Skeletons remain in Asbury Park.
The Saturday Blog: The Casino
04 Saturday Jan 2014
A Farewell to Uncle Jimmy
03 Friday Jan 2014
Posted in Confessional, Men
I always look forward to The New York Times year-end edition of its Sunday magazine, which is devoted to reviewing the sometimes fascinating lives of notable people who died during the year. But everyday people also died this year, and in their own ways, their lives are just as special.
Take Uncle Jimmy, my wife’s godfather. Jimmy was 98, or 99, depending on whom you ask, when he passed away in November. (He thought he was 99, aiming for triple digits in March 2014.) He was first cousin to Maria’s mother on the paternal side, and first cousin to Maria’s father through his mother. I think that’s right, but I’ve never fully mastered the intricacies of old world Italian village relationships. The name on his birth certificate was Vincent, but everyone called him Jimmy. No one knows exactly why.
He was compact, and mostly bald, with an impish grin and an infectious laugh. It seemed as if Jimmy was always happy. He raked the leaves, and weeded the beds around his house until his early 90s, when bouts of dizziness, and occasional neck pain prevented him from continuing. Jimmy liked to tell how his father had died, at the age of 89, after falling out of a tree. He had climbed up to prune it, probably over his wife’s objections. But it was, after all, his tree.
“Who else was gonna do it?” Jimmy observed with a shrug and a smile.
He loved the ocean, and fishing from the jetty for scrappy rockfish that we would cut in chunks, dredge in flour, and fry in olive oil to a cinnamon-brown crisp. When things went wrong, like the day I was fishing with him and my line unspooled and got hopelessly tangled, Jimmy had the perfect words for it:
“It’s all wickety wackety. You can’t fix that. Cut the line!”
After his wife died, he refused to go back to the shore house because it held too many memories. So for the last 10 years or so, we could only see him at the home he shared in Nutley with his daughter (now retired herself), and her husband. Every time we visited, Jimmy would sit us down at the kitchen table, pull out the bottle of Drambuie, and insist that I drink shots, even if it was 10 in the morning. He happily joined me for at least one or two, at least until last year when his hands shook so much he spilled most of the liqueur before it got to his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “Wouldja lookit that. I’m shaky! I got the shakes! Hey, what’re you gonna do?”
He would shrug, and wobble the short shot to his lips anyway, taking a gingerly sip.
“Don’t get old,” he told me, waving his arthritis-twisted finger in mock solemnity. “Have another shot, go ahead!”
The night he died, he complained of head and chest congestion, but he refused to go to the hospital because he hated those places. He just took cold medicine and went to bed early. He awoke at 4 a.m., coughing. He took another dose of cough syrup, and fell back asleep. Between then and 9 a.m., when his daughter went to check on him because he’d missed his usual coffee time, Jimmy had stopped breathing.
The wake was a small, and surprisingly genial affair. After all, he’d lived a long, happy life without major illnesses, and died peacefully, at home, in his sleep.
“I’ll sign a contract for that right now,” was a much-heard mantra during his wake and funeral.
It’s wickety wackety without you, Jimmy. You were well-loved.
I’m pouring the Drambuie now.
A Night at the Museum: Martinis, a Bald Eagle, and Wilted Lettuce
02 Thursday Jan 2014
Posted in Art, Confessional
We reflect at the Museum of Modern Art.
A few days before Christmas, Lois braved the airless space, and masses of bodies, that defines Times Square, and met me at the Museum of Modern Art. I had dangled the prospect of seeing the Ileanna Sonnabend show, which had just opened. Sonnabend was a pioneer, and premier gallerist, who had an eye for seeing: she discovered Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg. To make the prospect a bit sweeter, I added in a promise of a long schmooze, and a martini, after the “culture” part of the evening.
But we reversed the schedule.
I was waiting for Lois to walk uptown from Penn Station at The Modern, the bar in the museum, and as soon as Lois walked in, I could tell from the look on her face that before any art excursion, a cocktail was necessary.
So our intended 100 minutes of art and 15 minutes of cocktails was turned inside out to 15 minutes of art and 100 minutes of cocktails.
But those 15 minutes of art were worth it. The galleries were empty and we had an unfettered bird’s eye view of Rauschenberg’s bald eagle assemblage from 1959 called “Canyon:”
It turns out that that bald eagle spawned a mini legal drama when Sonnabend died because the IRS valued the piece at $65 million, and her estate valued the piece at 0. The estate did not have the bucks to pay the taxes on it, and could not sell the piece to pay the taxes because of the bald eagle. It’s endangered and therefore, dead or alive, it cannot be sold. A settlement was reached. Taxes would be forgiven if the piece was donated to a museum. Now it is owned by MoMA.
Meanwhile, while gazing at Canyon, we met Nelson, 
a guard at the museum who led us on a mini-tour of the show. He pointed out a piece of sculpture by Giovanni Anselmo, which features a head of fresh lettuce.
After we passed it, Nelson turned to Lois, and said, “Oh no, look what you did!”
There was a ring of messy sand all disarrayed around the granite base – courtesy of Lois’s misstep:
But he was only kidding. It’s part of the “performance” art. As the head of fresh lettuce wilts, it seems granite dust is released and, of course, viewers will interact with the dust.
Then the announcement came on that the museum was closing, and there was still a whole bunch to see. Our attempt to charm the guards to let us stay for five minutes more was useless, so we decided to grab a bite to eat at Trattoria Dell’Arte, or as Lois likes to call it, “the nose place,” because it is decorated with paintings of famous noses.
It’s delicious, the pours are generous, and every once in a while you score a free glass of Prosecco, or perhaps some fresh chocolate chip cookies. We split spaghetti carbonara and meatballs, and when we finished the meal, the waiter brought over two glasses of limoncello. We toasted each other, and headed into the balmy and hectic streets to walk way down there to 34th Street so Lois could catch her train.
Welcome, 2014
01 Wednesday Jan 2014
Posted in Art
Farewell, 2013 …
31 Tuesday Dec 2013
Posted in Art
Tags
Cheers for the New Year
Longer Life Means Lifetime Savings in the (Memory) Bank
30 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
I think that the best thing about being on the right side of 50 is the riches we have accumulated in the memory banks. People who are in their 20s have so few good memories compared to us. Oh sure, they have some childhood memories, and maybe even a few teenage memories of the golden variety. But we over-50s have those, and much, much more.
We can look back at the lives we have lived, and the choices we have made. Of course there are always some regrets, but as Sinatra sang “too few to mention.” The golden memories we have include not just our weddings, but the births of our children, their first steps, their first day of school, their proms and (for some of us) their weddings. Some of us even have memories of first grandchildren.
But most of all, we over-50s have golden memories of time enjoyed with significant others in our lives. Maybe it was a spouse, maybe it was a good friend, but the memory banks are chockablock with warm recollections of days gone by. Vacations spent in beautiful places are in there, alongside quiet Sundays at home in bed. We have the blessings of having lived and loved; laughed and cried. And we can summon it up anytime we want to. All it takes is for someone to say, “Do you remember when…”
There are lots of good memories associated with this time of year. Some of them, for me, involve enjoying great works of art. Can you remember the first time you heard Handel’s “Messiah”? How about the first time you watched Linus tell us the meaning of Christmas in “A Charlie Brown Christmas”? I put these in the same paragraph because they both inspire me.
There are tons of Christmas movies around, but some of my favorites are not about Christmas, but just take place at Christmas. An example is “Home Alone.” An older example is “It’s A Wonderful Life.”
One of my favorite movies that take place around Christmas, but is not about Christmas is “A Family Man.” It was made in 2000, and stars Nicolas Cage and Téa Leoni. Writers David Diamond and David Weissman create a sort of It-Could-Have-Been-a Wonderful-Life story. Instead of getting to see what the world would have been like without him, Cage, a rich, single businessman gets a “glimpse” of what his life could have been like if he had married his girlfriend, Téa Leoni, instead of flying off to London for an internship.
It’s a beautiful and profound romantic comedy set in the holiday season. It shows the power of choices we make in our lives. It shows how memories are like dominos that can branch off in unexpected directions as life moves us inexorably forward. I recommend watching “A Family Man,” when you’re in a contemplative mood so you can get the full effect. It’s perfect end-of-year viewing.
As another year comes to an end, and something called 2014 begins, those of us who have spent most of our lives in another century can still look forward to making even more golden memories in this one. And those 20-somethings will never catch up to us. When it comes to memories, it’s really an embarrassment of riches for the over 50s.
The Saturday Blog: Dinner
28 Saturday Dec 2013
What to Do With That Leftover Christmas Cranberry Cheese Log …
27 Friday Dec 2013
Posted in Food
Tags
Bread Pudding, Fissler Pressure Cooker, Food, Lois DeSocio, Presto Pressure Cooker, The Write Side of 50
This is not a Christmas Cranberry Cheese Log.
… Wait. Cheese logs are so last year.
On December 27, 2012, I was in the midst of writing about how that “round of goat cheese encased in smooshed cranberries – a Yule Log,” tastes better than it looks.
How, I put it out year after year, and “I usually wind up being the only one eating it.” And, how much of my cooking on December 26 and December 27 usually has that leftover log in it.
“Green beans. And sherry. And cheese log! Oh my!!”
I nixed the article – no one cares about cheese logs. (Unlike cheese balls – which, perplexingly, remain beloved.)
So this year, I did not say cheese when I shopped for my Christmas-Day feast. A first. My cheese-obsession (and all that you can do with a leftover log of it), was usurped by my newfound, and really old, pressure cooker, and all that you can do with it.
But the Apple Bread Pudding with Cranberries that I got from the Fissler Pressure Cooker lady in Williams Sonoma recently, became my 2013 cheese log – it was mostly passed-up and, therefore, left-over.
C’mon, people – it’s not a fruitcake.
But a concoction that is binded by apples, oranges, cranberries and eggs. And then encased and interwoven throughout with white bread, butter, vanilla, cinnamon and cream – all pressured and steamed into a puddingy bliss – yields a perfect foil for a second go-round. Especially if you leave it out on the counter for a day. (I did for two.)
Here goes:
Take a section of the pudding, and shape it into a small log for two:
Fry up two to four pieces of good-quality pancetta:
Drain, set side. Then sauté only the flat sides of the pudding in the pancetta grease, on low, until browned, and warm in the middle. Be careful – you don’t want hard, crunchy, pudding (yet):
Cut pancetta, while still warm, into strips, and make a lattice around the sautéed pudding. Drizzle with honey, and top with Marcona almonds:
Serve with Prosecco or Champagne. It’s especially delicious with a Mimosa.
Just hold the cheese.
My Favorite Toy Almost Shot My Eye Out
26 Thursday Dec 2013
Posted in Men
Tags
My favorite toy growing up was an air rifle. That’s probably not politically correct today, when the issue of guns, pro or con, is hotly debated, but it’s true. When I was nine, and my brother Jim was 10, we started asking my parents to buy us BB guns. Like the kid in “A Christmas Story,” the universal response was that we’d “shoot an eye out,” or worse. We promised to be extra careful, arguing that we could have fun, and perform a public service at the same time by picking off squirrels in the back yard. No dice. Air rifles were as far as they would go. Because air rifles didn’t shoot real ammunition, my parents assumed they were safe.
So when my brother and I tore into the long, gun-shaped gifts on Christmas morning, we knew they weren’t “real” weapons. But to us they were still beautiful. Each featured a brown plastic stock with simulated wood grain, and a matching forestock under the barrel. The barrel itself was metal, about a half-inch in diameter, with a sighting nib sticking up at the end. You “loaded” the gun with a charge of air by pumping the long oval lever under the trigger. It opened and closed with a satisfying snick, and you could feel the tension in the trigger as the air was chambered.
The rifle exploded with a violent, satisfying POCK! sound when you pulled the trigger. You could even feel a mild recoil in the stock against your cheek and shoulder. Click, click – POCK! Click, click – POCK! Jim and I ran around the living room in our pajamas “shooting” each other, our sisters, the Christmas tree, the cat. It was glorious.
“Okay, enough already!” Dad bellowed from the dining room table where he sat musing over a giant mug of coffee, the floor around his feet littered with tattered wrapping paper and toys. He was badly hung over, which was something of a Christmas tradition for him. Mom seized the opportunity to shut us down – from that moment, we were forbidden to ever shoot air rifles in the house.
Fast forward to spring: the first warmish day with the sun shining and tender blooms starting to peek out on the trees. Jim and I put on our jackets, slung the air rifles over our shoulders, and headed out to do some play-hunting. We snuck up on some sparrows in a bush, and POCK! sent them flying. We stalked the wily squirrel, but couldn’t get close enough for a decent shot.
But then the game changed. I’m not sure, but I think Jim was the first to lean on his gun with the barrel pointed toward the ground. The dirt was soft and moist from the recent snow melt, and a plug of mud snugly filled the opening. Because he had already cocked the lever, it was already loaded with a charge of air, so when he pointed it at me, I instinctively raised my arm in defense. He fired, and the dirt plug exploded out with a menacing CHUNK! sound, spraying a hard splat of mud across my shirt and upraised arm. It hit with surprising force, particularly at close range. And the mud was pebbly – homemade buckshot.
Like splitting the atom changed modern warfare, our air rifle play-fights instantly went from tame to terrifying. We didn’t have BBs, and the dirt bullets wouldn’t kill any squirrels, but we’d still figured out a way to take an eye out with that thing.
Cheers!
25 Wednesday Dec 2013
Posted in Art
The Write Side of 59 