Merry Christmas Eve
24 Tuesday Dec 2013
Unlike Me, Christmas in Manhattan Never Gets Old
23 Monday Dec 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
Tags
confessional, Frank Terranella, Men, Radio City Music Hall, Rockefeller Center, Rockettes, The Write Side of 50
Around this time of year, New York gets dressed up for the holidays. The shop windows proclaim the symbols of the season. Otherwise dull office buildings are decorated with wreaths and holly. Tourists flock to Rockefeller Center, and the many other public displays of Christmas. In fact, people come from all over the world to spend Christmastime in New York.
I think the first time I ever was brought into Manhattan was for the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Show. It was probably the late 1950s. I remember standing on a long line in freezing temperatures. But it was worth it. Once we got inside, I was in awe of the jaw-dropping majesty of the hall. And then a man appeared in the corner of the stage and began playing a marvelous organ that had bass notes that rumbled in my stomach.
After a while, the curtain opened and there were the Rockettes dressed as toy soldiers. And wasn’t it just so cool the way they fell down! Needless to say I practiced that move with my cousins at my grandparent’s house on Christmas Eve that year. It was a lot of fun, but we found out just how hard it was to fall slowly like the Rockettes did.
After the Rockettes, there were some Ed Sullivan-type acts like jugglers, ventriloquists and singers. Little did I know that I was seeing the death throes of vaudeville right before my eyes.
Next there was a big Christmas-themed musical production number that usually featured snow men, reindeer and of course, Santa Claus.
And then there was the grand finale – the living Nativity. Camels! Real, live camels walked across the stage led by Wise Men along with shepherds. And at center stage was a manger with Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus. After seeing this, I remember thinking that what our school Christmas pageant needed was camels!
As if all of that was not enough, soon after the stage show ended, the lights went down again and we saw a movie. All this for $1.50. No wonder there were lines around the block.
But wait, there was more. We always ended our trips to Radio City with a visit to the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. We watched the skaters glide across the ice as Christmas carols blared from speakers. And then finally, we walked to get some food. Where? Why the automat of course!
Horn & Hardart’s coin-operate diners were a fascinating place for a kid to eat. Just putting in the nickels was fun. I don’t remember the food being particularly tasty, but I remember having a piece of blueberry pie that was my first ever. I would never have ordered it, but I remember the little door holding the pie was at my eye level. It must have been pretty good because blueberry pie is a favorite of mine still.
The automats are long gone, but the Rockefeller Center skating rink and tree are still with us. And fortunately, Radio City Music Hall is as well. Of course the movie is gone, and the prices are competitive with Broadway, but they still have a stage show with camels!
Today I work in Manhattan, so I am there practically every day. It would be easy to be cynical about all the commercialism, and take all this Christmas finery for granted. But I find that even after more than 50 years, when I hear the jingle of silver bells on a street corner this time of year, I’m still the wide-eyed child marveling at the wonder that is Manhattan at Christmas.
The Saturday Blog: Peace …
21 Saturday Dec 2013
Posted in Art
… for all.
The (Christmas) Tree-Lined Streets of New York
20 Friday Dec 2013
Posted in Concepts
It’s Christmastime in the city, which means it’s time for annual pop-up Christmas tree shops. The day after Thanksgiving, mini-marts stocked with Christmas trees small enough for a 350 square-foot apartment, and large enough to fit an apartment well over 3,500 square feet, emerge on city blocks. An arbor of evergreen reminding us, through the power of scent, that the year is drawing to an end. Again.
1st Ave and St. Mark’s Place, 11:00pm.
And like every other business that seeks to grow, it has expanded beyond Christmas trees. On 2nd Avenue, between 19th and 20th streets, there is a an outdoor mall stocked with wooden soldiers, ornaments and every other accessory for the city-dweller to create the perfect domestic pitch of joy to the world!
Open day and night.
By necessity, the shops are manned 24 hours, even when it’s 25 degrees outside. Years ago, I had a friend who ran a Christmas tree shop. He set up an electric heater, and three or four beach chairs because friends frequently stopped by to keep him company. While it was cold and lonely at three in the morning, from a certain perspective it turned out to be not such a bad job. It was steady work for a mere 30 days with guaranteed pay, and today this guy is a super successful entrepreneur. Is there a connection? Plus, now that he’s on the right side of 50, this youthful feat of braving the cold night and day to sell Christmas trees makes a great story.
These days, most places come with a heating cube and and air mattress, but that doesn’t mean the sales force can be lax. One morning on my way to work, lured by the glitter and lights, I decided to buy a gift for a friend. I knocked on the heating cube 
and Patrick, bright eyed and bushy tailed, came out. His shift, which had started at nine the night before was just about over. He had not sold too many trees, but he was sublime and optimistic. A shipment had just arrived, and he was pretty sure that by the run of the gig there would be only a few left. He helped me select the perfect ornament.
Patrick Demayo of Liberty, New York.
So here’s to the ritual of Christmas-tree commerce, because whether you choose to have a tree or not, you still get to experience the greenery that marks the holiday season.
Friendships Hang On (Some By a Thread) Through Christmas Cards
19 Thursday Dec 2013
Posted in Confessional
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
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
A terrific line-up of New York theater.
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
Posted in Confessional, Men
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!
The Saturday Blog: Lilies
14 Saturday Dec 2013
Posted in Art
Photo by Julie Seyler.
Late afternoon.
Intense Under Pressure: Pasta
13 Friday Dec 2013
Posted in Food
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.
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: 
I clamped it shut, turned up the fire, and stood back.
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 …
… 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.
The Write Side of 59 