- 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.
- 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. :)
- 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.
- "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.
- 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.
- "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.
- The New Yorker Festival. Drove into NYC with my friend Anne to see New Yorker Magazine editor David Remnick interview Rachel Maddow.
- The cold opening of SNL last night, Saturday, November 2, with Maya Rudolph and the real Kamala Harris. (Thank you, Nan, for texting link.)
- A hike in the Stamford arboretum woods with Sis and Galena.
- Walks around our block and in Anderson Park and Edgemont Park.
- Tea nightcap at Figgy's apartment the other night.
- Dinner in a Dumont tavern with Moey and Tish.
- "Godzilla" movie. Newest version, made by Japanese writer and director Takashi Yamazaki.
- Ina Garten's memoir.
- Seeing my friend Rachy for late breakfast, another thing that's been put off for months.
- Work clients, including two new ones. I'm grateful.
Sunday, November 3, 2024
16 Sweet Gratitudes, Catching Up
Monday, October 28, 2024
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.
***
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."
"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
- being under the influence of alcohol or drugs: high, stoned
- having high muscle definition
Sunday, October 6, 2024
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.
Wednesday, September 18, 2024
"Standing By Peaceful Waters"
Onward now...
Correction: When I wrote this post on the fourth floor of the Shops at Hudson Yards in NYC yesterday, I put the wrong date for the tribal trade. It was 1640, not 1612. The plaque commemorates the original July 1, 1640 sale by American Indian Chiefs Ponus and Wascussue to British Capt. Nathaniel Turner, an agent for the New Haven Colony.
Sunday, September 8, 2024
Gidget Goes New Jersey
Friday, September 6, 2024
"Mother Mary Comes to Me"
I've heard for decades about "Our Lady of Fátima," but didn't register the location (Portugal) or the full story. It was reported in 1917 that Our Lady appeared to three shepherd children. Two died in the 1918 flu epidemic. One girl became a nun and lived to age 97. Image from HERE.
Paul McCartney and John Lennon wrote these lyrics (song released in 1970). Such gifted men, makers of beautiful art that touches the heart and soul. Look how deep their gifts were; look what they left the world. This morning I asked the Google speaker to play "Let It Be." Listening helped me through brushing my teeth, wriggling into my blue denim skirt, pouring coffee, getting by. Google played a lovely instrumental version, I think by Lemon Tart, great name. I have to get to work now at my desk. Here is another post, "Hail Marys on the #66 Bus." That was about young Figgy, but today my Hail Marys are for Spice. I decided to stop using the name Spice/Spike because that's not very kind.
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be
There will be an answer, let it be
For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be
There will be an answer, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be, be
Shinin' until tomorrow, let it be
I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be
Sunday, September 1, 2024
Bees Sting, Owls Watch
Summer stung like a bumblebee this year in many ways. But the details are too personal to publish.
Still, pollinators are good, so maybe this sting can turn out to help our family somehow grow and reseed. IDK. Take the stinger out, follow a winding path to eventual flowers or dripping golden honey?
It takes great effort to step back and accept. Risky behaviors, unsafe choices. I hope and pray, but that only goes so far for me. It doesn't give me endless serenity and trust. I can't change the past--not my own flawed behaviors and certainly not the teenager's early god-given road.
So what can I do? I can apply salve (I took a bath with a luscious Dolly Moo bamboo & blue tansy bath bomb today, smells so good and clean and the color is so pretty). Even combed on a little black mascara, swiped on Prada lipstick, dipped into Bobbi Brown beachy nude cream eye shadow. I can take a peaceful nap. I can continue to love even when I do not want to, or think I possibly can. I can follow a code of tolerance and love.
I can judge and criticize less.
Yesterday was Moey's bday. Dan and I went over to the deck for thin crust pizza, vegs and dip, chilled shrimp and to sing happy birthday. Her parents are 87 and 86 (ck); I can't believe it. When they had Moey 63 years ago, Mr. C. was 24 and Mrs. C. was 23. Ted was there (Moey's husband), their fun, smart son, Kevin, and Ryan Cassidy, their nephew. He is into wildlife photography. Look at that amazing photo above!
Well, I might watch another episode of "Emily in Paris" on my laptop now.
Good night.