Note from the Farmhouse: Thanksgiving In Maine

Saturday sunset, 4:11 p.m., Curtis Light in Camden, on the far right. I went lighthouse-chasing while Dan and his brothers took a walk. Fig saw a friend, and Spice was with her cousin and aunt.

View from the 100+-year-old farmhouse in Belfast, where we are staying. Pat and Martha bought it and made it into an amazing Airbnb.

At the Lost Kitchen in Freedom, Maine, on Friday.

                                          Cheese board, hot cider. See The Lost Kitchen.

Well, my fingertips have not touched this keyboard for days, despite my best intentions. Dan and I arrived by about 8 p.m. Wednesday to a Hannaford supermarket stripped clean of every can of spray whipped cream, every drop of heavy cream, and even Cool Whip, even vegan whip, everything. (The one thing I didn't hunt down was Dream Whip, sold in boxes.) We hunted in desperation for the required pumpkin pie adornment. No one wants naked pie. But apparently, Thanksgiving brings on a dairy stampede in Maine. Belfast Variety, open 365 days a year, with gas pumps, had two tall cans of Oakhurst sweetened whipped cream and we went there first, so I got one. Luckily, as in other years, my sister-in-law Martha snapped up a quart of pure whipping cream before the shelves were bare.

I knew we should have gotten it in Montclair but Dan is always in too big a rush to start the long drive. Fortunately, I got a tub of dairy-free CocoWhip at Whole Foods West Orange on Tuesday to cobble together a vegan no-bake pie for Figgy.

It is late, already 10:45 p.m. I've been off-kilter. I ate too many sweets and probably should not have made Fig that pie, but rather bought a vegan dessert. The cobbled-together dessert had a graham cracker crust, vegan mini marshmallows, chocolate chips, peanut butter and that fluffy CocoWhip.

But would an alcoholic make spiked sangria? I was tempted and succumbed. Sugar addict layering sugary things. Nope, not good. 

Today is a new day.

We were all planning to drive back today, Sunday, but Dan really wanted to do this family hike at Camden Hills State Park, where they walked to a cabin and, incidentally, made s'mores and hotdogs. It was a big group, and sounds refreshing, but I can't hike a mountain. I get too tired. So I walked over the Belfast bridge in the bay, and that was pretty. Figgy drove Spice home to Montclair so they can go to work and school tomorrow. 

We have tasks and packing in the morning, so I better resort to a list here. I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

• Sitting with Figgy as she crocheted on a couch in the farmhouse. Hearing everyone compliment her on the sky-blue top and knee-length sweater coat she had made, and wore Thursday. I really don't want to write here about Spice. Things are still very rough around the edges. How much is enough? How much is too much? Questions from a battle-weary mother.
• Seeing our big family this long weekend. Nieces, nephews, nephew's adorable little boy, 100 percent Hurley, with that brown hair and mischievous spirit. Girlfriends, husbands. Dan's four brothers (John, Mike, Dave, Pat), their wives (Therese, Sheila, Martha). My mother-in-law! Four of her sons carried her into our car and she stayed in her wheelchair  for the holiday meal. Her daughter stuck close by her side.
• The turkey James carved perfectly, rich gravy, Martha's great salad with beets and apples, Ian's homemade rosemary dinner rolls! 
• The Lost Kitchen in Freedom, Maine. My niece Mariah told me about it on Thanksgiving. The holiday shops were open Friday and Saturday. Mariah thought I would like it. She was right. So did Spice. I got my first Erin French cookbook, with beautiful photos, stories and recipes; Maine taper candles; the restaurant's coffee bean blend from Deer Isle, etc. How could I not have known about this, and about Erin? She and her husband were outside, stoking fire pits and helping us find a seat. It was an experience to remember.
• Drove by the first house in Camden where poet Edna St. Vincent Millay lived as a girl. Did not want to be a stalker, and house number (100) was not visible. 
• Curtis Point Lighthouse, so lovely with its green beacon. Good view from the overlook.
• The winter star was lit atop Mount Battie. I saw it on my 6 p.m. drive back to Belfast.
• The lavender store, which I always love, and the Swans Island shop, with blankets and scarves, both in Camden. Beautiful. 
• The Christmas tree by the Belfast Post Office is shining bright. The tree lighting was yesterday.
• Walk over the Belfast bridge. Chilly but pretty.
• Cup of cinnamon-orange tea with my niece Leah today in her Dad's comfy High Street kitchen. Long talk. We've grown closer.

 

In Stowe, Slow Comforts

Stowe Community Church in this historic village. Meg and Greg belong to

the congregation and I will join them for Sunday morning service.

I drove up to visit Meg and Greg for a Friday to Monday trip. Dan has to work at a party tomorrow night in Manhattan, writing 60-Second Novels, and Ice Spice has school, so it's just me. I didn't sleep enough last night and the night before. I was tired and fought to keep my eyes open on part of the 7-hour drive. I didn't get an iced coffee when I had the chance (Starbucks) and then the desperate coffee detour I took on an exit off Route 91 North led me to a small supermarket where the only coffee was in tiramisu or ice cream, no bottled cold brew or hot java, not even a coffee-flavored chocolate bar. I got an extreme dark bar and that caffeine seemed to kick in.

Meg treated us to dinner at the Green Mountain Inn, a fixture on Main Street in Stowe since 1833. It was a generous splurge. I had an ample slice of old-fashioned, fork-tender, perfectly seasoned prime rib au jus with baked potato and veg. Little basket of warm bread with foil-wrapped butter pats. Hot apple cider.

Slow comforts. Sitting here in the living room talking. Finally seeing, in real time, the beautiful new desk Meg showed me on FaceTime. Presenting the royal house cat, Sami, with a gift of little stuffed toy mice. Being grateful for old friends. Meg and I met at age 18, first night of college.

Good night from a nurturing place under beautiful skies and mountain peaks. #gratitude 

Take It Easy

Image from AmericanSongwriter.com.

Image from HERE.

My mantra when I remember to remember it. It makes life simpler and more peaceful, although I will likely never, ever be a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.  

"Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy." 

Eat your breakfast. Savor your coffee. Take your vitamin. Keep your appointments. Do your work. Brush your hair. Water your flowering plants. Believe in yourself. Pray to let worries go. Allow peace to enter. Listen to people. Listen to yourself. Comb on black mascara, thread the wired Tory earrings through the tiny holes in your ear lobes. Love yourself. Love your family. Be kind. Be calm. Make your maiden batch of Marcella Hazan's famous tomato sauce with San Marzano tomatoes, butter, salt and an onion cut in half. Even if you get the onion at 8 p.m. in the supermarket on a Wednesday night in November and eat a bowl of pasta at 9:30 p.m. Do your best. Take it easy. Ask Dan to pack some pasta, sauce and fresh mozzarella for Spice's school lunch tomorrow. 

"We may lose and we may win
Though we will never be here again."

Good night.

"Take It Easy," Eagles, 1972

Written by Glenn Lewis Frey and Jackson Browne

Well, I'm a-runnin' down the road tryna loosen my load
I've got seven women on my mind
Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me
One says she's a friend of mine

Take it easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy
Lighten up while you still can
Don't even try to understand
Just find a place to make your stand
Take it easy

Well, I'm a-standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona
Such a fine sight to see
It's a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford
Slowin' down to take a look at me

Come on, baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me
We may lose and we may win
Though we will never be here again
So open up, I'm climbin' in
So take it easy

Well, I'm a-runnin' down the road tryna loosen my load
Got a world of trouble on my mind
Lookin' for a lover who won't blow my cover
She's so hard to find

Take it easy, take it easy
Don't let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy
Come on, baby, don't say maybe
I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me

Ooh, ooh
Ooh, ooh
Ooh, ooh
Ooh, ooh
Ooh, ooh
Oh, we got it easy
We oughta take it easy

Of Loss, Resilience and Comfort Food

Born in the U.S.A., and it's still my sacred ground, no matter what happened November 5. Image copyright Columbia Records.

It's 11 days after the 2024 presidential election, and I only just now watched Kamala's full concession speech from Howard University. What a time, what a loss. I guess I've been taking things in slowly. Not all at once.

Between the daylight savings time change and the election results, I've been tired. It gets dark early. I lace up my sneakers to walk and then decide not to. That kind of tired. My Apple MacBook also died after seven years, so I had to scramble and buy a new one. You know that stress. Didn't have $1,000 lying around and don't use credit. I jumped on Dan's laptop early in the mornings and went to public libraries in Montclair and Verona, but you only get an hour at a time on the free desktop computers before you're knocked off.

Finding our way in the dark. Keep on keeping on. But this is America. The people spoke. I don't have to like it, but short of moving to Ireland or Scotland (dreams), I have to live with it. I will continue to speak my truth as best I can, to be honest and fair. I will donate blood. I will pray. I will contribute food for families who need it. I will believe. I will keep close my promise to be a good person in my own life, under my own roof, and out in the world. I will tell stories. I will write. I will help guard what I can. Figgy and I were talking about some ways to do that.

BTW, did you know Kamala's plummy pantsuit with blouse for her concession speech was custom-made by Tory Burch? (Thank you, Vanessa Friedman, queen of fashion reporters, reigning at The New York Times.) 

I made meatloaf tonight. I turned the oven to 375 and let it bake.

I filled a big blue glass pie dish with blueberries and topped them with a quick stir of raw oats, cinnamon, ground ginger, almond flour, toasted pecans, pinch of French sea salt and 2 T organic turbinado sugar, which is sweet and sandy, and maybe a tiny bit less deadly than full-fledged sugar might be for some. Known as raw sugar, it is less processed than the fully refined kind. Anyway, it was on sale at Kings so the bag hopped into my shopping cart.

Well, I have to try to talk some sense into someone and her friend upstairs at 10:28 p.m. on a Saturday night. Yeah, good luck with that.

16 Sweet Gratitudes, Catching Up

1. New Prada lipstick in the house. I bought my first tube in mid-May at the Nordstrom flagship in NYC and used it down to the nub. The colors are so stylish. Prada is so stylish. A lot of lettuce, $50 plus tax, but very worth it. The counter guru helped me find two great hues in person now. But the matte is a bit drying, so best to put the Prada lip balm under or on top, or even dab on Vaseline.
2. Lunch with young MTM*, my colleague and friend, a couple of Sundays ago in Princeton. We ate on Witherspoon Street. MTM had a salad and I had the chicken pot pie. It was a beautiful day, and we had been talking about reconnecting for years. :)
3. Chef Lidia Bastianich at the Ferguson Library in Stamford on a weeknight with Sis and Diane. We soaked up Lidia's hints, such as how to tell if you're buying real Italian San Marzano tomatoes. If a food is made in Italy, the packaging will say PRODUCT OF ITALY, Lidia said. I used that rule when selecting prosciutto last weekend.
4. "A Wonderful World, The Louis Armstrong Musical" on Broadway. I went to the matinee yesterday with Sis and Edie. It was.very.very.good. I've played Satchmo's music today. 
5. Post-theater dinner two blocks away at Patsy's, a landmark Italian restaurant and celeb magnet on West 56th Street since 1944. Best shrimp scampi with spaghetti that I have ever eaten. In my life. The simple pan sauce was intuitively done, "broiled with butter, garlic and lemon," per the menu. Tender butterflied shrimp. And if I were still indulging in desserts, I'm quite sure the ones I eyed on the old-fashioned rolling cart, pushed by a waiter, would have been winning. Especially that fancy ruffled chocolate cake or tiramisu.
6. "Conclave" film about electing/selecting a Pope. Dan and I saw it on opening night of the  Montclair Film Festival. Very well done. The acting (Ralph Fiennes, Isabella Rossellini, Stanley Tucci, John Lithgow) is superb as are the settings and secret rituals of selecting a Pope. Director Edward Berger was there at the Wellmont Theater and took questions afterward.
7. The New Yorker Festival. Drove into NYC with my friend Anne to see New Yorker Magazine editor David Remnick interview Rachel Maddow.
8. The cold opening of SNL last night, Saturday, November 2, with Maya Rudolph and the real Kamala Harris. (Thank you, Nan, for texting link.)
9. A hike in the Stamford arboretum woods with Sis and Galena.
10. Walks around our block and in Anderson Park and Edgemont Park.
11. Tea nightcap at Figgy's apartment the other night.
12. Dinner in a Dumont tavern with Moey and Tish.
13. "Godzilla" movie. Newest version, made by Japanese writer and director Takashi Yamazaki. 
14. Ina Garten's memoir.
15. Seeing my friend Rachy for late breakfast, another thing that's been put off for months.
16. Work clients, including two new ones. I'm grateful.

I just realized many of these are Italian--numbers 1, 3, 5 and 6. And 12 is famous for its pizza.

*Dan gave my friend Eileen the "young MTM" nickname decades ago, before she was married, when we went to a party she hosted in Weehawken in her pretty little Mary Tyler Moore-style apartment with a view of NYC's sparkling skyline across the river.

Does the Recipe Need More Cream? A Shower of Dark Black Pepper? Straw & Hay and "Ashes & Ink"

By Alice Garbarini Hurley

    Many Italian chefs offer a pasta classic called Straw and Hay. On Friday, I made Lidia Bastianich's version from her book of favorite recipes. The straw is regular (straw-colored) fettuccine and the hay is green (spinach) fettuccine. Add Parmigiano Reggiano, chicken broth, heavy cream, EVOO, prosciutto, baby peas, scallions.... It's an appealing idea, the recipe takes only one page in the book and is prepared in a skillet. But it wasn't all I hoped for. 

Spice, teen taster, thought it needed salt, and I thought it needed more clingy richness, like that first Fettuccine Alfredo sauce I made at Dumont High School in the International Chefs' Club. I opened The Pollan Family Table cookbook (Corky, Tracy and Michael Pollan) and found another pasta in a white cream sauce---with butter, garlic, grated Parmesan, and more cream and black pepper than Lidia uses. Also: Plenty of spinach to boost the nutrition. So I made those additions.

In the end, it was good enough. But I think next time, I will also add some grilled chicken.

***  

 

Julian Shatkin as Quinn and Kathryn Erbe as his mother, Molly, in "Ashes & Ink," about addiction. Photo by Thomas Mundell.

Another two-noun title this week that was not quite everything I wanted/expected it to be: The off-Broadway production of "Ashes & Ink," a drama about addiction. The A word is almost a character.

Molly (Kathryn Erbe) is a pretty widow in an Eileen Fisher-style sweater coat. She lives in her tidy city apartment, wearing a headset, cataloging an extensive library of birdsong with a computer program. It's her business. She and her belated husband listened to birds of all feathers. The recordings also include their son, Quinn. Listen: A baby babbling, then the chirp and trill of a juvenile song sparrow. As a young mother, Molly compared the two sounds.

Now an addict in his 20s, Quinn (handsome standout Julian Shatkin, a boy in the 2014 film "Like Sunday, Like Rain") returns from Serenity House rehab, drops his duffel, sits in the chair where Molly had arranged a folded, fringed throw--stylish, homey. "That place was bullshit," he says. Right off, you know. His disorderly conduct and unpredictability are in stark contrast to the calm home, with a few bright Post-it memos on the wall and yellow No. 2 pencils neatly arranged in a cup.

Good luck with such serenity when an addict's sure foothold (in this case, in black Converse high-tops) is in the house. With his black leather jacket and silver rings, Quinn's surprise return is jarring. Molly's love partner, Leo (Francisco Solorzano at this performance) is a widower with a young son, Felix (Rhylee Watson), who adores Quinn but finds a crack pipe big brother buried under an oak tree at the country house. Felix was digging for acorns when he cut his hand. A deep cut for a parent. Shame. Your older child modeling substance abuse for a younger sibling. Making a faint effort to bury it, but no. You failed once, now might fail again because you could not nip the problem in the bud. What a loser you are. Two lives now about to be wasted at your hands.

That's how "fixers" talk to themselves. People who drain their own sanity and health, thinking it is their responsibility to solve the problem, rather than remain standing, even personally thriving, in the face of it. To be better and do better, to do their best, family members eventually arrive at acceptance. 

The Al-Anon part is good. We learn about a secret society. First, Molly faces the hand she was dealt, which takes a lot out of her, out of us all. "Where are you? Where’s my little boy who loves spinach and pirates and snowy owls?" Molly asks. "You hold your beautiful baby in your arms and smell the breast milk, crusting a little behind his ears. I’d dip Q-tips in baby oil and clean back there, really gently. Rock him to sleep and then...who knew... you end up holding a body bigger than yours and pray that he’s still breathing." 

Quinn (Julian Shatkin) and his mother, Molly (Kathryn Erbe). Photo by Thomas Mundell.

"Take Care of You. Who?" She tells of "a drudgy meeting in a dark church hall," code for Al-Anon. Molly's blue denim jacket looks small, so small on her dainty frame, but she is a fighter, a would-be warrior, silvery streaks in her hair, faint crinkles around her eyes. Life's badges, which we mothers see, and celebrate. We know the little creases are hard-earned and true. No mother wants addiction at her door. She loses precious time that could go toward, among other things, bedtime beauty cream rituals. Or work, or creativity. Or other family members. 

We are tiny but mighty in the face of A's force and grip. Like Molly, we learn the three C's of Al-Anon. "I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it." It lifts the blame.  

"Having you here and not knowing where you are is a fucking nightmare," Molly finally says to her son. "Hand me your keys. Leave me be until you can learn to stay alive. You know where to go for help."

Only problem, the story may be a bit too neatly tied up with a square knot. Molly's clearheadedness, bravery and hope, her success at getting Quinn out, at least for now, with support from Leo. IRL, it can take what feels like a lifetime to get there, and maybe there is a catharsis in watching others struggle with us, not pull it together. There's nothing neatly tied up about addiction, for the addict or a bystander. Still, this story helps us ponder, find inner strength. Know we are not alone. We wonder from seat F1 how the writer, Martha Pichey, knows all this.

The play is directed by Alice Jankell, mother to the actor who plays Quinn, with that great hair, ripped* muscles--and a tattoo that may or may not be made from both his father's ashes and studio ink.

Ashes & Ink
At the AMT Theater, Manhattan.

Performance time: 90 minutes. Running through the 2 p.m. matinee on Sunday, November 3.

Leo: Javier Molina.

Bree (Molly's sister): Tamara Flannagan.

Scenic Design: Tim McMath.

Costume Design: Kaitlin Feinberg.

Sound Design: Alexis Attalla.

Lighting Design: Paul Hudson.

Al-Anon Family Groups: alanon.org.

*Merriam-Webster says "ripped" means

1. being under the influence of alcohol or drugs: high, stoned
2. having high muscle definition

Setting Intentions

This beautiful photo is from the Mario Cuomo Bridge website. I can't find the photographer's name, but wish I could. What a keen eye. 

When I turned 60 in January 2021, as another pandemic year unfolded, the Tappan Zee/Mario Cuomo Bridge walking path was open. Even in the chills of winter, I wanted to walk it, but also wanted someone in my family to join, and nobody was convinced. So while I was in Connecticut in September, about 35 minutes drive from the Westchester start of the bridge, I set a Sunday to walk it. Dan drove and met me. It was all I hoped it would be, that Hudson River view, the nature, the wide expanse, the big feeling. The connecting with Dan. The guide says it takes 80 minutes each way to walk (3.6 mile span, then back again), so we did maybe 2/3 of the length and turned around. I told myself I would do it weekly. 

I think I'm going today, and hope Dan joins after trimming the hedges and also that my friend Anne comes. Otherwise, I'm good on my own, starting on the Nyack side this time.

Intentions for this week:

• Every weekday, I get up about 7:30 a.m. I would like to shower first before doing Wordle, Spelling Bee, reading some news articles and seeing Punch out the door to the school van. Problem is, I like getting a cup of coffee with cream right away, and lingering over it. So do I do that briefly and then go back up to shower? I get sucked into the comfort of it all, the swirl of the internet and social media sometimes, too. (I would like to know what you do, friend.)
• Apply makeup (not much, but enough to look alive and bring my eyes out), earrings, necklace, skirt and shoes. Put socks and sneakers by the door so I'm ready to walk later.
• Get to my desk and get busy on writing assignments, don't work from the living room furniture.
• Take a walk every day. I have been pretty good about this, but not at a set time, and that seems risky.
• Make dinner. But our dishwasher is not working (for weeks), so we have to hand-wash every last tumbler, skillet and spoon. Even pink grapefruit dish soap only goes so far to lighten the task. But it does contain essential oils.
• Go to restorative yoga one night a week.
• Keep up with the 2 support groups I attend. That can be a lot, but also a relief.

Let me stop there for now. That list is plenty ambitious. xo Thanks.