Chili Pepper Fiesta

The Chili Pepper Fiesta at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens www.bbg.org is a never miss for me each year. It's not that I like spicy food- I like to taste the things I am eating, thank you very much. And its not the great music- though I love a festival that chooses music from cultures with spicy cuisines so reggae and Korean drumming and Indian sitar and zydeco swing are the offerings of the day- that is MY kind of flavor! It is that this a last gasp of summer and the crowning glory of fall. I know many people who dislike the fall- with things browning and falling away. Not me. Fall reminds me of what Sei Shonagon said in her Pillow Book about a lover- it is not the words and gentle whispers in the moment- but the manner of his departure that tells the nature of a man, who he truly is and how he feels. Thank you Chris, Fred and Michael for accompanying me on this beautiful day...










:)X

Trip One: Atlantic City, New Jersey

Everything dies baby that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on fix your hair up pretty and
meet me tonight in Atlantic City

"Atlantic City" Bruce Springstein


Sunset


Watershow... I had never seen a fountain square dance before...


The Boardwalk




Late night Kitty- thought using the flash might help....


Not exactly...


The view from "my office"

Last summer on Block Island my friend Martian and I sat toes dug in the sand discussing pipe dreams and life goals. I asked him " Wouldn't it be cool if I had a job where I could just take my laptop to the beach and work from there?" Funny how the universe delivers, isn't it? Next Stop: LA - Goal: See if there is any there, there. :)X

The Lady Dinner

Waterfall Park 53rd Street between 5th and Madison- I like sitting next to it with a coffee on a break these days.

Scheduling and the electronic age. It makes planning dinner between friends (who incidentally only work 15 or so blocks from each other) easier and more complicated all at once. At Keiko's marvelous suggestion we settled on (by 'Neff's request- an inexpensive and delicious place...) Hatsuhana Park. www.hatsuhana.com. Dinner with Keiko, Neff and Yuki is an event and a half- and took many many e-mails to plan but was GORGEOUS. As you will see. We each had the "Lady Dinner" A four course wonder for $15. I forgot to take a photo of the tiny bowl of mung bean sprouts served as an opener in a vinegary dressing. And then there was




Marinated root vegetables, a little bowl of mountain potatoes in a crispy batter sitting in a light broth and something green in a salty tempura batter... neither Yuki nor Keiko knew what they were but we didn't leave them on the plate, either.




Yuki's sushi order was missing the tamago (egg custard BEAUTIFULLY done arrived moments later) The lady dinner included your choice of 4 pieces of excruciatingly fresh sushi and one roll.



MY sushi- Eel, Salmon Roe, Salmon and Yellowtail and a Spicy Tuna Roll



A little cup arrived with a dish nestled in the top. The dish contained scallion, umeboshi (plum), and more mountain potato ground up- this mixture is stirred into the cup of broth underneath it and is used as a dipping sauce for the accompanying bowl of Udon noodles served in ice water to keep them gloriously cold. Amazingly refreshing on a hot night! Trying to eat these with chopsticks.. well lets just say it is best to try this among friends who will not laugh at you TOO much.



Keiko



Dessert- Fruit salad in a red bean syrup with clear cold gelatin cubes and sweet red beans. This reminded Yuki that her mom used to make the same gelatin with milk and suspend orange slices in it. The Japanese version of the jello mold. My grandma was more partial to raisins and bananas in red jello. "Red?" asked Yuki "Is that a flavor?" I explained that in 1965, it was.

I did not get a picture of 'Neff- she was sitting next to me and taking her own snaps- perhaps she will send one of she and I.

'Neff promised that if I came I could become an honorary Asian. It didn't actually happen as I could not become as gracious, beautiful, unique and funny as my three friends in one night. But by their presence- I felt that way- just for being with them.

Domo, ladies, domo. :) X

I just got this from Yuki- I haven't checked it out yet but at dinner she mentioned a restaurant in California which is TOTALLY pitch dark- and the servers are blind... I loved her e-mail the best tho...

It was soooo nice to see you tonight :)
I had a fun.

here's the restaurant that i was telling you about. check it out!!!

http://www.opaque-events.jamic.com/

Two Cents Plain

Michigan "Coney" a hot dog (it's under all the other stuff...) covered with beef chili, chopped raw onions and yellow mustard.

I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I'd complete you

Joni Mitchell- "Court and Spark"

So- you may be wondering- did the kugel arrive in Detroit? The short story- well, if you wanted a short story you would read O. Henry, wouldn't you?

I was on the bus to the airport- excited to be once again on the road- travelling for my own pleasure- and filled with the great happiness and maniacal glee in anticipation of a reunion with my evil twin, Kiwi. My carry on bag was loaded with the haul from Russ and Daughters. Suddenly my cel phone rang- it was Syd calling me from O'Hare. "Mel," she said- "they just put me through PURE HELL at security. You are never getting that kugel on the plane."

Drat. No kugel, no journey. No reunion with the twin. No Sunday morning Looney Tunes filmfest. No Jewish Food Yom Kippur break-the- fast. No way. I had a mission.

I marched up to the security person outside the screening area. The officer was busily snapping her gum like she was trying to beat a world's record- slowly and dispassionately but with genuine focus and determination. "Hello." I said- trying really hard to emulate Michael's hypnotic stare and smile. (It would help if I were 6 foot something and my head was shaved but I was trying it anyway.) " I have a question regarding items prohibited in carry-on bags" And then perhaps a bit too fast I said: "I have a kugel in my bag".

Her eyes widened and she said- "Whut? You got a Whut?" This was the time to be very very clear. I replied "It's a noodle casserole, I am bringing it home to my grandmother in Bloomfield Hills." (When relating this to Kiwi he groaned- "BROOKLYN- you didnt use the grandma alibi?? NO body believes that one...") "A casserole?" she said- "A noodle casserole? You mean like tuna- you bringing FISH to Detroit?" Now things were getting sticky. "No, not tuna-but I do have some SMOKED fish..." I was being totally honest- except for the grandma thing- Kiwi is as much a grandma as the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood is. "You can't smoke NOTHING on the plane- and no lighters in the carry-on either" She said sternly. I sputtered "Um- nono- the fish is - the pudding doesn't have... it's got raisin...". OH for Pete's sake. I told her- "Thanks, I think I'll check my bag." and stomped back towards check in.

As I walked away I heard her talking to her supervisor, who had come over to figure out what the fuss was. As I walked away I could still hear her fussing: "Damnedest thing I heard yet- wanted to smoke a damned fish on the plane- now I heard it ALL" and mutterings about how she was too old for this- 28 years old if she was a day and the extremely low financial compensation offered for what a woman in her position had to endure on a daily basis. I knew how she felt- I PAID the airline to go through this.

Checking my bag was my only option. I figured maybe the guy at the x-ray wouldn't look TOO closely as everything was labeled and sealed... containers all proudly bearing the Russ and Daughters logo. Problem was- my bag was STUFFED- a sort of ricochet effect from travelling on the motorcycle and having to pare down for all those trips. I packed EVERYTHING- winter coat, bathing suit- flippers- you name it. And there was not ONE chair near the check-in area. In desperation I found a clear spot on the floor and plopped myself down (in my spanky new black suit...desperate times call for desperate measures) and opened my bag- I swear the little suitcase sighed like a fat lady getting out of a girdle as I unzipped it. I pulled my motorcycle boots from the bag (I was hoping maybe the weekend would break out in Harleys... I can dream) And placed the plastic Russ and Daughters Bag on top- logo facing up. I contemplated writing a note to the airport screening crew telling them about my Grandma- the nursing home.. Jewish Holidays, etc.- but my flight was BOARDING. It was squash it in and zip like a madwoman (which I HAD to be to get it shut) or remain seated on the airport floor having a little nosh while I cried. So I checked my bag- for which Spirit Air charged me TEN DOLLARS. Next thing you know when you get to the airport they will ask if you want to SIT on the flight and charge extra for the chair. On the following flight there will be a surcharge for a plane with WINGS.

I texted Kiwi "The kugel and other delicacies have fallen into enemy hands- fate undetermined. See you soon" When the going gets tough- the tough get coffee and haul tuchas for the plane. I managed to get on the plane and poured out my woes to my seatmate- Mal ("as in malcontent") he claimed. Mal was good company and let me rant over a gin and tonic (two, actually) about the deterioration of service in the airline industry. And Spirit CHARGES for anything on the plane to drink except bottled water. If I was going to pay for a drink- it wasn't going to be tomato juice. But I forgot- as I do not drink much or well on any kind of regular basis and that on a plane the effects of alcohol are seriously intensified. I was pretty woozy by the time we screech-screeched into DTW. I bid Mal a fond farewell and staggered off the plane trying desperately to stay upright- fortunately remembering to take the bag with the boots in it and turning on my cel phone as I walked into the terminal. The phone's screen said "You have nine messages..." I didn't even turn my phone off til halfway through the flight- the device barely had time to cool. Who could it be? Could ANYONE be that distressed over kugel-napping by airport security?

I listened to the 1st Message-

" Hi there B- it's me. Bye."

Kiwi.

Then the 2nd message

"Heya B- me again- was just passing the Ford Factory and all the guys say "hi" "

Kiwi again.

Then the 3rd

"B? They're playing Beethoven on the radio... thought you would want to know"

You guessed- Kiwi

And again ... the 4th call

"B- forget what I just said. It wasn't Beethoven- it was somebody else that started with B"

There is a reason why he is the evil twin. Letting Kiwi get bored is a threat to the health and welfare of the general populace under the best of circumstances- and compounded by the added strain (and excitement) of having me visit, and the fate of the kugel being as yet unknown- he had gone straight over the edge of reason and wanted me to come along for the ride- even if it was just by phone.

I left the remaining five Kiwi issued messages on my phone for later and focussed on walking. Cue music swell and big huge hugs. Seeing Kiwi again after a 4 month separatiion is a feeling I can't describe- it's like you are a jigsaw puzzle and have just been presented with the last missing piece. The one that completes you.



Me in Kiwi's Eyes


We grabbed my bag and headed to Kiwi's house where I THREW off my work clothes and changed into comfy pants and shirt. Starving, we headed to his favorite neighborhood haunt-Ellie's Coney and Grill. As we walked in the door I fell in love, the restaurant featured a variety of formicas not seen in such diversity outside of a Smithsonian exhibit about building materials of the 1950's. The booths sported dark heavy vinyl covered banquettes which wheezed ever-so slightly as you sat down. Our waitress was a somewhat frazzled looking dark-haired girl of twenty or so. She looked like a gypsy- beautiful and long and lean- waiting impatiently (I imagined) for the moment she could throw off her apron and dance the night away. But she couldn't just yet because the cel phone in the pocket of that apron was ringing- "her mama"- she told us (Gypsies can get into all kinds of trouble when away from the watchful eye of their mamas). She asked if she could get us something to drink while mama waited on the open cel phone line. Kiwi ordered black coffee and I, dehydrated from the flight, asked for seltzer. The Gypsy looked at me blankly- as if my lips had moved but the sound had cut out. "Sel-tzer" I repeated, carefully pronouncing each syllable. The Gypsy and I both looked to Kiwi for assistance. Translation, please? "They call it club soda here, B" Kiwi said, smiling sheepishly. "Woo-hoo, fancy-schmancy" said my inner grandma. They don't have seltzer in Michigan? "It's the midwest..." he said apologetically. No seltzer. For a New York Jew this was unimaginable. But as my ancestors have done for thousands of years-when we travel, we prepare and always pack a little something from home. It's a good thing I brought the kugel. :) X

P.S. Please do not miss Ellie's Coney and Grill if ever you are near 2033 Coolidge Avenue in Berkley Michigan. The food, despite not having seltzer, was terrific- and if you are lucky- a beautiful Gypsy will wait on you in between calls from her mama.

The flight of the Lokshen Kugel

Noodle Kugel by Stuart Spivack http://www.flickr.com/photos/stuart_spivack/250163117/

Some posts develop a life of their own. As I was walking to work this morning I was thinking about packing for my trip. When I was last through Newark security I was forced to sacrifice several sheckels worth of beauty products to the gods of homeland security. I know I for one feel safer knowing no one on the plane will be able to stand up and yell "FREEZE" and run around gelling and moussing the passengers into submission. This is a little manuever known in a small fragment of the terrorist community as "Hairjacking". But enough about former personal indignities. I am certain that Aveda appreciates the money I had to pump into the American economy replacing my cosmetics with them. And I am nothing if not a patriot when it comes to hair care. It's all Aero-lac under the bridge. OK- I'm a little bitter, but if my sacrifice makes you laugh- it's ok. Laugh dammit- or my loss is an empty one...

As I mentioned I am bringing food to Detroit- in case they ran out of food in the midwest. Which is about as likely as death by hairspray. One of the items I am taking is a kugel. For the poor souls who may be that much poorer for never having met a kugel- a bit of education from Wikipedia "Kugel (Yiddish: קוגל kugl or קוגעל, pronounced either koogel with the "oo" like the "oo" in "book or "look", is any one of a wide variety of traditional baked Jewish side dishes or desserts. It is sometimes translated as "pudding" or "casserole".

Kugels may be sweet or savory (salty). The most common types are made from egg noodles (called lokshen kugels) or potatoes and often contain eggs, but there are recipes in everyday use in modern Jewish kitchens for a great diversity of kugels made with different vegetables, fruit, batters, cheese, and other flavorings and toppings.

The first kugels were made from bread and flour and were savory rather than sweet. About 800 years ago, their flavor and popularity improved when cooks in Germany replaced bread mixtures with noodles or farfel. Eventually eggs were incorporated. The addition of cottage cheese and milk created a custard-like consistency which is common in today's dessert dishes. In the 17th century, sugar was introduced, giving home cooks the option of serving kugel as a sweet side dish or dessert. In Poland, Jewish homemakers sprinkled raisins, cinnamon and sweet farmer's cheese into noodle kugel recipes. Hungarians took the dessert concept further with a hefty helping of sugar and some sour cream. Most sweet Kugels are served cold or at room temperature. "

So here's the dilemma- if security at LaGuardia cannot tell hair gel from plastic explosives- what will they make of the 2 lb Kugel from Russ and Daughters? It weighs like a brick and if it were not for its noodly yellow raisin studded exterior would resemble nothing so much as the plastique Alan Rickman was so dead set on getting back from Bruce Willis in "Die Hard". In this case more of a reference to cholesterol plaque gathering on arteries than any sort of bomb but I would be dealing with people who see danger lurking in every corner of the Walgreen's. I figure they can wand it- or try and wrest it from my cold, rigid corpse. I am not going to Detroit if the kugel can't come too.

Worst case scenario- I make one when I get there

I needed help on this- I did not HAVE a kugel recipe I could stand behind- and I worried that if I offered one here I had to offer the BEST kugel I could find to all the intrepid folks who might read this and want to try and make their own. So I called my guru of Jewish Holiday cooking- a woman whose mandel bread I brave the Long Island Railroad for on EVERY Jewish holiday- it's just that good. My friend Miriam's mom and my surrogate stand in mom- Nina Hertzson. I love Nina. She has always come through for me- my favorite Nina thing is that for ten or so years after my divorce, when I arrived at Miriam's for any event she would come up to me and move the hair out of my eyes (it was always in my eyes- more of a function of gravity than style) and would say-"So, are you seeing anyone?" Even if the man I was seeing at the time was standing next to me at that moment. It may have been just a question in her mind as to whether, with this particular hair-do I could see ANYONE. Or perhaps it was that inevitably the man with me was not Jewish and therefore, slightly less than visible- at least as someone I SHOULD be seeing. As I said- I love Nina- and by these words- I have always felt that she loved me too. I stopped wearing bangs about 6 years ago- so she doesn't move my hair anymore- I kind of miss it.




Portrait of Nina Hertzson in the style of the illustrious Al Hirschfeld- illustrator extraordinaire, shamelessly imitated by Melanie Nerenberg (that's me) for Nina on the occasion of her birthday.

So here is a kugel that comes with the Nina Hertzson seal of approval- good enough for anyone- and all of you- try it.

Joan Glazier's Noodle Kugel (courtesy of Nina Hertzson)

preheat oven to 350 degrees

grease the bottom of a large roaster pan

Kugel

6 eggs
1/4 lb. melted unsalted butter
8 ounces whipped cream cheese
1/2 c. sugar
15 oz box of raisins (optional)
2 t. salt
1 lb. broad egg noodles cooked and drained
1 pint sour cream

Topping

3 - 4 cups crushed corn flakes
1/4-1/2 lb. melted butter (Nina says- you might want to use less... the inference here that you SHOULD, but at your own risk)
1 cup sugar
2 T Cinnamon (I think this should be included... not in Nina's original recipe but... again a SHOULD.. with the same disclaimer)

Mix the first 4 ingredients together in a blender or food processor until smooth and pour into prepared pan. Add raisins, salt sour cream and noodles and mix. In a separate bowl mix together topping ingredients and sprinkle on the top ( wu den? On the bottom?) (wu den is "what then" in Yiddish- the equivalent of no, DUH in English)

Cover pan with tin foil and bake 70 minutes. Bake 20 additional minutes until topping is crispy and slightly browned.

If you are like Syd and I you will bake it until the edges are really dark and crunchy- that's the part we like best. Back at Camp Ella Fohs the cook (known only as "Papa") on the senior citizen side of the camp was preparing to discard all the crunchy edges of a very large pan of noodle kugel (too hard for the seniors to chew... poor devils) as Syd and I walked by- needless to say Syd and I put a very quick stop to that and I remember very fondly in those devil may care Pre- Atkins days (we didn't know what a carbohydrate WAS back then and cholesterol was an ingredient in hair care products... (sigh) THOSE were great days) we sat in the mid-summer sunshine and feasted on crunchy noodle pudding edges until we couldn't breathe. Syd was the swim counselor that year- had she tried to get in the water after that meal she would have sunk to the bottom of Lake Wellington and remained there.

One more thing I love about writing here is I learn things while researching- Wikipedia yielded up two pieces of information I found very interesting- "Amongst South African Jews, the word "kugel" was used by the elder generation as a scornful term for a young Jewish woman who forsook traditional Jewish values in favor of those of secular high society, becoming overly materialistic and excessively groomed; the kugel being a plain pudding garnished as a delicacy."

As I move through my new job, all the dressing up and working really hard to be worthy of all the recent gifts the universe has washed up on my personal shores, I worry about being.... noodles dressed up as kugel. And wonder also which of us- me or the pudding- may be turned back as we take this journey.

And then the second piece of Wiki-wisdom: Some Hasidic Jews believe that eating kugel on the Jewish Sabbath or holiday brings special spiritual blessings. I would agree- and doubly so when when eaten at the beginning of a new year, and a new life, with good friends. The kugel and I will be just fine. :) X

Days of Awe

Corner of Houston and Bowery 9/15



Dancer at a street fair

The days between Rosh Hashonah (the Jewish New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement) are called the Days of Awe. Days of personal reflection and a time to look at the year past and to move into the new year with a sense of purpose. I like that phrase- days of awe. The world is too wide and wonderful and diverse to move through it with anything less- yet if you do- or at least if *I* do there's a pretty good chance I'm going to trip on my shoelaces.

On Friday nights- on every Friday night, I light sabbath candles. I do not always do so at sunset. Sometimes I sing the prayer out loud- and sometimes I whisper it to myself. But every week I look back and think of one thing from each day of the week that has just passed- there is a psalm that asks g-d to teach us to number our days so that we may get us a heart of wisdom. And it is important to look at each day, for me. So I do. And I light candles because this world needs all the light it can get.

I looked at this particular batch of photos- ending with today when I did a smoked fish run to Russ and Daughters on the lower east side of Manhattan. I will be in Detroit with my friend Kiwi for Yom Kippur. I did not want to try and find the traditional break the fast foods in Detroit- they have some mighty fine chicken wings but I do not trust their smoked fish. Michigan... and deli- I don't think so. My friend Dan lives in Seattle and says New York has better deli in a Korean grocery than the rest of the country has in their so-called "Jewish Delis". I believe him- Dan's religion is pastrami- based.

To explain a little about why I would spend Yom Kippur in the middle of the country ( weren't you just THERE?- Yes, yes I was. Thanks for paying attention.) Yom Kippur is a really important day in the Jewish Calendar- arguably the MOST important. You fast for 26 hours- No water. No Food. And no coffee. Important for me to be with someone who understands how sacred this day is- as Kiwi says-no sex, no leather, no food- what are we going to do watch reruns of the Waltons? Also important to have someone who can put up with me when about 14 hours into it I would kill my own mother for a cup of coffee. And the Kiwi wants very much to be Jewish. He has the humor covered. He knows more about the holiday observances than many Jews I know- (as kinky as it sounds- the no leather thing is actually a prohibition on wearing leather shoes on the high holy days- a bit of minutiae known only by the faithful) So how, you may ask- does a nice-ish Episcopalian or Lutheran or whatever he is boy from New Jersey by way of New Zealand, know the intricate details of an observant Jewish life?

The answer is simply- imprinting. From a scientific website www.bookrags.com "Imprinting describes a process in which newborn animals rapidly develop a strong attachment to a particular individual, often the mother. It is associated particularly with precocious bird species (species that mature early) such as chickens, ducks, and geese, in which the young hatch fairly well-developed." Kiwi is - in this instance, the way he is because instead of imprinting on his OWN mother at birth- he waited and imprinted on Trudy Schloss. I learned about Trudy before I even knew the names of his 3 beloved children. Next door neighbor, holocaust survivor and a mean strudel maker. As I recall the Schlosses had children around Kiwi's age and that was the point of entry but that was incidental. I know the first time a young and impressionable Kiwi walked into the Schloss kitchen and smelled tsimmes cooking, onions frying and strudel baking and was greeted by Trudy with the traditional Jewish greeting- not hello, or nice to meet you- (we have never spoken of this, Kiwi and I, but I can guarantee) the first words were: "Come." "Sit." "Eat." Imprinting took place at that moment- Kiwi's true Jewish heart opened, took a snapshot with the caption underneath that read "Hey mom, I'm HOME". A bit more about imprinting:

Imprinting is advantageous because once offspring imprint on their mother, they will try to remain close to her and follow her around, behaviors that are beneficial in terms of the offspring's survival. Imprinting on Trudy means that the Kiwi not only has what is known as a "Yiddishe Kopf" a Jewish head- high praise indeed. But he also has a Yiddishe heart, and it is one of the reasons we get on so well. Sadly he has a white guy's tuchas...

The point being: Kiwi- your job- find bagels that don't suck. I've got the rest covered.



Grand Central Clock 8:10 am Sunday 9/9



Fred's favorite Building at Yale- the Library



Marble Wall inscribed with Yale graduates who died in the Civil War





Two sides of an Arch at Yale Law- showing that whenever two guys argue- there's a lawyer laughing and waiting to represent the injured party.



There are JEWS here!



Time to get going home..



Columbus Circle Friday 9/14 9 am



Soho Flea Market 9/15



Bad Monkey!



A hat I need..





These photos are for Martian whose family's love for rice pudding is legend.



Jonah Shimmels Knisherie- sadly deemed not travel worthy as I have no desire to explain the inner workings of a knish to Security at LaGuardia



Mecca- Russ and Daughters

My your New Year be Sweet and May your name be Inscribed this year in the Book of Life. L'Shanah Tova. :)X

Word Weaver

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!

From "To a Louse" by Robert Burns.

I have been quoting this particular verse for years- not knowing the poem it came from until tonight... Live and learn- or live and louse, I guess.

This quote will become pertinent in time- as you may have noticed- I have a tendency to ... meander- but I always have a goal. Kind of. Sometimes. OK just go with it.

First 2 weeks of the new job. I'm liking it. My boss is a terrific guy. His boss is also a terrific guy. Real people- not MBA's or super execs- just guys who work hard- cuss a bit more than occasionally (as do I) enjoy a well placed sarcastic comment and realize they work with people, who have lives, because they too have lives. It is good. The upper boss even inquired as to my well being... he asked my boss- "Has she lost that 'deer in the headlights' look yet?" So much for an affected outer aura of calm. (I just typed an 'outer aura of clam...' I wonder what that might look like... hopefully it would be at least a bit gritty)

My style concerns were more or less unfounded- I could come to work with bunny slippers on- they do not seem to care if I wear slingbacks or peek toes. But shoes were a big part of the first week.

Syd- are you looking here? You were right.. (Henry she is going to be harder than usual to handle after this admission... sorry) 3 1/2" heels are NOT work shoes. Not any job that requires standing in them anyway. After day two in the spiky heels I felt like both of my hips had been yanked from their sockets, I practically crawled home. They did look fetching when I crossed my legs- but after a day in them the only things I wanted fetched were a walker, advil and an ice pack. I lurched to the store on Saturday in my beat-up sneakers and purchased 2 pairs of the most stylish shoes I could find with a 2" heel in black and brown and if anyone gets tired of looking at them they can just be relieved that I no longer resemble a poster child for the March of Dimes.

Adjusting to wearing suits when the humidity hovers at 85% was also a challenge. At the end of each day I felt like I had spent 12 hours in a slow cooker. I lost 4 lbs.- this in and of itself would be surprising- add to that the fact that every day seemed to be someone's birthday- by Friday when no cake was served at 4 pm I was nursing a severe frosting jones. That was the day I found the local Starbuck's and spent 10 minutes gnawing on a chocolate biscotti until the cravings subsided. I have to temper the snacking or the suits I have just spent WEEKS locating, purchasing and shortening will go from fitted to sausage casing to tourniquet. I have learned how to go a full day in heels, and to wear a suit with the jacket for 8 hours but I still need to breathe- for this a bit of room is needed.

And the technology. Day one I got my laptop- no problem really adjusting to the PC- for a Mac user this is like going from teaching the Advanced Placement class to teaching Special Ed. It can be done. It takes more time and you basically cover the same material but the process is a great deal less intuitive and S-L-O-W. I move too fast for the PC- the touch pad just annoys me- with a mouse you are MOVING things around- with the touch pad I feel like I am tickling it to make it go (c'mon, c'mon cootchy cootchy coooooo) - and forget that little button in the middle of the keyboard. It reminds me too much of the little man in the boat and in the case of this particular laptop is BLUE. Like the little man got frostbitten- but I tend to overthink and anthropomorphisize ( I don't KNOW if this is a word- what I am meaning is we think our computers are people, only cooler). Perhaps. It's a Mac thing- we take computing personally- which is why all the toys start with "i".

Day Three I got the Treo. And they set up my desk phone. And I had a laptop. The full suite. And they all talk to each other. The voicemail goes to the computer as an e-mail and gets played as a .wav file. It also sends the e-mail to the Treo if I am out- or not...for awhile listening to e-mail on the Treo was kind of cool. I wandered to the bathroom more than once that day and hid giggling in a stall listening to messages-all from friends who wished me well- (I had no work contacts as it was just day three..) and marvelling that I could be that connected- literally anywhere. I also figured out after a few hours that in addition to GETTING calls this little marvel could MAKE calls- so I made calls. I called Kiwi. I texted Michael. I called my desk phone so I could watch the message go from desk phone to laptop to Treo- and it was at that point I was pulled from my technology induced haze by a blaring car horn as I was doing all of this on the sidewalk blocking the OUT ramp of the 54th Street Garage.

I carried the Treo home and played with it on the bus- tinkering with it as it did not come with a manual- which I NEVER would have read anyway- paf- manuals. I don't need no steenkin manual. Unless I wanted to resolve the following conundrum. The phone didn't ring when people called. And there seemed to be no indication anywhere on the device when someone left a message. When I finally figured out how to access voicemail- there were 12 messages- 8 from me- wondering where the hell I was... in addition to this my personal cell phone had also ceased to ring- a form of silent protest I thought, to the crowd of technology now occupying my handbag- personal cel- treo, camera, Tamagotchi (not mine- a friend's- no, REALLY). And the phone on my desk- while it would blink pleasantly when there was a message- and the little envelope icon showed up nicely on the screen, it made not a peep- or an old fashioned ring- or a giggle- I chose every tone I could try- nothing. Helen Keller made more noise. Today- SEVEN days after getting the Treo, I found the mute button on the Treo, switched to the "On" position. The desk phone was a bit trickier- when you choose a ring tone you need to hit SAVE- obviously the default setting is a cold stony silence. A bit like a technological game of Simon Says. OK- Phones: 2- Melanie: Zip. I haven't yet figured out what the problem is with my personal cel. I think with all the new stuff coming into the purse- it just wants to be held.

ANd then there is the issue of electricity. My little office- which now just holds only me and an assistant as the 3rd party has moved out and we no longer have to take turns exhaling, has only ONE electrical outlet, 2 plugs. The laptop needs one and after looking at the blog and Bunny way too long on the Treo, it needed charging. Problem. The outlet is located behind my two-ton desk- movability- zero- I think it was there before there was a floor. There is a space of about 2" between the wall and the desk and another 3" space between the desk and the filing cabinet next to it. Also a pre-floor model- I can't tell how long either have been there until the results of the carbon-dating samples come back from the lab. The only way to plug in the charger was to wedge my lower half between the filing cabinet and the desk and my upper half between the desk and the wall. Picture the game of Twister having been re-invented by the Marquis de Sade. Now imagine you are trying to do this in a skirt, jacket, heels and stockings. Quadrapalegics have more mobility. I managed to get one leg between the filing cabinet and the desk and my shoulder and head behind the desk- one leg raised high- for balance so I did not fall completely behind the desk and become irretrievably wedged- at this point the prohibition on slingbacks came to mind as the raised leg was rapidly losing one stylish shoe to gravity and dangling provocatively (I WISH) from my clenched toes.

I was just about getting the plug into the wall when I heard "Everything OK in here?" My boss. His boss. And the president of the company stood in the doorway of my office looking in. At me. Doing some sort of demented arabesque behind my desk. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. I'm betting they haven't had a first impression quite like that before. I can just hear my boss telling the other VP's as they walked away- "I told you- this one's not afraid to get her hands dirty..." Oy.

But things are improving. I've been meeting the people I work with and learning who does what. In a company this size- about 10x bigger than the fabulous paper store's, there is a staff of about 12 people who do what I used to have to accomplish on my own. It's nice and I do not talk to myself as much... though sometimes I still do- just to reassure myself I am making at least a little bit of sense. And to chuckle. It's all so wonderful and new and I find it hard to believe that I'm actually there- that they picked me- it's a really nice feeling and I want very much to do a good job. I think I will.

But about Robbie Burns' quote. I bought a small fabric keyboard for the Treo. I wanted to be able to type on it ( and truthfully to blog) and I just can't seem to get the hang of the little keys on the PDA. I have heard it called "fat fingers" but it's really just too small. Archy (the cockroach, of Archy and Mehitabel fame) could not type on these keys. And I love the idea of having a fabric keyboard- almost like a loom, that you could weave words on. I was talking to Gaby on the train tonight- she saves my blog posts and screams that I do not print them out somewhere as a precaution against the day when the internet has a fatal meltdown and the blogposts disappear forever. I told her- it's just stuff. She became agitated. "You made me CRY." " You make people laugh!" And I thought about it. More than once I have heard that I see people - my friends- differently than they see themselves. I do not know this really- as this is just how I see them, always. It is not new or unusual to me. I make it a point to tell the people I love that I think they are smart, or funny or brave or even silly in a really good way and I tell them out loud. I do not think they hear it so well. Most people are so accustomed to their own inner dialog, filled with their own... stuff- they do not hear good things when they are said- or dismiss them as flattery used to further the speaker's own agenda. But when I write it here. They look. They read- sometimes more than once- and thanks to the site meter I can see they have done that- and I smile because maybe I have gotten through just a little and woven a small piece of something they can hold, and look at, and believe. Just a bit. And that's good. :) X

Guilty Pleasures

I LOATHE cuteness... and yet, and YET- cannot resist www.icanhascheezburger.com
look if you dare- I am not responsible for how this impacts your productivity, bub.

Life Amplified, Part 2

"Plans are deliberately indefinite, more to travel than to arrive anywhere. We are just vacationing. Secondary Roads are preferred. Paved county roads are the best, state highways are next. Freeways are the worst. We want to make good time, but for us this is measured with the emphasis on "good" rather than "time" and when you make that shift in emphasis the whole approach changes. Twisting hilly roads are long in terms of seconds but are much more enjoyable on a cycle where you can bank into turns and don't get swung from side to side in any compartment. Roads with little traffic are more enjoyable, as well as safer. Roads free of drive-ins and billboards are better, roads where groves and meadows and orchards and lawns come almost to the shoulder, where kids wave to you when you ride by, where people look from their porches to see who it is, where when you stop to ask directions or information the answer tends to be longer than you want rather than short, where people ask where you're from and how long you've been riding." Robert Pirsig "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance"

The last night of the trip found us in a filling station somewhere in Vermont. I should know the towns we went through but.. I have given that memory space over to other things. Important things like the sensuous curves of the boulders in quiet streams where we stopped to eat apples and cashews, the heron that swooped past as we sat quietly enjoying a landscape that didn't fly past in a glorious green blur. I remember the clear water, the quiet and soft breezes and conversation that meandered with no more agenda than the water had. The kind of talking you never do at home when there needs to be some purpose or goal. The way you talk when you don't want the time to pass quickly- the moment towards the end of a vacation when the nagging thought that tomorrow would be nothing like today presents itself. And that's ok, but you savor it just a bit more, holding it like a sip of wine just inside your mouth, breathing through the lovely aroma and complex tastes- the kind of ease that borders on melancholy but never gets there- because the moment is just that fine.

So I was in a gas station convenience store looking at ostrich jerky and home made dog biscuits and pondering a snack- which was ultimately cheese- not being particularly fond of dried meat or having a dog handy to give a biscuit to. I heard Michael asking the store clerks if there was any live music being offered in the area and heard:

Ray Price, Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson.

Oh boy.

I LOVE country music. My dad raised me on Charlie Pride and Johnny Cash was considered classical music in our house. My inner cowgirl was jumping up and down- my outer cowgirl desperately wanted a shower and a change of clothes but we scooted to the Hampton Inn just on the other side of the highway and quickly checked in- and ran off to a Vermont Country fair.



We had discussed a "nice" dinner for that night- maybe some fish- good vegetables maybe a bottle of wine but give me a sausage and pepper hero and a diet coke and color me very happy indeed. Add a side of jalapeno poppers and a couple of bites of Michael's extremely good fish and chips and fine dining was accomplished.



The evening's main event should have been the powerhouse combo playing on the bill for the night but it was not. There are people who are events unto themselves - Michael provided an entertainment that would have shamed Scherezade in it's daring and rivalled the most brazen of hucksters for sheer, unmitigated, glorious gall. It would have been enough for me to find a great show like this by accident- but coincidences follow Michael around like a lovesick puppy- for some reason he utters a wish, like- I want to see Willie Nelson (he actually said this about 10 days before we took the trip) and the universe says OK- moves a few inconveniently placed mountains and VOILA- Willie, with Merle Haggard thrown in for good measure. He takes this sort of occurence in stride. Nope. Not enough. He wanted to get us backstage. I decided at this moment to step back and watch and if anyone asked me anything- I would pretend to only speak Serbo-Croatian. I wasn't quite sure what that would sound like- but I reckoned neither would the folks at the fair. Michael moseyed up (after 3 days on the bike moseying is the only speed you've got- on him it looks natural- on me it looks like a possibility of some sort of inconveniently located rash) to the entrance booth and spoke to the first of what felt like a half dozen sweet chubby ladies in stretch pants and proceeded to tell his tale. He used a technique I like to think of as "the nugget of truth" No matter how many great big whopping lies seeded the delivery there was one constant- he knew someone who knew someone backstage and there was an all access pass waiting for him if only he could only get there. Then he'd smile. I'd seen this smile before. It is infinitely calm, utterly benign and there is no trace of any sort of guile. I have seen this look charm waitresses and hostesses and concierges of all ages and walks of life- all these women seem completely disarmed by this .. look. I have been around him a bit and he has to switch the beams on pretty high for it to work on me but I'm damned if I don't find myself halfway through doing something I really didn't want to do before I realize I have once again been taken in by that darned look. First hurdle down- Michael heated up the lady at the admission booth's polyester pantsuit and we were in- admission cost-free. At the gate to the grandstand another flowered shirt and coordinating pants lady fell to his charms yielding up a name- we had to see Dwight the security manager at the backstage gate. As we started walking Michael flagged down a rather official looking man headed in the direction of backstage in a golf cart- I heard Michael repeat "the nugget of truth" paired with Dwight's name and the next thing I heard was "Hop on." We made it all the way to the backstage gate when we were stopped by three locals hired on as security at the back gate. I have had a little experience with Vermonters- in any other state we would have made it backstage but the men from Vermont.... well they can't be swayed by the extremes of weather and life in Vermont and are further bolstered by a heritage in which charm is rated pretty low on the survival scale- well- Michael had seemingly met his match and we walked back into the fair. Michael charmed his way past the admission lady AGAIN- but his heart wasn't truly in it- he hadn't quite carried off a hat trick on this one.

We bought the last remaining "good" tickets which placed us in the back of the orchestra, perhaps 50 rows back and on the far left. The sound was wonderful and the music quickly had me humming. As Ray Price ended "Help Me Make it Through the Night" Michael nudged me- "Follow me" he whispered. He walked boldly along the aisles, moving through the t-shirted security with the same confidence with which he navigates the road on the Harley until we came to two empty rows- rows 7 and 8 to be exact, slipped to the middle of the row and plopped down. "They always leave a couple of rows open for VIP's" he said smugly, settling in with a decided air of complete redemption and at least partial satisfaction. We weren't backstage but we were really, really close. What else could I do- I applauded. The lady behind me looked at me funny- no music was playing- but I knew- I had already witnessed the performance of a true virtuoso.



Merle, Willie and Ray


Monday we made our way home- the long way. Jersey City by way of Plattsburgh, NY. Determined to avoid the holiday traffic and in a way for me at least.. to make the day last as long as possible. After all- in less than 24 hours I would be sitting in a new office, in a new suit and pinchy shoes trying to learn a whole new role- corporate executive. As filthy as my 4 day jeans were I wanted to hang on to them just a bit longer... to hang on to my wild side, newly discovered and with each taste of freedom, just a bit more fierce and bold. All along the trip I watched the motorcyclists that passed and could count the female drivers on only one hand. But I cherished the sight of them. I knew nothing about them except that they were women making their own way on the road. Loudly. I felt myself reaching for them in my mind's eye- wanting to tap a shoulder and say "How did you get so strong?" "So brave?" "So free..." and then they would be past, long gone on their road and I was left with a longing I could not name. I just wanted to know- could I have a little piece of that? Hold it inside on those days when the world would see only sensible make-up and French knotted hair and a smart but very buttoned down woman in her 40's with all the assumptions people make when they see such a woman. Assumptions I know because I make them myself... adventures past, life settled and everything neatly tied up in little bundles scented with lavender sachet.

I watched the sun setting as we made our way down the side roads and route 9W carried us along the Hudson and turned these thoughts over and over in my head- unless you like to shout, talking on a motorcycle is limited to a few "look at thats" or requests for a rest stop, so there is a fair amount of time to think. I thought back on the last year- and if you look at the blog you'll see some of it for yourself. What I saw was by no means settled and if there was the scent of lavender is in my life it was coming from a field I passed by at quite a bit beyond the local speed limit. It is said that clothes make the woman but I am learning- not clothes, nor anyone's assumptions, make me anything I don't choose to be- and I don't need a leather vest or a Harley (though the idea of having both has crossed my mind on a few occasions), I don't even need to nurture my wild child- I think in my life the challenge is going to be... keeping her in check- at least a little bit of the time.



Scenes from the "long way home"















And just a bit about the title of these 2 posts. I heard a couple of kids talking- and one said to the other- I'm so "amplified"...
he meant stoned.. Now I am not a drinker- and I don't do drugs, but I do love the idea of life lived that way- all the way... where the motto is always "Turn it Up!" :) X