Feeling Groovy--If Not Guiltless

There's a place on Valley Road in Upper Montclair that I've passed many times but never visited until today. It's called Asana House Juice Bar. The neon sign out front says SMOOTHIES.


Magic Carpet 
Turns out it's a very cool, inviting little spot with a carpeted yoga space up front, reasonably priced yoga clothing in the back [hip, tie-dyed pants and a sparkle-dusted, from-India-looking, sheer, hot pink top that ties in front] and a raw food bar. The moment I walked in the door, I felt like I had traveled to another place--maybe Wellfleet or Provincetown, or a health food store in Vermont.

You know me well enough by now to know that I do not subsist on raw foods. But I'm sure I'd be healthier, happier, more at peace and much lighter if I did. Why, I might virtually float through life, impervious to stress, and beautiful, radiant, clear-skinned, bright-eyed and shiny-haired. Taken care of.

The young man and woman whipping up their wares in tandem at the counter were raving about the raw food soup they'd just made. Best ever, they said, presenting the bowl to the pretty yogini* who was waiting, spoon poised. She agreed. I have to say, it did look inviting.

Drink It in
I was planning on getting my iced coffee in town today before heading back to the condo, and that would have been $3 at my cult favorite, Beans. So I thought today I'd duck in and try a smoothie.

Gosh, it was totally, totally delicious. I got the Guiltless Pleasure, made with peanut butter, soy milk, banana, raw cacao and honey. I think it was the honey and cacao that took it over the top. But it wasn't a cloying honey taste....I hate that. It was pleasure perfect.

But. It was $7.94--with tax, $8.50. Yet here's the kind of place it is: I was a dollar short, and the nice, raw-soup-eating woman at the bar offered to give me the extra dollar so I could try it. I was scanning the board for something that cost less. Always get the extra dollar to have the better one, she said. I really appreciated her giving vibe, but found my pride and six quarters back in my car, in the baggie with the dried apricots. The coins were a little sticky, but that's okay.

Pangs of PB Guilt
But the other truth is, instead of slurping that yummy smoothie, I could have fed a family of four with that $8.50: small pack of boneless chicken to saute, fresh veggies, couscous. Punch and her Mommy, or H., Figgy, Punch and I could have had a simple dinner for that cost [though H., a vegetarian, would not eat the chicken and would have a Boca burger from our freezer stash instead].

On the other hand, you can easily drop $20 per person to go see a movie, between ticket, drink, shared bucket of popcorn.

So though it was called the Guiltless Pleasure, it was not that for me. Pure pleasure, yes. Guiltless, no. But if your money flow is healthy, I highly recommend this place. Other tempting Super Smoothies include the Espresso Blast [soy milk, banana, cinnamon, honey, cacao and nutmeg, yum] and the Young Thai Coconut [with mango, pineapple, mint, lime and ginger]. They even offer 3- and 5-day juice cleanses for $45/day.

I might also take a yoga class there one day. Drop-ins are 20 bucks. The website is: www.asanahouse.com.

Peaceful dreams.

The amazing photo above is from getfitjourney.com. It accompanies a breakfast smoothie recipe. I am getting in the mood to start making them at home. :) I used to.


*Is it true? I used the word yogi first, but just read that yogini is the term for females.

Nurses I Have Known

With all the time I've spent at Englewood Hospital and Medical Center over the past 11 days, I've been noticing all those nurses, how hard they work, how wonderful they are. They lift not only Dad's spirits [and his bed], but my spirits, too. I love what they wear--the pale pink pants, pastel Crocs, trim maroon separates, the watches and rings, the dazzling cut gemstone earrings their husbands gave them [I know because I asked]. I like their hair--the bouncy, roller-set curls and simple blonde ponytails. I search for style wherever I can find it, and they don't disappoint.

Nurses I've Known

1. Mrs. Komlo, my next-door neighbor during childhood--back when it was still white caps and uniforms, and those snow-colored, soft-soled shoes.
2. Maggie [at my dentist's office, near the monument], again with the white cap and dress. Maggie was very generously proportioned, and very generous with her smiles. She made my dreaded trips to that nightmare chair much more bearable. I don't think I could have summoned up the courage to see Dr. Cohen without her. I was truly terrified, and a terrible patient, too.
3. The gray-haired nurse at Dumont High School, who tested us for scoliosis and taught us about nutrition, and also wore a starched cap and uniform. I forget her name, but when I look back, she reminds me of someone who could have been a character in Peyton Place. She had the power to be judgmental, I fear.
4. Friends Debbie, Tish, Roey and my cousins, Annie [from the Irish side] and Judi [from the Italian side] and H.'s cousin, Mary Jane. I am officially in awe of you.
5. Vera, the wonderful, wonderful nurse in the office of Dr. Zachary Bloomgarden in NYC, the leading endocrinologist who has been treating H.'s diabetes for over 20 years. H. and I love Vera, and Dr. B. Once, Vera showed me how to inject a syringe into an orange, because I confided that I was nervous about ever having to give H. an injection of insulin. [I never have, but I have had to give him just the opposite--juice when he almost passed out from a low blood sugar, more times than I like to remember.]
6. Patricia [actually, a nurse practitioner], my calm, kind next-door neighbor for years in Montclair, who taught me how to take Baby Fig's rectal temperature--and shared her mother's rice pudding recipe and many other good things.
7. Ms. Otsky, the nurse at Bradford School. Poor little Fig got frequent stomachaches during her year with an unfriendly first-grade teacher. Ms. Otsky [a sweet mom herself] provided refuge and, I think, Tylenol sometimes.
8. Lee Quarfoot--my colleague at Good Housekeeping Magazine! For years and years, she was fiction editor, and last she told me, she was studying to be a nurse in a post-50 career change. How brave, how big thinking. First she was saving stories, then she would save lives. I have to connect with Lee again.

Nurses Now
Thank you, thank you, to Lauren, Diana and all of the other nurses on the third floor who have been so good to Dad. I have such admiration for you and the work you do. It makes a profession like mine--writing--seem insignificant. I work with words. My fingertips bounce over the black keyboard to form sentences, paragraphs, stories.

I don't slip surgical gloves on umpteen times a day and face urine, blood, vomit and sweat. I don't apply ointments and powders to rashes. I don't take stool samples, or look for good veins to insert IVs. I don't inject painkiller, monitor oxygen tubes, spoon-feed meds in applesauce, treat bed sores, lift and roll patients or, God forbid for everyone involved, bathe them.

I don't call a grumpy old man buddy or honey, or John, or Mr. John, or sir--anything to make him smile and forget his pain, to bring out his sweet side. I don't look into his eyes, far beyond the cotton robe, to see the picture of health, what his life still can be and will be. I don't understand those parameters. I don't pick up the phone next to the bed because a weak or ill person can't reach it, and I know it's a lifeline for him, so he shouldn't miss the call. I don't guard dignity, save lives, field panicked calls from family. I don't take doctors' orders, holding another human being's destiny quite carefully in my own two hands. 

But I, Alice, do rest easy because you do. And I will not take that for granted.

The photo above is from the 1968-1971 TV series "Julia"--another nurse I have known. Here's how imdb.com describes the plot: "Julia Baker is a young African-American woman working as a nurse. She is also a widow (her husband died in Vietnam) trying to raise a young son alone."

Father & Son

On the eve of Dad's early-morning prostate surgery tomorrow [anesthesia for an 87 year old is a worry], I keep thinking about J., my oldest sibling. I've blogged about him before: http://insearchoftruthandbeauty.blogspot.com/2010_01_31_archive.html and about how sad I feel that he's dropped out of contact with us--even though he lives right in NYC. He has evolved into an enigma.

Lost
It's a long story, and I can't pinpoint its beginning. I'm nine years younger, and J. moved to NY at age 18 for college, leaving our gray Cape Cod house in the suburbs behind. I found no fault with him. Rebellious and free-thinking, yes, with his ponytail and beard, and his choice to pursue photography and live with his girlfriend at a young age back in the day, especially with Catholic parents who were pretty devout.

But I do remember a couple of father-and-son squabbles, and my brother lying on his bedspread while "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" played on the radio.

Picture yourself in a boat on a river,
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies.
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes.


What a strange song to my little-girl ears, and it made me think of the only Lucy I knew, Lucille Ball, whom I loved. There was anger, yelling. I remember the music, the tension thick in the air--and another time, when Mom was draining hot spaghetti in the metal colander and the steam was rising. You know how it is when you're a kid, or anyone, for that matter--you don't want to witness a fight between two people you love. It's scary, and sad. It shouldn't be happening, and it makes you feel lost.

I don't blame any of them. Now that I have a free-thinking teenager of my own, I understand quite clearly.

Kept
Our mom is gone [29 years now], but our Dad has never let go of his memories of J., his first-born. I know he feels bad that we're not in touch, and has kept reaching out via phone over the past decade, trying mightily to keep J. in the family loop. Every now and then, he gets an answer.

At my request, Sis tried to reach him last week, just so we could let him know we were worried about our Dad, in the hospital. I was afraid to be the one to leave the message because when I'm worried, I cry. But his phone was disconnected. We have to see if our brother Will has a cell number to try.

Memories Dad has pulled out of his pocket again and again, like a magician with a favorite  scarf trick:

1. J. got car-sick as a baby. Every time we put him in the car. We couldn't believe it, but he did.
2. He was very cute. Mommy and I used to each hold one hand and swing him in the waves. He loved it. He really laughed.
3. He asked to get ice cream on a Cape Cod vacation but..... We were all driving in the car, and Mommy told him 'We have ice cream in the refrigerator at home.' But she meant the refrigerator in New Jersey. That was so funny.
4. He couldn't wait to grow up and move out. He said to me once, 'You don't understand. You want me to live here, wear Bermuda shorts and push a lawn mower.' And how could he say that? Me of all people. I hated the stereotype of wearing Bermuda shorts and pushing a lawn mower.

I really can't remember any other J. lore right now. I'm tired, in a pasta haze and going to the hospital early tomorrow.  But wherever J. is and whatever he's doing at this moment, and the next moment, and the next and the next, I wish him peace. 

And I wish he would come back--to ease an old man's burden and fill the hollow in our family tree. 

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

The secret is that it's very, very late [or very, very early, depending on how you view the time] and I just handed in a beauty article and I should be tired but I actually feel invigorated--because I love to write precisely about potions, treatments, hair products, trendy nail polish shades [it's nude this fall] and more.

I guess these things have always intrigued me, since I was a tween and teen and read my rare copies of Seventeen cover to cover in the green and white upstairs bathroom, and wrote away to companies like Coppertone to see if they'd send me free trial sizes. They often did. I loved getting the little bottles in the mail, and also the way the products smelled. [Is it possible to ever forget the scent of Coppertone? For me, it's the quintessential bouquet of long, sun-dappled summer days, Rockaway Beach on weekends, the ad with the girl in the diaper, and my mother's love, all wrapped up in one.] I arranged the tiny bottles lovingly on my shelf in the bathroom.

Other Voices, Other Rooms
Tonight, I could hear my past editors, and could see their editing marks.

Beauty writing has evolved from pure fluff to more serious reporting, with magazines like Vogue and Allure digging beneath the surface of product claims and promises.

It all started, really, with Linda Wells, the excellent editor of Allure since its inception, who used to report on beauty for The New York Times. In fact, when Conde Nast launched Allure to great fanfare in 1991, I was a writer at Good Housekeeping, and wrote a letter to Ms. Wells to tell her how much I loved her reporting style and looked forward to the magazine. She wrote me a nice letter back.

Read Between the Lines
Be sure to say a product "can" or "may" help improve appearance of skin--flatly saying it improves appearance of skin is a quicksand trap fraught with legal and health missteps. Some woman or girl in South Dakota might take your word for it, spend a lot of money on the stuff, and end up suing or at least losing all confidence in you and your magazine when she finds out the stuff does nothing for the way her skin looks.

Likewise, don't say anything makes skin softer, but you can say it helps skin feel softer, feel being the operative word. No guarantees in life, especially not regarding beauty products.

Right now, I'm thinking of Janet Chan, Kathy Hubert, Ellen Levine, Annemarie Iverson and Donna Bulseco, editors and colleagues who taught me a lot about beauty writing, with what they did and did not say. Thank you. It wasn't always easy to hear that something had to be revised again, but I learned so much from the process.

Need my beauty sleep now, for sure, so I can be fresh for my next project tomorrow [I mean today].

Diner

It's only fitting [not for my pants] that since I blogged about healthy eating last night, I will blog about the complete opposite tonight. Diner food.

Living here temporarily at AVE Clifton, we're dangerously close to the Tick Tock Diner. A slender, pretty greeter/seater there [she must never eat the Disco Fries!] once told me, after I asked about famous people eating there, that Hillary Clinton had when visiting her mother. I don't know where her mother lives, or if they were en route somewhere, but that's close enough for me. I may one day butter my roll or cut my spinach pie with a knife Hillary used.

In fact, aside from ordering in, the Tick Tock, with its fun neon sign and clock that says EAT HEAVY, is the closest thing we can walk to if one of us doesn't have a car and is desperate for someone else to do the cooking. I think I've eaten there five times since we moved to Clifton March 21. Actually, five times seems like a lot. I was there with H. and Figgy; with just H.; with my friend Anne one night for cheesecake and a chat; with our relatives visiting from Florida; and with Sis, Don and H. after touring elder care facilities one Sunday. God knows, we needed some diner food after that. But in my defense, even though I am a Jersey girl and do appreciate a good cheeseburger and fries, I did have salad at least half the time. http://www.theticktockdiner.com/

Trip Down Diner Lane

My other favorite diners, in order by my age when I first slid into a booth there. 

• Matthew's Diner. I think it used to be called Matthew's Colonial Diner when my girlfriends and I were in Dumont High School. There wasn't much shaking in Dumont, and we couldn't afford any great shakes anyway, so a big night out may or may not have involved onion rings; a wedge of creamy-rich cheesecake; honeydew melon halves; Diet Coke with lemon; or chicken salad platters at this place in Bergenfield, and not necessarily in that order. That was a step up--before that, we had gone to Roy Rogers, no joke. I hadn't been to Matthew's for decades, but then over the last few years, Dad has suggested going there after some of his doctor's appointments. He likes the Swiss Burger Deluxe, and it is pretty darn good. I try to get something healthy, but then his fries always look so tempting--golden-crisp, not soggy and leaden, and just the right thick width for ketchup dipping--and he likes sharing them with me. But one time, I saw a neighbor there who I heard had unceremoniously dumped his wife, and I knew he knew that I knew, so it was an awkward exchange of glances, and I can always picture him there at that table in the corner, by the window facing Washington Avenue. Strangely, it's now called Matthew's Diner & Pancake House, but a. I can't find a website for it and b. don't bother going for the pancakes.
• Vague diner by the shore. I don't remember the name, but I do remember the kindness. I was going down to the Jersey Shore for a few days with Moey's family one summer Saturday morning, and they had a tradition, I think, of stopping at a diner along the way. I think someone in the family talked about steak and eggs? All I remember is that I felt really lucky to be treated to breakfast there with Moey and her grandfather [Pop, who lived a full life, driving happily until age 100] and other family members. Moey's family taught and continues to teach me so much about generosity and grace.
• Dine-O-Mat. When I worked at Seventeen Magazine in my twenties, writing promotional copy and advertorials for Maybelline and Tampax, I wasn't too far from this fifties-style place, which was uptown on Third Avenue near 57th Street in NYC. I remember singing waiters and waitresses, and big burger platters. I definitely dragged people there--people including H. and Sis, for sure.
• Claremont Diner. This was so close to the Tick Tock on Route 3 West that I always wondered aloud to H. or Moey about how it would ever survive. It was run by a Greek family. It did close years ago, sadly. The big buckets of pickles were the best, crunchy and half-sour, and the generous house salad in a shallow etched glass dish--which came with the entrees--was delicious. The tuna melt on rye with Cheddar was even better. When I was pregnant with Figgy, that was an occasional favorite of mine. And once, when my old friend Fritch and her love Bob were visiting, we went to the Claremont with them. H. and I always remember that Bob ordered the big Fisherman's Platter. Whenever we go to a diner and see a Fisherman's Platter on the menu, we think with a smile about Bob, even though he and Fritch parted ways. 
• Moody's Diner. This is an icon on Route 1 in Waldoboro, Maine. It's known for its pies and more. I went with H. and tried the Grapenut Custard, which is a Maine thing. [I also had that at a little diner near Kennebunkport. It somehow conjures up images of George and Barbara Bush, since the Bush compound is in Kennebunkport, but it's well worth sampling.] My brother-in-law, John, gave me the Moody's cookbook one Christmas. http://www.moodysdiner.com/
• The Cozy End. Oh, the cozy Cozy End, on Valley Road in Upper Montclair, right across from Lukoil and Kings. I've been there many times in the 19 years I've lived in town--with my older neighbor, Francie; and with Figgy and assorted friends, from L. to C. The decor is plain and basic but the chicken salad & bacon club sandwich on white toast hits the spot. On Friday mornings during the school year, you can often find groups of attractive, fit PTA moms laughing and chatting over breakfast. [I'm not among them--if I'm there, it's because I popped in, on a rare whim, for sausage on an English muffin to go.] True, the pickles could be better. I generally made Fig and pals walk there with me--it's about 20 minutes. I once took several girls from our Girl Scout troop, and that's the Saturday when they sat at the big round table in the back [near the pie case, but skip the pies, they're not special] and started waxing poetic about the pleasures of dunking fries into chocolate shakes. Later, Figgy read in Seventeen that some young celeb also loves that combo, and she felt so validated. She taped the page up near her frilly pink canopy bed. Please note: She no longer has a frilly pink canopy. In eighth grade, in her Twilight phase, she asked if she could dye it black with a Rit kit. It came out a washed-out gray. http://www.cozyend.com/

Well, speaking of bed, I better go there now, visions of cheeseburgers in my head. And not a single fry in the house [except some frozen sweet potato fries]. But see how good I am? I could walk right up to the Tick Tock right now--it's open 24 hours--but I'm not going to.

No sirree bob. Fries at this hour? Fries with gravy? Fries with melted cheese? A rich, creamy chocolate milkshake to slurp with a straw? Absolute farthest things from my mind.

Would also love to hear about your favorite dives, um, I mean diners.

Above: A still from the movie Diner, 1982, starring Kevin Bacon [good name for diner role] and others.

Food for Thought

One of the things I like about Frost Valley sleepaway camp is the dining hall, and the lessons taught there. They're just healthy, not heavy-handed--subtle, not a sledgehammer.

1. The portions plate. There's a plate at each food station with colored portion sizes outlined on it--for protein, veggies and grains. It's just to give a rough idea, and also, the camp points out, to prevent waste. Kids can pile their plates high and then throw half of it out [as I remember from my days in the dish room at Cooper Dining Hall at Douglass College]. Would like such a plate for home. For myself. 
2. The fresh fruit. Today, to greet kids and families in the dining hall on arrival day, big galvanized metal tubs were heaped high with crisp green apples; plump purple plums; juicy oranges; and more. Even I, passionate lover of fine ice cream and Fritos, took a plum and enjoyed it. Also on hand: platters of fresh fruit [blueberries, pineapple, melon] and some cookies too [sadly, or maybe not so sadly, they can't hold a dim flashlight beam to my delicious, soft homemade ones, which boast toasted coconut and/or Valrhona chocolate chunks, and pure butter].  But a few years back, the very mediocre cookies were up for grabs, and the trays emptied quickly. Now a man in a chef's coat was handing them out with tongs--one at a time. Good idea.
3. The breakfast bar. As I do every year, I snagged one of the menus they hand out, so I can get a feel for what Figgy is eating these two weeks. It helps transport me to her side and lets me in on her fun, because I know she loves the food at FV along with everything else. Every day, in addition to a hot breakfast [French toast, waffles, cheesy scrambled eggs or pancakes], there's a breakfast bar, loaded up with yogurt, fruit salad, applesauce, granola, raisins, cranberries etc. Good stuff. I love it when she comes home from camp craving healthy new foods. On her Appalachian Mountain Club backpacking adventure in early July, they had oatmeal for breakfast, cooked by the cute guy leader on the little camp stove out in the wilderness. H. and I have been making oatmeal on and off for 25 years, but it wasn't until Figgy had it that week that she fell in love. Now she says oatmeal is "her favorite sport," and begs us to have it on hand. 
4. The salad bar. FV has a salad bar, too. Figgy's still not quite at the salad-loving stage, but I bet she'll get there. So far, I think the closest she's come with us is a California cheeseburger [with lettuce and tomato]; H.'s homemade coleslaw and gazpacho; and quesadillas we make with onions and fresh tomato. But she has started loving raspberries; bananas; baby cucumbers; raw red peppers; and carrots with or without hummus. And when we fill our own tacos, she uses raw spinach or Romaine. 
5. Water. They're very active up there, and the counselors constantly remind them, Figgy tells me, to drink plenty of water. All freshman year of high school, she took a giant full water bottle in her bag.

The best part of it all is that no matter where the kids come from--upscale suburbs, New York City, inner cities--they all unplug for 13 days from the idiot box and graze three meals a day in a field of fresh, healthy, delicious food. That's not small potatoes in a world of 24-hour drive-throughs, stuffed pizzas and cars with built-in cup holders to hold giant sugary, fatty or fake fizzy drinks, so we never have to be without liquid comfort--even when we're parked on our behinds in an automatic vehicle that carts us from one place to the next.

Nope, not small potatoes at all.

Note: The image above is from the American Institute for Cancer Research. I couldn't find an image of the FV plate, though I tried.