Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Best Seats

in the house were ours today. I’ve seen a lot of interesting things during my lifetime but today was special. Our armed services do so much for their country yet still find time to give back at home, and that’s what The Blue Angels did for us today.

Thunderstorms have threatened all week, but they were staved off until moments after The Blue Angels did their final pass at this year’s Air and Water Show. Wonderful performers entertained us over the shores of Lake Michigan all day today, and will repeat their amazing feats tomorrow as well, hopefully under sunnier skies. No, I didn’t pay top dollar to park and sit in the beachfront seating, I watched from our floor-to-ceiling windows, a birds-eye view and quieter than on the beach.

Every once in a while you get up in the morning, possibly not expecting much, and someone makes your day. They made mine today, with split second timing and feats of derring-do. I think we should all get up in the morning and try to do something that makes another’s day, but that’s for another day.

I don’t usually get the best seat and it makes me sad to think of the last time. My husband and I had comp seats, first row balcony, for a ballet gala seven years ago. My father and brother were involved with the production. It was two weeks before Dad died, and he was too sick to go with us.

I’ve had the good luck to be a music student and as my Dad was involved with a university, got to see a lot of theater, musicals and opera, plus art installations and galleries. I got to see a not particularly good opera at the Staatsoper in Vienna once. Fine production, just not one of my favorite operas. Late in his life, my parents took me to see Frank Sinatra at Carnegie Hall.

As to fireworks, I’ve been right next door to the largest land-based fireworks in the US for several years, Chevy’s Freedom Over Texas. It was fantastic. Also I’ve sat next to a small hometown lake while the local fire department spent its minimal dollars to the best of their abilities and seen a darned good show! It’s all about the experience, and with whom you share it. Cheers! Dee

The Barbie Lecture

Whee! I never thought I’d have the context to write about this, so thank you Mattel, Greta Gerwig and Margot Robbie!

All my girlfriends had Barbies. I had Raggedy Ann. I’d like to think that even then, pre-Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan, Mom thought Barbie presented a skewed version of women in society. She did outfit me for feminine roles, with a metal kitchen set and an Easy-Bake Oven, neither of which were big hits the day after Christmas though I did develop a lifelong love of cooking. But not because I’m a woman.

In our small village, we lived for the summer with Dad leading all our dead-end street’s kids (girls, too, if Dad played, everyone got to play) played an evening touch football or softball game. At age eight, we moved the country and to swimming, berry-picking, weeding Mom’s garden, mowing instead of dolls. Winters, up north of course, were full of sledding, snowman-making and baking many cookies.

I went to a liberal arts college run by Franciscan friars. My first advisor was a large priest who wanted me to go along and get along, girls didn’t really belong there and were only there until they got married. When I chose sociology as my major, I asked the department chair to be my advisor, as he actually was interested in my gaining an education. It was this priest who gave the annual Barbie Lecture.

This lecture was the hot ticket of the semester and I got to hear it, once, in the late seventies. He began by stating that Barbie would be 7’11” tall in real life and gave her measurements in human terms. It was an excellent lecture by a Catholic priest on the role of women in society.

Another priest who I adored for his art history classes, opened my mind even more with Renaissance and Reformation, where he had several classes on the role of women (as Priests!) in the Catholic Church and how that role was designed then chipped away at by the powers that be over the centuries.

As to the Barbie Lecture, I don’t recall if Father C. ever mentioned the missing piece of anatomy on the Ken doll. No doubt members of today’s small but dedicated membership of the Toxic Masculinity Society would blame women for that, probably women from Mattel!

While I didn’t understand my lack of a Barbie doll as a child, I certainly do now. My life is better off having spent that time reading or doing other things than playing with dolls. Oh, btw, when my brother was a kid, a friend of his gave him a G.I. Joe for his birthday one year. As he opened it, Mom said “Look, a boy doll!” I don’t think he ever looked at it again.

Yes, I do believe that there are differences between men and women, that we are all equal and are here to use our strengths to help one another. Cheers! Yes, I’ll see the new movie, but probably wait for it to come out on tv. Dee

Kicked Outta School?

It’s Spring, 1989 and I’m disillusioned with the rat race. I thought politics were bad then, when Trump was just a crooked real estate developer! I decided put together my life savings to go to cooking school.

To date, I’d never been in trouble in school, always got good grades and never skipped a day for sixteen years. This was different.

We had a list of things to buy and show up with first day of class, which included chefs jackets, toques, aprons, torchons and two knives, a quality chef knife (10″ – 12″) and paring knife (3″ – 4″). I chose Henckels with a certain type of handle that suits my hand. On the handle we were to paint our name or initials in nail polish, so I could tell my knives from those of the other seven students in our class.

First day of class, first five minutes, we were told in no uncertain terms that if a knife was ever found in a soapy sink, a danger to all aspiring cooks and their teachers, we would be told to leave. No second chances, no tuition refund, nothing. Gone.

Earlier this week, I was making my newest favorite, focaccia, and placed the loaf into my convection oven with a timer, to concentrate on dishes. Reaching into the soapy sink, I was greeted by the large blade from my food processor. I felt it hit, and knew the blood would spurt as soon as my hand was out of the water.

I called for my husband, who happened to be working at home, and asked for the first aid kit. Not nearly as bad as I thought, phew! A little hydrogen peroxide, bacitracin and a band-aid and I was good to go. The band-aid only lasted about an hour and it’s been in open air, cleaned regularly, since.

No visit to the ER, no stitches. And all my husband said besides that I was lucky, was “good thing you’re not in cooking school!” Of course he didn’t kick me out of the kitchen, because then he’d have to learn how to make something besides breakfast cereal and spaghetti with jarred sauce.

Luckily, it took nearly 35 years for me to make that mistake, and now I’ll renew my promise to keep the knives outside the sink and clean them one by one, dry them and safely put them away until next time. Please do the same! Cheers, lasagna tonight. Dee

Do Re Mi

A young actor studies for an audition.

A former prima ballerina teaches her students.

One fine chef layers flavors expertly.

What do they all have in common? The actor is reading for Romeo and Juliet, a classic. The ballerina makes certain her student’s arabesque is perfect. And the chef uses the fonds du cuisine to make a masterpiece on the plate.

Sister Maria had something to say to all:

Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

When you read you begin with A-B-C, when you sing you begin with do-re-mi.

One starts with the basics and moves on to be able to use that knowledge and, if good enough, be able to take your own riff on it. But nothing can happen without learning the rules first, all of them. My friend the young actor is studying Shakespeare. My friend the ballerina is shocked that her students don’t want to learn any basics, just do their own thing. And my “inner chef” is now fully trained and I know in my heart and mind that I prefer the purity and soul of Italian cooking to fancy French fare any day.

Now let’s talk about a smart little girl living in a small village in the middle of no-where USA whose high point of the week (sorry, Father, it wasn’t Sunday Mass) was being dropped off at the tiny village library with her sister while Mom went grocery shopping. So, the first Black person I ever met was Harriet Tubman, the first Jew Anne Frank, and Native American, the ballerina Maria Tallchief. I read Death Be Not Proud and To Kill a Mockingbird when I was eight years old. No, they were not assigned in school, as my classmates were still reading basic stuff. My friend Steven and I were asked to sit at the back of the room to study on our own. All the others were learning phonics and we already knew how to read so our parents forbade it.

My father was first-generation American, first to ever go to college and my mother started college the year I did. Dad worked at his alma mater so I was introduced to opera, symphony and plays and had the luxury of private violin, piano and ballet lessons. Plus, my aunts were English teachers so had a lot of reading selections for us to fill those cold winter nights.

By learning, at home and school, the basics of history, literature, fine and culinary arts I was given a gift, one that allowed my mind to grow and me to learn what is important in life. Telling the truth, social justice, loving thy neighbor, equality, being kind to others, no matter who they were.

Today, the powers that be are running out of “others” to hate. Let’s see, Muslims, Jews, Catholics, “elites,” gays, drag queens, transsexuals, and now all women. Did I forget anyone? Banning the teaching of history in history class does nothing to create a well-rounded U.S. citizen. Banning books does no-one any favors. And touting “freedom” when it’s only the freedom of Americans to do what a minute fraction of white nationalists want to let us do, is not freedom at all.

Winston Churchill once said “those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.” We should not go down that rabbit hole as a nation, as it does a disservice to all our futures. I know in my heart that children want desperately to learn, and I’m all for letting them read anything they’re ready for. I don’t expect a six year-old to digest Hamlet, but I know how important parents and teachers are to early child development. With knowledge comes, eventually, wisdom. I know that because I have something to say and for the last half of my life I’ve learned how to say it. Out loud. I was once afraid to write, no longer.

Our children are the future of our nation. If they don’t know their, our shared history they cannot responsibly carry on what the Founders intended for an informed, engaged citizenry. And while we’re at it, let’s fix the Supreme Court as well. What would RBG say if she were still with us? Vote! Dee

Fabulous Focaccia

I love happy kitchen surprises. Given my age and culinary experience, nothing much phases me these days. But, I’m no baker. I don’t do desserts and it’s so much easier to buy a good French or Italian loaf than to make one, but I made an exception yesterday.

Two reasons. First my newest toy, a full-sized convection oven. Yes, I’ve had it for a year but use the top regular oven because it’s small and I’m usually cooking for two. But lately I’ve been playing with the convection roast and bake options. And second, a new recipe, well not really. I based the focaccia recipe on The Moosewood Cookbook (Katzen, Ten Speed Press 1977) but used all AP flour (I usually use 00 flour and whole wheat), added a bit of Lyle’s Golden Syrup with the yeast, and used only 1.5 tsp yeast. But I really used my version of Cuisinart’s 1970’s manual for pizza dough I’ve been making since those days.

The dough was a dream to work with. I recently repotted and placed outside last year’s rosemary so I chopped a bit of that and added it to the dough. I used rapid rise yeast, let it rise for an hour, punched it down and let it sit ten minutes, then patted it out to an oblong shape, pressed dents into it, brushed it with olive oil. I added kosher salt, a bit of pepper, and more fresh rosemary and baked it for 20 minutes on roast (convection). Let it sit on a rack for 15 minutes and tore into it as part of a cold dinner featuring Black Forest ham, hard-cooked eggs, tomato wedges, aged cheddar, veggies and marinated olives. Yum!

I just love it when dough works like a dream then cooks like one too. Makes me think that if I’ve the right banetton, I can give French boule another try! Happy cooking! Dee

Spouse-Splaining

Happy weekend! Ours started off with a bang. A lesson for my husband. At issue was the concept of “routine.” He asked for something different for breakfast. OK, I can deal with that. Then he went for Lulu’s new “Chuckit” to go to the park instead of of her morning constitutional.

One man: One special weekend breakfast.

One herding dog: Changing routine for one day to incorporate fun new toy.

To understand why it becomes a conundrum is to know the mind of both the husband and the herder. For the husband it’s easy to know that during the week, things are rushed and one cannot have a perfect omelet, a rasher of bacon and English muffins every day. For a herder, one fun thing, done once becomes routine. Routine is sacred. She always gets the same breakfast, dinner and four walks per day. Routine. Treats are extra and usually earned. Easy life for all.

Introducing Chuckit is a no-no, and to demonstrate so, I went to the nth degree. OK, dear. How about when it’s ten below zero outside, you need layers and scarf and hat and gloves and boots and her winter coat and she brings you Chuckit, saying “It’s routine, Daddy!” Oh, he finally got it.

Lulu got her routine walk, he got his special breakfast. Crisis averted, now we can get back to the weekend. Enjoy yours. Dee

Little Things

Grief is a strange thing. It affects everyone differently, and I’ll not go into my most recent experience. Whew! You say. People say it’s the little things you remember that mean the most.

My father traveled a lot for work, when I was growing up, and later upon retirement for leisure. Weeks before he passed we were supposed to go, en famille, on a cruise down the Rhine and visit his parents birthplaces in Germany and Switzerland. We didn’t get there. But he did travel the world and always brought back something from the countries he visited.

When he started going to Florence, Italy regularly the gifts changed. At first in the fall, he’d always bring back the olio novello, the newest, first pressing of the olives. Now, if I wanted, I could order it online but this was back in the day, and it was special as it came from him. As he got older, he traveled lighter, and didn’t like the thought of a bottle of olive oil breaking in his suitcase.

He started on Ferragamo scarves. Impressive silk scarves with a hint of whimsy that I loved. Then he changed to little boxes. I have them all over the house now. Made of metal, wood or paper, they echo the ambiance of the places from whence they came. That is to say, they didn’t come from airport gift shops! That would be my husband, and because of my rule of nothing breakable, nothing collectible so he gets me a refrigerator magnet from anywhere he goes. Tomorrow when Lulu (the dog) and I go pick him up at the airport, I’m sure he’ll show up with a magnet in the shape of the Alamo!

But I digress. In the middle of my kitchen peninsula, I’ve a cheap plastic timer. It’s an Italian in a chef’s toque. It’s the silliest gift Dad ever gave me, but I see it every day and it brings back fond memories.

I don’t know where they got the idea, but our parents picked a themed Christmas ornament for each kid, every year, then when we moved out of the house, we had enough ornaments and memories to start a tree of our own. It’s similar with travel gifts and photos. They last a lifetime and mean so much to the recipient. Just a thought. Happy Spring! There’s a cruise ship that tours the Great Lakes and it’s pulling into port just now to start the season. Gotta plant the herbs outside and get a tomato plant – I’m not growing from seed this year. Dee

Service Days and Breakfast Ballets

Yesterday was a perfect day, sunny and warm, no vestiges of snow or the mud it left behind. We entered the park and there was a two year-old girl on the swings calling “Doggie! Doggie!” None of Lulu’s canine friends were there so we went over and the two spent some time together with treats and tricks.We also stopped by to say hello to a couple of college girls with a blanket and blow-up sofa getting some sun while they studied.

Afterwards we walked home past the rehab center/old folks home and there were several patients outside enjoying the weather. We said hello and chatted a bit. Lulu may just have a therapy dog inside her, as soon as she calms down a bit. She enjoys making people happy, and it’s good to have a day like this when it’s not all about chasing another dog or another ball, just making the day of one other person a little brighter!

In the morning I have my routine, I move from area to area in the kitchen taking care of Lulu, my husband, and, finally, me. The usual for both, frozen raw and a bit of quality kibble for Lu, scrambled eggs and toast for the human. The worst is when my husband is standing there over me, or, heaven forbid, wants to “help.” As I measure out our vitamins and prescriptions, I look out at the lake and plan the day. The familiar steps are a science that has evolved into art. No wasted movement as I go between counters and sink and dishwasher. The “kids” fed, I turn to my breakfast and hope that I’ll have time to eat it before the next chore beckons.

Snippets from a day in the life… Cheers! Dee

Progress

Dad was the first kid in his family to go to college. He attended, then worked for a small college that was part of a large university system thus was able to parlay his baccalaureate degree into a doctorate and celebrated career. Mom graduated with honors from high school, met Dad and moved to the States where she had a Green Card for fifty years.

The minute Mom got pregnant with me, her life was stuck, unchangeable, so my parents went on and had three more kids. Mom said I could only aspire to her life. Dad said I could be anything I wanted to be. Nam and ERA came around and I went to college and though I was slated to get married two weeks after graduation, I gave back the ring less than three weeks after it was placed on my finger because I knew I wanted to try to make it on my own, move away from home, get a good job, so I did. Why? Because those avenues were now open to me.

Mom and I started college and finished the same year. She was Summa Cum Laude, I only made Deans List. She became a paralegal then a CPA and even after she retired, she volunteered doing taxes for seniors. Now I’m told I’m entering my “golden years” so, of course, Social Security and Medicare are gonna go broke in the foreseeable future and my generation’s daughters and grandchildren no longer have the opportunities that we did in the 70’s and 80’s.

Did I mention I grew up proud to be an American, and a big fan of democracy, open government and personal privacy? I worked for all of that, for many years, only to have a fraction of dissatisfied Americans try to unilaterally create an autocracy that hates everyone but white males. It hates immigrants like my mother, and my grandparents. It hates education. It says it’s for freedom but only for the privileged few.

I never thought I would hear white “christian” men speak so ill publicly of their mothers, wives and daughters. Are we merely a shell for their seed, to die for a fetus inside us because doctors are afraid to operate? Yesterday the “abortion pill” was literally erased by one man in one court in nowheresville, Texas. That means rich women will still be able to get abortions, while poor women will suffer.

Texas abortion bounty-hunters? How is Idaho to police family vacations? Pull them over, make sure they’re a family, search the vehicle to make sure neither mother nor daughter are pregnant? Walk the line straight, ma’am, while peeing in this cup.

If mifepristone is outlawed, how about suing to eliminate scalpels from being used for any surgery? Sorry, sir, you’ll never be in the Olympics because I can only use this stone knife that was created before the Bronze Age and it’s not small enough to do the micro-surgery you need to walk again.

I trust the FDA to vet drugs and vaccines that I’ve used for nearly 65 years. They do a pretty darn good job of it, regardless of what one Texas judge thinks. And as to standing to sue in court, saying that women are too ashamed to speak for themselves and need men to argue on their behalf is ridiculous. I know of what I speak, survivor of a traumatic brain injury with a court representative to speak for me? No way. I had the lawyer over, made him a cup of tea, assured him I could take care of myself and he cancelled the court hearing right then and there. We’re women. People with brains. God created us equal.

Certain of the people who want to change the USA to an autocracy don’t want women to work, or vote. Poor little dears, it’s too much for their delicate nature, to deal with real work and politics instead of meatloaf and cookies. You know what politics is? In a summer job at age 21, I had a crew of five drivers to take artists and lecturers to the airport, 90 minutes away. My father’s cousin was visiting, and was a bit of a misogynist and guess what lecturer was also going to the airport? Betty Friedan. Yes, I put them together. He deserved it.

Women, especially suburban women, need to heed the call to not go back to the 1950’s. At the very least, vote. Womens’ lives depend upon it. Voting rights, women’s rights, now is the time to move forward and assure us the multicultural democracy our founders envisioned. And when you hear inevitable conspiracy theories, consider who is promoting them and what they gain by doing so.

Wisconsin is taking back its Supreme Court, but gerrymandering has an unconscionable hold on its legislature and there are already rumors of impeaching the new justice before she even takes office. Tennessee is a call to action if ever there was one. Young people need to stand up on that one. Before the book banners threaten teachers to no longer teach about how democracies work, it’s time to teach our children how to be upstanding citizens and fight for liberty for all. Life for mothers with with untenable pregnancies. And for the right to pursue our futures through an education that makes us think, rather than spout back what we’re told to think. We all have work to do! Dee

PIB’s and Gwyneth Paltrow

Oh, I can imagine Park City UT all a-twitter these days, what with a movie star and a rich doctor in court over a Deer Valley ski incident. It’s “mud season” there now, what normal people call Spring. Post-ski, pre-summer activities. Luckily when I lived there, mud season was when the Greater Sandhill Cranes came to the Preserve to mate, guard their eggs and raise their colts before flying back to New Mexico in the Fall. Now THAT was fun to watch!

Sundance Film Festival came every year. We called the famous visitors PIB’s, People In Black. Most often, at the grocery store, we’d run into SPIB’s, the Slaves of People In Black. They were easy to spot, with a shopping cart blocking the aisle so no locals could do their regular grocery shopping, going through every jar of jam until they hopefully came upon the esoteric fruit their boss craved. Their hauteur knew no bounds. How dare we mere mortals even get near them while they were accommodating their masters’ wishes.

One year I thought it’d be nice to volunteer for Sundance so I put in my application, having worked my way through college at Chautauqua Institution (where Salman Rushdie was nearly fatally attacked last year), a lecture and performing arts venue. A month later, I got a job. I would be standing out in the freezing, snowy weather keeping film-goers in lines until 2 a.m. Nope. Not I. I explained that I was older and have arthritis so can’t be standing out in the cold all night throughout the Festival.

So they gave me a better job. Indoors. Yea! Verifiying credentials. I was to be the person to tell fake press that their credentials were invalid and to go to the end of the line for tickets like everyone else. A volunteer job to deny entry to the big ticket event! Wow. Alas, I couldn’t take it as my husband’s company laid off a third of its tech force and we moved away.

Sundance is a big deal there, but it’s brief, as is this crazy ski injury of the century trial, but life goes on. It’s usually pretty normal, and I even learned to love mud season! Cheers! Dee