Tag Archives: Julie Seyler

Roasted Leeks (Enough Said)

24 Wednesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Food

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A Leek and tomato tango

A Leek and tomato tango

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have on rare occasions made leeks vinaigrette and potato leek soup. But now that I have discovered roasted leeks, I am addicted to them:

*Slice off dark greens

Off with the stems

Off with the stems

*Lovingly peel each layer
*Gently wash and dry, and lay the curled leaves in a pan.

Leeks waiting to be roasted

Leeks waiting to be roasted

*Spritz with olive oil and salt, pepper, basil and oregano.
*Roast until they slither across the pasta (or plate) like caramelized snakes.

Tangled leeks

Tangled leeks

And feel completely noble eating them because leeks are one of the healthiest vegetables in the world.

Where Are They Now? Check Facebook

23 Tuesday Jul 2013

Posted by in Confessional

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Even the high school yearbook has become, “so yesterday. ” Photo by Lois DeSocio.

BY JULIE SEYLER

My, and for that matter Lois’s, 40th high school reunion is coming up in September. Ten years ago, invitations went out by paper, so I walked into the party ignorant of my classmates’ lives. Not this time. While we sped along from 48 to 58, Facebook popped up. Even if I haven’t seen someone since 1973, I will know who is having a ball with the grandbabies. No need to rely on the generic, “What’s new?” Facebook, my hyper-local source for all news good and bad, has clued me into weddings, births and, sadly, deaths.

And then there is e-mail. When we were on the left side of 50, invitations for the reunion arrived by snail mail. These days details of when and where the party begins show up in my inbox, and those responsible for organizing everything (and a thank-you to you if you happen to be reading) can send out a general e-mail blast asking us to “please tell us if you are coming.”

In mid-July, in response to one of these gentle reminders to RSVP, someone e-mailed that she wished she could come, but it would not be possible because she was taking care of an elderly parent. Someone else responded to her with kind words and sympathy, and a brief synopsis of his life over the past 40 years. And someone else chimed in as to how great it was to hear from him, and the e-mail floodgates burst open.

Weigh-ins on the days of yore, and the days of now, and the hellos, and surprises, and the memories of the way we were just kept bouncing like ping pong balls from North Carolina to Texas to California, and back to New Jersey. Far be it from me to divulge the reminisces of our 18-year-old selves, or the fascinating revelations, and fabulous successes of so many people. But I admit to opening my e-mail every day with a tinge of anticipation, because it was fun to read about the past antics and present accomplishments of my high school class.

The flurry of communications has since died down. I guess we are all busy with summer, and sort of wanting to wait until we see each other face to face before more news is exchanged. But it seems this brief trip down memory lane was very healthy.  According to this recent article in The New York Times, which came out exactly when the e-mail chain was at its pinnacle, there are great benefits to indulging in nostalgia.

Research shows that a romp in the past enhances bonhomie and good cheer, and makes “life seem more meaningful and death less frightening … people (whom) speak wistfully of the past … typically become more optimistic and inspired about the future.”

So I guess as the Class of ’73 congregates, schmoozes, slugs a few cocktails, and trades tales of the good-old days, when we knew 58 was really old, we should also be patting ourselves on the back for engaging in such a healthy pastime.

No Matter How You Frame It …

19 Friday Jul 2013

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frames 001

Photo by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

… an anniversary is an anniversary. And worth noting, whether it be with a big bash, a gift, a clink of flutes, or simply – a few sentences.

The Write Side of 50 turns eight months old today. So, we thank you again – contributors, readers, commenters, “likers” (and “dislikers”). We started out with an empty frame; a periphery: “We’re getting old,” we said.

Let’s write about it. And paint it, and take pictures of it, and ruminate, and celebrate. And ask others to chime in. So, we hope that bit by bit, and month by month, we’re successfully painting, snapping, and chronicling an engaging, more-to-come narrative; a picture of middle-aged life.

Richard Burton, and His Diaries, Found an Entry to My Heart

16 Tuesday Jul 2013

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ode to rb 5

BY JULIE SEYLER

Frank recommended the biography of Abraham Lincoln as summer reading fare because of Abe’s nobility of spirit. I am recommending Richard Burton because of his spirit of noble passion. Frank and I both want to escape the pedestrian pettiness of present-day politics – not to mention the horror show of news from the Middle East – but we travel different routes. While I, too, am a devoted admirer of Abe, my mood right now screams out for light, sexy, fun, acerbic. Richard Burtons’s diaries are perfect.

Who doesn’t love Richard Burton in Virginia Woolf? Cleopatra? The Night of the Iguana? And The Spy who Came in from the Cold?

He is a great actor, but his uncensored recordations between 1940 when he is 15, and 1983 when he is 57, reveal a brilliant, compassionate, caustic, humble, and at times hysterically witty, observer of foibles – his own as well as those of the rich and famous he partied and worked with. I dread finishing the book because I have become so attached to him. I am going to mourn his death of long ago.

But he lives on in the computer. I can listen to him recite the poetry of Dylan Thomas, and watch him and Julie Andrews singing “Camelot” on the Ed Sullivan show from 43 years ago. These days, I invariably call Steve “Richard,” and I, of course am Liz. Ha Ha! I am boring everyone with my Dickie anecdotes. This is especially wearing on people who cannot abide celebrity worship. But I nay-say them. He is beyond stimulating, insightful and erudite. He critiques the zillions of books he is always reading. He expostulates on the political scene, and never refrains from dissecting the uglier parts of his own personality.

His public persona may be linked to booze and ultra-luxe, but his day-to-day musings are riddled with the concerns, joys and worries that are familiar to anyone on the right side of 50. The diaries are a hugely readable, not People-magazinable, peek into the privileges of astounding wealth while, at the same time, offering up a portrait of a middle-aged man beset with the fears, pleasures, and anxieties that are common to all of us.

He fetters over having to work to make money:

March 26, 1966. I worry enormously about the fact that we have no money. I worry that I will not be able to look after my wife and my children after I’m dead.

He frets over the welfare of his children:

November 1, 1969. We are having desperate trouble with Michael. We do our damndest to help him but it is impossible…However we will do our best and love him a lot and have patience with him…

And he is riddled with arthritis:

July 30, 1971. Missed yesterday as I have a gouty or arthritic left wrist, exquisitely uncomfortable.

The next day:

I was so uncomfortable last night that in bed the slightest movement made me groan as if demented. Elizabeth says I am the world’s champion ‘conyn’ whicb is Welsh for moaning hypochondriac.
He loved eating at the best French restaurants, and the simplest Italian trattorias. He fantasizes about retirement. In some ways, he is just like you and me – until you come upon an entry such as this one, where he recounts how Elizabeth acquired the Cartier diamond. On October 2, 1969 they visited a hospital in Geneva where they had donated money to build a paraplegics ward (Richard’s brother Ivor was a paraplegic):

Somewhere between the hospital and dinner brooding set in. Between long silences deadly insults were hurled about. At one point E. knowing I was in a state of nastiness, said to me at the lousy Italian restaurant we went to: Come on Richard, hold my hand. Me: I do not wish to touch your hands. They are large and ugly and red and masculine. Or words to that effect. After that my mind was like a malignant cancer-I was incurable. I either remained stupidly silent or, if I did speak, managed an insult a second. What the hell’s the matter with me? I love milady more than my life…Why do I hurt (her) so much and spoil the day?

The next day:

I am very contrite this morning but one of these days it’s going to be too late cock, too late. E. has just said that I really must get her the 69 carat ring to make her big ugly hands look smaller and less ugly. Nobody turns insults to her advantage more swiftly or more cleverly than Lady Elizabeth. The insult last night is going to cost me. Betcha!

Next time I am asked, “Who would you invite to your next dinner party?” I would reply, Richard Jenkins, a Welsh miner’s son, aka Richard Burton.

ode to rb 6

Friends with Food is a Recipe for Fun

11 Thursday Jul 2013

Posted by in Food

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Talk, drink, eat. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

Talk, drink, eat. Repeat. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

Food and friendship are entwined like the DNA double-helix. Getting together with a girlfriend for a night out of schmoozing and sharing a bottle of wine translates into comfort mileage for days. It’s really not about the food as much as figuring out a date that will work, finding the restaurant with the perfect blend of atmosphere, charm, and price points. It’s ordering up the pre-meal cocktails, and tucking into a good conversation. And everything is up for discussion – from the sublime to the ridiculous to the usual musings. And sometimes, those shocking discoveries that seem to pop up these middle-aged days. It’s about hanging with a buddy that never gets tired of the rehash.

It’s about renewal and reconnection and breaking the strong arm of the quotidian.

It’s so not about gender. Or age. And it’s so time to make a date.

The Tagline: Keep it Simple, S*****

09 Tuesday Jul 2013

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cloud mountains from prop plane back to GC

Let’s be clear.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

From its birth, Julie and I wanted “The Write Side of 50” to be a forum for us 50-somethings to figure out, through our words and our art, how to navigate and shed some light on all the “stuff” that comes with being on the side of 50 that is closer to 60.

That we, “An Artist and a Journalist,” would “Demystify, Debunk and Debate the Myths Around Being in Your 50s.”

Well, eight months in, we agree that while there has been some “debate:”

“Before the Oil,There Was an Olive”
“An E-mail Ode (And Reply) to the Oyster Pearl.”

And a few (kinda) “debunks:”

“Men in Mid-Life: Puberty Revisited? Or a Time to Grow Up?”
“I Don’t Man-up for the Super Bowl.”

What the heck have we “demystified?” And what, exactly, does that mean?

One of the hardest things to write is a tagline. To compose a catchphrase that’s smart, succinct, and short. A sentence that tells you who we are, and why we’re here.

We think we overdid it the first time around. We think we might have confused some of our readers, and we, ourselves, have been collectively cringing, every day, when we log on, and that sentence is the first thing we see.

It takes a year or more for a blog to find its voice, and we 50-year-olds are not to be contained and imprisoned by a sentence. We never run out of ideas. We have the gift of perspective, the realization that we’re halfway done, and the wisdom to make the best of what’s left. (And as Bob so honestly wrote – we also know that we could drop dead any day now.)

So, it’s time to unshackle ourselves from those three Ds, and better reflect the voice that has evolved all on its own over the last eight months. We want a tagline that’s looser, less cryptic and not wordy. (And no more alliteration, please!) So let’s just say it:

“This is What Happens When You Hit the Right Side of Middle Age.”

Stay tuned. We are blowing open our vault, and bringing on some inspiring new contributors. Anything goes.

To Brew 5000-Year-Old Sumerian Beer, Follow the Poem

01 Monday Jul 2013

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Egyptian beer.

Egyptian beer.

BY JULIE SEYLER

The other day I came across an article in The New York Times about a craft brewery relying on a 19th century B.C. poem called, “Hymn to Ninkasi,” from Sumeria to create a new brew.

As a subscriber to the theory that everything old is new again, I was intrigued. Not because alcohol was part of the menu thousands of years ago. This is a well-known fact since every movie set in ancient Rome has a scene devoted to drunken debauchery and endless goblets of flowing wine. But I had no idea that there was a recorded document dedicated to a goddess of beer. Her name was Ninkasi, and according to one translation of the mysterious pictograms found on the clay tablet, Ninkasi was worshipped for her beer-making skills. She handled the dough with a big shovel, watered the malt, and spread cooked mash on large reed mats. The poem ends with this stanza:

When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

So the cradle of civilization was also the source of the first craft beer.

An Internet search revealed Ninkasi is not obscure amongst the brewing set. So let’s raise a cold one to those on the quest to perfect her recipe.

BREAKFAST AND BEER

Casting Shadows and a Set of Pipes

27 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by in Art

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Ang's Laundry

Ang’s Laundry

BY JULIE SEYLER

One morning I brought my camera with me as I walked crosstown. It was about 7:20, and the sun played havoc with the shaded facade of this building on 22nd Street. The black spikes in the iron fence are vertical, the white floor of the fire escape is horizontal, the windows are on a diagonal. The photo is a carousel of movement. But the close-up changed the mood. The photo is no longer about sharp edges and frantic energy.

Above Ang's Laundry

Above Ang’s Laundry.

I spotted these pipes above a parking garage on 20th Street. They are so organically woven, they seem to be channeling Fernand Leger.

Big Pipes

Big Pipes.

These standpipes made me think of Egyptian dancers – heads to the left; bodies facing front.

Egyptian dancers.

Egyptian dancers.

I came back to where I started, felled again by the dance of sunlight against a building on 20th Street.

Portico

Portico.

A Pictorial, and Bittersweet Memories, of Summers Past

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by in Art, Confessional

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Summer.

Summer. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

For me, the coming of summer triggers walks down lanes dotted with memories; picture postcards of the past.

I step back to the summer of 1970. Endless days spent sitting on the beach with friends, and hanging out in the snack bar at Loch Arbor Beach listening to, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday,” playing Hearts or Spades. Nights that began with a walk from the Casino, at one end of the boardwalk in Asbury, and ended with pinball at Convention Hall, at the other end, until one of our parents would arrive to take us home.

And even earlier than that, I remember bike rides to Allenhurst Pharmacy for hot fudge sundaes, and trips to the Palace to ride the bumper cars, the ferris wheel and the carousel. I would try to grab the gold ring as the horses spun up and down and round and round. Way before the riots took down Asbury Park, the Palace, which was Tillie’s home before the Wonder Bar saved her, was an extravagant indoor amusement park.

And earlier than that, it was about catching fireflies. An empty jelly jar in hand, I was out for the hunt.

Flash 50 years forward – I never see fireflies anywhere; the Allenhurst Pharmacy gave way to a dress shop 30 years ago. But the Casino has been rebuilt from a battered shell, and Convention Hall continues to shine forever true.

The Casino

The Casino, today, rising.

Convention Hall.

Convention Hall. Steadfast.

And, of course some things refuse to change. Summer weekends I am sitting on Allehurst beach, albeit no longer playing cards, but still hanging with my card-partners from way back then.

still sitting on the beach

Still sitting on the beach with the same old crowd.

The Bed: Once Made for Frolic, Now It’s About Sleep

21 Friday Jun 2013

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The non-Tracey Emin Bed or the Bed at 50

The non-Tracey Emin Bed

BY JULIE SEYLER

Tracey Emin emerged on the art scene about 20 years ago. She became renowned for her 1995 installation work of a tent embroidered with the names of the 102 people she “slept” with, as well as other installations, such as her bed in its unedited glory surrounded by totems of her life in her 20s. To me, “My Bed” represents the chaotic frenzy, boundaryless partying, and hormonal passion that drives us when we are young. But the artist that was identified as one of the Young British Artists is turning 50. She was recently interviewed in The New York Times, and in response to a question about 50 being the new 30 she said:

Who’s saying that? When you’re 20 or 30, looking ahead, you see these benchmarks for relationships, career, ambition, sexuality, and they went off into infinity. When you get to 50, you look at what’s ahead of you, and there’s an end. It goes into a nothingness; a void.

This struck me as a somewhat dark, but fairly accurate observation of what hits the psyche at some point during one’s 50s; another of the “crossing the rubicon” thoughts that hover about as we transition from being “young” to the next stage. So, the bed – once a repository of day/night revelry now plays a primarily functional role. Let there be a full night’s sleep.