The Second Day: Rendezvous

As a single woman traveling alone, I like to be prepared. Do I have appropriate clothing for climate and occasion? Do I have medications and toiletries? Do I have my boarding pass? Do I know where I’m going?

I will never take that last one for granted again.

On the second day of my trip, after arriving in London, I excitedly rose early, ready to meet my friends to begin our adventure. I ate my individual cup of Cheerios, drank some proper tea, and showered. I stopped to check my WhatsApp when one of the couples in our group texted, “Green or red Ibis? Our driver wants to know.” “Red,” was the answer. “Go to the RED brick Ibis.” The Ibis hotel at 112 Bath Road was our rendezvous point.

I finished checking out and consulted the hotel’s “Navigator” (commonly known as the Doorman/woman), who told me it was too far to walk to the Ibis at 112 Bath Road, so I ordered an Über. I had 45 minutes to arrive.

Alina-Stefania, my driver was swift, heaved my bags into the trunk of her late-model Toyota, and sped off. I texted our travel group via WhatsApp that I was on my way. 40 minutes to spare. The driver and I chatted amiably about where we were from, her children and husband, the value learning foreign languages, where I was going, the trouble in Ukraine, a Nigerian man she had just dropped off at Heathrow who cried because his girlfriend broke up with him the night before—-hey! This was taking a long time.

My WhatsApp buzzed. Another couple texted our group, “We’re at 112 Bath Road. It’s not an Ibis. It’s a red brick house.”

“There are two Ibises with the same address.”

I relayed this information to my driver, who showed me her gps to verify the information. Uh-oh. Ahead, on the corner, was a white stucco hotel with a green Ibis sign, and the gps guided us to a red brick house behind the hotel, indicating 112 Bath Road.

Alina and I looked at each other.

“This cannot be it,” she said worriedly, “but my gps says so.”

“It’s supposed to be at Heathrow. Let’s go back to the one across from where you picked me up. It’s red brick.”

“You will have to order a new ride on your phone app.”

Kaching! I ordered the new ride, and we were off. When we arrived, I jumped out of the car, thanked Alina for her patience, and she sped off to pick up her next fare.

“Funny,” I thought. “I don’t see anyone I know.”

A man in a garage across from the hotel’s side street entrance asked me if I lost something.

“Yeah, about 20 people.”

He continued to polish a black Mercedes van, one of what appeared to be a fleet, as I explained my dilemma, and suggested that I have the hotel clerk call me a taxi. “I have to pick up an airport transfer, but good luck to you.” He got in the van and drove off.

I rolled my bags into the second Ibis, explained my problem, and the clerk called a taxi.

“Taxi is coming in 10 minutes. Have a coffee,” she gestured to the hotel’s free breakfast area. “Maybe you would like water?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just wait out front.“

The clerk reached behind her and slammed a bottle of cold water on the counter.

“Here, you take this with you. Maybe you change your mind.”

“Wuh-well, thank you so much for your help,” I stammered. I was afraid to refuse her order. “I’ll just be waiting outside.” I texted my group that a taxi was coming in 10 minutes.

“Have the driver take you up Bath Road until you see an Ibis hotel with a big bus out front,” our tour organizer advised.

“It’s next to a bowling alley,” someone texted.

“And a Courtyard by Marriott.” another chimed in.

Ten minutes later, a big silver Mercedes rolled up. The driver, a large man in a silvery gray suit got out.

“You are Susan?”

“Well—uh—yes.” My first name is regularly mispronounced. He showed me his cellphone with a text to pick up “Suzanne at the Ibis and take her to another Ibis.“

“This is you?”

“Yes, that appears to be me.”

“Where is it you are going?” By now, I wasn’t entirely certain. I launched into my story. He considered the address, the bowling alley, and the Courtyard by Marriott, as the black Mercedes van returned to the garage across the street.

“Hey, you ever hear of Ibis hotel by bowling alley?” Silver Mercedes called to Black Mercedes, as the driver emerged.

“No, she already tell me this,” he smiled.

“I want you to take this lady and help her find this place.”

“I’m going with him?”

“He work for me. We gonna find this Ibis.”

As they hustled me and my luggage into the van, my new driver laughed and said loudly, “He don’t want to take you, because it’s not a big enough fare.” The boss laughed and playfully shook his fist at him.

Within minutes, back on Bath Road, we spied the big yellow bus, the Ibis, and the impatient travelers. I was 20 minutes late. I climbed out of the van, waiting for the ribbing to begin.

“At last!” I was received with hugs, instead. I gave the driver my credit card and tipped him £10. He wished me a good trip and started to get back in the van.

“Could you pick up another couple who’s also lost?” Someone asked. The driver got on the trip organizer’s phone, got the address, and headed off, returning in minutes with the last missing couple. The day was saved, and it was a big fare after all.

My advice: Save time and skip the Ibis in London.

D-DAY

Part of this trip is about exploring the lead-up to the Allied Forces’ invasion of Normandy on June 6, 1944, an extraordinarily coordinated rendezvous. To that end, once we were all on the coach, we headed down to Portsmouth, from which the invasion launched, and a look at Dwight D. Eisenhower’s headquarters for the final stages. The Supreme Allied Commander took sole responsibility for whatever was about to unfold, fully understanding the risks of uncertain weather, the lives of civilians and exhausted and undertrained troops, and political pressures to appease some of the greatest egos in history, including Roosevelt, Churchill, and DeGaulle. That must be why our parents and grandparents trusted him with the Presidency.

We visited Southwick Hall and saw the map that detailed the innumerable facets of the invasion in the room where it was planned. We followed it with lunch at Ft. Nelson, a tour of the D-Day museum with relics and mementoes of that day and an embroidered fabric record of the event, rivaling the Bayeux tapestry, which we will see next week.

Finally, before crossing the English Channel ourselves on the overnight ferry, we had the best fish and chips and mushy (fresh) peas that I’ve ever eaten. If you find yourself in Portsmouth, stop at the Beach Club Cafe.

In a world that seems more perilous than ever, it’s encouraging to be reminded that people continue to help one another; that good has and will continue to triumph over evil. Soli Deo Gloria!

The First 24

I currently am recovering from my first 24 hours traveling to a green and pleasant land across the pond that my ancestors fled for the ”New World” in droves in the 17th century. I was up early with BFF2, ran the trash to the landfill, repacked my suitcases for the fourth time in two weeks, bundled BFF2 off with her Fairy Godmother, washed all my bed linens, vacuumed and mopped, updated the website and finished up last minute reports for The Little Job, wrote some notes, and wrapped a Mother’s Day gift for My Mother, I was almost too exhausted to drive the two hours up I-95 to the airport in Philly. Almost.

I was blessed with absolutely no traffic, no wacky drivers, no accidents on the Tydings Bridge over the mighty Susquehanna River, and no tollgate backups in Delaware. Thank the travel gods for E-Z Pass and camera detectors! Really. I thanked them profusely, since burnt offerings are frowned upon by highway patrol in most states.

Once settled in the parking shuttle, I breathed a little easier until I noticed that my phone, although plugged in, hadn’t charged up during the drive and that I forgot my Epi-Pen. (Are there white-faced hornets and m-fing yellow jackets in Europe? Hope six months of bee allergy shots will protect me.)

Checked my bags at international Terminal A, from which my flight was departing, and was told that the only TSA pre-ck is in Terminal C, about a 15 minute walk, outside. The sole regular line had at least 100 weary travelers, so, I trekked up to Terminal C in a quilted jacket in 72-degree heat. On the plus side, on the last day of April, I earned my ”April Challenge Badge.” My watch celebrated with explosive vibrations matching my heart rate.

Weary traveler.

Finally, I boarded my flight and sank into my business class seat. Accumulating air miles over two years during The Pandemic with excessive spending on my credit card and no travel got me an upgrade. It was well-worth it!

Masked flight attendant Julie, the only other person with whom I interacted while aboard for seven hours, hurried up with the no-brainer choice of sparkling wine or sparkling water. My window seat was a semi-enclosed cubicle that extended into a flat bed with a thick pillow and comforter. (The only way for a delusional princess to cross an ocean and the only reason I upgrade. I’ve got better wine and food at home—although the shrimp appetizer with a spicy aioli was pretty, pretty good.) Heck, I remember when we were thrilled to have a foot rest on bus trips.

So. Here I am at Heathrow airport, where I have so many fond memories; an aborted landing on my first trip (“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,” the clipped voice of the British Airways pilot apologized, after the enormous L-1011 shot back up into the sky. ”There was an Air France aircraft a bit too close at the end of the runway.” Ah, the national rivalry.) The first time I was patted down by security, 1986. The Concorde. Shopping at the little Harrod’s shop.

Today, it’s chilly and gray, and I’m happy to sit in a hotel room, drink decent cups of tea, nap, and watch the telly (my favorite commercial advertises a £5 coin commemorating QEII’s 75th Jubilee. The announcer reassures the viewer that it costs it’s face value of £5–only on the Isle of Guernsey.

Herewith photos from the First 24. I think they’re self-explanatory. I wrote this on my iPhone, so please forgive the typos. On this Sunday and always, Soli Deo Gloria.

Wordaholic

The Latest News in 1960

I’m outta control!

My friend (let’s call him “Rob”) recently said to me, “You really are addicted to that Wordle thing, aren’t you? What’s that all about?”

I find words irresistible. When I was a kid, I devoured word games in My Weekly Reader and Highlights for Children, Jumble , Scrabble, and even Fun with Phonics.  Eventually, mostly in the 1970s and 80s, I regularly tackled The New York Times crossword puzzle in ink (the ink was a challenge from The Veterinarian’s stepfather) and even the Acrostic. Before they were removed from seatbacks, I always grabbed the in-flight magazine on a plane to complete the crossword before take-off. Now, thanks to Covid, I can experience a flight like the average flyer.

Thanks to the word game Boggle, I am never at a loss for something to do;  I just grab a word out of thin air and rearrange the letters to see how many words that I can form. I even create my own word games. When I can’t sleep, instead of counting sheep, I go through the alphabet to find words on a topic like rock bands (eg., Aerosmith, Beatles, Cream) or cars (eg., Avanti, Beetle, Corvette). I’m pretty sure that this makes me a wordaholic.

A decade or so ago, The Veterinarian and The Daughter, both highly skilled at math, gobbled up “Sudoku” online, in magazines, and in books.  It was too much work for me.  While I’m the kind of geek who enjoys balancing checking accounts and creating balanced budgets for grants, it hurt my brain.  It was solitary, cold, sterile, unemotional, unsatisfying. Is there a daily Sudoku? Do people congratulate one another on their Sudoku puzzles? Do they offer tips to one another? Do they post them on Facebook?

Wordle is the English major’s equivalent of Sudoku. The craze began a few months ago when software engineer Josh Wardle (clever naming, eh?) created the game for his partner who loves word games and put it online to entertain others, free of charge. The New York Times spent several mil for the rights, but Josh insisted that it remain free online. Love is built right into it. (Why don’t I meet guys like that on match.com?)

_{Dumb Luck}

Wordle doesn’t tax my brain, which I greatly appreciate first thing in the morning. It reminds me of the final round of Wheel of Fortune.  On Wheel, they give the final contestant the letters R, S, T, L, N, E.  Why?  Because they are used to make endless combinations that appear in common words.  And the contestant gets to choose three more consonants and one other vowel.  I would pick C, H, K, and Y.  Why?  Remember that old rhyme about vowels “A-E-I-O-U and sometimes Y and W?”  (Say, “awe.”)  That pesky “Y” can give a five-letter word two syllables, so think out of the one-syllabic box.

Some people use the same starting word each day, but I rotate them.  My choices always have an “r” and a “t” or a digraph such as “sh”, “ck”, or “th.”  “Ouija” is never my starting word.  It has too many vowels, and five-letter words with a “j” aren’t going to pop up very often.  I can fill in the vowels and create my own diphthongs, if I get the correct consonants. 

My biggest nemeses, though, are words with the same combination of letters.  Last week, for the first time ever, I didn’t get the word in the allowable six tries.  My first two guesses were solid, as was the third when I guessed the last four letters in correct order.  The problem became the first letter.  There are seven words with that combination.  I only had three more tries, and I chose the wrong first letter each time.

Luck is an enormous factor.  I haven’t seen anyone get the word on the first try, but I have gotten it on the second try, by Dumb Luck.  Annoyingly, the game rates the player at the end, which I despise, so I’ve created my own self-rating system: 

First word – NGT (Never going to happen); I am not that lucky.

Second word – Dumb Luck; wish I had played the lottery today, instead.

Third word – Small Miracle; not as stupid as I thought I was.

Fourth word – Meh; always a “B” student; good, but not good enough.

Fifth word – Multiple Choice Day; some words are more equal than others.

Sixth word – Phew!  saved from being a complete moron.

X – Sighing; it’s just a game.

Sigh

Another friend (let’s call him “Will”) questioned why people post their results on Facebook, intimating that they are clogging up his feed with irrelevant chatter.  I told him to scroll on by.  When you have a 5/6 or 6/6 day, it’s reassuring to see that my friends are struggling with it, too.  It’s hopeful to see the possibilities when a friend has a 2/6 or 3/6 day and a joy to celebrate their Small Miracles.  I always post.  If I’m going to post my Small Miracles, I must post my Sighing, too.

Finally, no matter how eloquent, I can’t personally vanquish rampant viruses or raging Russian villains, but I have a 97% success rate with Wordle, soli deo Gloria!

A Little Bathroom Humor

Having even less to do than I usually avoid doing since the Great and Ongoing Pandemic of the 21^st Century began, I’ve had plenty of time to ruminate on all manner of human behavior. While some people have been concerned about the effects of Covid-19 and how it is transmitted in order to spare society as a whole, others have been concerned with personal hygiene.

Yesterday, I heard a commercial that assured me that the manufacturer is working 24 hours a day to provide me with toilet paper. Huh. Didn’t make me want to squeeze them. Earlier during this pandemic, people became so obsessed with cleanliness that they hoarded toilet paper, causing shortages, stampedes, and short tempers. Really. People were lining up at the crack of dawn for toilet tissue and smacking each other with packages of Quilted Northern.

As one little woman with a big-box-store package of Charmin living with an even smaller woman with a big-box-store package of Cottonelle, my household had sufficient tissue for personal hygiene going into 2022. Still, I switched from using four squares to three, if you know what I mean.

Previously, the Japanese set the standard for personal hygiene. In 1997, I spent two nights in a Radisson Hotel at the Narita Airport outside Tokyo. I’m pretty sure I remember that the bathroom’s sink, toilet, and tub were molded from one continuous flow of fiberglass, like the head on a boat. I became transfixed by the toilet, which had a choice of in-bowl lighting colors, heated seat with several spray settings of warm water fancier than any European bidet, and a gentle pouf of air, heated or not, at my discretion. [I say “pretty sure I remember,” because I had severe jetlag and may have hallucinated at the sight of a glowing toilet in the dark.]

I certainly appreciate a good bidet with clean linen towels and finely-milled soap, but this was a spa experience in my own room and at a Radisson Hotel to boot. How superb the toilets in the Imperial Palace must be!

Brrr…See what I mean?

Should I wish to recreate my travel experiences, I see on Amazon that you can get a spray hookup for your own toilet. It connects to the toilet tank’s water inlet valve, which, having learned in widowhood to be my own plumber, I know is C-O-L-D water. Picture that going up your whatzzit in the middle of the night.

I’ve done a lot of traveling throughout my life and learned some valuable lessons, the most important of which was taught by My Mother: “When you find a toilet, use it, whether you think you need to or not, because another one may not present itself for many miles down the road.” Actually, those are my words. She would have said, “Go. Now.” I would add, “and always have a tissue in your pocket, because there are no guarantees that toilet paper will provided, just when you need it the most.”

Consequently, I have been grateful to use all manner of public sanitation. Before I was five, I visited my first outhouse, when we traveled to visit My Mother’s family in Kentucky. In the Appalachia of the 1950s, indoor plumbing, even in the nicest of homes, was as scarce as hen’s teeth. If you think lack of toilet paper is scary, take a walk through a garden path to the outhouse on a cold November night with only a flashlight for company, because the toilet seat was neither lighted nor heated. My Mother had to hold me over the dank abyss, so I didn’t fall in.

Stall at Denali NP 2019

Because I never pass up the opportunity, I’ve seated myself in port-a-potties of all kinds, from festivals and craft fairs to one in Alaska that was bear-proofed for my protection. Yep. It had long stainless steel bolts securing the walls and door in the event of attack. In fact, our bus driver advised us to take shelter in the rest rooms should marauding moose, caribou, or grizzly drop by. Or maybe he just wanted us to get back to the bus faster.

I once went to a swanky barbeque (not a cookout, it was too fancy to be a cookout, and the wienies were large and German and stuffed with things like truffles and fancy cheese), where the port-a-potty was a multi-seater with separate stalls, perfumed and air-conditioned ventilation, a warmed-air hand dryer, bouquets of flowers, and a basket of toothbrushes, mouthwash, combs, and hand lotion. It was such a hot and humid day that I would have been content to stay in there all day with a German wienie, but I was still married at the time.

Years ago, people warned American travelers that “foreign” public toilets were nightmares, holes in the floor with coarse toilet paper, but that has not been my experience. On road trips in France, Spain, and Italy, the highways have conventional rest stops with acceptably clean flushing toilets and much better soap than you get in the U.S. Off-road, you may find the hole-in-the-floor, which can be a challenge for the biologically female traveler.

My first experience came in the French Alps on a road trip. Traveling from Switzerland to a remote inn, we stopped at a public park after three hours in a van and a lunch featuring wine—lots and lots of wine. I hurried to the only restroom in the park and opened the door. It was a one-holer. The temperature was in the 40s. I was wearing a pair of tights, long underwear, and leggings. I rushed back to the van.

“That didn’t take long.” The Veterinarian was surprised.

“I didn’t go. I can’t figure out the logistics.”

“What logistics?”

“I’m wearing the wrong clothes. I can’t get them off, and it’s too cold. How long ‘til we get to the inn?”

“About another hour.”

“I’ll wait.”

That was the longest hour of my life—but I made it, and I learned my lesson. No leggings while traveling.

Once, at the Bangkok Airport, there was the usual long line of women, Eastern and Western, snaking into the ladies’ room. I really needed to go before my three-hour flight to Hong Kong.

“Is there a reason no one is using the stall on the end?” I asked the Asian woman ahead of me.

“Yes,” she replied, “it’s only a hole in the floor.”

“May I use it?” The other women in line looked at me in horror. But those women had never passed up a hole-in-the-floor in France. I was wearing a skirt and much relieved (in every way) to go to the head of the line and use it.

Lake Maggiore, 2019 (1euro)  Good thing I had that tissue in my pocket.

Generally, holes-in-the-floor have attendants who clean up between each patron and collect a small tip, so they are sparkling clean. Until the past year or so, the Charlotte Douglas International Airport had attendants in their bathrooms, with mouthwash and hand lotion, like you used to see in fancy restaurants. It always unnerved me to have the uniformed woman showing me to an available stall. As I sat on the toilet, I would rustle in my wallet for something to put in her tip jar. “Is a dollar too much? Is a quarter too little? Who the heck am I that this woman should be cleaning up after me?”  But, oh, how I appreciated that someone was cleaning up after my fellow travelers.  Now, the CLT airport restrooms are unstaffed, so I have a plea:

Ladies, sit on the seat and clean up after yourself. For those of you who still believe in science, you can’t get “germs” from sitting on the seat. If people are so fussy about their toilet paper at home, why aren’t they concerned about how they leave the stall in a public toilet? To ensure cleanliness, I’m happy to pay to pee.

 

 

And while you’re at it, or after you’re at it, wash your hands for 20 seconds with soap and water. You’re gonna need to live until 2022 to use up that hoard of toilet paper. Of course, I have my own, so who am I to complain? Soli Deo Gloria!

 

[Your Name Here]’s Butternut Squash Soup

For Elaine

No one in their right mind makes soup in the summer, unless it’s Vichysoisse or gazpacho or a fresh tomato with saffron and rice (Julia Child & Simone Beck’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking – Volume Two – p. 20, “Potage Magali”).

Ha-ha-ha!  You thought I was going to say, “except me” but, no, even I don’t make soup in the summer.  I will pull it out of the freezer and reheat it.  And on this hot summer day, I have pulled out one of the heartiest, Butternut Squash.

I only make it once a year, in the fall, in time for Thanksgiving, because it seems so Martha Stewart-y to serve my guests the first festive course in tiny little demitasse cups in front of the fire in my living room.  I only give you a miniscule serving and pour the remainder into zippered freezer bags to enjoy throughout the winter.  I’m selfish that way.

When you make something only once a year and don’t use a recipe, you have to rely on your sense memory to get it just right.  But much of cooking is sense memory, isn’t it?  How did it smell?  How did it taste?  How thick was it?  Creamy or chunky?  Tart or sweet?

I can still taste a dessert that I had at the Hôtel Albert I^er in Chamonix in 1989.  I’ve never had anything like it since.  I was so delirious from the experience that I stole the menu and had to dig it out to get the name.  The hotel and restaurant are still there, but the website doesn’t offer current dessert features.

I saw the words “vanille,” “glace” (ice cream), and “miel” (honey), but when I tasted it, I was transported to every Christmas of my life.  I said to the waiter, “What kind of ice cream is this?  It tastes like Christmas!”

“Madame, it is from the Christmas tree, the juice of the pine tree.”

Being frozen, it had no scent, so I was completely dazzled that the taste and not the aroma brought up the memories. (Yes, I understand that smell and taste are linked, thank you.)  We’ve all smelled Christmas trees and candles and potpourri and soap, but I’ve never put them in my mouth.  Googling the phrase “miel de sapin” from the menu, I see that it more accurately means “fir” or “spruce,” and my family always had a blue spruce tree.  So, there you are!  Although I have never seen it on a menu again, I can still taste it.

So, now I’ve been asked to share my recipe for Butternut Squash soup, and I must give you my disclaimer.  I remember what I put in it and the process, but I’m not certain of the exact quantities, because I only make it once a year.  I know, I know what you’re saying, “I hate those people who say, ‘oh, I just throw in a little of this and a little of that.’”  But it’s true.  Give it a try, taste as you go along, and adjust it to make it your own.

How often do you make something and think, “What’s not-quite-right?”  If the Granny Smith apples make it too tart, add a little more brown sugar.  If you don’t like spicy, omit the chipotle and/or cool the heat with a little extra cream.  Don’t use alcohol?  I use it to add depth and richness.  Maybe another parsnip.

[Your Name Here]’s Butternut Squash Soup with Chipotle – makes 4-5 quarts

[Chipotle powder lends a sweet, smoky flavor to the soup, but use it sparingly.  I once used too much and had to pour heavy cream into the soup every time I reheated it.  What a shame!]

2 pounds peeled butternut squash chunks (I buy 2 pounds already peeled and cut into chunks.)

2 large Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and cut into chunks

2 large carrots, peeled and cut into chunks

2 large parsnips, peeled and cut into chunks

½ cup coarsely chopped sweet onion

2 quarts unsalted, fat-free chicken stock

¼ cup dark brown sugar

¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

⅛ teaspoon powdered cloves

⅛ teaspoon ground allspice

⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper

pinch of ground chipotle powder (or to taste, a little goes a long, hot way)

2 Tablespoons dark rum

1 Tablespoon very dry sherry

1 Tablespoon Armagnac or cognac

1 cup heavy cream

Optional garnish:  toasted, chopped pecans; crumbled, fried & drained Andouille sausage; duck confit

In a 6-quart stock pot, combine squash, apples, carrots, parsnips, onions, and chicken stock.  Bring to a boil over medium heat.  Reduce heat to low and simmer until parsnips are tender, about 20 minutes.  Using an immersion blender, blend the apple-vegetables until smooth, making sure that any “strings” of parsnips are removed or blended.  (Alternatively, you can remove the apple-vegetables from the broth and blend in a food processor or blender, with a little of the broth, until smooth.)

Over low heat, stir in sugar until well-blended, then stir in nutmeg, cloves, allspice, cayenne, and chipotle (to taste).  Stir in rum, sherry, and Armagnac.  Simmer 10 minutes.

Stir in heavy cream and heat without boiling.  Adjust sugar, alcohol, spice, and salt to taste.

Ladle into individual containers and garnish, if desired.

And if you’re into wine, I always serve it with a Gewürztraminer.

When cool, ladle into freezer bags or containers.  Reheat and then garnish.

When I’m 64

I’ve been on the fritz.

For four months.

I tried whacking myself upside the head. I’ve shaken myself.  Jiggled the handle.  Twisted the antenna.  Rebooted.  Let it rest.  Poked it.

I was stuck.  Frozen.  That gray buzzing swirled around me.  My test pattern burned before my eyes.  [If you’re under 50, google “test pattern.”]

But today, as I lay in bed with the perpetual mist and gloom that winter and spring became this year, I was jump-started, as good as if someone stood over me with de-fib paddles.  It’s my birthday.  I’m 64, today, and this isn’t what I was expecting.

In my fondest childhood dreams, I was sure that I’d be an actor or a writer.  Not quite, although I am, in my heart, a darn fine actor, if someone needs a 64-year old actress, which no one does.  I could still be a writer, if I were more disciplined.  Ahhh.  Discipline.  Something I never quite learned.

In my defense, I’ve been writing these past four months, but I haven’t finished anything.  20 beginnings and no endings.  As usual, I have plenty to say (Karma, bad weather, grief, politics, my neck), it alternated between angry and maudlin.  Blog-writing is self-indulgent (no editorial oversight), and we should all be grateful that I self-censored the drama that plays out in my head.

Instead, I ate.  I went back to potatoes, pasta, pastry, and real Coke.  In the depressing doldrums of this gloomy winter past, I gained five pounds in three weeks.  No Zumba.  No planking.  Did you know that you easily can gain five pounds in three weeks, but you can’t lose them as easily in 10?  A month ago, I went back to planking, 3 minutes a day, so my “core” is stronger, but it doesn’t get rid of the flab that covers my hard work.  sigh

When I awoke this morning, I allowed myself 10 minutes of maudlin thinking.  I started that when The Veterinarian went over the Rainbow Bridge.  I allowed myself 20 minutes to grieve (only in the morning) and then forced myself to get up and get moving.

This morning’s weather was gray and damp and whispered,

“It’s our birthday.  We’re gloomy and shouldn’t have to do anything we don’t want to do today, because it’s our birthday.  Our 64^th birthday.  Let’s just wallow in bed in our foggy misery.”

Fortunately, My BFF jumped on the bed demanding to go out and to be fed, as she does every morning, which has saved me, really, these many months.  You can’t be too self-indulgent, when you’re responsible for others.

June 4, 1962, at 10 years old, always a flower from a different field.

And then it also hit me.  I’m not dead yet.  This is the rest of my life.  I’m not going to just sit and look out the window all day.  My life isn’t over.  For better or worse, I see many more years ahead.  My Mother will be 89 in October.  Her sister was just 90 in January.  One of her cousins is 93.  Like me, they’re all short women, all “ornery,” as a man I know describes me.  All with the same high blood pressure and cholesterol that I have.  I see my future, 30 more years, probably.  So, how shall I spend it?

In the arts, of course.  I started studying a new version of an old dream. I’ve plunged into ballroom dance with my bad knees and attitude, bringing my smart mouth and lots of ballet and modern dance technique and skills that frequently hinder me.  Of course, years of being immune to making a fool of myself onstage comes in handy.  After all, I once played a salmon swimming upstream to spawn in “The Life Cycle of a Salmon.”  Wearing an elegant gown covered in Swarovski crystals has that beat by an ocean of elegance.

Inspired by a friend who found satisfaction in ballroom dance during a tumultuous struggle of her own, I found some lovely people who, later in life, discovered the world of glitz and glamor in which I’ve been living since I first danced in a petticoat and My Mother’s costume jewelry for My Dad’s movie camera, 60 years ago.  When I’m dancing, I’m a vision of grace in the movie that plays in my head.  Well, I’m content until I hear, “Close your thighs, Suzanne.”  “Girls up, Suzanne.”  “Don’t turn out, Suzanne.”  When I hear that, I’m transported to a ballet studio in a drafty hall and hear, “Straighten your knees, Suzanne.” “Elbows up, Suzanne.”  “Turn out, Suzanne.”  Nothing is ever going to be perfect.  And that’s ok.

I’m back in a place where I’m happy not being perfect. Well, kind of.  I still have high expectations of myself, but it’s a place that feels comfortable and familiar; a place where “Standards” are kept (no swearing, no jeans) and irony revered; a place where the lights are low on Saturday practice evenings, so we all look our best.  It’s a place where I’ve been described as “A Flower from a Different Field,” a description so lovely and so apt that I’ve taken it on as my personal motto, although My Mother reminds me that it could mean a weed.  Oh, well.  Someone’s weed is someone else’s flower.

Plus, I’ve found something new to write about!

Date Update

Well, no dates. I turned off the matchdot com account in February after I received an email from a man whose screen name was Brett of Fresh Aire[1] and whose profile photo showed a man frowning.  After studying the photo and profile for a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t being ironic, intentionally.  That’s when I realized that I wasn’t going to find a flower in the field of online dating.

I met a nice couple in dance class who met online, but “nice” is the key word.  I’m “A Flower from a Different Field.”  And that’s ok. Independent. Bossy.   Cranky.  Ornery. Whatever.  I meet lots of men at dance class, all of whom are happily married or outside of my age group.  That’s not why I dance.

I also got an email from a guy at a “consumer protection” website a few weeks ago and another follow-up last week.  He claimed to have read my dating posts and wanted to know if I wanted to do something with a consumer protection column about online dating.  I say “something” because it’s not clear to me what he wanted.  It didn’t seem that they were going to pay me to either submit my posts or link to my blog, so I wasn’t interested.  I pointed out that my experience is entirely negative, which does not make for a helpful, unbiased review.  Now, if they want to cough up some money, which would help pay for my ungodly expensive new hobby, I would reconsider.

June 4, 1982, 30 years:  We shared a birthday, separated by 17 hours.

Today, I’m 64.  To borrow from Paul McCartney (also a Gemini), I could use a handy someone to “mend a fuse when [my] lights have gone” or [do] the garden, [dig] for weeds, but where I’m moving, there aren’t any fuses and someone else will tend the lawn and remove the snow.  Still, a handy someone showing up with “birthday greetings” and a bottle of Champagne would be welcome at my door.

But don’t come tonight or ever, without an invitation.  Tonight, I’m happy to enjoy a Margarita at my favorite Mexican restaurant with my family and, later, a little dancing with friends in that different field, so, who am I to complain?  Life is still good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

P.S.  Happy Birthday, Angelina Jolie!  See:   Twins

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[1] I made that up.  Any resemblance to persons known or unknown is strictly coincidental, but, if the shoe fits…

Thanks, Sadie Hawkins!

Lookit that story o’ po’ liddle brown-headed, freckle-face Sadie Hawkins and her pappy who had t’ use a gun and a foot-race t’ git her a man ‘cuz ever’body knows a gal cain’t git her a man with brown hair and sunspots! [sound of head shaking]

Evidentally, ah’ve been-a goin’ ‘bout findin’ me a man all wrong, but it turns out now’s mah big chance t’ ketch me one, on account o’ tis Leap Year.  Yessiree, Bob.  Once in ev’ry foh years, on th’ twenny-nine o’ Febooary, th’ womens gits to chase after th’ mens.  Yo’ see, if-n ah grabs one o’ ’em, ah gets t’ keep ‘im, and he’ll be mah husband.  Uh-huh.  [sound of rocks rattling in empty head]

Ah’m-a scratchin’ mah noggin’ cuz ah cain’t figger out how ahm-a gonna grab sumbuddy on th’ innernet.  How do that work? Or do ah jes’ sit atta traffic light and jump outta mah car and grab the fuhst cutie pie ah sees? Ah needs me a strata-gee.  Mebbe ah could sit at a fancy coffee joint and snare one.  [sound of wheels squeaking in head]

Spinster?!!!! How times change!

Ah done tried this here idear when ah was in skool, and unlike that purdy big ole yeller-headed Daisy Mae who kept a-chasin’ after that lummox Li’l Abner, ah done caught Th’ Vet’narian.  (Well, he wern’t no vet’narian then, jes’ a kid in mah soshiology class.)  ‘Cuz ah ain’t had no fellers aksin’ me out, ah took a chance and aksed him to th’ “Spinster Dance.”  [sound of gagging]

17-year old spinster looking for a date

Now ah finds mahself in a simian pradickyment, only ah’s a widder.  Ah done tried that new-fangled innernet datin’ where mens mah age wastes mos’ o’ th’ time a-lookin’ fer skinny yunguns, and mens ol’ enuff t’ be mah pappy is a-lookin’ fer a nursemaid.  Hmph!  Go figger, on account o’ I shorely cain’t.  What’s a gal t’ do? [sound of head scratching]

Ah’m a-thinkin’ that if-n it worked once, it mebbe could work twice, ‘specially now what it’s Leap Year and all. Ah’s goin’ t’ a shindig on Sadie Hawkins Day, Febooary twenny-nine, at an Eye-talian rest’raunt where unattached fellers laze about wit’ moonshine, so mebbe mah luck’ll change fer th’ bedder.  [sound of cackling]

Boys, better start a-runnin’!

 

 

Dining Hazards

Blog writers take a lot of flak for writing self-indulgent nonsense, sort of like people who post photos of everything they eat on Facebook.  I uniquely am guilty of both.  On a day when I am still somewhat homeless (I made it home from Grand Cayman but cannot get to my house for the 33” of snow that clogs my lane — you and I aren’t done yet, Karma), I offer photos of food that crossed my path on vacation and a lame little explanation to go with them.

I have waxed poetic about my weird food fetishes. For example, I don’t eat fruit, except Smucker’s grape jam (not jelly), Key Lime pie, and the occasional raspberry coulis, provided it has been seeded, strained through a fine sieve, and adequately sweetened.  And wine.  I drink wine, fruit of the vine and all that.

One of my big taboos, which I know others share, is food touching other food on my plate.  I should clarify.  Food that is supposed to touch other food is acceptable; eg, gravy on mashed potatoes, Béarnaise on steak, the aforementioned raspberry coulis under (not over) a fine dark chocolate dessert, aged Balsamic drizzled on pan-roasted salmon (I’m really craving at the moment).

But I get nervous when cole slaw runs onto my fries or guacamole slips onto my refried beans or a Kosher pickle spear touches the rye bread on my corned beef brisket sandwich.  I am the kid at the party who won’t eat the birthday cake, if the ice cream touches it.

Someone once told me to push my last pea into my mashed potatoes so I could pick it up.  Sure.  I could pick it up that way, but I would never put it in my mouth, much less swallow it.

Buffets are a nightmare.  I don’t take anything “runny” that might infect another, unrelated item on my plate, so I’m one of those guests that the waitstaff hates because I use too many plates.  I want my bread in its own space, so it doesn’t get mushy on one edge and so the butter doesn’t come into contact with a potential pollutant.

Traveling is always a culinary adventure, unless I’m going to France, where I’ve never seen a French chef put something on a plate that didn’t make sense (except the rognons de veau, veal kidneys).  The Veterinarian would eat anything (except rognons de veau), so he was the perfect dining companion (except the day I accidentally ordered rognons de veau).  If I couldn’t eat something, he almost always could.  The Daughter is a little pickier, but her culinary adventurous beau was a welcome dining companion.

Here’s a visual chronicle of dining in the quiet East End of Grand Cayman, including a buffet hazard at one of our favorite Caymanian restaurants.

Nothing revives me after an arduous day of traveling like an adult beverage.  With a healthy dose of Cuban rum, I don’t even care that my hair is frizzy and about to stand on end in the warm breeze.  On our first night, we only had the strength to sit on the deck at the resort’s Eagle Ray’s bar and grill and order ribs and lionfish tacos.  Lionfish are that beautiful, multi-spined fish native to the Pacific that has invaded the Atlantic and Caribbean, from Maine to South America, where it has no predator.  Not even sharks will eat them, so they are reproducing and gobbling up native fish with abandon.

Geared to scuba diving and sensitive to the health of our oceans, Ocean Frontiers, our resort, and many others in the Caribbean, now cull them by spearing and selling them to restaurants.  Once they are dead and their spines are removed, they are benign, their meat pale white, very mild, and not especially firm.  It is popular in ceviches and tacos.

The Daughter opted to treat us to Sunday brunch at Tukka, a “native fusion” restaurant, whose owner and head chef, Aussie Ron Hargrave, brings together kangaroo and crocodile meat and local seafood with Caribbean influences.  Right over the beach, it’s been a favorite of ours since it opened and boasts a lavishly painted chair in honor of celebrity guest Taylor Swift.

You can see the dilemma on my appetizer plate.  At “one o’clock,” the lion fish “lollipop” (lightly battered with a nice little garnish to give it flavor) hugs the rim, well away from the Caesar salad below it (I shudder to have salad on the same plate with the appetizers), which nudges two potstickers filled with ground pork and bathed with a soy-and-sesame sauce, avoiding the potato salad above.  Sitting primly at “noon” is a tuna roll, with accompanying wasabi, pickled ginger, and a dollop of wakame (seaweed salad).

Of course, since there was enough Champagne to wash it all down, I didn’t notice that my excellent ribs nudged the roast beef and the delicate Mahi Mahi.  As for the rice, it doesn’t matter what it touches.  Rice is rice.  Oh!  And I just had to have another potsticker, this one with a chili sauce.

I never have trouble picking a dessert.  I chose these two little dishes because I liked the blue color of the glass and porcelain.  On the left is a white pudding dotted with yellow corn kernels, that was lightly sweetened and topped with chopped nuts.  On the right is a traditional cake made from cassava, a root which, when ground, is the source of tapioca.  Here, it is grated and mixed with coconut milk, brown sugar, butter, and spices into a dense cake topped with grated coconut.  Yummmmeeeee!

For breakfast, we trekked to a funky little place, the Over the Edge Café, whose deck is, indeed, over the edge of a reef at Old Man Bay, just before the ocean plunges thousands of feet.  Not a big breakfast eater, I always have the French toast.  The Daughter opted for a scrambled egg, cheese, and salsa-filled quesadilla.  But the adventurous eater amongst us won the prize when he ordered a “traditional Jamaican breakfast of Codfish and Ackee.”  Bless his heart!

It turned out to be a plate of eggs scrambled with codfish, bell peppers, onions, and ackee, a tree fruit from West Africa that was imported from Jamaica to England by Captain William Blighe, that same ill-fated commander of HMS Bounty.  We found the ackee tasteless and a little chewy.  Accompanying it were some cooked greens and a lot of starch, plantains, a little sausage-shaped banana pudding, and some delightful fried dough, reminiscent of beignets, especially when I dragged mine through the mound of powdered sugar from my French toast.

One of my favorite pizzas is topped with arugula, and the Italian Kitchen, which brought brick-oven pizza (and more fine wine) to the East End, adds prosciutto.  They also serve upscale Italian food and fresh seafood, including a fabulous risotto with lobster and shrimp that was just beyond this year’s vacation budget (once we had to spend four extra nights on the island, thanks to the blizzard of 2016).

Yes, I cooked.  I made The Daughter’s favorite lasagna.  I made a Key Lime pie.  I made Chicken Tarragon salad on croissants.  I made caramelized onions to top the cheddar cheeseburgers that the “kids” grilled.  And on our last night, I turned the broth from cooking the chicken for the salad into chicken noodle soup.  I used the last of the onion, celery, and carrots to flavor it and cracked up unused, uncooked lasagna noodles into the broth.  It was fabulous, but, on vacation, everything tastes better, and nothing has any calories, right?

Finally, as I changed planes in Charlotte, I had my favorite airport meal, Brookwood Farms’ “real pit-cooked bbq,” pulled pork on a great toasted bun with the cole slaw safely on the side. I ate every bite with my hands and licked the “Carolina vinegar sauce” off my sticky little fingers.  I can see why it’s “the Official Barbeque of the Charlotte Motor Speedway.”

All in all, it was a good vacation; four extra days of sunshine and good eating, so, who am I to complain?  Life is good (mostly).  Soli Deo Gloria!

Mortals and Angels and Karma

Note:  Tonight, some of my dearest friends are singing at Carnegie Hall in the world premiere of a new work, “Mortals & Angels:  A Bluegrass Te Deum.”  I should be there.  This is why I am not.  Love and all good wishes, my friends, for a wonderful performance!

Karma slumped onto her cloud, exhausted.  It had been a busy day.  She closed her eyes against the glare of an exploding nova and drifted into a reverie of mayhem until awakened by an icy blast in her ear.

“What the f—?”  She swatted at her head.

“Need to chill, baby?”  Old Man Winter whispered, sending brilliant crystals of snow shimmering over her face.

“You need to do something about that breath,” Karma held up her hands and created a wall of sunshine between them.

“Aw, baby, you’re hurting my feelings.  Tell Old Man Winter all about it.”

“I’ve spent all week hounding this woman who keeps dodging me,” she pouted.  “You know her.  The Heroine of Hope?”

“You mean ‘Suzie Sunshine’?    I like watching her bob-and-weave.  She’s spunky, puts up a good fight. You’ve been after her for six decades.  Maybe you should ease up on her already.”

“Like you should talk,” Karma spat fire at Old Man Winter.  “Remember what you did to her last winter?”

“Has it been a year already?”  He plucked at the sleet in his beard.  “Time flies.  Last winter, I turned her lane into a sheet of ice for 10 days.  She had to park her car up by the road and hike in and out, day and night.  I heard that mice got in and destroyed the wiring.  $6,500 worth.  Took five weeks to get a part from Japan.”

“The shipping fiasco was my doing,” Karma smirked.

“Well, I really can’t take credit for what rodents will or won’t do.  And her damned insurance company picked up the cost of the damage, like a good neighbor.”

“By the gods eternal, I hate that woman,” Karma hissed.

“What’s the problem now?”

“It’s the vacation thing, again,” she sighed, as he blew through her fiery wall and sent an icy shiver down her spine.  “I tried to keep her from getting away.  First, I covered Miami International Airport in fog, but The Sun came off its throne and burned it off after two hours.”

“Bummer.”

“My fault, entirely,” Karma admitted.  “I didn’t realize that all the flights would be delayed, so her connection was delayed, too.”

“What did you do?”

“When her plane landed, I kept all the other planes at their gates, so there was no room for her at the inn, so to speak.  She had to squirm in her seat — in an exit row, by the way, I don’t know how she got that lucky — while the plane waited on the taxiway for almost an hour until a plane at another concourse got tired of waiting and left.”

“Still, she couldn’t have had time to make the connection, could she?”

“You wouldn’t have thought so.  With 10 minutes to departure, she had to take the monorail from one end of Concourse D to the other, then run through that ridiculously long hallway to Concourse E.  THEY HELD THE FLIGHT!!!  Can you believe it?  Who does this woman know that holds flights for her?”  She collapsed on his lap, cooling off her super-charged ego.

“There, there, baby, you can’t win them all.”

“Don’t patronize me!”  She sat up.  “That’s not the end of it.  I whispered a little Spanish into a certain friend’s ear, and the Cuban air force took to the skies to practice air maneuvers, which halted every plane scheduled to fly over his airspace.”

“Impressive friends you have!” Old Man Winter inched away from her.

“He doesn’t want to aggravate his New-Found Friends in Washington, so she only sat at Miami for another hour, waiting to take off.”

“And then, what did you do?”

All I need is a swim suit.

“I made sure her luggage didn’t get on her flight, but the woman had her bathing suit and toiletries in her carry-on, so she didn’t care.  She FREAKING DIDN’T CARE.”

“So much work for so little,” his pale eyes locked tenderly on hers.

“The last straw was when I screwed with her laptop so it wouldn’t connect to the internet, and, instead, she just wrote her precious blog posts on her iPhone,” a shimmering tear rolled down her face.

“Maybe we could work together,” he caressed her hair with a gentle breeze.

“How so?”  Karma massaged the frozen tears on her face.

“They’re having a warmer-than-usual winter on the East Coast,” he began, “so I was thinking they needed a little wake-up call.”

“But don’t you usually do that in February?”

“’Keep the meteorologists off guard,’ I always say,” he chuckled.  “Suppose we scoop up all this warm, tropical air and send it north?”

“Yeah, but isn’t that a repeat of her vacation in 2010?  And 1995, 1996, 1993, and 1978?  Just to name a few.”

“When is Suzie headed home?”

“Well, she’s cutting her vacation short this year to sing at Carnegie Hall.  She’s flying to Philadelphia on Friday, via Charlotte, spending the night in Philly, and taking the train to New York on Saturday morning.”

Old Man Winter nodded as she spoke.  “We’ll see about that.  If I send freezing rain to Charlotte on Friday, even if she could get to Philly, that gives me time to dump a load of snow on them, so she can’t get to New York on Saturday.”

“Pure Genius!”  Karma ignored the prickling of icicles as she held her cheek close to his.

“Baby, with age comes wisdom,” his icy fingers encircled her heart as they lay back on her cloud.

On Thursday, the airline cancelled Suzie’s flights and rescheduled them for the following Tuesday.  She was sad to miss being a part of a world premiere performance of a work entitled “Mortals and Angels” at Carnegie Hall.  While greatly consoled by spending four extra days in the sunshine, Suzie worried about her BFF, her family and friends, and especially about the power lines and that long, long lane to her house.

On Friday, Old Man Winter conjured up enough hot air to create freezing rain at the airport in Charlotte. He howled and blew snow from the Carolinas to New York.  With Karma by his side, the snow fell faster and thicker, until, by midnight on Saturday, Maryland was covered with more snow than had ever been recorded in a two-day period, a whopping 30” in some places, obliterating the presence of roads, and, while all the airports closed for four days, the power held.

In Grand Cayman, on Monday, her laptop miraculously connected to the internet all by itself, and Suzie held her breath — in the warm sun — waiting for Tuesday …

Happy Pi or Pie Day!

 Note:  When I was in Grand Cayman last March, I made this pie on Pi Day.  Stranded this weekend (no hate mail, please) in my favorite place on Pie Day, without a functioning laptop, I’m republishing that same post.  Sorry to be redundant, but typing on this iPhone is a real pain.  By the way, I made Key Lime Pie earlier this week in Paradise for The Daughter and her beau but didn’t think to photograph it.  You’ll just have to take my word for it; it was delicious.  Hope it brings a breath of the tropics to your snowy day!

I am nearly useless at two things, pie crust and math, but even I know what pi means. It’s how I learned to make circle dance skirts.  In honor of Pi Day (3.14.15) and National Pie Day (1.23.16), I am sharing my recipe for the only credible pie that I can make.  Oh, I make a great pumpkin pie (with freshly ground black pepper) using pre-made crust.  I make a great apple tart using Pepperidge Farm Puff Pastry (aka Grease City) or phyllo dough.

I actually receive requests for my Key Lime Pie.  I have seen grown men swoon over it, so I added it to my list of accomplishments in my online dating profiles.  I can make it in my sleep.

When I first had it, back in the 70s in the Florida Keys, I was told that the recipe was on the Borden’s Sweetened Condensed Milk can.  I also learned that if it was green, it was bogus.  Of course, I couldn’t leave it alone and improved on it.  I added almonds to the crust and whipped egg whites to the filling to lighten the custard.

While I have made it in drafty sailboat ovens, in triplicate, and in too many vacation condos to count, the best that I ever made was in the 1980s, when my late mother-in-law and her husband moved to Naples, Florida and had a Key Lime tree in their backyard. Key limes are smaller and more bitter than Persian limes, which makes them the perfect foil for the sweetness of the meringue.  It takes an entire bag of Key limes (and squeezing) to make 1/2 cup of juice, but the flavor is the best.  I would rather use a bottled brand of Key lime juice (such as Nellie and Joe’s) than Persian limes and never “Real Lime.”

About five years ago, in Key Largo, for dessert, I had an amazing “Key Lime Cocktail” with graham cracker crumbs around the rim.  I’m still trying to perfect that recipe and will let you know when I’m successful.  Practice, after all, makes perfect.

In a deep dish pie plate, combine:

1-1/2 cup crushed graham crackers

2 Tblsps. melted butter

2 Tblsps. granulated sugar

¼ cup crushed sliced almonds

Press crust on the bottom and up the sides of the pan.  Refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350°.

Meringue:

4 egg whites (more, if you like a lot of meringue)

¼ tsp cream of tartar (omit, if using a copper lined bowl)

2 Tblsps. granulated sugar

In a glass, grease-free bowl, whip egg whites and ¼ tsp of cream of tartar until foamy.  Add sugar and whip until stiff peaks form.  Set aside.

Filling Ingredients:

4 egg yolks

¼ tsp grated lime peel (green portion only)

1 can sweetened condensed milk

½ cup Key lime juice

In a separate bowl, beat eggs until lemon-yellow.  Stir in lime peel and condensed milk until blended.  Thoroughly mix in lime juice until blended.  Fold ½ cup of the beaten egg whites into the custard mixture and pour into chilled crust.

Bake at 350° for 20 minutes or until filling just starts to brown around edges.  Remove pie from oven and increase heat to 500°.

Pile remaining meringue over filling completely, and bake until peaks are golden brown, about 5 minutes.

Note:  If you won’t be serving the pie for several hours and do not want to see the meringue “weep”, you can refrigerate the “un-meringued” pie, covered, until needed.  Just before serving, cover with meringue and brown in hot oven.