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Posts Tagged ‘Family’

When I was a student at Sacred Heart School, I would sit with my hands folded on my desk per the nun’s orders, and stare out the window at the Cadillac dealership across the street. In between daydreams and catechism, I’d count the bricks on the wall of that monstrous building. The bricks were that siena color, formidable and cold. I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring, to rush outside and stand there on the sidewalk across from that brick wall, waiting for my school bus. For freedom.

Call it a fence, a barrier or a wall, call it whatever you like, our government has ground to a partial halt because of it.

When our children were young, my good friend’s husband returned from Germany with a piece of the Berlin Wall. His name was Gunther and he’d been born in Germany. To hear him tell it, there was a party in the street and pieces, chunks of crumbling cement were strewn all over the place. It represented so much more than an end to the Cold War.

The Wall was a metaphor for Rockwell’s four freedoms – “Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, Freedom from Want and Freedom from Fear.”

Taken from one of FDR’s speeches to gain public approval for our entry into WWII, Rockwell’s paintings were purely propaganda; they raised $133 Million dollars in war bonds. As I try to understand the Trumpeteers among us, the Freedom from Fear image resonates with today’s imagined crisis at our Southern border with Mexico. A white father stands in the foreground as his wife tucks their children into bed.

Fear is a totalitarian government’s bread and butter.

When Mr T tells his followers that rapists and gang members are setting up caravans to invade our country, they believe him. Today’s illustrator might paint the image of a white father in that same child’s bedroom, within a walled-off, gated community holding a rifle. After all, in the art of Mr T’s deal, it pays to keep his customers afraid.

Barriers, man-made and natural, can keep people in or out, depending on your perspective. Nomads and cowboys and cowgirls hate fences, farmers love ’em. I was surprised in Key West to see a small chicken coop behind a house in the historic district, after all, hundreds of colorful roosters and hens roam free in the Conch Republic.  Then Bob pointed out that not only was the chicken coop door wide open, so was the wall surrounding the yard.

I wondered aloud what keeps those chickens hanging around; and I wonder why all the other chickens haven’t invaded their coop?

We returned to a freezing Nashville this week where Winter Break is over and children have been heading back to school. Our grandchildren loved returning to school, where they needn’t sit still with hands clasped counting bricks. I can only hope that all those 8th Grade trips around this already great country to our nation’s Capital are NOT cancelled.

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I’ve got black eyed peas soaking on the kitchen counter for luck. Yesterday, Bob and I ran away to a lake with our BFF Big Chill friend Al for a hike in the woods, and then delivered a little brioche cake to Grandma Ada and Hudson. We cheered on the losing Titans next door last night, and have been listening to the “sound check” for Nashville’s famous New Year’s Eve celebration all day, which will be right down the block!

And all that was after cowgirl boot shopping with my cousin/friend Anita, and finishing up at Blake Shelton’s Ole Red honky tonk for drinks. The end of 2018 has proven to be wild and wonderful, not counting our deranged Cheeto-in-Chief, and today it’s downright balmy out there, at 68 degrees!

Now y’all know I hate making resolutions, but I thought I’d share my one piece of exciting news – our gym (YMCA) is starting a Pickleball league in the new year! So here goes nothin. Wednesday morning, this old basketball, ex-tennis, racquetball, and recovering-paddle ball player is willing to give it a try – I will show up and hopefully not injure anything.

Better to look back while we can, as we slide into 2019 all bubbly and rain-soaked, and think about the top three personal accomplishments of the past year. Here are mine in no particular order:

  1.  Getting Great Grandma Ada and Hudson moved and settled successfully into town.
  2. Discovering our beautiful new niece Tamara and her family.
  3. Traveling to Italy with our oldest and dearest friends for our 70th birthdays.

2018 just may be a hard act to follow. But Bob and I got back into the gym this morning and we watched all the new members signing up with such hopefulness. I’m hopeful too: Pickleball I’ve got your number and we will be friends; hopeful that we can move this country back from the edge; hopeful that love and decency will win.

Come on 2019, Bring. It. What were your accomplishments?

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It doesn’t matter who designs a border: Russia divided Berlin; the British carved up the Middle East and India; and we Americans decided that Texas would not become part of Mexico. Imperial powers have drawn lines based on ethnicity and/or religion for centuries, and bloodshed is the usual outcome. This past weekend, as we caught up with post-Thanksgiving errands and pre-Holiday shopping, migrants were tear gassed on our California border.

My immediate thought was “Kent State.”

And inbetween cyber-shopping with a bad head cold, I read that Russia thought this would be the perfect time to seize three Ukrainian ships! It seems that the ships were headed down the Kerch Strait, minding their own business, near the Russian-annexed waters of Crimea…ie Moscow crossed that border awhile ago. Vlad figures Nikki Haley has one foot out the door at the United Nations, and Mr T has his hands full with his paranoia and his “caravan,” so why not now?

I will often turn to poetry when the world is too much with me, and right now “The Waking” by Theodore Roethke fills the bill:

“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.   
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.   
I learn by going where I have to go.”

And I look at the travel section of the BBC and dream about a great escape. My whole family would like to visit Iceland and I’m not sure why; certainly the stark, brilliant scenery is one thing, but like traveling itself, it’s the people who can delight and inspire you.

There is a certain philosophy in Iceland that is similar to Great Grandma Ada’s mantra, “It will all press out.” Of course you must say this in Yiddish, and since her father was a tailor from Minsk, it makes sense. Icelanders call this , “Betta Reddast” which means basically that everything will work out alright in the end! For a very cold nation, they are an optimistic bunch. http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20180603-the-unexpected-philosophy-icelanders-live-by

And although Iceland is not likely to start a war over a borderline, they do have a natural, geographical phenomenon that is pushing the country apart ever so slowly. Climate change is threatening to submerse major cities around the world, but the good news is that Iceland is growing… if you don’t mind a little earthquake here and there.

The country sits on the rift between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates, and those plates are slowly moving apart, widening Iceland by about 3cm per year and causing an average of 500 small earthquakes every week.

Our beautiful new niece and her family crossed the North Carolina border to visit us Thanksgiving weekend, and I’m hoping my virus didn’t return the favor when they traveled back over the mountains. Can you see the Bat Building in the reflection?

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Mr T is thankful for something this Thanksgiving. First and foremost his family, and why not? They are feasting at Mar a Lago surrounded by courtiers, in gilded glamour. Then right up there next to family, the Commander in Comedy of the Absurd said he’s thankful for himself!

“When asked what he is most thankful for, Donald Trump says the ‘tremendous difference’ he has made to the country. The US president made the comments after a Thanksgiving phone call with troops in which he compared the migrant caravan in Mexico to the fight against terrorism in Afghanistan.

Well for once I agree with him, partially. Family is everything to me. Maybe because i had to share two families as a child? Maybe because I was taught food is love, and so I adored cooking for a big family meal. I still cook for four all the time, so creative recipes for leftovers is my jam. Like this one for a Filipino Turkey Silog (garlic fried rice with eggs) from the NYT: https://cooking.nytimes.com/action=click&module=nav&region=logo&pgType=guide

I’ve always loved Thanksgiving because the Flapper would bake delicious pies, and my cousins came over and we’d run down to the baseball diamond and throw a ball around. This morphed into our second family of friends, the Big Chill Thanksgiving, where everyone cooked something together on the day of Thanksgiving, and then we’d play touch football in the mud, usually.

There was no religion, no prayers, no gifts, no costumes; just really good food, friends and family. A friend said her family tradition was to have creamed pearl onions on the table. When I told the Bride our tradition is to have pickles on the table, she asked if we could have olives too. So now we have a new tradition.

I made a traditional cornbread stuffing, Bob baked the turkey and the Bride did everything else. She bravely hosted 18 people yesterday from age 94 to 4! The Big Chill was represented and the Groom’s parents flew in. The Rocker and Aunt KiKi came from California and this year we met our new cousins from North Carolina, two of the sweetest teenage boys. I was wishing for more kids crawling around under the dining room table, but that will come. And politics never came up!

We didn’t watch football, we watched Star Wars instead. Hope your turkey day was filled with family, laughter and love too!

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Thanksgiving is right around the corner, and I’ve heard that more and more Americans will NOT be serving turkey this year! Millennials seem to be leading the charge/change to a more vegetarian diet, replete with seeds and nuts. Like squirrels.

Well, you can count me out – I’m a purist on “Turkey Day,” and will be assembling my famous corn bread stuffing along with plenty of sides for the main attraction. I tried talking Bob into making ravioli, but he feels his pasta needs a night all its own!

Since when did food become political? Tofurky aside, I remember my first meeting with two vegetarians in college (vegans came into being much later). They were purists, absolutists too, they didn’t wear leather shoes. I looked down at their feet, under the cafeteria table laden with plastic wrappers. Then they told me they wouldn’t use honey, unless they knew the beekeeper! In the 1970s I thought this was absurd, who would mistreat bees?

Ever since, I’ve abhorred anything in the extreme; politics, religion, whatever. I would never cook Kosher because I always ate meat on Friday! I hope you’ve seen that episode of Portlandia, the one where they are ordering dinner in a farm-to-table restaurant and they end up at the farm with the waitress!

Most of you know I’ll eat just about anything, except sushi. Raw sushi, aka bait. But it wasn’t until I read this fascinating article about the intersection of food and politics with a feminist slant that our current obsession with everything gastronomic made sense.

“…the eco-food movement, also known as the eco-gastronomy or alternative-food movement, was busy embracing the war on obesity, joining the front lines of the fight. And food became something to categorize — whole or processed, real or fake, clean or dirty — and to fear. Pretty soon almost every food and health writer I knew was dropping gluten or white sugar from her diet, then bringing it back, then dropping something else. Now that trend has gone mainstream; even my 88-year-old grandmother knows what gluten is and why half her family isn’t eating it on any given day.”  https://medium.com/s/story/how-the-eco-food-movement-mass-markets-eating-disorders-d0302e0e0b85

When we categorize a certain food as “good” or “bad” we are unleashing our inner critic and jumping on the “Oh I only try to eat (insert whatever word you like – whole, healthy, slow) food.” In the article, Virginia Sole-Smith, a self-described recovering food writer, admits that such extreme food restricting is another form of body dysmorphia. Many food writers, and bloggers as magazines and newspapers died, became nutritionists who would try to sell us some image of clean food that is linked to conservation and social justice; not just another vain attempt at losing weight through the latest diet scheme.

We can save the ozone layer if we only give up __________.

Save the ocean, only eat wild caught __________.

Once the organic farming movement joined forces with the health and wellness community, and Oprah took on cattle farmers, we were prime for a revolution. Food could cure just about anything! “The Global Wellness Institute, a nonprofit based in Miami, Florida, which conducts industry research, calculates that the worldwide “wellness economy” is now worth $3.7 trillion.”

The Bride and I were just discussing how easily integrative medicine, with an evidence-based practice, can slide into quackery. This was while I was drinking my chai tea, and after my T’ai Chi class!

The Flapper taught me that food is love… And So It Is… in all its pesky forms. There may be some “Toxic” chemicals you want to clean off veggies before serving – “Toxic” being the “Word of the Year.” And I was so sure it was going to be “Curate;” as in, you don’t have to be a museum director to curate things anymore.

If you haven’t watched “Salt Fat Acid Heat” on Netflix, you must do so NOW!! And for my Tuscany peeps – the first episode is in ITALY!!! https://www.netflix.com/title/80198288

Happy Thanksgiving to all y’all! Here is a picture from Italy which explains why I hope no one in our family will ever be vegan. All hail our Pecorino Cheesemaker

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Remember when the Dowager Maggie Smith on Downton Abbey asked her grand daughter, “What’s a weekend?” Well, this past weekend was jam-packed between our new niece’s getaway with girlfriends, to birthday parties. Bob and I took a deep breath and dove right in! You see the Bride was working in the ER and the Groom was in the Medical ICU, so we were prepared to have some super grandparenting Fun.

But first, we went out to dinner with friends. The City House is just around the corner and it’s famous for its pork belly pizza with an egg on top. I know how that sounds, but believe me it tastes divine. This particular stretch of our neighborhood is one of Ms Bean’s favorite spots; and it became our go-to morning walk once I discovered the fig tree behind the restaurant!

Turkish food was next up on Friday when our newly discovered niece rolled into town with her friends. Tamara has a joie de vivre, her smile is infectious. She told me her youngest son is playing the guitar and he can’t wait to meet the Rocker. I told her I’d meet her in the morning at the Mother Church of Country Music for a backstage tour.

Honky Tonk Row was bustling; New Englanders were in town for a game against the Titans. Veteran’s Day became almost an after thought… since I was thinking about the latest mass shooting in California at a country western bar in Thousand Oaks.

The young white man, the killer, was a Marine Vet, and one of the men he shot was also a Marine Vet.

Our newly elected (R) senator from TN responds by saying we “must” protect the 2nd Amendment…

12 people dead, and the NRA tells physicians to “…stay in their lane?” And that became the rallying cry on social media for trauma surgeons and ER docs: #ThisisMyLane.

My lane is a pregnant woman shot in a moment of rage by her partner. She survived because the baby stopped the bullet. Have you ever had to deliver a shattered baby? . What’s yours?

Gun violence is our own personal hell, our beautiful American patriotic duty to defend –  while guns send an average of 8,300 children to hospitals each and every year! https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46186510

I thanked my brothers and my Father-in-Law for their service in Vietnam and during WWII on Facebook after picking up the Love Bug from Hebrew School. I had to pass an armed guard to enter the Temple, I had to go through a metal detector to enter the Ryman the day before. Someone searched my bag. I wonder when my grandchildren will start practicing “active shooter” drills.

The Pumpkin told me he loved the weekend. But he’s conflicted because on the one hand you get to play, but also you have to clean the house! I know what you mean little guy.

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In high school, I played Adelaide to Bob’s Nathan Detroit. We were an item, 17 year old star-crossed lover-Seniors starring in “Guys and Dolls,” with the Flapper in the front row, when I sang and danced to the cutesy strip tease, “Take Back Your Mink.” Little did I know how my Mother would react to that musical comedy; mink coats had always been something of a conundrum in her life.

I remember when my step-father, Mr B, gave her a fur coat for Christmas one year. He had one of those early Zapruder movie cameras and filmed her reaction for all eternity. She twirled. She smiled radiantly. I looked on like any pre-teen, enthralled with the magic one single coat could create. This, I knew, was the epitome of making “IT” whatever it was.

It was the early 60s, little did we know what was to come.

At that time, I didn’t know the Flapper had been arrested wearing a mink coat on a NY subway in 1930. I had no idea she had been involved with one of the deadliest gangsters in NY. My Mother, the gun moll. All of this she told me later, much later as the Bride slept in her crib.

After the Bride’s birth, in the roaring 1980s when we returned to NJ, Bob bought me a decadent, dark, black mink coat, big shoulders, floor length, and all. My initials were embroidered on the inside, making me melt with pride. But, fur was beginning to be ethically unacceptable.

I wore that coat maybe twice. It was like getting to 8th grade, and finding out your class wasn’t going to DC because the previous class had embarrassed everyone.

In Cville, a friend asked me if I’d like to have the mink re-purposed. A vest? Or maybe a raincoat lined with fur? I wasn’t into doing that, and yet I couldn’t let it go. I think that beautifully decadent mink coat is in the Pod. And now, I’m not sure what to do with it, because I know I’ll never wear it again.

Maybe the Bug will want it? I remember wearing an old raccoon coat to football games in high school – it was so weird and strange. Just like me! This is us, feeding the dogs!

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