Return to Venice

It's hard to take a bad picture in Venice, it's such a visual treat for the eyes. Everything seems elevated, as if rising to the beauty all around. Walking a dog. Feeding a bird. Drinking hot chocolate. The ordinary can be extraordinary sometimes.
When we arrived at the crest of the Accademia Bridge to look upon this Grand Canal scene, I felt content.

Griffin loved the pigeons of San Marco, he was so happy feeding them and interacting with them, that I see a bird in our future.

One of my favorites: spaghetti with clams. I love the jingling sound the clam shells make.

Hand-made gloves. If I lived in a cold climate, I would be a glove addict.


A candle lit for a friend.




Inside the Palazzo Ducale.

Eating pizza.

Il Dottore!

This is not The Chambermaid's laundry. I can't get my whites that white.

I'm hard pressed to think of any symbol cooler than the winged lion. Pax tibi. Peace to you.



Treasures from the sea, at the Naval Museum.

More pizza.

A room with a view.

Gone wandering...

See you soon!

The Last Word of a Blue Bird

by Robert Frost
As told to a child


As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, "Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for the skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax-
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing.

A funny thing happened on the way to the soup pot.

My friend Julie's recent analysis of Mireille Guiliano's book French Women Don't Get Fat really inspired me. I was at the market the next day, and was struck by how gorgeous all the produce looked. Everything was bursting with color, looking fresh, bright, and healthful. So, I bought leeks, for the cleansing leek soup promoted in Guiliano's book, and I also bought a lot of fruit and some beautiful radishes and lettuces.
A few days passed, and my distractions prevented me from making the soup. Today, I realized that I had better get to it, or I'd have to toss the leeks into the canal for the fish!
I retrieved them from the fridge, trimmed & rinsed them clean, and chopped them all up.
Suddenly, I remembered one of my favorite recipes from my Patricia Wells Bistro Cooking book. This is one of those books I hold dear to my heart. It was by my side in the kitchen for a long time when I was learning how to cook, and I adore Patricia Wells as a result; I feel like she taught me how to cook!
Thus, it was a slippery slope when I next remembered that I actually had creme fraiche (that doesn't happen all the time), as well as some thawed sheets of puff pastry. What do you know -- I also had Gruyère.
The soup was but a memory as I proceeded to sautee the leeks in butter, grate the cheese onto the puff pastry, and beat a couple eggs with a spoonful of the creme fraiche.
Mm, mm, that's right. Butter, cream, eggs, cheese, puff pastry, and -- oh yes -- leeks!
Terribly wrong for not getting fat, but it looked so beautiful when it finished baking. All puffy, golden, and rich.

The polar opposite of detoxifying leek broth, I realize, but it simply had to be done. Bon Appétit!

Karma at the Cafe

It has been said that the sour times in life make the good times seem all the sweeter, and I do believe that. Sometimes, we can't make sense of the bad events (big or small) in life, but later, when happiness returns, we can truly feel the impact of the juxtaposition. And I think that makes a happy experience just a little more meaningful.
A recent dispiriting exchange with a "tosser" (new word I've learned) at my favorite cafe left me in tears, and I was buoyed by some very thoughtful words and support from my friends, who set me straight again.
So. A new day, and I returned to my favorite cafe.
I was sitting outside, when someone quite familiar-looking walked by. My eyes popped, my jaw dropped, and I gasped excitedly: "IT'S HER!" Luckily, I had thrown my camera in my handbag before I left the house, and so I quickly grabbed it and shot up out of my seat.
"Excuse, me," I said, and the woman turned around and I could feel my face lighting up with joy as I reached for her hand.
It was Marcella Hazan!
I couldn't believe it! I introduced myself and told her how much I love her books and how my friends and I admired and appreciated her so very much. And I asked her if she would please take a picture with me.
She agreed, and was quite good-natured about my babbling. I don't know how often she gets bothered in public, and couldn't tell if she was used to it or if I startled her. Probably both!

I've never acted like such a fanatic, but I have to say that, as an Italophile, this, to me, was really fantastic. Furthermore, Marcella Hazan lives part-time in Venice, my favorite place in the world (I chattered about that, too). I wish I would have told her how, about a month ago, I'd been obsessed with making her Bolognese sauce and had such fun following her recipe, but in my excitement, I plum (tomatoes) forgot!
After I thanked her, and returned to my table and my puzzled mother-in-law, I saw that I was so excited my hands were shaking. The waitress shrugged and said to me, "I didn't know she was so famous. She's just Marcella to me."
I wish I could call my mother and tell her, because she was also a fan, and would have been so delighted at this lucky chance encounter.
After explaining what the hell had just happened to Madame X, who had been left trying to figure out who this woman was I'd bolted to stalk, I went on to enjoy one of the best platefuls of gnocchi I've ever eaten.

Light, with a strikingly simple tomato sauce. Perfect. (I wonder what Marcella ate.)
Griffin finished his meal with a delicious panna cotta, which, as we know, is similar to a flan, but better...with less EGGINESS!

What a great day! I am still smiling about it all.

Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking

Cappuccino art IX

"Popeye"

Happy Valentine's Day!

Let there be you,
Let there be me.
Let there be oysters
Under the sea.

Let there be wind,
An occassional rain.
Chile con carne,
Sparkling champagne --

Let there be birds
To sing in the trees,
Someone to bless me
Whenever I sneeze.

Let there be cuckoos,
A lark and a dove,
But first of all, please --
Let there be love.
-Ian Grant, Lionel Rand

Always after me Lucky Charms!

This morning I caught Monster eating Lucky Charms on the countertop.
It's not so much that I mind him eating cereal...

...I just wish he wouldn't always pick out all the marshmallow bits. Who's going to want to eat that cereal now?

Snoop-Dog

Things had been going so well. I started the new year feeling phoenix-like, having risen up from the ashes of what we'll call "Mom's House" project and the rather annoying holidays. My mom's house was sold; Christmas came and went; and then it was all over.
"Now what?" asked my subconcious.
"Indeed," I replied. "Now what?"
And so I returned to the idea of getting a second dog, and ended up with a "Beagle-mix" from a rescue North of Tampa.
Boo Bear was his name. That's a name packed with implication. You hardly have to say it out loud to imagine a sort of cuteness that makes women and children squeal in appreciation at how utterly adorable one named Boo Bear must be.
And he was.
Sort of.
Well, on his picture page on Petfinder, which is sort of like Myspace for animals, he did look like a very cute Beagle mix. His ears flopped backwards and he had brown eyes and a masky face.
So I took the boys and we met Sue, the rescue lady who had been more than willing to meet me and let me adopt. She didn't want references, like the other rescue groups. "How refreshing!" I said. "You seem like a nice person," said Sue. "I can tell."
Sue and I met in the parking lot of a bank. I'd brought along a new, bright red collar and leash. When I pulled up, she was walking Boo Bear, and I broke into a wide smile at the sight of his prancing gait.
"He's CUTE!" I exclaimed to the boys, who were along for the ride.
After a cursory inspection and some chit-chat between Sue and I, Boo Bear was handed over.
"The vet says he's part Beagle, part hound," she blurted out as I loaded him into the car. "Okay," I said, thinking "Why did she say that just now?" We cheerfully waved good-bye and headed home.
Once there, we introduced Boo Bear to the rest of the family, half of which approved. Wyatt stared suspiciously at Boo Bear from across the room. Monster the cat puffed his tail and hissed at Boo Bear. But Boo Bear didn't care, and proceeded to romp around the house, attacking various plush animals with a cheerful zeal.
Troy and I sat outside, quietly observing the puppy.
"He's cute," said Troy. "He kind of looks like a pit-bull though."
I froze and pursed my lips. Boo Bear, who was four-months-old, was supposed to be a medium-sized dog. I had taken note that his paws were rather large, and, frankly, he was already the size of a Beagle. His head was a bit wide, his body a bit longer than a Beagle's, and his tail curled upwards into a curly-cue. He seemed like a good dog, albeit a bit independent. I imagined he'd had a hard life, out in the rural area where Sue had rescued him from a high-kill shelter. He was a scrapper.
The conversation was aborted because I had to leave to meet Troy's mom, who was bringing me our dog crate which had been stored in her garage. We agreed to meet at a coffee house, and I took Boo Bear along for the ride, and sat outside waiting for Madame X. Wyatt came along too, my largely silent companion.
"Mom," he said from the backseat, "Boo Bear's attacking my coat."
Madame X was smiling as she approached our table, Boo Bear perched beside my chair.
"Aww, he's cute!" she said, sitting down to join us. She petted him and noted that his ears were not as soft as Lucky's, but that he was very well-behaved. He was!
"He kind of looks like -- what's that dog? Oh, you know...a pit-bull."
I stared at her in disbelief.
"That's what Troy said," I told her.
The cafe manager walked up and started petting Boo Bear. "He's cute! He's gonna be big. Looks like he's got some pit-bull in him."
Now I was annoyed.
I had not seen it. Granted, the website pictures did not show his full body, only his little face, which was bigger now. But I had to say he did not look so much like a Beagle now as he did a pit-bull. I wasn't feeling too good about this whole thing, and although Sue had told me that I could return him if things didn't work out, that option had not crossed my mind. Until now.
I drove home and told Troy what his mom and the other lady had said. It was pretty obvious by then that my Beagle was no Beagle.
Now. I know the pit-bull can be a nice dog, and I know that there are nice pit-bulls. But I don't feel comfortable having one, and, as nice as Boo Bear was, I wasn't willing to take a chance on him. Troy and I told the boys that Boo Bear was not going to stay with us; that he was going back to Sue. Griffin took it the hardest, crying and burying his face into a pillow.
"It's like you're having a party...and it gets cancelled," he summarized.
It was. I felt horrible, having been the instigator, the one who had brought this excitement and now disappointment to my family. It was my fault that the boys were now sad and crying, and I couldn't have felt any worse.
I took Boo Bear out into the backyard with Lucky, and they started jumping around, playing. Or, at least I think they were playing. Boo Bear started growling and going for Lucky's neck. I didn't know if they were jockeying for position in the dog pack or play-fighting or what, but with a raised eyebrow, I resolved that Boo Bear was going back to Sue.
Sue's husband met me in the bank parking lot early Tuesday morning. He proudly told me that they had placed 100 dogs in the past year, and that he rehabilitates dogs. He pulled up his shirt-sleeve and showed me his arm covered with scabs, presumably from dog bites. He then told me that people are ignorant of dog breeds, and said that "there are no bad dogs." Steve said he was a big fan of Cesar Millan, The Dog Whisperer.
"Haven't you ever seen Cesar's dog, Daddy?" Steve asked me.
"I have," I nodded, remembering seeing Daddy when I watched Cesar's show once, and that Daddy scared the shit out of me.
Steve told me that they'd already found a home for Boo Bear.
"Oh, really?" I asked, sort of surprised, "Who?" Steve changed the subject and talked more about how he and Sue got Boo Bear on the day he was going to be killed. Steve talked with a gentle voice and a smile, which was kind of odd because everything he said seemed aimed at making me feel bad, guilty, or stupid. It didn't matter, though. I was happy for Boo Bear if he had a good home lined up. He was a good dog, and maybe he would always be a good dog. But he wasn't the right dog for me and my family.
I gave Boo Bear a kiss on the forehead and said good-bye, wishing him well.
I have always loved animals, and I admire the people who foster and rescue the dogs and cats needing homes. But I don't think it's right for people to lie about a dog to get him placed; and while dog-training goes a long way, it's foolish to ignore genetics and breeding. I have to think about that, when bringing another animal into our family.
And so, after several months of exploring the avenue of rescue operations, most of which make it harder for a person to "adopt" a dog than to have a baby, I've decided that I'm done for now; I'm not going to get a second dog for a while. Lucky and I are going to enjoy our time together, and we'll continue going to our favorite outdoor cafe, watching the world go by.
And I won't have to worry about wearing colors.

The $200 Pizza

Fuggedy fug fug fug!
I just got pulled over whilst on my way to get a pizza* for dinner. Going 70 in a 55 m.p.h. zone.
"Do you know the speed limit on this road?" asked the kindly sheriff.
I had to admit that no, I did not.
At least this time, I could find the car registration.
And my driver's license was up-to-date.
And my tags weren't expired.
Of course I got a citation, and although I expected it to be hefty, I literally gasped when I flipped the yellow ticket over and saw the fine. $188.
OUCH!
Every year, there's some chef in Manhattan who makes a million-dollar burger, with foie gras and truffles and other high-cost ingredients, and it's sort of a ha-ha -isn't-this-cute kind of feature story. Well, here you have it, a look at the World's Most Expensive Pizza, but I'm not laughing:

Sadly, it wasn't even very good.

*No, they do not deliver.

Jolie-Laid

I'm really not a baker, and now it's confirmed: I won't be working at
Ladurée in the new year.
I set about making macarons today, and everything went well up to a certain point. The ingredients are straightforward-spaz-out fare: sugar, nuts, butter, and egg whites. I couldn't find my pastry bag, so I used a Ziplock to pipe little rounds onto the baking sheet. I didn't have parchment paper, so I used foil, thinking they would be easier to remove. In hindsight, I should have just piped them right onto the baking sheet, because it's new and coated with layers of high-tech junk designed just for this purpose.
I should have also baked them longer, but they were in the oven for 11 minutes and starting to look toasty on the edges, and the recipe said they would be "set but not dried out" if I baked them for 12 minutes maximum.
The buttercream filling turned out really well -- just confectioner's sugar, ground almonds, and butter -- nice & fluffy.
But here is what happened next...

The cookies were too soft, and definitely stuck to the foil. No utensil trickery or finesse worked to successfully free them, and so they were just rumpled. I proceeded, and sandwiched the buttercream between them anyway.
(This is why I mostly focus my kitchen activities on one-pot meals.)

Is that the ugliest little macaron you've ever seen? I'll answer that: yes.
Of course, it still tasted really good, so all was not lost. Yet for all of the effort, I thought it might be just as effective to pour this bag of sugar down my throat. These cookies are off the glycemic index chart.

In more successful baking news, last night I made the chocolate-marsala cake from HTBADG, and it turned out just fine. My bro was in town and so we served it up for him, in honor of his upcoming birthday. He loved it, and so did everyone else, so we were all happily chocolate'd.

As for the macarons, I will stick to buying them.

They're through with standin' in line to clubs they'll never get in.

After coloring themselves with their new markers from Santa, Harry announced that he and his brothers had a new look.
"We're rock stars, Mom," he said. "Good ones," he added.
I don't know what that means, exactly, but suggest they call themselves The Unsupervised.

Sowing seeds of love

In prison movies, there's often a character with LOVE tattooed on the knuckles of one hand, and HATE tattooed on his other hand. I can usually relate to this guy, because he's obviously spent some time introspecting and searching for balance in life.
The holidays inevitably bring out the yin and yang of the universe, giving and receiving, and this year certainly has presented a swirling mass of feelings to wonder about whilst starting at my knuckles. We had a pleasant Christmas with friends and some family members (LOVE) while other family members have acted hurtful (HATE), causing me to grit my teeth and ponder human nature!
Last night, I went to bed feeling decidedly bitter about the state of affairs, and was then further vexed when Wyatt started projectile-vomiting all over my bedroom. I'm sure I was sneering at midnight, hoping morning wouldn't come too quickly.
But come it did, and with it a package that melted the icy brittle that had formed around my heart.
My friend Jennifer has a sister, Pam, who is a schoolteacher. Her class is made up of 23 fifth-graders who don't have a lot, and every year, before Christmas, Pam and her sister & another friend, Julie, try to gather and put together little gifts for the kids to give to their families. Pam takes a bunch of little items into the classroom, and the children take turns selecting things for family presents. As it happened, in the weeks before Christmas, I had a lot to give away, as I packed up my mom's house. Pam, Julie, and Jennifer bundled up a variety of my mom's belongings, and Pam presented everything to the class so that they could shop. We all thought it would be really nice, and that the timing was great for everyone involved.
This morning, as I shuffled around with my first cappuccino, Jennifer and Julie came over and gave me an 8 x 10 envelope filled with thank-you notes from Pam's class. Having been steeped in a little too much rudeness over the past few days, I was taken by surprise that the kids had been so thoughtful to write to me, especially since I didn't realize that Pam had told them where the stuff had come from. But she had, and reading those hand-written notes was one of the most profound experiences of my life.
LOVE!
Each child expressed happiness, thankfulness, and gratitude. They wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and told me what a blessing these "things" of my mom's had been to them. Most of them took the time to tell me what they picked, and I knew exactly what they were talking about. The tea kettle. The doll. The mugs. The wooden owl. The picture frame. And they told me the person they'd chosen to give their gifts to: "My mom." "My nana." "My dad." "My cousin who is nine months old." Card after card -- twenty-three young people expressing how happy they were.
I was blown away.

I sat at the kitchen table, crying unexpected tears of joy, and I felt deep gratitude for what they had given me: kindness and appreciation. I have never imagined a feeling so wonderful, and I felt not only the balance of life restored, but glowing with positivity. My mom's life has been packed up, but not put away. The love that she had in her continues to reverberate like ripples on a pond, and it is gratifying, and uplifting, and it dissolves bitterness.

Peace on earth!

After all of the planning and shopping and wrapping and cooking and running and costuming and driving and sorting of the past several weeks, things finally came to a halt on Friday, with the boys' last day of school.
They had their first sleep-over Friday night, which was super-loud, and we all stayed up very late. Saturday morning, I made a mountain of pancakes for everyone, and then after the young guests left, Troy took the boys to see a movie.
Still in my pajamas, I plunked down in a very comfortable chair and watched, "The Awful Truth," with the incredible Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. And this was my view...for hours. Hours!

A pretty perfect day!
Merry Christmas!

Comfort & joy

The approach of the Christmas season probably always brings about a heightened sense of emotion, with so many feelings and memories, not to mention the expectations inherent in the holiday. I've been overwhelmed with a jumble of emotions lately, with a busy pace and an overloaded brain.
In a stroke of what may be cosmic genius, my mom's house sold a few weeks ago, so I have been getting ready for Christmas while also sorting and packing up her belongings. I don't think a harder job exists than to pack up a life; it's almost indescribable. But I'm also lucky to have sold her house in this market, and although this was the task I'd been most dreading, it is a relief to be finished with this last order of business.
They always say that if we didn't experience the lows in life, then we couldn't fully appreciate the highs. Not that we have a choice -- but of course, there is a lot of truth in that sentiment. And so, although I've shed a lot of tears this month, and periodically wondered if my local pharmacy has enough Ativan in stock for me to reach the new year, I know the worst is over.
I've also been keenly aware of how fortunate I am to have such a wonderful family and supportive, loving friends. As I've slogged through December, I've been very grateful for the moments and things that have brought me real joy.
The boys' Jedi training exercises are a continuous wellspring of humor for me.

I love our tree. I sit quietly and look at all the ornaments, sometimes thinking of their provenance, but sometimes just enjoying the simple pleasure of gazing at pretty, shiny things.

It's good to see Winter, an anxious cat, enjoy undisturbed solitude underneath the Christmas tree.

The best: Griffin writing a letter to Santa Claus.

One night, out of the blue, I received a phone call from an old friend of my mom's. She said she had a Raggedy Ann my mom made, and she wanted to send it to me. My mom used to make these dolls for the children of special people in her life, and I was thrilled to get her in the mail days later.

The first thing I did was lift up her dress to see her belly. "I love you."

At my mom's, I found the three little bears and their terrier! These little stuffed animals have been around all my life, and when I was a little girl, I played with them for hours on end. The bear on the far right was always my favorite. Look at his crooked little bowtie. He is also special because he has an articulated head that is controlled by a wire lever in back where his tail might be. By moving the lever up & down or back & forth, you can make him nod or shake his head. I used to ask him a million yes-or-no questions, and make him respond.

Another priceless find for me was this wall hanging, which I remember from my earliest Christmases. Sparkly and charming, you put your Christmas cards in the pouch.

My aunt and uncle sent us a giant box of Lebkuchen. It's more than we can ever eat, I think, but the decorative packaging is fabulous, especially one little box shaped like a house, complete with opening windows and doors where you can see Hansel, Gretel, or in turn, the Witch and her fiery stove.

Now, with most of my gifts wrapped, I am looking forward to Christmas. I just ordered Christmas in Connecticut and can't wait to put my feet up, watch the movie, and eat some popcorn.
Peace to us all.