Infamy

When I used to live in New York, I saw celebrities pretty regularly. I wished that they were ones like Harrison Ford or Mel Gibson, but it was more of the Rich Little variety. Nonetheless, there was always a little thrill, like seeing yourself or someone you know on television. Several weeks ago, I sighted Matt Dillon at a Starbucks on the Upper West Side, but he wasn’t very friendly. Imagine being hounded by fans all of the time. After we saw Liza Minelli in Grace’s Market, I called my then father-in-law to tell him. “Did you touch her?” he asked. “Of course,” I said, recalling with a mixture of shame and pride how I’d brushed by her in an aisle not once but twice. Everyone in the shop was atwitter. The balding man behind the counter confided to me as he filled a plastic container with marinated mozzarella balls that he had loved her mother more. “I’m sure that’s true,” I responded.

Exposure to celebrity makes people stupid. I watched “Revenge of the Whale”, a Dateline NBC show with my posse while we called out, “there’s my elbow”, “hey, that’s the top of my head”, “oops, those were YOUR shoes”. I watched daytime television voraciously for a month watching for the ad that pitched “Jon and Sarah’s fun tapes” that featured my 9 month old son. I taped the CPTV companion piece to CPB’s Twain Days about Nook Farm that allowed me to say (ad nauseum to my friends) I’m not really a Hooker, but I play one on TV (Isabella Beecher, that is).

I thought I was getting better: a few weeks ago when Anne Meara engaged RJ in conversation outside a Nantucket toy shop, I waited till AFTER we walked away to whisper to my kids that she was a really famous actress and comedienne. And I didn’t try to touch her at all. Bu then I annoyed the movie goers on either side of us last night by declaring repeatedly about the woman trying to buy Charlie’s golden ticket from him, “That’s Cousin Deborah, that’s Cousin Deborah.” Sorry guys. But it WAS Cousin Deborah.

Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay

Cape Cod Magazine, New England Magazine, Boston Magazine, they all list Paine’s Creek Beach in Brewster as THE place to watch the sun set. And apparently people really take them at their word. The young rabbits and I inadvertently chose to walk the dogs just as the big red orb in the sky approached the horizon and discovered to our delight that there were hundreds of people on the beach, along the marshy flats, and in the parking lot not just watching the sun set, but videotaping it. What is THAT? Guys, the sun sets EVERY day. Everywhere too. At least on this planet.

Feed the World (Well)

I believe that everyone is given a view of the world that is different, but essentially lacking in colour, smell, taste, until we use our own senses to interpret it. For me, it isn’t just about using the really big box of crayons to colour my world (the one with the sharper in the back). I go all the way to the wooden crate you get directly from the factory – 120 colours. Some people are content to use the box of eight crayons they start out with, others might graduate to the 16-pack, but not me, and as a mother, I won’t let my children be satisfied with the little 4-pack of waxy sticks they hand out at restaurants. It is my job to supply them with as many tools as possible so they may experience the full magnitude of sight, smell, taste, sounds, and even intuitions that are out in the world.

Some people are willing to avoid exposure, even to shield their children from it. And the classic example of this is children’s menus. Parents are relieved that there is one: chicken tenders, cheese burger, pasta with marinara or butter, cheese pizza for one, mozzarella sticks, hot dog, nachos, grilled cheese that might be disguised as a quesadilla in a Mexican restaurant. That’s it; no thought, no challenge required. And the taste buds of the next generation are dumbed down as parents willingly procure another fryolated meal for their progeny who will eat without complaint or thought of flavour, as long as there are French fries and a maze.

There are those in the world who eat for sustenance, and others who combine that with eating for pleasure, and it’s no secret which camp I fall into. However, many adults who are delighted to indulge in a truly decadent meal will give no more thought to their children than whether they wanted ranch sauce to dip the chicken fingers in. Because of this, there is no impetus for restaurants to provide more culinarily challenging meals for youth. The restaurant charges what we perceive to be a reasonable price for a kids meal, and are in fact making as much as 1200% profit on the frozen treats they fry up for our kids.

Even I, with my passion for colour, used to get sucked in by children’s menus . . . the connect-the-dots, the tic-tac-toe, and the pasta, no sauce please for the bunnies. Then, a couple of years ago, we stopped for a late lunch at a little French bistro on Queen Street in Toronto. The bread came in baskets that could be raised and lowered over the table with blocks and lines that would be made off on little cleats. This was way better than a word search. The kids’ menu consisted of smaller portions of things on the adult menu: petit steak et frites, a tiny rack of lamb, a miniature portion of chicken français with lemon beurre blanc, at prices not much higher than the mac ‘n’ cheese at Friendly’s (though without the Happy Endings sundae). It was a wonderful meal; a gourmet oasis in a desert of mozzarella sticks and chicken tenders.

Not surprisingly, the young rabbits have all but stopped ordering off children’s menus. Chronologically, they still qualify, but they have higher gastronomic standards and will order off the adult menu. Personal food isn’t really an option, and they must order judiciously and creatively. If it tastes bad, no one has to eat it, but also, no one ever leaves underfed or malnourished. It requires thoughtfulness on the part of the parent, to be sure, and it certainly costs a bit more. But you’ve already made the decision to eat out. Don’t your kids, your pride and joy, deserve to eat just as well as you? If you can’t afford for everybody to have a good meal, stay home. Otherwise, let’s call restaurants on the icky food they put on those little paper menus with cartoons, and raise the bar.

On Bullies and Tyrants

Genetically, we are predisposed to select for bullies. Altruism has no place in Darwinian evolution; the traits that we find admirable, are in fact not useful when it comes to passing on your genetic complement to the next generation. This isn't news, it's even the theme of Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck. So it is not surprising that the people who are in positions of authority embody qualities that some of us find abhorrent. High school principals, the President of the United States, ex-husbands, department directors all share the traits of self-interest, greed, and the impossible ability to obfuscate any conversation where they are demonstrated quite dramatically to be wrong, by changing the subject abruptly to put the challenger on the defensive.

And yet, as humans, altering our genetic pool, selecting for weaker physiological traits through medical research and development, why are we satisfied to continue to let the bullies rule? We have chosen to keep juvenile diabetes in the gene pool, or sickle cell anemia, even certain hereditary cancers, so why can we not select for selflessness, philanthropy, or basic humanity, which are clearly weak traits.

Indeed, it is difficult to deal with sociopaths, people who proudly exhibit the bumper sticker: If You’re Feeling Righteous, You’re Probably Wrong, without understanding the irony of their position. So, let us stop them. Not just by voting them out of office, but by calling them on their behaviour EVERY time. If they are all stripped of their power, and stand naked, blinking under the bright lights of their failure, maybe we can set the bigger things right.

Food Porn

I know, it’s evocative of something from the movie 9 ½ Weeks, but that’s not what I mean at all. When you’re involved with someone with whom you’re sexually sated you can start to focus on your other sensuality. I like to live in a visually, acoustically, and olfactory – rich environment at any time, but last night I had a peak sensual experience that I must share.

There is something about going out to dine with a beautiful woman that puts an extra little zing into a meal, even though you have absolutely no designs on her. It’s like having a little fresh ground pepper on your salad, or something else that piques the senses. By going with a girl friend to enjoy a meal that didn’t just border on decadence, but had a whole hand and foot over the line, meant that there was no distraction by sexual tension, or other agenda, and so we were free to nearly swoon over the quality of the food.

Al Forno in Providence, RI has been written up in every foodie magazine over the years, and for good reason. While they indeed think presentation matters, they don’t sublimate your hunger through artistic arrangements and do provide appropriate, even large portions. They DON’T offer you fresh ground pepper on your salad, or extra parmesan on your pasta, because they season and cheese it correctly at the outset.

In college, I would meet my cousin and mother at this same restaurant (although it was in a different location then) as much as three times a year. In those days, I read a menu from right to left, not because it was in Hebrew, but because price mattered. I still do that, but with the understanding that I’m sure as heck going to order one of the hand-crafted desserts (the kind you have to order with your meal so that they’ll be done in time). In those days, I didn’t understand the importance of a meal as a sensual experience.

As an adult, I began to experience the same kind of gratification from good meals that I got when I realized those Cosmo magazines WEREN’T lying about great sex, just how and when you got it. I can still remember with the same fondness one thinks of an old flame, the cornmeal encrusted oysters with chipotle dipping sauce I had in Baltimore, the pan-seared skate with garlic-cheese mashed potatoes I had after my aunt died, some flash-fried calamari in New York. But last night’s meal ranks in my top ten.

The meal began on the right foot when we were seated outside in the courtyard, rather than shivering in an over-air-conditioned dining room that might have had plenty of ambience, but would have detracted from the overall meal in that attention would have been diverted to addressing discomfort. We started with a bottle of wine from the Apuglia region of Italy (in the heel of the boot, our server, a gorgeous young woman with slightly too many teeth for her mouth and fabulous olive skin, told us after we asked and she checked) that was nicely spicy, not too tannic, an excellent compliment to the meal. Our salad came out as smoked salmon with a chimney of zucchini strips, cut with mandoline, and filled with a dice of cucumbers in a sauce of crème fraiche and dill, topped with frisee. Our main courses were a mint tagliatelle (more fettucini-sized) topped with lamb that must have cooked for 10 hours, mint, and a light pomodoro sauce that became infused with the mint; a baked pasta with pancetta, ricotta and parmesan cheese, spinach, and fresh tomatoes. Mmmmm. Trina (from hereonin referred to as "Queen of the Harpies" (be careful what you wish for, QOTH)) won with the lamb, but the crispy edges of the pasta shells at the top of the dish that were filled with a tiny bit of sauce and cheese were quite nice too. I will say one of the other great pleasures of a meal like this (and one of the very best aspects of my late husband that I will reflect on this day, our anniversary) is that everything is ordered cooperatively and for sharing. There is no one twirling some pasta around their fork and saying, here try this. There are two plates pushed as close together as possible and equal eating of both plates with eye rolling and little moans of pleasure that probably made the tables around us nervous.

As we concluded the meal with a lavender-scented panna cotta with honey and bee pollen (possibly one of the best flavour combinations I’ve ever experienced), I watched our server watch us with a bemused look on her face. Did we want coffee or cappuccino? Hell no, who would want to remove this fabulous taste from their mouth.

The drive home was not unlike a drive after you depart from your lover with whom you’ve been inseparable for a weekend. Small smile on your face as you replay the movie in your mind of when he said that, or when he looked at you that way. I reminisced about the texture of the cucumber nuggets, and thought wistfully of the two or three chunks that were on the plate when our server took it away. I daydreamed about how the lamb and mint combined with the tomato sauce to make an entirely new flavour. I felt as though I had experienced what heaven must taste like, through the panna cotta.

The Good, the Bad, and the Fireworks

On Saturday night, we waited on a dock at Rock Harbour in Orleans to watch fireworks, and I saw examples of both the kind of behaviour I hate, and the kind I admire. The guy who worked at the marina, or maybe he was the harbourmaster, was busy puttering around the docks while more and more individuals filled up the space until we were sitting pretty much shoulder to shoulder along the wall above the dock. When he had finished his work, he wished to leave – going home was clearly a more appealing prospect than hanging around his place of employment with 2,000 strangers to watch fireworks he could probably see from his backyard. He had left his bicycle propped against the wall that we were now sitting on, and I watched him try to retrieve it in the midst of the throng of sunburned, bugspray coated summer folks sitting in folding chairs all along the dock. I watched the people in his way studiously ignore him. I watched them edge a little closer to the wall, so that they were even MORE in the way of this working-class man, who just wanted to ride his bike home and have a beer and a hot dog. The man sitting closest to him, the one who should have said, “excuse me,” and gotten up off his butt and folded up his chair for the moment it would have taken to let the bicycle out. Instead, he pretended nothing was happening. He made a point of not moving out of the way, and then glared as the bicycle guy tried to squeeze past him. HE was a jerk.

A row in front of the grey-haired polo-shirted asshole, and two seats down, sat a middle aged women prepared to enjoy the fireworks with her friends, husband, and children. They had a cooler and snacks, and the little girl kept hopping up on the wall next to us and then jumping back down. A little further along the wall, someone had left their cell phone. The woman got up, and maneuvered her way towards the wall (easier without the bicycle there) and picked up the phone. I watched her scroll through the numbers until she found one she wanted and dialed it. “Hello,” she said, “you don’t know me, but I think I’m calling on your daughter’s cell phone – she left it here on the dock.” She said she figured it was a daughter because the phone had butterflies for the wallpaper, and she called the name that said “mom”. A conversation ensued with the mother where they determined what the daughter was wearing, and where she had last been. It turned out that the daughter was sitting a couple of rows ahead on the dock, so the woman got up and gave her the phone. The girl was extremely grateful, and clearly felt like she had been a ditz, but the woman just shrugged like it was nothing. SHE was cool.

The fireworks were pretty awesome too (and put on by the town, not the religious cult that lives down there, as my mother feared). And the Red Sox won too!

Not A Refreshing Change

The difficulty with carrying on an e-mail relationship that varies from lengthy treatises to instant message-like backatchas, arises when the other person appears delinquent in responding. The truth is that maybe they had to go to a meeting, or went to the bathroom, perhaps were even engaged in telling a colleague how fabulous you are. But all you can think about is how you bared your soul, or asked a direct question, or possibly committed a faux pas, all the while hitting the “refresh” button on your browser window.