30 Wednesday Apr 2014
Tags
Arizona, Art, Bird sculpture, Frank Terranella, Men, red rocks, Sedona, The Write Side of 50, Travel
Sedona, Arizona.
Our resident blogger, Frank Terranella, is on a road trip out West. Before he left, we asked that he send photos so that we could experience his experience vicariously. This one shows one of the rock formations in Sedona, Arizona.
“What intrigued me is the bird-like figure in the rock,” he wrote. “I have no idea who did this, or if anyone did it.”
29 Tuesday Apr 2014
Posted in Travel
Every spring The Orchid Show comes to The New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx. And every year, Steve and I try to make a trip out there because orchids never fail to dazzle. This year was a bit of a challenge because of my toe-cyst surgery.
Stitches getting removed.
The stitches had been removed, and the doctor had confirmed that his bone-packing procedure looked to be working very well. But to make sure that the mending continued on schedule, I was ordered to wear the post-surgical boot religiously for the next four weeks. This was going to make walking around the botanical gardens impossible. But as usual Steve, the pragmatist, solved the problem. He suggested that we get a wheelchair. He could drive me around the flowers.
My immediate reaction was vocal, passionate resistance. I definitely was not chronologically prepared for the idea that I was to be consigned to a wheelchair. But last year when my mother happened to have a bad back, we had taken advantage of the free companion chair that is offered to all visitors of the garden so they can participate in the beauty of the place. Ultimately, logic, my love of orchids, and the gorgeous Sunday sun trumped my personal sense of embarrassment. I was able to get my orchid-fix, (along with the knowledge that I was a lot harder to push around than my mother, i.e. “heavier”).
And, as I write this I only have two weeks and four days until the boot comes off. Looking forward to it because, as you can see, the boot is hardly a fashion statement.
The road to recovery.
28 Monday Apr 2014
Posted in Men
Tags
As we move into our 50s and 60s, and beyond, the loss of old friends becomes a regular part of life. Liver cancer recently took Little Richie, a kid I knew who was a year ahead of me in high school. This is my personal epitaph for him.
Richie was short and skinny – barely five foot two and 90 pounds, on tiptoes, soaking wet. But he wore his black hair in a dramatic pompadour that added at least three inches in height, and his personality made up for the rest. Richie not only acted like he didn’t realize he was small, he came on like the biggest, baddest guy in the room.
That’s not to say that no one stood up to him – every few months, Richie would show up sporting a black eye that told us he’d pushed some over-muscled classmate a bit too far, and paid the price. But if you weren’t willing to resort to brute physical force, Richie would mercilessly rule you with his cackling laugh and caustic wit. Even after they’d pounded him, Richie would mock the guys who’d beaten him up for not having had the guts to pick on someone their own size.
Despite his “little guy” scrappiness, we liked Richie. He was generous, and would readily share his cigarettes or beer or whatever with you. And if you needed to borrow 10 bucks, Richie was right there.
And he was the best poker player I’ve ever seen, hands down. During summer vacations in high school, my brother, and a few of our friends, including Little Richie, would walk to the local golf course in the early morning to “catch a loop.” At the end of the day, with 20 or 30 dollars’ worth of caddying money in our pockets, we’d stop off in the woods at the end of our block for some dime-ante poker. With a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Little Richie would crisply shuffle the deck and snap out cards to each of us, accompanied by incisive commentary.
“Five – no help. Three – total pond water. Deuces – not wild, sucker! Big queen – three to the straight. On you, Bobby. You gonna bet that shit, or check to the guys with balls?”
He would loudly analyze everyone’s cards, and if you took his comments to heart, he could goad you into betting or shame you into quiet submission. If you listened to Little Richie, you were playing his game, and you were doomed.
More than once, I’d seen him on a terrible losing streak, down 20 dollars, or more (in a dime-ante game, that was a lot of money), and then suddenly he’d change the course of the game just by the force of will. He’d bluff everyone out, and take big pots of money he didn’t deserve – taunting us at the end by turning over his cards with a flourish.
“A measly pair a threes! I had shit,” he laughed as he raked in the cash. “You pussies!”
The next hand he’d bluster, and bet so extravagantly we were sure it was another bluff, so we’d all stay in, feeding the pot, and he’d pull out a powerhouse hand, and win again. When he was on those runs he played as if possessed. And even though it was costing me money, it was thrilling – like watching a tightrope walker dancing on the wire who gets to the other side, then turns around and does it again and again.
After high school, everyone drifted off to college or full time jobs, and we lost touch with Little Richie. He appeared one summer afternoon in the ’90s, pulling up in a super-expensive, brand new metallic blue Corvette. He clambered out through the open T-top looking gaunt, his black hair windswept and frazzled.
“How ya doin, Bobby?”
“Richie – hey! Great. Nice car. What’re you up to?”
“Real estate. Project development, that kind of shit,” he rattled on about deals and margins and how he had lots of irons in the fire.
He had that coke-addict look, racing along in his own dimension, while the rest of us in the real world were slogging by at half speed. As he flicked open his silver Zippo lighter to fire up a smoke, you could see a hint of a tremor in his hand. He took off after a few minutes, promising to come by again soon. I never saw him again.
Some said it was his dabbling in heroin that messed up his liver. Who knows. I just know that if there’s an afterlife, Little Richie is there madly hustling someone or something, and busting everyone’s chops. And probably getting his ass kicked for it.
26 Saturday Apr 2014
Posted in Art
25 Friday Apr 2014
Posted in Food
For years and years I battled my weight.
All food choices were based on calories, but now calorie count no longer drives the game. These days, it’s about eating politically correct. I recently went to a business lunch at a restaurant known for its steak with four colleagues. Three ordered salmon. These middle-aged men were limiting their beef intake due to the artery-clogging potential of the medium.
I felt guilty ordering my rare filet mignon, but completely gratified when I noticed that each salmon- eater thought nothing of piling on the mashed potatoes, which no doubt were slathered in butter! (Although the latest of the latest studies came out with a report that maybe red meat is not so bad for you after all.)
Whatever. Because if arteries, filled with free-floating globules that cause clog ups, aren’t torturing your brain, there’s always wheat to worry about. It seems nothing is as bad for you as food made with the white stuff. As a carbo-queen, and lover of pasta not made with rice, spelt or ancient whole grains, I have reconsidered eating spaghetti for breakfast. As much as I love slurping up a tangled mass of pasta coated with olive oil, lemon, pepperocini, salt, and parmesan cheese at 7 a.m., these days, that image is replaced with a dance of numbers that dictate soaring blood glucose levels. I nobly turn my attention to a bowl of protein-rich and calcium-studded yogurt. (Unlike Lois, I cannot imagine eating sardines topped with avocados, olives, and mayo for breakfast.)
Cheese! I love cheese, but Geez Louise, the fat that courses through a melting brie is enough to freeze the veins.
Then there’s the new culprit in town: GLUTEN. It’s the devil behind every ache, joint pain and an inert libido. But don’t fear. The options for gluten-free and tasteless dough just keep expanding.
Honestly, the scientific evidence behind a healthy heart is destroying the lustful pleasure of food. A prime rib on the bone with a baked potato on the side drowning in a pool of butter and sour cream has always been a decadent treat, now it’s decadent, and potentially murderous.
24 Thursday Apr 2014
Tags
At the gym the other day, I overheard a woman complaining that it was her birthday again, and that it seemed as if she had just turned 40 six months ago. I assume this meant she was turning 50, which was confirmed when her male friend offered this consolation:
“They say 40 is the old age of youth, but 50 is the youth of old age.”
The quote is attributed to the famous French writer Victor Hugo, but I don’t think the guy at the gym had any idea of its source. He just liked the way it sounded, and thought it would comfort his friend as she turned 50.
The logic of the Hugo quote seems completely accurate, and it even seems to apply to the rest of your life. Let’s ignore the years from 0 to 20 as “childhood.” (You might break it down to “infancy” from 0 – 3, “childhood” from 3 – 11, and “young adulthood” from 12 – 20, but all that’s so far in the past, does it really matter?)
Most of us would agree that in your 20s, you’re enjoying “youth.” Anything is possible. You have limitless energy, and your career and life could go in any direction you choose. The decade flies by and you make whatever choices you make – maybe commit to a partner and/or job, and settle down a bit. But you’re barely a full-fledged adult – after all, you can still vividly recall your teens.
Then come your 30s – the middle age of youth, when you still feel like you’re 20-something, but you’ve acquired added responsibilities, and a propensity for gaining weight, that belie that. Then you turn 40, still feeling like you’re in your mid-30s, but aches and pains creep in here and there, and that propensity for gaining weight you’d noted in your 30s has turned into a 15-pound bulge that stubbornly clings to your waistline, butt, and/or thighs that won’t budge without a serious commitment to eating less, and exercising more. A lot less. And a lot more. You’re still considered young, but you’re pushing the boundary – you’re in the old age of youth.
Then come the 50s. Whatever was going wrong in your 40s, if you didn’t fix it somehow before turning 50, becomes institutionalized. If you were fat, you get a little fatter. If you had aches and pains occasionally, they become chronic. White hair gets whiter, sparse hair sparser, ear and nose hair coarser. You can still do pretty much everything you used to do, only more slowly and less often. It’s the youth of old age because you’re not really old, and hey, for your age, you look pretty good!
But as I approach 60 this September, the quote is ominous because if my 50s were the youth of my old age, my 60s will be the middle age of old age. And then at 70, I’ll be just plain old. And suppose I live into my 80s or beyond? What’s that – advanced old age?
So the end of the youth of my old age feels significant because it’s the last time I’ll be able to describe myself as any form of “youth.”
But what’s the big deal? Part of the beauty of getting older is that, out of necessity, you learn how to roll with the punches. I’ll take it in stride, just as I have every other milestone year until now.
Like Francis Bacon, “I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always fifteen years older than I am.”
And as Mark Twain said, “Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”
As long as I’m reasonably cogent and ambulatory, I really don’t mind at all.
23 Wednesday Apr 2014
Our spirits are high, and we’re feeling all aglitter, thanks to the warmer weather, so we’re beckoning summer by putting on our hot and sparkly sunglasses.
22 Tuesday Apr 2014
Posted in Confessional
Winter.
Spring.
It’s April. The first warblers are back, the skunk cabbage has popped up, the daffodils are beautiful (until hit with an unexpected return of cold, cruel New Jersey winter), and my husband is getting his annual haircut.
Yes, I said annual.
When I met him in college, in 1977, his hair was longer than mine. When we moved in together, and later married, I cut his hair. It was very simple to do – just follow an imaginary line. No layering or fancy stuff.
However, a few years ago he decided that. No offense – he wanted a professional to do it.
I was not upset. I was glad he wanted to neaten his appearance. He has a beard that tends to get wide and bushy unless he trims, which he doesn’t do in winter. (At least once someone will yell out “Hey, Santa!” at him, and if you saw him you’d understand why.)
He is philosophical about his bald spot, and figures leaving his hair to run long in back for a good hunk of the year balances everything out. Same with the gray in his temples and beard. At least he has hair.
When he decides he’s ready, he starts trimming his beard heavily. A day or so later, he goes to a local barber shop. He doesn’t wait long, and listens to the regulars (including the two women who cut the hair and the male owner) gossip around him with the customers. Maybe a TV is on, maybe not.
I, meanwhile, stopped pulling out the gray hairs when they got too numerous. I go to a cut-rate chain (pun intended) where, usually after a long wait, I have rarely had the same haircutter twice. Music blares, and it is hard to make conversation, presuming I wanted to, much less hear others. I am never sure I am correctly telling the young woman (or occasional man) what I want. Sometimes the result is less than great.
I think of getting my hair cut the way I think of the hospital – a place I want to avoid unless absolutely necessary.
That’s why for the last two winters I have skipped the haircut and let my hair grow. Maybe I’ll trim my bangs. MH is the only one who sees me every day now, and he accepts me as I am. Like him, I know when to finally get that haircut, usually when I start looking like my 1974 high school yearbook photo – long, straight hair, parted down the middle.
MH is fine with whatever I do, or don’t do, because after so many decades together, we know what’s important is not how we look, but being with each other. The whole package, including good and bad hair days. Our friends are now like that, too, because we are all over 50, and are tired of working to impress anyone – either on the job or in the bedroom.
We can be real, and ourselves, at last.
Hallelujah.
21 Monday Apr 2014
Posted in Food
Tags
Bhut Jolokia pepper, Easter, Food, Lois DeSocio, Peaches Hothouse Extra Hot Chicken, The Write Side of 50
Hot stuff (kinda).
Yesterday, I tried to take chicken to the other side.
For decades, my Easter-dinner tradition has been to make a different deviled egg. It’s the first thing I do. I’ve taken the traditional route (mushy yolk in egg white), the non-traditional (pieces of egg white on top of a molded mound of yolk), topped them with nuts and raisins, and sprinkled throughout with shrimp and garlic. Everybody expects them.
But since traditional to me also means behaving non-traditionally, and since I am also hot – as in spicy – as in nothing can be too peppery, piquant or throat-closing for me (Make my nose run! Flood my eyes!), this year, I had to put my eggs aside, because I spent two days, and most of Easter morning, making, and ultimately, tweaking, Peaches Hothouse Extra Hot Chicken from the “notoriously spicy” Peaches Hothouse in Brooklyn.
Tastes like chicken.
The recipe is a hat trick for me. It has salt (homemade brine), crunch (it’s fried), and a challenge – smoked ghost chili powder. (Warning: DO NOT do what I did, and think, ooh brine! what a great martini this would make. It doesn’t.)
Ghost-chili powder is made from the Bhut Jolokia pepper which, until 2011, when it was trumped by the Trinidad Scorpion pepper, was the hottest pepper in the world, according to the Guinness Book of World Records.
Pepper hotness is rated on Scoville Heat Units. Tabasco – 5,000 units. Jalapeno – 8,000 units. Habanero – 350,000 units. Ghost Chili – over 1 million units. (There’s a skull on the bottle.)
What’s not to love?
But ghost chili is as elusive as it is fiery. Apparently, I would have to head south – Nashville; east – Brooklyn; southeast – India; or to Amazon (.com) to find it.
So the Hothouse recipe, which was a secret until The New York Times ran it on March 19, has remained a secret in my house because, given my short, prep-window, I had to tweak.
I substituted a combo of smoked hot paprika (The Times recommended this) and extra cayenne. The cayenne and hot paprika throat-sizzle was not the skull-and-crossbones Easter Sunday dinner I had hoped for, but no doubt, some secret “Hallelujahs!” were whispered by my always-open-to-my-culinary-whims family, who range from 0 (my mom) to 1 million (my son, who douses all his food with hot sauce) on the hotness scale. Next year.
And I was tweaked by guilt. After the chicken, came some deviled eggs. I did a last-minute scramble and put together a tame, traditional, batch, which made for a superb, non-traditional, after-Easter, breakfast-parade of chicken and eggs.
19 Saturday Apr 2014
Posted in Art
Red Barn, Route 28.
