A Public Service Announcement

Dear K and the folks at CS. If it would make your lives a bit easier, I could just e-mail you the blog entries as I update them and save you the trouble of logging on every time I update. E-mail address is on the left.

Have a great night.

Save the planet- quit washing your hands...

"I am the Lorax I speak for the trees for trees have no tongues." Theodore Geisel-"The Lorax"

I am a crummy environmentalist. Really late to the recycling party- JUST found out what fair trade is and why organic is better for more than just MY health. But I'm trying. I like the little things you can do. I save my container from the salad bar I eat at waa-ay too often downstairs- I carry it with me and use 1 box a week instead of five- no one there seems to notice and I save 4 of them a week or about 200 a year. Little stuff- it's what I can do, every day. And I carry a bag with me- almost as much as I hate all the plastic bags that come home with me- I hate the vision I get of polar bears trapped on ice floes because they are melting too fast. I am not sure they can swim- and the water looks cold.



Best of all, lately, is a chance to be bad while doing good. I LOVE this. I came across a blog called- These come from trees. You can buy the stickers pictured above in bunches and stick-em up wherever you go- your next trip to the Taco Bell (Dove) or the Starbuck's (Kiwi) or the McDonald's ('Neff) can impact the environment positively when you stick one of these on a napkin dispenser or paper towel dispenser. Plus- it's a sticker- some of you may have guessed that I sort of like stickers. Here is some info from "These Come from Trees"
www.thesecomefromrees.blogspot.com

Some AMAZING facts from the These Come From Trees Blog

Testing shows a "These Come From Trees" sticker on a paper towel dispenser reduces paper towel consumption by ~15%
A typical fast food restaurant with two bathrooms can use up to 2000 pounds of paper towels a year
The average coffee shop uses 1000 pounds of paper towels a year
A single tree produces around 100 pounds of paper
A single "These Come From Trees" sticker can save around a tree's worth of paper, every year
Roughly 50,000 fast food restaurants in the US
200,00 gas stations in the US
14,000 McDonalds' in the US
There are 10,000 Starbucks in the US

And finally- Martian, 'cause I knew this would touch you:

UNLESS someone like you
cares a whole awful lot,
nothing is going to get better.
It's not. The Lorax

Oh- and I do not recommend not washing your hands- just dry 'em off on your tush- you get to give yourself a little squeeze and strike a blow for the environment!

:) X

Rhymes with Duck

Prince and Thompson 11:32 am 5/30/07

"There's a million eyes tonight, This is no hometown to me. It takes patience to walk this proud when you feel so lost in this cold grey sea. I'd trade off all my past for one room with a view. I'd give everything in my jeans tonight just to walk down the street with you. I don't care which end of town or what part of the country. It's such a relief that your eyes see the same things that I do. I don't care where we are - where we end up by morning. It's such a relief just to walk down the street with you." Cliff Eberhardt-" (Just to) Walk Down the Street With You"

I live in a Crazy World

The title of this entry comes from the diary of Anne Frank. If Sei Shonagon is a current influence, Anne Frank got me started. I could not have been more than nine or ten when I read her diary and began writing on my own. There was an awful lot going on through my childhood and adolescence- in truth I don't know anyone who would describe their past as "uneventful"- even if it were true- who would cop to that? But growing up, knowing that my crazy world was not so different than Anne's- and in most ways incredibly better, made it bearable. And her writing of her pain, her fears and her hopes- inspired me to express my thoughts- to find words for feelings and when my own words were not enough- to learn new ones and to develop a way of expressing myself that to this day is a gift. I hadn't written anything beyond business documents or letters to friends in over twenty years- this blog reintroduced me to that challenge- and that joy. To find ways to share my world with others, to say things I might otherwise have been silent about- to express, love and joy and sorrow and excitement and commune with loved ones near and far, even ones I have not yet met.

Up until recently the "notebook" has been visited by my friends and family and the occasional websurfer. All have been lovely, friendly and supportive- BOB and I even get fan mail. In the past day or so there has been reason to wonder if such a public forum is wise- so much can be twisted. I looked inside myself and the feeling I have is if you spend your time digging for dirt- you ultimately wind up covered in it. But if the sensation of such paranoid scrutiny was unpleasant- once again the voice of Anne Frank reassured me

"...finally I twist my heart round again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside, and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be, and could be...

The absolute torrent of good feeling bonhomie and sharing that writing this blog daily brings trumps any minimal discomfort by many miles. In the end it's all about love- for my world and the people, things and events of which it is comprised. It's still crazy but it's mine. In the end I feel parented by a 15 year old girl..

"all children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands. Anne Frank


Thanks Anne- I, my words, my friends- are in good hands.
I'll keep writing- you keep visting- and hopefully all who come here will become what they would so like to be- and could be.

:) X

B-Day...Storming the Backyard

"M" is for Melanie Photos, Food and so much more, by Gabriela. Vielen Danke Zucherkopf.

In an effort to document every last second of party day... I lost the morning's pics. Those of you who would have liked to see me with a cat on my head, well, check the blog more often hmmmmm? Gaby sent me an earlier version...TY again Z- for clarity, for directness, for being my very favorite ...pain :)

Verne and I put together the barbeque with instructions created by non-English speaking sadistic space aliens

With only 7 left over screws...it holds together!

This strange structure manifested itself during the course of the event begging the question (over and over AND over) What the HECK is a henge? A monument defined by the presence of an enclosure, usually made by a circular ditch and bank system, up to 500 m in diameter literally, "hanging rock," this term is often applied to the Neolithic stone monoliths found in Britian. But without a single Druid in attendance a second question presents itself- what nut-job found time to do this?

Meanwhile inside we start the day off with a "Zucherkopf"
One part (BIG part) Tanqueray, 1 part diet cranberry ginger ale and lots of lime and ice. Breakfast is recommended before consuming this...

I didn't have breakfast. The effect of a Zucherkopf on an empty stomach is similar to the effect of being hit in the head with a lemon slice, which had been wrapped around a brick.

The Zucherkopf has an effect on Gaby as well- she has her OWN gap!

Lunch is served...

Fred and Chris

Annelise

Chris and Betty

Yuki

A big squeeze from the evil twin (Me pretty, You evil- deal with it)

Rosaline

Verne

Myles

Miriam

'Neff

Neil

Charlotte

MyDove

Keiko

Jeff

Kiwi and Skye

Margo and Cobbler

Me and Cobbler- slightly different...

Rich

Carola

Donna Charlotte and Annelise

Skye and I Play Imaginary Twister

Skye Wins

In the grape arbor

It's not a party without a few boo-boos. Upside: got me out of doing the dishes...

Loot!

I did, Annelise.

:) X

Some photos from Dove... This is beginning to take on the proportions of one of those home movies from my childhood- in a not-so-good kind of way...

The 5/27 Morning Entry...Resurrected

7:18 am I swore I'd stay in bed til 8... Didn't happen. Too much running through my head, last RSVP came in at 10:28 pm... Yay! Yuki is coming! Prepping and schlepping best I can and thinking that the barbecue I bought yesterday doesn't have enough screws...
I needed to alleviate the matching set of samsonite baggage under my eyes...

And then got a kitty compress for my poor head

Tomatoes... mine and the ones for the corn salad

Vern asks if I want to adjust the front hall Feng Shui and maybe move the shoes? Maybe, maybe not. The shoe thing is kind of..known by the near and dear.

Day Two- Or Hey Good Lookin...DON'T TAKE MY PICTURE AND PUT IT ON THE INTER#@%&%^NET

First thing I learned on the first day of my 48th year... don't take a picture and put it on the web without the photo-ee's prior INFORMED permission. Oops. My Bad. Sorry Gab!


11:00 am Gaby Chops

Melanie Chops while Gaby tries to get a cleavage shot- the girls do not cooperate.

Gaby asked that this picture be taken so people know we washed the vegetables. Don't you feel better?
2:35 Things start coming together.

Cobbler....

Excruciating Details-Day One 5/25

The Birthday weekend...updated in excruciating pictorial details which illustrates beyond the shadow of a doubt the down- side of digital photography and the internet.

Gaby and Skye (look BEHIND the rolling knapsack) meet me for breakfast.
I am cheerful, as ever, at 7:23 am
Skye picks up the tongue 'tude.
Fine Dining Jersey City Style
The traditional musical birthday bagel
Gratuitous beauty shot
Gaby takes extreme exception to the "gap"- constantly yanking at my pants (up) my shirt (down) and my jacket (around). The gap wins. Final score: Gaby- 0 Tummy- 1.

The vegetables for grilling

Cobbler fixins (Nectarine and Blackberry mmmmmmm)



As per the canary's request- the ephemerist's desktop



The porch is readied.

Sleeping girl on train to WTC

Dinner...to go... a study in black and white

Dove living at Fred's


A cake from MyDove.

Fourty Seven Candles

It's Official. I have been 47 for 25 minutes. I love my birthday and as I do every year I will be celebrating it all through Memorial Day weekend with friends from near and far... For now- at the start of the big 'ol birthday extravaganza- 47 things to be thankful for. NOT in order of importance

47. Being able to cook
46. The big bowl of Peanuts on the kitchen table
45. My porch
44. My body, my health- I am so fortunate.
43. My VCR so I can watch all my "old" movies like Desperately Seeking Susan
42. Limewire
41. My camera
40. Minnie
39. Onion Naan
38. Verbal Incontinence
37. Lavender Salt Scrub
36. CCI-USA
35. Marcelo- my teacher
34. Caipirinhas
33. Long Car Rides
32. Ratatouille, the Movie
31. Wikipedia
30. The Recycling Bin
29. The Mels... Syd, Mirm and Julie
28. Learning to stand up for myself
27. Learning to be soft but strong
26. Learning to Kayak
25. Ferrets
24. Asking Questions
23. Conquering my Shoe Habit (kind of)
22. U-Lik-It
21. Finding out Brooklyn is also in Connecticut
20. Finding a Spirit Father in Fred
19. Room Service
18. Remembering to Draw
17. Crowns and Tiaras
16. My new brother Jim Wood
15. My evil twin
14. Gabriela, the best friend I could have
13. Skye- for his distinct point of view
12. Skye because he loves me
11. Eddie Izzard, Jeff Foxworthy, Robin Williams
10. Martin's hugs
9. Charlotte and Al
8. My recipe for macaroons
7. Work that I have a passion for
6. Prayers that make me whole
5. Life that is better than anything I could have planned, imagined or asked for
4. The newfound compassionate heart of Dove
3. Diet Coke with Vitamins
2. Finding a voice I thought was lost, here.
1. All of you to write to

It's late... I could write more... but I worry you will think I am older than 47

:) X

Opinions stated here do not necessarily reflect those of the management...

OyVey Card by Fresh Frances www.freshfrances.com

I didn't shop the National Stationery Show for the Famous Paper Store but an Ephemerist can have OPINIONS can't she? By day two of the show I had broken down and spent THREE DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS for a 20 ounce Diet Coke- no kidding- they could have saved the bottle of soda and just slapped me I was that stunned. I drank it- for spite, plus I needed the caffeine and ... the bubbles.

I decided I could love things and take samples and CASUALLY offer them up to the buying team as "humble opinion" (Read here "You would be FOOLS not to buy these"- I know cool when I see it.) Two bazillion and five card booths at the show.. they might have missed this stuff, you know? It's a particular combination of good samaritanism and hubris that I absolutely own.



I fell in love with the line at Fresh Frances- great cards including the Yiddish Christmas card and then equally infatuated with the owner-designer and her mom. It was easy to tell this was the designer's mom- every sentence had the unspoken " there are no better cards on the planet" certainty that could only come from a blood relative. Her mom assured me she was the soft seller in the family... I should meet her DAD. Loved her cards and her really funny mini spiral notebooks. The "I will not kiss and tell" notebook has "I will write it down here instead." inside. The "I will not chase boys" book says "I will make them chase me " inside. I felt I could buy this in good conscience. It says nothing about chasing men. I steered clear of "I will not gossip". I like the sentiment but- some promises are harder to get around than others.





From Notes to Self and Others Postcard Book by Rosebud Design Studio http://rosebud-design.com/
The postcard book from Rosebud Design Studio had me howling. I send cards and letters all the time (BIG surprise considering where I work and that my office is located behind the mother of all post offices). I sent the Ferret one via e-mail to Dove. His "little girls" Holly and Bo made a huge impression on me. Actually Bo did- she gnawed on me every chance she got, even though Dove assures me they are vegetarians. Also if you have never had two semi-rodents attempt to run up your skirt on a first meeting... well that is a thrill money cannot buy. And Paxil cannot calm you down from.

The biggest surprise came towards the end of the show at Bumble Ink. The cards here had the best drawings and a sense of humor so quirky and about a bubble off plumb- my favorite kind. The surprise was that the "space bar" cartoon from earlier in the week was actually from the brilliant minds of Diana Chen and Gavin Wu, more of their wonderful silliness here:

Birthday card by Bumble Ink www.bumbleink.com


There was so much more... but in the interest of humility.... th-th-thhuh-thuhuh-Theee- That's ALL Folks!

:) X

Stationery and Stationary- A day in the reign of a Paper Princess

Sta·tion·er·y (stā'shə-nĕr'ē) n. 1. Writing paper and envelopes.2. Writing materials and office supplies
Sta·tion·ar·y (stā'shə-nĕr'ē) adj. 1. Not moving. Not capable of being moved; fixed.

It's an important time of year at the Famous paper store. The National Stationery Show at the Javits Center. It has the combined fun of a field trip and being let out of the office to look at everything new in the world of paper with the grueling pace of a Marine Boot Camp. So much to see- current vendors to reconnect with and tons of new folks to meet. Fortunately for me our offices are a mere paper airplane's throw from the convention center so I could ping-pong back and forth. As I am merely the mouthpiece for the company with absolutely no buying power- it's mostly a big shopping trip, sans credit card, and a chance to covet with no opportunity to bankrupt anyone's finances.

I walked the show by myself. It's my preference to travel sub-rosa, hiding my badge to avoid being leapt upon by zealous salespeople eager to win a coveted spot on the famous paper store's shelves. It does, however, feel a bit like travelling as royalty in disguise and hearing, the industry's opinion of our company's reign. As I stood fondling a sheet of flocked gift wrap from India I heard a salesman having a "How's it going" chat on his cel phone. "Yeah- it's going great!" He said looking at me and holding up a "one second I'll be right with you" finger he continued his cel conference " Yes, Famous Paper Store was here and is interested in our line for their box program." Neat. I love when that happens. In a current vendor's booth as I perused their press clippings, a sales rep came over to me and said "Hi!" Searching my person with her eyes for the badge that would identify me "Isn't that a great clipping? Famous Paper Store (she said with reverence) got one of our cards in the NY Times for Valentine's Day." I smiled. "Where are you from?" She enquired. I intoned the famous paper store's name and showed her my badge. "Oh wow." her eyes went wide. "YOU got our card in the Times- that's your name and quote..." Yep. THAT's big fun. I did the aw shucks, gotta run my mom's calling me, shuffle and moved on.

I am pretty good at the PR thing. My friend Fred attributes at least a bit of my success in all things I do to boundless enthusiasm and a certain amount of "verbal incontinence". I am not quite sure how I feel about it but it's true. If I love something- if I believe in it, I have lots of reasons why I love it and why you should love it and I will talk about it and talk about it and - well you get the picture. I love the Famous Paper Store and all the things we sell. I can happily talk to my friend Gaby, or CNN, or strangers carrying one of Famous Paper Store's distinctive shopping bags with equal ease and zeal. Sounds like salesmanship- but truly Fred pegged it- verbal incontinence. Lucky for me, the press loves a sound bite and I am a banquet.

After several hours travelling row after row of cards, stationery, gift wrap and all manner of stuff.. my head was spinning, it was well past two o'clock I'd covered about half the show. This morning, while I remembered my show badge, my tote bag for brochures, even my new business cards I neglected to grab breakfast and the morning's triple espresso was getting stretched thin. The Javit's Center is home to the world's WORST food at prices that would make a Turkish Rug merchant blush with shame. A big pretzel and a bottle of water easily sets you back $6.00 and the pretzel is guaranteed to be cold and a little slimy, and the water warm. Having the hometown advantage here, I wasn't buying. I scooted across 11th Avenue to the plaza which hosts a friendly, fairly safe food stand and grabbed a knish and soda and ten minutes of bathing my pale calves in the warm sunlight, even remembering to yank my skirt down a bit so as not to provide a lingerie show for my dining companions- a fun mix of savvy show attendees and construction workers. Mom would have been proud.




Deeming tomorrow another day, and the last one of the show I decided to head back to the office. Tomorrow I have a 7:30 am appointment at the office so by 5:00 I was ready to hit the road. I called Gaby at home to announce my unheard of departure from work at that hour and we arranged to meet in my backyard for a visit. Gaby brought me a German iced coffee. As she handed it to me she apologized- "it's cold" she said. Huh? Iced coffee, cold, yes? In Germany, it seems, iced coffee is hot coffee- with ice cream. It wasn't cold and let me tell you. It definitely didn't suck. I sat on the porch and watched Skye play and chatted with Gaby as the sun sank below the garage. It was sunny but not hot and Skye managed to cover himself and the entire back stoop with blue chalk. We walked the garden and I looked at the fig buds, and the infinitesmally tiny concord grapes on the vine and listened to Skye's monologue on why insects are good ("because they like summer, Melly").

I thought about how much he's grown, and it seemed especially, I don't know- I have a birthday coming this Friday and this week marks my tenth at the Famous Paper Store. I look at Gaby, and think about how proud I am of her- turning a B plus into an A minus in English composition- no mean feat for someone whose first language is not English. I could feel the sweetness of time passing. Of stationery, even virtual stationery like the blog, to write on, and a life that very definitely is anything but stationary. It's good. really good.




:) X

What 's Your Manifesto?

"I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman's back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, long foreplay, show tunes, and that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, I believe that there oughtta be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astro-turf and the designated hitter, I believe in the 'sweet spot,' voting every election, soft core pornography, chocolate chip cookies, opening your presents on Christmas morning rather than Christmas eve, and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last for seven days." - Ron Shelton, speech by by Kevin Costner as "Crash" Davis in "Bull Durham".

It takes the human body five days to digest a maraschino cherry. I just found that out today.

I believe in knowing what you believe in. And in saying so.

I believe that sundaes are called just that because you should have one once a week. I believe afternoon naps are proof of the existence of God. I believe if a man cannot make me laugh- he probably won't be very good in bed, either. I believe in the Cadbury Bunny, and dancing in the rain, I believe in singing out loud- even if you do it badly. I believe that a hug cures most any human ill and that a good kiss deserves your complete attention. I believe that Chuck Jones should win a Nobel Peace Prize if only for allowing parents that extra hour of sleep on a Saturday while the kids watch cartoons. I believe being mean to anyone should be illegal. I believe in giggling and blushing no matter what age you are, and that courtesy is anything but common and more of it would save the world. I believe not only in not doing harm to a place but doing your damndest to make it a little better before you leave it. I believe in saying "I love you" when I feel it and not waiting or worrying if I hear it back. I believe in loud belly kisses and the beauty of a cloudless blue summer sky and never missing an opportunity to walk barefoot in the grass. I believe that friends are family and that true love doesn't ever die.

And I believe in maraschino cherries. Because the things that make me that happy are worth the work.

What do you believe in?

I get this question ALL the TIME

:) X

The Paprika Piece or How I Learned to Cook in Self Defense

Paprika is kind of a joke, especially with Syd and Mirm. They know if they happen to have a tin hanging around the kitchen or even suggest it- I will fall into a fugue state and foam at the mouth. That's because Syd and Mirm have known me long enough to remember my mom, and her house, and her cooking. But as ever, I digress- I will try and start closer to the beginning of things.

I had a fine culinary history up until the time my father married my stepmother. My dad was a cook in the Merchant Marines and aside from a tendency to cook in very large quantities, made everything from English Muffin Pizzas to Chicken Cacciatore incredibly well. My grandfather was a baker in his home town in Poland and baked gorgeous challahs each Friday morning. As survivors of the holocaust my grandparents had long abandoned their faith or any sort of formal religious observance, and their lingering parsimony meant that we ate Ann Page white bread the rest of the week. Friday nights.. well, for whatever their reasons, we still had that tradition, and it seemed like a holiday each week to get a thick slice of eggy yellow bread with the crisp reddish brown crust and topping of mon (poppy seeds). My grandmother made blintzes from scratch and gallons of blueberry jam from our trips to the Catskills for the summer. In that house, it was never a question- everything on the table, while perhaps plain and peasant in origin, would be delicious. Then my dad fell in love.

Nina was nothing like any woman I'd ever met. My grandmother's housedresses went straight to the Smithsonian upon her demise and for her make-up was a fine coating of vaseline to protect her skin. Sixteen years my father's junior Nina wore spike heels, teased her hair into a "pageboy" and wore lipstick. She moved into our house in 1969 and brought with her pink spiky curlers, above the knee suits and a new modern housewife attitude. This included an an addiction to convenience food cooking. Suddenly things like Banquet frozen salmon croquettes with convenient white sauce in a packet and Chow Mein (a three-can extravaganza- 1 can La Choy Chinese Vegetables, 1 can La Choy Chop Suey and 1 can La Choy Chinese Noodles, served on a hamburger bun- as kids we swore it looked like something expelled from your nose at high speed). Sometimes my mom kept it simple- but the plain meats were the worst- you could be momentarily distracted by novel, albeit bastardized versions of foreign cuisines from France or China, but when it came to the simpler foods my mom covered everything from poultry to veal to devilled eggs with paprika. For me the challenge was to overcome the gag reflex long enough to stave off hunger pangs and avoid my father's "don't hurt Nina's feelings" look. My dad was happy for the first time in his life and I didn't truly want to spoil it- though it seemed from time to time in the tradition of stepfamilies and the testing of boundaries- I tried. I just couldn't deal with the red stuff. It looked to me like food that had been rolled in the dust of Mars before landing on my plate.

What is Paprika? Wikipedia defines it as a spice and says it is a culinary seasoning made from the grinding of dried sweet red bell peppers (Capsicum annuum). In many European countries the name paprika also refers to bell peppers generally. The seasoning is used in many cuisines to add colour and flavour to dishes.

To me it tastes like the tin rusted and they are selling the flakes- every McCormick's can of paprika I ever saw shook out a substance that looked exactly like dried blood. Even at nine years of age I recognized it- I'd scraped quite a few knees by that time- some were even my own.

In the 60's paprika was touted in the new full color cookbooks and recipe cards as a miracle spice that would add color to meats... no one seemed to want to wait until food browned on its own in the oven. I still cannot figure out how my mom managed to have meat arrive at the table pale under its crust of the dreaded pepper powder and yet strangely deprived of any of its natural juices. We could not have a fan blowing over our kitchen table when a turkey was carved- the breast meat with blow away once the skin was removed. It was that dry. My mom tried- REALLY tried. I recognize that now. She could have just let my dad cook. We could have had TV dinners- we LOVED TV dinners. After my mom's experiment with health food especially. She had heard that brown rice was healthy- so she added cinnamon to white rice until a healthy brown color was achieved. It seemed a very small inconvenience to have the Swanson's apple cobbler mixed with peas and carrots after that particular culinary exploration. Food by Nina was cooked on three settings; burned, hopelessly mushy or raw. Bless my dad. he never said a word. Everyone said how good my stepmom was for him- he had dropped so much weight since the wedding.

After my dad died my mom lost her zest in the kitchen- she just didn't really have the energy to enter and re-enter the place my dad had spent so many hours "giving mom (and us) a break" by making dinner, or breakfast. Or just occupying the room with his big voice and slap happy cooking style. I am just realizing as I write this that I caught a lot of that from my dad- when you have a confidence in your ability to cook- it becomes fun- and it shows in the food- and the room not only smells better- it feels better, it feels full of love. My mom missed the love, I guess we all did. We just processed it in different ways. I began cooking at 13, under the auspices of giving my mom a break as well. I learned to make potato salad, and stews, and spaghetti and eventually to baking cakes, learning to stir fry and eschewing the La Choy cans languishing at the back of the cabinet. The family happily ate what I made and even learned not to reach for the ketchup before tasting. To this day if someone reaches for the salt or pepper before tasting something I have cooked, I stiffen, hopefully not so visibly on the outside from the lack of culinary trust. Perhaps my mom's cooking was not the only mom's that occasionally needed a little pick-me-up to be palatable.

My mom still believed in paprika, and even into my late teens insisted that the family turkey had to be covered in the poisonous powder to brown properly. One year I told her I would make the turkey. I rose at 5 am and took my dad's stained white apron, carefully preserved, from the drawer and pulled his tattered-red checked kitchen towel through the apron strings just like my he'd done. I prepared the bird and made the stuffing from memory- I had no cookbooks back then- my dad didn't use them and my mom's research came from manufacturer's instructions printed on the back of cans and bags. I remember opening the box of Bell's Seasoning and the smell of that mix of rosemary, and sage and so many other spices made me feel my dad was standing right behind me.

I monitored the bird's progress throughout the day. Helped my mom burn the sweet potatoes- some holiday traditions would never die, freed the cranberry sauce from its can and sliced it, and opened cans of green beans and took the brown and serve rolls and placed them on a pan to be cooked when the bird came out of the oven. After three and a half hours of peeking and basting the heavenly smells of butter and roasting bird were beginning to fill the room I felt it was time to remove the tin foil tent and let the bird brown. I knew from watching my father that I had about a half an hour before it would be ready to remove from the oven and went upstairs to take a shower. When I came downstairs the turkey was on the table covered in foil to keep it warm and the rolls had been placed in the oven. I began bringing dishes to the dining room table and prepared to place my masterpiece on its platter. As I lifted the foil the steam brought an all too familiar scent to my nostrils. It smelled like...oxidation. My mom had covered the bird stem to stern in paprika. "Now isn't that better?" she said, smiling.

I ate at Burger King that night. I never cooked at my mother's house again.

For years after when the holidays rolled around I cooked at the homes of friends and continued wowing the crowds with my sage and onion rolls and butternut squash and leek soup. I developed my own Thanksgiving traditions- I listen to Alice's restaurant while I cook and watch the Macy's parade on TV with the sound off. I cook that meal alone, always, asking guests to come in the afternoon when all but the table setting is done. It's all really easy and a joy for me. Perhaps the solitary method by which I cook has something to do with a deep-seated fear someone will sneak in a can of paprika. Mostly I reflect and commune with my dad. Lately I have begun to recognise that by being a truly adventurous cook and an abysmally bad one, I was as inspired by my stepmother as my dad. Though he got all the credit.

Nina. Though I think you might be maybe more than a little offended, I hope you will understand, and appreciate how important what you taught me was. Thanks for the paprika.

:) X

Requiem for a Curmudgeon

Guernsey and Kiwi 2005 by Melanie Nerenberg


Guernsey never seemed to like me much. Wait. I have been told I start
speaking my thoughts in the middle and leave people wondering. Guernsey
is a cat- as evidenced by the photo above. He resides somewhere just
outside of Detroit with my friend Kiwi. Or he did until recently. This
story is going to sort of zigzag past and present like "Memento" Go with
it.

I met Guernsey in June of 2005 on my very first trip to Michigan. Being
from the East Coast I have always referred to everything from here to
California as "somewhere in the middle". And aside from some really cool
people (Hi Ann, Hi Cindy- Waves!!) it was pretty much all middle. It
didn't get very hot or cold while I was there, the grass never seemed to
be excessively tall, the sky was blue, but not too blue and aside from
some extremely large malls and the Starbucks seeming a bit thicker on
the ground there (this may be a bias based on my coffee addiction- my
feeling being that there are only 2 answers to "Would you like coffee?"
Those would be "Yes." and "Yes, please." In NYC it would be "Yes, NOW."
but I try and behave when visiting other states.) The middleness was
kind of soothing. Until I got to Kiwi's house. And I met Guernsey.

People like me- parents LOVE me. I get along with small children, even
when they are sticky and total strangers seem to walk away from a "first
encounter of the me kind" with at least a fairly good impression-
if they are able to keep up with the speed at which I speak. Guernsey did
not like me. Or so it seemed. From day one. Guernsey sat about a foot
from the door as I entered, I immediately discarded my suitcase and
dropped to the carpet and into "make friends with the pet" mode. I said
"Hiiii" and stretched a hand out in greeting. Guernsey stared right
through me to a spot on the wall. "He's old." I thought. "He doesn't see
me." He stood slowly and walked past my hand, so close that his white fur
ALMOST touched me, his cool gimlet eyes never turned in my direction as he
slithered along the side of Kiwi's leg. I made noises proven to be
irresistible to cats. Nothing. I reached my hand out again as he completed his
circuit of Kiwi's legs and sauntered back into the apartment. More nothing. He never
gave me a glance. I was stunned.


Throughout my visit Guernsey ignored me with the frostiness I had previously
only associated with Park Avenue matrons who had perfected aloofness
through generations of breeding. You could have kept ice cream solid in
the space between us- it was that cold. In my subsequent visits to
Michigan Guernsey and I never got beyond a barely tolerant co-existence. He was
never unfriendly and only once truly reached out to me. He hit me in the
head with his paw as I lay sleeping one morning- it seems, as Kiwi
explained, I was in his spot. The cat had a lead paw- he woke me from a
sound sleep- I thought I'd been slapped.

Guernsey had no front claws. It did not stop him. He lived outdoors. Climbed
trees and defended himself against the local cats, never sustaining any
serious injury to himself, all without the natural protection usually
allotted to cats with claws. The neighborhood felines learned very
quickly, Guernsey was not to be trifled with. He protected his home,
brought home the obligatory dead bird or partial rodent and lived his
life by his very own set of specifications.

Do not be misled- this was not a case of a cat that did not like people. I have always believed there are two kinds of cats- slobs, and snobs. A slob cat will lay all over you, never leave your side, or anyone else's, and sleep cuddled up
against you all night long. A snob cat is ever-distant, to everyone, and
deems it a personal favor to you when he allows you to feed him the $2
tiny tin of fancy food which is ALL he will eat, and then proceed to throw it up on the duvet that just came back from the dry cleaner. Guernsey was a
third kind of cat. A kind I had never encountered before. He was all
Kiwi's.

If Kiwi sat on a chair- Guernsey sat on Kiwi. If Kiwi sat on the couch
Guernsey lay across the couch next to him lengthwise so no one else could
even get close to Kiwi. At night, in bed, the pillow next to Kiwi's head
was for Guernsey- and if that pillow was occupied by anyone else, the
hours normally reserved for sleep were filled with a low... there's other word for it... grumbling emanating from the closet where Guernsey spent the night in a deep abiding sulk, the pitch of his complaints rising and falling as the night wore on. In the morning if the pillow usurper managed by some miracle to get any sleep at all, they woke to the slap of that lead paw. Personally, I learned to sleep with my head under the pillow blocking the sound and protecting my face, in which case Guernsey would bite my hand. He could be delayed, but never denied.

As I watched Kiwi and Guernsey together an understanding developed. Kiwi is not the sort to talk about a single life after living so long married, with children. I am certain that, though happy in his independence, Kiwi was used to company. But in his new life he was never alone. Guernsey shared the space. The house was never truly
empty and Kiwi always had an ear, and company to watch TV with and a
warm rumbling purr from the pillow by his head to lull him to sleep. The
term constant companion is not precisely true. The company of humans
requires, even in the most comfortable, relaxed and intimate of
relationships, some work. You have to talk, explain yourself, consider
the needs and expectations of the other. Guernsey needed none of that.
Kiwi was all he needed.

As will happen in human friendships; Kiwi and I, him in the middle and me on
the eastern edge, fell out of contact. There was an occasional e-mail
but we were both living our lives. Every now and then, I would
e-mail and ask, not about Kiwi but about Guernsey- I knew that by
asking about Guernsey, I would know how Kiwi was as well. I received this
e-mail in reply one day:

"guernsey has gone deaf... he gets startled by sudden things, but I
think it's the vibrations in the floor that he feels.. he's also lost
the boing in his spring - he sometimes misses when he tries to jump up
on my lap while I'm working on the laptop - and he sleeps more than he's
up these days, too... I've taken to giving him wet cat food every day
to keep some meat on his bones; when I run my hand down his back I can
feel every bony vertebrae under his smooth coat...

but when he's sleeping on my lap with his head laying heavily on my arm,
his paw draped unceremoniously over my hand and his long, lean body
stretched across my thighs, warming them better than any electric
blanket ever could... or when I'm scratching his favorite spot under his
chin and he stretches his neck and face sooooo far out that we touch
noses, and he gently bites the very tip of my nose... or when he's
sleeping next to me - right by my pillow - and I feel a sandpaper kiss
on the side of my face...

that is the sound of one hand clapping... that is talking without
speaking..."

I guess all of it was to be expected at this point in the life of a 14 year old cat. My much beloved Mayo had been euthanized after a long illness at 12 years old and I felt my heart tear as the breath left his body. I struggled as to how to help Kiwi- as if I could- to deal with what I thought would come. Of course there was nothing I could do except - well- send a book. I actually mailed it to Guernsey- it was called "A Dance for Emilia" by Peter S. Beagle. A little tiny cat- sized book about an elderly cat who becomes possessed by the spirit of his owner's best friend. In many ways, many ways, it was appropriate. You should read it if you can. It was something I could do. I hoped Guernsey would read it to Kiwi- or maybe the other way around. If Kiwi could locate his specs.

A couple of months went by with no acknowledgement from Guernsey. I
sent an e-mail message to Kiwi- "Did Guernsey like his book?" I asked. I received this reply:

Guernsey went walkabout a week ago Saturday around midnight... I
was upstairs and came down to find a screen in a back window pushed open
and Half-Pint (Kiwi's demon baby cat, Shady) perched on the ledge,
half-in and half-out. I searched the house and Guerns was nowhere to be
found. I suppose he felt the need to re-connect with the outside world;
whatever his motivation, I knew he was gone. It aches a little less
each day.

I was...well, sad doesn't cover it. Kiwi is my evil twin, truly we share
a brain, and are occasionally both half wits as a result- but I read three
paragraphs into every single word he wrote and could feel the echoes of empty space
left by his long time friend. My heart ached. Walkabout for those
unaware is defined by the Australians as A temporary return to
traditional Aboriginal life, taken especially between periods of work or
residence in white society and usually involving a period of travel
through the bush. And by the British as A public stroll taken by an important person, such as a monarch, among a group of people for greeting and conversation. For Guernsey I imagine it was a bit of both.

I continued to share the feeling of loss and wondered if Kiwi was missing the opportunity he might have had sit with his friend in his last days. As I ruminated, I became overwhelmed by the immenseness of Guernsey's last act. It was a breathtaking expression of true love and compassion- to walk away and spare your loved one the pain of your slow and painful departure. And it is the rarest form of love that knows, really knows, that in your leaving, your beloved will not feel any diminishment of feeling- no sense of abandonment or anger. Two beings who know each other on that level leave nothing left unsaid. The strength and certainty to do this is not an act you would normally attribute to a garden-variety house cat. This was no ordinary cat.

In truth Guernsey was a curmudgeon. Even Kiwi will admit that- with much love and affection. But in thinking about writing this entry I happened across something written by Jon Winokur for "Small Winery" magazine. It beautifully expressed, beyond the common "grouchy old man" definition, how true a curmudgeon Guernsey was, in the best possible sense. And why in meeting him and hearing of his grace and elegance in his departure, I was compelled to write this entry.

A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're
neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just
mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the
next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of
misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor. .... They
attack maudlinism because it devalues genuine sentiment. ... Nature,
having failed to equip them with a serviceable denial mechanism, has
endowed them with astute perception and sly wit.

Curmudgeons are mockers and debunkers. .... They can't compromise their
standards and can't manage the suspension of disbelief necessary for
feigned cheerfulness. Their awareness is a curse.

Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the
messenger is blamed for the message. They have the temerity to comment
on the human condition without apology. They not only refuse to applaud
mediocrity, they howl it down with morose glee. Their versions of the
truth unsettles us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften
it with humor.

This is for Kiwi. And for anyone who ever lost a best friend lacking in opposable thumbs. For Mayo... and especially- for wherever he walks now, though the writing of this would change him not one iota, for Guernsey.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

:) X

And a ps... from Kiwi


Guernsey was Wendy's idea, really. She saw him in a pet store window with three other kittens and he saw her and she melted down and... sold. It's ironic that he never really liked her very much. And he never really warmed up to the kids, either. Tolerated them, I suppose. Guernsey was all about Guernsey. He was this tiny little ball of white and black fluff with huge eyes and ears and a scrawny little tail, and in his mind he was bigger than life. Bigger than anything on the block. Certainly bigger than the chipmunks and moles and mice and other little beasties that lived in the yard, and bigger and badder than the other two (at the time) cats living in the house as well. I'm quite sure that they dismissed him as "all talk", but Guerns made it his mission in life to keep the yard safe for catocracy. The consumate patrol cat. Semper fi. Heaven have mercy on the poor creature that crossed his territorial lines; if he couldn't kill it, he'd damn well make sure it got the fear of catgod instilled within its very being. Not that he was physically intimidating: he was the smallest of the cats. The thinnest, too; you could have played his spine like a xylophone. However, he could do the puffer-fish-trick and make every hair on his diminuitive frame stand out - Looney Tunes-style - and when he got the snarl and hiss going you'd almost believe he was the real thing. Which is why it's funny that he took to me; I could see through his charade. I knew he was just a pussycat at heart, even when he got older, and I knew he was all about the show. I enjoyed it. I encouraged it. I used to watch him come to the back door with a decapitated mouse corpse in his teeth and I'd praise him and call him "the great white hunter" and make a big fuss over him and all... I think he liked it. And later, when I would be working at my computer or watching television, he'd crawl up into my lap, stretch his face up towards mine to nip me on my nose, start up his motor and then snuggle down to snooze with an attitude of pure contentment. The consummate housecat. I played into his little fantasy and I guess he played into mine: that everything was good and life was what it was supposed to appear to be.

2B1FL, bud. Always, Brooklyn.

The Joy of Ephemera

"The best things in life are free, or so we are told. Well, I don't know about that. What I do know is, the best things in life are brief. Pleasure has an extremely short half-life. If something marvelous goes on for too long, we start to feel bored and uncomfortable. 'When a rainbow has lasted as long as a quarter of an hour we stop looking at it,' Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote. Rainbows are miraculous things but their fame, like our own, lasts about fifteen minutes. That's no bad thing, I think. Our most intense sensations, whether sensual, intellectual or spiritual- are always fleeting. In fact, they are all the more intense for being so short. It's like being in an earthquake. The Earth moves for only a few seconds but the experience leaves us permanently rattled." - James Geary www.jamesgeary.com

I, Kayak

A kayak is a small human-powered boat. It typically has a covered deck, and a cockpit covered by a spraydeck. It is propelled by a double-bladed paddle by a sitting paddler. The kayak was used by the native Ainu, Aleut and Eskimo hunters in sub-arctic regions of northeastern Asia, North America and Greenland. Source : Wikipedia (Notice the glaring omission of the Hebrews, here. No kayaks in the desert I guess)



I went to Coventry, Connecticut for a visit with my friend Dove. That's his last name, his first name is David, which in Hebrew is Dov. Hence the confusion. See, I thought Dov was Jewish. When Dove asked me to go kayaking I figured here was a nice Jewish man who kayaks, maybe this was something nice Jewish people do. In Connecticut. I have never kayaked. I rowboat, slowly, with other people, in Central Park. The water there is just enough of a solid that if you do happen to fall in- you won't sink far.

As we arrived at Eagleville Lake I found out two very important pieces of information. A. Dove is a Unitarian and B. Eagleville Lake is a true liquid- a deep and fairly COLD liquid, all the way to the bottom- where I began imagining squishy slimy unidentifiable ...things, and maybe snakes. Sometimes an active imagination can be a hindrance- like NOW. So I went back to thinking about Dove. I know just slightly less about Unitarians than I do about kayaks. Since I did not know their basic beliefs regarding the afterlife, heaven, hell and repentance for sins before death by drowning, well, lets say I was a wee bit nervous.

Then I saw the sign at the edge of the lake. My first impression was that it was some sort of warning that you should not let the boat hit you in the head. Good to know.



There seems to be no actual dress code for kayaking... other than not nude (it was cold). It seemed like shorts and something warm was the ticket. Dove asked me if I had water shoes- I said only when it rains- no really. Water shoes? I had no clue. The oh-so-thoughtful Dove had brought along a pair of what looked to me like... black men's heavy nylon socks. Wearing them
I looked like a guy from a cheesy vintage porn movie- all pale legs and these black feet. Not my best look. They did, however, keep my feet warm and dry and I figured inside the kayak, who'd see? And when the paramedics pulled my drowned corpse from the lake they would probably slip off. I hoped. Again- imagination- a curse not a blessing. I reminded myself I was an outdoors woman, strong, self assured, clothing was secondary- the focus was survival. I could do this..maybe.

Hillary and Mark had lent us their kayaks. Marc's boat was a 13' fiberglass model and watching Dove wrestling it out of the flatbed of the truck it seemed to me the boat did not want to go. Maybe that was transference. Hillary's boat was a 9.5' plastic boat- kind of a Fisher Price kayak. Hillary is a lovely and diminutive dancer who cannot weigh 100 lbs. soaking wet- she had reassured me the kayak was really light and easy to handle. I didn't think she'd lie to me. I was wrong. I kept peeking inside the boat to see if it had an anchor. Fortunately at the moment I was about to stick my head into the boat's cavity Dove asked if I needed help. Hell yes. Directions back to NYC, pronto.

I walked down the concrete sort of ramp to the kayaks. Dove stood next to them watching me with a puzzled expression on his face. "I can only imagine what that look is." he said, smiling. The THOUGHT at that moment- after seeing a few cigarette butts on the ground- was that would be my last wish- one last cigarette before I went. Even condemned criminals got that much consideration. Then I remembered I don't smoke. As starting that habit might delay the kayaking- I considered it.

Dove helped me into the kayak- and handed me my oar. Dove had told me about drip rings and adjustable feathers and stuff- I missed most of it due to the roaring sound in my ears. Then he attached the oar to my wrist- saying something here about up the creek without a paddle- uh-oh. No- this would prevent me from losing my paddle he explained- I figured out if I fell in and had to be dragged out- I could use the paddle to hit Dove repeatedly and avoid hurting my hands while I did so. I didn't tell him. He would have taken it the wrong way.

And then we were floating. Odd sort of feeling to be sitting and floating on my tush. I paddled a bit and after a couple of strokes Dove kindly mentioned if it wasn't my goal to go in circles, I might try using both ends of the oar.



We were paddling for a little island in the middle of the lake. I was left and righting with the oars. The boat was gliding forward and the water going back and if I stayed in the middle the boat didn't tilt. OK. I was handling this. I watched the point of the boat and tried not to make it wriggle back and forth, sort of succeeding. Dove kept up a reassuring patter- I cannot tell you what he said. Hopefully he was not revealing the secrets of life- or explaining Unitarianism because I wasn't listening. I was feeling- the sun on my shoulders, the wind in my hair and like I was moving myself and in control of where I went and when. As I paddled under a huge pine tree I could hear the wind sighing through the branches and how peaceful it was there on the lake. I pulled my camera from my pocket and laid the oar across the boat to take a picture of some dead branches on a tree on the island- which I then crashed into. Dove claims he was looking for red winged blackbirds at the time and missed it. Chivalry is not dead.

For a bit I just stopped paddling and sat, the boat rocking- with my face in the sun. I looked across at a marsh and watched an egret looking for lunch in the reeds just off shore. I began to understand a little why people wear funny black socks and don little plastic boats and risk appearing foolish both entering and leaving the kayak (there is not a graceful way to either mount or dismount the kayak that I could see). Dove bravely just kind of rolled himself into the water so he could help me. I noticed, Dove. It was icky AND cold. I barely missed soaking my own butt in the water, mostly thanks to Dove yanking me out of the kayak much the way I imagine deep sea fishermen land a Marlin.

Here is where I admit it was fun. It was beautiful. And as I write this I just remembered something.

When I graduated from the 6th grade my dad struggled over signing my yearbook. Dad left school at the 2nd grade during the Depression and never read or wrote well. It was important to him that he write this himself and so he spent a long time alone in the kitchen with my book- so long that I had to go to bed and didn't see the book or what he'd written until the next day. My dad died of a heart attack later that year. Funny that those words came back to me tonight. In his shaky penmanship that night he'd written; "Always be good, Always be strong, and paddle your own canoe."

Hey dad. I did it.



:) X

Of course you know that this means war.....

The internet is making me VERY unproductive. I can't get to writing my magnum opus on Paprika (this is a piece 25 years in the planning...) because people keep showing me things. And then I have to share them. And then we have to compare notes on our thoughts (and ALL of this when we are in the most productive hours of the day (say between the hours of 1 am and 4 am- the space formerly wasted on sleep....pah- 45 minutes a night is enough for anyone- where's your stamina?).

The worst offenders are the cat websites. I have A cat. I am not a single cat lady with 57 felines for company. My cat does not have a huge range of toys, just a stuffed dreidel and gefilte fish my friend Wendy bought her for Chanukah- which she loves. I do not use a falsetto voice when friends ask me about her, or pretend she has a voice of her own, and what passes for endearments when she and I are alone- well- that's our affair.

BUT these websites are KILLING me. There is www.vikingkittens.com. Just go- I could describe it but it needs to be seen- and heard. Then there is a better one... (ok.. better meaning I waste an even larger portion of my beauty rest on it - these days I look like Lily Munster- post mortem- and Fred Gwynne is not around to adore me (sigh) ) www.stuffonmycat.com. Be warned- the pictures are cute, and funny. But this website is guaranteed to adversely affect the trust segment of your relationship with your feline. Suddenly you will be chasing the cat around yelling "HOLD STILL- it's JUST a GARTER BELT". All so you can post a photo of your cat as feline fatale. You can lose more than just the trust of your cat here- if your kitty is as (ahem) strong willed as mine- you better check that the local blood bank is well stocked on your brand. You'll need it.

And lastly, I found, TOTALLY by accident, a site called www.kittenwars.com. And all I can say is:



Vote for MINNIE Or she will bite you.

A little addition here... to monitor Minnie's ascent to CUTEST kitten EVER check out http://kittenwar.com/kittens/124300/
:) X

A Visit with the Doctor and a Remedy for Fear

I hate street fairs. Let me be more precise... I hate what is presented as art at street fairs. I guess it stems from my judgement that art should not make you recoil in horror or shade the eyes of small children. I envision mothers pointing to a drooling 20-something year old who twitches uncontrollably and barks and when asked the nature of the ailment the reply is "yes, poor dear was frightened by a neo impressionist painting of the New York Skyline done in oil paint and toilet paper, hasn't been the same since." And I do not consider gluing sand, shells, glitter and a plastic fish onto toilet bowl brushes with matching waste basket and soap dish a "craft". I think waking to that particular grouping first thing in the morning would create an entire new crop of anti-depressant users. But the sign in the first booth showed promise (see above) even if it was crap... it hadn't been mass produced. As the show wore on this was a comfort to me.

However. I had not come to see the art at the Hoboken Music and Arts Festival. I had a Doctor's appointment, with Malcolm John Rebennack- or by his professional name... Dr. John. I had visited the good doctor many times and happy or sad, sick or well he's always managed to lift me higher. From the fairgrounds at Jazz Fest in New Orleans to the open air concert 2 summers ago at Lincoln Center (in the sweltering 90+ humid degrees he rocked the audience in a red velvet suit) I was in love with the sound of his raspy N'awlins R & B. I remember taking Gaby to that concert- "What kind of music does he play?" she asked. I was at a loss... what is it... I just said "C'mon..." She went from somewhat withdrawn and oh-so Teutonically proper to standing on a little plastic chair yelling "wooooooooooooooooo-oooo" and calling me "bay-bee". It was a little disconcerting (almost no pun intended)



But I arrived 2 hours prior to concert time towed by my friend Margo so I saw three million eight hundred pairs of "cute" earrings (Margo by her own admission cannot resist a shiny object). Two thousand clever belts made out of ribbon and enough bad art to float a world tour. Perhaps Mr Saatchi- to follow the success of his "Sensation" show at the Brooklyn Museum, would sponsor a tour of the stuff.. maybe call it "Abomination" and charge people for the privilege of staying away- he'd make a fortune and this stuff would be out of the light of day. Win-win.

I was not completely crabby- I felt a little non-crabby twinge in my left toe- might have been gout. It was a beautiful day. There was TONS of street food (which I love- when it comes to this kind of comestible I am about as fussy as a NYC pigeon)
Margo grabbed a plate of Indian food, all of which would look just awful on her white shirt and I chose a Brazilian steak sandwich with so much garlic on it I think I felt vampires in Transylvania flinch as I bit into it.

We walked around the corner to a small park to avoid covering ourselves in food that would stain us into the afterlife if we tried to eat standing up. I had my camera and as we ate took pictures of escaping children's balloons and trees and used the telephoto lens to capture some toddlers, well, toddling on the warm green grass. I bemoaned the fact that I could not get closer to the kids- I do not take many photos of people. Margo chided gently- "Why not? Go ask!" I had a million excuses but the truth is- asking is not easy for me- what if they said no? I am not certain now what I thought people I asked would say. But I just sat looking at my sandwich and feeling like I'd missed something- and being not really sure what it was.





Immediately after the last bite had been taken Margo leapt up, certain we had missed thousands of shinier earrings and we headed back into the increasingly madding crowd; give someone a bottomless drink cup and a bit too much sunshine- this will happen. But we perused the best the fair had to offer- and even encountered some of the more colorful folks the crowd offered up.

Some put their colors over their skin:



And some put the colors directly on their skin. I offered that in this case if the artiste became fatigued I would gladly provide an assist. Purely professional of course- I went to art school... (RRRRRRRooowroooooooowrrr)



And as we entered yet one more dimly lit soap, plant hanger something or other booth- I saw a tattoo. Now granted, in this neck of the wood- there are a lot of tattoos. But this one caught my eye. A tiny pair of wooden shoes. I turned to Margo and said "look!"- she said, "wow, cool". There was something more than ink here... I needed to know what it was. A lot. I pulled my camera from my bag and tapped just above the tat. The person who turned was- kind of young... I could not tell her age as there was so much make up covering her bright eyes and the dusting of freckles across the bridge of a pert nose. "Can I take a picture of your tattoo?" I asked- waiting for a snarl. "Mom, can she?" she asked, and from the shadows came a very tall mom. Daughter and mom shared a make-up style and I could see the eyeliner harden around her eyes as they narrowed."What for?" she asked. "It's for me"- I said- " I think it's really neat." (OK, I said "neat"- I was in Jimmy Olsen mode, sue me) "No face" said her mom. I said sure- and her mother chastised her for the bra strap showing under her camisole- "M-oom, its not even a bra" she said in disgust as she pushed away the hand that fussed at her lingerie. And then we began to talk as I took a couple of shots. The tattoo was for her grandmother- who had passed last Fall. "We're Dutch" her mother chimed in. "I wanted something to remind me of her" the girl said looking at me intensely- "Angels and stuff are stupid. This kind of..made sense- you know?". I said I did. And we talked a bit more about her grandmother and the hardness left the eyes of 3 former strangers as they told me their story.

Afterwards Margo and I walked down to Observer Highway as the good Doctor began sermonizing and preaching the good "woid" of R & B. He was playing one of my favorite songs of his. I can't think that Johnny Mercer QUITE had Mac Rebbennack's throaty growl in mind when he wrote these lyrics but when I hear this song in my head it's pure Dr. John

You've got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mister In-Between

You've got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene



Have faith or pandemonium. Got it. Faced it. Next?

:) X

Makura no Soshi or Blog as Pillow Book

Sei Shōnagon (清少納言), 967-1010 Japanese author and Essayist, drawn by Kikuchi Yosa

One day Lord Korechika...brought the Empress a bundle of notebooks.

"What shall we do with them?" Her Majesty asked me...
"Let me make them into a pillow" I said.
"Very well" said Her Majesty " You may have them."

I now had a vast quantity of paper at my disposal, and I set about filling the notebooks with odd facts, stories from the past and all sorts of other things, often including the most trivial material. On the whole I concentrated on things and people that I found charming and splendid.... I was sure that when people saw my book they would say, "It's even worse than I expected. Now one can really tell what she is like." ... As will be gathered from these notes of mine I am the sort of person who approves of what others abhor and detests the things they like."

Sei Shonangon, The Pillow Book" c. 1000 A.D.

I read this and was ...amazed. Writing for its own sake- in your own voice, for pleasure. I am a mere 1007 years late to the party! The paragraph above made me look further- who was this person?

Sei Shonagon was born in 967, the daughter of a descendant of the Emperor Temmu. She lived in the Imperial Palace as a lady-in waiting in the service of Empress Sadako from 993 until Sadako's death in 1000. The Pillow Book (Makura no Soshi) was written about the year 1002, during the Heian period in Japanese history. The book is part diary and part essay.

Though Shonagon did not write down her ideas in The Pillow Book in any kind of connected style she did include 164 lists
like:

Splendid Things
Depressing Things
Things That Should Be Large
Things That Gain By Being Painted
Things That Make One's Heart Beat Faster
Things That Cannot Be Compared

It is my opinion that had Shonagon had a digital camera (and a computer and the internet and a keyboard- oh hell- it would have been a whole other book then wouldn't it?) The lists might have been easier shown as jpegs is all I'm saying.

I kept reading, and my admiration grew. The Japanese did not have a written language until the sixth century when they borrowed their characters from the Chinese. These bold ink characters became the province and tools of male poets. The female writers of the Heian period were expected to use a more abbreviated, lighter, more feminine alphabet. Shonagon wrote in the male form, shocking her contemporaries. She took lovers and wrote honestly when they thrilled or disappointed- she observed royalty and carpenters and wrote about each with equal enthusiasm, avidly describing the intimate details of their lives, as she observed them. She was amused and interested by the world around her regardless of class or culture- to her all life was set before her and the only thing that really mattered to her was her opinion of each- her unique point of view.

I realized as I read her words that my point of view here- is such a very small snapshot- but just as Shonagon's book gave the world a snapshot of a world long past, I felt vindicated- there have been other people who wrote because the world was flying past them- wonderful and unpredictable and because it is just the world going by MY ears and eyes and mind- it's a picture of these times unique in all the world. And I read on..

It is getting so dark that I can hardly go on writing and my brush is worn out. Yet I should like to add a few things before I end. I wrote these notes at home, when I had a good deal of time to myself and thought no one would notice what I was doing. Every thing that I have seen and felt is included."

According to the noted literary critic Donald Keene, The Pillow Book: "Is a work without precedent, filled with flashing impressions and delicate touches (even) if lacking in depth. "

Often lacking in depth... funny... highly personal at times and filled with visual lists. Me and Lady Shonagon (forgive my boldness, it comes from a reverent place)... we have a few things in common. And she inspires me. I love it when that happens. And I can share it with you.

:) X

The Circle of Friends

Mel and Syd Coney Island Fall 1982 by Paul Coltoff

"Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular letter to the friends of him who writes it. They alone take his meaning; they find private messages, assurances of love, and expressions of gratitude, dropped for them in every corner." R.L. Stevenson

I like my whole name. Melanie. Not Mel- not Melody, or Melonie- Melonius (as my friend Norris will call me) or Melvin- (a favorite taunt from my sister which gets me EVERY time) or Melly (with special dispensation for Skye because... he's too cute for me to mess with) or my friend Spud's kids who call me Miss Mel...

For every rule there are exceptions. My feeling is IF you have rules- you need a really good reason to bend them. There are 4 people who have earned the right to call me Mel. Gaby, Miriam, Julie and my best friend Syd. These women have been through it all with me- my wedding, my mother's funeral, my divorce, their weddings. Miriam, Julie and Gaby live close enough by that if I choose to, I can get to them without the help of the Travelocity gnome. Syd has always lived FAR. We met at Camp Ella Fohs in the Summer of 1980- I was 20- Syd's a year or two younger. For 3 months we spent days and nights together- and the friendship was formed. Syd's name is Cindy- but I have never called her that- my sister's name is Cindee and the name just seemed wrong at the time. She became Syd that summer and it stuck, she has always been Syd to me.

At the end of that summer Syd went home to the heart wrenching news of the divorce of her parents and a rocky relationship at college. At 20 I was kind of settled- a solid relationship, last year of college and no real troubles. Syd would visit from Cueymans, NY and we'd run together- a week or a weekend or a New Year's eve night trying to survive my mom's olive and cheez-whiz hors d'oeuvres and falling asleep under the dining room table- waking early to play volleyball in the middle of the street like we were 12. Looking back at that time we were...compared to now.

As I said over the years we got together when we could- when I got married Syd not only made her own maid of honor dress but planted her size 5 foot on my backside and pushed me out the door to my own wedding when I froze at the doorway. Julie was singing "I'll be there" accompanying herself on the guitar but by the 3rd chorus Julie was not quite so certain I would be there- Syd made sure I was.

At Syd's wedding I found out something I never knew. It was the rehearsal dinner and people from both families made speeches about the bride and groom and then someone- I think it was either Henry's mom or dad said- and "now we will hear from Cindy's best friend, Melanie". We'd never said it out loud- but there it was- Syd's sister Cheryl got the maid of honor position (and the accompanying "1 wearing only" dress) but I got a title I'd held for years and never realized. As I stood up- I cleared my throat and said, very seriously "There are so many things I could tell you about my best friend, Syd" and a wicked smile crept across my lips; "But I won't." And sat down. That night a mystique was born as to what exactly I know about Syd- and what she might REALLY be like, that survives to this day. Her husband believes when she visits here that we spend all night carousing with someone named "Raoul". That is perfectly true. I will never say otherwise.

Syd's first child Nicola was born almost to the day that my marriage ended. The sadness of that time is twined forever in my mind with going to Baltimore to paint Winnie the Pooh over Nikki's crib, and Tigger and Piglet by the river and a tall chestnut tree in the corner over the chair where Syd nursed Nikki and rocked her to sleep. Literally I painted my heart out in that room - and Syd let me- helped me to find joy through those hard days- and even after I went home to a now-single household, I was comforted thinking that Nikki woke and opened her beautiful eyes to my love on those walls.

Nicola and I have inherited a special relationship that grew out of the fact that- to an extent, Syd had to buckle down and be a mom and a good example to her kids. Being single, and relatively far away- it has fallen to me to be the bad influence and wild child example for Nikki. I am proud to say I was the first one to slip her ketchup on a french fry at 6 months. Syd still blames me for Nic's junk food and ketchup addiction. I still remember the day Syd called to tell me Nicola at two years of age had pitched a fit in the car because Syd did not order her fries at a drive thru. After all, it was a bank drive thru.

I have taught Nikki to whine, and helped her stand in her 1st pair of high heels. I am proud she is growing up to be the thorn in her mom's side that Syd was to her own mom... Keep it up Nic- I'm proud of you.

We have a million stories. My life would have been very different without Syd in my life. Bailing me out financially when my bake shop was failing, telling me after my divorce that my skirts were too damned short, supporting me through too many guys who, according to Syd, were- too old, too flawed or just not good enough for her best friend. Of course she thought that- we still have Raoul.

She is reading this. She stops by my blog most every day about 9:25 am- I look and see Hinsdale, IL and I know it is her. She never leaves a comment or says anything- she is just there. I hope she knows I am there for her too. There are a lot of miles between us but it's nothing really, compared to what is truly between us. Our whole lives and the places we have touched each other. Though I don't say it often enough, I love you, Syd.




Mel and Syd Trinity Church Spring 2006 by Nicola Brown

:) X

Black and White and All the Colors in Between...

The rich gatherings of a sticker hunt spanning 6 blocks in Soho on a sunny last day in April. I realized I was touring the day's gallery of city art with curatorship courtesy of city soot and weather.














note here the artist gets in the picture...turkey reference stated but not implied












It certainly is.

:) X