A Loaf of Bread, A Glass of Scotch, and Thou

Los Angeles, California

For those of you sticklers, who noticed that I didn't leave the recipe for the braided Czechoslovakian Christmas Bread -- good eye! But there was a reason. I really wanted to attempt to make it first. That way I could tweak the recipe, adding additional notes, which, believe me, were not there in the recipe I followed today. But, guess what? I have two beautiful, golden-brown, perfectly braided (ok, mas o menos) loaves of vanoca cooling on a rack right at this moment. A loaf, or two, of bread . . .

. . . a glass of scotch! Yes. This was my reward, and it was good -- single malt, 18-year Macallan, priced right out of my budget, thus stored back in the way back of the liquor cabinet. So, we have the bread, and I've had the scotch, and Christmas is just around the corner.

I don't want to jinx this by saying the bread was easy, because I haven't tasted it yet. But I now remember that bread dough is quite forgiving as long as the yeast is yeasty. And it was actually a lot easier to braid than I remembered. A year-end life lesson to us all -- let us attempt that which intimidates us. With this new confidence, I see more intricate styling in my dance life in the future. But, again, I digress.

Here's the skinny on the beautiful bread:

Vanoca

1             pkg. dry yeast
1/4        cup water at about 110 degrees
1            cup half and half
1/2        cup sugar
1/2        cup softened butter
4 1/2-5 cups all-purpose flour
2            eggs
1 tsp.     grated lemon rind
1/4        teaspoon mace
1             cup golden raisins
1             cup blanched, slivered almonds

Soften yeast in water. Add 1 teaspoon sugar to mixture. Scald half and half by heating over med-low heat until active bubbles form around edges of cream. Combine cream, remaining sugar, salt, and butter in stand mixer. Combine with paddle attachment. Allow to cool to lukewarm.

Stir about two cups of flour into cream mixture. Add eggs and mix well. Stir in yeast mixture. Add lemon peel, mace, raisins, almonds, and remaining flour to make a soft dough. Mix at this point with dough hook, if you have it. Let rest 10 minutes in mixer bowl.

Knead on a floured surface until smooth and elastic. Place in a lightly greased large bowl. Run dough around in bowl to grease on all sides. Cover and let rise in warm place until double, about 1 1/2 hours.

Punch down dough and allow to rise again, for about one hour. Divide dough into two balls. Cover with the bowl and let rest for ten minutes. Divide one dough ball into halves. Divide one of the halves into thirds. Roll each third into a rope about eight inches long. Roll with your hands as if you're making ropes out of Silly Dough or clay. Pinch the ends together and braid. You should end up with a braided loaf about five to six inches long. Divide the second half into half again. Take one of the halves, divide into three sections, and roll into ropes again. These ropes will be the same length, but smaller in circumference. Pinch and braid as in the first braid, and place on top of the first braid, pinching ends, and tucking under if it is long enough. If not, simply pinch the ends of the two braids so that they form one loaf. With the remaining ball of dough, separate into two pieces, and roll them into ropes. Twist these two ropes as if you were making a candy cane (I know . . . who makes candy canes? Work with me here). Place the twisted dough right down the center of the loaf, pressing down slightly. Tuck ends under.

Repeat with the second ball. Seriously.

After braiding the loaves, place in warm place to rise again until double. I found the first loaf was rising while I was shaping the other one. This will take about thirty minutes or so.

Bake at 350 degrees about 30 minutes. If loaves seem to be browning too quickly, place a sheet of foil on top (or, as my grandmother did, a brown paper bag).

Cool, if desired, dust with powdered sugar before serving. Slice into moderately-thin slices to serve, or thicker slices to toast. This is heaven -- heaven, toasted with sweet butter.

Makes two large loaves.

I am sorry that I don't know how to wish you happy holidays in the language of Czechoslovakia (my grandmother said her parents spoke bohemian). So, in the language of my father's family, and that of Dickens, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, and God bless us, everyone!

And, adding to the loaf of bread, and the glass of scotch is thou. Thank you all so much for reading and supporting my blog in 2010. See you in 2011!

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Los Angeles, California


Christmas songs and carols are like Christmas movies. Your favorite one often depends on what kind of a year you've had. I'm all for saying It's a Wonderful Life is the best film invoking the spirit of Christmas. Especially since I'm a heretic who really does not like Miracle on 34th Street. But, truthfully, there are years when The Ref is the film that really meets up with my holiday sense and sensibility. Take a crazy, dysfunctional family and put them in St. Lucia headgear with lit candles . . . well, you get the picture. A good year comes in somewhere in the middle.


As for Christmas music, a sad year always brings to mind the song, Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, especially the way I hear it in my head, and on my iPod, sung by Judy Garland. I heard it within me all through the Christmas season after 9/11. And before that, my first Christmas without my dad. The story goes that when it was written for the film Meet Me In St. Louis (one of a few films guaranteed to make Billy leave the room, if not the house when he  sees it's on), the lyric went: Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  It may be your last. Louis B. Mayer was reputed to have said that it was the most depressing song he had ever heard, so he sent Ralph Blaine, the lyricist, back to the composing board to change it. Perhaps the rewritten lyrics helped, as I don't find it depressing. Just wistful, evocative . . . poignant. And, truly there are Christmases when you just feel that way.


Joining the traditions of Christmas songs, carols, and films, is Christmas food, which comes to us, more or less, from our families, the families of our spouses, and those special traditions that we establish ourselves. Case on point, Billy and I get drunk and wrap Christmas presents. OK, I'm kidding. But we do make a party of wrapping the gifts. Billy does the paper, and I do the ribbons and tags. And we do imbibe something special to grease the skids of this process. Usually not eggnog, because while I would be good to go with this, Billy doesn't like milky drinks. So, champagne tends to be the go-to bev, which is fine with both of us.


My mother's grandmother was born in Prague, which makes me one-quarter Czechoslovakian. That is the quarter that gets reinforced at Christmas. I have fragile, beaded ornaments that, reputedly, my great-grandmother brought to this country with her when she emigrated to America in the late 19th century. She also brought with her a tradition that for many years required that my family served fish on Christmas Eve. This probably dates back to the days when there was still Catholicism in the family. And, though the family had long ago left the Church, I grew up with this fish which is prepared in a Slavic style. The recipe's title is translated as Fish in Black Sauce. Real appealing, eh? It consists of a firm white fish (usually bass or halibut) cut into large chunks, poached then combined with a sauce that contains onion, celery root, lemon slices, whole blanched almonds, and prunes. The sauce is tarted up with vinegar, and then sweetened and thickened with gingerbread crumbs. I'm not kidding. And, trust me, this was a huge challenge for all of my boyfriends, and later, for Billy. They all seemed to do alright with the dumplings served under or alongside the fish. In a concession to my grandfather, whose antecedents came from Alsace-Lorraine, my grandmother served spaetzle dumplings, instead of larger Czech-style dumplings. Most of the guys got the dumpling thing. Guys do stodge well, as do I, come to that. We always had the leftover spaetzle browned up in butter the following morning along with eggs, sausage, etc. Lovely. Really.


I haven't had this, which we called Christmas Fish, in a few years. It became daunting for my mom to prepare it. Plus, we were down to so few family members, and most of them the ones who didn't really care for it. So, ham or a pork roast, and even French-Canadian Meat Pies one iconoclastic year, replaced the fish. I do miss it, but what I miss much more is the braided, yeast bread that my grandmother, then my mother made for all holidays. It is called Vanoca (and pronounced by our non-Czech tongues as Vonitchka). It is a firm bread, not like the challah that my friends often buy for their Shabbat dinners. This is a rich bread, more like panettone. It has almonds and golden raisins in it. At Christmastime, my grandmother would add cut up glaceed cherries in red and green. It looked so pretty. But my sister didn't like this. She called the cherries "phony fruit." So they went by the wayside. That was ok. I think I liked the flavor better without them, though the color was festive. When my grandmother could no longer make the bread, my mother took up the mantle. This was slightly diffy, as she never bothered to get a written recipe from my grandmother, whose verbal recipes never had exact measurements. She would say things like, add enough flour to make a stiff dough, but not as stiff as noodle dough. HUH? So, my mom found a recipe in a Czech cookbook and began making the bread, tweaking the recipe as the years passed so that it was more like my grandmother's.


Now, remember the adjective "braided?" Well, therein lies the rub. A decade or two back, in my early married life, I asked my mom to teach me how to make the bread. I wrote down the recipe as she demonstrated it. I have that copy before me now, written in pencil! At the time that we did this, Mom had me try to braid one of the loaves. Quel mess! I could braid my hair, but dough is a different animal altogether. Back at that time, my mom  would make about six loaves at a time in this huge, manual bread mixer with a crank handle on top. Mom would proof the yeast, then measure out the ingredients, and then my dad would mix the dough. With that large of a batch, cranking required a lot of elbow grease. After the dough rested and had risen, my mom would shape and braid the loaves. Today, the bread mixer is long gone. In recent years, my mom made only a few loaves for our holiday celebrations at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, using her Kitchen Aid mixer with the dough hook. And this year, I will do the same as I attempt to make the bread myself, for the very first time. Please wish me luck!


And so with the wistfulness of passing on the baking baton, the song Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas will be much played here at Casa Healy. For when Judy sings, Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow, we understand that the fates are not always that kind. And that within the joyousness of the Christmas season exists the poignancy of holidays past, and the memories of those who once shared the celebration with us.


So, this year, enjoy the season with all those you love, young and old. Rejoice, drink eggnog, drink champagne, break bread, and have yourself a merry little Christmas. Thank you all, once again, for reading my blog.

Albert Finney Slept in My Bed

Los Angeles, California

Caught your attention, now didn't I? Well, while the afterglow of Kona is still somewhat with me, I thought I might relate one more Kona Village story. And I will start by telling you five things about me that are extraordinary. Now, don't go away. I don't actually mean things that are inherently about me. Rather, this is more about things that have happened to me, mostly through the luck of being in the right place at the right time. And they are (and I am totally excited to introduce the bullet format into my blog):

• Saw The Beatles in concert

• Have seen three no-hitters pitched at Dodger Stadium (Bo Belinsky, Fernando Valenzuela and Kevin Gross). Belinsky, by the way was pitching for the Angels who utilized Dodger Stadium during the first few years of the franchise

• Have experienced the Northern Lights in Washington State. Seriously. No drugs involved in this 

You see, it's not like I'm extraordinary (on the contrary). But when you think about events which have occurred in your life, I believe that we can all come up with a short list of rather extraordinary happenings. Now, added to this list are a couple of things that seem to be about luck, karma, or what have you. And they are:

• I ALWAYS find excellent parking. I call it "TV Parking" because it is like on that old TV show, The Streets of San Francisco. Drivers on that show were always able to pull up into a parking place right in front of the Buena Vista (cafe in San Francisco famous for Irish Coffee and immortalized, so to speak, in the opening scene of the film When a Man Loves a Woman). Anyway, parking thusly in the heart of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco is, in a word, impossible. But I do have that kind of luck when it comes to parking. I'm famous for it.

• I have a finely-tuned radar for spotting celebrities. The list is long, but to name a few: Barbra Streisand (at a nursery in Calabasas, California), Steve Martin (California Pizza Kitchen), Clint Eastwood (Piatti restaurant in Carmel), Doris Day (Rio Grill which is also in Carmel), Julie Andrews & Blake Edwards (Michael's restaurant in Santa Monica, California), Billy Wilder (also at Michael's on same evening as Julie and Blake -- she went over to talk to Billy at his table), Cyd Charisse (at a workout studio in Encino, California), and both Jake (Hungry Cat, Hollywood) and Maggie (Le Pain Quotidien in Bev Hills) Gyllenhaal, just to name-drop a couple for the younger gen.

OK, I am not unaware that the celebrity-spotting game kinda flies in the face of what I wrote about a few posts back, dissing our celebrity-du-jour culture. But, I grew up in Los Angeles. Celebrity-spotting has always been a participation sport here. And that goes back way before paparazzi and Paris Hilton (I can't believe I've now written that name in a blog post. Circling the drain). And anyway, I think we should embrace our contradictions, don't you?


So, with all of the above in mind, here is the short list of celebrities that I would love (or would have loved, in the case of those who are DYK -- Dead, You Know) to have spotted: Paul Newman; Robert Redford; Daniel-Day Lewis; Colin Firth (be still my heart); Diane Keaton (mostly because Billy saw her at a McDonald's in Santa Monica, which makes him one up on me). And if the list were longer it would certainly include Albert Finney.


I was pretty young when my sister was studying English Literature in college. Still, she took me to a revival movie theater to see the Tony Richardson film Tom Jones. I loved it. And the actor who played Tom Jones was amazing. His name is Albert Finney, and after viewing the film I had a huge crush on him. When I was a bit older, I saw a movie that changed how I conceptualized marriage (for better and worse). It was Two For The Road, with Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn. It was at the beginning of a love affair with the later Stanley Donen films -- my favorite being Once More With Feeling, which is hard to come by but you can occasionally catch it on TCM. It stars Yul Brynner and Kay Kendell (FABULOUS). But I digress. This post is about Albert Finney.

I heard somewhere along the line that he had spent time at The Kona Village, which isn't surprising. Through the years a ton of celebrities have stayed there. Some have come regularly, and some we have seen while we are there. But I'm not going to divulge that information because it flies in the face of what is special about the Village. However, I do need to write about Albert Finney's stay there. From what I heard, the staff liked him a lot. He lived large, enjoying the food and good wines at meals. He was kind to the employees, and I suspect a lot of them may not have known who he was. We heard from guests whose stays had overlapped with his, that he was a bit of a character. But it wasn't until a couple years after hearing these stories that someone mentioned which hale was his during his stay (for refresher on what a hale is, see post entitled Kona Hanu. Oh, never mind, a hale is like a cottage).  And, lo and behold, Albert's hale was OUR hale! The very same one we stay in every year when we go to the Village.


It was a long, long road from viewing Tom Jones when I was in junior high school, to learning that we had stayed in the same hale, showered in the same shower, and slept in the same bed, albeit at different times. See what can come to those who are not impatient for the arrival of serendipitous events in their lives? And, so it is that I can truthfully state that Albert Finney slept in my bed. Or I slept in his. Same difference. Now if I could just figure out where Colin Firth goes on vacation . . . And thanks again for reading my blog.

Control of the Pies

Los Angeles, California

It's beginning to look a lot like . . . Thanksgiving. Seriously, it is plain damn hard to transition from Kona (weather, clothing & all things tropical) to a cold snap with rain in SoCal. But transition we must, as the holidays are just around the corner.

Recent changes have left us at loose ends for the holidays. Since we moved my mother into her retirement community, which is nearby, the traditions we used to hold have unraveled. We have always celebrated Easter, and Christmas Day at our home. Christmas Eve was at my parents' home until the last five years or so, when it began to be daunting for my mom to manage. So, we began hosting it at our home. We used to go to my sister's, about forty-five minutes south of us, for Thanksgiving.  But my mom's situation necessitates a celebration nearer to her home. And that means our house. This year, however, we are celebrating a day early.

Billy's mom, Shirls, will be coming for a visit. Shirls unwittingly made the mistake of moving to Arizona a few years back, and subsequently realizing it was a mistake. She wants to move back, and we fervently hope she will, but in the meantime, she is flying in to spend Thanksgiving week here in the southland. She is spending Thanksgiving day elsewhere, but is available on Wednesday, so she will be joining us along with my mom, for a Pre-Thanksgiving Dinner on Wednesday night.

I don't mind having PTD (see above) at our home, except that we are now such a small group at the table. My family has dwindled, and Billy's is scattered. I would so love to spend the holiday with friends and fristers, but everyone's plans are in place -- have been in place for decades. So this year, we are pleased to make our merriment at our home, with the moms.

And now, a word about the food. Truth be told, for me there is a secondary gain about hosting Thanksgiving (or PTD, in this case), and that is about being in control of the pies. For many years, as Thanksgiving approached and friends and acquaintances began to talk about their plans, I would immediately ask them what kind of pies they were going to have. Pies are important at Thanksgiving. They loom large in the legend.

In the past, at my sister’s home, we were served pumpkin pie. She also baked little individual mince tarts, which she served with a Grand Marnier sabayon. My sister's pumpkin pie is delicious -- though I’m not much of a pumpkin-custard kind of person. I usually had a small piece, plus a half of a mince tart. And, don't get me wrong, that was lovely. But I fantasized about being in control of the pies. I think that is what hosting Thanksgiving is all about, and is perhaps the only reason anyone ever even considers hosting it. It's about being in control of the pies. In fact, my belief is that this is what Thanksgiving is all about, en toto: pies, and who gets to choose the variety that shows up at your table (and if it's your table, you should be the chooser, not to belabor this point, but really . . .).

One of the early times when I prepared Thanksgiving dinner, way back in my early twenties, I made Shoo-fly Pie. Well, forgive me, I was just out of college and you know what a pretentious culinary period that is in one's life. So don't expect that recipe. These days, if I were preparing a feast for many which entitled me to this dominion over dessert, I would decree: Pecan pie, and French Apple (the pie with the crumb topping). Oh yes! But frankly, while Billy is on board with the French Apple, he just doesn't get the pecan pie thing. He finds it cloyingly sweet. I do too. But in a good way.
 
Still, even with complete and unchallenged control, a little restraint is in order. With the small group that is gathering, I will bake only one pie. And, let's face it, people want pumpkin. I don't know why they do, but they do. So here is my compromise:
 
Pumpkin-Pecan Pie


For Pie Shell
Pastry Dough for nine-inch single crust pie


For Pumpkin Filling
3/4 cup canned pumpkin
2      tablespoons packed brown sugar
1      large egg, lightly beaten
2      tablespoons sour cream
1/8  teaspoon cinnamon
1/8  teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg


For Pecan Layer
3/4 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
3      large eggs, lightly beaten
3      tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2      teaspoons vanilla
1/4  teaspoon finely grated fresh lemon zest
1/2  tablespoon (1 1/2 teaspoons) fresh lemon juice
1/4  teaspoon salt
1 1/3 cup pecans (5 1/2 oz), chopped, if desired


Make pie shell:
Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface with a lightly-floured rolling pin into a 13-inch round (1/8 inch thick), then fit into a 9-inch glass or metal pie plate. Trim edge, leaving a 1/2-inch overhang, then fold overhang under and crimp edge decoratively. Prick bottom and side of shell all over with a fork, then chill shell 30 minutes.


While shell chills, put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 375 F.


Line shell with foil and fill with pie weights (dried beans, rice, or what have you), then bake until pastry is set and pale golden on rim, about fifteen minutes. Carefully remove foil and weights and bake shell until pale golden all over, about five minutes more. Cool on a rack.


Make pumpkin filling:
Whisk together pumpkin, brown sugar, egg, sour cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of salt in a bowl until smooth.


Make pecan layer:
Stir together corn syrup, brown sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, zest, lemon juice, and salt in a bowl, then stir in pecans.


Assemble and bake pie:
Spread pumpkin mixture evenly in shell, then carefully spoon pecan mixture over it. Bake pie until crust is golden and filling is puffed, about thirty minutes. (Center will still be slightly wobbly; filling will set as it cools.) Cool completely on rack. Serve at room temperature.


Cooks' note:
Pie can be baked four hours ahead and kept, uncovered, at cool room temperature. If you bake it a day ahead, loosely cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate. Reheat in a preheated 350F oven until crust is crisp, about fifteen minutes.


Makes eight to ten servings

Alright, I have not provided you with a pastry dough recipe. I figure if you are baking pies for the holiday, you probably have your own recipe. If not, the cookbook woods are full of them, or you can search Epicurious here. My pastry dough combines butter with a bit of shortening and utilizes ice water. But that's not integral. Pastry doughs are treasured discoveries or else they've been passed down through the generations within families. I'm not even going to admonish you against using prepared pie shells which are readily available (just spotted them at Trader Joe's), though that's not the route I go, even though I'm not a great pie baker. I consider myself a much better cook than baker. But I can step up when it is required. I can even do those leaves for decoration. Surprised you, didn't I?


And one last thing. Remember the post about chocolate? Well, pumpkin filling is ideal for creating soggy crusts. If you want to brush some melted white chocolate over the baked shell, letting it set up before you pour in the fillings, this would be the time to do so. Just don't tell my sister.


Happy Thanksgiving! I am thankful to you all for reading my blog.

Other Cities Only Make Me Love You Best

Los Angeles, California

We flew home from Kona through San Francisco on November 1st. Just after take-off, our pilot announced that he was going to try to pick up a radio station broadcasting the fifth game of the World Series. If he was able to do this, he would patch it through so that we could listen to the game through our earphones. He was finally successful at doing this around the fourth inning. It was a crackly transmission, but it got better as we proceeded towards the mainland.

Now for those of you who don't have a wide bandwidth when it comes to baseball, I should probably provide the back story that the two teams competing in the World Series were the San Francisco Giants (yea!) and the Texas Rangers (boo!). Game five was crucial to the Rangers. If they lost, the Giants would clinch the World Series. And, again, we were on a plane bound for San Francisco. Presumably, a lot of the passengers were heading home. So, although we were way up in the air, we were ostensibly in Giants' territory, and would be until we caught our connecting flight home to Los Angeles (necessitated by the elimination of our usual direct flight from LAX to Kona. This is probably more information than you need to know, but you know how I am about parentheticals).


When the Giants finally scored, scattered applause broke out throughout the plane. When Wilson (who had come in at the bottom of the ninth in relief) threw his final strike-out, most, if not all, of the passengers applauded. It was cool. When we landed in San Francisco about ninety minutes later, they were already hawking Giants World Champions tee-shirts. Now, I was all for the Giants winning the series, as you've probably figured out by the above parenthetical commentary. You see, currently in Los Angeles, we don't really have a baseball team. We have a baseball divorce. I could fill you in on the divorce proceedings of the owners of the Los Angeles Dodgers, but really, it is all too dismal. So, if you're interested in this tawdry mess, google the Dodgers and/or the McCourts. Suffice it to say that once the Dodgers finished circling the drain this season, we started looking at what was going on with the Giants. I was hoping for a Giants/Yankees series, but somehow the Rangers took the Yankees out. And then there were two.


I was for the Giants all through postseason. You see, though I am from Los Angeles, born and raised, and represent the third-generation in my family who were born in Southern California; while I've always known that there is this huge San Francisco/LA rivalry, and that San Francisco totally disses us for stealing their water . . . I like San Francisco. Enough so, that I almost got married there (though not to Billy, and the less said about that situation the better). Plus, my dad grew up in Palo Alto, and we always spent a lot of time up in the Bay Area. I've got friends there. And I've always had a great time when visiting the city.

So, I was thoroughly enjoying all this San Francisco revelry. It even reminded me of a trip Billy and I took in the early 90s. Billy had received a bonus, which funded a long weekend to San Francisco, where we celebrated his birthday. It was one of those trips where magic was to be found at every turn.


Although we had rented a car, we never took it out of the hotel garage until it was time to return to the airport. We walked a lot, used public transportation during the day, and took taxis at night. We had some memorable meals at restaurants including Postrio, which was in the Prescott Hotel where we were staying. We listened to a pianist playing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes until early morning at the Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel.


Our favorite day was Saturday when, after breakfast at the hotel, we walked a short distance to Union Square to shop. At F.A.O. Schwartz, we purchased The Amazing 8-Ball -- our first in what would become a long line of them, purchasing them both as replacements and gifts. Afterwards, we caught the BART over to Embarcadero Center. Then we began to walk. We walked all the way down Battery to Embarcadero, stopping for lunch at Il Fornaio. Then we walked some more, past the piers and the wharf, all the way to Ghirardelli Square. Eventually, we caught the Hyde Street cable car and rode it back to Union Square. By this time, we'd been gone all day, and had probably walked way beyond a 10K. Our feet were sore, but more pressing than that . . . we were thirsty.


We fell into the hotel and hung a quick right into the bar, where we sat down on bar stools and ordered two Red Tail Ales. The bartender who took our order informed us that the restaurant bar was hosting a private event that evening for MTV. We were welcome to have a drink while the bartenders were setting up for the party, but soon after they would be closing their doors to the public at large. That was fine with us. We just needed enough time to have a beer . . . or two.


I gazed down into my glass of cloudy, unfiltered ale, marveling at the blessed relief of being off my feet, and frankly, out of my shoes. Meanwhile, Billy got out the 8-Ball we had purchased earlier in the day. He began turning it over, checking out responses presumably to unverbalized questions. It drew the bartenders like moths to a flame.


"Oh look," one of them exclaimed. "An 8-Ball!" We had now collected three bartenders.


"Ask a question," Billy suggested.

One of them volunteered, "Am I going to get out of here before midnight tonight?"

Billy turned the 8-Ball over, and read "Don't count on it."


"OK," another guy said. "I've got one. Is Madonna going to be at this party tonight?"

Billy flipped the ball over. "Ask again later."


The third bartender leaned in. "If Madonna is here, am I going to get lucky with her tonight?"


A quick flip. "Signs point to yes," Billy read. We all laughed.

The first bartender said to Billy, "Now you ask one."


Billy paused, then spoke slowly. "What are the chances of us getting a free round in this bar?"

Billy turned over the 8-Ball, then handed it to the first bartender who read it out loud.

"Outlook good!"

Two of them laughed, then moved away down the bar to get back to work. But, the first bartender turned quickly to the refrigerator where he took out two Red Tail Ales and opened them. Turning back, he plunked them down on the bar in front of us. The other two guys looked back at him.

"Hey," he said. "You don't f#@! with the 8-Ball."

We never did hear whether Madonna made it to the party that night. But, if she did, we're sure our bartender got lucky. The 8-Ball had spoken. Thank you for reading my blog. I knew you would. I asked the 8-Ball about it.

Kona Honu

Kona, Hawaii

I'm going to start you right off with this recipe so that you can run and make a couple of these, then settle in to read this remarkable story. Seriously.

Mai Tais

2      ounces dark Bacardi rum
1/2  cup pineapple juice
1/2  cup orange juice
2      tablespoons lime juice
2      tablespoons Cointreau
2      ounces Meyer's rum

Combine first five ingredients. Pour into two large glasses over ice. Float one ounce of Meyer's rum on top. Do insert a pineapple spear into the glass, or better yet, a paper umbrella.


2 servings


Aloha! We are at the Kona Village Resort with Sandra and John. This is the twelfth year out of the last thirteen years that we have celebrated my birthday there with them. Remind me to write about the year that I decided I wanted to go to Santa Fe instead. Good food. Freezing cold. But I digress.


I think that Sandra and John are the most beloved, or maybe just infamous, of returnees to the Village. They have vacationed there over fifty times (and yes, I got that statistic right). Their first visit was back in the early years just before 1970, when you could only gain access to the Village by small plane, as the road was not yet cut through. S & J are infinitely generous, loads of fun, and game for just about anything. We used to call them our “same time, next year” friends, because we never saw them between trips to KVR. The beauty in this was that we always picked up with an easy familiarity when we met again each year. But we can no longer call them that, because we have gone on to spend time with them in Tahiti, Panama, Rancho Santa Fe, Napa, Las Vegas, and, of course, Carmel and Lake Tahoe.

This year, we left LA during baseball playoff season once again, and with the Giants being contenders, I am reminded of the World Series of 2002, when we watched the last game of the series at the Village. Billy and I had arrived on the day that the final Angels/Giants match was being played. As we checked in, the game had just begun. Tad, one of the two bellmen, drove us in the resort cart to our hale (see below), where we dropped off our luggage, and quickly changed clothes.

“Dude!” Tad had said to Billy. “Put some shorts on!”

Then, he drove us to the nether regions of the resort, where we had been told that a TV had been set up. This was a bit surprising, since the Village’s hales have no TVs (radios, telephones, etc.). We had considered going AWOL to The Four Seasons next door, where we were sure to find all kinds of technological advances, including televised baseball. But, no need.

Tad dropped us off at Hale Ho'okipa, a large partially covered area on one end of the lagoon, which is used for luaus. It is the largest structure on the Village premises, as the luau is a weekly event that is open to people not staying at the resort. A great place for an extremely large celebration, I thought, as we hurried inside. I expected to see a large group of fans, sitting before a wide screen television, drinks in hand provided by the bar located there. To my surprise, as we rounded the corner and into Hale Ho'okipa, we were met by the scene of two middle-aged men, both in baseball caps, sitting on polyvinyl picnic chairs, in front of a TV that looked to have about a 20” screen. It was balanced on a metal stand which looked like it came from the audio-visual department of my junior high school. Where was everyone?

One of the men, who turned out to be Barry, the dentist, looked up as we approached,

“Who are you guys for?”

I responded, borrowing Sandra’s line referring to their having gone to rival colleges (Stanford and Cal), “We’re a mixed marriage.”

“Yeah?” Barry said. “Well then, one of you is three-to-one.” That would be Billy, the alien Angels fan.

We introduced ourselves, then settled down into the white plastic chairs that looked like they came from the outdoor department at Target (ok, one last, nit-picking point about the ambiance). Shortly after we settled in, the other Giants booster, John, told us that that he was a little concerned about getting back to his hale. While on the road to Hale Ho'okipa, using the quickest trail alongside the lagoon, he had been set upon by the black swans who had nipped at his ankles. These swans, now deported from the Village, were notoriously mean-spirited, and were possibly Angels' fans.

After reassuring John that we would all protect him from the swans, we continued to watch the game with Barry and John. Barry thoughtfully made a beer run to the Shipwreck Bar, convincing whoever was bartending to charge a full six-pack of Kona Longboard Lager to his account. Over beer and baseball, we learned that John had attended Stanford (like Sandra), and Barry, like Sandra's John, had gone to Cal. I told them that they should meet John and Sandra -- especially after learning that Baseball John (this is getting confusing, isn't it?) and his wife were returning to KVR after a long absence. But they, too, were longtime returnees.

And, they did meet John and Sandra. Within a few days we were a loosely-knit group, coming together in various combinations at meals and, natch, in the Bora Bora Bar. It was like camp, all over again, except with martinis. All this fun and frivolity culminated on at midnight on Halloween when we all drank champagne on the beach, then reclined on the sand, watching a meteor shower in the brilliant Hawaiian night sky. But, I'm getting ahead of my story.

We spend our days at the Village under a four-poled palapa-roofed beach structure. It houses two lounge chairs -- and that’s all. These few structures dot the beach, and are spaced far apart -- far enough, I’ve often said facetiously, to have an argument or sex in relative privacy. The privacy on this trip was increased by the reduced guest population at the resort. When we arrived, the total guest count out of a possible 300, was around sixty. We lunatics were truly running the asylum.

During our week together at the Village, Baseball John and his wife, Sue, who hadn’t been at the KVR in recent years, were amazed by the sight of the large sea turtles on the beach. These honu (see below) make their way, moving laboriously and resting frequently, up out of the water to take long naps in the afternoon sun-warmed sand. The trail behind them is marked by a pattern made by their flippers, which they use to slowly propel themselves forward. It looks almost like an imprint left by tire tread. We had first seen this some years back, but it had never occurred on our early trips. We had taken tons of pictures of these turtles on previous trips. But, for the past few years, we had become accustomed to the sight of the many turtles we had seen slumbering on the sand. Business as usual.

On Halloween, Billy and I were alternately reading and napping the afternoon away on our lounge chairs. There had been an event the night before which had opened the Village up to the public -- a rare thing at our quiet Village except on Luau Fridays. And this event had opened up the bar for free drinks. So, we had celebrated, staying up late, and then celebrating some more.

Also, on that previous day, a hurricane in the Pacific had caused high waves, which had washed up all around us on our lounges. So, on this next day as we napped, the sand around our lounges was still wet from the prior day’s high waves and tides. Something we had never experienced in all of our past stays.

At first, when I was awakened by an unsettling shift of the ground under my lounge chair, I thought I had been dreaming. I fell back asleep. The next few thumps that woke me felt like small earth tremors. And as these convinced me that what I was feeling was no post-party hallucination, I decided to lift the towel that was draped over my lounge, and peek underneath. All I saw was an immensity of reptilian flesh. Dropping the towel, I jumped to the very top of my lounge, sitting on my haunches, hanging ten on the lounge rail.

“Billy! Billy!!” I shook his arm, waking him. “What’s under my lounge?”

Billy sleepily lifted the towel on his side of my lounge, then slowly lowered it again.

“Mr. Turtle,” he said, languidly.

Indeed. One of the large sea turtles had worked its way up the beach and right between the runners of my lounge. From there, while I was sleeping, he had proceeded under my lounge until he hit the crossbar which supported the adjustable part of the lounge. Every so often he attempted to advance further, creating the small tremors and thumps that had awakened me. But alas, he was stuck. In between tries, he evidently napped along with us. The three of us had become a unique Village ohana (see below).

My trepidation at having a honu, which was about the size of a large dinner platter, subletting in the basement of my lounge did subside. We were in Kona. Live and let live (the mai tais support this philosophy). So, we all settled back to our naps.

Before we left the beach, we lifted the lounge to allow the honu to turn around (they don’t do reverse well). Then, we left our new friend who now had a roof over his shell.

Initially I don't think people believed this story. But at the Bora Bora Bar that night, guests who had walked up the beach in the late afternoon told us that they had seen the chevron-shaped tracks leading right out of the water and under the lounge -- my lounge for the week that I am there. And they also saw the subsequent tracks back to the sea.

That palapa-roofed structure became my happy place. Whenever I have tried meditation or just to muster up a calming visualization, I put myself back there feeling the breeze on my skin, smelling the sweet Kona ocean air while relaxing on my lounge. And, without fail, I always remember to put a turtle underneath it all. Mahalo for reading my blog.

hale: house (in this case, guest cottage)
honu: sea turtle
ohana: family
mahalo: gracias

Fristers

Los Angeles, California


A post or two back, I wrote about a least favorite word. Now, presenting . . . a favorite word. It is frister. OK, it's not a real word. Though in the future, it could become one. I didn't coin it. And I cannot give credit where it is due, as I don't remember where or when I first read or heard this word. But it is one that means a lot to me. One of my friends, Lisa, once described herself to me by saying "I am a women's woman." And that struck a chord with me. Don't get me wrong. I like men. Have loved some, and one specifically and in particular...how do I count the ways? But I find myself, at this point in my life, valuing, treasuring, relishing beyond measure, the special friendships I have with the women in my life. And this is where the word frister comes into play.


Fristers are better than friends and often closer than sisters. Or, as I once put it, they are the best parts of both. My fristers are nurturing, supportive, and are almost always a mere phone call or email away. And they are tons of fun. Increasingly, I feel sustained and strengthened by the time I spend with these women. Except, however, for those times when I feel weak from laughter. Times that, lately, are about equal in measure to time when tears are shed. Life can feel precarious. And there is safety in numbers.


When registering for Girl Scout camp, Camp Lakota, there was a place where it was required to name your camp "buddy." My buddy was my close friend and neighbor, Debbie. Our families lived on the same long street, ten houses away from each other. We had walked to school, and played together after school, since second grade. I learned to ride a bike on her brother's bike. We had been in Brownies, and then flew up together to become Girl Scouts. We sometimes got into trouble. A little trouble. Debbie could be a giggler, and I knew what to say or do to make her laugh. I used discretion at school, but less so at our weekly, after-school Girl Scout troop meetings. We drove our leader crazy, and later took our bad behavior on to Job's Daughters. But I learned a lot of important things in Girl Scouts. Not the least of which is the buddy system. I do believe that my fristers have got my back.


I feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a lot of girlfriends and fristers in my life, including Sandra, Frister Extraordinaire. These women have stories that I would love to write about (though they would kill me if I did). In fact, I share a lot of memories with each of them which I could write about -- pages and pages (though then, I'd have to kill you for reading them). Several of them are part of my salsa community. With a few, I share Pilates. One I picked up at a nail salon, a place where neither of us were particularly happy spending time before we got to know one another. Three of them I met in fitness classes. One, with whom I am especially close, I met on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and we went on to travel together, with our moms, three more times! Three of them share my astrological sign: Scorpio. One of them I have known since college; two of them (the sisters of the traveling scarves) since just after. Three of them are grandmothers, and a few more are old enough to be. My Girl Scout buddy, Debbie, went on to shed her uniform and pose for Playboy -- the centerfold, no less. Then, she promptly moved to Hawaii where she raised a family and still lives today. The group is further comprised of an actor, an artist, a banker, a dentist, a speech pathologist, an educator, a collector of bad debts, a student of Chinese medicine, a Canadian, a writer, a trancendental meditator, a nurse-practitioner, several knitters, a couple of gardeners, and a whole bunch of excellent cooks. And, get this, FIVE left-handers. What is up with that? And I would be remiss to not mention that one of my fristers is, forgiveably, a man. Actually, he's a frother, I guess. Ah well, it is a diverse group in all ways, including this token other-gender member. It's a friendship melting pot.


When I was about thirteen, my mom once admonished me for my fervent connection to my friends. She said that I would learn as I grew older that friends were not important. I think it was Mark Twain who remarked that he was surprised to discover, when he grew older, that his father had grown smarter (or something to that effect, as I'm loosely paraphrasing). I, too, discovered this about my parents. But not in this case. My mother was wrong-headed about this. My friends have been a lifeline to me more times than I can remember. And as some of those much earlier connections have evanesced as time has gone by, I now find myself with a group of friends who are vastly important to me. And for their presence in my life, I feel exceedingly fortunate. So here's a salute to you women, who are, in a word, fristers. Thank you (fristers and all) for reading my blog.

The M Word

Los Angeles, California


Speaking of things that don't change. Remember when Coca Cola came up with New Coke? How bad of an idea was that (even though I don't drink Coke...except at fifteen when, during a family vacation in Jamaica, my drink of choice was, you got it, rum & coke)? Anyway, bad idea was New Coke. But here comes something that seemingly hasn't changed. They are seasonal, so they disappear when the warm-weather months arrive. As a result, it's difficult to take them for granted, though possible to overindulge knowing that they won't be here forever. Even tempting. But, truly, right about the time that you're feeling, say, blase about them, they disapparate. Late spring and summer passes. Then, in autumn, they show up again -- just about when new-crop apples and pumpkins appear. They cause my heart to skip a beat when I first see their shiny yellow box shelved at my grocery store. They are here, and they are...Mallomars.


I used to know a professor who once said that if his students find out about his passion for chocolate, they have him. He confessed that he loved imported, Belgian dark chocolate, but that even a Ding Dong could bring him to his knees. That's me and Mallomars. And what is not to like? Unlike a lot of questionable-quality, market variety cookies and candy, these are dark chocolate. They are comprised of a little wafery cookie on the bottom, a blob of marshmallow on the top, with that chocolate enrobing it all. They have crunch, a bit of smoothness and a lingering finish of chocolate. Just thinking about them -- weak in the knees.


I'm not a glutton for Mallomars. A box of them will last me awhile. And while I savor them, I ponder the fact that they have been lauded in movies--specifically When Harry Met Sally and Regarding Henry. And I just bet they're name-dropped in other books and films as well. As they should be.


It being Mallomar season, and also time to provide a recipe, I searched my files and my brain for something chocolate. But, other than my Crazy Chocolate Cake, which I've already shared, and my Chocolate Ganache Cupcakes, which are cribbed intact from The Barefoot Contessa, I was surprised to discover that I didn't have a lot of chocolate recipes. This is probably because while I was growing up not a lot of attention was thrown to chocolate in our home. I have a sib who is "allergic" to chocolate. She suffers from migraine headaches, and was once given a list of potential migraine triggers. She only gave up chocolate. Not red wine. Not yellow cheese. Chocolate. As she continues to have migraines, chocolate-lovers might wonder what was the point of this. But you have to understand the secondary gain...that she has had a lot of fun sleuthing out chocolate in places one wouldn't expect to find it.


"I'm giving you back the lip balm that you gave me for Christmas."


"You don't like it?" I asked.


"Look at the ingredients. It's got cocoa butter in it."


Yikes.


But my favorite similar exchange about chocolate took place in the dining rooms of the cruise ships we were on each summer during a span of about fifteen years. Our mom thought it a great idea to take a 'girls' cruise' each summer, and she generously and graciously treated us to trips to the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Mexico, Bermuda, Canada, and Hawaii. No matter where we were cruising, I can guarantee you that this conversation always took place.


"For dessert tonight, we have apple pie, creme brulee, strawberry shortcake, chocolate mousse, ice cream and sorbets," our waiter (any waiter, on any ship), would announce.


"Excuse me," she said, gathering his attention with a fixed, suspicious eye. "The apple pie. Does that have chocolate in it?"


"No, Madame."


"How about the creme brulee?"


"No, Madame. No chocolate in the creme brulee."


"Are you sure?"


"Yes, Madame, I'm quite certain."


"The strawberry shortcake. Is there chocolate in that?"


By this time ALL of us table mates were rolling our eyes. There's no f#%&=$*! chocolate in strawberry shortcake we all wanted to yell, as this had been going on every friggin' night. Although...although...I do know people who line their pie crusts with a thin smear of melted chocolate in order to protect against sogginess. And in pies like pumpkin? White chocolate. It makes you think.


Having grown up with this, and knowing that she will not even eat chili because there may be cocoa in the chili powder (who knew?), I was groomed to be hyper-vigilant about what I serve to her. Except . . . there were those edamame. I always seasoned them with Williams-Sonoma's French Fry Seasoning. And she always, always ate them. Then there was that one time when she complimented me and asked me about the seasoning. So I read the label. And I put the can back, way far back on the shelf of the pantry, behind all the other seasonings.  I said nothing about the cocoa, listed as it was at the bottom of the list of ingredients. Of course I stopped using it when she was visiting (and, by the way, she never had a migraine while she was a house guest at our home). But still, you have to think that a little chocolate got through. And a good thing that. I don't think there are many syndromes worse than chocolate deficiency. Can make a person cranky, and sometimes even downright miserable.


OK, to be fair about this, it's not like this was a real food allergy that could cause death from anaphylactic shock. I mean, she avoided chocolate like the plague, but she still got migraines. And those of us jumping through her anti-chocolate hoop got a few headaches of our own. But I am a dutiful sister, and so this is what I often made for her, beginning way back when I was in elementary school. It may have helped me get my cooking badge in Girl Scouts. I certainly made enough batches of it during that time.

Butterscotch Brownies


1/4   cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
1        cup light brown sugar
1        egg
3/4   cup flour, unsifted
1        teaspoon baking powder
1/2   teaspoon kosher salt
1/2   teaspoon vanilla
1/2   cup coarsely chopped pecans (optional)


Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.


Melt butter over low heat.  Remove from heat, add sugar,and  stir until blended. Cool. Add egg, mixing well. Stir in dry ingredients, then vanilla and nuts (if using).


Spread into a well-oiled eight-inch square or 5x7-inch pan.


Bake  approximately 20 minutes.



You can, of course, frost these. Chocolate frosting would be pretty nifty, as would adding mini-chocolate chips to the batter. But traditionally these are prepared sans chocolate. I'm such a traditionalist, I would suggest that these go well with a glass of cold milk. And certainly a chaser of Mallomars couldn't hurt. 'Tis the season, after all, and thank you (especially you chocoholics -- you know who you are) for reading my blog.

Lauren Read My Blog?!?

Los Angeles, California

I first started thinking about writing a blog back one summer ago, when I met Andie, who had just started a cool blog. Andie is a friend of Lauren's. Lauren is a lovely young woman whom I know from Tahoe. There is more backstory here (not surprisingly involving a bar, martinis, and what have you), but that's on a strictly need-to-know basis. Suffice it to say that when we were back in Tahoe in August, I asked Lauren about Andie, and told her how our encounter and conversation had led me to blogdom. I then mentioned the name of my blog to Lauren. I think it's a funny title, and since she knows Sandra, I thought she might think so, too.

Meanwhile, on the blog front: when I began my blog last January, I made a personal commitment to write at least two posts per month. That was enough to give me time to write and edit, while at the same time being little enough to assuage those pesky feelings about the self-absorptive, read about me here factor (see below). And I pretty much honored this commitment, and was writing merrily along for about six months. But in August, I got discouraged. You see, originally, I didn't want my friends to read my blog. In fact, the few friends who I even told that I was writing a blog, I admonished to not follow it. In fact, to not even read it. I was still struggling with the "read all about me here" aspect of blogging. But little-by-little, some of my friends did begin to follow my blog. Now, no one can tell this by looking at my blog, as I opted to leave the followers list off of the blog (after having some problems this aspect of the template, but that's beside the point). Anyway, along about August I was in a funk regarding family issues and the heat, and I began to think along lines that are dangerous to any project. Namely, what is the point?

But then . . . but then . . . I got an email from Sandra! And she reported that she had gotten an alert from Lauren, who had read my last blog post and mentioned that I had experienced a rough week in my care of my mother. I was astounded. Lauren read my blog? "Lauren read my blog!" I told Billy. And we looked at each other (me with that open-mouthed, trouty look that one can take on when they receive surprising news). Then, I had a little epiphany. If Lauren read my blog, I thought. Who else has read it?

Stats. There is a tab on Blogspot that is entitled Stats. I placed the cursor on that tab. I clicked. Holy hits!!! As in, hits from China, Japan, Canada, one of the Scandinavian countries (I get them confused), and one (1!) lone hit from Great Britain. Quite a number of hits from the US. Of course the post with the most hits was the one with the Michael Jackson tag. I suppose in the back of my mind I might have known this, and that was why I tagged it thus. But I have been hit on from all over the world. Now, who knows who has actually read my blog, or more importantly, who has revisited it. But right now, I don't care. I am energized and, as a result I am once more ready to rock and write. Because people in China have perhaps read my blog. People in Denmark, or Sweden, or Norway may have read my blog. And that guy . . . or that chick in Great Britain just might have read my blog! But the real kicker wasn't about them, global community that they comprise. The heartwarming gee-whiz moment was when I learned that Lauren read my blog. Thank you all (especially Lauren) for reading my blog.

Don't Change A Hair For Me

Los Angeles, California


Know that cheesy program where actors are asked what's your favorite word? Well, without being asked I will volunteer that my most ambivalent word is: change. In my innermost being, I truly equate change with, well, death. To say that change has been hard for me is equatable to calling the Grand Canyon that little crevice. Moving briefly to Washington DC when I was in sixth grade: hard. Moving permanently to a new neighborhood and school when I was in seventh grade: harder. I struggled through every transition from junior to high school from high school to college from that college to the one where I received my degree. Every relationship and friendship left behind still haunts me -- I didn't want things to change. But somewhere along the line, with the inevitable though tentative step toward some level of emotional maturity, I did realize that change is a catalyst for growth. And growth is something I find pretty OK, albeit hard to come by.


One of the few areas where I mostly accept change graciously is with most of the seasons. I'm not real big on winter, but that is about the shorter days. And, I have to remind you that I spend one month out of every winter in Carmel. That totally, as Rick said in Casablanca: takes the sting out of being occupied (though I believe he was talking about champagne, and the Nazi invasion of Paris). Ah well. As of today we are just one week short of the first day of autumn. And, autumn I must reiterate from my last post, is my favorite season.


Here in Southern California, autumn sneaks up on us surreptitiously. It is still hot. And it is fire season, as in brush fires. Still, pumpkin patches pop up overnight, though the pumpkins often soften and perish in the heat. And, in the air conditioned splendor of my neighborhood grocery, I find the arrival of a new crop of crisp apples. Galas, Granny Smiths, Macintoshes, and my favorite, Fujis. I love apples, and I love what goes with apples: cinnamon, cheddar cheese, rum (in apple cider). I love the look of a bowl of polished apples. And I especially love the taste of cooked apples. I'm not much of a pie baker. So when I attempt to peel apples in one long spiral, a la Sleepless in Seattle, what I do with those apples is this:

Apple Crisp


4    cups sliced, pared tart apples
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup oatmeal (not quick-cooking)
1    teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/3 cup butter, softened


Heat oven to 375 degrees. Grease a square baking dish, 8x8x2 inches. Place apple slices in pan. Toss together remaining ingredients except butter. Cut in butter with pastry blender or two knives until it resembles coarse meal. Sprinkle over apples, clumping mixture as you do this.


Bake for thirty minutes or until apples are tender and topping is golden brown. Serve warm or at room temperature, with light cream or vanilla ice cream.


Six servings, more or less -- it being autumn, and some of us needing to bulk up a bit for the approaching winter.

My birthday is in October, arriving each year, as it does, very close to Halloween. And I do relish that time of year. I never had post-birthday letdown, even as a young child. The day after the candles were blown out and the presents were opened, I had to turn my attention to my Halloween costume. Today, I still enjoy my birthday, then Halloween. Enjoy a season when one thing leads to another. So, I guess some things never change. Thanks for reading my blog!

The Group

Los Angeles, California


Over a month has passed since my last post. With so much going on in my life, it is perhaps time to confide that in the midst of all this fun and frivolity: Carmel and Billy; girlfriends, cake and chocolate; I must share that I also meet a daily challenge. I am my mother's caregiver. My mother is ninety years old. Now, before the calculators get pulled out and the eyebrows get raised, I must state unequivocally that my mother was into her thirties when I was born, and my father was close to forty. Growing up in those days with parents who were much older than the parents of all my friends, was a challenge on its own. But it was nothing compared to what faces me now. My mom is afflicted with both diagnosed dementia and age-related memory loss. For the most part she is doing great -- especially for her age. Her doctor says that there is no clinical reason that she shouldn't live another ten years, which in most ways is very good news. She is strong and healthy. But, unfortunately, she is also angry. And as often happens with dementia victims, she is angry at her only caregiver. And that person is me.

This was a particularly rough week. I took her for an appointment with her primary care physician, who has been a rock through this process. Mom spent much of the appointment sniping at me and complaining about me to the doctor. This was not lost on him. "Wow," he said to her. "You're really beating her up." But that didn't stop her. When she finally said to the doctor "No one wants to be 'mothered' by someone who didn't have children," he looked at me and shook his head. "Welcome to my mundo," I said quietly. Mom is also profoundly hard of hearing.

I can't change my mom's situation. But maybe I can change how I experience these episodes. Maybe I can even learn to accept my grief and anxiety which I fear will intensify over the course of her decline. But I can't do it on my own. I need help. So last night, I attended my first support group for caregivers. It was offered by a non-profit organization established to help families who are dealing with memory impairment in a family member.

I've never attended any kind of a support group, so I was nervous about it. I briefly explained why I was there. My voice trembled. Then later, when the person seated next to me told a particularly sad and poignant story about an experience with a parent, I lost it. What was said (without revealing so much as genders here) was the expression of a fear that this is what will be remembered about this parent, after they are gone. As if my thoughts were read and spoken aloud. But then I realized that we all think this way. We all feel fear, and, at times, anger, frustration and a potent dose of railing-at-the-Gods. Why us?

The obvious answer is that we all have to deal with something in our lives. But my mother was lucky. My grandparents and father (her parents and husband) lived to ripe old ages and died swiftly and quietly. Ditto her two brothers. There was little care giving involved. As her children, we didn't abuse drugs nor get pregnant out of wedlock (a big taboo for her generation). We graduated from college, stayed married, never needed financial assistance, and heeded her admonition that we live close to her. She and my dad were healthy throughout their lives, and had a wonderful retirement. They traveled far and wide before retirement. After they retired, Billy and I always said that they traveled like the police were after them. Her life was good. Very good. Always. And now, she has the financial resources to live in a retirement community that operates like a luxury cruise ship -- with elegant ambiance, good food, amenities, and activities both in-house and beyond.

But she's angry. I feel her anger acutely, and when she lashes out at me, I am profoundly hurt. So I took this hurt with me to the meeting last night. And, of course what I discovered is that there are not only people in the same boat as me, but that all of those people were in such worse situations, that I later felt sheepish and embarrassed for weeping. On the other hand, I am also cognizant that, while things are not that bad yet, what lies ahead is not known.

Over the last eighteen months, I have watched so many of my friends cope with the loss of a parent. In most cases it was the last surviving parent. But, in my friend Lisa's case, it was both parents within the same calendar year. My heart has gone out to my friends in their bereavement. But now, in a terrible way, I envy them. Not for the loss of their beloved parents, but rather for their release from the unknown -- the how will this play out? They know the worst and it's behind them. Not so for me and the other members of the group who sat in the circle last night. For us, every day starts it all over again. And none of us know what is ahead of us now that the role we play with our parents has finally reversed.

And now, if you're still reading (hanging on by your fingernails), I want to apologize for being so morose. I promise that the next post will have a recipe and maybe even a joke. Autumn is on its way -- my favorite season. I see pumpkins in all our futures. And I guess it's a lesson to all of us to look forward to what we can count on in the days before us. Even while we anticipate the unaccountable that also surely lies ahead. Thanks for reading my blog (I'm so sorry!).

Too Darned Hot

Los Angeles, California

Someone has pointed out that I haven't left a recipe here for well over a fortnight, or more. You see, I do have followers. They just don't actually . . . follow. Nor do they leave comments. They just tell me when they see me! Which is fine. Anyway, let's get back to the recipe conundrum. The truth is, that I haven't been cooking in a way which is really worth sharing. I mean, for Fourth of July, we had cold cracked crab. And I didn't cook it, nor crack it. What did we have with that? What you should have with it: Chardonnay and good sourdough bread with butter. And I'm not going to share the trauma of having fed this to a dinner guest who discovered that, lo and behold, he isn't only allergic to lobster, but crab as well. Quel awful.

Anyway, as I racked my brain for some summer standard that we cook often and is worthy of sharing, what flew through my brain, in no particular order was: beer-can chicken; grilled corn (asparagus, yellow squash, on and on ad infinitum). Again, nothing stellar enough to share. Then I realized why I'm approaching this so limply. It's too darned hot.

We were tooling along, here in the Los Angeles basin, with a delayed June Gloom forecast. For those of you not in the know, June Gloom is paradoxically this very cool meteorological phenomenon which prepares you for the furnace blast of later summer. It is comprised of mild, overcast mornings (technically caused by what is called an on-shore flow), giving way (as the weathermen say) to mildly sunny afternoons. Aside from the mildewed roses, everyone is happy. Sometimes, we even get this in May. Then it is called May Gray. Well, this year we got it through the first twelve days of July. This is called: July Schmoo-lie. OK, it probably doesn't have a name when it occurs in July, as this rarely happens. But, blessedly, it happened this year. So, we could do gardening in the morning, work in the afternoon, and sleep soundly at night. And, we were probably cooking up a storm. I can't remember, because as of July 13th, it came to a screeching halt and the temperatures climbed from about 75 to 105 in ONE DAY. My body just couldn't handle it. I basically wanted to lie around on the floor all day, though that isn't what I actually did. I went dancing that first day. And it was HOT at that club, The Borderline, but as I've written before, we salseros dance in the face of it all.


But, back to cooking. Not doing much of it. However, I did finally come up with the idea to share a recipe which is a variable standard at Casa Healy. It is perfect for hot days, and can be prepared last minute, when necessary. The only heat involved is cooking the pasta, and if you want ciabatta bread with this (which I recommend) you can heat that briefly in the oven, or on the grill. I am even, generous spirit that I am, going to offer an alternative recipe which involves roasting the tomatoes. You have to turn on the oven for this, but I will offer it anyway, just in case June Gloom creeps into your life on one lucky summer's day.

Summer Pasta


6 medium or plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded,
      cut into 1/2 inch cubes *1
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 garlic cloves, minced
2/3 to 3/4 cup olive oil*2
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes (or 1/2 teaspoon whole
      pink peppercorns)
3/4 cup cleaned, fresh basil leaves, cut into strips
1 pound smoked mozzarella, cut into 1/2 inch strips*3
1 pound penne rigate
A handful of fresh parsley, chopped
Freshly grated parmigiana
A grind (or two or four) of pepper


Place tomatoes in a large, heat-proof ceramic pasta bowl which will fit over the pot in which you will cook your pasta. Sprinkle the tomatoes with the teaspoon of salt and let sit for ten minutes, stirring lazily, if and when you think of it. Add garlic, olive oil, and the red pepper (if you're using it). Walk away.


You can let this sit up to, oh, let's say two hours or so in advance. I find that the longer it sits, the better, but the freshness of the tomatoes will ultimately tell the tale. That is why this is so good in the summer.


When you're ready to eat, fill your pasta pot with water and place the ceramic bowl with the tomatoes on top of it, as if for a lid. Bring water to boil. Remove pasta bowl, add salt and pasta to water. Cook.


When the pasta is ready, dump the basil on top of the tomatoes, then the pasta on top of the basil. Toss. Add anywhere from 2 tablespoons to 1/4 cup of the magic pasta water (it contains the starch from your pasta which will help meld the ingredients). Again with the tossing. Add the mozzarella immediately, toss one last time. Serve with the freshly grated parmigiana (and I would say a good loaf of ciabatta bread and a bottle of Bernardus sauvignon blanc, but now I'm just being bossy).


This will make about four servings. Leftovers are appealing at room temp, and can be served as a side dish to chicken or sausage or what have you.


Here's where it gets interesting:



*1 You have a lot of latitude with the tomatoes here. Heirlooms are wonderful, both in flavor and their rainbow appearance. You can also mix red and yellow cherry or small pear tomatoes. If you can find cherry tomatoes still on the stem, wash them intact and place them in a small ovenproof dish. Drizzle with a tablespoon of olive oil and two teaspoons of balsamic vinegar, and dust with salt and pepper. Roast in a 475 degree oven for ten minutes. Let cool until you can handle them without blistering your fingers. Remove from the stems and chop (this is messy). Use as all or a portion of the tomatoes. And, last but not least, you may add some (about two tablespoons) of sun-dried tomatoes which have been packed in oil. If you do this, chop them finely and add 1/4 cup of the tomato oil (using the smaller 2/3 cup of olive oil, in this case*2).


*3 You may substitute regular fresh mozzarella, or brie cheese -- even feta or pepper jack. If using feta, use fresh, chopped oregano in place of basil, and add pitted, halved kalamata olives. This is good topped with mizithra cheese or ricotta salata. If using pepper jack, skip the red pepper/pink peppercorns, replace basil with chopped cilantro and top with aged, dry jack cheese. A handful of chopped tomatillos added to the tomatoes is another option with the pepper jack.



Too many choices? Do what I do. Make the recipe faithfully the first time around. Get a feel for it. Decide whether you even like it enough to revisit it. Then, begin to experiment. We've gotten a lot wilder than I mentioned above. Leftover roasted asparagus, sliced into little-finger long lengths is a lovely added option. Don't even get me started on artichoke hearts and grilled eggplant. As you can now see, we're talking about drawing way outside the lines with this recipe -- and even being encouraged to do so.

So, if it's hot, you're hot, or even if it's not/your not, this is a perfectly feasible summer way to eat pasta. Since I grow basil, and Billy grows tomatoes, we have often commented that if we could grow mozzarella we could be set for a good portion of the summer. Except for the corn . . . but that's a whole other post. Hope you enjoy your summer and this pasta, and thanks for reading my blog.