I was eleven when I became aware of the Beatles: “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” and “I Saw Her Standing There”. Those were the first 45’s I bought for my portable record player. After school on Fridays, I’d have my girlfriends over. We’d “Twist and Shout” in my bedroom until we were out of breath and flopped down, exhausted, on my pink bedspread. As the years went by, I became attached to Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, and Grace Slick. But the Beatles were always the background music at each pivotal juncture in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, the Beatles toured America. My sister had a schoolmate who stalked them in their Boston hotel, and insisted that she made tea with an actual teabag they had used. “I have George’s cold!” She boasted. My father was neither impressed with her antics nor trusting of the shrieking mobs of hysterical female fans. My sister and I weren’t allowed to see the Beatles at the Garden on our own. Instead, we attended the concert on a family field trip that included both of our parents and our younger brother. At thirteen, I wasn’t embarrassed to be with them, just excitedly screaming along with everyone else when the four guys took the stage. The audience was singing and yelling so loudly, that the commotion sounded like a jet landing at Logan. It was difficult to hear the lyrics, but we were there and we were close.
In high school, “She’s Leaving Home” became my personal mantra as I prepared myself mentally to leave home for college, and explored my beliefs. I remember writing an essay about reincarnation in which I talked about an afterlife and wondered if I had been a frog earlier in my history. Citing my writing as a fantastic piece of satire, my English teacher read it aloud to the class. (She just didn’t get it.)
Lennon and McCartney wrote poetry that chronicled the emotions of people like me coming of age in the late 60’s and early 70’s. “Eleanor Rigby” and “Day In The Life” encouraged wallowing in adolescent melancholia. “Good Day, Sunshine” and “The Magical Mystery Door” were expressions of exuberant joy. Who could take a Saturday afternoon drive and not smile if you were blasting one of those tunes on your mother’s car radio?
The September I arrived at college “Here Comes The Sun” and “Give Peace A Chance” blared from dorm room speakers. You could hear those songs clear across the quad. After the Beatles broke apart, John Lennon’s personal commitment to peace fueled the antiwar movement. The rallies and marches that I attended featured his words. Years later with “Imagine”, Lennon was still pleading for a perfect world.
On December 8th when John Lennon was shot, I was holding my own beautiful boy, my toddler son who had awakened from a bad dream and crawled into bed with me. I inhaled his baby fresh scent while I ran my fingers through his thick brown curls. When the terrible news flashed across my television screen, I was stunned. My husband, who had been practicing his guitar, came into our bedroom to be with me. Our eyes locked in sad silence. As children, we had experienced the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. We were shocked that this could happen again to a figure who loomed so large in our lives. Now the man who was home “Watching The Wheels” just as we were and extolling his son in “Beautiful Boy” just as we were completely involved with raising our own kids was inexplicably, violently dead. At that moment, it was too overpowering to digest. The next day I dressed in black, and walked around in a daze.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Halloween
Yesterday Halloween dawned just like the day before: startling blue sky, sunshine piercing through red and yellow leaves. The clear air was particularly astounding because there had been so many weeks of dense, dreary, damp mist. When I was a little girl, Halloween was a festival night of prowling the neighborhood while collecting shopping bags full of homemade fudge, popcorn, and candy corn. We would of course be in costume; sometimes witches and ghouls were covered up with jackets if the evening was especially cold. After ringing neighbors’ doorbells, we would be invited inside so the adults could guess who we were and exclaim over our creativity.
I know that some towns celebrate Halloween on a Saturday night and impose a two-hour window of trick or treating time. Others have abolished door-to-door candy hunting, and have large parties in community centers or town halls. I have nothing against Halloween gatherings and I know that some cities have sadly been plagued with predators who quickly ruin a wholesome holiday, but there is something enticing about celebrating the old fashioned way, on the date that the occasion is meant to be observed. Similar situations are all those Monday holidays that have spawned long weekends instead of moments to pause and remember great leaders, explorers, and veterans.
My neighborhood of closely packed houses and streets entices groups of costumed kids who parade block to block with older siblings or parents. Adults lurking in the driveway, and children always being accompanied are signs of our safety conscious times, but I enjoy the fact that every year, they keep ringing our bell. There is a sense of excitement on Halloween day as neighbors carve their pumpkins and make sure their packaged candy supply is plentiful. The days of handing out cookies, apples, and packets of loose candy are long gone.
When they were in elementary school, my children brought friends home from school so they could get their homework finished early, eat pizza, and borrow my make up to put the finishing touches on their outfits. Now that my youngest is a recent college graduate living at home while he searches for a job, he enjoyed passing out treats to those who waited in our doorway. Impressed with their good manners as they asked: “Should I take one or two?” and then exclaimed “Thank you!” when they were encouraged to take a handful, he reminisced about his friend Nicky who carefully applied my lipstick to his lips and Tim who quietly studied alone in our dining room before joining the usual holiday revelry.
This year, we agreed that our first guest had the best costume. My daughter stopped by with her seven-month-old son who was snuggly dressed in a “tigger” suit complete with tail, white paws, and a hood with ears. Not only did he look totally adorable, but his mother had taught him to roar.
I know that some towns celebrate Halloween on a Saturday night and impose a two-hour window of trick or treating time. Others have abolished door-to-door candy hunting, and have large parties in community centers or town halls. I have nothing against Halloween gatherings and I know that some cities have sadly been plagued with predators who quickly ruin a wholesome holiday, but there is something enticing about celebrating the old fashioned way, on the date that the occasion is meant to be observed. Similar situations are all those Monday holidays that have spawned long weekends instead of moments to pause and remember great leaders, explorers, and veterans.
My neighborhood of closely packed houses and streets entices groups of costumed kids who parade block to block with older siblings or parents. Adults lurking in the driveway, and children always being accompanied are signs of our safety conscious times, but I enjoy the fact that every year, they keep ringing our bell. There is a sense of excitement on Halloween day as neighbors carve their pumpkins and make sure their packaged candy supply is plentiful. The days of handing out cookies, apples, and packets of loose candy are long gone.
When they were in elementary school, my children brought friends home from school so they could get their homework finished early, eat pizza, and borrow my make up to put the finishing touches on their outfits. Now that my youngest is a recent college graduate living at home while he searches for a job, he enjoyed passing out treats to those who waited in our doorway. Impressed with their good manners as they asked: “Should I take one or two?” and then exclaimed “Thank you!” when they were encouraged to take a handful, he reminisced about his friend Nicky who carefully applied my lipstick to his lips and Tim who quietly studied alone in our dining room before joining the usual holiday revelry.
This year, we agreed that our first guest had the best costume. My daughter stopped by with her seven-month-old son who was snuggly dressed in a “tigger” suit complete with tail, white paws, and a hood with ears. Not only did he look totally adorable, but his mother had taught him to roar.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Travels With Aunt Ethel
It’s been 42 years and the Swiss chalet music box still works. The woman in the green satin skirt twirls and hops. Her white apron has barely yellowed; her lace cap sits atop her head at a jaunty angle. I have most of my souvenirs from that trip: postcards from Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-Upon-Avon, miniature Limoges plates from a shop along the Champs-Elysées, and a green velour jacket, child size twelve, trimmed with edelweiss. The summer I was eleven I toured Europe with my sister Nancy, then fourteen, and my elderly Aunt Ethel. The truth is, I thought Aunt Ethel was old but in retrospect, she couldn’t have been. She was probably in her 60’s, young from my current vantage point. She had never married, never had children, and had no idea how to cope with two kids abroad.
It was the summer of 1963, back in the days when people dressed to board an enormous airplane that would ferry them across the Atlantic. I wore white gloves, white anklets with black mary janes, a loden green party dress with white rickrack, and a white headband to hold back my hair. I was growing out my bangs. Nancy, ever more sophisticated, wore a powder blue knit suit, pearls, and heels. Her hair was permed. The heels had been selected for the occasion from our Uncle Mitchie’s shoe store. They looked fashionable, but one of the heels broke off as we crossed the Logan tarmac. Nancy was already limping when we turned to wave at our parents and our six year-old brother.
We sat three across with Aunt Ethel in the middle. The heel had hours to set in the glue that a stewardess found. Aunt Ethel wasn’t a real aunt. She was a family friend without a lot of relatives of her own who had been my grandfather’s administrative assistant and then moved on to do my father’s billing. She spent every holiday with us and traveled to some exotic destination every summer. This particular summer, my brother was home with a sitter, my father had been invited to speak in Copenhagen, and Nancy and I would accompany Aunt Ethel for thirty days as her “thank you” for always being part of our family.
It was five months before Kennedy’s assassination. America was full of positive energy and youthful spirit. My mother also wore white gloves, as well as fitted jackets with calf-length skirts. On a second honeymoon with my father that July, she explored the Scandinavian countries and came back from Paris with her hair redone in Jackie’s style. The only thing missing was the pillbox hat. It probably never occurred to my mother that Aunt Ethel wouldn’t figure that a child’s legs could become heavy and tired after wandering through the cavernous rooms at Versailles, or that the walk through the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa could feel like ten miles.
Too bad Aunt Ethel didn’t know that she could humor me with a chocolate croissant in the Tuilleries or a teatime scone with clotted cream in Piccadilly. In the late afternoon, I still need a snack and a pause to catch my breath. She reacted by deciding I was a “child without animation” and extolled the virtues of my older sister who was enchanted with the brocade walls in the palaces and the sculptures in the museums. Aunt Ethel’s frustration with me only encouraged my stubbornness. I refused to get excited about the sparkling chandeliers in the Paris opera house. Maybe the strolls we later took in the Swiss hilltop village of Gstaad, the train ride through rock hard ice toward the Jungfrau peak, and the colorful gardens in Lucerne were more age appropriate for me.
Aunt Ethel’s Tanta (Aunt) Leontine and her cousins Roger and Robert Lou (pronounced Roberloo) whom we visited in Paris formed my most lasting impressions. Less than twenty years after World War II, Tanta Leontine spoke rapid French while she described hiding under her mattress as German soldiers shook the locked wrought iron gate to her apartment building. A fledgling French student, I picked up words here and there, but Roger was an effective translator. While occupying Paris, it would only be a matter of time before the Nazis destroyed the lock to that gate. As very young boys, Roger and Robert Lou were smuggled safely with other Jewish children to homes in the countryside.
Sitting by the flickering candlelight around Tanta Leontine’s dining table was my first exposure to war stories. I was incredulous that such small children had been sent away from their parents for long periods of time. Back in America that fall, I became engrossed with the “Diary of Anne Frank”. My introduction to the Holocaust and the shocking shooting of our President while I was at school during a sunny Friday afternoon, let me know that the world didn’t always make sense and in fact, it could be horrible. I watched that November day as adults huddled in hushed, tearful groups.
Sometimes my sister and I feel guilty that we giggled about Aunt Ethel’s dowdy dresses, her sensible shoes, and her lack of lipstick. She whetted our appetite for travel particularly when she gave us some independence by letting us roam the Rue St. Honore on our own as long as we promised to tightly hold hands. During a morning when she shopped without us, she bought a globe for her charm bracelet. Years later before she died, she gave me that golden globe. By then I had backpacked through Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. She understood that in spite of my childish impatience during our trip, she had inspired me to study history, other cultures, and begin to understand that life isn’t always pristine.
It was the summer of 1963, back in the days when people dressed to board an enormous airplane that would ferry them across the Atlantic. I wore white gloves, white anklets with black mary janes, a loden green party dress with white rickrack, and a white headband to hold back my hair. I was growing out my bangs. Nancy, ever more sophisticated, wore a powder blue knit suit, pearls, and heels. Her hair was permed. The heels had been selected for the occasion from our Uncle Mitchie’s shoe store. They looked fashionable, but one of the heels broke off as we crossed the Logan tarmac. Nancy was already limping when we turned to wave at our parents and our six year-old brother.
We sat three across with Aunt Ethel in the middle. The heel had hours to set in the glue that a stewardess found. Aunt Ethel wasn’t a real aunt. She was a family friend without a lot of relatives of her own who had been my grandfather’s administrative assistant and then moved on to do my father’s billing. She spent every holiday with us and traveled to some exotic destination every summer. This particular summer, my brother was home with a sitter, my father had been invited to speak in Copenhagen, and Nancy and I would accompany Aunt Ethel for thirty days as her “thank you” for always being part of our family.
It was five months before Kennedy’s assassination. America was full of positive energy and youthful spirit. My mother also wore white gloves, as well as fitted jackets with calf-length skirts. On a second honeymoon with my father that July, she explored the Scandinavian countries and came back from Paris with her hair redone in Jackie’s style. The only thing missing was the pillbox hat. It probably never occurred to my mother that Aunt Ethel wouldn’t figure that a child’s legs could become heavy and tired after wandering through the cavernous rooms at Versailles, or that the walk through the Louvre to view the Mona Lisa could feel like ten miles.
Too bad Aunt Ethel didn’t know that she could humor me with a chocolate croissant in the Tuilleries or a teatime scone with clotted cream in Piccadilly. In the late afternoon, I still need a snack and a pause to catch my breath. She reacted by deciding I was a “child without animation” and extolled the virtues of my older sister who was enchanted with the brocade walls in the palaces and the sculptures in the museums. Aunt Ethel’s frustration with me only encouraged my stubbornness. I refused to get excited about the sparkling chandeliers in the Paris opera house. Maybe the strolls we later took in the Swiss hilltop village of Gstaad, the train ride through rock hard ice toward the Jungfrau peak, and the colorful gardens in Lucerne were more age appropriate for me.
Aunt Ethel’s Tanta (Aunt) Leontine and her cousins Roger and Robert Lou (pronounced Roberloo) whom we visited in Paris formed my most lasting impressions. Less than twenty years after World War II, Tanta Leontine spoke rapid French while she described hiding under her mattress as German soldiers shook the locked wrought iron gate to her apartment building. A fledgling French student, I picked up words here and there, but Roger was an effective translator. While occupying Paris, it would only be a matter of time before the Nazis destroyed the lock to that gate. As very young boys, Roger and Robert Lou were smuggled safely with other Jewish children to homes in the countryside.
Sitting by the flickering candlelight around Tanta Leontine’s dining table was my first exposure to war stories. I was incredulous that such small children had been sent away from their parents for long periods of time. Back in America that fall, I became engrossed with the “Diary of Anne Frank”. My introduction to the Holocaust and the shocking shooting of our President while I was at school during a sunny Friday afternoon, let me know that the world didn’t always make sense and in fact, it could be horrible. I watched that November day as adults huddled in hushed, tearful groups.
Sometimes my sister and I feel guilty that we giggled about Aunt Ethel’s dowdy dresses, her sensible shoes, and her lack of lipstick. She whetted our appetite for travel particularly when she gave us some independence by letting us roam the Rue St. Honore on our own as long as we promised to tightly hold hands. During a morning when she shopped without us, she bought a globe for her charm bracelet. Years later before she died, she gave me that golden globe. By then I had backpacked through Colombia, Ecuador and Peru. She understood that in spite of my childish impatience during our trip, she had inspired me to study history, other cultures, and begin to understand that life isn’t always pristine.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Costa Rica Travel Log
Imagine meandering along a rocky path and catching a glimpse of a fluorescent green snake with a cerulean blue tongue slithering two inches out of its mouth. My husband spent many months planning our family trip to Costa Rica. It has been eleven years since we have traveled together; now we’ve added a son-in-law, a grandson, and two girlfriends to our group. Spielberg’s “Jurassic Park” filmed partially in Costa Rica, was required viewing before our departure. How else to effectively set the mood for our jungle adventure?
After flying into Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose, we took a light charter flight (small plane) to Puerto Jimenez, a town on the Osa Peninsula, the southwestern tip of the country. From there, four-wheel drive vehicles ferried us to Lapa Rios, an eco-lodge overlooking the Pacific. Lapa Rios is a private nature reserve that teaches both the local community and its guests about protecting natural resources. It employs many area residents and includes traditional favorites such as papaya salsa, sweet plantain chips, and seafood ceviche on its daily menus. Sixteen thatch-roofed bungalows each with screened windows, woven wood shades, bamboo furniture, and mosquito netting surrounding the beds, dot this habitat constructed in a lowland tropical rainforest. I am writing by candlelight listening to the drumming rain, the howler monkeys, screaming macaws, and the Pacific lapping against the shore. We are visiting during the rainy season, which means occasional evening rain and muddy roads, but also thick greenery and blooming flowers.
My youngest son says that it’s like “Swiss Family Robinson”; his girlfriend thanks us for inviting her to this amazing place. My daughter describes our huts as camping with comfortable mattresses and bathrooms with outdoor showers overlooking palm trees and hibiscus. We exclaim over this untouched natural environment free from cell phones, e-mail, and land phones. Each day, we can choose hikes with knowledgeable guides, languish by the pool, trek down to the beach, or read in a hammock.
On our first morning, we hike over a rugged road with slippery rocks to the trailhead in the rainforest. We leave footprints in the thick red clay as we observe long roots reaching down from overhead, squirrel monkeys, spider monkeys, a sloth, and a hawk. My grandson sleeps peacefully in his infant carrier as his dad walks up and down. We marvel over giant mahogany trees and colorful toucans. Our guide, Edwin, explains the medicinal value of many of the trees. Boiling avocado leaves alleviates high blood pressure. The sap from the cow milk tree is similar to soothing calamine when rubbed on itchy skin. Later we enjoy the beach, which looks similar to the setting for the movie, “South Pacific”. There is no debris from humans: just coconut shells, hermit crabs, pieces of white shells, and small pebbles.
One evening some of us join a “night walk” which takes us down the steep beach road onto a stairway leading to a river. We wear rubber boots for snake and water protection and hold onto our flashlights and walking sticks. We cannot grab onto the handrails along the way because scorpions like to climb on them at night. It starts to rain, so we must avoid slick tree roots and rocks. We carefully shine flashlights while we look for jaguar and puma; our winding pace forces us to slow down. Our guide, Danielo, carries a machete. We see grasshoppers, sleeping birds, freshwater shrimp in the river, spiders, and tarantulas. We hear the chirping of bats and the constant clink-clink of dink frogs. My oldest son compares the sounds these frogs make to a blacksmith hammering with an anvil.
After four nights in this magical destination, it is time to move on. I awake to an argument between a howler monkey and a squirrel. I smell lime, mint, and aloe and feel the heat of the sun that comes after a refreshing rain. At breakfast, I drink mango juice and taste corn tortillas with my scrambled eggs. I see a coati (a raccoon-like animal) scrambling on a branch and continue to marvel over the “bird of paradise” flowers in striking shades of orange and magenta. We’re packing to leave the jungle and head to Playa Tamarindo, an area of beaches well known for surfing. We fly to Tamarindo and drive a short distance to our hotel, Cala Luna. Here there are phones and even a cranky computer in the front office. We’re not sure we want this possibility of contact with the outside world, but we like the ability to explore a town.
Tamarindo itself is a fishing village; a settlement of mud-spattered vehicles, huge puddles and ruts in the roads, surf shops, massage parlors, and taco stops. When you are at the beach, you are behind this strip of frontier, so at high tide you gaze at nothing but the pounding surf, the setting sun, and the green hills reaching down to the water. Our whole group rents boards and has a guide, Aaron, to help them navigate. I happily stay on shore under an umbrella with my grandson resting against me.
One morning we tour a mangrove forest in a small motorized boat. We see large red crabs, parakeets, and herons. We snack on sweet pineapple chunks and let the juice run down our arms. For lunch, we eat at Restaurante Nogui and relax around a large round table next to the sand. Roasted zucchini, sweet peppers, and cheese sandwiches followed by fresh coconut pie for dessert costs us less than forty dollars for all eight of us. An important lesson we learn on this trip is the value of dining for hours, sometimes maybe two or three, and letting the conversation unfold. Our Tamarindo surf guide explains that this is “tica” time, a schedule that is not rigid but evolving at a comfortable pace.
Another day, we enjoy a different beach: Playa Avellana. Here the surf is more exciting and the sand is smoother. We stay for five hours while walking, swimming, surfing, talking, eating and drinking. The banos (bathrooms) are clean and Lola’s serves us delicious thin-crusted pizza while we sit around a mahogany table under a stand of palm trees. I find that whenever I say “gracias” or thank you, the response is “con mucho gusto” or with pleasure. Costa Rican people are friendly, and aiming to please. They are enchanted with the baby. At Playa Avellana, we prop him up in the middle of the table. In Lapa Rios, the housekeeper drapes his crib with mosquito netting.
After five days of strong sun and midriff surfboard rashes, we’re ready to fly back to San Jose for our last night in Costa Rica. We’re staying at Finca Rosa Blanca, a country inn in Heredia, about thirty minutes from San Jose. The inn is on a coffee plantation in a cloud forest that is a rainforest at a higher altitude, in this case at 4000 feet. For the first time on our trip, we have afternoon rain. We play board games, ping pong, and walk through the cloud forest to the coffee plantation. We taste tamales: chicken and couscous wrapped in banana leaves, and mango crisp doused with homemade vanilla ice cream. We hear birds, frogs, and cicadas. We see impatiens growing like weeds, enormous dracaenas, and “bird of paradise” flowers that are bright red and yellow, hummingbirds, butterflies, and clouds seemingly resting on the treetops. The green coffee beans will ripen and be harvested in November.
Ten days away can feel like a long time. The warm Pacific washing our skin has spoiled us, and the guides provided by Costa Rica Expeditions, the travel company that expedited our journey have been gracious. On our last night, my husband sneezes four times. Instead of saying “God bless you!” Costa Ricans exclaim: Salud, Amore, Dinero, Tiempre Para Gastarlo. Roughly translated, this means health, love, money, and making the time to enjoy it all.
After flying into Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose, we took a light charter flight (small plane) to Puerto Jimenez, a town on the Osa Peninsula, the southwestern tip of the country. From there, four-wheel drive vehicles ferried us to Lapa Rios, an eco-lodge overlooking the Pacific. Lapa Rios is a private nature reserve that teaches both the local community and its guests about protecting natural resources. It employs many area residents and includes traditional favorites such as papaya salsa, sweet plantain chips, and seafood ceviche on its daily menus. Sixteen thatch-roofed bungalows each with screened windows, woven wood shades, bamboo furniture, and mosquito netting surrounding the beds, dot this habitat constructed in a lowland tropical rainforest. I am writing by candlelight listening to the drumming rain, the howler monkeys, screaming macaws, and the Pacific lapping against the shore. We are visiting during the rainy season, which means occasional evening rain and muddy roads, but also thick greenery and blooming flowers.
My youngest son says that it’s like “Swiss Family Robinson”; his girlfriend thanks us for inviting her to this amazing place. My daughter describes our huts as camping with comfortable mattresses and bathrooms with outdoor showers overlooking palm trees and hibiscus. We exclaim over this untouched natural environment free from cell phones, e-mail, and land phones. Each day, we can choose hikes with knowledgeable guides, languish by the pool, trek down to the beach, or read in a hammock.
On our first morning, we hike over a rugged road with slippery rocks to the trailhead in the rainforest. We leave footprints in the thick red clay as we observe long roots reaching down from overhead, squirrel monkeys, spider monkeys, a sloth, and a hawk. My grandson sleeps peacefully in his infant carrier as his dad walks up and down. We marvel over giant mahogany trees and colorful toucans. Our guide, Edwin, explains the medicinal value of many of the trees. Boiling avocado leaves alleviates high blood pressure. The sap from the cow milk tree is similar to soothing calamine when rubbed on itchy skin. Later we enjoy the beach, which looks similar to the setting for the movie, “South Pacific”. There is no debris from humans: just coconut shells, hermit crabs, pieces of white shells, and small pebbles.
One evening some of us join a “night walk” which takes us down the steep beach road onto a stairway leading to a river. We wear rubber boots for snake and water protection and hold onto our flashlights and walking sticks. We cannot grab onto the handrails along the way because scorpions like to climb on them at night. It starts to rain, so we must avoid slick tree roots and rocks. We carefully shine flashlights while we look for jaguar and puma; our winding pace forces us to slow down. Our guide, Danielo, carries a machete. We see grasshoppers, sleeping birds, freshwater shrimp in the river, spiders, and tarantulas. We hear the chirping of bats and the constant clink-clink of dink frogs. My oldest son compares the sounds these frogs make to a blacksmith hammering with an anvil.
After four nights in this magical destination, it is time to move on. I awake to an argument between a howler monkey and a squirrel. I smell lime, mint, and aloe and feel the heat of the sun that comes after a refreshing rain. At breakfast, I drink mango juice and taste corn tortillas with my scrambled eggs. I see a coati (a raccoon-like animal) scrambling on a branch and continue to marvel over the “bird of paradise” flowers in striking shades of orange and magenta. We’re packing to leave the jungle and head to Playa Tamarindo, an area of beaches well known for surfing. We fly to Tamarindo and drive a short distance to our hotel, Cala Luna. Here there are phones and even a cranky computer in the front office. We’re not sure we want this possibility of contact with the outside world, but we like the ability to explore a town.
Tamarindo itself is a fishing village; a settlement of mud-spattered vehicles, huge puddles and ruts in the roads, surf shops, massage parlors, and taco stops. When you are at the beach, you are behind this strip of frontier, so at high tide you gaze at nothing but the pounding surf, the setting sun, and the green hills reaching down to the water. Our whole group rents boards and has a guide, Aaron, to help them navigate. I happily stay on shore under an umbrella with my grandson resting against me.
One morning we tour a mangrove forest in a small motorized boat. We see large red crabs, parakeets, and herons. We snack on sweet pineapple chunks and let the juice run down our arms. For lunch, we eat at Restaurante Nogui and relax around a large round table next to the sand. Roasted zucchini, sweet peppers, and cheese sandwiches followed by fresh coconut pie for dessert costs us less than forty dollars for all eight of us. An important lesson we learn on this trip is the value of dining for hours, sometimes maybe two or three, and letting the conversation unfold. Our Tamarindo surf guide explains that this is “tica” time, a schedule that is not rigid but evolving at a comfortable pace.
Another day, we enjoy a different beach: Playa Avellana. Here the surf is more exciting and the sand is smoother. We stay for five hours while walking, swimming, surfing, talking, eating and drinking. The banos (bathrooms) are clean and Lola’s serves us delicious thin-crusted pizza while we sit around a mahogany table under a stand of palm trees. I find that whenever I say “gracias” or thank you, the response is “con mucho gusto” or with pleasure. Costa Rican people are friendly, and aiming to please. They are enchanted with the baby. At Playa Avellana, we prop him up in the middle of the table. In Lapa Rios, the housekeeper drapes his crib with mosquito netting.
After five days of strong sun and midriff surfboard rashes, we’re ready to fly back to San Jose for our last night in Costa Rica. We’re staying at Finca Rosa Blanca, a country inn in Heredia, about thirty minutes from San Jose. The inn is on a coffee plantation in a cloud forest that is a rainforest at a higher altitude, in this case at 4000 feet. For the first time on our trip, we have afternoon rain. We play board games, ping pong, and walk through the cloud forest to the coffee plantation. We taste tamales: chicken and couscous wrapped in banana leaves, and mango crisp doused with homemade vanilla ice cream. We hear birds, frogs, and cicadas. We see impatiens growing like weeds, enormous dracaenas, and “bird of paradise” flowers that are bright red and yellow, hummingbirds, butterflies, and clouds seemingly resting on the treetops. The green coffee beans will ripen and be harvested in November.
Ten days away can feel like a long time. The warm Pacific washing our skin has spoiled us, and the guides provided by Costa Rica Expeditions, the travel company that expedited our journey have been gracious. On our last night, my husband sneezes four times. Instead of saying “God bless you!” Costa Ricans exclaim: Salud, Amore, Dinero, Tiempre Para Gastarlo. Roughly translated, this means health, love, money, and making the time to enjoy it all.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
My 2005 Graduate
Just days before 9/11, the Class of 2005 entered college. That morning, after working out with his ski team friends and attending an English class, my son Jason walked into the school cafeteria. There on a large screen TV were images of the horrible destruction in New York where his older brother was living and working. My phone rang incessantly that day, but one of the most poignant calls came from Jason. “Is my brother okay?” The relief in his voice was palpable when I explained that as far as I knew, his brother was fine and uptown at his job.
When I was in college, people encouraged me to enjoy myself because these were the best years of my life. In some ways, they were. I was living away from home for the first time, it was easy to meet a variety of people my age, and choosing a program from the course catalogue was like being exposed to an exotic feast. But the late 60’s and early 70’s were turbulent times to be a student; the usual phase of self-doubt felt multiplied as we questioned our own beliefs and those of the adults around us.
I’m guessing that Jason’s college years were not much smoother. Yes, he has been at school in a particularly bucolic part of western Massachusetts in a quiet town where the residents cater to the students in their midst. I know he has enjoyed his friendships, he’s risen to the challenges that being part of a division one sport have dished out, and he has grown intellectually and academically. Being at a tough school gave him no choice but to work hard and focus. He has definitely taken some pride in his effort.
But there’s no question that we live in less secure times and even though this administration tries to paint a different picture, we continue to be at war. Against the backdrop of a world filled with hotspots is a leafy campus where my son has dealt with one close friend being accused of rape and another’s suicidal tendencies. I know he would still say that these have been great years, that he has loved his time at this college even though he’s ready to move on to the next phase of his life.
When he lines up in his cap and gown to march in the commencement procession, I’ll be emotional because this is my youngest who is graduating and I’m very proud of the young man he has become. Not only did he deal with a tibia/fibula fracture at his ankle while a freshman that required three surgeries, but also he defended one friend and protected another in an honorable way. In a calm moment, I’ll tell him that for many reasons, these have been wonderful times. But I have to imagine that even better years are coming, just a bit further in the future.
When I was in college, people encouraged me to enjoy myself because these were the best years of my life. In some ways, they were. I was living away from home for the first time, it was easy to meet a variety of people my age, and choosing a program from the course catalogue was like being exposed to an exotic feast. But the late 60’s and early 70’s were turbulent times to be a student; the usual phase of self-doubt felt multiplied as we questioned our own beliefs and those of the adults around us.
I’m guessing that Jason’s college years were not much smoother. Yes, he has been at school in a particularly bucolic part of western Massachusetts in a quiet town where the residents cater to the students in their midst. I know he has enjoyed his friendships, he’s risen to the challenges that being part of a division one sport have dished out, and he has grown intellectually and academically. Being at a tough school gave him no choice but to work hard and focus. He has definitely taken some pride in his effort.
But there’s no question that we live in less secure times and even though this administration tries to paint a different picture, we continue to be at war. Against the backdrop of a world filled with hotspots is a leafy campus where my son has dealt with one close friend being accused of rape and another’s suicidal tendencies. I know he would still say that these have been great years, that he has loved his time at this college even though he’s ready to move on to the next phase of his life.
When he lines up in his cap and gown to march in the commencement procession, I’ll be emotional because this is my youngest who is graduating and I’m very proud of the young man he has become. Not only did he deal with a tibia/fibula fracture at his ankle while a freshman that required three surgeries, but also he defended one friend and protected another in an honorable way. In a calm moment, I’ll tell him that for many reasons, these have been wonderful times. But I have to imagine that even better years are coming, just a bit further in the future.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Jello Mold
Yesterday my nephew Daniel e-mailed me for my jello mold recipe. He and his wife Laura are hosting their first seder. I was touched that Daniel wouldn't consider it an authentic holiday meal without my usual contribution to family gatherings. He wondered if I would mind sharing my recipe. I was flattered that he wanted it and enjoyed Laura's recent e-mail about successfully preparing the first layer of jello last night. So for them, and the rest of you, here is an essay. The recipe will follow.
I prepared a small dinner party for six friends a few weeks back: lemon chicken, tricolored pasta salad, Sicilian olive loaf and jello mold. When I set the jello down on the diningroom table, my friend Howard exclaimed: “It’s like the High Holidays at Grandma’s...Who makes jello anymore?” I make jello because it’s a refreshing accompaniment to any meal. It adds color to the plate and it’s not too sweet; just a touch of freshness.
When I became part of my husband’s family I discovered that holidays were a pot-luck affair with everyone taking turns hosting the growing group of relatives, so that no one family would always shoulder the full responsibility. This pot-luck quality was a great idea because each woman (no man cooked on these occasions although many washed dishes or vacuumed) brought her favorite dish, so the meal was scrumptious. My mother-in-law kindly suggested: “Why don’t you make jello mold? It’s what I used to make for my husband’s family, before I could make anything else.”
I immediately liked the idea of making jello, because my grandmother had always brought her molds along with her fancy baked desserts to holiday gatherings at my mother’s house. My grandfather carried the molds into the kitchen with much fanfare: star shapes, pineapples and hearts filled with cranberry jello, walnuts and pears. My grandmother’s ability to successfully create jello in these shapes impressed me even more than her six-inch high Passover sponge cake or her butterscotch, chocolate chip brownies.
The first Rosh Hashanah that I made Mandarin Orange Mold (orange jello, sour cream and mandarin oranges,) I had trouble unmolding it. I didn’t know how to time leaving the mold in hot water, so I wound up with a river of orange jello oozing around the serving plate. “Don’t worry about it.” My mother-in-law encouraged me. “That always happened to me...that’s why I learned to make brisket. You can’t kill that meat. Do you have any oranges? Just slice them up and put them around the plate. They sop up the runny jello.”
I discovered that my husband’s relatives loved my imperfect jello, so I perfected it. I figured out that if I sprayed the mold with corn oil before pouring in the jello and put the mold in hot water for twelve seconds when I was ready to unmold it, it would come out nicely each time. I became adventurous, making layered molds with varied flavors and fruit fillings. Yet I found that lemon and lime jello were too tart, and no other canned fruits tasted quite as tangy as mandarin oranges. I experimented with Grandma’s cranberry jello, but never got the rave reviews that strawberry, raspberry, cherry or orange jello whipped with sour cream always received.
Over the years I’ve brought hot apple pies, fruit compotes and matzah kugels to family gatherings; but I’m always asked to please make jello again if it’s not too much trouble. It’s no trouble for me. It looks impressive because the layers are firm, line up perfectly, and I garnish the serving plate attractively with fresh berries. But really, the only talent involved is planning ahead so that each layer can harden overnight.
When I prepared dinner recently for my daughter and several of her friends, I smiled to myself when she set the jello down on the table and exclaimed:
“This is my mom’s famous jello mold, a specialty of the house!”
I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing to be known for. After all, how often are you served jello except in hospital rooms and cafeterias? And even so, that’s just plain jello.
I prepared a small dinner party for six friends a few weeks back: lemon chicken, tricolored pasta salad, Sicilian olive loaf and jello mold. When I set the jello down on the diningroom table, my friend Howard exclaimed: “It’s like the High Holidays at Grandma’s...Who makes jello anymore?” I make jello because it’s a refreshing accompaniment to any meal. It adds color to the plate and it’s not too sweet; just a touch of freshness.
When I became part of my husband’s family I discovered that holidays were a pot-luck affair with everyone taking turns hosting the growing group of relatives, so that no one family would always shoulder the full responsibility. This pot-luck quality was a great idea because each woman (no man cooked on these occasions although many washed dishes or vacuumed) brought her favorite dish, so the meal was scrumptious. My mother-in-law kindly suggested: “Why don’t you make jello mold? It’s what I used to make for my husband’s family, before I could make anything else.”
I immediately liked the idea of making jello, because my grandmother had always brought her molds along with her fancy baked desserts to holiday gatherings at my mother’s house. My grandfather carried the molds into the kitchen with much fanfare: star shapes, pineapples and hearts filled with cranberry jello, walnuts and pears. My grandmother’s ability to successfully create jello in these shapes impressed me even more than her six-inch high Passover sponge cake or her butterscotch, chocolate chip brownies.
The first Rosh Hashanah that I made Mandarin Orange Mold (orange jello, sour cream and mandarin oranges,) I had trouble unmolding it. I didn’t know how to time leaving the mold in hot water, so I wound up with a river of orange jello oozing around the serving plate. “Don’t worry about it.” My mother-in-law encouraged me. “That always happened to me...that’s why I learned to make brisket. You can’t kill that meat. Do you have any oranges? Just slice them up and put them around the plate. They sop up the runny jello.”
I discovered that my husband’s relatives loved my imperfect jello, so I perfected it. I figured out that if I sprayed the mold with corn oil before pouring in the jello and put the mold in hot water for twelve seconds when I was ready to unmold it, it would come out nicely each time. I became adventurous, making layered molds with varied flavors and fruit fillings. Yet I found that lemon and lime jello were too tart, and no other canned fruits tasted quite as tangy as mandarin oranges. I experimented with Grandma’s cranberry jello, but never got the rave reviews that strawberry, raspberry, cherry or orange jello whipped with sour cream always received.
Over the years I’ve brought hot apple pies, fruit compotes and matzah kugels to family gatherings; but I’m always asked to please make jello again if it’s not too much trouble. It’s no trouble for me. It looks impressive because the layers are firm, line up perfectly, and I garnish the serving plate attractively with fresh berries. But really, the only talent involved is planning ahead so that each layer can harden overnight.
When I prepared dinner recently for my daughter and several of her friends, I smiled to myself when she set the jello down on the table and exclaimed:
“This is my mom’s famous jello mold, a specialty of the house!”
I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing to be known for. After all, how often are you served jello except in hospital rooms and cafeterias? And even so, that’s just plain jello.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Simon's Birthday, March 21, 2005
I scrambled through Babies”R”Us in a happy daze: Winnie-the-Pooh towels, changing table cover, quilted mattress pad, bunny receiving blankets, a 3-month one-piece suit with “I Love My Mommy” embroidered across the front. To my son Jay, I wondered aloud if my son-in-law Shane would feel slighted. “Hey, little boys love their mommies and that’s the way it is.” Jay insisted. Actually big boys love their moms too. I can feel the supportive power of my sons. If a person decides to give me a hard time or hurt me deeply, they are clearly finished in my sons’ eyes unless they make amends.
For the past month or so, I know I’ve been anxious, worrying that all would be well with my daughter Jess and her baby-to-be. Relatives and friends who are already grandparents had warned me that I would be overwhelmed with this new little member of our family. But nothing could prepare me for how I felt when that infant emerged from my daughter. The tears flowed down my cheeks and didn’t stop until the labor nurse wiped him off, wrapped him in a blanket, placed him on a warming tray and said in her matter-of-fact way: “Here’s your next job…keep an eye on him while we attend to your daughter.”
At Brigham and Women’s Hospital where Jess delivered Simon, I know they have tight security and a no nonsense policy about guests on the labor floor. But even though Jess and Shane had given permission for me to be with them, I did not expect to be in their room throughout eleven hours of labor and delivery.
When I arrived at the hospital around 11:00 a.m., labor was just beginning. Jess was able to snack on fruit, take walks in the hallway, and engage in light conversation. As the hours ticked by, her contractions got closer together and she began to wince in pain even though she was using the breathing techniques she had faithfully practiced. The nurses and I encouraged her to think about pain relief so she wouldn’t wear herself out. She needed enough energy to carry her through the evening. Jess has always had a high threshold for pain. She is someone who has withstood traumatic rock climbing and ski racing injuries.
As my daughter leaned in to her husband while she sat on a birthing ball (very similar to the large exercise ball I work out on at my gym) I had an intimate view into the strength of their relationship. She braced her body against his as each contraction peaked. At one point I inquired: “You know, I can step out an any time.” (I didn’t want to be like the houseguest who doesn’t know how to take a hint and leave.) But they found my presence soothing and helpful. So I held cold washcloths across my daughter’s forehead, rubbed her back, chatted calmly, brought her glasses of water and juice, and listened to the mix she and Shane had made of all their favorite songs. Although the labor room did not seem like the right place for her father, I missed my husband David. I felt like this was a huge milestone in our lives that we weren’t sharing. Every once in awhile I phoned him, we visited in the lobby waiting room when our son Aron arrived from New York, and I visualized David as I listened to U2, Springsteen, and the Beatles. Norah Jones’ “Come away with me” brought me back to Jess and Shane’s wedding; Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” recalled nine year-old Jess kicking a soccer ball in our backyard.
Eventually there was an epidural and not long after, two hours of pushing. Shane and I held Jessica’s legs and back to give her leverage so she could push her baby out. Later she told us she had focused on our faces. As her baby Simon’s head emerged, I know I was saying: “Oh my God, Oh my God.” To be viewing a birth up close was staggering; to be watching my daughter give birth was beyond words. It felt like a blessed honor. In that precious face, I saw generations of those who had come before him, Jess’ Great Nanny Sarah for whom he is named, Great Uncle Louis who always had a smile and a kind word.
It was already 10:00 p.m. and I knew Jess would be in her room on the nursery floor long after visiting hours had ended. At that point I began to beg her labor nurse. I knew it would be difficult enough for Jason and Aron who had already waited all day and into the night to see their nephew. But there was no way David could wait until 1:00 p.m. the next day to see his grandson, his daughter and his son-in-law. Finally I got the go-ahead to sneak him in. Not only are his photos wonderful, but he got to hug and hold Simon when he was barely 30 minutes old.
For the past month or so, I know I’ve been anxious, worrying that all would be well with my daughter Jess and her baby-to-be. Relatives and friends who are already grandparents had warned me that I would be overwhelmed with this new little member of our family. But nothing could prepare me for how I felt when that infant emerged from my daughter. The tears flowed down my cheeks and didn’t stop until the labor nurse wiped him off, wrapped him in a blanket, placed him on a warming tray and said in her matter-of-fact way: “Here’s your next job…keep an eye on him while we attend to your daughter.”
At Brigham and Women’s Hospital where Jess delivered Simon, I know they have tight security and a no nonsense policy about guests on the labor floor. But even though Jess and Shane had given permission for me to be with them, I did not expect to be in their room throughout eleven hours of labor and delivery.
When I arrived at the hospital around 11:00 a.m., labor was just beginning. Jess was able to snack on fruit, take walks in the hallway, and engage in light conversation. As the hours ticked by, her contractions got closer together and she began to wince in pain even though she was using the breathing techniques she had faithfully practiced. The nurses and I encouraged her to think about pain relief so she wouldn’t wear herself out. She needed enough energy to carry her through the evening. Jess has always had a high threshold for pain. She is someone who has withstood traumatic rock climbing and ski racing injuries.
As my daughter leaned in to her husband while she sat on a birthing ball (very similar to the large exercise ball I work out on at my gym) I had an intimate view into the strength of their relationship. She braced her body against his as each contraction peaked. At one point I inquired: “You know, I can step out an any time.” (I didn’t want to be like the houseguest who doesn’t know how to take a hint and leave.) But they found my presence soothing and helpful. So I held cold washcloths across my daughter’s forehead, rubbed her back, chatted calmly, brought her glasses of water and juice, and listened to the mix she and Shane had made of all their favorite songs. Although the labor room did not seem like the right place for her father, I missed my husband David. I felt like this was a huge milestone in our lives that we weren’t sharing. Every once in awhile I phoned him, we visited in the lobby waiting room when our son Aron arrived from New York, and I visualized David as I listened to U2, Springsteen, and the Beatles. Norah Jones’ “Come away with me” brought me back to Jess and Shane’s wedding; Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” recalled nine year-old Jess kicking a soccer ball in our backyard.
Eventually there was an epidural and not long after, two hours of pushing. Shane and I held Jessica’s legs and back to give her leverage so she could push her baby out. Later she told us she had focused on our faces. As her baby Simon’s head emerged, I know I was saying: “Oh my God, Oh my God.” To be viewing a birth up close was staggering; to be watching my daughter give birth was beyond words. It felt like a blessed honor. In that precious face, I saw generations of those who had come before him, Jess’ Great Nanny Sarah for whom he is named, Great Uncle Louis who always had a smile and a kind word.
It was already 10:00 p.m. and I knew Jess would be in her room on the nursery floor long after visiting hours had ended. At that point I began to beg her labor nurse. I knew it would be difficult enough for Jason and Aron who had already waited all day and into the night to see their nephew. But there was no way David could wait until 1:00 p.m. the next day to see his grandson, his daughter and his son-in-law. Finally I got the go-ahead to sneak him in. Not only are his photos wonderful, but he got to hug and hold Simon when he was barely 30 minutes old.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Starting a project...
A Sandwich Without Avocado Isn’t Worth Eating
by Betsy Banks Epstein
Introduction
David has encouraged me to write personal essays and weave in my recipes. I rarely make complicated dishes. In fact, mostly I make things up and carry the list of ingredients in my head. When the world is out of control which is far too often, when people near and dear to me are ailing, or when I’m just overanxious, creating a meal in my kitchen is a way to relax, to do something positive. I guess I’ve resisted this project because I see so many published collections from celebrities. But the truth is, as a woman who was mostly at home raising my three as well as providing a safe haven for many other kids, the kitchen was the center of our life while our family was growing. Once we moved to Cambridge, it was easy for parents to drop off their first graders on snow days.
I remember one daunting blizzard when Jay was six. He and two other little boys had spent hours building a fort in our back yard. When they finally came indoors, I put their socks and snow pants directly into the dryer before preparing their lunch. Later in between bites, one of them looked me in the eye and said: “You’re the good kind of mom…you dry our clothes and make grilled cheese sandwiches!” I know I’ve loved that guy ever since. If I ever had to question what I was doing with my days, he validated me with that one innocent comment.
Chicken soup with rice seems like the right way to begin. When Aron was small, he loved a collection of four little books that had been mine as a child. This “Nutshell Library” by Maurice Sendak had a few titles he enjoyed, but his favorite by far was “Chicken Soup With Rice”. The book featured each month of the year with a poem about chicken soup. In January, there was: “…sipping once sipping twice sipping chicken soup with rice…” He could never get enough of these poems or of chicken soup for that matter.
Yesterday I made a pot of soup for David. He’s been complaining of what he calls a “low grade” cold for days. I’ve joked and asked him what exactly a low grade cold is compared with a high grade cold, for example. He says it is terminology left over from his mother and it actually makes sense. A “low grade” cold is lurking in your system enough to run you down but not quite evident enough to be a full-blown coughing and sneezing extravaganza. Even though he’s an adult living in the big city, it’s impossible not to hear Aron’s five year-old voice or see his thick brown curls when I mix that chicken soup with rice.
Chicken Soup With Rice (serves 6)
In a 5 and 1/2quart casserole, sauté one sliced onion, 6 sliced celery sticks, 1/2 lb. sliced mushrooms, 18 baby carrots, in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle in ground black pepper, oregano, and garlic powder. Add the meat from 2 whole chicken breasts, without skin or fat. When meat is white on all sides, add 10 chicken bouillon cubes and 9 cups of water. Bring the casserole to a brief boil, add one cup of basmati rice, then cover and simmer for several hours. After refrigerating overnight, skim off the fat and then reheat. It’s even better the next day.
by Betsy Banks Epstein
Introduction
David has encouraged me to write personal essays and weave in my recipes. I rarely make complicated dishes. In fact, mostly I make things up and carry the list of ingredients in my head. When the world is out of control which is far too often, when people near and dear to me are ailing, or when I’m just overanxious, creating a meal in my kitchen is a way to relax, to do something positive. I guess I’ve resisted this project because I see so many published collections from celebrities. But the truth is, as a woman who was mostly at home raising my three as well as providing a safe haven for many other kids, the kitchen was the center of our life while our family was growing. Once we moved to Cambridge, it was easy for parents to drop off their first graders on snow days.
I remember one daunting blizzard when Jay was six. He and two other little boys had spent hours building a fort in our back yard. When they finally came indoors, I put their socks and snow pants directly into the dryer before preparing their lunch. Later in between bites, one of them looked me in the eye and said: “You’re the good kind of mom…you dry our clothes and make grilled cheese sandwiches!” I know I’ve loved that guy ever since. If I ever had to question what I was doing with my days, he validated me with that one innocent comment.
Chicken soup with rice seems like the right way to begin. When Aron was small, he loved a collection of four little books that had been mine as a child. This “Nutshell Library” by Maurice Sendak had a few titles he enjoyed, but his favorite by far was “Chicken Soup With Rice”. The book featured each month of the year with a poem about chicken soup. In January, there was: “…sipping once sipping twice sipping chicken soup with rice…” He could never get enough of these poems or of chicken soup for that matter.
Yesterday I made a pot of soup for David. He’s been complaining of what he calls a “low grade” cold for days. I’ve joked and asked him what exactly a low grade cold is compared with a high grade cold, for example. He says it is terminology left over from his mother and it actually makes sense. A “low grade” cold is lurking in your system enough to run you down but not quite evident enough to be a full-blown coughing and sneezing extravaganza. Even though he’s an adult living in the big city, it’s impossible not to hear Aron’s five year-old voice or see his thick brown curls when I mix that chicken soup with rice.
Chicken Soup With Rice (serves 6)
In a 5 and 1/2quart casserole, sauté one sliced onion, 6 sliced celery sticks, 1/2 lb. sliced mushrooms, 18 baby carrots, in a few tablespoons of olive oil. Sprinkle in ground black pepper, oregano, and garlic powder. Add the meat from 2 whole chicken breasts, without skin or fat. When meat is white on all sides, add 10 chicken bouillon cubes and 9 cups of water. Bring the casserole to a brief boil, add one cup of basmati rice, then cover and simmer for several hours. After refrigerating overnight, skim off the fat and then reheat. It’s even better the next day.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
1-24 Musings
I’m not used to moving faster than she can. After her birth, she looked me in the eye as if to say: “when does the party start?” Until she could pull herself along the carpet at five months, she was restless and fretful. An avid outdoorswoman, she still loves activity and adventure, so it must be hard for her to slow down, but she tells me she has a higher purpose. And of course, she does. Her belly grows by the day, as she is already 31 weeks pregnant.
Sometimes I get emotional, tearful as I watch her. The idea of my daughter having a baby is almost unfathomable. How did I get to this moment so quickly? Wasn’t it not too long ago that we were blowing out three candles on a Mickey Mouse birthday cake, waiting for the kindergarten bus, scrubbing the mud off of soccer cleats, shivering at ski races, lugging duffels bursting with clothing to her dorm room? It wasn’t actually that long ago; it just passed by in a flash.
I feel blessed and lucky to have my daughter and her husband living so close by. It amazes me to think back on that teenage voice telling me not to expect her to live my life. And it’s not that she’s living my life, but I do see her handwriting notes, phoning to check on family and friends, trying new recipes for small dinner parties, enjoying arranging her collection of vases on her livingroom mantle, and settling down by the fire with a good book.
With over two feet of fresh snow, she had a snow day today as probably most teachers and students in Massachusetts did. From her infancy and toddler years, I’ve saved my favorite blankets, sweaters, and dresses. This was the moment to pull the box down from a third floor closet shelf so we could take a look at lacy hand-smocked pinafores, and the afghans and hooded sweaters that her great grandmother lovingly knitted for her. Since she doesn’t know if she’s having a boy or a girl, we carefully folded the dresses away but kept out Great Nanny’s knitted pieces so I could freshly wash them.
The little zippers and buttons work perfectly; the few stains came out just fine. My grandmother would be pleased that after 29 years, we still have the things that she made and are even thinking about using them. My daughter knows that she’s incredibly lucky to have had her great grandmother in her life until she was 21 years old, and to now have these special heirlooms to pass on to her own baby.
Sometimes I get emotional, tearful as I watch her. The idea of my daughter having a baby is almost unfathomable. How did I get to this moment so quickly? Wasn’t it not too long ago that we were blowing out three candles on a Mickey Mouse birthday cake, waiting for the kindergarten bus, scrubbing the mud off of soccer cleats, shivering at ski races, lugging duffels bursting with clothing to her dorm room? It wasn’t actually that long ago; it just passed by in a flash.
I feel blessed and lucky to have my daughter and her husband living so close by. It amazes me to think back on that teenage voice telling me not to expect her to live my life. And it’s not that she’s living my life, but I do see her handwriting notes, phoning to check on family and friends, trying new recipes for small dinner parties, enjoying arranging her collection of vases on her livingroom mantle, and settling down by the fire with a good book.
With over two feet of fresh snow, she had a snow day today as probably most teachers and students in Massachusetts did. From her infancy and toddler years, I’ve saved my favorite blankets, sweaters, and dresses. This was the moment to pull the box down from a third floor closet shelf so we could take a look at lacy hand-smocked pinafores, and the afghans and hooded sweaters that her great grandmother lovingly knitted for her. Since she doesn’t know if she’s having a boy or a girl, we carefully folded the dresses away but kept out Great Nanny’s knitted pieces so I could freshly wash them.
The little zippers and buttons work perfectly; the few stains came out just fine. My grandmother would be pleased that after 29 years, we still have the things that she made and are even thinking about using them. My daughter knows that she’s incredibly lucky to have had her great grandmother in her life until she was 21 years old, and to now have these special heirlooms to pass on to her own baby.
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