Papyrus. Kwetsani Camp. Botswana. May, 2011. Photo by Julie Seyler.
The beauty of aging papyrus.
The Saturday Blog: Papyrus
09 Saturday Mar 2013
Posted in Art
Author Archives: Lois DeSocio
How Did the Chicken Cross with Dessert?
08 Friday Mar 2013
Posted in Food
Chicken, with lemon-aid.
I went through a semi-vegan period when I was younger, and when I came to my senses, the first craving I succumbed to was a cooked bird. Therefore, for years now, I’ve had a stack of chicken recipes – all of them ripped from the pages of newspapers and magazines – piled on top of my cookbooks. I’m methodically making every one of them, so I can respectfully lessen the pile, toss the unworthy, and store the good ones.
I think my tweak of a recipe for Roasted Chicken with Preserved Lemons from The New York Times Magazine, is worthy of a share. I’ll bet no one else has ever lined and stuffed a chicken with lemon curd. A whole 11 ounce jar. And four lemons. And a half pound of butter. (I’ve seen chicken recipes with a curd glaze, and in a sauce, but never stuffed with.) I did use two chickens, so the curd didn’t rule the roost. So, let me just do what I rarely do, and send along my most despised acronym to describe the finished product: “OMG.” It was extraordinary.
When life gives you lemons … line them with curd and stuff them in a chicken.
A lemon, lined with curd, in every pocket.
The bird on the right exploded.
Because it was already the zero hour for dinner when I decided to make this, I was crunched for time. I made a frenzied trip to the market for the short list of ingredients: a whole chicken, butter, cumin, honey, and preserved lemons. Ellusive preserved lemons, I should add. I couldn’t find them. And in my impatience, grabbed a jar of lemon curd. I’ve never used it before, and knew nothing about it. But “curd,” kind of sounded like it could be in the “preserved” family – so why not? Plus I love the word.
But no. Lemon curd is traditionally served with desserts, and in tarts, puddings, or as a topping, and is basically sugar, lemon zest, lemons, butter, and eggs – very sweet. Preserved lemons are a whole different animal. Recipes have a Middle Eastern slant, and they are salty. You can easily make a jar in your kitchen with lemon insides rubbed with salt, smooshed into a jar and then covered with lemon juice. You can add other spices as desired. It’s recommended that the jar sit for up to a year. Nothing like the curd.
As I was prepping each bird (my face scrunched in lament at the butchery, while whispering, “I’m so sorry, baby.”) – pulling bones, ripping skin, and plying cavities – I realized I had too many lemons. They were already cut into quarters, and the pulp was scooped out, so I figured I’d just increase the curd, and the butter, to match.
I filled each lemon rind quarter with a heaping spoonful of curd, and tucked them (16 quarters in all) into every inch of space between the skin and the meat of each chicken, and filled the cavities. I rubbed the outsides with butter, as directed by the original recipe, and then shoved the leftover butter in with the lemons. (My own addition.) I sprinkled both with salt, pepper, and cumin, and roasted them for an hour. I then drizzled them with honey, and then back in the oven for another hour of roasting.
The finished product was an oozy, lemony, salty, sweet, chickeny-curd-pooled feast. You can even cut up the cooked lemon rinds into tiny pieces and sprinkle them on top. Extraordinary.
Mother of (And as) the Bride
06 Wednesday Mar 2013
Posted in Confessional
The author’s wedding in 1978 …
… and her daughter’s in 2012.
BY JEANNETTE GOBEL
It’s my observation that an enormous chasm exists between the weddings and customs of my generation and current day. Nuptials have become a behemoth industry, with slick marketing that plumbs the depths of our emotions, insecurities, and expectations. No matter the size of the budget, it’s hard not to fall prey to the myriad of choices offered for the “big” day.
The engagement celebration of our daughter, Candice, and her boyfriend, Zac, was typical of their generation. On December 30, 2011, a romantic dinner was shared by the couple, followed by a stroll at Pike Place Market, then a surprise package left on a bench by a co-conspirator, and finally the genuflection and ensuing question. She blubbered through happy tears, a resounding, “Yes!” Moments after, both families joined the newly affianced couple for drinks and revelry at Etta’s Seafood restaurant. We were all involved in the night’s logistics and keeping the secret for three painful days, as Zac had asked for our blessing a couple weeks earlier.
When Kevin and I, the bride’s parents, decided to marry, we were alone in the car on the way to my parents’ home in November of 1977. We tersely agreed that, yes, we were ready to marry. I was 21 and Kevin was 23. I hadn’t finished college and Kevin was a newly employed computer programmer at the Boeing Company. We thought parental blessing was something out of the dark ages. Candice and Zac were older, and out of college by several years. They had also known each other since year one at the university. Kevin and I knew each other for 11 months. We knew it was right, and forged ahead with wedding plans. Our parents wished us well. No engagement party, or celebration was expected in 1977.
I was now the mother of the bride! From several sources, I learned that it was nearly required to attend the Seattle Wedding Show, which was the very next weekend. Immediately, I ordered four tickets, as we included Candice’s new mother-in-law and sister-in-law to be. The wedding show was an adventure, and Candice acquired way too much info. Who thought you could have a cake that resembled an oak tree for $3,600.00? Venues, dresses, jewelry, spa packages, linens, flowers, honeymoon destinations – all too overwhelming. Did these wedding shows even exist in 1978?
Dress shopping for me in early 1978 consisted of an afternoon at one bridal shop with my cousin. One basic dress, tried on, and that was it. It cost less than the bridesmaids’ dresses. And it wasn’t insanely frumpy – considering most wedding dresses from the ’70s.
For Candice, we assumed that we’d set an appointment for an afternoon at I Do Bridal in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle. I would not dream of missing this excursion with my daughter. At the conclusion of the expo, the four of us sauntered over to where dress vendors had set up. The third dress booth in, Candice and I reached for the same sweet dress. It fit her like a dream. “The” dress had been found. Even though we didn’t have our big dress shopping day, mother and daughter were together for the big purchase. I found it fascinating that both our dresses were simple, and neither of us desired a veil.
There was no question as to where Kevin and I would be married. I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, and that was our venue. Religion thereafter was never a part of our lives, thus our little heathens were not baptized or affiliated with any organized religion. Needless to say, a church would not be the spot. Choosing a venue today is akin to deciding where to vacation – too many choices, say I. Candice loved the idea of getting married at the Woodland Park Zoo. After investigating several options, it was settled that the event would be held at the Seattle Golf Club, since the groom is a golf pro at a club affiliated with the Seattle Golf Club.
The next question was, “Who will perform the non-religious ceremony?” There were no less than one thousand names when I Googled: “Officiant, Seattle weddings.” Everyone knows someone today who can perform a wedding. An acquaintance of Candice’s was booked, and a personal ceremony was created by our young couple.
Thirty five years ago, we hadn’t heard of wedding planners. Our newly engaged pair had the tools and motivation to plan the entire event, as I happily wrote the checks. The kids made wise choices trying to stay within budget. My wedding was planned, and mostly paid for by myself. Both of our wedding days turned out perfectly.
The standard 1978 offering was cake, champagne, punch, and candy. Today you’d risk being called cheap with that menu. For my wedding, that is what I could afford. Fortunately in 2012, this bride’s parents could meet the expectations. Drinks, appetizers, and a plated dinner for two hundred filled the bill. There was a lovely wedding cake for dessert.
The photographs are the lasting memory of any nuptials. Costs for this service have risen just a tad since 1978. Our photographs were under three hundred dollars resulting in a nice photo album. In 2012, it’s the norm having all the day’s snapshots on a flash drive at about six times the price.
On the day of our daughter’s wedding, an eerie sense of déjà vu overcame me as a diverse mix of friends and family from all eras and aspects of our lives arrived at the club. As parents, Kevin and I were honored to witness such an audience, as I’m sure my parents were. This is what truly made both weddings special.
As the newly anointed Mr. and Mrs. Snedeker drove off in a mint-condition, 1965 orange Mustang, I pondered our two weddings, I see the generational differences, but both were wonderful days filled with loved ones celebrating the beginning of something special. After all, it really is the marriage that is paramount to the sturm and drang of expectations, customs and emotions.
Two months later, our only son became engaged to his lovely girlfriend. This wedding will differ vastly from our daughter’s. Mr. Gobel and I are most excited to participate from the “other side” this time, as parents of the groom.
Mr. and Mrs. Snedeker.
I Have a Doppelganger in Denmark
04 Monday Mar 2013
My cousin Frank.
Thanks to an invitation to lecture in Copenhagen, I recently was reunited with my first cousin for the first time in 40 years. And here’s the kicker – his name is exactly the same as mine. Now, there are many people who have common names, and some with less common ones. I have a rare name. I don’t know of another person in the world alive today with the name Frank Terranella, except my cousin in Copenhagen. It was the name of our common grandfather, who died many years ago. I’m sure there are others, but I have never crossed paths with one.
The Gang.
So how did my doppelganger end up in Copenhagen for the last 40 years? Well it’s a wonderful love story. My cousin went on his college junior year abroad in Copenhagen in 1970. There he met and fell in love with a beautiful blonde Danish girl named Karin, who stole his heart. They were married soon afterward. My cousin finished his education in Denmark, and then found a job as a teacher. Their daughter, Anna, came along a year later. Frank never saw a reason to go home much after that. Of course, that’s because he was home. And Copenhagen has been his home for the last 40 years.
Frank would visit the United States occasionally, but those visits were never in the New York area, so we never connected. As time passed, Frank’s daughter Anna grew up and gave him a granddaughter, Lea. She’s a teenager now, and I’ll swear that the 25 percent of her that’s American is dominant. Or maybe that’s just a function of the Internet, or American television on European youth.
So all this was going on a continent away, while I resolved year after year, decade after decade, to get to Copenhagen to visit the other Frank Terranella. Finally, I was asked to lecture in Copenhagen on United States trademark law. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse (even though lecturing is not something I’ve ever done). I knew it would give me the chance to see my cousin.
So my wife and I flew over to Copenhagen, and I gave my lecture. All went well. As soon as I was done, I called Frank. He came over to our hotel, and there we had the historic 40-year reunion. Both of us have a lot less hair than the last time we saw each other, but the ties of family are strong. It wasn’t long before we were telling stories of our youth, and bringing each other up to date on our lives for the last 40 years. It made us both smile – a lot.
Frank walked us back to his apartment where we met Karin. Now, when Frank’s daughter, Anna, was about a year old, he and Karin came to New Jersey to visit my grandfather, and I met Karin and Anna there. Seeing her 40 years later, her eyes and smile were just as bright as they were all those years ago, despite the fact that multiple sclerosis has now taken away her ability to walk. I recognized her immediately. She’s like a ray of sunshine, a grown-up flower child. It’s not hard to see why Frank gave up his home country for her.
Seeing my cousin with his wife was a testament to the fact that true love conquers all – including multiple sclerosis. I know that it sounds corny, but Frank and Karin are as much in love in their 60s as they were in their 20s. All that’s changed is that Karin requires a little more assistance than she used to, and Frank is more than happy to provide it.
The next day, I got to meet the now grown-up Anna and her daughter Lea. As do most Danes, they both speak flawless English. I am so sorry I didn’t get to see Anna grow up, but maybe now I’ll get to see Lea from time to time. We invited her to stay with us if she comes to America. Family reunions can sometimes be dreadful, but my recent trip to Copenhagen couldn’t have been a better experience. Reconnecting with Frank and his family made us forget the cold and often-dreary Copenhagen weather. We all resolved that we won’t wait another 40 years to connect again.
The Saturday Blog: The Haircut
02 Saturday Mar 2013
Posted in Art
Forever Young Barber Shop. Placencia, Belize. Photo by Julie Seyler
We believe the right haircut can help keep us young – forever.
The Long, and the Short, of the Four-Day Trip
01 Friday Mar 2013
Posted in Travel
Tags
Durham Castle, Durham Cathedral, Durham England, Edinburgh, Lois DeSocio, Scotland, The Write Side of 50, Travel
Heading out on day one.
I’ve just returned from a four-day trip to England and Scotland. My older son and I went to visit my younger son, who is studying and working at Durham University, just a stone’s throw from Edinburgh, Scotland, in Northeast England. But this is not about the flowing-amber-infused congeniality of the English pubs, nor the 1000-year-old castle that crowns the cobble-stoned city of Durham. It’s not about the massive, Romanesque, Durham Cathedral (it’s bigger than the castle), considered by Brits to be the “greatest Norman building in all of England.” (And was Hogwarts for the first two Harry Potter films.) Or the cool, kilted, Scotsmen of Edinburgh. No going on here about the bloody black pudding (oatmeal with pig’s blood), the sketchy haggis (oatmeal with sheep innards), the foot-long, fried fish, and the accompanying super-fried chips.
I am not going to carry on about this amazing fish and its chips.
Nope – I won’t but mention how much fun it was to glom on to, throw back some pints with, and be on holiday alongside, my two most favorite people.
This is about the beauty of the four-day trip. Especially a four-day trip across the Atlantic. This is my second one in almost as many years (Julie and I traveled to Madrid, Spain last year for four days), and it’s shaping up to be my new way to go.
Both times, friends questioned:”Only four days?” And offered:”Fourteen makes more sense.”
I’ve also seen their heads tilt in a way that ponders the sanity of flying so far to spend only four days in one place. Therein lies the appeal: Only one place. Only four days.
This older me has come to love travel more than ever, but also loves staying home. So here’s the fix: Only four days. Only one place.
It’s long enough to be called a “trip.” There’s less heavy lifting (one suitcase, no checking), less groundwork (one hotel, one check-in). And numbers are crunched (that overnight flight to Europe gives you your fly-time back when you get there).
And perhaps best of all – the preplanning is simpler and bodes well for us 50-somethings, especially if, as I did, you spent decades arranging all the family vacations. (That was often a four-day commitment in itself.) To indulge in all things about one place affords no obligations to make the next train, plane, or inn. And the pre-prep is fun! There are less days packing, less list checking, so brain power is better spent on that anticipatory joy of counting the days until take-off. Actually, the planning becomes half the fun, because a four-day trip is half the planning. There’s little intrusion from that pre-trip dance around all the stress that comes from planning, planning, planning, and then hoping all goes as planned. And out of respect for our boomer-brain’s cognitive wind down, there’s less to remember.
And then there’s my fellow travelers’ assurance – my kids wanted to go. It was short. Because as much as my boys love their mom – a getaway with the 58 year old, who has boundless energy to do every little thing, only partly melds with a 23 year old, and a 27 year old, who are happy to do just some things, including sleeping through breakfast. Said my older son: “Actually a three day trip would have been fine.”
My Mom’s Dementia: Foggy Memory, Charred Pots, and a Cheshire Smile
25 Monday Feb 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
Art by Abby Smith.
Mom, now 86, is still physically robust. Granted, she’s unsteady on stairs and can’t lift anything heavier than a magazine or cup of tea, but her appetite is great. She even enjoys a glass or two of wine with dinner. Mom had always been cheerful and optimistic, too. And she still is. But her mind is slowly, but surely, fading away – lost in the encroaching fog of dementia.
When her short-term memory first started to fail, she would become agitated because she knew she had once remembered the name of that green stuff on her plate, and was frustrated at finding herself unable to identify it as broccoli. But as she slid deeper into decline, she found peace because the fact of how much she actually used to know was itself a lost memory.
We first noticed Mom’s dementia when she moved in with us a few years after Dad died. She insisted on cooking dinner, but routinely boiled vegetables until they were liquefied, and added so much butter to mashed potatoes that they were the color of daffodils. Once or twice every week, she would completely boil away all the water in the pot, and leave the vegetables cooking until they burnt onto the bottom of the pan.
Once it became clear she couldn’t handle cooking dinner anymore, we started telling her it was “cook’s day off,” and that we would prepare dinner for her – or buy takeout. Whatever. Just so she wasn’t tempted to put food in pots and fire up the burners.
But although we told her she couldn’t cook dinner, we figured it was O.K. for her to make her own tea. I would make sure the kettle was full of water before I left in the morning to ensure she wouldn’t put the flame under an empty pot. This worked reasonably well for a while, but then one Saturday I discovered her at the table drinking a glass of cold, whitish water.
“What are you doing, Ma?”
“Having a cup of tea, what do you think?”
“There’s no teabag. And it’s not hot.”
“Oh. Must’ve forgot,” she shrugged, and drank the milky water anyway.
Then one afternoon my son came downstairs, and the house reeked of gas. He discovered a full kettle on the stove with the burner turned on full blast, but no flame. He shut off the gas, opened all the windows, and found Nana in her room off the kitchen, fast asleep.
The next level: We taped a handwritten sign at eye level over the stove that read, “STOVE BROKEN, DO NOT USE.” We would reinstall the knobs in the evening so we could use the burners to make dinner, but leave the sign up for the next day to avoid having to re-tape it over and over. The combination of the missing knobs and the explicit sign convinced Mom that the stove was off limits.
After a few days, however, she grew impatient – and she wasn’t stupid.
“The sign says the stove’s broken,” Mom said as she watched me sauteing onions for
dinner.
“Yeah, Mom – it is. I just managed to get this burner working for now.”
“It’s been busted a while now.”
I silently stirred, hoping the conversation would end there.
“Public Service’ll fix that, you know. Give em a call.”
“I did call – they haven’t come yet,” I lied.
“Goddamn PSE&G. They make you pay enough. They can’t come when you call?”
“Damn those utility companies. Hey, how about a glass of wine?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she laughed.
Mom is now living with my sister where she can be supervised all day, and her decline continues. Because of her good nature, she’s going cheerful into that good night. But like the Cheshire Cat, she’s fading out, and soon all that’s left will be her smile.
My “Torch Song” to Sondheim
21 Thursday Feb 2013
There’s Frank – second from right. Photo courtesy Frank Terranella.
Recently I attended one of those cultural events that only happen in New York. The New York Philharmonic played an entire evening of the music of Stephen Sondheim with the composer in attendance. We reveled to an orchestral music-only evening of selections from “Sweeney Todd,” “Sunday in the Park with George,” “Into the Woods,” and other less, well-known masterpieces like, “Pacific Overtures,” and “Stavisky.”
As I sat there listening to the concert, it occurred to me that I have been enjoying the music of Stephen Sondheim on New York stages my entire adult life. I saw the original productions of,” A Little Night Music,” “Pacific Overtures,” “Sweeney Todd,” “Merrily We Roll Along,” “Sunday in the Park With George,” and “Into the Woods.” This was as a result of being turned on to Sondheim by a college professor whose History of the American Musical course that I took in 1973 named Sondheim as the current torch carrier for the art form.
In the late 1970s, I started to correspond with Sondheim. I found him to be a most diligent correspondent. He never failed to answer every letter I sent him. I treasure those today. We conversed about his work on, “Do I Hear a Waltz?,” with Richard Rodgers, and his adaptation of George Kaufman and Moss Hart’s play, “Merrily We Roll Along.” He shared his feelings about collaborating with Leonard Bernstein on “West Side Story,” and about “Sweeney Todd” being performed by opera companies.
Over the course of the next 20 years I sometimes spied Sondheim on the streets of New York. I saw him outside the theater where a revival of “Follies” was being staged, and he sat behind me at a revival of “West Side Story.” Abiding by the unwritten code that New Yorkers have regarding celebrities in their midst, I did not try to engage with the musical master. Then, in 2007, I had a chance to meet Stephen Sondheim, and spend some time with him discussing his work. A good friend of mine, who teaches theater at a Midwest college, was leading a theater tour of students through New York and London.
Knowing what a big fan I am, he and his wife graciously invited me to join a small get-together they had arranged where the students would meet with Sondheim and get to ask him questions. And so on a spring day in 2007, I found myself shaking hands with Stephen Sondheim and sitting around a table asking the master questions. It was a delightful hour. It’s not often you get to meet someone who has given you so much cultural enjoyment over so many years. From the movie versions I saw of “West Side Story,” “Gypsy,” and “A Funny thing Happened on the Way to the Forum,” in the early 1960s, through “Assassins and Passion” in the 1990s, it has been a wonderful ride.
Unfortunately, with ticket prices now routinely more than $100, and nearing $150, Broadway has turned away from the Sondheim type of show in favor of spectacles like, “The Lion King,” and “Wicked.” These days, the master can only get revivals of his earlier work produced on Broadway. Sondheim ’s latest musical, “Road Show,” was seen only off-Broadway, and out of town. There has not been a new Sondheim show on Broadway in nearly 20 years.
However, the change in Broadway fashions has not reduced the respect that the New York theater community has for Stephen Sondheim. We know that we are not likely to ever again see such a talent writing for the musical theater. But we will always have his great works. And perhaps the master, who will be 83 on March 22, will give us a few more masterpieces in the years when most men are long-retired. After all, he’s been through “Phantom,” and he’s been though “Spiderman” too, and he’s here. He’s still here. And aren’t we lucky.
MH and Me: Love Birds
20 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Concepts
Photo by Julie Seyler.
Ever since my husband (MH), and I moved to our home and got a feeder for a housewarming present, I have been watching birds at my feeders and chasing them around fields, forests and seashores for over 10 years now.
The number of feeders has only increased with my desire to see more birds, which in turn, has led me to try and see even more farther afield.
There are many reasons I enjoy doing this. I like a challenge, particularly one that gets me out of the house and into the wood. I’m forced to sharpen my wits, use my eyes and remember many things, including field marks and songs. It gets me enjoyable exercise, walking long distances in new areas to at some very pretty (and sometimes not-so-pretty, birds), and it gets me away from the barking dogs and the noisy neighbors with their tech-savvy kids, who think I’m a strange old lady in this suburban neighborhood for going out in deep snow to shovel a path to the bird feeders.
MH also enjoys watching the feeder birds and going out with me to see what he can see, although he isn’t as gung-ho about rising at early hours and driving long distances. Our different ways of looking at things shape how we go birding.
I have a camera with a longish lens, and if we are in a place far from home that we don’t get to very often, I’ll take pictures to help me remember the scene. If there are birds I can photograph, so much the better. But generally, I rely on my binoculars for identification.
MH has binoculars and a smaller point-and-shoot camera – much more sophisticated than the old Kodaks we had as kids. When we go out I find something, call it out, and he’ll take many pictures from many angles, hoping at least one or two will come out good. (It helps these cameras make it easy to delete the bad shots without wasting film or photo paper.)
Another difference: Say I’m out in the field and I hear something I’ve never heard before. I will stand and wait and wait until I see what called. I’ll note the size, the color, where I am (habitat, state), note any field marks, then come home to start digging through the many field guides I’ve bought to identify it. If that doesn’t work, I go through my CDs of bird calls.
MH has a more scientific bent. He will look, too, and tell me what field marks he sees. He leaves the identifying to me, but once identified, he’ll go to a bookshelf and pull out a historical reference to learn when was the last time that bird was regularly seen in a particular area.
Together we make a good team, and that has become one of the best things about our interest in birding, spending time together and adding memories. We may not have children together but we do have the birds.
We’re Three Months Old: Bring Out the Bling
19 Tuesday Feb 2013
Posted in Art
Heads were up, and a big hand was extended, at Rolf’s at Christmastime. Photo by Julie Seyler.
Among our favorite places to sip martinis is Rolf’s German Restaurant on the corner of East 22nd and 3rd Avenues in Manhattan. Aside from the super-sized drinks, what we really love: they “change decor of the restaurant for different seasons.” Their Christmas interior is so garishly, yet gloriously, over-the-top, you can’t look down.
And since there is no such thing as an overdo of sparkle, glitter, and bling, we’re blinging it blue (and big), in celebration of the blog’s third anniversary, by raising a hand to Rolf’s, and to all our contributors, readers, and fans. Thank you, everyone.
The Write Side of 59 