas, my third grade teacher as one of the sweetest, kindest of women. I think she really loved me in all of my puny, sickly, meekness. Despite a penchant for putting Chinese hot mustard on the tongues of those who got out of line, Sister Theresa was generally agreeable and pithily cautioned students to, "walk between the raindrops," when it rained. In seventh grade, Sister Joyce Ulrich was like a big sister figure. She never raised her voice and never had the slightest of discipline problems. I think we were all too busy learning and liking science with her. But the most colorful and amazing was Sister Irma de Sales--the one who taught me to wield a crochet hook. As with anything Sr. Irma taught, I've never forgotten it. She was, perhaps, the perfect nun. Stern on the outside, sweet at heart, and one hell of a great teacher. The woman could teach English grammar to a tree stump. Anyone who learned her preposition song back then could probably sing it to you today. "Above, about, across, between . . ." to the tune of the Lone Ranger. She was forever threatening to do the dance of the seven veils down the aisles to get her point across, but unfortunately for us she was such a great teacher it never came to that. She knew it wouldn't so it was a calculated risk. Still, I'd have loved to have seen it. 

My Irish Twin dressed as a nun for Halloween

Currying Flavor

It's rare that I make up recipes in my head and follow through to executing them in the kitchen. It's rarer still that I do so and feel compelled to share the results. I just don't have that kind of gift for cooking. Most of the time these great ideas I have all add up to meh. An ok meal, but loaded with woulda, shouldas. I'm an expert Monday morning quarterback of meal preparation. But last weekend, things came together differently--call it divine intervention or plain old dumb luck, but I made a really delicious curry without a recipe to follow.

I think it was pretty healthy, but I'll defer to my better qualified nutritionist friends to critique that. Except for the chicken bullion cube, which could be easily replaced by a vegetable broth option, it was vegetarian. Since I was throwing things together mad-scientist style, the measurements I'm providing are approximate. I have no picture since I had no expectation of success and we ate it all before I could think of photographing it. The mayor and the boy both liked it despite the obvious inclusion of tofu. Chicken could be substituted, but what's the sense in that unless you can't tolerate soy? This was tasty and hearty enough that I think that you could leave the tofu out altogether and put in a bit more potato. Anyway, I'll leave it to you to tweak to your heart's content.

Tofu Curry

2 tbsp. olive oil                                1 really large vidalia onion coarsely chopped

6 Baby carrots sliced thin                2 medium red potatoes diced

1 box firm tofu, drained & cubed    2 teaspoons curry powder

6 white mushrooms sliced               1 large green pepper cut in 1/2 inch pieces

1 can of petite diced tomatoes         1 cup chicken or veg broth hot                    

1 tbsp garam masala                        1/2 packet Bartender's pina colada mix (hey, don't judge)

1 tsp corn starch                               red pepper flakes, salt & pepper to taste

In a large skillet, toss in the onions, carrots and olive oil. Heat until onions start getting translucent. Throw in potatoes  and 1 tsp of curry powder keeping the heat high to medium. Let cook for a few minutes stirring often. Push all ingredients to one end of pan and put the tofu in in a single layer so that it browns. Turn tofu with spatula and try to brown on the other side. Add mushrooms, tomatoes and green peppers. Stir in red pepper flakes if using, cover and cook over medium heat while you prepare the sauce. To a cup of very hot bullion/broth add the remaining tsp of curry powder, the garam masala and the pina colada mix. Pour mixture over everything, boil and then simmer for about 10 minutes. Mix cornstarch in a little water and add to thicken. Serve with rice.

Take your time with each stage of this recipe. This amount served three with a tiny little bowl of leftovers. If anything was wrong, the amount of tofu was too much in proportion to the rest. Next time I'd cut it to half or 3/4ths. If you put this curry away and use it the next day, it will taste even better. I hope it comes out right for you if you try it!

The Newest National Holiday--SuperBowl Monday

The kids at the boy's school are all clamoring for a day off Monday so that they can sleep in after the Super Bowl festivities. As a mom, I kind of like this idea. Every year people get the choice to make their school-age football fans go to bed at half-time or let them stay up and be exhausted for school the next day. It's not fun, not fair and not necessary since everyone in every time zone could make a day of it if the game were played and aired four hours earlier than it is. Frankly, it isn't just the kids that suffer. I know a few adult Giants fans who are planning to "work" from home on Monday. But despite the inconvenience to so many, somebody who profits by it has declared Sunday night to be Super Bowl time and we all just suck it up.

I started thinking about the idea of Super Bowl Monday as a national holiday and after much consideration, I think it makes a lot of sense. The Superbowl, and all of the facts and frivolity that surround it, is a perfect microcosmic picture of America as it exists today.

On the positive side, just like our vast, majestic country, the Super Bowl is larger than life. Enormous people in gear that makes them look even more enormous clash in a huge arena in front of thousands of people. The game of football itself provides a platform upon which some of America's best qualities can be exhibited. It's an exciting, hard-driving game that requires teamwork and individual talent--neither being more essential than the other. To appear in the Super Bowl means that you've played fair and come out on top--you are being all that you can be--living the dream. Most football teams are a multi-cultural melting pot and their supporters just as diverse. You've got heroes like Manning, Nicks and Cruz (and ok, maybe Brady). You have villians like Vick, Roethlisberger and Rodgers (can't stand the arrogance there). Fans exude loyalty and spirit--qualities Americans never tire of displaying. Above all, it's fun and Americans like fun. A close, heart-in-your-mouth football game like XLVI promises to be, is a quintessentially American experience.

Let's not overlook the food aspect of the game celebrations because for the partying fans, the repast is nearly as key an element as the size of the TV screen. Both need to be, of course, big. From grocery stores to local pizzarias, everyone is offering to cater. Recipes abound online and every talk show with a food segment is getting you ready for the Sunday night feasting. There is possibly nothing more American about the Super Bowl than the emphasis on chowing down and drinking beer except maybe the lack of emphasis on diet and health. But what the hell, it's one night. Personally, I plan to save up all my weight-watchers points so I can indulge in whatever pig-out we manage to put together.

Less savory, but no less all-American are the gargantuan sums of money that are dedicated to this event without a thought to perspective. Much more all tolled, I'd venture to guess, than is put out on the Fourth of July. Superstars are on hand and nearly all media outlets contribute to the hype for weeks leading up to the game. Last time you saw anything like that for July 4th was in 1976. Football for all of its good qualities is a showcase for capitalism run amok. The value of profit overshadowing any and all other things ethical, moral or even sensible. The idea that people can get unimaginably wealthy for just playing a game or owning a team evinces the games that are played on Wall Street and K Street except for the fact that football doesn't suck up money without delivering on its promises, however shallow. That shallowness, the fact that we can rally so intensely around a sport while failing to expend even the slightest energy or interest on injustices that abound here is also indicative of where we are as a country. Without killing the the pre-Super Bowl mood altogether, suffice it to say that just like our Nation, football has a seamy side that gets a pass (drug use, criminality, head-injuries) because we don't feel like thinking about it and for too many people it pays (quite literally) not to.

But good and bad, this is who we are and where we are in America. The Super Bowl is a swash-buckling celebration of all of our realities good, bad and ugly. And I think that calls for a new national holiday. A day-off to recover from the in-your-face American extravaganza that the Super Bowl has become. Let's do it for the kids (wink, wink)! Oh and by the way, GO BIG BLUE!!!!!

What's In Your Closet?

We all know the saying, "one man's trash is another man's treasure." And there is, perhaps, no better way of illustrating this point then to take a look at the kind of things people like to collect. I'm not talking about the big-time--things that are investment-grade. I mean the small-time collections people have throughout their lives that are seldom worth much monetarily, but hold a lot of meaning for the individual and become a kind of personal quest. Collections delight the collector and often baffle others who say, why the hell would he/she want a collection of that particular item even though they might very well be harboring a vast collection of, let's say, hand-woven Easter baskets, as they speak. Collectors ought never to criticize or look askance, lest the mirror be turned on themselves.

The beauty of collections is that anything will work. There is no end to the variety of items one might come to fancy. Even people living a meager existence can delight in collections--my grandmother, for example, collected buttons. That collection was partly practical because she was also a talented seamstress, but she must have enjoyed it because she had thousands of them and she would let us play with them--only if we were careful--when we visited her. My Irish-twin sister collects rhinos in all forms. For the Ambassador, herself (my other sister) it's turtles. For another friend, it's egg cups. Knowing about a person's collection and what items they do and don't have is handy when you are drawing a blank on gift ideas. For my own children, the girl and the boy, I started collections when they were little and added to them over the years. The girl got Snow Babies and the boy got Lionel Trains.

This group combines my interests in mechanical toys and birds.

Collectibles, things manufactured and released in limited numbers for the sole purpose of collecting and appreciating in value can be fun and I have a few, but in my opinion the best collections consist of items never intended to wind up as collectibles. And coincidentally, that phraseology brings us to one of my collections--wind-up toys. I have collected a number of things over the years, but the wind-ups are my most extensive and fun collection. The toys that started it all were given to me as little holiday gifts by my editor (and subsequent life-long friend) on my first job out of college. That little hopping Valentine's heart and twirling Christmas tree led to the acquisition of hundreds of other mechanical toys that perform amazing feats at the twist of their little white knobs. And that's the kind I like, the little plastic ones with the white knobs. They are relatively inexpensive, accessible and to me highly entertaining. Some of my collection dates from the early to late 70s. Others are fast-food kid's toys. Some of the best are advertising pieces, like the Geico Gecko.

Two old-timers. The elephant raises his rear legs.

An ever irresistible duo.



Babies

For years I kept the wind-ups stowed away, only taking them out occasionally for little test drives. When the boy came along, I would take them out--only if he was careful--and let him see all the funny things they did. Recently, I put them on display in my kitchen so that I could enjoy them all the time. It's funny to see people's reaction to them. Junk they would likely throw out, meticulously collected and displayed. Some love it, some are bemused or bewildered and others say things that are, well,  just a little mean.

It took awhile to find all the members of this group.

Knowing a person has a collection of some sort that they love makes me feel good about them. It gives me a sort of feeling of fellowship. Finding out what someone collects can be surprising and fascinating (and probably downright scary in some instances). It can also, as in my case, be just plain funny--or, ok I'll admit it, odd. Some people's collections I envy. Others, not so much.  What do you collect? I hope you'll write and share about it. I'd love to know.

Soldiers from the V & A Museum in London

2012

Here it is, another new year. And yes, I am excited! You would think that with 40 some odd new years under my belt that the whole "new year, new start, new me" thing would have worn off. After all, I never accomplish the grandiose self-improvement resolutions I make. Each year excuses begin and circumstances arise which I use to circumvent achieving even a modicum of physical fitness. I tell myself, just one more murder mystery or vampire book before I delve seriously back into the philosophers or open my mind to the principles of economics. I aim for a sleeker, smarter, more efficient, better organized me and though I don't fail entirely, I always find myself making the very same plans for the very same reasons the following January.

So why the hope? Why the excitement and sense that this year it will all come together? I think part of it, for all of us, is simply that the giant hurdle of "the holidays" is behind us. Physically, financially and for many emotionally, the holidays are as challenging and exhausting as they are joyous and sustaining. Once they are over, many of the musts of daily life can be replaced with more enjoyable pursuits. And there is something invigorating about the vast dullness of January through March looming ahead and providing nearly nothing to look forward to in the way of good weather or festive occasions. All that time, free from distractions good or bad--it's a pure luxury. It's you time.

Today, I feel like I'm in a good position to make my "me time" count. A lot of the avenues I will pursue, are continuations of last year's resolutions. Things well begun, but attended to less as the year became busier (this blog for example). I'll build on what I learned in the art class I took last spring. It wasn't a waste of time after all. I enjoyed it then and can pursue it again now. I'll keep going to that gym I joined, abandoned for months and rediscovered in December when I needed a mood lifter. Life does get busier as the weather gets better, kids get out of school, then there's back-to-school and the pace begins mounting toward the year-end holiday crescendo. If you recognize the flow, you can eliminate the feeling of failure associated with leaving off with things you want to do--things that make you happy. It helps me somehow to think of it as picking up and carrying on rather than starting all over. It also helps to make resolutions for the right reasons. Replacing the I have tos, I ought tos or I shoulds with a few great I really want tos makes a world of difference. All the other stuff gets done or not and ends up not mattering. But things you've always longed to do, or things that spark your interest now--those are the jewels of life. I'll only do something for any length of time if I really want to do it. It has to make me happy on some level. Maybe you're the same. If you find some of those things maybe you can make it a truly Happy New Year! That's my plan.

Flipped Flops

While I'm not proud, I'm probably not sufficiently ashamed to say that much of my life the past ten years has been lived wearing flip flops. Somewhere along the way, real shoe purchasing became too fraught and taxing (I do have insanely small feet). And flip flops, hundreds of thousands of cheap, easy to fit, easy to find flip flops appeared to eliminate the hassle. So pretty, so versatile--you can get them in every color and every material. There are fancy flip flops, rugged ones, simple and even silly ones. You can get a new pair to match your every mood. And I did, it seems. And for a very long time, it was good.

In the winter, I'd scrounge up a couple of pairs of closed shoes and a pair of boots to wear outside but my heart was never in it. I liked them about as much as I liked the winter itself. Once home, I'd slip back into my flip flops. I waited out the winter and celebrated spring with a few fresh pairs. My feet hurt all the time, but I never attributed it to the lack of proper shoes. After all, I wasn't wearing heels anymore!

Then, one day in April, my feet broke. There is no other way to describe it. One minute they were supporting me and the next minute they stopped. There was ugly bruising and months of recovery. I was forced to take stock of what I was doing to my feet by offering them so little support. I paid real money for some real shoes and found that my feet feel a lot better all the time. I found FitFlops as a fall back--extremely expensive but remarkably comfortable flip flop substitutes (I can't recommend them enough). The whole shoe shopping thing is growing on me (much to the Mayor's dismay) and I've amassed a nice little collection of shoes I can wear all day without pain and hobbling. I've become downright obsessed with winter boots.

But now, what to do with all these beautifully uncomfortable, painfully pretty, classic yet cruel, stylishly sadistic little decorations for the foot? I still kind of love them. It seems a shame to toss them, but they take up space and nobody wants anybody's old flip flops. I can't wear them now. Within an hour or two, the pain comes back and it's just not worth it. So, to the trash heap they go. Of course, I'll keep a few for pedicures and the sake of sentimentality. We've had a lot of fun together and it pains me to throw them away but, alas, not nearly as much as it pains me to wear them!