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
Tag Archives: The Write Side of 50
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.
Beauty and the Beasts of its Burden
07 Thursday Mar 2013
Posted in Confessional
Is she beautiful?
Oil on canvas. Julie Seyler
I recently read an article in The Times about the ugliest woman in the world. According to the article, she was born with two genetic conditions: hypertrichosis lanuginosa and gingival hyperplasia, and as a result she was covered with hair and had super thick gums. This guy used her as a freak act in a traveling road show, and to secure her loyalty, and thereby a guaranteed income flow, he married her. They had a child together, but sadly it died at birth and she died five days later. The drawing of her confirms she was outside our concept of “beautiful.”
Then I remembered that classic 1960 Twilight Zone episode, where we watch the surgeon unwrap the bandages from a facial surgery. The nurses chatter, discussing how many operations the patient has already had to try to correct her deformity of being ugly. She can’t have any more. If this surgery failed, she will be deported to an island with others who look like her. The last bandage comes off; a unified gasp arises. We know it has failed. Pan to the doctors and nurses with their pig snort noses and elephant ears. Pan to the patient – a “beautiful” blonde.
So what is beauty? And definitely what is “beautiful,” as we age, and live in a society that disdains the signs of age. What do we do when our peers look younger than us because of Botox, collagen fillers, chemical peels, eyelifts and the ultimate alteration: the face lift? Do we succumb? Do we decide it’s worth the bucks to have a face stripped of wrinkles? At 40, I proclaimed, with superior conviction, “I shall never get a face lift. My wrinkles are a testament to the life i have lived.” But each new contour tests my “wrinkle pride.” I am certainly old enough now to know to never say, “never!”
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.
A Sneak Peek at Boy Scout Memories From a Non-Scout
05 Tuesday Mar 2013
Posted in Confessional, Men
Tags
Bob Smith, Boy Scouts of America, confessional, Girl Scouts of America, Men, The Write Side of 50
Boys checking out scouts. Collage by Julie Seyler
Scouting made a big impression on me during grade school and high school, but not in the ways you might think. In the early 1960s, when we were about 10, my brother Jim and I wanted to join the Boy Scouts of America, but Dad wouldn’t allow it. He was convinced that once we joined, they would expect him to attend evening meetings, chaperone weekend trips, and generally participate in our lives in a personal, up-close way. He said it would force him to quit his part-time job (which the family could ill afford), but we suspected it was as much because spending quality time teaching us wilderness survival skills might cramp his drinking habit.
So my brother Jim and I would sneak around the church where they held the meetings, and peek in the windows to see if we could find out what the Boy Scouts were up to. One night, we saw a group of boys gathered around someone’s father in the meeting room behind the church. The scouts had pivoted open a stained glass half-window for air, leaving a wide five-inch gap that gave us a clear view of the floor. They all wore matching khaki shirts and dark shorts with kerchiefs around their necks fastened with a gold Boy Scout cinch. Some of them wore military-style cloth caps, and even the grownup wore a neckerchief. He was holding a length of nylon rope, and appeared to be demonstrating how to tie knots.
“That’s bullshit. They’re just tyin’ and untyin’ that rope,” Jimmy whispered, his nose on the stone sill.
“Yeah. Look at the scarf on that guy. Dad would never wear that.”
“No kiddin,” Jim agreed. “Buncha assholes.”
“Hey – what are you doing there?” The leader snapped as he walked briskly to the window, and slammed it shut.
Frantic, Jimmy and I scrambled out of the bushes and ran as fast as we could before a gang of scouts could pour out of the church like angry bees bent on testing their night tracking techniques. They never caught us, and we never went back. And we gave up asking for Dad’s permission to enlist. A few years later, the smartest girl in my high school class (let’s call her Eleanor) started wearing her Girl Scout uniform to school. This was a serious uniform – the kelly green beret with a pert nipple tip in the middle, starched matching denim shirt and sash festooned with handicrafts patches, and plaid pleated skirt. She rounded out the ensemble with clunky schoolmarm shoes, eyeglasses with pointed tips at the sides, and the coup de grace: white anklets with the day of the week script-stitched across the top. Crowds of sniggering kids, pointing and shaking their heads in amazement, would part like the Red Sea as Eleanor strode confidently down the hall, geek to the max. Apparently oblivious to the scorn and derision of the entire high school, she wore that outfit one day every week right through the end of twelfth grade. I secretly admired the incredible confidence it must’ve taken to do that, despite our relentless jeers. When I saw Eleanor at a recent reunion and mentioned her Girl Scout outfits with weekday anklets, she totally shrugged it off.
“Yeah. If you didn’t like it, you didn’t have to look,” she laughed. “Unless you weren’t sure what day it was.”
To this day, she remains a paragon of the I-don’t-give-a-crap-what-anyone-thinks merit badge, which is probably a sign of true genius. On the other hand, my brother and I still can’t tie a decent knot.


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.”
The Riddle of the Sphinx Gives a Leg Up on Aging
28 Thursday Feb 2013
Posted in Concepts
The Alabaster Sphinx. Sculpted over 3000 years ago. Memphis, Egypt.
The Sphinx exists in the mythology of the ancient world, be it Egypt (1200 BC) or Greece (600 BC). It is a hybrid creature with a human head, a lion’s body and wings for arms. It is the catalyst that ignites the Oedipus saga chronicled by Homer, and dramatized by Sophocles. Remember “The Odyssey” from sophomore year in high school: Oedipus answers the riddle, “What goes on four legs in the morning, on two legs at noon, and on three legs in the evening?”
Aging is a sphinx. It is mythologized. Our conversation is jammed with dramatic tales about what our bodies are doing these days – the duller and longer aches, the higher cholesterol count, and, my favorite of all – big toe arthritis. Perhaps we know others who are suffering with more dire conditions. All of this weighs on us, because it used to be something that “happens to others.”
And yet it is a hybrid. There is good stuff going on. Wisdom, contentment; and self-awareness are hardly negatives and seemed unattainable to me when I was in my thirties. And since I am devotee of Facebook, there are tons of my peers getting the biggest kick and joy out of their grandkids. I love the photos. But none of this undermines the inevitable fact that we are moving on to the stage of three legs. So obviously, it’s time to throw caution to the wind, and head out for a cocktail and a schmooze-session with a great friend.
Many Boomer Crowds are Not for The Birds
27 Wednesday Feb 2013
Posted in Opinion
The birders and the boomers go birding. By Julie Seyler.
I enjoy a good walk in the woods with my binoculars. If my husband comes along, even better. But I get really annoyed when we find ourselves in a crowd.
We used to be considered unusual in our birding habit, but in recent years we’ve learned we are far from alone.
My husband and I, both a few years past 50, have been known to be the youngest people in an area looking for a particular bird when we go on vacation. That is thanks to having no children and being able to travel when people with kids can’t.
But that is very different on the weekends. We have found serious birders we can respect. More often we are forced to travel with flocks of families and less-respectful people around our age.
I can’t speak for why the families are out there. They may be trying to teach the kids about “nature“ but too often the kids are running ahead and screaming while their parents are hanging back on their phones.
As for the boomers, some, like me, may want to be challenged outdoors and look for something special that keeps them moving.
But more often it seems to be all about the cameras.
Either childless couples like us or whose children have left the nest – seem to have bought into the idea that we can use our money to do whatever we want now.
Want to tour Belize? There’s are lots of birder tours that will take you down there just as winter is coming on in the north. When you’re not snorkeling or lounging on the beach or checking out real estate you can be walked or driven through a rain forest, looking for birds you may or may not see back home. (Many northern birds, like these people, go south for the winter.)
Just as these “active adults” have bought into the idea of the large-screen TV and the computer-laden “crossover,” they want the smartphone and the point-and-shoot camera so they can travel the world capturing the birds, adding them to their life lists and displaying them on their Facebook or Flickr pages.
These are the people the medical companies love, the ones urged to replace their aching hips and their balky knees and take this pill so they can keep doing everything they did when they were younger.
These are the folks who will clamber over rocks and leave the trails to bushwack into tick-infested woods, eroding the eco-system. They can afford the expensive equipment, even if they don’t know how to use it.
I know, not every boomer is like this. Many just like to go to natural places where they can walk completely oblivious to the birds that are scattering in front of them because their dogs are running off the leash.
Then they wonder why people like me yell at them.
It’s why my husband and I do our best to avoid them.
The Write Side of 59 