A GASTRONIMICAL DELIGHT OR DISASTER!

Although it places a near second, the weather is not the universal language.  The subject of food, food and more food is the language we all speak.  At least that’s how it is for our family and friends. 

Weeks before their arrival, we began discussing what I would be preparing for a 9 day visit from our Italian friends, who by the way, own a restaurant below the lovely ancient city of Sermonetta.  They know how to cook and they certainly know how to eat, hence my anxiety.

Beginning in June, I started thinking about the menu.  I knew I didn’t want to serve pasta and compete with their native cuisine.  In fact, I thought it would be better for them to taste the local flavors of California, vegetables, fruit, nuts, herbs, fish, cheese, great bread and wine.  We are so lucky here. 

Around middle June I noticed our garden would have an abundance of zucchini, squash, basil, lettuce, arugula, parsley, too early for tomatoes, however, with our cool summer weather. The thinking of food progressed to perusing cookbooks, recipes and web sites. 

An obsession was beginning to take root.  Here I am 52 years old worrying about feeding two 20 something visitors.  Little did I know that I did in fact have something to worry about.

End of June, I carefully tended to the garden, watered, picked, plucked, cooked.  Still wasn’t sure what I was going to prepare for them, however.  I experimented with what was available locally.  California cuisine (thank you Alice Waters) would be the deciding factor based upon what was in the market and garden.  What was available would be what got prepared for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  I shopped the day before they arrived and had my plan in place for the most part. 

On the day of their arrival, I was informed that one of the visitors had recently developed severe allergies to most fruits, some vegetables and all nuts!  Her allergies were so severe that her mate was afraid to taste the foods in fear of kissing her may spur on an attack.  Much to my dismay, the dried fruit and almonds purchased were placed in the back of the cabinet.  I did, however, bake the fresh peaches in wine for a dinner party in their honor and served them vanilla ice cream instead. 

There were two near disasters.  The first was in Virginia City.  Italians love the romance of the “old west”.  Here we were clopping along the wooden walkway when we came across an old-fashioned ice cream parlor.  Friend with allergies wanted a scoop.  Her mate was adamantly against this idea because of the possibility of fruit and nuts contaminated on the scoop would be transmitted to the ice cream.  I implored the worker to scrub the spoon with hot water in the event she decided to risk it.  Mildly annoyed the worker obliged.

An argument ensued in Italian that only native speakers can understand, but one can only imagine the exchange.  Allergy girl trumped her boyfriend and vigorously attacked the cone like it was her last meal.  Boyfriend in broken English looked at me and said, “the problem is now hers.” We all watched, tense and ready with epi-pen in hand.  Apparently the scoop was in fact cleaned properly. Disaster averted but not without drama.

The second episode was during a visit to a local coffee shop.  In search of an innocent muffin without the problematic ingredients we spotted what looked like a decadent chocolate brownie sans nuts, perfect with strong coffee. Five times I asked the barista if there were nuts in the brownies and five times she answered NO.  I emphasized how horrible it would be if this young Italian ingested nuts while the customers waiting in the ever increasing growing line were watching with mildly amused expressions.  Like my husband reported to a waiter during dessert on another night, we cannot have nuts, look at nuts or even think about nuts. The waiter laughed and I’m sure thought it was we who were nuts. 

I was 99.9% sure after the 5 emphatic No’s that the brownie was ok.  Brownie purchased, our friend began walking out of the café and carefully placed a very small portion in her mouth.  The barista, in the meantime, was having second thoughts and pulled out the book with the ingredients of all the pastries.  Last ingredient, WALNUTS!  STOP EATING!

I cannot describe my horror.  Apparently my faced blanched, one could see my heart thumping in my chest.  Italian friend quickly ran into the bathroom ingesting large quantities of water, finger down throat to regurgitate what was the equivalent of perhaps 1/8^th a teaspoon of brownie.  We all sat nervously waiting for a reaction, praying that there would be none.  So upset was I, I could not eat my own brownie. 

Oh Dio! It took me hours to recover.   

In the end, much to my delight, our visitors were furiously writing down the recipes of their favorite meals during their visits, all of course without nuts, dried or fresh fruit.  Translating some of the ingredients proved a bit difficult with me gesticulating, miming and using sound effects to describe goat cheese, Dijon mustard and Herbs de Provence for a French lentil salad that was a big hit. 

I love food.  I love cooking.  I love the watching those I serve enjoying every morsel eyed, sniffed, swallowed and digested. 

Our friends have returned to Italy, delighted in every aspect of their visit, including the food.  I miss them already.  Am I nuts?

“Sunny, with a slight chance of T-Storms” By Gary

A few weeks ago, my wife and I were enjoying a warm weekend at Lake Tahoe.  I opened the paper to the weather section and saw the forecast: sunny and warm, with a slight chance of T-storms.  I chuckled out loud as I reread the forecast to her. “Sounds like your personality sometimes!”  The girls and I have  jokingly described her very rare outbursts as “T-Storms”, short for Teresa Storms.  We both laughed,  easy to do when it’s summertime and the livin is easy.

If I had to describe a place with a climate that represented my day to day life with Teresa, I’d look for the warmest, most tropical place on earth--Hawaii or Fiji, perhaps, and still declare it not temperate enough.
I’m the first to admit:  In the Super Pick Six Lottery of Marriage, I had all six numbers and the bonus. I have friends who remind me of this all the time. Just earlier this year, after a sensitive faculty meeting in which a particularly stylish Teresa made a couple of incredibly apt and to-the-point suggestions benefiting the entire staff, a young charismatic Social Studies teacher leaned over to me and said, “DAMN, Oefinger, you really married UP!”  He was right.

With that said, every once in a long while, amidst all the obligations, expectations, caring, counseling and doing for others, even Teresa reaches a breaking point where she proves she’s human after all.  If pushed just a bit more at this time,  she morphs into a character that my daughters know I refer to as her “Cruella De Ville” mode, the villain from “101 Dalmatians”. In the movie, Cruella acts harshly and in a state of frenzy. There is fire in her eyes as she grabs her steering wheel and zooms off looking for vengeance.  Around here, on the rare occasion when Cruella arrives, Teresa is uncharacteristically short in compassion and long in directives.  It’s not a time to look for sympathy (she once told one of our daughters to ‘get off the pity-pot’ during the T-Storm of ‘09).  Asking what’s for dinner is practically a capital offense .  These are treacherous times that try men’s souls.  These are  “T-Storms”.

A Cruella-infused T-Storm lacks all of the usual patience, kindness or logic of the normal climate.  A T-Storm can’t be reasoned with, coerced or lessened in intensity.  A T-Storm must simply be endured; after all, it was deserved.  T-Storms come when the unbelievable expectation we assume in this incredible person are momentarily unattainable as the giving well runs temporarily dry. One should be able to see a T-Storm coming, but in our self absorbed focus we don’t.  If not recognized early, our only recourse is to allow it to pass, to stay safe and out of harm’s way and to know that eventually the sun will return.  An enlightened person will learn about their own short comings and perhaps, minimize the chance of a similar T-Storm returning in the future.

Last Friday, after a day of golfing with my buddy while Teresa was home with a myriad of chores,  I averted a T-Storm.

After golf and post-round libations,  Teresa drove down and joined us at our friends for dinner and card playing. The night was quite enjoyable, as it always is with these very dear friends. By midnight, though, I was quite tired from a day that had been full of fun. My fatigue probably showed.
As we were leaving,  Teresa announced that she’d be driving home. I didn’t have a problem with that.  In the car, she questioned my ‘sportsmanship’ during the card games.  I explained that the long, full day may have contributed to my less-than-chipper demeanor near the end of the evening (not to mention the thrashing we absorbed at the hands of our competitive friends). I thought I heard the rumble of a distant cloud. Teresa then announced that we would be leaving the top down on the little miata.  Hmmmm, quite chilly.... My request to put the top up was immediately vetoed....very unusual.  I’m pretty sure I caught a glimpse of Cruella, nearby, in the shadows, and definitely noted the flash of lightening in the distance.   It was only then that I realized the possibility of a storm. I hadn’t really given much thought to what my wife’s day may have been like. But lately they’ve been long on caring for her mom, commiserating and listening to others,  short on the supposedly carefree days of summer.   While I was out seeking pars and birdies, she had been doing laundry, baking a pie, gardening, preparing for our incoming Italian guests all while giving her sister some relief by entertaining her mom for the afternoon.  She never complains, but I sensed an impending gully-washer.  I quickly calculated the approximate time it would take to get home and inventoried the clothing I had with me.  Suddenly it seemed like a right fine night for a convertible ride home.  Resolutely, I sighed, put on my golf jacket,  entwined my arms around my midsection for warmth, closed my eyes, and nestled in for the chilly ride home.  Back at home, my reward was knowing that I had, at least this time, circumvented an impending storm....a T-storm. I hope I’m enlightened enough to learn from it.
 

Easy Living Yellow!

Uh oh! Oops!  Think I may have blown it.  Not a huge deal, but kind of a lot of work for what might be a mistake not likely to be corrected for a while.  It’s the paint.  I love the color, bright, cheerful, and fresh.  But…. the room might just be a tad too bright.  I hope our guest will be able to sleep.

When we moved my youngest daughter into her apartment, the only furniture left in her bedroom was a pine cabinet and small end table.  With Italian guests visiting for 9 days this summer, and to inspire our daughter to come home from time to time, we bought a new bed, sheets, and bed cover.  I’m refinishing a very old, but cool end table that’s been sitting in my garage since my dad died. 

The walls were definitely in need of painting.  It took me a total of 3 minutes at the hardware store to choose the paint.  The color “called” me to it. Paint sample on wall, I made sure my husband, who is actually quite good at decorating, liked it.  Giving me the thumbs up, we zeroed in on getting the job done one week before they are to arrive. 

Day 1. Being the good painters that we are, we first primed the god awful purple walls.  (We did let our kids pick out their own paint colors as they got older.) We carefully covered any floor space with old sheets and moved the new bed to the center of the room.  Walls primed, the excitement to open the beautiful new color was palatable, but the primer needed to dry.

Day 2. What a team we were, music blasting, fan buzzing, husband meticulously feathered in the corners, and borders, careful not to get paint on ceiling and blue taped covered baseboards.  I rolled, loving every sunny stroke.  One wall down, pour more paint, two walls, pour more paint, the odd corner by the window, three and finally four walls complete.  Stepping back and admiring our work, it looked lovely.

Perhaps it was the time of day, but later on as I walked by the room, I stopped in my tracts and actually had to squint from the blinding brightness.  Into the room I went, examining the color and lighting from every angle.  Perhaps if we strategically place the bed over there away from the window, the color will be subtler. On the bed I plopped, pretending to nap.  No can do.  Too bright.  Well, when the window covering gets back on, maybe that will reduce the intensity?  But what about the sky light?

Oh dear.  Tomorrow, Day 3, we will apply coat number two.  No turning back now. 

I’ll make a point of checking it out at different times of the day and pray for the late afternoon and early morning cloud cover during their visit.  Hay, their from Italy, they’re use to intense brightness.  

A 4 Day Visit From Two!

My children.

They come home. 

How much I love them. 

How they drain me.  As how it should be. 

How they energize me.  Always a miracle. 

How I can still after all these years vividly see their sweet, cherubic faces in my minds forever imprinted memory. 

I inhale these babies, even now, it’s hard to resist. 

My hand reaches for the back of their necks, soft, holding up a head that needs me no longer to support it. 

I instinctively reach for them, in sleep, in wakefulness, in an insatiable need to nurture these young adult women. 

They leave. 

Back to a place without me. 

I bless them. 

Pray for them.

Know I am with them.

Always.

Be safe.

Go.

Come back.

BROADWAY CRITICS!

I love ballroom dance.  Twyla Tharp is amazing.  And Frank Sinatra is very cool too.  Yet, the three of them together?????????

We were not disappointed in our dinner at Carmines the night before we went to our last show. We should have listened to James though, our effeminate waiter with an attitude.  James was rather aloof until we started talking with him about theater.  We had just seen MILLION DOLLAR QUARTET, enjoyed it and over a garlicky, pasta con vongole began planning what production we should see next. 

On a hunch, I thought James just might be the guy to give us the inside scoop and sure enough, we find out he never misses an On Broadway or Off for that matter, show.  In between bites, our conversation was peppered with plays we loved, those we weren’t too impressed with and those we haven’t yet seen. 

Our next choice for our New York stay was to see COME FLY AWAY, but James emphatically suggested that we skip it.  With a flick of the wrist, he said, “don’t be bothered”.  Since we seemed to have similar taste, his advice was very much appreciated, until, he suggested we see AVENUE Q, the Muppet play.  Oops, all credibility instantly evaporated, even as he enthusiastically tried to pitch the artistry and humor of this show not unlike a Broadway critic.  Upon leaving the restaurant, we decided to wait and see which productions would be available at the half price window.

My husband is not your average jock.  He speaks Italian fluently, is well read, invests wisely, possesses an uncultivated musical aptitude and is an adept conversationalist.  Dance wise, he’s better than the average joe (translation, I don’t have to lead when we dance together).  He also appreciates a good show.  So, when the half price tickets for COME FLY AWAY came available the next day at the ticket booth, we bought them.

Not 3 minutes into the show, my husband was wriggling like a first time, bridled colt.  He kept looking at me with a pathetic frown, appalled that we just spent our money and last night in New York to watch what was essentially a ballroom dance production with not a word spoken from the cast.  What was Twyla thinking? I had a sinking feeling this was not going to be enjoyed by all.

Throughout the first “act” on and on he went, voice just a tad too loud, “this reeks, this is NOT what I paid for, or give me a break”.   My daughter was amused by his antics not bothered in the least.  Sinking lower and lower in my seat, I was not amused, but put up with his venting, shushing him only when it seemed to disturb our seatmates.  I kept reminding him every time he wanted to boo instead of clap that we were not at a ballgame.

At intermission, he stormed out with daughter in tow to see if they could “sneak” into the play across the street, THE ADAMS FAMILY.  Again I reminded him we were not at a ballgame. I was secretly hoping he could get in though as I was embarrassed of his gesticulations, mutterings and cursings. He came back at the end of intermission.  ADAMS FAMILY SOLD OUT until September. Shoot!  That explains why it was not available at the half price window downtown.

Second “act” begins.  The eternal optimist, I was hopeful for a stronger finish. By the end of the first number I had to acknowledge that my husband really did have a point.  The dancers were very skilled; the orchestra was fantastic, who doesn’t love Frank’s crooning.  But the choreography, it was like watching the same dance over and over and over again.  For two hours!  Very disappointing.

At the end, some people actually stood up to applaud, reminding us of the varied audience and what some people hate, others love.  For us however, we should have listened to James.  Next time, Muppets!

The Graduate!

I did not cry at my daughter’s college graduation.  People told me I would.  I thought that I would.  I just sat through 3 hours of pageantry anxiously awaiting a 5 second announcement of her name as she walked across the stage, shaking hands with dignitaries, a radiant smile across her face.

The pavilion was lovely with banners, beautiful plants strategically placed to conceal the risers leading to the stage.  The symphonic band played a piece from Carmen as well as the traditional Pomp and Circumstance March while graduates filed in, all with black tassels, some with black and gold, the distinguished gold representing some outrageous cumulative GPA.  All 1250 grads bounced in, lightness in their steps, tassels swaying side to side.  I scanned the faces of the diverse audience, people from all backgrounds, all colors, all proud of their own children, with their own unique stories. 

In the 90 degree heat while waiting to enter the pavilion, my husband ever the competitor, would quietly whisper in my ear as grads in their gowns walked past, black, black, black, black and gold, black, black, black.  A bit of comedy, a relief as we anxiously awaited our entrance.  Our daughter wore black and gold.

I wish I weren’t so critical of speakers.  I tried to find some degree of inspiration in the welcome and keynote address.  After all, these are well-respected individuals, accomplished and worthy of being selected to speak to the masses.  Nothing.  I sat there frustrated hoping that any of them might say something that we don’t already know. Honorable in their intentions, I kept searching for something, anything subtle that might inspire these graduates.  Rather, the message in part, was bleak with global economic concerns peppered throughout.

Attention all family, friends and anyone who happens to interact with a recent college graduate.  Please do not mention how bad the economy is.  These kids know this all too well. This does not motivate or inspire them.  They should be basking in the glory of their accomplishments, hopeful for their futures.  Ready to put their knowledge to task, eager for financial independence and to make their way in a world that is ever changing. Not be reminded how difficult it will be. At least not on the day they graduate college.

After the ceremony, she told us about the blue stole she wore over her gown.  It is the stole of gratitude to be given to someone who has inspired and supported her throughout her life.  She gave it to us. 

Our family celebration was memorable, good food, tasty drink, laughter, toasts to our daughter and her roommates.  Many a memory passed through my mind as the night wore on.  I felt myself drift back at different stages of her life, of my life and of how I’ve loved every moment of it.  And then came the letter.

She handed us a hand written letter she wrote back in September 2009, on the first day of her last year of college.  The contents are too intimate to share, but just imagine what you’d want a child you’ve raised to say to you. 

My daughter has had a blessed life.  And she recognizes that.  We are partly responsible for that. But mostly, she is, with the options she’s considered, the choices she’s made and the lessons she’s learned. I am profoundly proud of her and not because of her accomplishments. I am proud of her curiosity.  I’m proud of her kindness and compassion.  In all that she does, there is evidence of excellence and grace.  I am proud of the young woman she has become.

The stole drapes our mirror.  The letter sits on the dresser to be read and reread over and over.  As I looked at it before I shut my eyes after a very long day, on the day that I did not shed a tear, that’s when I cried. I cried my own river, tears of love and gratitude.

On our refrigerator is a well worn poem from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.  I have it’s essence memorized.

            For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

            You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

            The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you

            with His might that His arrow goes swift and far.

            Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness:

            For even as He loves the arrow that flies so He loves also the bow that is

            Stable.

Putting Digits In Places They Shouldn't Be!

Had a student today who got his finger stuck inside a test tube.  It was really quite stuck.  I knew something was up when I saw about 12 different shoulders around the room shaking as they heroically tried to conceal their laughter.  This young man’s finger continued to get whiter and whiter right before my eyes.

Remaining calm, I tried to dislodge the tube.  Nothing.  I suggested he carefully rotate it.  It wouldn’t budge. He tried soap and cold water.  Still stuck. Meanwhile chaos is breaking out in my class, as my lesson becomes completely derailed.  Finally, I sent this wily young man to the office.  Our secretaries are miracle workers raising six kids between the two of them.  With them in charge, I was completely confident all would be ok. 

Forgetting about the lesson du jour, I masterfully got the students back in some degree of order by sharing my own story of getting my knee stuck between the rails of a balcony.  Same kind of curiosity, I remembered wondering at the time how far I could thrust my knee between the rails.  Inch by inch, I kept pushing and before I knew it, my knee was stuck and swelling right before my eyes and in front of lots of strangers at a popular Las Vegas hotel!  

Many of the students listening to my story of humiliation shot up their hands eager to tell their own stories of heads, arms, fingers stuck in places they shouldn’t be.   The laughter was refreshing while we waited for finger tube boy to return.  We returned to the science lesson on "total internal reflection" careful now to use the equipment properly.

Shortly after he left, the young man reemerges grinning ear to ear, test tube in tack and finger returning to a lovely shade of pink. 

I just couldn’t get mad at this kid.  He’s only twelve after all. I too got my knee unstuck, but not without a tremendous amount of embarrassment. The excuse for me however, was not youth but sheer stupidity.  I was after all 51 years old when this happened.