Monthly Archives: December 2013

Friendships Hang On (Some By a Thread) Through Christmas Cards

19 Thursday Dec 2013

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margo Xmas

BY MARGO D. BELLER

Every year, despite the computer technology, my husband and I go through the year-end ritual of buying, writing in, addressing and mailing holiday cards.

And every year, I look at the list of who got cards, and who sent us cards. I am amazed at how many friendships we’ve managed to keep going, some barely, with these once-a-year cards.

Some of our friends have computerized mailing lists. As long as our names aren’t removed from the list, we’ll get a card. One card goes to my husband’s mother’s cousin, a woman who has been through many travails. Another goes to the daughter of another cousin who surprised us with a card years ago and, when we responded, put us on her computerized list. One goes to my sister, with whom I have communicated only by card for decades.

Most of the names on the list are friends with whom I have an active e-mail correspondence. However, there are a few who only write me when I write them first, or who don’t respond at all to my e-mails. To these people I stubbornly send a card to remind them of my existence. Many of my friends are active on Facebook, but I am not among them.

Some of our friends have moved around quite a lot over the years. It is interesting to see their progress via my old-fashioned address book. One had a New Jersey address when I met him. Over the decades that address was subsequently crossed out, and an arrow pointed to a new address in Philadelphia that was superseded by another address in Philadelphia. He is now in Dallas. He’ll get a card.

Sadly, this year I must remove the name of my friend and former employer who died just months after his 95th birthday.

It is hard to acknowledge I am at an age where the card list is going to start getting smaller soon, unless I make a better effort to either make more friends or maintain the ones I have. That’s why we visited some of our Boston-area friends this year, and next year we want to see friends south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Still, I think of the ones no longer here – my 95-year-old friend, and another friend who died last year two weeks after his 56th birthday. And two months ahead of my own birthday. I think of one of my Boston friends who, while very much alive, has been fighting cancer for over a decade. We are not going to live forever, despite what many in my generation may think.

So, my friends who hear from me once a year, I am sorry about that. But now I am sending you an old-fashioned holiday card to keep our friendship alive, if only by a thread. Are you alive or dead? Are you still my friend?

I hope to hear from you again this year.

My Pregame Show: Remote Controlling

18 Wednesday Dec 2013

Posted by in Concepts, Men

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control Bob
BY BOB SMITH

This past Sunday was snowy and cold, so I decided to space-out watching football all afternoon. First, I gathered the choice parts of the Sunday New York Times – the Book Review, Arts section, the magazine, Automobiles, and Week in Review. Solid, semi-serious reading. Next, the New York Post for comic relief – stories full of blood, sex, political graft, and combinations of the above. Rounding out the reading pile was the Asbury Park Press – good for the Jumble, and to see if any local politicians have gotten themselves mired in New York Post-worthy peccadilloes.

Most important, I assembled the electronic devices I’d need to ensure full control over my environment. First, the entertainment controls: the Samsung TV controller, the Denon controller for the receiver that distributes sound to speakers around the room, and of course, the silver Cablevision device. To watch a cable show, you first power-up the TV, receiver, and cable box by pushing the appropriate “on” button located near the top of each controller. Then you use the Cablevision controller to change channels, and the Denon device to change the sound volume. – unless you’re watching a show through Netflix or some other Internet-based service like HBO GO.

Because my system is wired wrong, and I don’t have the electrical engineering degree needed to sort it out, my amazing Denon surround sound speakers don’t transmit Internet audio. But you still must have the Denon receiver powered up to continue receiving a TV video signal. So for Internet-based programs, you turn Cablevision power off so no cable-based sound comes through the Denon speakers, and instead use the Samsung controller to adjust the sound that’s now coming only through the tinny speakers on the TV. Simple, right?

Then there’s the gas fireplace. This controller is straightforward, with two settings that work like the Human Torch character: flame on/flame off. It also has a thermostat to select an approximate room temperature the unit will maintain by activating an electric blower. I’ve never figured out how to adjust this temperature setting downward, so the fireplace constantly tries to keep our family room at a toasty 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Once it gets cranked up, you could melt marshmallows within eight feet of the hearth. On football Sundays, we call this the “red zone.”

To counter the red-zone effect, we have the white Casablanca controller, which turns the ceiling fans on or off, and adjusts their speed. You can also use this to reverse the blades’ direction, so if you’re feeling chilly, you have the fans rotate downward to recirculate fireplace heat within the room. And if you want to see if the dog, or anyone else hiding upstairs, may be susceptible to carbon monoxide poisoning, you rotate the fans so they pull the heat upward.

Entertainment: check.
Environment: check.
Next, communications: in case someone calls during the game, and I actually want to talk to them, I also include the cordless house phone in my couchside array. Because our telephone service is provided by the cable company, the caller’s name and phone number is displayed on my TV screen, so I can readily ignore any unwelcome calls, such as telemarketers. That includes the cable company itself, which at least once a month tasks some unfortunate drone with calling to ask if I want to upgrade my service. I could lease a high-end Ferrari if I canceled my current subscription, and used that money more wisely, so I always decline. (Of course, I have a little fun first: “Are you watching the game right now?” “No.” “Me neither, thanks to you.” HANG UP.)

Finally, I have my smartphone on the table. It’s not shown in the accompanying photo because I was using it to take that picture – which is one of its most useful features. If in the middle of the game you feel an urge to take a snapshot of your feet in dingy gray/ once-white gym socks, there it is. Bang. Instant gratification. Then you can message it to anyone you like. Bang. Instant gross-out.

It’s also good for taking calls from people you ignored when their name and number flashed on the TV screen. After all, if someone really needs to talk to me, they’ll follow up with a call to my cellphone. I simply explain that I missed their call to the house because I was out buying batteries for my controllers.

So there I was ready to control my world: video source, volume, channel, picture-in-picture, flames on or off, ceiling fans up or down, phone calls taken or ignored, toes waiting to be sent into the ether for snarky commentary, all the news that’s fit to print, and all the news fit to wrap fish. I had it all.

I fell asleep ten minutes into the game. But I had powerful dreams.

From a Seasoned Theater Lover: New York Has Never Seen Better

17 Tuesday Dec 2013

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theatre 1

A terrific line-up of New York theater.

BY ANITA JAFFE

I am a theater devotee – have been since 1944, when I saw my first play: “Oklahoma.” And all I can say is the theater season this fall in New York has packed a wallop. The array of plays that are out there, and that I chose to see have brought me sheer pleasure – just like the “old” days.

I have run the gamut from off-off Broadway to Broadway, and every time I leave the theater, I am so invigorated, and so thankful that I was able to see these wonderful productions. They took me back to the magic of the theater in the ’50s, when Broadway was teeming with exciting dramas and musicals. For me, this fall was immeasurably more exciting, because theater has never been better.

Last year Mark Rylance’s performance in “Jerusalem,” was so brilliant that there was never a doubt that I was going to see him and his marvelous company in “Richard III,” and “Twelfth Night.” I knew they would be excellent. But they are not just excellent – the performances are a once-in-a-lifetime experience about great theater. I was transported back to 1600, because from costume to set design to language, the show was taking place as if Shakespeare was alive and directing the performance. I was mesmerized by the actors, and their ability to let me experience the genius of Shakespeare.

Then there is the magic of the Public Theater, where I saw their magnificent production of The Foundry’s “Good Person of Szechwan,” Bertolt Brecht’s play starring Taylor Mac, and the amazing actors of the Foundry Theater. I sat on the edge of my seat to catch every word because this is one of Brecht’s plays that I was not familiar with, and it was the first time I had seen Taylor Mac.

Next up was Public Theater’s presentation of “Regular Singing.” It is the last in a series of the Apple Family plays, written by Richard Nelson. I connected with this play because I felt as if I was back in my home in West Allenhurst, New Jersey, talking with my husband about what was happening in the world. But there’s a bonus: The series is being filmed for a presentation on PBS. And guess who was invited to attend? ME! I will be part of the audience next week when the film rolls. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Winter: Nothing to Sing About

16 Monday Dec 2013

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snow Chelsea Piers December 30, 2012-6

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

Maybe it’s the blood thinners, and maybe it’s just age, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to deal with New York winters. Don’t get me wrong, I have never been a lover of winter. But I used to tolerate it better. In recent years, I am finding that all I need is one week of sub-freezing temperatures, and I’m done. I’m ready for spring.

I know several people who absolutely adore cold weather. They cheer for snowstorms. But as a person who has never ice skated or skied in his life, I see nothing to cheer. Where my winter-loving friends see a winter wonderland, I see frostbite, and a broken leg waiting to happen.

A man by the name of Carl Sigman, who I can only conclude was deranged, wrote a popular song in 1949 called “It’s a Marshmallow World.” You probably have heard it, particularly at this time of year. It begins:

“It’s a marshmallow world in the winter,
When the snow comes to cover the ground,
It’s the time for play, it’s a whipped cream day,
I wait for it all year round.”

Is this the height of perversion or what? This guy looks at snow, and sees marshmallows and whipped cream. Was he just hungry when he wrote this?

He goes on:

“The world is your snowball, see how it grows,
That’s how it goes, whenever it snows,
The world is your snowball just for a song,
Get out and roll it along.”

Get out and roll it along???

The only conclusion I can reach is that there is some sort of Stockholm Syndrome at work here. This fellow must have been living in Buffalo, and after years of being held captive by Jack Frost, he simply snapped, and embraced his captivity. Otherwise, why would anyone in their right mind write this:

“It’s a yum-yummy world made for sweethearts,
Take a walk with your favorite girl,
It’s a sugar date, what if spring is late,
In winter, it’s a marshmallow world.”

As I said earlier, I know people who love winter. But I also know people who have heart disease. Both are sick. Years ago, I remember hearing Garrison Keillor talk about winters in Minnesota. He said that winter was “the time of year when Mother Nature makes a serious effort to kill you.”

I think that’s the wisdom of the Prairie talking. People who grew up with cold respect it; they don’t necessarily love it. My daughter-in-law grew up in Northern Vermont, so she knows from cold. Yet when we went out to Minneapolis last year for a family wedding, she complained constantly about the cold there. (Apparently it’s a dry cold in Minnesota that’s worse than the wet cold of Vermont.)

Anyway, it’s just December, and I’m already ready for pitchers and catchers to report for spring training. And I just got word that I have to take a business trip. Could it be that a client in Aruba needs me to visit? Copenhagen??? You’re killing me!

Intense Under Pressure: Pasta

13 Friday Dec 2013

Posted by in Food

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Presto cooker

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Ten or so years ago, my mom gave me her old pressure cooker. The Presto Cook-Master Cooker Model 104 is from the 1960s or 1970s. My mom couldn’t remember. Some research didn’t provide date-details, but on eBay, it’s described as “Vintage.”

It’s been sitting, dormant, in the back of a cabinet, an hours drive away, for the past ten years. No interest on my part. I have a crock pot. I have a wok. What exactly does a pressure cooker do? Isn’t it more of an appliance? Like a microwave? It’s an obsolete, all-aluminum (therefore toxic) dinosaur. I don’t even remember any childhood meals from the thing.

But I don’t toss out the old easily.

Last week in Williams-Sonoma, there was a pressure-cooker revival going on in the back. Equipped with a 2013 Fissler Vitaquick Pressure Cooker, a chef churned out Rotini in Tomato Sauce in 15 minutes. A one-pot pasta.

“Unfortunately, nobody uses pressure cookers any more,” the chef said to the crowd.

“I have one from the ’60s or ’70s,” I said.

She told me it probably wouldn’t work anymore. I needed a Fissler.

That’s all I needed to hear. I drove the hour a few days later, and picked up my pitted, aluminum, old and dirty Presto with the broken handle. I brought it home.

presto ingredients

They all go to pot at once.

I set out to pick up the short list of ingredients – ground beef, onion, garlic, oil, twirly pasta, tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese. That’s it. (Because I couldn’t decide what kind of mozzarella to get, I ended up forgetting it altogether. So I used the Gouda I had on hand. Cheese is cheese – especially when steam-softened.)

I sautéed the onions and garlic in canola oil, then browned the beef, and then I got to throw everything else in all at once. Even the dry pasta: Dry pasta

I clamped it shut, turned up the fire, and stood back.

Presto cooking

The hard part is not being able to see what is going on inside. I wanted to peek after 10 minutes, but the lid was shaking, and the seams were bubbling; hissing; gurgling. My old Presto did not have the “Euromatic Safety Valve,” or the “Residual Pressure Block,” or the “Auto-locking Lid and Visual Indicator” with “Automatic Steam Release,” that comes with the new Fissler.

All safety features that, to me, squash entertainment and merrymaking out of the whole undertaking. Nope – my no-indicator, nozzle-spinning, vibrating, silver-studded noodle heater may have been one step away from exploding. It could have poked my eye out. I could taste the danger!

I gave the whole process 15 minutes. When it started whistling like a locomotive, I turned off the flame. I couldn’t open it. I ran it under cold water, and …

Presto done

… a potful of superlative. Pure with flavor; vivid with smell. The burnt, black residue on the bottom offered a mouthful of smoke; a tang. Like real food.

The new Fissler is stainless steel with an aluminum base, and sells for $300. My vintage Presto is all aluminum, thank you!, and is priceless.

Check out the recipe here.

Dependent on Digital, But Faithful to Print

12 Thursday Dec 2013

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It's a digital world.

It’s a digital world.

BY JULIE SEYLER

It was sometime in the mid-90s when I entered the digital world. With the purchase of my first PC, I went online at home, and that, my friend, was going to be the extent of my dance with the digital. In those long-ago days, I was never going to get a cell phone. I railed against them, and those rude people who chatted on the bus to work. And forget film-less cameras. I intended to remain a devotee to Kodak! But the purity of my Luddite philosophy slowly eroded, and I came to embrace it all, especially my technologically-advanced walkie-talkie that lets me walk and talk from anywhere but home, including the bus.

So today I have to say it: I feel naked without my cell phone. It is a fait accompli that makes life easier, and perhaps a little sillier, as I check out what’s new on Facebook while waiting for an elevator. Nothing like constant connection to the lives of others.

But I retain one digital dilemma – I want to remain faithful to print reading material. I love holding a book in hand, and folding a newspaper and flipping through the pages of a magazine with gorgeous, enticing photography. There is nothing like the feel of fiber!

But my infidelity grows daily because for convenience, there is nothing like the iPhone. It is backlit. I can adjust the font to fit the exhaustion that may be invading my eyes. It sits comfortably in my coat pocket, and I never have to make a single decision about what I’m in the mood to read. I have thousands of books stored online. I can readily access my magazine subscriptions, and the daily New York Times all with a swipe of my finger. 

But I feel guilty because I am part of the problem that contributes to the ever diminishing presence of paper books, newspapers and magazines. Every time I read about the demise of another print publication, I am sad. Even if I don’t read it. Just last week I read that New York magazine is contracting from a weekly to a bi-monthly to accommodate the reality that print no longer rules.

So even though I can get an online subscription to The Times, I cannot abandon ship. I love seeing it outside my door every morning. It’s a comfort and a reminder that a segment of the past lives today – because it may not in another 20 years.

I still love my news paper.

I still love my newspaper.

The Solemn Side of 50: Aging Parents

11 Wednesday Dec 2013

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summer contemplation

We can help our parents depart gracefully.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

One thing that all we over-50s have in common is that if we have living parents, they’re nearing the end of their lives. It’s difficult to face that reality until we are forced to by catastrophic events. I had one of those catastrophic events recently when I was told that my mother had a tumor on her pancreas. My mother is 85, and so illnesses like this are deadly serious. As it turned out, her surgeon was able to remove the cancerous tumor, and we are hopeful she will have a few more years with us. As a two-time cancer survivor, I know that cancer is an intractable foe, and the rest of her life will be a battle against it.

a mother and her baby

Natural order.

Dealing with my mother’s serious illness has made me realize that the decline and fall of parents is part of the fabric of life after 50. It’s an ordeal not just for the parent but for the over-50 child as well. Parents are our bulwark against death. As long as we have a parent alive, the grim reaper will take the parent before the child. It’s the natural order of things. But once we don’t have the parent ahead of us, we’re next. And that’s kinda scary.

It seems to me that American society in general, and our healthcare system in particular, do not handle well the illnesses of people at the end of their lives. Instead of concentrating on the quality of life, and the patient’s wishes, we do everything we can to increase the quantity of life. To add a few months to life, we take extraordinary steps like respirators. Rather than give up fighting for life, we bring out radiation therapy and chemotherapy, knowing full well the misery they will cause.

But who determines when a parent will be forced to fight for life or be allowed to peacefully expire? When the issue came up during the Obamacare debate, people like Sarah Palin criticized the “death panels” that would decide who lived and who died. We find it impossible to let go of people who sometimes are begging us to let them go.

Issues like living wills, hospice care and assisted suicide become all too real once you have an aged, sick parent. It’s the side of life after 50 you won’t hear talked about on other blogs. But this blog is dedicated to presenting the “warts-and-all” picture of life after 50, from the white of a daughter’s bridal gown to the black of a father’s funeral drape. After all, we all are in the same boat. It may help to talk about it.

And it doesn’t have to be grim. The end of life can be a celebration of what that person has meant to us; a celebration of the difference that person’s life has made. It can be a time to finally say “I love you,” and to show it by our actions. It’s up to us over-50s to show our children, through our example, how we want to be treated at the end of our lives. In effect, while our parents are teaching us how to gracefully exit this life, the best thing we can show our children is how to be good children.

One Foot in San Francisco, and One Foot (and My Heart) in New York

10 Tuesday Dec 2013

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Thanksgiving Day 2013

A warm Thanksgiving Day 2013.

BY MARGIE RUBIN

My childhood memories of Thanksgiving Day growing up in New York include loud family gatherings, ridiculous amounts of food, and a brisk walk after dinner.  Since I moved to California, 40 years ago, two big differences are that Thanksgiving feasts consist of more friends than family, and the weather is closer to a New York summer day than the wintry cold of the Northeast.

Shorts in November!

Shorts in November.

Last weekend, six of us got to spend time with our dear friends at their beautiful beach house in Monterey. We took long walks along the beach, had breakfast at a Russian mom-and-pop restaurant on the water, made homemade ceviche from the day’s fish catch, and had lots of laughs. But I must say, the highlight was our group bike ride along the Pacific coast. In shorts and tee shirts. Really? Late November, and shorts and tee shirts?

Which is why I choose to live in California. While it can’t compare culturally to New York City and its food – the Bay Area cannot compete with New York bagels, pizza, and pastrami – the truth is, I can see a Broadway play when it’s in San Francisco at a cheaper price. I don’t eat meat, so I don’t miss deli food, and I love the fact that I can be outdoors all year round. That being said, I love New York, and I feel fortunate to have a foot in each world. Now if I could only get my New York family to put a foot out here!

Hey Mom come on over and take a bike ride?

Holiday Good Samaritan Went the Extra Mile

09 Monday Dec 2013

Posted by in Men, Travel

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Ken car

Car was in trouble.

BY KENNETH KUNZ

It was only 20 more miles that the coolant hose had to hold out, but it just couldn’t – or wouldn’t! After I pulled my car to the shoulder and shut the engine, I pondered the white plumes surrounding the vehicle hoping (and praying), I would not also see flames. I didn’t.

Admonishing myself for not getting my car serviced before I embarked on my Thanksgiving day trip to my mom’s, I opened the hood, and took a look. (As if I was going to be able to do something – ha ha!) The steam finally began to subside, and as I began thinking of where I’d have AAA tow the thing, a vehicle suddenly pulled over.

anti freeze

I needed this.

I swear the tall figure that got out of that Ford Bronco, and started walking toward me, was moving in slow motion, as if in a fantasy scene from so many movies we’ve all seen. The man reached me and my car, handed me a gallon container of engine coolant and said, “You’ll need this!”  How did he know already?

We finally located the problem, and proceeded with the repair triage. It was arduous, at best, especially with all the hot fluid, and the minimalist spacing in a foreign car engine compartment for even regular size hands to navigate. And both of us having good sized hands, of course.  We finally cut a piece from a ball point pen cartridge, finagled it into the torn hose connection, invoking a crude version of Auto Shop 101, taped it up, and turned over the engine. Success!

Conveniently, we shared the same destination, and this Good Samaritan offered to follow me all the way in to make sure I arrived safely. Such a nice guy that he wouldn’t shake my extended hand, as he felt his was too soiled from the task we had just completed – mine was almost as dirty as his. And of course, he would not accept the money I offered him for the anti-freeze. So we just fist-bumped and both headed east – 20, hopefully short, miles to go.

Nineteen, 18, 17 miles more – all systems go. Sixteen, 15, 14 – temperature gauge off again. Thirteen, 12, 11 – small puffs of smoke. Ten, 9, 8, – LOTS of puffs of smoke. Seven, 6, 5, 4 – wafts of steam clouds. Is this the longest it has ever taken me to drive this stretch of highway? Three, 2, 1 – last traffic light.  My new acquaintance pulls up alongside me to ask if I think I’ll make it. I assure him the last few hundred yards are doable. And they were.

It is often comforting to arrive at one’s mother’s house, especially on Thanksgiving, but this day had become something special.  A mini-disaster (or at least a royal pain in the butt), turned into an affirmation of the goodness of man. A stranger taking it upon himself to take time from his own holiday and help a fellow life-traveler. A simple and selfless act of which to be most thankful indeed. I wish I could be that generous and helpful to a stranger.  Perhaps now I will be so inspired sometime in the future.

Everyone should experience a Thanksgiving day (and every other day) as wonderful as the one I had this year.