June Swoon

 

Most people love autumn in New York, but to me June is the most beautiful and pleasurable month. Winter boots get replaced with summer sandals, wool skirts go back in the closet and are traded for billowy crisp cotton pique and everywhere you turn women are no longer in black but instead are garbed in bright blossoms that you find in a garden.

Vacations are on everyone's mind. And fifteen years ago, I met a wonderful lady with a dog and a cat who invited me to stay at her home to take care of her animals while she went to Nantucket. The commute from New Jersey to Manhattan was long but feasible through public transportation. The idea of country living appealed to me since my mode of transportation would be a train. Her home was located in Glen Ridge, a small and charming affluent borough in Essex County, New Jersey, in a large 18th century farm house.

I had my choice of four bedrooms to sleep in, (five if you include the in-law apartment over the garage across the road),but choose the quaint and rustic guest room in the attic, since it was not anyone's personal domain, at least that's what I thought.

Molly, the dalmatian, was sweet, but not the sharpest of dogs. The cat on the other hand, let me know what she thought of me and of my intrusion by leaving her stool in the middle of the bed where I slept.

After that, I closed the attic door and banned the cat from “my room” yet she managed to make her desires known. Far from subtle, she would climb around on human eating surfaces, either the kitchen table or the kitchen counter-top. Even when I invited my friend Mary Ann over to join me for a Shakespearean festival, in the middle of our meal, the cat jumped right onto the dining room table, swishing its tail gaily and ever so nonchalantly depositing its hair on our plates as she sashayed by.

That cat and I never became friends but managed to tolerate one another for the next two weeks. 

Because the lady of the house was generous and trusting she handed me the keys to her van. So on the weekends off I went on side trips touring the tri-state area with Molly. The hissing cat, left behind.

My first stop was Princeton to tour the campus, after taking photos and a visit to the Library for lunch, I went to a Italian restaurant, nestled on a quaint block, where salamis dangled in the window, and sat at a table for two, with Molly nestled at my feet and ordered the lemon penne.

Going out to lunch or dinner has never been my idea of entertainment, however going to an event; and having an experience, such as seeing a play, opera, dance, art exhibition, hearing music or learning something new, now that holds my attention, followed by a meal where there is stimulating discussion, is a break from the ordinary and in my book, a formula for success.

One thing I do after I enjoy a restaurant meal is to emulate the recipe at home, like a test kitchen, to see how close I can get to replicating the dish. I surprise myself with my knock-offs, both good and bad.

This past weekend temperatures soared again so I brightened my dinner with my lemony Princeton recipe and offer it to you as a light summer starter.

1 cup Penne Pasta
2 tablespoons Olive Oil
3 cloves Minced Garlic
½ cup Green Onions (white & Green Parts)
3 Tablespoons Freshly Squeezed Lemon Juice
½ cup Freshly Grated Parmesan Cheese
Freshly Ground Black Pepper
Salt To Taste
Extra Fresh Parmesan For Serving

Preparation Instructions

1. Cook the pasta according to the package directions.

2. Drain the pasta, set aside, then use the pot to make the sauce.

3. Heat the olive oil and add garlic to cook for 15 to 20 seconds. Add green onions and sauté until just tender.

4. Put in the lemon juice and then take the pan off the heat.

5. Add in half the Parmesan cheese and half the pepper, followed by half the pasta.

6. Stir well.

7. Add in the rest of the pasta, cheese, and pepper as well as salt if desired.

8. Mix well again and serve immediately, adjust seasonings to taste. Serve on a bed of greens or romaine for color.

The ingredients in this recipe can be adjusted to whatever you have on hand, such as the addition of tomatoes, artichokes or mushrooms. Make sure you load up on the garlic otherwise your meal will sit there with no bark and no bite. And that would be a doggone shame.

A toe-tapping moment

As a single woman I had an extensive list of places where to go for entertainment on either a shoe-string or zero budget, one favorite place I could count on to lift my spirits and see crowds yet do whenever the urge hit was a fun trip to the record store to visit with my friends.

In the film Almost Famous there is even a quote about how loneliness can be captured through music. Although the film is about rock music, which is not my taste I went to see it because it combined writing and music. As a coming of age story it's about a kid who is hired by Rolling Stone magazine to write about a rock band.

Being a supporter of indie labels and music stores, I enjoyed browsing the stacks of new and second hand music side by side. And there was something magical about being in a record shop late at night, as if all the best music only comes out after dark. 

One of my favorite past-times was store hopping on World Record Store Day, in early April, when patrons, punters and groupies are encouraged to support their local music dealers. It was a good opportunity to discuss groups – and share tip-offs with listeners about music that hadn't been discovered yet, most of which I came to me by way of KPFK, or the lounges at the clubs; the Dresden room, Largo and Spaceland.

A great hang-out was Tower Records, on the Sunset Strip, although parking could be a problem, their music space was divided into large sections for rock, international, jazz, classical, urban and world music, and each section has its own information desk where the staff tended to be quite knowledgeable. And on more than one occasion I'd run into someone I knew or hadn't seen for awhile, and for Los Angeles that's a rare occurance, but the power in music unites.

One thing that was and still is close to me is french music, I loved the high-end street record shops in Paris where live sessions are part of the summertime concert series and being outside of France, I still enjoy listening to french music. A trip to the international section of a record store isn't complete without it, it's something I can't explain, it's main virtue is its eclectic quality: with really cool pop numbers, and the intrigue in the language, all that pursing of the lips, and the intonation of the nasalized vowels.

Whenever I'm in a city, like San Francisco or Portland that caters to the unique, putting on a headset is a must do event that feels like a festivity, along with so many other wonderful things, I hope this experience doesn't become strictly automated, reducing the need for humans to interact share and fade into oblivion. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-AWfhTzxEU 

 

Channeling Laura Petrie

Ironic that my professional experience includes a work period in television production since tube viewing for the most part has never been a priority in my life, with the exception of my childhood, where like many kids I would sit cross-legged on the rug in front of the screen and watch for hours. I preferred watching old classics made before my time; from the Golden Age of Hollywood, which included a combination of drama, comedy and mystery such as Shirley Temple, Charlie Chan, Sherlock Holmes, Blondie, the Kettles, Henry Aldrich, The Little Rascals, the Three Stooges and I Love Lucy.

I went years without watching television when I lived abroad and later when I did not own a television set never did I feel I was missing out, then one day I had a revelation; writing is solitary and since I could go all day without moving a muscle in my mouth, it also meant I didn't laugh, a little television was a dose of laughter, so I used it to my advantage. That's about the time reality shows came on the scene, I thought they were a fad; how could anybody watch something repetitive, sensationalized, demeaning, unscripted and without professional actors?

As a selective viewer, I'm a fan of PBS, such as This Old House, History Detectives and think American Experience is pretty cool, and has exceptional merit as a series.  I’m currently an avid viewer of The Good Wife, and The Mentalist.

I've been disappointed when shows I've made an effort to watch weekly have been canceled such as Pushing Daisies, that blended fantasy, surrealism with aesthetic. It's wonderful narration gave the show an additional layer; intelligence, in particular for a network show. I also loved the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency shot in Botswana, taken from a novel, and adapted for television, its finest attributes were its brilliant acting and music. A current favorite also on HBO, is AMC's Mad Men, it returns this Sunday with season four: it shines blending historical authenticity and visual style, depicting the changing and provocative American social mores of 1960's, very unique, indeed.

I can't wait to see how the big wigs from Sterling Cooper after learning their agency was being sold to a rival agency pooled their talents together and how they will fare at their own agency. Will they continue to drink gin and tonics on the job? Have cigarettes for breakfast? Will their still be the cool cats and the squares? Will Betty marry Henry?

For all of these answers and more, I'm staying tuned, garbed in slim pants, ballet flats, a fitted shirt, accessorized with a gold charm bracelet and of course I'll be color-coordinated.

Traces of Celestial Influence

Every living being has a built-in clock and yet no two people even if born at the same moment, in the same place, will react the same way to their life experiences. Their genetic and social conditions will be different, and this will influence their responses. Still, research has shown that some people or those with almost identical birth times and locations do have similar experiences during their lives, it's called astrology.

I discovered astrology the month after my thirteenth birthday; I was about to approach an empty bus stop bench and spotted a colorful paperback. Written by renowned astrologer Sydney Omarr, it's cover had a drawing of a female figure holding scales with one hand and the other extended up in the clouds. The title read, Astrological Revelations About You, Libra, Sept. 23- October 22. I couldn't believe it! I looked around and since no one was in sight I began my read. Glancing the table of contents was a chapter “For the Libra teenager”. It was intended for me and I was enthralled with the book.  From that day forward, I embarked on a diligent three year quest teaching myself the mechanics of the science. I combined it with art; drawing charts from scratch that included all the planetary alignments and configurations. Having an aversion to math, I had no idea I was so adept at geometry! It was unfortunate that I was not placed in an alternative free-thinking school where non-traditional modes of education were the norm, I would have excelled at math by using my creativity. But that's another story.

I never questioned astrology's validity, in my mind to do so was simplistic, I simply acknowledged the idea that there exits a relationship between the positions of the celestial bodies and human experience, and that we can systematically determine this relationship. The Ancients used it as a tool to plant, to harvest, to predict the ocean's tides, and used it as an indicator for auspicious dates.

A common misconception is to confuse astronomy with astrology. Astronomy is the scientific study of the universe. Astrology is the divination of the stars. An astrologer casts horoscopes to predict earthly events, like the fates of nations and of individuals.

There is no sorcery involved. In our modern world, astrology has many faces. Newspaper astrological forecasts is what I was once heard on the radio referred to as “kindergarten astrology.” Serious astrology tabulates with exact detail, as if frozen in space, a moment in time with respect to the earth and offers an accurate reading of potential.

I have been asked to read for many people throughout the years and have done so for some without their knowledge. Sounds cocky but it explains things that we cannot logically ascertain. Take for example what's happening with our president. At the moment, Uranus is in Aries making an exact opposition to Saturn in Libra. Uranus is a planet of revolution and disruptive and eccentric ideas. Aries is the sign of independence, originality, impulse, the unconventional, and rebellion. Combine these two and you get pioneering ideas and a disruptive impulse to act one's own way; a thoughtless disregard for past values. Just look at what's happening with the Banks, lenders, the mortgage industry and the mass public who are walking away from their homes. Another example would be the Governor of Arizona and the Governor of California, both of them think they can call their own shots sidestepping the chain of command. Just as the U.S. Department of Justice filed suit to halt the Arizona immigration law, as a conflict with the federal law, I expect that the state workers of California aren't going to allow their wages to be cut to the bone. At the very least the state Controller is putting up a fight to prevent the violation of federal labor laws. I think this will break in about another month. When it goes to the supreme court there will be a series of challenges for those who stubbornly refuse to admit that they were wrong, and to step aside as a new generation becomes the new establishment.

Now for Saturn in Libra. Saturn is the planet that teaches us through harsh confrontation with reality and through limiting our circumstances– what we must change in ourselves before we realize our ambitions. As a taskmaster Saturn often delays plans. Libra is a sign whose emphasis is close partnerships and of teamwork, of being responsible to organize others, the law, and enemies. Together these indicate high esteem or standing in the community, the courts, acting honorably or total disgrace, and picking holes in partners when relationships turn faulty.

These two celestial bodies have been “at it” since the last presidential election. Together they brought in a new government headed by a new type of leader. You could say that Barack Obama's election personified this opposition. The last time Uranus and Saturn opposed, Dr. Martin Luther King was fighting for human rights and young men were burning their draft cards.

Until a few weeks ago, both President Obama and the Governor of Florida believed extending oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico wasn't such a bad idea. After all, drilling has been going on for decades in the gulf and there had rarely been a problem.

There are some who expect Obama to turn into a lunatic over the spill, as if ranting and raving will stop the leak, frothing and foaming will clean the wetlands and sputtering with anger will bring back the fishing industry. But the president has not been emotional enough to deal with the crisis, so the criticism goes on. Remember what I said about picking holes?

Astrology explains Obama's meteoric rise, how else could an African-American senator with a name like his become president during a war with Islamic terrorists?

Politics is a tough and sometimes dirty business and dealing with disturbances is what this presidency is all about, almost like a crisis manager. So the battle continues; between the traditional and conservative social outlooks and the evolution of new social paradigms.

Chime In

I often think I was born at the wrong time; the world I knew when I was growing -up is vastly different than today. I don't like to dwell on the idea that civilization is in decline. Instead, I try to follow German philosopher Schiller's advice that you must embrace your own times, yet not let them consume you. Reading about previous eras is important for thinking men and women; wallowing in nostalgia for the past is destructive to a life lived. But the challenging contrasts between former and current communication modes and what I find to be comfortable versus impersonal cross my mind as I witness the ever-changing shift.

Every-time I get an email versus what I believe should be a telephone call; such as announcing a death, I wonder where is the sensitivity? Email can be salty and misconstrued. Am I the only relic who appreciates listening to the sounds, pauses, laughter or sorrowful tone of the human voice? As cold as email can be, I prefer it over a text, where you can have a genuine salutation, a personal message and a friendly close.

By now you've probably guessed that I'm not fond of texting. Having won a spelling bee in Mr. Marshall's class against my fellow classmates and the other competing sixth grade class I felt like a champ, his encouragement and my victory solidified the idea that I wanted to write. Writing choppy little abbreviated sentences makes me inclined to believe that if spelling folds it's a matter of time before literacy vanishes.

During my teenage years, I distinctly recall my Mother begging, pleading and ultimately commanding me to get off the phone. Of course back then we only had land lines, there were no cell phones and no Internet. The telephone and hand written letters and maybe smoke signals were about the only way to communicate. Maybe I got tapped out on talking so much because now when I see others on their cell in social circles, in a public restroom or even at the dinner table; I keep wondering what could be so important?

When I'm asked about social media, I cringe, because I dislike superficial empty blurbs. To me, a blog is a creative thoughtful medium where one can convey more meaningful meditations. I've taught myself how to do it to maximize results so that I am currently teaching my second class of bloggers.

I am a reflection of a dinosaur, getting my start in newspapers, I have an affinity with them. They gave me a global perspective on issues and many of today's online sites don't have the same level of serious or professional content.

Books make me feel the greatest sense of loss, I loved carting around an injection of intellectual stimulation in the printed form. I know that a new e-reader will be many times more efficient, giving me instant access to books that pique my fancy, letting me sample chapters before I decide to buy, giving me dictionary and encyclopedia access to words or passages I come across, even read back to me when I am too tired to exert my eyes. But will it give me companionship with the masters, where by sitting quietly and touching those old tomes, I would connect with the spirits of the great writers who contributed so much to the literary canon, and who inspired me to follow my life path?

I wonder am I in the dark ages? I've been able to handle the new methods of communication in small doses. Who knows how communication tools and practices will evolve in the coming years. But evolve they will, and one thing is certain, adapt or you won’t survive.

Green– the Color of Peace and Harmony

As a newcomer to the country of Germany, during my second month, my mother believing I would be cold sent me a blanket to stay bundled. Since she had grown up in an underdeveloped nation she held the credence that the United States was a super-power and therefore no other nation could match or surpass the American level of comfort. Although it was a sweet gesture; she was not aware that Germany exports textiles and their well-made blankets, made locally, are expensive and made to last.

I was in for many twists and turns partaking in my new life. After making my bed with my blanket, I took the gift box and casually threw it into the dumpster, went back inside the apartment and within minutes there was a furious rapt on my door. A neighbor from the floor below spoke in a fast pace, never pausing to inhale, the nerve alongside his temple bulging, and although it was late morning, I began to notice the dank smell of alcohol on his breath. I had no idea what he was saying and shrugged my shoulders, saying, “ich kann nicht verstehen.” He looked at me sternly, and pointed toward the dumpster, “you mussen recycle!”

In Germany, Umweltsünden (Environmental Sins) are so rare that when a person commits one it often makes the local news. As a foreigner I made several small sins during my first year in the country– although none big enough to hit the press. The thought of my petty offense reminded me of being a youngster playing hiding-go-seek, I laid under my parents bed on the box spring was a warning tag that read if removed, the crime was punishable by law. Being a rebel, I ripped it off with an ear shattering tear waiting for the swarms of police to come knocking.

Germans have an almost religious zeal when it comes to recycling. Eventually, I learned how to sort rubbish. Boxes had to be broken down and I had multiple colored trash bins; one for cartons and paper, a second for plastics and metals, another for glass, such as olive oil or broken China and a fourth bin was for biodegradable items often used as a compost heap. Juice and water were bottled and purchased at a specialty beverage store, with a deposit fee or Pfand, that was added to their cost, when returned, it was refunded.

As I separated my items, I began to assimilate the importance of being aware of the atmosphere and its relationship to nature. I started to view throwing something away that otherwise might be recycled as ignorance. By integrating environmentally friendly values I bought recycled paper, took my own shopping bag to the grocery store; including my own egg carton to reuse, rode my bike, and ate local grown foods.

Twenty years have lapsed since that time and in the States some of these ideas are beginning to catch-on. Last week I was given a canvas shopping bag at Fresh and Easy; a start, but there is still a long way to go.

Some of the short-sighted environmental errors I see are a part of the American landscape, because we live in a time where thinking about the future and individuality are dying concepts.

Personally, I do not agree with Starbucks for being a major culprit of waste by using double cups and placing a lid on a drink. If I had my way, I'd ban SUV's for being gas guzzlers. And RV's would be stationary, converted into housing or shelters. Public lights should be on timers, not on 24/7. I could go on, citing infractions, but if more Americans thought of the environment as a moral and spiritual challenge, and did their part in becoming conscious to decrease waste disposed in landfills and incinerators we reduce greenhouse gas emissions, prevent waste, and by recycling we expand reuse and move the country in the direction of greater climate stability.  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WxgeYXCjM8 

Dog Days of Summer

Here at the edge of the Las Vegas Valley, you get to understand, and feel occasional snow flurries in the winter, the torrential autumn winds, and the rhythm of the fires in summer–it's like placing your head in a 450 degree oven for ten minutes and you'll get the idea.

As I drive from place to place, I recall part of the theme song, “…land spreading out so far and wide. Fresh air, town square, you are my wife, goodbye city life…” The city was like a ghost town, on Sunday afternoon I was driving home from the grocery store before the scorching peak of the heat hit, as I entered the gate, I spotted a Maltese-Poodle running down the street. He stopped, turned around, looked at me then turned his head from side to side as if he were lost. Instead of making a left, I drove slowly down the street looking at each house to see if a front door or side gate was open. Although I couldn’t imagine keeping a dog outdoors in the 110 degree heat, I called out to him and immediately he ran into my arms, looking bashful, wagging his tail. With rapid, frantic panting, I carried him to the car, poured cool bottled water into the palm of my hand and he slurped. Without tags or a collar we went from door to door trying to find his owner.

In the land of the lone cowboy, the only sign of life was the hum of A/C units. When a young woman drove by I called out with a burst of a bombshell, “Did you lose your dog?” “No, but I got a puppy a few weeks ago.” Michelle pulled over and after hearing the story asked if she could help. “A little food would be nice, since I was coming home from the grocery store.”

Rather than risk him getting heat stroke and my groceries melting I put him in the back seat. He kept looking in the same direction which indicated a familiar turf. But since no one had answered their doors, I took him home with me where he could cool off in comfort. “We have a visitor,” I announced. Steven who was in the kitchen stopped whatever he was fussing with and said, “Hey little fella.” I gave the dog a bowl of food and water and he drank looking at me as if the clouds parted and the gloom lifted. That’s when the choice of a name came to me. “I’m going to call him Lucky, because he’s lucky to be at our house.” Steven quickly surmised, “I think somebody’s going to miss him.” “He lives on the next street over, I’ll take him back later, for now he’s got a temporary sanctuary.” While I put away the groceries Lucky eyed me. Eating my lunch that Steven had prepared, the grizzled tiny blonde lay curled and pressed at my feet. I could understand why dogs have been heralded as man’s best friend. As I cleared the table, and washed the dishes with every step I took Lucky followed me.

I played fetch and chase with Lucky and noticed he dived in head first and everything he did was with flare, with spring in his step. I rubbed his tummy saying, “He’s a boy all right, though he’s calm and sweet, I think he’s older, since he hasn’t barked once.” “Wait until someone comes to the door” said Steven. I examined his teeth to gauge his age, measured and weighed him. Steven took his picture and he was startled by the flash, I held him to relieve any anxiety and wanted to brush, comb and bathe him since he was in dire need of grooming, but ruled it out since I didn’t know what products to use. His pink tongue was busy at my hand. After having a bad week and going through a rough patch, a gap was filled with an extraordinary little hairy faced creature that was only 16 inches long. I knew the way he looked at me that something was happening and thanked my lucky stars. As I sat at my computer writing his description he lay inches away from me, I could see how a small dog creates a good deal of emotional attachment.

Later, on my way to post fliers of Lucky’s description and photo, I saw a bright flier hanging from the main gate, that Michelle had written. In the distance where two women chatting, with two children, a boy between them and a little girl who was walking ahead preoccupied. When I asked the girl if she lost her dog, a big sigh of relief came over her. On the walk to my house to be reunited with their dog Einstein they told me he most likely had slipped out when their Dad left that day. I told them I had given their dog the name of Lucky. The little girl gave me a great big smile, “That’s the name I wanted to give him! We too found him in the street. But I lost the bet.”

Two hours later the kids and their Mom reappeared at my door with a yummy banana bundt cake glazed with walnuts. They reported that Einstein was happy to be back home with his furry companions–their other two dogs.

I called Michelle to tell her the news. She told me how kids that she had never met knocked on her door asking for eggs to bake a cake. I hung up thinking about the day; how each successive discovery was a joy and how very different individuals lives intersected through the mutual love of a dog.

Para mi Popi

It's May which means spring or Primavera is here, at least that's what I believed starting this journey. But the weather took a turn for the worse with two days of sun out of a possible ten, which meant wearing a trench coat, boots, and carrying an umbrella. Along with the rain was a dip in temperatures; in the fifties, and crowds; since Barcelona was playing in the final game of the season for the Spanish soccer cup. I have never seen so many people in my lifetime–it was like being at Disneyland in August. Lines everywhere, including a substantial wait; for the city bus, the metro, a cab, a museum exhibition, or a table at a restaurant. It was impossible to walk a straight line, you had to weave through the mob. It wore me out, and I got a miserable cold.


There hasn't been a single article of 'top city destinations' in the last decade that didn't include Barcelona somewhere near the top– and it was easy to see why. Thanks to the winding narrow streets of its Gothic Quarter, the mind-boggling Modernist architecture of Gaudi and its envious position wedged between forested mountains and a sweeping expanse of Mediterranean sea, Barcelona is lush, breezy and beautiful.


After the 1992 Olympic Games the city paved the way for tourists with a revamped marina which profited from the enviable status of coastal resort. So whether you enjoy buzzing around by the seafront sipping Sangria's, sunbathing on the beach, or prefer a drink at one of the Old Town's scenic plazas before taking-in world renowned architectural sites such as La Sagrada Familia, Casa Batllo or the Picasso Museum you'll find yourself falling in love with Barcelona. When evening falls, things get even more lively as the city's life-giving arteries, Las Ramblas, explodes with merry-makers keen to sample the city's legendary nightlife.


Last March, The LA Times ran a glowing article on Barcelona where it discussed its storied artistic history and mentioned some contemporary artists who are maintaining this rich tradition. One such man is Agustí Puig whose work was the inspiration for Penelope Cruz's character in Vicki Cristina Barcelona with his paintings featured in the movie.


But no building can define Barcelona like La Sagrada Familia. Originally built and designed over a hundred years ago by the city's most famous architect, Antoni Gaudí, it combines the style of neo-Gothic and modernism. Yet, the church has had its' share of controversy. Architect Josep Maria Subirach's minimalist interpretation of the façade brought complaints that it didn't adhere to what was left of Gaudí's original designs. In the book Homage to Catalonia, writer George Orwell said, "I think the Anarchists showed bad taste in not blowing it up when they had the chance.”


I think it's surprising that something incomplete should be the symbol of a city as massively complete as Barcelona is. But there lies the contrast. And contrast is a word which defines what you can find in the city extremely well.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csXxqH6_UM8

I'm so lucky

In the summer of 2002 I got an invite to attend a book signing, it was being held at Sur La Table, in Pasadena and it coincided with Julia Child's 90th birthday, in the city where she was born. Although it is one of my favorite stores, and I too was born in the city, undergoing difficulties I declined and never looked back. Not until last weekend did I begin to wonder what would it have been like to have met the fluted voice of la Grand Dame de la cuisine.


I finally got around to seeing the film, Julie and Julia. The combination alone knocked my socks off; Meryl Streep, Amy Adams, Paris in the late 1940's, early 1950's and French cuisine. It can't get much better than that, except that I would have loved to be alive and in Paris during that era.


I loved watching the story go back and forth between the two women from different generations.


Julie Powell, wanted to write, but was stuck in a dead end secretarial job, and felt she hadn't accomplished anything with her life. By cooking all of Julia's recipes she comes to life as cooking becomes her salvation.


Julia who had been a secretary marries late and living in France, with her diplomat husband, wonders how to spend her days. She tries hat making, bridge, and then cooking lessons at Cordon Bleu. There she discovers her true passion.


This sunny story is not only a satisfying throw back to another time, but as we go back and forth between these stories of two women learning to cook that find success, you can't help but think of how lives are intertwined.


The story of two middle age woman cooking, while sympathetic, loving husbands support them both, may not sound that exciting but it's premise goes far beyond the ordinary, it's actually a tender love story about how much a woman can accomplish and her dreams come true because she is loved.


Someday, I'm going to try Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon. But for now, I have a nice piece of Dover sole awaiting me, which I will cook in gobs of butter creating sole meunieré, while thinking of Julia.


Bon Appetit.

What Was I Thinking?

I love clothes, always have, always will. My fashion education began before I stepped foot in school, by counting the number of dresses hanging in my closet; I had 17 and went to my father stating how important it was that I have 20, in my mind of rudimentary mathematics I knew adding to my closet was a must.


Fashion pars with my love of furniture and housewares but if I had to choose one, fashion would be the winner hands down. One of my current woes is that for the first time in my life I have no place to wear nice clothes, the kind that make you stand different, walk different, feel different.


In the last decade, I went from ABS evening gowns and strappy Charles David high heels while rubbing elbows with Placido Domingo at the opera, to saucy Nanette Lepore suits to lunch at the Four Seasons. When that ended, I had another incarnation donning Marc Jacobs sheath dresses for restaurant publicity events and Betsey Johnson cocktail dresses for the Master Chorale concerts. Then came desert life beating to another drum; the rhythm of Anthropologie tee-shirts and Hudson jeans paired with boots for a romp at Trader Joe's, a dash at the post office. I have had so many lives rolled into one.


For years my wardrobe held several categories; play, week-end wear, professional, and dressy, but now casual is the largest contender. Currently the only person who comments on my style or taste other than my husband is my friendly checker, Carol at the supermarket. Today's cultural fashions intermingle play with comfort and I see public displays of track suits, gym-wear, torn up jeans and even pajamas–all unsightly and geared for those without an aesthetic eye. Their mother's probably never told them once they step out their door– look presentable.


My style fits perfectly into the Parisian way of life; where a woman can be a canvas and what she has on reflects her mood, her outlook. Fashion is an art, and reveals our priorities, our aspirations, our liberalism or our conservatism. It goes a long way satisfying emotional or complex emotional needs and clothes can be used to gauge our conscious or unconscious feelings about our environment sending off messages. Character Miranda Priestly played by Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada stings with a retort to her assistant, Andy played by Anne Hathaway after she snickers that fashion is inconsequential. Although Andy believes she is exempt from fashion, wearing a cerulean blue sweater she in fact is wearing a sweater that was selected for her by fashion-industry people that surround her. The effect of fashion filters down to everyone and the power of image plays into her as well as all of our lives.


Despite my love of fashion, I have never been a keeper. As a minimalist I turn my nose up to the trends and buy designer labels gladly recycling them to a consignment shop. Masses of clutter even fine clothes stuffed in a closet make me physically ill. And I will gladly take quality over quantity any day. I choose looks which are universally classic and anything that is effortlessly chic enjoying the neutral hue of gray mixed with beige, and for spring blend orange with pink and like the combination of black and white but only if white is on the bottom because the other way is a “waiter look”. I admire those whose style never dates or those who are/were unafraid of fashion and test its limits, such as Audrey Hepburn, Jane Birkin, Coco Chanel, Audrey Tautou, Victoria Beckham, and Jackie Kennedy...just to name a few.


In my love of fashion I have made two gigantic blunders that I laugh over now but at the time caused me to hyper-ventilate. Living in Germany I visited Portugal and walked into a lovely empty boutique. That should have been a sign! Eyeballing an all white handbag collection I was enthralled with a white leather shoulder strap drawstring bag piped in tan trim by Andre Courreges, inventor of the mini-skirt. I mentally converted Escudos into Marks but forgot to transfer it into Dollars to estimate the cost. I simply handed the sales clerk my Visa and weeks later my knees went weak when I realized my designer handbag was $280.00!


With a distinct admiration for French couture that autumn on a birthday trip to Paris, I was determined to buy myself a Cartier tank watch. Exasperated by the sum and the stubborn salesman that wouldn't negotiate instead I walked into Agnes B. and bought myself a few affordable separates. I popped into several other boutiques but nothing caught my eye until I was smitten with a black dress in a store window, inside I marveled at it, touching it, it's design concept created movement and dimension from a single piece of cloth, its linear and geometric shape came from the drape and flow of the fabric, it was truly an innovative piece of art and space-age inspired. All of these ideas played into my head as I tried it on, fitting like a glove out triggered, “I'll take it!” Getting caught in the fascination I neglected to do my math. My Issey Miyake dress cost a staggering $450.00.


Dressing up is great fun. We need to get back into it to create a difference between a sparkly occasion, and an ordinary day. By not applying this principle people are confused and no longer understand boundaries of what is appropriate to wear to a BBQ, a cocktail party, a funeral or a professional interview. Marked differences in attire be it the occasion, season or the hour as a guide will make you feel comfortable, denotes respect and makes a statement.


One last word for the fashion traveler- don't leave home without a calculator!

Stand and Deliver recognition

Today I read that Jaime Escalante, the High School mathematics teacher who inspired the film, Stand and Deliver, has died, he was 79. The article said, he virtually performed a miracle in a tough neighborhood. I disagree, he worked hard and persevered at his goal; inspiring students to succeed, against the odds. The only miracle was that he may have made it look easy.


The news took me back in time; to early summer 1988, at the Malibu home of Tom Musca, Producer of the film.


The occasion was the wrap party of Stand and Deliver. Because Jaime was Bolivian, the party included a number of distinguished guests from the Latinoamerican world. These were folks from various countries–drawing on Bolivia, Colombia, Spain, Mexico, and Venezuela–and who had, as a result, come to Hollywood for their own particular reasons.


It was a delightful evening. What was most striking to me was the ambiance, the energy that moved around the table, the balcony, in front of the fireplace. Put a collection of leading actors, writers, industry professionals, artists–practically anybody, really–together in the Malibu hills and what you frequently wind up with is a bunch of egos. The conversation will be subtly boastful, filled with witty put-downs and a kind of controlled or not-so-controlled narcissism that is so common in that we don't even notice it, sort of like the air we breathe. These Latinos, by contrast, were gracious, suave, and low-key. They joked a lot, reflected on art, film and literature, and obviously enjoyed each other's company. Their interactions were casual, but nevertheless poignant: inclusion of the outsider, recognition. I couldn't help thinking that whereas so much ritual interaction that Americans have include a tacit agenda or subtext of promoting oneself at the expense of others, the interaction among this group was about respecting each other, making everybody feel valued. It's a cliché, of course, but sometimes you can't see the given of your own culture until you are confronted with the otherness of another one. Dinner over, and with the party winding down, everyone shook hands and parted.


I walked out of the home and onto the narrow street. As some of the guests strolled by, I noticed their vulnerabilities. There was something very human about this; something real and then, a woman unexpectedly turned toward me and said, quite simply, "Buenas Noches."

May the road rise to meet you

I'm one of those people who has an aversion to cold weather-- and if I never see snow again in this lifetime I will be happy and grateful. It's why I didn't grab the opportunity to visit Russia, despite its fascinating history. After seeing the film Doctor Zhivago as a kid I still recall Omar Sharif struggling to retain himself from falling while shaking off his frozen eyelashes. But one place where I haven't been where the cold may not parallel Russia but is just as far north is Ireland, where I sense there is delight infused into the ordinary.


The first time I went to New York it was mid March. Approaching St. Patrick's Cathedral, it was early morning, I looked up, the towering church rawbone Gothic, with leaves blowing on its granite steps, I went inside where a mass was being held while the incense clouded the aisles and pricked my nose. The pew I sat in was next to a stained-glass window of a lamb. The priest who bowed and whirled and occasionally extended his arms in my direction announced the significance of the saints day, locally and back in the motherland. I had stumbled onto something fortuitously. Aye, the luck of the Irish! I heard whispers behind me about the parade, the oldest parade in the nation's history due to start an hour before noon that gave meaning to what may have been a shapeless day.


I love parades-- they are celebrations; with all the regalia and costume, marching bands and floats, and beautiful horses. I waited and stood behind the mark, arms crisscrossed to fight off the winter chilly morning, inches away from it all. So close was I, from the sound of the trotting horses and a booming mass of bagpipes. I was told on that day, everyone that partook in the parade, was Irish. This as I understood it, was rare that New Yorkers extend this air of grace, but I inhaled in the gesture.


Every single Irish society group and civic clan attended and there probably wasn't a bigger day for New Yorkers to party like the Irish and display the color green. As I watched the parade that was many hours long, I never did become Irish, but I did see some toss their jackets to the wind with their milk-skinned Irish arms, black hair mussed by the wind and faces reddening to the cheers and whose mouths split into smiles that was entertainment in itself.

Jah Man

In the summer of 1983, I found myself sorting through my music albums. Amid the stacks, I stumbled on some that I hadn't played for awhile but reached for a favorite; a double set packed in gold cardboard; it's artwork featured an unemployment benefit attendance card with a red stamp on it.


I was a loyal shopper of Aron's Records, a hip independent shop on La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles where I purchased the album with student loan monies the year prior. It was my first encounter with reggae music, the artist was an English band, UB40. Their “Signing Off” album was sooo cool- a loose groove, with a jazzy sax, a breezy instrumental, and was lyrically and politically charged with social consciousness. I began immersing myself in a Jamaican smorgasbord- a grip that had me frequent a dance club in Santa Monica with my then boyfriend and, influenced me to visit the country.


Back in those days, I went to Chatterton's bookstore on Vermont and thumbed through all the guidebooks taking meticulous notes. I read about Jamaica's unique character and inherent ‘African-ness’ of its population. Nowhere else in the Caribbean is the connection to Africa as keenly felt as in Jamaica. It promised a curious traveler, great aromatic coffee, world class reefs for diving, stretches of sugary sands of beaches, offbeat hiking tours, pristine waterfalls, wetlands harboring endangered crocodiles and unforgettable sunsets. In short, enough variety to comprise many utterly distinct vacations. Traveling alone and seeking an exotic beach scene. I'm happy- I was sold.


Hailing a cab from the airport, it didn't have air-conditioning and I couldn't roll down either window because they're broken. The exterior smell of urine mixed with ganja is a gagging stench, anyway. The driver, has one finger on the horn, the other firmly rooted up his nose. I'm optimistic- I'll look the other way.


Jamaica was a man's world. On the streets of Kingston, men were out on full force, strutting and swaggering, sneering with bravado. Encircling the cab, I was stared at by giggling idiots and silent stoned faces. It seemed many Jamaican men had urinary tract infections-- relieving themselves beside the road and up against buildings. I'm hopeful- it's plain as sight this will be one trip where I'll have to ignore quite a bit.


Alongside the road there were scrawny and sickly looking cows, who could pass for dalmatians, except they are humpbacked. I'm in denial- I guess I won't be drinking any milk.


Once out of the cab, I am embraced by the humidity, and Jamaica's slow pace lethargy is catching. I quickly get bite by mosquitoes walking in slow motion like a zombie with a blank eyed stare. I'm disgruntled- starting to sink.


I duck into the fly-infested hotel where I am ignored by humans. I ring the bell. I wait. I ring the bell again. And wait, and wait. I'm irritated- frustration begins to mount.


My throat dry as dust, I eyeball a bowl of passion fruit behind the counter, the hotel manager comes out with “Ma lady, du yuh need anyting?” Before I can respond he scratches his head and rubs his butt, and with the same hand passes me a fruit and says, “Welcome to Jamaica”.

One Bowl at a Time

What is it about favorite childhood foods? Somehow they live deep inside our minds and hearts. Foods we learn to eat as adults don't have the same kind of emotional hold on us, don't provide the same comfort. Perhaps this is because they are associated with that simpler time in our lives, those memories of being protected and taken care of, of diving headlong into life without worrying about consequences.

My mother was and still is glued to her kitchen. She spends most of her time in it, as if it's a safe haven. Maybe it's because she's a Taurus, the kitchen symbolizes home and hearth and is her focal point. Growing up I favored basic foods that she would transform into savory extraordinary meals; like her Sopa de Fideo (Mexican Noodle Soup). I would turn up my nose at anyone else's. To this day when I make it, it isn't as good as hers.

She would make it when the weather was chilly or overcast and I would be cuddled under a quilt curled with a book- the smell emanating from the steamy kitchen was irresistible. She served it as a starter in small bowls and as it cooled down the juices would give it a richer flavor. I wanted it as my main meal and would often ask for seconds and pass on the entree. I share it with you, as a cool weather treat.

1-7 oz package of La Moderna Fideo broken into pieces (optional)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1- 8 oz. can tomato sauce
1 sm- fresh grated tomato
2- 14 oz cartons of chicken broth
1 large onion, chopped

freshly ground black pepper
coarse sea salt

In a large skillet heat olive oil and add fideo noodles. Cook over medium low heat, stirring regularly, until all noodles are golden brown and toasty.

Combine tomato sauce and fresh tomato, chicken broth to the noodles. Add onion and season with pepper and salt. Bring to a boil then reduce to medium heat (gentle boil) until noodles are almost tender, about 8 minutes. Simmer another 2 minutes until noodles are done.

Leftover Fideo is even better-since the flavors blend more.

*Measurements are presumed.

Buen Provecho!

Scents rise from Childhood

There was a grove of tall green pines and magnolias that lined the streets of Savannah, the waft inside the sightseeing bus made me experience a form of time travel; the trees smelled like those I inhaled on the way to school that I attended from ages six to nine, and for a moment I was transported to Montebello, California sitting in a yellow school bus riding south on Concourse Avenue and then north onto Maple Street.


The trees brought back a lot of things I'd forgotten, among them the particular kind of musty warmth that radiated in spring in between the canopy of trees when the sun was shining and I was daydreaming. I thought about odors and the deep sensory links with certain smells going down to the core of memory; encountering them again can set off reverberations.


I closed my eyes and like a priestess in a trance images floated before my third eye. The most enduring and evocative smell from those years was the smell of the tempera paint that was used during Art. At Washington Elementary, in the first grade, egg tempera was the first paint I ever used, as an earth-smelling scent it generated a concentrated essence of sulfur. Along with its odor I recall school shoes, wooden desks, polished floors, and institutional gravity. The hallway outside my classroom had a powerful smell- and that smell was even stronger in other parts of the building, especially the auditorium.


During those years I brown-bagged my lunch and given the choice between eating inside or out on the benches, I favored the outdoors. The warm vapors from either my tuna-fish, bologna or peanut butter sandwich emitted something that made me convulse coming close to nausea. So in the trash it went! I survived on an apple and milk. To this day I prefer a hot lunch and dislike mayonnaise and sandwiches. When my mother discovered what I was doing, no doubt instigated by my brother's tongue, and in part by my ravenous appetite when I got home, I would start buying my lunch. Standing in the cafeteria line I could sniff fresh baked bread mixed with various cooking odors and happily ate my institutional lunch in its entirety.


In those days, almost everyone's house smelled like cigarettes, since everyone's parents smoked. Mine did not, but during parties at our house, a cloud like an inversion layer would fill the living room and the next morning when Alfred and I would pour ourselves bowls of cereal and wait for cartoons to come on, there would be overflowing ashtrays everywhere. Once while Alfred and I, in pajamas lurking in the hallway at one of our parents parties looked across our smoked filled living room and watched how adults changed once inebriated. Mixed drinks emanated a unique bitter sort of smell.


My best friend Susie, lived down the street on the corner. When we played at her house, either Dollhouses or Candyland, her mother would bake us snickerdoodles, the rich sugar-cinnamon cookies baking in the oven, smelled like heaven on earth.


When I was a youngster, kids walked, rode their bikes, rollerskated or skateboarded and went places on their own. I loved the independence. One favorite place to go was the Garmar, the local movie theater for a Saturday matinee. My brother and I would head out on bikes for the afternoon. The minute we rammed through the doors of the pastel lobby the scent of fresh popcorn permeated the air. Possessing a sweet tooth, I was so overcome by the buttery, salty scent, that I'd forgo milk duds or a fifty-fifty bar in lieu of a small popcorn coupled with a soda.


The summers meant a trip to the plunge, the public pool that offered a great aquatics program and when I was seven years old, my mother enrolled me in swim lessons. On the first day she stayed behind at home and instructed my brother to lead me. Inside a locker full of girls I didn't know, I changed into my swimsuit and remember the gray cement stools we sat on. At the poolside, I stared at expansiveness of the pool and the cinder-block wall in the distance. The morning sky was blue. The boys came out of their locker room and I couldn't fathom how one teacher, would be able to teach so many of us. As a warm-up we stepped into the pool and performed calisthenics, when I got out the dominant scent of chlorine lingered in my nostrils. Then it was time to jump, one at a time. Being one off the tallest, I was second. I panicked and called for my brother who was swimming on the other side of the divider, “I'm going straight to the bottom” I yelled out. “No you won't! You'll float, I'll catch you,” he protectively called back. Being eleven months older than I, and not much larger, his scrawny frame did not evoke much confidence. I ran straight to the locker room, gathered my things, and in my wet suit, jumped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could. My maternal Grandmother who was visiting us at the time, took pity on me when she saw me burrow my misery into my pillow. Each time I came up I whiffed the chlorine all over again. My mother who was angry at my cowardice and her financial loss after awhile dropped the issue. It was twenty years before I learned how to swim.


A few years ago, around the Holidays I saw a bottle of Old Spice in a drugstore. I've always loved drugstores and the things you stumble on, they remind me of the wonderful five-and-ten cent stores of the past. The Ivory container had changed, and the sailboats were gone but it imparted a hum of remembrance of my Father. I opened it and sniffed- it was him all over again; the smell of him driving me to school, of him bending over to pick me up, of kissing me goodnight, and of him sitting in the den, in his easy chair hands outstretched as I handed him his after dinner coffee. If one had known that these scents would cease to be used, or exist, and with the accelerating passage of time, one could have stopped to have savored a little more, and contemplate these moments that make up a life. Or maybe such smells never die and conceivably someday, somewhere, they will come back as a passing breeze of childhood.

As Above, So Below

Everyday as I watch television, more and more Haitians are being found- under rubble and debris. Last week when I heard that Haiti was hit by a massive earthquake, I couldn’t believe one of the poorest countries that has undergone political upheaval, a health crisis, still fragile from last years quake would suffer another blow. Time and again when I observe how lives have been shattered all I can do is try to make sense of it all.

It's easy to search for answers when removed. But the affliction of humankind is everyone's concern. I ponder could this be karma – the cycle of birth and death that leads to perfection. But karma seems like a harsh judgment call- why would so many souls that choose to live in a poor country have to endure the hardship of a natural disaster? Or is this disaster the result of a group who committed a past sin and had to face consequences of cleansing together?

King Solomon says in The Book of Ecclesiastes, "there is a time for every purpose under Heaven". What he is saying - is to be prepared - humanity's actions will go in cycles. There will be times of goodness and prosperity, and times of selfishness and poverty. So, due to mankind's decisions, we can expect the best and the worst.

I think of my Kabalistic teachings where I learned God is not responsible for mans inhumanity to man. Humankind is solely responsible for determining its own destiny. There is no anthropomorphic God who looks down upon the earth and makes day-to-day decisions. We have been given the gift of wisdom, and it's up to us, if we choose to use it or not.

In the story of the Prophet Elijah there's a turning point concerning God's involvement with humanity. After Elijah establishes the one true God, he travels to Mt. Horeb seeking God's approval. But, God is not impressed by Elijah, and asks him why he has come. Then, God creates a whirlwind, an earthquake and a fire - but, God is not within any of these phenomenon. So, Elijah does not receive any accolades or favors from God as he expected. He is certainly not recognized as the leader he wanted to be. The only phenomenon Elijah does experience is "a still, small voice". In my opinion, this is telling us: don't look to God for approval or explanations - instead, listen to that still, pure voice within yourself. This is where you'll find your answers.

It's our mission to follow that inner voice- the one that speaks to us from our soul. By treating our fellow man as we would want to be treated; expressing love and compassion in all aspects of life we choose life over death and grow in our service to humanity.

Farewell to Decade Double Zero

"Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens" JRR Tolkien

With the December madness behind me, in the second hour of the new year, after Steven and I return from a party in the upper middle class city of La Canada amid singers and artists, my head is reeling in impressions from 2009. So what did the year bring me? Or better yet what did I gain as a result from it? Being a heady type most of my fun revolves around learning. Being creative most of my stimulating moments involve the arts. Since my life mission has nurtured a soul of depth most of my memories include a spiritual insight. But I am also an austere worrier, you could even say I've perfected worry into a skill, something I inherited from my mother. To counterbalance this trait I've made myself think of my most pleasurable highlights of 2009.

In January, I learned the value of exercise claiming the Gym as my second home. Although I've always been a walker and lover of yoga, neither of them are rigorous enough for me and I rediscovered something in me that was dormant; running. Running on the treadmill heart pumped calms my nerves into a purr. Zumba dancing, drains me of toxins and frustrations and makes me laugh like a child. I also met Anil and Madhu- a loving Indian couple that welcome me into their home, all the while, I have a feeling Madhu will become an ally. They are in fact Delhi-bred Brahmins of the highest class, that even their dog is a vegetarian.

In February, in my quest to be a virtuoso storyteller, I headed for the San Francisco Writer's Conference, weaving an account of my own life story- material from what I have experienced. And while I learned that the commercial world of book publishing is shifting sands, not taking chances on the new and eclectic and sticking to the tried and true, I managed to meet people like me – a literary caste who seek to express and be creatively driven.

In May, like many other writers preoccupied with the peculiarities of the world, I began a blog. I have written about my travels, not only to places far away but also to those closer to home, if not, indeed, about my own home. In contrast to too many other travel writers, I have also focused upon what I knew very well, less because I researched it, as a journalist might, but because I experienced it, often for a considerable length of time.

In August, returning to California and driving from the north of Carmel to the south of San Diego, I developed an unusual love of my own hometown. Unusual, because I have seen the world, but now I find Los Angeles interesting and fascinating. My absences and departures have been good for me.

In September, I discovered that I could discuss books and stories in my sleep, but only with students who were interested, luckily I encountered the sincerity of those who applied themselves and were willing to learn.

In November, I reminded myself that people, even those who knew me the longest, are fallible, just as I am, and that I cannot always hold them to the high standard I hold for myself.

In December, I kept plugging away at my goals and felt strangely peaceful, finding beauty in small things. Although I don't verbally share many of my goals and accomplishments, I keep building on them, constantly giving myself challenges –they reside in me quietly with an inner joy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3sXVxqDbFk