Tag Archives: Lois DeSocio

One Timpano, Two Timpano, Three Timpano …

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by in Food

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , ,

Timpano

BY LOIS DESOCIO

… Score!

After three attempts, in as many years, I believe I have conquered timpano — that barrel-shaped feast of encased noodles, salami, cheese, pork, beef, ragu, hard-boiled eggs, and star of the 1996 movie “Big Night.”

I wrote about my second attempt in 2012. (The first attempt was not worthy of documentation.)

So when I read New York Times food writer, Melissa Clark’s tweaked timpano recipe from December 11 (see below), I was inspired to go for a third round over the holidays. Clark mixed and nixed, modernized and molded an easier, less labor-intensive timpano.

But I was torn. Making timpano is a feat you don’t mess with. I have learned from first-hand experience and as is evident in the movie, it is an event that is supposed to be nothing short of a mix of religious exultation and traumatic sweat — a recipe for stress and science as you chop, slice, toss, stir, wrap and bake with a bow to the ingenuity of the ingredients and salutation to the artistry of the finished product.

There’s the mess on the counter. Arithmetic is called for. You salivate as you combine a bunch of things that you may never have thought could be combined into what becomes an unwieldy mound that then has to be wrapped in dough and baked and ultimately burnt at least two times before you get it right.

But I’m a fan of Clark’s. And a failure at timpano, so …

… I tweaked Clark’s tweak. And because of the merging of her talent and deft with my reckless abandon in the kitchen (because I’ll eat anything) — I finally nailed that drum.

Clark substituted savory roasted butternut squash for the hot hard boiled eggs from the original. I followed her lead, but I wish I had used both. (The addition of roasted squash, though, was sublime.) Also, instead of wrapping it all in dough, she used fresh pasta sheets, which makes for a gigantic, layer-free lasagne, as opposed to an upside-down (not pie-shaped) over-stuffed pizza. In retrospect — give me pizza.

I used broccoli and garlic instead of her broccoli rabe (no strings attached), I substituted honey for nutmeg, and I shoved some mini meatballs in there along with three kinds of homemade (from the local pork store) sausage. (You must never, ever eliminate meatballs. Never.)

And instead of salami OR prociutto, as Clark suggested, I went with salami AND prociutto. Clark took out the pecorino romano — I kept it in.

The one mess-up is that my recent triumph at timpano will for the most part remain in limbo, mainly because I didn’t write anything down, and couldn’t read a good portion of what I did write down. Most of what I’ve written here came from memory after drinking wine and eating timpano.

Here’s the original Big Night Timpano recipe, which takes a labor-intensive five hours to make.
Here’s Clark’s, which she professes to be a “faster and easier” four hours.

I can’t calculate how long it took me, but “faster and easier” and me and timpano didn’t mix (partly because of the frantic Christmas Eve-morning search for fresh pasta sheets). But I do believe my third try gave a nod to Clark’s modernity and a bow to the integrity of the original. And props to me for messing with the pros while maintaining palatability. And I didn’t burn it.

Timpano eaten

My timpano, 24 hours in.

When My Words Collided With Björk’s

06 Friday Feb 2015

Posted by in Confessional

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

I cry to my left; I dance to my right

“I Cry to My Left; I Dance to My Right.” Watercolor by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Björk and me. As polar-opposite as Iceland and New Jersey. She’s a brilliant musician. I’m a brilliant … hmm. (I can’t recall being called “brilliant.”) She’s an international “queen.”

I’m a “Jersey Girl.”

She can write music like nobody else.

I listen to music — like everybody else.

She can sing.

I carry a tune by plugging myself into my phone and toting the music in me along with me, through dancing, from room to room.

But we do have a parallel. We both recently wrote about betrayal and a breakup. And in keeping with the disparity in our places in the universe — I wrote an essay. She wrote a best-selling, breakthrough album, out of which a MoMA exhibit will spring.

We are dead-on, though, with our innate use of a creative outlet to mine through life events that are coated with agony. Agony that words can’t recount. Until you find the words. We both found the words. We both wrote the words. And, in her big way, and in my little way, our written words hit a collective nerve.

A few days after Julie told me I had to read The New York Times’ article by Jon Pareles, “Sometimes Heartbreak Takes a Hostage,” a review of Björk’s “complete heartbreak” album “Vulnicura,” another friend sent me a link to the Web site Journal.ie, which ranked my BuzzFeed essay as last week’s number-three best read on the Web.

Number one was an interview with Björk about “Vulnicura.”

Cool. So I threw myself into everything Björk. I read what I could find. I bought and repeatedly listened to “Vulnicura.”

I feel her words — both in her music and in her interviews about her album and the process of creating it. The words were mine, but hers. For both of us, moving through betrayal and “the death of the family,” was for me, as was for her “the toughest thing I’ve ever done.”

For both of us it took years to write about it and muster the nerve to put it out in the world. We both wrapped our articulation around the arc of a timeline. We both had a run-in with the magic of karma. And we both came through liberated.

I relate to her metaphors: “You feel like you’re having open-heart surgery, with knives sticking in, so everything is out, and you have this urgency and immediacy. It has to happen right now, that you have to express yourself.”

And her letting-go: “She hopped out of the D.J. booth to dance on the pool table, rolling across it like something in a vintage MTV video. Around midnight, she led her flock to Prikid, a packed hip-hop club, where she danced nonstop, sang along and downed shots of birch schnapps until nearly 4 a.m,” wrote Pareles. (I would have been there, on the pool table, had I been there.)

When I write, I listen to music. I have a stable of songs that I draw from. They range from opera to ’60s pop melodies. I pick the song that moves me along with my writing. I click “repeat” and it plays over and over and over for hours. I blast it. It takes over my head and let’s nothing in but me. Rarely, do the words come to mind without music in my ears.

Sometimes I need violins. Sometimes I need a rousing choir. Sometimes I need Roy Orbison. Sometimes a voice hits me out of nowhere. (B.J. Thomas!?)

But for this piece, I needed Björk and “Vulnicura.” Specifically “Black Lake.”

So while I was formerly more in awe of pieces of Björk (yes, her swan dress, her avant-garde-ness), I am now a forever-fan of all of her. I hear her now.

Me and Björk. We were on the same page. The Icelandic queen and the Jersey girl — scribes of the separation; chroniclers of catharsis. All-consuming, heart-breaking, gut-purging, pool-table-dancing, shot-drinking reclaimers of us.

How to Throw a Party

20 Thursday Nov 2014

Posted by in Entertainment, Food

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Come in and have a drink.

Come in and have a drink.

BY JULIE SEYLER

This post is about the Perle Mesta’s of the world, those men and women that know how to throw a fete without sweat. Lois DeSocio, my friend and co-collaborator on The Write Side of 50, is an extreme maven in the field of party-giving. Her menu is never less than inventive: French bread slathered in Nutella and topped with hot sausage, sardines with avocado, swiss cheese, olives and mayo, and meatballs made with grape jelly grace the table. Odd as the concoctions may be, they are always displayed invitingly and usually work as conversation starters. The bar is set up and user-friendly. What looks like thousands of glasses are at the ready for wine and beer, water and soft drinks, distilled liquors and fruit mixers. Olives. The guest list is varied. The combination of every “thing” never fails to make for a great party.

flowers flowers2

From observing her over the years, I have deduced Lo’s tricks for converting hostess “responsibilities” into a really fun time:

She starts working on her guest list.

About 45 days ahead of the party day, she sends out Save the Dates.

Menu contemplation commences. Different ideas percolate, like whether she’ll have it catered, self-prepared, or a combo of each.

Then there’s the issue of space and place. She’s always thinking of the comfort factor — where people will sit, stand, talk and eat and not feel crowded and overwhelmed.

For herself, she starts the party the day before when she puts on Dean Martin, pours a glass of celebratory wine, and sprinkles the finishing touches on the food. This allows her to act as if she’s going to a party, not giving the party.

And the last most crucial ingredient to being a hostess with the mostest:

feet at party

She always has a fabulous time at her party. She’s not worrying. She knows she has given her love.

So here’s to those that know how to throw a party. May we learn from the best of them.

Morning after

(And of course, there’s Lo’s prized morning-after mess.)

 

Blacked-Out and Bottomless

06 Thursday Nov 2014

Posted by in Confessional

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, ,

culprit

The culprit.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Once the temperature officially shuts the door on summer, when I trade bare legs for black stockings (which warrants slipping into my favorite, thigh-gripping black slip), I’ve more than once forgotten to put my skirt on (which is usually black). It seems the more black I have to put on, the more often I forget to put it all on before I walk out the door. And often, everything I’m wearing from the waist down is black.

This is the hanger-version, shaped into what I was wearing as I made my way out my door on my way to work the other day:

photo-27

The culprit with a top.

I looked in the mirror before I left — all good. I even wrapped up the whole outfit with a funky black belt. But looks in the mirror can be deceiving. I saw my slip as a skirt.

This has happened before. But I’ve always caught myself before I made it past the front door. Always. Until now. I had even adopted a back-up plan to make sure I’m dressed when I leave the house. I do a quick, full-body, mental scan from top to bottom, every day, as I’m walking to the train or to my car in the driveway: Earrings? Yes. Top? Yes. Shoes? (I’m a barefoot girl — I drive without them and have inadvertently started driving away without them, and have had to go back to get them. But usually–yes.) Bottom? Damn!

This time I got all the way to the car, thinking I was dressed. It wasn’t until I sat down behind the wheel did I notice that my “skirt” was hiking its way up to inappropriate. Because it wasn’t my skirt. My skirt was still in the closet.

skirt

Slipped out the door without this.

“Write everything down!” I’m told by friends and family. I try. When I do write things down, it’s usually on the fly, so more often than not, I can’t find where I wrote anything down.

“Put everything in your phone!” I’ve been reprimanded. I already sleep with my phone, that’s as far as I’ll go.

I will hold out as long as I can, and will leave it up to my aging hippocampus to (at least try!) to never forget — like it used to. I fear if I don’t, I will lose more than my skirt.

Of course, because I refuse to write everything down, or because I forget where I wrote it down, I forget to do lots of things (pay bills, make an important phone call, put on my skirt). So I did write this down, to remind me to embrace my black-outs: “Forgetfulness is a lapse in memory. It’s not a loss. It’s normal.”

Followed by the maxim that I hurl at all my over-50 mishaps: “What’s the worst that can happen!”

My 81-year-old mom told me recently that as she was getting dressed for a doctor’s appointment, she checked three times before she left the house to make sure her “slacks were on the right way,” because that is not a given with her. Once in the exam room, as she was getting undressed, she saw immediately that her slacks were on the wrong way. The back was in the front. Surely, a snippet of what lies ahead for me.

But I figure as long as I still, eventually, remember what I forgot — like my skirt — I’m still solvent. Normal. In the black.

Finally. My Own Edge Over Mysogyny

25 Thursday Sep 2014

Posted by in Opinion

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , ,

Strength of the Isus

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I’ve been in a nest of men lately since my recent divorce after a 30-year marriage. Some of them are married to friends, or in a committed relationship. Some are single, and have never been married. Some are divorced. Some are friends. I’ve dated a few.

And more than a few are good men. But as a middle-aged woman who is single for the first time since her 20s, I’ve been reminded personally, all too often, that sexism is ageless. A few die-hard mysogynists have flown by.

But I’m now like a fine-grained whetstone. As an older woman, I’ve noticed that my feminist edge has been honed over the last three decades. My whittle-down skills are fine-tuned. And comparable to a 59-year-old slab of good old Wisconsin cheddar – I’m sharper with age.

It’s a given that men’s behavior towards women is as disparate as stone and cheese. But my little slice of change is that I have no use for the stinkers among them – to those who believe that masculinity means mysogyny. I no longer bother to slice through the bad parts to get to the good. I toss them – every bit of them – without pause.

It hasn’t always been this way. I would take the verbal, physical and emotional abuse personally when I was in my teens and my 20s. I had a what-did-I-do-wrong approach. Let me slice through your layers for you! I want to help you understand who I am – how smart I am.

To any man that would diminish me, whether in the workplace, or in my personal relationships, I figured it was smart to be coy. I would try to see his side. This hen didn’t want to ruffle any rooster feathers. I smiled. I played the game. I would give in. And eventually give up. I figured I must be doing something wrong. Let me fix me. Because that would fix them.

When one man in particular would yell “I am woman!” in a condescending, mocking voice, every time I spoke my mind, I would instinctively knock myself down a few pegs. My own in-my-head demand – Stop talking, Lois! – would shut me down.

And often, I fell right into the stereotype – I cried like a girl.

As for cat calls, hoots from men, and behavior from some that reduced me to body parts: Oh! They think I’m beautiful! That’s what I’m supposed to be.

I felt I had no tools to handle it any other way. It was uncomfortable. I knew I deserved better. But I took it as the norm.

Because, back then, to me, to survive as a girl meant to play with the boys. They ruled.

So, dare I write this – I’m feeling a change in attitude beyond my own. I see the tolerance meter towards sexism shrinking among women. And men.

There is a plethora of online platforms which allows women to reach a wide audience. They are standing up to the abuse, the misogyny, the dismissiveness, and the cluelessness in a way that I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.

So bravo to the female journalists, like ESPN anchor Hannah Storm (who is 52), who are “driving the story, providing a perspective that their male counterparts simply cannot” on the Ray Rice assault on Janay Palmer, and the N.F.L’s subsequent sloppy handling of it.

To quote Jonathan Mahler, in his article about Storm for The New York Times: “The proliferation of female broadcast voices covering this story is a testament to the progress women have made in a profession that was once a male bastion.”

He continues to ask if this is a “watershed moment,” or ” … just the temporary effect of a news cycle.”

No matter – a layer has been removed. More men are listening.

And kudos to the 20-somethings, like college student Emma Sulkowicz, who has tirelessly dragged a 50-pound mattress around the campus of Columbia University and has pledged to do so until her accused rapist is expelled from the same school. She has helped to blaze a path of awareness, straight to Washington, to legislate against, and shut down, the rape culture on our college campuses.

Thank you, Emma Watson, for your eloquent, “game-changing” speech to the United Nations that defined feminism as a theory, not a rally cry against men.

I have no doubt that every single woman, from 18 to 80, has experienced, at some point in her life, sexual harassment. She’s been diminished, groped, humiliated, physically abused, verbally bashed, emotionally dismissed, laughed at, or all of the above.

Every. Single. One.

And I have no doubt that, like me, many women of my generation felt it was amiss – wrong. But fell into line because that was the wisdom of the day for those of us who were less resolute, and were not as self-assertive, as the feminists of the 19th and 20th centuries, who cast that first stone, and whittled, piece by piece, through the mess that is mysogyny.

Because no matter how you slice it – it stinks.

I Don’t Hang Loose When it Comes to Tight Pants

22 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by in Confessional

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

,

Originally published December 13, 2012:

JBrands

Good Morning.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

“I could never wear those.” I heard this sentence twice recently while shopping. One time it was while I was picking out these big, bedazzled pink earrings. The other was when I was checking out three pairs of my favorite J Brand black skinny jeans. The women who said this to me, who appeared to be over 40, knew I was shopping for myself, because I was wearing big, bedazzled purple earrings, and black skinny jeans. I did have a moment about the jeans, and thought: maybe I shouldn’t wear these either – I’m over 50. There is that uptight, conventional wisdom that says older women shouldn’t wear tight anything. Or maybe if you do, you’re trying to look younger. Do this! Don’t do that!

But it was just a moment. Not only will I continue to wear them, I will be wearing them when I’m over 70 – just like Jane Fonda.

Black skinny jeans is pretty much all I wear these days. In fact I wear them every day. Unless I’m on the beach, in the shower, or in bed – I’m in my black skinny jeans.

To me, tight means a good fit. That small percentage of spandex helps them hug, and hold their shape. They’re comfortable. They’re fashionable. They’re me! They make me happy. And they let me work from the bottom up. Picking out the shirt, the earrings, is where I want to put my daily-dressing energies. (I love shoes, too, but they’re usually black – to match my jeans.)

Think flower stem, tree trunk, or maybe ice cream cone – all the good stuff is on top. My jeans make me a pedestal that sprouts color; essence. Add black heels, my legs look twice as long. (Those big earrings? They give my face sparkle and pop!)

You’ll find me in my black skinny jeans during the day.
Jeans dayAnd at night.
Jeans night

I have about a dozen pair, and they are all exactly the same. Which gives me my personal strength in numbers. That phrase used to mean: never wear the same thing twice in one week. Now it says: buy a dozen of exactly the same thing, and wear it every day.

Bottoms up!

Stabbed in the Back. Am I Thrust to the Sidelines?

11 Friday Jul 2014

Posted by in Confessional

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

, ,

Mud Jump

Am I too old to jump with reckless disregard?

BY LOIS DESOCIO

And then there were two.

On the same day I posted about MuckfestMS 2014 and The Three Mudketeers, I was humbled; stabbed in the back by my 59-year-old spinal cord that pretends to be half its age.

Something had seized it that Saturday, and by Monday, it, and my left leg were pierced with pain that brought me to my knees for twelve days.

Twelve days. Twelve days of crippling pain. I couldn’t sit, stand, or lie down. Twelve days of crawling, rolling, crying, and begging for mercy.

It was on Tuesday, day two, that I called 911 at 4 p.m. to take me to the hospital. I hadn’t slept in two days, and wouldn’t have been able to move from the floor without a gurney.

After an emergency room diagnoses of severe sciatica as a result of trauma, that would probably linger for another four to six weeks, and a shot of Dilaudid (apparently one step below morphine), and ten painkiller pills that were gone in two days, I was still debilitated and miserable for another week and a half. No more 5K obstacle-course runs in the mud for me. I’m too old to be a Mudketeer.

And that revelation carried its own pain, once I was upright and working my way back slowly. I was plagued by the possibility that this may be a defining moment for me. A “grow-up-Lois-you-are-not-invincible” wake-up call. Take to the sidelines, already!

I’m pretty much parked in adolescence – at least in attitude. And I have been successful at warding off the aches and pains and injuries and ailments that plague middle-agers. I’ve been really fortunate when it comes to health – and downright cavalier about how any recovery from injury or illness will always be swift and complete.

I have a strong mind-body connection that has always served me well. I’m never sick or injured to the point of defeat. I can talk myself through pain. (I gave birth without drugs – twice.)

But this bout is different. I’m afraid. Afraid that this pain that was so potent, and so prolonged, might come back if I make a wrong move. I continue to be guarded. Am I on the precipice of fatalism; resigned to a smaller world? Weakened? Old?

Will I have to give up the big waves in the ocean? The pounding core cardio workout? Twisting, jumping, dancing in the dark, trampolines, water parks, sliding down things, running up the stairs, rolling on the floor? Heels? Can I remain carefree? Can Pollyanna live with Prudence?

Perhaps I’ve confused fear with levelheadedness. The gift of aging. Because us 50-plussers have numbered days, fear can serve to gather perspective – quickly. And from physical pain can spring intellectual renewal. A re-routing. A savvier path. It feels so good to be back on my feet again – I’m almost grateful for the experience.

So I’ve reminded myself of, and will tuck away, what I used to say to my kids when they were young and fearless, growing into adolescence, and were wont to listen to the wisdom of the older:

“Live in the moment.”
“Have fun.”
“Be wise.”
“Be happy.”
“Protect yourself.”
“Be kind.”
“Take chances.”
“Stay out of the mud!”

The Three Mudketeers

23 Monday Jun 2014

Posted by in Confessional

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

Mud selfie

Our selfie(s).

20140621_123812-2

Our hosed-down, post-race selves. Photo by Cameron Sackett.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This past Saturday at 10:30 in the morning, I ran out of the gate through the hoses. I clamored up the first of the triple pits and slithered down into the waist-deep muddy waters with dozens of people underneath and above me. I alternated running and walking (for hours) with crawling through big dirty pipes, and under big dirty ropes. I hoisted over huge muddy barrels and tight-roped over a pit on a rope bridge. I swung and was tossed into a six-foot deep brown and rocky pool and clung for dear life on (and ultimately slid off of) a spinning wheel of ropes over a mini river of brown muck, before wriggling like a worm, and emerging with a bloody elbow, through a rocky, muddy, sewer-like tube, to the finish line.

Bring it on, MuckFestMS 2014. For three years now, I’ve been on team Mudketeers in the 5K for multiple sclerosis. (We started with six, this year we hovered around 20.)

The three-mile run in the South Mountain Reservation (amped-up with 19 man-made obstacles with names like Skid Mark, Big Balls, Spill Hill, and Muck Off), has manifested into a special, girlfriend, in-the-trenches, tradition for me and my two dear friends, Maura and Deborah.

We check our competitive natures, and any desire for a personal best, at those Triple Pits. We brave the onslaught of obstacles, the wet rocks, the hills and dales of the woods, the Dragon Crawl (nailed it), Mt. Muck-imanjaro (have yet to attempt), in tandem. We are one – all in honor of Maura's husband, Lee.

We’re in our mid to late 50s, and no doubt, amongst the oldest of all the participants. And even though it seems to be that we are always the last of the Mudketeers to cross the finish line (we know our limits), I’m betting no one has more giggles, grunts, endorphin-rushes, hugs, high-fives, bruises, jumps up and down, and gushes of pure love than we three.

Last year, I got stuck in the mud early on and ripped a muscle in my thigh while clawing my way up a mud hill.

“Go on without me,” I yelled. “I’ll be OK!”

But not to be a stick-in-the-mud, and thanks to my friend, who gave up going “all-out” for me, and stayed by my limping side, we were able to finish together. (There’s free beer at the end.)

This year Deborah tattooed my cheek for me, and Maura cleaned my bloody elbow.

So once a year, us 50-something girls get to be warriors, to play dirty, and to challenge mind and body to the core. We think of Lee, drink to Lee, wait for each other, pull each other up, encourage each other, scope out for each other (“Stay to the side!”), give hugs, share tears, cheer each other on, and dance across the finish line. As one.

Mid-Life: As Adaptable as a Dewar’s Bottle

11 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Food

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

, , , , , , ,

Dewars bottle

Pestle with a punch on the inside.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

We are nothing, if not adaptable, by the time we reach the middle ages. We’ve adjusted our flow meter to “just go for it!” We navigate our midlife crises with aplomb and mettle that is unique to our generation. We’ve learned to turn our heads away from ageism, and we strive to live out this chapter with vigor.

But there are some things that should not be messed with. Some things that must remain intact as foundation for our adaptability. The leave-as-is, the indefatigable. Like our lucidity; our vivacity. Our awareness of the passing of time; our confidence.

And crushed garlic. Mortar-and-pestle-crushed garlic. Garlic that is pummeled and pulverized, along with oil and other herbs until it’s pasty; its aroma sulfurous. It has a swallow so pungent, it can push your inner cheeks to your teeth.

It was the flux between adaptability and the crushed garlic called for in this Radish Salad with Anchovy Sauce from the foodie Web site Food52 that recently forced Julie and I to grab a quarter-filled bottle of Dewar’s White Label by the neck.

Just a couple of days before The New York Times ran this piece on mortars and pestles, which included the quote, “I insist on it for certain things, like garlic …” from Marc Meyer, an executive chef and restaurant owner in Manhattan, Julie and I were cooking for a party we were throwing. We were working in a kitchen that was lightly stocked. We didn’t have the basics. Or a mortar and pestle for the radish salad.

“Insist.” Like Mr. Meyer, that’s pretty much what Julie inferred when I tried to talk her into adapting the garlic – just slice it!, dice it, smoosh with a mini ricer, let’s try the immersion blender, how about a fork? (I believe I also suggested donning sneakers and stomping on it ala Lucy and the grapes.)

After all attempts failed to do what apparently only a mortar and pestle can do, we hit the bottle. Our row of alcohol on the set-up counter bar included an old bottle of Dewar’s whiskey that has been hanging around in the pantry for decades – no one ever drinks the stuff, but it is always put out at parties. It’s shaped like a big pestle.

So our pile of garlic got hammered on that bottle of whiskey.

And hence the radish salad was sublime – a riot of garlic, salt, and radish pop-and-tickle – all a result of midlife aplomb, mettle, confidence (the indefatigable), and a bottle of whiskey.