Family of One

Family of One Checks In

2011-08-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

For the past several months, I have been spending my writing time working on a proposal for a book entitled Party of One: Adventures in Dining Alone which is a dircct offshoot of this blog. I apologize for not keeping the blog more active and I will try to do better, but, as you can imagine, my priority is getting my book off the ground. I am so grateful to those of you who have read Family of One faithfully and encouraged me to turn it into a book. Indeed, I have another idea for a second book which will be Family of One! I am almost ready for the proposal to go out into the world and I will keep you posted!

Family of One Has a Perfect Day

2011-08-25T18:52:00.000-07:00

In mid-December of 1987, I had one of the most perfect days of my life. I was in New York to celebrate Christmas, one of my solo trips that would again become a tradition much later in my life. On this day, I had three things to anticipate, so it was like my birthday and Christmas and every other special day rolled into one. First, I had an orchestra third row left seat to see Anything Goes with Patti LuPone at Lincoln Center. Last, I had a reservation for the 11:00 performance of Bobby Short at the Café Carlyle In between, I had a reservation for Le Bernardin, probably the hardest reservation to get in the country, thanks to its mega-popularity as one of the very first temples of seafood. The reviews for it were worshipful, the press given to it only stellar, and the happiness when I finally got through the always-busy reservation line, unparalleled.

At the time, I was living in Charleston and prided myself on my slightly outré, but still tasteful, wardrobe. I also sported a short coiffure of platinum hair which was an incredible pain to keep maintained. For the theater, I was wearing a gray calf-length skirt with side kick pleat, a white silk blouse, and a hot pink angora cardigan sweater with a double strand of long pearls. To set off this ensemble, I had a pair of teal pumps and, I regret to tell you, a matching teal wool coat. Although, somehow it all came together.

The show was an incredible bundle of energy and “You’re the Top” with Ms. LuPone and Howard McGillin an absolute delight. I savored every Cole Porter song and was mesmerized by the dancing. At the intermission, I went out to the lobby of the theater where I could see up to the stark towers surrounding the theater and to a bleak gray sky. But, I was happy as Bo Diddley, so happy that I could hardly stand it because it was Christmas in New York and I loved my little life and I was enjoying every second of it.

I returned to my room at the Intercontinental and prepared for the evening with a very simple look of a calf-length black skirt and white silk shirt adorned with a neckline of a few rhinestones and black pumps. I cannot stress what an event it was to be going to Le Bernardin. It was my version of a fairy tale ball because just to tell someone that you had a reservation there elicited gasps of awe.

I felt like a goddess from the time that I arrived at the restaurant which was not particularly large or especially glamorous. What it had was a kind of magic from the simplicity of the wood beams and the stunning flower arrangements carefully placed to the paintings on the wall that were all fish-related including one that was quite controversial at the time and depicted fishmongers slicing open fish in their markets and the blood running out. It was as if every sense was being tantalized and you were in a place so protected that you knew that when you left, you might need an anti-depressant the next day.

The chef was Gilbert LeCoze who had won great acclaim for his superb fish preparations and his sister, Maguy, ran the front of the restaurant with an élan rarely seen in New York. I was given a lovely table, right in the middle of the restaurant. I had a great view of the infamous painting of the bloody fish which I just adored. I do not remember my main course, but I will never forget the starter of sea bass sashimi. We say that now like ordering a cheeseburger, but, then, it was tres exotic and the taste of fish with the light citrus and the subtle taste of the oil. I had read that the bananas three ways was the finest dessert, so I went with it even though other descriptions were more tempting. It was so incredible that I still start smiling thinking about it. There was a mousse and something like a timbale and it was all tied together with this spun sugar geometrical wonder that was not only gorgeous, but tasted divine.

The room was hushed with people speaking in respectful tones and about Serious Subjects, not squawking wildly about their feelings about the dinner as they were wont to do on visits that I made not too many years ago. The service was lovely without being pompous. My captain was a charming Greek fellow with a gorgeous head of floppy black hair and a killer smile. We became friendly throughout the evening and when I had finished my meal, he invited me into the kitchen to meet Gilbert LeCoze. Now, it had not become de rigueur for valued guests to be invited into kitchens, so it was very exciting to see where all of the magic happened and, for the kitchen staff, it was also very unusual to have a party of one as the VIP guest. I could not linger because I had to get to my next stop, the 11:00 Bobby Short show at the Café Carlyle.

It was a very cold evening and I was pleased to be entering into the overheated warmth that is a fancy New York City hotel lobby. I was almost looking forward to seeing and hearing Bobby Short more than the other big events of the day. Much to my disappointment, the café doors were closed and a sign was posted that Bobby Short had the flu and would not be able to perform. I was crestfallen and dejectedly walked back out to get a cab to my hotel. To have had such a wonderful day end this way did not seem fair.

I did not have a chance to be morose for long because as I walked into my hotel room, the telephone was ringing and it was the chef that I was currently seeing who wanted to know if I could join him for a late night bite to eat and some champagne. Yes, indeed, a perfect day.

25 years later, I am standing at the picture window in my hotel room overlooking Central Park and stunning building that surround it. I am pondering the fact that, once again, I am seeing a well-reviewed revival of Anything Goes that evening and how I wish I could go back to redo some of the decisions I have made in those ensuing years that would have saved me so much heartache. And, how I wish I had saved that hot pink sweater. But, then, I say to myself, “stop being such a pussy and get out and enjoy this wonderful day.”

So, first stop, one of my new traditions which is Le Pain Quotidien on Madison and 84th Street which was introduced to me by the daughter of my dear friend R. It’s not that unusual a place to grab some breakfast, but what I love about it is the gestalt of the neighborhood which ranges from placid stay-at-home moms with their beautifully behaved children to three mothers frenetically grabbing some time together to a charming elderly gentleman in a seersucker suit. It just feels right and the staff is always very nice to me.

From there, I cross Madison Avenue to Schweitzer Linens where I have a lovely time selecting some beautiful linens which, thankfully, can be toted in my carryon bag.

Then, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where I perfunctorily head for an exhibit which turns out to completely capture my imagination—the various drafts of The Card Players by Cezanne. I am enthralled with how he changed his perspective in the several incarnations, so much so that I start answering questions for other folks. At one point, I have a fairly large group around as I expound on the nature of the garment that one of the men is wearing and I hear a woman whisper, “she is so knowledgeable and even with that Southern accent”.

Lunch in the Members Dining Room overlooking Cleopatra’s Needle and the burgeoning trees is completely enveloping with a delightful repast of slightly spicy octopus salad, a gruyere cheese soufflé, and a butterscotch pot de crème. I am surrounded by people having the most interesting conversations about Book of Mormon, the dance scene in NYC, their interesting families, and, best of all, three gentlemen behind me discussing movies of the 70s and 80s in mesmerizing detail. As I get up to leave, I stop at their table—two 50ish gentlemen and a college age student. I tell the men that I feel that I have been attending a graduate film seminar and, thinking that I am complaining, start apologizing. I immediately reassure them that I have enjoyed every second and what a pleasure to know that there is a young man studying film at Syracuse University who has such a wonderful knowledge of the cinema. They invite me to sit down with them, but I have more place to go including a quick stop at my favorite place at the Met, the Temple of Dendur, which never fails to remind me both how important and how insignificant we are in this big world.

Before heading to the evening show of Anything Goes, I have an early dinner at Oceana, a lovely seafood restaurant on Sixth and 49th, a halfway point between my hotel and the theater. I am starting to become friends with the manager, a delightful gentleman whose wife is a manager at Eleven Madison Park. He chats with me, asking me what I am up for, but I think he is asking me what play I am seeing—Anything Goes, I tell him. His eyes light up and he begins telling me what he would like for me to order. I let him know that we have had a slight miscommunication, but, what the hay. I put myself in his hands and look forward to a lovely dinner. As I enjoy a pasta prepared with king crab legs flown in from Alaska, he and I chat some more and he tells me that the owner of Oceana was a captain at Le Bernardin when it first opened. Without thinking, I say, “oh, that is very funny because I had an affair with one of the captains when it first opened”. His eyes become very wide and his mouth makes a perfect O. He walks very quickly away from the table. I am horrified and scold myself, “why in the world did you have to reveal that? This nice man now thinks you are a harlot or strumpet or whatever the right word is. When he comes back, just try to act more demure”. When he returns, it is with the aforementioned owner of the restaurant who immediately puts me at my ease by saying, “so, you were a Le Bernardin groupie?” with a hearty laugh. I was relieved to see that it was not the gentleman I had known, I must be honest. I corrected myself and told him that it was more of dalliance than an affair and he caught me up on where the gentleman in question works and we spoke a bit about the exciting early days of the restaurant.

By now, I have bonded with the savvy and charming sommelier and I am enjoying incredible soft shell crabs followed by strawberry shortcake with mint ice cream which has me practically lying down on the banquette in happiness. I can hardly believe that it is time to depart this wonderful place, but I must scamper to the theater, so off I go, trailing best wishes to my new friends at Oceana.

Third row center for Anything Goes, circa 2011, was a marvelous experience. Above all, the energetic performance by Sutton Foster including the entire cast’s dancing their hearts out in the title number was something that I will never forget. I could have done without Joel Grey’s mugging and I find some of the subplots tiresome, but what a truly engaging and charming show. I liked it much better than the earlier revival because it was more energetic and also a little more wistful. Even though the appropriate lovers end up together, you can’t help but notice that some of the decisions are made with more than bit of practicality.

Time for a nightcap. I walk into the Oak Bar at the Plaza Hotel just as the bartender announces last call for the current revelers. He shakes his head at me and says he is closed. I hand him $40 and ask him to send over a Manhattan to the table at the window overlooking Central Park South. I think about my day and its coincidences as well as the new friends I have made. I think about the past 25 years and the marvelous journey I’ve had, certainly more wonderful than anything I imagined sitting at Lincoln Center all those years ago. I raise my glass to the sweet-faced horse who is loitering outside the window. Here’s to 2036, I

Family of One Has an Interesting Experience at Eleven Madison Park

2011-05-30T10:34:00.000-07:00

I recently had the opportunity to dine at my beloved Eleven Madison Park (which just won the James Beard Award for Best Restaurant in the United States) and was anticipating the occasion all day and in the cab ride over to the restaurant. There are so few places in our lives that truly represent a place with joy, pleasant surprises, and great affection with no stress or untoward drama and I reminded myself as I stood outside the restaurant to never take that for granted.

As I pushed the revolving door to enter the restaurant, there were two of my very favorites, Sandra and J.P., and we were laughing and screaming. I always look forward to strolling to the upper level and my usual table which is next to the marvelous high windows overlooking Madison Square Park and also overlooks the entire restaurant. There are usually a few friends for me to greet on the way and it is a great start to the evening.

But, on this night, I make the turn to the left, but J.P. keeps going straight. I try to hide my dismay. He is not only not taking me to my usual table, but the one that I call in my mind The Cinderella Table. When the restaurant expanded recently, they added a couple of tables that are in a corner with no ostensible views, particularly of the entire restaurant. From my perch at what I consider a premiere table, I would smugly glance at that table and think, “thank goodness I will never have to sit there”.

I can no longer hide my distress. J.P. tries to explain that my usual table is not in play for me tonight. He cannot clearly explain why I cannot sit at that table, but this is quickly turning into one of those moments that keep people from ever dining out alone. People are glancing up, wondering why I just don’t sit down, J.P is attempting to find me another table, friends are starting to rush over to see if I am OK, and three thoughts are going through my mind.

First, I think about how I have touted myself as a person to trust when it comes to dining alone, especially on a Saturday night. I have spent years building up advice and encouragement for friends on how to make sure to have a fabulous experience. Get to know the staff, don’t make kooky demands, show how much you enjoy the experience. . . and all of that effort has obviously gone for naught. Who am I to think that I know anything about dining alone successfully? The staff must have included me in their category of eccentric diners and tried to make a show of keeping me happy. But, now, it was time for me to take my proper place at one of the most undesirable tables. Which led me to my next thoughts.

Being in sales, I thought of the difficult customers that I stroke and cosset, all in the effort of keeping their business and how, sometimes, the moment comes when you just can’t up the pretense any more or something outside of your control happens and the customer sees that he was, merely, a customer. Now I knew how that person felt. I vowed that when I recovered my equilibrium, I would think of better ways to treat my customers so they never had to experience this sinking feeling.

The third thought that I had as a lovely table was finally set for me was “no one puts Baby in a corner” from the classic film Dirty Dancing.

Let’s face it, this is one of the top restaurants in the world, not just the United States. Why would the needs of a single diner on their busiest night of the week be of any consequence? I pondered what to do. It seemed a bit strident to just leave, even though it was going to be a long, miserable night. I decided that the best course of action was to return to the entrance and tell Sandra and J.P. that it was simply not going to be a very good night to dine there and ask them to make me a reservation at another USHG (Danny Meyer’s empire) restaurant. I sat down at the table that I had been shown to think through what I wanted to do.

By now, several of the managers had come over to talk with me, but I was getting a different explanation from each one. I decided that I needed to do a very hard thing and ask this question—is there something that I am doing or some behavior that I have exhibited that I need to correct in order to make serving me a better experience for you? While I did not expect anyone to say, “oh, yes, stop listening to your iPod, it makes us think you don’t like the course we have just served you” or some such, I did think that I would be able to read the nonverbals and get a sense of what I could do better.

Each person seemed genuinely aghast and the only constructive criticism was that I had never said that the preferred table was a deal-breaker, so no one thought it would be that horrific to give me another table. In fact, it might be seen as a welcome change. I quickly pointed out all of the tables that I would like, but not The Cinderella Table.

We all quickly fell into our familiar roles and I enjoyed a marvelous dinner with many of my favorites including the shredded pig in the shape of a Milky Way, a fabulous cheddar accompanied by light as air cheddar biscuits, and sea urchin cappuccino served in an eggshell. The wine tasting was served by a new sommelier with whom I quickly developed a wonderful rapport. At the end of the meal, the manager for my section told me that my wine pairing would be comped due to the mix-up which was a lovely gesture. I left the restaurant feeling very good.

But, still, I couldn’t put the experience behind me. I never wanted to go into a fabulous restaurant and feel that level of dismay again. So, since I am considered part of the EMP Family, I did what one is supposed to do when harboring concerns about one’s family. I called Megan Vaughn, who has to be one of the top managers in the fine dining business. I told her that it was very important that I not come across as demanding or spoiled, but that it was probably time (after 23 visits) that I let her know what was important to me. I asked that I have a captain with whom I felt comfortable and was also skilled at reading what I wanted; I asked that if I were to be given a different table, I was told at the entrance, not merely taken to the table; and I asked that the staff always feel free to tell me if I was asking too much. It was a wonderful conversation.

So, now, as I head to New York for my birthday weekend and my Saturday dinner at EMP, I look forward to it with great delight. Maybe more than usual.

Family of One Has a Conversation with Mother

2011-05-08T09:22:00.000-07:00

Mother called recently and there was an unusual lilt in her voice.

“There was a goat at the beauty shop,” she said.

I thought that I had misunderstood.

“Yes, Miss Astorbilt (as she refers to me), there was a goat. The people who own the building also have a big farm outside Thomasville. This little goat is black instead of white like his mother and brothers, so they don’t want anything to do with him. He also has a very bad underbite. So, the people are bottle feeding him and are keeping him in the fenced yard behind the beauty shop until he grows up a bit”.

So, I queried, she saw the goat in the yard behind the beauty shop?

“If it is any of your business,” she riposted, “they brought the goat into the beauty shop so that we could see him. He was running and skipping and running and skipping all around. He tried to eat my shoe and he also ate a plant”.

She was wistful for a moment.

“He has the softest fur”.

I had not heard her this excited since she shook Vincent Price’s hand at the Sedgefield Country Club.

I immediately texted my partner in absurdity, Jason, who had a series of questions including were there not any cosmetology laws in High Point preventing goats from entering beauty shops. He also named the goat “McCullers” after Carson McCullers, a nod to both his Southern roots and my father, Carson Southern.

When I spoke to Mother the next day, she immediately began talking about the goat. I told her that Jason had some questions about the goat.

“I do not care for the tone in Jason’s questions,” she offered. “I do not think he has the goat’s best interest at heart”.

I told her we had named the goat “McCullers”.

“It is none of Jason’s business what the goat is named. Besides, the former mayor of High Point is named Roy Culler and that could be very confusing to the goat. And, he already has a name. His name is Valentino”.

I made the point that she should have told me the goat’s name before Jason so kindly thought of a name.

“I do not like your attitude or Jason’s attitude”.

In response to concern about the cosmetology laws, Mother was succinct.

“Why don’t Jason and you worry about those books you are supposed to be making?”

Discussion about McCullers dominated much of our conversations for the next week. She could hardly wait to see “McCuster”, as she begrudgingly called him, again.

After her visit to the beauty shop, she called me, completely crestfallen.

“They took the goat back to live with his family. He found a hole in the fence behind the beauty shop and they found him wandering in the parking lot.”

Her voice brightened for a moment.

“I told them that he needed some vegetables and was walking to Food Town”.

There was a long silence.

“I loved that little fellow”.

Several weeks later, a letter arrived from High Point. On lovely stationery engraved Mary Southern, there was a scrawled note from Valentino asking if he could meet me one day and sending me $43.00. There was also a murky photograph of the goat (taken down from her beautician’s mirror where it had a place of honor).

Mother has assured me that when I come to High Point, the owners have consented to bring the goat for a visit so that I can meet him.

I hope he will answer to McCullers. But, of course, it is none of my business.

Family of One Attends Jersey Boys in Miami, FL

2011-03-11T13:28:00.000-08:00

Later tonight, I am headed to see Jersey Boys for the third time, the first two being on Broadway. Tonight, for the first time, I have a really great seat. I have been thinking about why I wanted to spend premium bucks to see a show again that, frankly, is no 42nd Street or God of Carnage, for that matter. I hear about a lot of folks who are transfixed by this show and see it again and again.

There’s definitely something about the (for the most part) upbeat music. I barely remember Frankie Valli and the Four Season from my childhood, enjoying their music more when I was in my 30s. The plot of a rags to riches to rags to riches experience definitely resonates. I like the idea of spending an evening in the theater where there is a happy ending and lots of energizing tunes. I like not having to focus on every plot twist and listen to every lyric, but just relax.

But, I think that my great affection for this show goes back to the first time that I saw it in June of 2006 just as it was becoming a huge phenomenon and just after the show and its star won the Tony awards.

I was just coming out of the worst period of my life and had begun what were still tentative forays back into the NYC scene. Now, I take it for granted that I zip all over the city, throwing back cocktails and yucking it up with new friends at the latest restaurants. Then, I was still grappling with remaining issues from the days when I lived in New York as well as what my future held. I was not particularly excited about seeing Jersey Boys, but I had heard great things about it, so, given that I used to see almost every show playing on Broadway, I decided to see that along with a delightful and underrated show called The Drowsy Chaperone.

My seat was in the second mezzanine and I was surrounded by mostly folks my age and older, but lots of couples, most of whom seemed to be from New Jersey. I say that not with sarcasm, but because they were all yelling out to each other where they were from and greeting each other warmly.

Even the second mezzanine was a treat to me because in an attempt to be thrifty and because NYC hotels were starting at $400 a night for just a mediocre room, I had done something that I thought was brilliant and rented an apartment which was advertised as close to Lincoln Center. It was in the housing project directly behind Lincoln Center, so that part was true. The apartment, which it also was, had one lone light bulb, a mattress directly on the floor, and smelled of a gas leak which encouraged me to stay out of it the whole time I was there. I wouldn’t even go in the bathroom, but washed my hands—and my hair—in the kitchen sink. The one thing that it had going for it was that it had a nice long sofa overlooking 68th Street, so that I could lie there and read and look out on a tree-covered street, long one of my NYC dreams. Suffice to say, I never looked back once my time there was up and I immediately made plans to return to NYC a few weeks later when the Gramercy Park Hotel was reopening with an introductory rate of $250 per night.

But, for now, I am in a nice, cool theater and I am not disappointed by the energy and the direction of the show. And, the performances are excellent. Everyone gets into the show and we are all laughing and discreetly sniffing at the appropriate times. Early in the show, Frankie Valli is told that because of his great talent, one day he will be a superstar singing with the backing of an orchestra that includes horns. Somehow, this never seems to happen.

So, towards the end of the second act, the familiar strains of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” start, the single horn playing the introduction and Frankie Valli’s single clear voice singing the song of so much yearning and possible fulfillment. As John Lloyd Young sang the song, my mind almost exploded with thoughts of people in my life who had reached great heights in the second acts of their life. I even thought about my ex G and what an incredible second act he was having. And, then, I thought about myself and how in what seemed like just a few weeks, everything that had been so grim had turned into something wonderful and affirming. As I was thinking this, several musicians strutted onto the stage playing horns like trombones and trumpets, that incredible heart of the song. It was so incredibly overpowering that I burst into tears and just sat there sobbing unabashedly. Then, I pulled myself together. I said to myself, “stop acting like such a p***** and stop embarrassing yourself in front of all of these people from New Jersey”. I sat up and looked around. Everyone else was collapsed in tears as well. Even the men! Especially the men!

And, then, all of a sudden, everyone in the theater leapt up and started a standing ovation in the middle of the song. I just assumed that the producers had manipulated the emotional pull of the song to evoke such a response. But, that didn’t tarnish the moment at all. We all clapped and clapped and STOPPED THE SHOW!! Never in my life did I think I would write those words, unless it was for a revival of Elaine Stritch in Company or Lunt/Fontanne in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The ovation went on for a couple of minutes. Finally, John Lloyd Young had nodded and bowed and held his hands to his heart enough times and the show went on.

Christ on a crutch, I was so worn out that I couldn’t even tell you what happened after that. But, of course, there is the wonderful scene when the group reunites at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and rises up below the stage singing Rag Doll with the haunting chorus boomeranging all over the theater. And other wonderful scenes. We were all so connected by this time that no one wanted to leave the theater after the final note.

So, the second time that I saw it, I was not as emotionally frayed and enjoyed the whole show and no one collapsed with emotion during “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” or received a standing ovation in the middle of the show. This time, the audience was filled with parents from all over the country with their teen-aged daughters, singing every word along with the cast. Fascinating that this show so entranced them, I thought.

Tonight, from my box seat, I plan on just enjoying the show from my box seat along with a pre-theater meal at Barton G’s restaurant, Prelude, located at the theater. Who loves you, indeed!!

Family of One Remembers an Interesting Encounter

2011-02-23T16:29:00.000-08:00

As I lounged on the couch in front of a lovely fire at my beloved Hotel Sainte-Beuve in Paris recently listening to my iPod, a song came on from the early 80s (Hall and Oates’ “Private Eyes”) that took me back to when I briefly lived in Austin, TX and, from there, a memory that I had not thought about in a long time came rushing back and has stayed with me ever since. Interesting how that happens, isn’t it?

Before I moved to Austin, I took one last trip to NYC from my current home in Richmond, VA and was looking forward to seeing Rex Harrison in a production of My Fair Lady with a dear friend who was working on her doctorate in English at Princeton. We agreed to meet for dinner at one of those French bistros that, at the time, lined W. 45th and W. 46th Street in the theater district.

For this auspicious occasion, I was wearing a dress which I had seen pictured on the front of the Fall Lord and Taylor catalog, then considered the very best in working woman fashion. It was a navy paisley pseudo-polyester with matching belt, white Peter Pan collar, and floppy red bow tie. It cost $125 which would be like $800 today. I had seen Nina Courtlandt wear a very similar dress on All My Children and I felt that it was the height of sophistication. To accompany this dress, I had a similarly priced pair of navy leather pumps that were not quite Ferragamos, but the next thing to them.

As I waited for my friend, I stood outside perusing the menu and a middle-aged fellow walked up to join me, standing just a little too close. I glanced at him in annoyance, but he did not appear to notice. He was probably in his late 40’s, salt and pepper unruly hair and beard, dressed in the style of the artiste of the day which was a beige linen shirt, white painter’s pants, and some kind of sandals. I seem to recall some kind of backpack or bag carelessly slung over his shoulder.

This was not the kind of man to whom I would have given a second glance as I preferred the clean-cut, preppy look. In thinking about this now, it is clear that he resembled nothing less than a grayer version of the character that Alan Bates played in An Unmarried Woman, a movie that had had a seminal effect on my life choices, but I wasn’t paying very close attention. Perhaps the thought of an evening with Rex Harrison was dancing in my brain.

At any rate, we struck up a conversation about the menu and one thing led to another and, before I could say coq au vin, he had asked me if I would like to go into the restaurant and have dinner with him. I was slightly horrified. What would a young, Nina Courtlandt wanna-be do with such an invitation? This fellow had told me that he was an actor and a writer (as if who, dressed like him, wasn’t?). I could see my friend coming down the street, so I told him that I would not be able to have dinner with him. He then invited me to see the apartment he was renovating on the corner of 45th Street and Ninth Avenue, a neighborhood with which I was not all that familiar. He scrawled his name—Keith A. Walker—and his phone number on a piece of paper and asked me to call him the next afternoon.

He loped off down the street and, before I could tell my friend about this encounter, she took a nasty spill in a puddle of water in the restaurant and did great damage to her skirt, the fact of which consumed us for our evening as she dealt with getting the restaurant to pay for a new skirt, etc.

After My Fair Lady, I headed back to Minetta Lane where I was staying with college friends with whom I regaled the tale of the actor/writer and they all agreed that he was setting me up for, if not robbery, then a possible gang rape, since he had told me not to be worried about coming to his apartment because there would be plenty of workmen around and we would not be alone. “He lives in HELL’S KITCHEN,” they kept stressing in particularly ominous tones. It occurs to me now that they must have been trained at the Mother School of Scary Situation, but, nonetheless, I ignored their entreaties which were made all the more interesting as they never met a recreational drug that they didn’t like and were constantly having unsavory affairs with stockbrokers, lawyers, etc.

I met Keith A. Walker at his apartment on Saturday afternoon. Because I wanted to come across as fierce and independent, I wore (also from Lord and Taylor) a raspberry faux-polyester of a particularly pillable fabric with matching belt and shoulder pads. I complemented this look with a pair of faux leather beige pumps with what we now call peektoe, but then we called professional.

Keith took me on a tour of the duplex that he was renovating and introduced me to the lone Hispanic worker who was grouting the kitchen floor. The only time that he touched was me when he gave me a gentlemanly hand to help me up and down the various steps and over the carpentry tools spread all around. He suggested that we go to get a cappuccino. I was beside myself with excitement. At that time, cappuccino was not widely available in instant powder formats, let along being served at McDonald’s. I doubt that I had ever had a cappuccino. To sit on a Saturday afternoon with what was quickly becoming an interesting companion was the height of sophistication.

Keith told me that he was an erstwhile actor (having appeared in such shows as Mannix, Quincy, and The Rookies), but that his true love was writing and that his dream was to write a movie that would make enough money for him to live on farm in Tennessee, using land that he had bought. He was married to an actress who found a role as the maid on Dynasty, but, at the time, was an actress in Los Angeles. He made vague allusions to some sort of open marriage which I chose to ignore.

Talking with him was engaging and provocative in a way that I had rarely experienced and, in fact, was slightly intimidating. I felt sad that I was getting ready to go to Austin and that I would not be able to continue this whatever it was.

We still had some time to kill before I had to leave for the airport, so we strolled back to his brownstone and sat on his stoop on a lovely September afternoon. In the middle of discussing our favorite movies and books, he suddenly said, “there is something I want to say to you that I don’t think you will ever hear from anyone else. You have so many gifts that you are not using and you are completely wasting your time in college textbook publishing. Please don’t let yourself languish there when you could be doing something that could really have a huge impact”. I disagreed with him. I told him that I realized I wasn’t on my way to being Maxwell Perkins, but I had come from a mean little town and gotten myself into a business that was interesting and fun and where I knew I could flourish. He nodded resignedly. I told him that I would keep his advice in mind.

After I got to Austin, we became great correspondents although, interestingly, we never talked on the phone. He asked me to come back to NYC to see him but I told him that I needed to focus on getting to know my new territory. He also made me an offer that no one else has ever made—to go to Paris—but, as put it, either for a long weekend or for six months which, he said, was the only way to do it. I asked for a rain check.

I only stayed in Austin a short while, but, by the time I was back to my regular visits to NYC, I was seeing a couple of other men who were not as intimidating (even though they were also twenty-plus years older like Keith) and so our correspondence drifted away.

Years later, I had just moved back to Boston from NYC where I had lived for two years when I read his obituary in Entertainment Weekly. He had written the screenplays for the Free Willy series of movies and had, indeed, been able to move to Tennessee and live on his beloved farm. He was only 61. I was so sad that our paths would never cross again because I had always thought that somehow we would be back in touch.

Around this time, my beloved friend B was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. After our initial shock had worn off and we realized that we needed to spend our time together talking about what was ahead for her, I told her about Keith A. Walker and asked her to look him up. Her fact lit up. She said, “he sounds so wonderful and I love the fact that he established such a strong connection with you so quickly”.

Perhaps they are having a cappuccino right now.

As for me, I am very grateful that I went to Hell’s Kitchen on a sunny September day and only wish that I could have had the courage to take a long weekend in Paris.

Family of One Celebrates 30 Years in College Publishing

2011-01-16T10:24:00.000-08:00

On May 27th of last year, I celebrated my 30th year in college textbook publishing. On that day, I was a little too busy in my current job to properly celebrate it and then, as the year went on, I kept forgetting to mention it or even think too much about it. But, now that I have a chance to breathe again for a week or two, it occurs to me that this is a significant milestone and one that I am planning to ponder, especially which jobs I have enjoyed the most and what I see as the future for our industry that can keep me engaged for twenty more years.

I have worked for eighteen managers at five different companies and been a sales representative (9 years), acquisitions editor (12 years), editor-in-chief/executive editor (2 years), marketing manager (1 year), and custom editor (7 years). I have lived in eight cities with the longest stints in Boston and Miami. The job at which I was unequivocally the worst was marketing manager as it was just, for me, a thankless role of marketing books on which I had been able to have no impact editorially and having to be available to answer questions 24/7 to which I was never all that sure of the answers. I was a good, but not great, sales rep. I was very skilled at procuring the business when the adoption was open to everyone because I was blessed with fabulous books, especially in the late 80s at Houghton Mifflin. But, when I would ask an instructor if he were interested in changing texts and he would say, “oh, I am happy with xxxx”, then I would cheerfully reply, “oh, then you should keep using xxx” and go on my merry way. Thankfully, as an acquisitions editor, I learned to be more aggressive and convince professors to write books who had never thought about it and customers to switch to my books because I could really convince them that they were the best for their courses.

My favorite job is being an editor. I love the combination of sitting in my office, working away on a project that only I can deliver be it a submission or a review summary or a strategic plan along with the thrill of talking to customers and seeing their faces light up when I can offer a solution to a knotty problem in their coursework. I am very lucky to do something that I enjoy so much, especially having done the jobs where I do not look forward to turning on my computer every day.

I could write about the marvelous people I have met, the kooks I have encountered, the passes I have deflected, the affairs that I have enjoyed, the authors that I have nurtured, the projects in which I have delighted, and the fabulous lunches and dinners that I have enjoyed with a plethora of publishers and professors. But, I think I would most enjoy telling you about how I got into college publishing.

After working on my M.A. in English for a year at the College of William and Mary, I had about as much direction as Meg Ryan has an upcoming movie role. I had worked at a fancy clothing store in High Point and was surprised by how much I liked selling and finding the perfect ensembles for my customers. I had a chance meeting with a sales rep for Houghton Mifflin as we both waited outside my Shakespeare professor’s office and he told me about his glamorous life of travel, expensed meals, and free car. But, I had always assumed that, like most women of my generation, I would do something to kill a little time and then get married and produce the what-seemed-obligatory three (always beautiful) children). But, I had hitched my wagon to a star that was not particularly interested in returning the favor, having found someone else to marry and so I was headed back to High Point with a heavy heart. I went back to work at the clothing store and resigned myself to a very modest life.

Then, of all things, Mother heard that High Point College (now University) was hiring an English instructor to run the writing lab. This was at a time when there were thousands of PhDs and MAs in English chasing down the very few jobs that existed. I took my resume over to the college and, while I was at work, the department head called our house and talked to Mother who made me a sound like a cross between Diana Trilling and Diane Keaton. I got the job and taught the 8:00 classes that no one wanted of developmental English and freshman composition and ran the writing lab. I also taught introduction to literature in the adult education program at R.J. Reynolds’ world headquarters in Winston-Salem where I had the dubious distinction of dating the most handsome man in the class, a fact that endeared me to all of the “students’ who were at least twice my age except for the two of us.

Interestingly, during that time, I was courted by some other very nice young men and so the goal of being Mrs. Somebody or Other could have been easily accomplished. But, I had read The Best of Everything and seen An Unmarried Woman and I thought that there had to be another life, one that would not center around being someone wife’s or mother and which would enable me to truly shine on my own. If I had stayed at High Point College, I have no doubt that I could have created such a life, but I thought it would be much easier to find an interesting job that took me away from where I had grown up so unhappily.

I started paying attention to the textbook sales reps that came around and asking them about their jobs. The fellow for Little, Brown was particularly helpful and as he had a brand-new handbook to sell, something called The Little Brown Handbook which promised to revolutionize the teaching of freshman composition, he made sure to spend time with me. Our department had been using the standard for the time, the Harbrace Handbook, since Eisenhower had been president. I told the sales rep that I would convince the department to use the Little Brown Handbook if we would help me get a job with his company.

At the same time, our department head, a glamorous, wealthy divorcee who had a beautiful mane of chestnut hair and resembled the studio chief Sherry Lansing , invited two of the full professors and me to accompany her to a convention of English professors called 4C’s that was being held in Washington, DC. I thought that this might be a good way to meet other publishers although I was, of course, supposed to attend sessions on becoming a better writing lab director. When we got to the convention hotel, I was stunned to see rows and rows of publishers all just standing around, waiting to talk to us, the professors to whom they sold. I was as excited as I would be today at a foie gras festival.

Thankfully, I had on my very best ensemble which was a gray suit that I bought at Saks Fifth Avenue, Floor 6, in New York City from Beatrice Wiener. At that time, it was very popular to wear not only suits, but skirts that had front slits from the knee to mid-thigh. So, I had on what I considered this stunning suit with a faux gray silk blouse and faux pearls. To complete this festival of fashion, I wore my highest stiletto sandals (sometimes known as F*** Me pumps) which are common (in all senses of the word) today, but, back then, were considered fairly daring with gray sheer hose. I felt that I was too short to have any kind of lovely figure, but I often received compliments on my legs which were perfectly proportioned. So, I go prancing into this exhibit hall.

I quickly learn to ask for the sales manager or editorial director who is “working the booth” and tell them that I am an English “professor” hoping to make the switch into college textbook publishing. By the time I leave the exhibit hall, I have three commitments for interviews and five more names to call for possible interviews. I am invited to the Prentice Hall cocktail party where I am more popular than Sue Ellen Ewing at the Cattleman’s Ball. I meet sales reps and district managers and editors and they all say how wonderful it would be if I worked at their company. Until then, I had pretty much thought that I would end up at Little, Brown because of my promise to my sales rep, but I was greeted with mild enthusiasm by the Editorial Director (who many years later became a good friend) who sent me a letter written by his secretary and telling me that I might have a future in the textbook business.

In an interesting twist of fate, one of my friends from high school (and a reader of the blog!), Miss Lynn York, was a sales rep for Prentice Hall in Dallas and we connected after my meeting with the PH people in DC. PH also had territories that were open and available in a number of places that I wanted to live including Richmond, VA which I thought would be the perfect starting point as I ventured away from High Point and contemplated eventually going to New York or Boston. And, so, once I returned to High Point, all of the pieces of the job search puzzle felt into place and I was on my way to Richmond by the beginning of the summer. And, on to a ride that has lasted for more than 30 years.

But, back to the 4C’s in DC. My comrades from HPC were flabbergasted that I was nowhere to be found as they had thought that they would be babysitting me since I could have easily been their daughter. We had dinner one night and went our own way the other night, but before we went back to High Point on Saturday, the “men” wanted to go to the Folger Shakespeare Library while they dropped the “women” off at Lord and Taylor to shop. I was happy as could be in such a sophisticated store while my department head looked on in amusement. After shopping, she took me to lunch in a very upscale bistro and said that she knew that I would be on to bigger things soon and toasted me with champagne. It was all very heady.

When the men picked us up, we had a long ride back to High Point, but she and I curled up under her mink coast in the back seat of her Lincoln Continental while the men sat in front and chatted. We took US 29 back to Greensboro which carried us through the horse country of Virginia and where there was nothing to be seen in the pitch black except an occasional fence and stars in the sky. I lay under the mink coat and realized, for the first time, that I was going to be able to make my future happen and that it was starting right then.

Family of One Offers the Best of 2010

2010-12-31T20:23:00.000-08:00

Wishing everyone a happy and healthy 2011, but must share with you some final thoughts on 2010, a remarkable and challenging year.

BEST MOVIE—For overall entertainment, edification, and enchantment, I’m going with The King’s Speech which had me hooked from the very first scene and about which I am still pondering days later. Close seconds to The Social Network which was extremely well-made, but not emotionally intelligent and The Fighter which was emotionally intelligent, as well as a riveting drama.

WORST MOVIE—I saw some pretty disappointing movies this year like Wall Street 2 and Black Swan, but the very worst was Convicted, a movie so bad that, as the only person in the theater, I sat and screamed epithets at the screen like “who gives a s%*#, you f%(@@@ a’hole”. I do not have a brother, but I cannot imagine that a woman would sacrifice her marriage and her children for the sake of getting her brother with whom her bond was portrayed as little too creepy out of jail.

BEST BOOK-FICTION—The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman was, by turns, funny, poignant, despairing, cynical, and cheering. I could not put it down nor will you as soon as you rush to download or purchase it.

BEST BOOK-NONFICTION—I just got to Andre Agassiz’s Open in 2010 and read it while in NYC during the US Open. I carried it everywhere and could not put it down. Honest, self-aware, and filled with interesting anecdotes, it is one of the best memoirs I have read.

BEST BROADWAY SHOW—The revival of La Cage aux Folles was not as sweeping and Busby Berkeley-like as the original, but it captured the seediness of the nightclub as well as the true love between the two leads in a wonderful way. To see Douglas Hodge is a marvel.

BEST SONG—The salacious sweetness of California Gurls never fails to amuse and hearten me. Who can be down when Snoop Dogg is rapping about his eternal affection for the West Coast and Katy Perry’s hits the high octaves with that infectious chorus? Snoop Doggy Dogg on the stereo, indeed!

BEST DISH—Tied between two memorable dishes—a pork butt that had been roasted in pine, the most lovely, kind, seductive flavor—at McCrady’s in Charleston, SC and for which I will long (almost said pine) forever. And, the roasted chicken for two at Eleven Madison Park prepared with the love and care that goes into a Thanksgiving turkey by Chef Daniel Humm. The moistness and the flavor are unparalleled. Honorable mention to the pecan pie tarts at It’s in the Sauce BBQ in Ventura, CA which featured the most nutty, brown-sugary filling and the most buttery, flaky crust imaginable.

BEST MOMENT—In a year filled with so many wonderful, lovely times, one moment stood up as representative and that was when K and I went to Eleven Madison Park for our birthdays and Chef Humm, as K put it, “made a beeline for OUR table”. She was mesmerized and enchanted. There followed a procession of my NYC dining family anxious to meet my friend and about whom she said, “you have found your dining home”. A spectacular meal, but one that was such a grand experience for both of us. Honorable mention—I finally, finally got rid of the PC that G had given me in 2000 (what was I waiting for? For it to be declared an antique?) and bought an iMac. In the process of going from PC to Mac, 2500 songs from my iPod which contains 11,000 songs went missing. The folks at the Apple store tried to help, but it took my friend C to suggest that we click on the folder marked “back-up” on the storage drive after trying desperately to find them. The second that the first of the 2500 started flowing into iTunes was the equivalent of a last minute touchdown pass for—fill in your favorite team here—at the Super Bowl. We were whooping and hollering like two girls who pilfered a glass from which Justin Bieber had drunk.

Family of One thanks you for coming along for the ride and will be posting again in about ten days. And, that’s a resolution for 2011!!

Family of One Takes a Vacation Stateside

2010-12-31T05:35:00.000-08:00

A seminal event of my life occurred in Beverly Hills, CA when I was ten years old. Mother and Dad had taken me on an extensive trip through the West—the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Yosemite, and Yellowstone Park, to name a few of the highlights. They explained that the apotheosis (although they did not use that exact word) of the trip for me would be Disneyland. The rest of the trip would be for the grown-ups. You will not be surprised to learn that with the exception of throwing back Shirley Temples with an extremely cute Asian tour guide at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco (more on that another time), the most wonderful part of the trip was the tour of the movie stars’ homes in a limousine which came about because the tour bus left us standing forlornly while it blithely passed us by. A phone call to the tour company and we were being shown Loretta Young and Dean Martin’s houses in luxury, a feeling that I was determined to capture for the rest of my life or as soon as I could get out of High Point.

When I returned to Los Angeles in the 90s, I absolutely loved everything about it. The way the ocean meets the mountains, the lively and fun restaurant scene, the never-ending array of movies, the casualness—in fact, I would have moved to Santa Monica rather than Miami, but I didn’t think I should be so far from the aforementioned Mother and Dad.

So, when I made the decision to stay stateside this year, I decided that Santa Monica was the place to be. I had connected with some wonderful folks on facebook and needed to see one of my dearest friends from way back in Ventura. I did not feel the need to see grand temples or art museums. I did not feel the need to eat incredible meals. I did feel the need to laugh and talk about shared history and make witty remarks and listen to charming conversation. So, what better place than LA? Aside—while I did take a limousine to LAX for old times’ sake, my taxi to the Oceana Hotel was driven by a most flirtation gentlemen who said something like “I tell my daughter not to waste her time having sex, it only lasts two seconds and then it’s over”. Me (after a slight pause)-“ I don’t think I will want to go out with you after all”. Much laughter. Then he assured me that he was only speaking in metaphors. And invited me out for a drink.

You may have heard of the Dodges, a publishing dynasty based in the greater Santa Monica/Venice area, comprised of A. Dodge, her brother J. Dodge, and his wife D. Dodge. They are very successful at what they do, but what I like even more is that they are so interesting and so fun that you want them to be on a mini-series. Not a reality show, for Christ’s sake, but some sort of show about living the delightful life in SoCal.

Now, I knew J. Dodge from having been his colleague three years ago and D. Dodge from a brief encounter at a sales conference in January. I had never met A. Dodge. I had gotten to know them through facebook where we exchange pithy comments about all of the things we love like food and movies.

On my first night, I was having some dinner at a local trattoria in Santa Monica and posting my status update on fb when I get a call from A. Dodge who informs me that she is at yoga several blocks away and will be joining me for a glass of wine. A blind date!! We are immediately laughing and screaming. After our dinner, she walks her bike back down Montana so that we can stroll along together and I tell her that I feel we have had a successful blind date and I would like to see her again. Actually, we had already made plans to go out for one of the most authentic Italian dinners outside of Rome that I have had in the US—Capo was a fantastic treat with the most exquisite black sea bass and pillowy ravioli and luscious wine and bubbly rose. Eating with A Dodge requires intense concentration because she will tell you things that are very important about herself, yourself, and the world around you. I loved every second.

Later in the week, I met J.Dodge at the Huckleberry Café which is a place that, once you go there, you will always think about because you will wish that you had one next to your house. Over green eggs and ham (fabulous ham over soft scrambled eggs with arugula and a crunchy sort of English muffin-y kind of thing), we sat for two hours while I savored every second of his sense of the absurd and his practical, yet slightly cynical, view of the world. On my final day, I had the pleasure of dining with D. Dodge at the 3 Square café and over bratwurst and fried eggs, we laughed and slightly cried about the interesting twists and turns of our lives. She had come without their daughter S and so we were able to just sit back and talk about everything while letting loose a few F bombs. I loved getting to know her better and experiencing her wonderful heart and passion for everything from movies to food to friends.

Who else did I see? The closest thing to a godchild that I have had is my friend H whom I had not seen since she was 13 and visited me in NYC where the last thing I remember about her is taking her to see Eloise at the Plaza Hotel. She is now 28 and lives in LA. We, too, had connected on facebook, so I invited her to dinner. I was somewhat nervous about this. What would we talk about? I knew that she was doing some acting and writing and singing, so I figured that getting caught up on her parents (who live in Chapel Hill, NC and whom I adore) and talking about her work would get us through a dinner at Lucques, a place I had been longing to go. H turned out to be beautiful with an unusual husky voice and so engaging and fun that we ended up closing the restaurants. In fact, we didn’t order for about an hour and I can barely remember what I ate—although it was wonderful (some kind of duck dish for the entrée). We spoke of movies, movie stars, her growing up, TV, books (turns out she is a writer as well), our love lives, she spotted John Lithgow across the restaurant. . . .it was a lovely evening.

Now, at this point, you might be thinking—how could all of these people that she is meeting be so enchanting—from Philadelphia to Los Angeles? But, it’s true! I was having the time of my life reconnecting/connecting with all of these wonderful people. And, not to mention over such delectable meals!

I was very happy to see one of the dearest people in the world to me, the wonderful Ma whom I met when we were new editors at HM in 1990. Ma was the kind of editor who kept a bowl of fancy tulips on her desk and spun the most engaging stories about her interesting life. We bonded over the fact that we were both Southerners trying to adjust to life in Boston, but our bond now goes much deeper. I had not seen her since 2003. I looked forward to seeing her spouse, CD, as well, whom I adored on sight for her practicality and wisdom about the vagaries of life. Our time together was splendid. We ate fried green olives and drank lemon drops at lovely restaurant, saw a mediocre movie (Due Date), I visited their church. We ate what are possibly the world’s best pancakes and ham steak at Pete’s. I shopped at the outlets while she worked. We ate fabulous crab fried rice at a new Thai restaurant that featured the freshest, most tasty crab. We curled up on their mammoth furniture and watched Moonstruck while we ate delicious tri-tip and their dogs used my body as furniture. I had been wearing the engagement ring from G, so I had been looking for a replacement and she helped me find one at a jewelry store that had designed their wedding rings—coral in a very unusual setting. I felt loved and appreciated. Ma is now a psychologist and I, of course, asked many questions designed to improve my mental health. One thing I asked her was why I had such an easy time enjoying friendships all over the US, but had none of any real heft in the place where I lived. She said that having been in relationships that were oppressive and unpleasant, I probably needed this time in Miami for myself where I could live life on my terms and be rejuvenated and that when the time was right, I would have this plethora of friends in Miami. In the meantime, I was free to explore the world and enjoy all of my wonderful friends and have them visit the triplex. On our last morning, Ma scheduled a lunch with a colleague, in the exact place where we had enjoyed strawberry pancakes and ham steak for about two hours. I thought that was very wise because I knew that I felt like getting in the back seat of the Mustang and sobbing. Ma is the epitome of a BFF. We laughed, we cried, we ate. It was fabulous.

I had a wonderful time on the rest of my vacation. I shopped at Sephora (where I had never been) and spent $450 on things that I TRULY use every day! I visited an Apple store and picked out the kind of computer I wanted to buy. I saw another mediocre movie, Morning Glory, but at 1:00 in the afternoon. I walked along the wonderful park that fronts the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica. I read my Walt Disney biography. It was all so divine.

I can’t wait to go back.

Although I think Venice is calling my name for a vacation in late 2011.

Family of One Goes to Philadelphia

2010-12-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

For the past few years, I have been journeying to places in Europe during the fall of the year. This has been very important because, believe it or not, until five years ago, I refused to get on a plane that crossed the ocean and the thought of dealing with learning a foreign country was anathema to me. So, just like I made myself move to Miami where I knew no one in order to learn how to build a life, I decided to start with Paris and then go from there. Mother and Dad took me to Europe when I was in college, so I was familiar with most places. But, going there on my own has been one of the great joys of my life. I needed a break, though, from the thought and studying that go into my trips and from spending twelve or so days with no real companionship. I decided to return to a place that I had dearly loved in the 90s—Santa Monica with a side trip to Ventura to see one of my most beloved friends and her spouse whom I also adore. I also had made some new friends with whom I wanted to spend time and so I planned a delightful sojourn trip to SoCal, complete with Mustang convertible for traversing PCH.

But, before my trip to Los Angeles, I made a weekend trip to Philadelphia, a place that I had been meaning to visit on my own for years. I had been there on many worktrips, but never had any time to just explore and enjoy the city. I had connected with several folks on facebook who lived in the PHL area, so it made sense to plan a weekend there. I was delighted to discover yet another place where I have my very own PHL family.

I enjoyed talking to J about food and family and we had long plotted a food lover excursion through Philly. So, when I told him I would be coming to town, he pulled out all the stops and arranged a dinner at Vetri for us. But, first, we had cocktails at the Ritz-Carlton. Well, to be truthful, we had a cocktail, then tequila. We headed for Vetri, which is a very small and rustic place that is known for its outstanding Italian cooking. We were handed a menu and told that we would be served from the items listed there. We put ourselves in the hands of the staff and proceeded to enjoy golden onion crepes, the most tasty and luscious pastas, a whole cooked fish, and, our favorite, apple/bacon napoleon. We were satiated from food and wine, but we still tramped over to the Capital Grill for a grappa to finish off the evening.

When I met my best friend from junior high at Parc, a delightful bistro fronting Rittenhouse Square, I will confess to being just a bit hungover. But, that didn’t stop me from reveling in AD’s presence—her loveliness, her way with language, her wonderful laugh. She was stunning in a green suede jacket, sexy boots, and gorgeous jewelry. While I basically threw back Cokes with lemon and nibbled on mussels frites, we chatted about all matter of things and then strolled to a bench in Rittenhouse Square on an absolutely perfect autumn afternoon and talked and laughed some more.

A lovely dinner at Fountain at the Four Seasons hotel with a nice veal chop and a glass of wine was sufficient for the evening hours while I read Gail Collins’ When Everything Changed, a wonderful history of women’s progress from the 1950s to the present.

I was meeting R for brunch on Sunday at the much touted Le Croix at The Rittenhouse hotel. R and I had an interesting history. We started at the same major publisher at the exact same time and were in the same training class; however, we did not get to know each other until we both ended up in junior executive positions in Boston in the early 90s. That phrase “junior executives” is making me giggle because it sounds like something out of a Joan Crawford/Susan Hayward NYC-based movie from the 1950s. Anyway, we became good friends and shared lots in common including complicated fiancées. R ended up moving back to Philly and there our lives diverged. She married a wonderful man and is raising two delightful, kind, lovely children. I, as we know, am single. BUT, we both work for the same company yet again, basically the same company of 1980 when we met. Within seconds, we were laughing and pouring out our hearts. In between, we feasted on fabulous hors d’oeuvres including caviar and delightful little doodads that were my favorite part of the meal. Later, we were invited into the kitchen for the traditional laying on of breakfast meats and way-too-sweet waffles and pancakes. We both agreed that we liked the idea of going into the kitchen, but that the food was way too heavy. But, who cared? We were in a beautiful place and time had both stood still and was moving us quickly forward to what we would like to with our lives. At one point, R said, “what the hell were we doing in our 30s?” And we had a good laugh about how far we have come—a bit rueful, but a laugh, nonetheless. After brunch, we strolled across Rittenhouse Square in a haze of good feeling and I sat down to listen to my iPod and savor my fabulous weekend.

I must tell you that I was getting a bit weary on Sunday night, but I journeyed to Tinto for a few tapas. A delightful place where I enjoyed cod, roast pork, a little jamon Serrano and the conversation of two lovely pharmacists from Haverhill, MA in town for a convention.

I finished off my weekend with the only sensible choice---Dinic’s roasted pork with provolone and greens at the Reading Terminal, truly one of the outstanding sandwiches in the universe. And then grabbed a sub for the flight home.

I adored this weekend getaway with wonderful time spent with friends old and new and, once again, I couldn’t help but wonder—couldn’t there be just one person like this in the greater Miami area? But, who’s complaining. These delightful folks and the Dinic’s are but a plane ride away.

Family of One Celebrates Christmas in New York, 2010

2010-12-29T06:32:00.000-08:00

As I looked forward to my annual New York trip to celebrate Christmas, I realized that I needed some serious downtime without my usual spreadsheet approach to the city wherein every hour is filled in with some fun activity. I decided to do something unprecedented and just go where I felt like going at the time. I made a couple of restaurant reservations, made an appointment with my beloved Meme at Think Pink for mani, made plans to see a new friend, and anticipated a few days at a brand new hotel, the Gansevoort Park.

I am happy to report that this approach was a great success.

When I travel alone overseas, I always make sure that I have something planned every day lest I end up lolling the day away over espresso in the hotel dining room. And, now, I think, what exactly would be wrong with that?

But, I digress. The New York trip was filled, of course, with fabulous meals at places new like db moderne where I loved the energy and the coq au vin and Oceana where I had the delight of having the same wonderful waiter that I had met at Toqueville earlier this year and where I had the pleasure of a perfect, if simple, meal—exquisite East Coast oysters, Maine lobster, striped bass, and housemade gnocchi—in a bustling, but warm, atmosphere. I saw the tree at the Met, I reflected at the stately Temple of Dendur, I shopped, I had a mid-morning Coke at the newly-revamped Plaza Hotel, I drank fabulous champagne sent over by the manager at the Modern bar where I have enjoyed so many wonderful meals this year. I had a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park, prepared for me by Chef Humm, and was given a most marvelous gift by my friends there—the largest bottle possible of Woodford Reserve.

But, I must share with you two of the four days which were so remarkable, one in its almost magical connection with a great love and one in its almost magical connection to new adventures.

Just before coming to NYC, I heard from my former partner, G, with whom I have had sporadic communication for the past year. He was going to be in New York where he lives part-time, so we agreed to have dinner on Sunday evening after I arrived there in morning. I called him when I got to NYC to confirm our dinner date and he asked if I would like to join him for brunch at one of our old favorites, EJ’s Luncheonette. At first, I demurred, but then I rethought it—what would be the harm in having brunch? I jumped in a cab and headed to his Park Avenue address. In the taxi, I reminded myself to stay in the moment and just go with whatever was presented to me. There would be time later to think over what happened and I had three more wonderful days to explore NYC.

On the surface, it appeared that we had a wonderful late breakfast at EJ’s where the corned beef hash is real corned beef, not from a can; we tried to see a movie, but it was sold out; we had a lovely dinner at Café Boulud; and we savored every second of The King’s Speech.

But, below the surface, the things that I learned were of Christmas gift proportions.

Two things that drove me crazy about G—and him crazy about me—were his penchant for doing last minute doodads that perpetually made us on the cusp of being late and slow response time in conversation. For the former, I would be on the verge of a small stroke by the time we finally left the house to get to dinner or the movie and the number of times that we had to revise our original schedule made me insane. As for the conversation, I was always convinced that what I was saying must not be interesting enough for him, so I would say something, wait about a minute, then try another conversational tangent. Christ, it was exhausting!! Because he would, of course, respond, to what I had originally said.

With no stake in a relationship, it was easy to sit back and observe how this could play out under less pressure-filled circumstances. Sure enough, soon after arriving at his lovely apartment overlooking Park Avenue, the phone was ringing and he was taking the calls and having 20 minute conversations. Today, I just smiled to myself, put my feet up on the couch, and read the NY Times. Soon enough, he was hungry enough to limit the calls. I noticed the conversational lull at dinner more than at brunch in the loud EJ’s, but, sure enough, the same old pattern started up. This time, I just stopped and let him take his time. Even if we sat there for three or four minutes. What did it matter? We were in a lovely place, enjoying world class cuisine (peekytoe crab salad with green apple gelee and crispy cod with Tandoori spices). And, it was just conversation, not earth-shattering confessions.

When we arrived at the afternoon The King’s Speech to discover that it was sold out, I had to suggest that we purchase tickets for the evening show. So, after the perfect amount of time at dinner, we were off for the movie with time to loiter in the lobby and choose seats with no sense of urgency. To me, perfection!

I wonder if you feel this same way about an ex. There are some moments that you long to re-create if only for just a few minutes. To re-experience one or two of the quotidian things that you naturally take for granted would be such a gift, you think. In this case, the moments for which I longed were to sit in a movie theater with G and to hear him call out as he was grading papers on a Sunday afternoon to come into the study with him and watch TV while he graded because he needed my presence in the room with him.

The aforementioned The King’s Speech provided the perfect venue for the movie as G and I were both completely enthralled and immediately fell back into our interpersonal code of raised eyebrows, muted laughs, and various facial expressions to convey our great affection for this wonderful movie. Earlier, I had returned to G’s apartment for a little while before strolling to Café Boulud. He invited me in and, as I headed for “my” sofa in the living room, he whisked me into his study, handed me the TV remote, and said, “now you sit in here with me while I answer some emails”. In a moment, I was back at his apartment in Stoughton on a Sunday afternoon, feeling cherished. But, now, it’s ten years later and we have both lived lifetimes that we could never convey to each other. But, for that hour, I remembered why I loved him so much and how many lovely times we had enjoyed.

I suppose it looks very foolish to admit this, but, I finally realized that, no matter what or who comes into our lives, G and I will always have a place for each that no one else can touch. Would I want him back? Probably not a good idea. But, to know that I can return from time to time to the places with him that were warm and positive is, indeed, a wonderful gift.

Monday was cold and sunny, the perfect day to explore New York. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the IFC Center where I was going to see Tiny Furniture. I had envisioned an inexpensive Asian lunch, the movie, coffee at someplace fab, then off to meet JP at the John Dory Oyster Bar. Instead, I spotted one of my perennial favorites, Lupa, from the taxi. Within minutes, I was perched at the bar with a glass of Prosecco, sunchoke soup with truffle oil, those fabulous sardines that Batali does so well, and freshly baked focaccia. And, chatting with an attorney from DC who had been to Lupa the night before, but was returning prior to a court date in Brooklyn, for one more helping of the bucatini.

Amazingly, the theater was about half full and it was divine to sit in an early afternoon movie with other like-minded folks enjoying the quirky and surprisingly heartfelt film.

Afterwards, I got about half a block before spotting the Pearl Oyster Bar where I immediately perched at the bar for a half dozen along with crispy fried shrimp and a glass of Sancerre. This time, I met the editor of the wonderful film The Kids Are All Right and I enjoyed talking movies and LA restaurants with his wife and him. So much fun to hear about the shooting of the film and the work that he did on it and to share that I, too, was an editor, but of a completely different sort.

I met JP at the way-too-hip lobby of the Ace Hotel where every conceivable seat in the lobby was taken by a twenty-something with at least two wires/machines attached in some way to his/her body. I barely had time to get out my blackberry and iPod when JP came over to escort me to the John Dory Oyster Bar, a nicely cavernous space with floor to ceiling windows looking out on the slightly seedy atmosphere of Broadway at 29th. We shared lobster chowder, Parker House rolls, littleneck clams, and mussels stuffed with chorizo and marvelous conversation about the professional, the personal, our dreams, our regrets. Off with JP with his brand-new iPad and I to my next stop.

I finished the evening at the Mandarin Oriental lobby bar where I always go for not only the pink cosmos and the stunning view of the East Side of Manhattan, but the company of my friends C and F who take very good care of me. On this night, F revealed that his best friend and new beau were also in the house. I smiled and continued pushing shuffle on my iPod. Suddenly, there appeared before me John Travolta’s doppelganger and a lovely Filipino fellow. The former kissed my hand with great authority and introduced himself as T, F’s best friend along with B, the dentist beau. They asked to join me. In minutes, we were laughing and screaming in the way that always annoys me when other tables are doing it.

I finished off my pumpkin spice cocktail and returned to my dream room at the Gansevoort Park South with its huge space, its Juliet balcony overlooking Les Halles as well as a huge swath of sky, its brand new bathroom with soaking tub and splendid shower, its sitting area, its giant TV. And, all within a walk of Madison Park and a quick, accessible cab ride to anyplace in the World’s Greatest City. What a fantastic day I had to savor!

Merry Christmas, 2010!!

Family of One Goes to Southern California

2010-11-03T19:08:00.000-07:00

I am looking forward to a few days in the greater Southern California area, specifically Santa Monica and Ventura. I went to Philadelphia for a weekend recently and it was just wonderful to visit a place where I got to see old friends, new friends, eat wonderfully, and just stroll around. I am looking forward to much of the same in an extended format--oceanview suite, Mustang convertible, seeing a young friend whom I have not seen she was 11 (and is now 28), seeing new friends and their adorable 3 year old daughter, and, seeing my beloved friends M and C for the first time in nine years.

In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.

I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.

After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".

I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.

A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".

I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".

Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.

I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.

Family of One Goes to the Blue Ridge Parkway

2010-11-01T18:29:00.000-07:00

On my last trip to High Point, I took Mother and Dad to the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day. This was a momentous occasion as both had determined that they would never again get to visit one of their favorite places in the world. They had made this decision based on the fact that they are 88 and 91, respectively, and that they probably shouldn’t travel too far from home base. Many a time in recent years, I have gotten them situated in my rental vehicle and we have made it as far as the outskirts of Winston-Salem which is maybe 20 miles from High Point and it is then determined that we need to turn back because “something could happen”.

I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.

When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.

Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.

Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.

We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.

We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—

***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?

Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.

A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).

She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.

In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.

Family of One Takes a Day Off

2010-10-04T19:55:00.001-07:00

How many times do we say I am going to take a day off? And, then, what do we do? We stay on our computer, we can’t let go of the blackberry, we multitask as much as ever. You know. When I went to NYC for my annual Labor Day fiesta, I decided that it was the ideal time to take a day off, so I added on an extra day. My colleges had been in session for two weeks, so most of the start-up drama was over. I had another big push looming with submissions of manuscripts for spring semester due in a couple of weeks. It seemed like the ideal time to take a deep breath. And, so I did.

I started the day with something that I always say I am going to do, but then I never get around to it. I strolled through Central Park on a cloudless, sunny day and enjoyed all of the various sights—for God’s sake, I have even lived in New York and I had never stopped to look at that charming clock with the animals on it that is at the gate to the Central Park Zoo. Frederick Olmstead must have been so ashamed of me. I strolled all around and savored the lovely day and finally plopped down on a bench around Fifth and 70th. I read my Andre Agassiz autobio, I listened to my iPod, I did check my blackberry. But, I mainly thought about the wonderful moments I had experienced during this weekend.

Every trip to NYC has its own personality and, for this one, I had made it a point to try new restaurants and to reach out to fellow dining patrons that I might find annoying in places where the tables are too close together (read, Marea). I had a wonderful Saturday lunch at a charming Austrian place called Seasonal very close to my hotel—outstanding wiener schnitzel. I had my usual beauty maintenance from my dear MeMe at Think Pink where I am now ensconced as one of the regulars. I had a delightful conversation while there with an Australian fellow getting a pedicure who wanted to discuss the Agassiz book with me. I had a lovely meal, especially the sea bass crudo and the spaghetti with crab and sea urchin at Marea; I bonded with a delightful British couple trying to have a night on the town while there three daughters kept phoning them to come home. On Sunday, I started the day with breakfast at Sarabeth’s Kitchen where I perched at the bar and next to a lovely family from DC who just happened to hail from South Carolina. Laughs and charming conversation all around, with special emphasis on restaurant choices. Then, as the patriarch of the group passed by, he said, “how many times do fellow Southerners meet up in New York? I paid for your breakfast”. I was completely stunned as was the waitress. Then, two stylish ladies came up to the bar and asked if I were leaving. I told them that I wanted to read one more chapter and they could have my seat. But, we ended up chatting and have a date for coffee (at the very least) on my next visit. They were smart and witty and I hated to say goodbye. Later, I had an enchanting lunch at a vegan restaurant called Pure next to Gramercy Park where I met with dear friend R with whom I connected over our mutual love for EMP. We sat in the breezy garden and drank concoction of kale and cucumber which were delicious and had one of the best salads that I have ever tasted. And, it was all so good for me!

What else to ponder? I visited my old neighborhood for the first time in 11 years, strolling down East 49th Street and on Beekman Place, ending up at one of my favorite refuges, the park at the end of 57th Street, overlooking the East River. I saw a poignant movie, Cairo Time. I had a fabulous, laughter-filled lunch on the sunny patio at Bar Boulud with my dear friend Cristana and her baby son Aidan who slept like a prince while we threw back champagne cocktails and chowed down on charcuterie and floating island. I had the Moderne bratwurst and tuna tartare and sweetbreads at the Moderne bar room while talking to a delightful couple about dining in Philadelphia. But, one of the most interesting things that happened was that I got the most spacious, lovely room overlooking Central Park at the Park Lane hotel for the unheard-of price at $228. I had booked it on quikbook and thought, “Christ, the room must be horrible, but how bad can it be with a view of Central Park?” When I checked in, my reservation slip from the front desk said $350. I asked if that was a mistake and was told that park view rooms were $550. I showed the clerk my confirmation from quikbook and the hotel determined that an interfacing glitch (an exact quote) had given me the wrong price. They cheerfully honored it and so I was all in a beautiful room that would have made Leona Helmsley proud and a stunning view of the park.

But, my day is drifting away and it’s time to proceed to Esca for lunch. Esca is the kind of place where I always say I am gong to go, but then I get caught up going to my favorites or I forget about it until it’s too late. Even though it is in the theater district, it feels like more of a restaurant that one would find in Rome or Lisbon. The chef, Dave Pasternack, is well-known for his way with a fish and I was so happy with my meal-oysters from Maine, a variety of crudo, spaghetti with crab (a very spicy tang to this one), and a grape sorbet complemented with vanilla ice cream. I read, I looked out the beautiful plate glass windows at the skyscrapers, I enjoyed the murmurs of the businessmen around me. It was divine.

I glanced at my watch and realized that since I had a 7:00 curtain for Promises, Promises, I needed to get along with my afternoon, so returned to my palatial room for a savoring of the fabulous view and a quick check of email. Nothing urgent, so I headed for my front row seat, excited about seeing Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth up close. As I sat down, the announcer said, “there will be a special guest star in the show tonight”. The people close to me asked me, “who do you think it will be?” Perplexed as to why they thought I had the answer, I took them seriously anyway. “I’ll go with Rosie O’Donnell”. There were less than positive murmurs. “Or, for my second choice, I’ll go with Donald Trump”. The murmurs become disappointed. The accountant from Chagrin Falls, Ohio seated next to me says, “My money is on Al Pacino”. I am screaming with laughter. The murmurs take on a disgusted tone.

The show is very engaging with outstanding dancing and costumes. Some of the songs are a little weak and I find the story line challenging to embrace, but what the hay? There’s Sean and Kristin right in front of me and everyone is at the top of his/her game. And, then, without warning, Ellen DeGeneres appears in the role of The Nurse. The theater goes wild! She is so terrible!! She is ghastly! But, there is so much warm feeling towards her that everyone is laughing and screaming, even the stars. It is a very nice moment. At intermission, several people say to me, “Well, you were not far off in your prediction”. One of the things I liked best about my front row seat was that I could watch the conductor as he mouthed the words to every song. Like a prompter from days of old! I also liked hearing strains of Satin Doll played by the trombone during intermission and peering into the orchestra pit to see a lone player having a little fun.

I raced out of the theater and into a waiting cab (and how many times can you say that?) which took me to my beloved Eleven Madison Park. But, not just any night at EMP. This was the opening of their newly renovated room and menu which you might have read about in the NYT. Chef Humm and Will, the manager, are trying to do something unique at EMP by having a menu that gives only the basics of the dish on the menu, sort of like a bingo card. The customer is then encouraged to interact with the server to select his dish prepared exactly as he would like it. Chef and Will want the dining experience to be more about the interaction between restaurant and customer and less about being entertained by the chef. Of course, I knew none of this only that I would have a lovely evening. I was met at the door with a glass of champagne and escorted to a sitting area to visit with my favorites. I knew this was because my usual table wasn’t ready, but I loved the aperitif in a different location and, of course, it was wonderful to chat with everyone.

Since I usually just ask Chef Humm to cook for me, I didn’t care what the bingo card said, but I played along and chose four dishes which were, of course, exquisite. There were several courses of amuse bouches and lovely preparations of foie gras, tomato, and lobster. For dessert, I chose, well, I can’t remember now, and they didn’t have menus for me to take home that night. But, it was absolutely awful and looked like someone had dropped it on the way to the table. I tried very hard to be a good sport and get it down, but my server, the inimitable Kevin, took pity on me. He said, “please pick something else”. It was late and I was getting tired, so I said “chocolate” which turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it was more of a mint, but it was delicious with an ice cream and a little dessert which tasted fabulous.

I am reserving judgment about what I think about the new EMP until I return at Christmas because, after all, it was their first night. I loved being part of the excitement, of course. But, I was not fond of having the kitchen staff serve me. I tried to start a conversation with one fellow by asking him his name. When he told me, I said, “oh, I think I saw that on the bus station wall last week” a line that usually slays them at, say, DBGB or the Moderne. He stared at the floor and I felt absolutely horrible. Later, I pondered that I should not be made to feel horrible at a fine dining place. Of course, I shouldn’t have been so flippant, but part of the fun of EMP for me is the wonderful exchanges that I have with the captains and the managers. As more kitchen staff served my dinner, I sat quietly and mumbled kind things, but it took a lot of the fun out of the dinner. But, all of this is nothing compared to the horror that I expressed when Kevin said that there is no cheese cart. I love cheese carts. The one at EMP may have gotten my prize for the best one ever. And, now it is no more, gone the way of desserts flambé and lobster thermidor.

But, what am I squawking for? For God’s sake, I am at EMP, my NYC dining family. We are laughing and screaming and talking and Megan, the service director, brings out a printed copy of the article that will be in the Food Section of the NYT the next day about the changes. Everyone is in high spirits and, so, around 1:30, I leap into a cab and go back to my Central Park South lair with a day and an evening to remember.

Family of One Has a Medical Procedure

2010-09-30T19:58:00.000-07:00

The doctor told me that the lump, while definitely benign and of no great significance, would need to come out eventually because it could lead to big problems down the road. I filed this information away under things to do (along with reading Crime and Punishment, learning to make the perfect roast chicken, etc), but as I watched the lump grow from the size of a pea to the size of an egg over a year and a half, I decided to be proactive and have the lump removed on my terms, rather than waiting for an emergency.

The surgeon that I visited told me that I would need to assure him that I would have someone to bring me to the hospital for the out-patient surgery, stay there during the surgery, take me home, and stay with me while I got settled. I told him that I preferred to take a taxi. I am, after all, a Family of One. He replied that he could not allow me to leave the hospital under my own duress and would keep me in the hospital until I showed that I could take care of myself.

This prompted much soul searching. My beloved K, of course, said that she fly down from the greater Hudson Valley area to stay with me, but the procedure did not seem that it warranted such energy. I considered having the procedure done in any number of places throughout the United States where I would have any number of delightful friends to go with me. I pondered why I enjoy living in a place where I have so few folks to call on, let alone hang out with. I pondered postponing the procedure until the year 2025. But, I finally decided to ask one of my colleagues, the lovely L, because we happened to be chatting about her family and I realized what a caring heart she had. I asked her if she would help and she said that she would be honored.

Having never had surgery of any sort, I was somewhat anxious about being anesthized as well as having to deal with pain that I had voted to have. The lump was on my belly button which would make sitting and standing very difficult for a few days. I was, of course, forbidden to drive for several days because of the anesthesia. I also could not attend my beloved Biltmore gym for several weeks and had to proceed with great caution in terms of my usual energetic schedule.

The day before, I went for the pre-op interview which was conducted by a vivacious woman who asked very earnestly—“I see that you live alone. Do you like it?” Inwardly sighing, I gave a pat answer. While she was looking through my file, I tried to think of something pleasant, so decided to ponder Paris. She asked me why I seemed so far away and I told her that I was thinking about my upcoming trip.. She said, “oh, you will feel just fine by the time you go to Paris in January.” I sighed and said, “well, before then, I have three trips to Charleston, three trips to see my parents, a trip to Philadelphia, a trip to Los Angeles, and a trip to New York”. She was very quiet. Then she said, “are you going on these trips by yourself?” I explained that I was although some of them were for business. She said, “do you ever stop and remember how lucky you are to have this time to yourself? I have never been anywhere by myself, not even out of the city of Miami”. So we worked on a day trip to Palm Beach for her. And, I was reminded again that being a Family of One is not so bad.

I know you are wondering if I told Mother. I had very mixed feelings about telling her. It was like it was something horrible that she would need to accept. On the other hand, I would be out of commission for a few days and, if she should need me, that would not be the time to tell her. She counts on my being available 24/7, so I decided it was best to just let her know that I was having a minor procedure and she should plan to count on the housekeeper for a few days. She was fine at first, but then lashed out at me, saying how selfish and heartless it was for me to tell her because I knew that they count on me and what were they supposed to do if I couldn’t get to North Carolina if they needed me? There was a time that her outrage would have really stung, but I realized that she was scared and cornered and that was just her way of releasing her fear. I listened and tried not to take her words to heart.

On the day of the surgery, I called her before I left the triplex. She was almost jaunty, but then said, “I want you to pretend like you are holding my right hand. Here it is, take it.” I went along with her. Then, she said, “now, I want you to hold out your left hand and feel who is holding it. That’s God”. I was incredibly touched. I had actually thought she was going to say my father. She said, “God and I are holding on to you and you are going to be fine”.

I also spoke to my dad who said, “I have had very similar procedures done, but it’s different when I have to live through your having the procedure. It’s not so bad when I am the one having it”. An interesting perspective.

And, with that, L picked me up. She turned out to be the ideal companion for a medical experience. L did not natter on mindlessly while we waited. She worked on her computer and I worked on my blackberry and we occasionally exchange work stories. After two hours, I finally picked up the book that I had brought. L said, without glancing up from her computer, “you better start reading because you have not read one word. I am watching you and you look at the page and then stare off into space. You are going to drive yourself crazy”. I laughed sheepishly.

I was frightened and anxious because I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I have probably experienced most feelings—broken heart, badly sprained ankle, family death, emergency landing on a plane—but I had never experienced being put to sleep and I was very nervous. Not terrified, just concerned.

Finally, I was called back to a room where I put on the ubiquitous hospital gown and laid down on the bed. Within minutes, a very nice nurse came in and said, “For goodness sake, you don’t even have a pillow—didn’t you know to ask for one?” I said, “No because I thought you just had a lot of cost-saving measures in place”. Indeed, I was lying flat on my back holding my book up over my eyes—tres uncomfortable.

The surgeon came in for last minute questions. I asked, “can I have sex?” His reply, “can you?” My retort—“I am not asking for a recommendation, but an authorization”. But, I did confess how frightened I felt. I heard him say to someone, “Please make sure that you really knock her out because this is her first time and I don’t want her to be scared at all”.

I remember a couple of exchanges with the ever faithful L who was sitting by my side, then the next thing I remember is one of the ten worst moments of my life---the coming to. I guess no one can explain to you how horrible it is to slowly awaken with terrible shooting pains and no idea where you are. Unless, of course, you have attended a sales meeting in college publishing and stayed out too late after the awards banquet. Nah, this was much worse. I felt like my brain was stuttering and why did it hurt so much when I had been promised all this wonderful drugs?

The nurse came over and smiled, “oh, you’re finally coming to”. I bleated out, “have I suffered brain damage?” She turned away, her shoulders heaving. Christ, this was worse than anyone had told me. She couldn’t even face me. She looked at me and I tried to smile in a way that showed I could take any news, but my mouth wouldn’t move. I said, “please just go ahead and tell me because I can’t make a smile, so I know that I have brain damage”. She turned away again. This was worse than a Very Special Episode of Gray’s Anatomy. She walked back to my side and said, “your daughter will be here soon”. Then, I realized that she had been laughing, not crying, so I felt a bit better because surely she wasn’t one of the sadistic nurses that you read about in the New York Post metro section.

L came in and I tried to think of the kindest, dearest thing that I could say that would express my eternal gratitude to her. After all, it was now 8:00 and we had been told that we would be back at the triplex by 5:00. We still had hours to go. “I am going to buy you a television,” I announced.

I had to go through the horror of being moved from one bed to another, possibly one of the most painful moments of my life, but then the drugs started kicking in and I cheered up. Also, it was confirmed that I did not have brain damage and I could start to make a smile.

As we settled into the recovery room, L leaned close to me. “Stop saying that you are going to get me a television. You have said it about ten times. The nurses think that I don’t have a TV and you are making me look bad”. I thought about it for a minute. “OK,” I said, “then I will buy you a radio”. Where in the name of Jack Benny does anyone even get a radio?

After a little while, I called Mother although L had called her when the doctor gave the all clear. I immediately shouted, “please buy L a television” followed by “I have not sustained any brain damage”. The next day, Mother left me a plaintive message asking me to assure her that I had not really had brain surgery and also asked if it would be OK for her to send me the money for the TV for L because she wasn’t sure how to get one delivered to her.

Within two hours, I was walking out of the hospital. I told L just to let me out at the gate of the triplex and to get back to her life. She, wisely, said that she would leave the triplex until she saw that I was in bed. I came out of the bathroom and L had arranged on my nightstand a plethora of things that she thought I might want—Coke, water, blackberry, book, Lance’s crackers, and Reese peanut butter cups. I climbed in bed. L walked over and looked out the sliding glass door at the palm trees. She quietly said, “If I find out that you have walked down those steep steps, I’m not going to say something like I won’t help you again. Because you know I will, but, what I will do is come over and beat you up”. This is the kind of approach that I appreciate—direct and without sentimentality. As she walked down the hall, I called out, “I love you, L”. I heard a soft voice, “Love you, too”.

My recovery was complicated by, of all things, a terrible cold, which left me feeling cranky and tired. It took awhile to get the anesthesia out of my system, but, after 24 hours, I was not in any real pain. And, now I know what to expect from being put under, so I’ll cope better next time. And, as always, the wonderful doors that open when you least expect it reminded me that God or whomever you believe in will always see to it that you have family when you need it.

Family of One Finds a New Dining Mecca Part II

2010-08-29T20:32:00.000-07:00

As I checked out of the Peninsula Hotel on Monday, I mentioned to the concierge that my meal at Avenues was less than stellar and I would be warning folks not to try to the restaurant. He insisted that I meet with one of the managers, an idea that was well worth the time. Jisoo Chon, the assistant general manager for all of the Peninsula restaurants, helped to restore my faith in fine dining by taking my comments seriously and helping me to understand what had gone wrong. For example, the menu that I selected was Vegan which I should have been told. I should also have been informed that each course was available for $18, so that one could mix and match from each side of the menu. I shook my head in dismay. As he so nicely put it, “you chose our restaurant for your special Saturday night dinner and we completely ruined it for you”. He insisted that I come back for a do-over and, at some point, I probably will. I did read many rave reviews of Chef Curtis Duffy, so I should probably give it another try.

Now, on to other Chicago delights!

Gene and Georgettt---I heard mostly enthusiastic cries of YES when I said I was going there with the occasional “Why are you going to that dump?” It turned out be fabulous, not only a quintessential Chicago steakhouse experience, but one that also featured delectable Italian dishes that I am still thinking about. I went with a group of four, but am wondering if I could go there alone and devour the fried ravioli, shrimp de jonghe, and garbage salad on my own. The meat sauce for the fried ravioli was robust, but not overwhelming; the scampi-like flavor of the shrimp de jonghe was filled with citrus and just enough garlic; and the garbage salad, comprised of “whatever is left over in the kitchen” was glorious, but made magnificent by the best thousand island dressing that I have ever, ever tasted. Interestingly, my bone-in ribeye was my least favorite of the dishes, but it was still wonderful. The accompanying cottage fries truly tasted like potatoes with just enough crispness to make a perfect accompaniment to the steaks we ordered, along with sautéed mushrooms and creamed spinach. I wish that at this very moment I had the spumoni, clearly separated into four distinct flavors of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, and pistachio, each rich and flavorful. The service was crisp, but wonderful. When I dribbled some of the meat sauce from the fried ravioli on the pristine white tablecloth, the waiter came over with a napkin to place expertly over it and murmured, “I shouldn’t have done that—please accept my apologies”. The atmosphere was just what we wanted—bustling, energetic, but not clamorous.

Province—This is exactly the kind of restaurant that we all want in our neighborhoods where we can get anything from a few light bites to ten hour BBQ’d lamb with potatoes frites and house made ketchup. A wonderful space with lots of light coming in from the floor to ceiling windows, the restaurant is a truly green space, awarded Gold Level LEED certification. The floors and tables are made from sustainably harvested cork. The banquettes are covered with recycled material. But, the food is the most happy combination of interesting, familiar, and flavorful—just like we all long for. I put myself into Chef Randy Zweiban’s hands with only three requests from the menu—the house cured and smoked arctic char ceviche, the roasted and pulled Indiana duck with seedling farms BBQ sauce and smoked slaw, and the buttermilk whipped potatoes. Chef Randy supplemented my choices beautifully with an heirloom tomato salad and an delightfully unexpected version of shrimp and grits featuring farm raised shrimp, Anson Mills grits, and manchego cheese, all coming together with a POW of flavor unlike the more sweet/salty combination that I have in my dear Charleston where shrimp and grits are more ubiquitous than cheeseburgers. The aforementioned duck was superb, but not nearly as stellar as the smoked slaw which I will always remember. I also enjoyed every bite of the buttermilk whipped potatoes—peppery, robust, and creamy—just like a Southern girl likes. After this meal, I was happy to enjoy the housemade goat milk ice cream and sit back to savor the evening. Interestingly, I heard a lovely woman across the restaurant talking about developmental math, a phrase that I think is only used by folks in educational publishing and education in general. I yelled in a most unlady-like way across the room—as there was no one left but us—if she worked in college publishing and, indeed, she was attending the same sales conference as I was, but our paths had never crossed. We discovered that we had worked with the same author—nearly 30 years apart—a nice touch of serendipity for what was a lovely exhale of an evening. Chef Randy was an attentive and spot-on host and I very sadly departed, wishing that I could have my own Province in the heart of my beloved Grove. PS. Chef Randy had actually lived in Miami and worked with Norman Van Aken, another delightful coincidence.

Blackbird—I was greeted with a welcoming glass of champagne as I entered yet another bright and airy spot. My new friend, Donnie, came over to greet me and we chatted about my range of experiences in the various Chicago restaurants I had frequented. A quick glance at the menu—appetizers only—and I was in heaven as several of my very favorite foods were represented: sweetbreads, duck liver pate, softshell crab, and foie gras. I explained my dilemma to Donnie who helped me figure out a menu—

Coffee-scented fluke tartare with lemon cucumber, saffron, and bread sauce
Salad of endives with crispy potatoes, basil, Dijon, pancetta, and fried egg (Donnie explained that this had been on the menu since the start of Blackbird—and it looked fabulous with its potato nest--)
Crispy Maryland soft shell crab with honey custard, edamame, yuba, and soy caramel (Donnie surprised me with this course)
Glazed veal sweetbreads with lime onions, tamarind, bee pollen, and fried chocolate
Roasted Hudson Valley foie gras with charred green garlic, black garlic, green strawberries, and shrimp salt

Every course was delectable with tastes that worked perfectly and, even after a delightful dacquoise, I did not fill overstuffed or ill. Just good. And happy.

It turned out that I was sitting next to a stunning couple around my age who was visiting from NYC. They work in the art world and were interesting and dynamic and we discussed our mutual love of travel and food and NYC and we were laughing and screaming like old friends, so Donnie brought over a complimentary dessert for them. After they departed, I chatted with a young couple from Kansas City and our conversation revolved around Roy Williams (friend or foe?) and, of course, North Carolina barbecue. We also laughed and screamed like old friends.

Being at Blackbird was like sitting in this bubble of wonderful energy. I talked books with the lovely Brittney, NYC restaurants with my server, Chicago observations with Donnie, I met interesting people, I savored so many foods that I love and wonderful wines to accompany them.

All of my dinners in Chicago were memorable—but the ones at Blackbird, Province, NoMi, and Spiaggia reminded me of why I am so passionate about dining and the incredible joy that it gives me. Which I hope I pass on to you! Now, how soon can I go back?

Family of One Discovers a New Dining Mecca

2010-08-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

I was looking forward to a few days in Chicago. I used to spend a lot of time there when I traveled the country as an editor, but hadn’t really savored the city in recent years. I made my restaurant plans accordingly, consulting a variety of friends and restaurant reviews. But, I never imagined that I would fall in love with the Windy City dining scene. Especially when one of my first meals was one of the worst dining experiences of my life. I may write further descriptions of these memorable meals, but, for now, wanted to let you know what I’ve been up to and some great Chicago places to try.

Friday—I had heard great things about NoMi at the Park Hyatt, so headed there for a Friday evening dinner. The restaurant had just received four stars from the Chicago Tribune, so everyone was in a festive mood and Piper Heidsick was served all around. My meal was splendid, selected from a brief array of selections—white asparagus veloute, veal tenderloin with sweetbreads (possibly my very favorite thing in the culinary world) and an apricot/hazelnut dessert. After a slightly bumpy beginning in too close a proximity to a four top of big mouths, I had my own four top and met several delightful folks including Aaron Sherman, the top notch sommelier. He gifted me with sliced black truffles on my veal dish and the server did something very interesting which was give me the last glass of wine that several patrons had remaining in their bottles. A lovely experience and I felt very well cared for.

Saturday—I had been looking forward to my dinner at Avenues with a chef who had worked at Alinea and won a James Beard prize. A glam location at the Peninsula, highly recommended by the folks at Eleven Madison Park as well as the folks at NoMi—sounds wonderful!! It was, unequivocally, the worst fine dining experience I have ever had. Of course, one is bound to have a misfire or two. But, this one was so egregious that I actually went back to my room, sat on my elegant sofa, and thought---why do I enjoy this so much? Is it a waste of my time (and money)? Is there something else that could feed (no pun intended) so much of my soul and energy?

The dining experience was not aided by a drab room, reminiscent of a conference room at the Marriott and techno-jazz blaring reminiscent of a two star Miami Beach hotel. The lovely sommelier from NoMi had made sure that a glass of Taittinger was waiting for me. The server was charming, but neglected to give me key information about the menu which was divided into two columns of eight dishes with names like sweet corn; grains, seeds, nuts; passion fruit. He explained that I could choose one of the two tastings. The one of the left—Light—or the one on the right—Protein. At the time, I thought this was a very odd description of the food served in a very fancy restaurant, but who was I to question it? Since I had enjoyed meat the night before, I went with the Light, thinking it would be seafood focused. What transpired was truly some of the most horrific taste combinations I have ever encountered and pray that I never taste again. The aforementioned sweet corn contained a “dome” of coconut and some other ingredient that I needed to crack which turned the whole dish into nothing but glop. In eight courses, there was not one flavor that I could identify or that tasted good. Period. In addition, there was a bread to accompany every course. The breads were tasteless as well. The servers kept piling them up on top of each other until there were literally four different kinds of bread piled up and toppling on the table. At this point, I called over the server and said, “I am not at Perkins—please take away these runaway pieces of bread”. One of the dessert courses was so acidic that I could not enjoy another meal for a couple of days.

You get the picture. And, so did the assistant general manager when I sat down with him on Monday. But, in the meantime, we end Saturday—for the first time—filled with doubt about why the art of dining is so important.

Sunday—After several Immodiums and some Pepto-Bismol along with a gorgeous summer day awaiting, I decided to keep my reservations for the day—brunch at the Publican and dinner at Spiaggia. After a stroll through Lincoln Park, I found myself at an outdoor table at the Publican with a cool breeze blowing and surrounded by lively, engaged diners like myself. I ordered the Wurstweis with pretzel and hash browns. The latter were among the best I have ever tasted. The Wurstweis was sweet and flavorful, if a bit overwhelming. I ate only a tiny bit, but felt great reading my Scott Turow novel and enjoying the buzz of the restaurant. A nice gray-haired gentleman came over and asked how I was doing. I assumed he was a manager of some sorts, so we exchanged a few pleasantries, then I heard him barking orders to a waiter. In a few minutes, the gentleman passed by me on a Schwinn bike. Our eyes met and I said, “I am so sorry you are leaving. I thought we were just starting to get to know each other”. Much to my surprise, he hopped off the bike and came over sat down with me. I told him that I had heard him chatting with someone he called “Chef” and asked who that might be. He said, “oh, I must introduce you”, and within moments, I had made the acquaintance of Chef Randy Guidara of the fabulous green restaurant Province. As Chef Randy and I chatted, my new friend was scribbling away on a postcard. He handed me the card with both of their cell phones as well as addresses of their restaurants and asked if I would come to visit them in the week ahead. I was seated with Donnie Madia, owner of not only The Publican, but Blackbird and Avec. I mentioned my disappointment of the night before and they assured me that I would be in good hands at their restaurants. The gentlemen excused themselves to continue their afternoons and I sighed contentedly as I recalled what happiness my passion for dining brings me with the unexpected connections that we make at the top of the list.

Although my stomach was still doing jumping jacks, I decided to proceed to Spiaggia. It was a good call. When dining alone, I usually focus on the servers and how I can make their jobs easy because I know how busy they are and I am, after all, only one patron. But, on this night, I shared with the lovely Erin and her colleague Annette my physical distress and they promised that I would leave Spiaggia feeling better. (My only goal was to not feel worse). The chef prepared a special amuse for me—a bomboloni crested with prosciutto—something about the sweetness and saltiness tasted really good. I felt like eating some sort of very light fish as well as some pasta. I ordered crudo of fluke with ossetra caviar (at $58, one of the most expensive appetizers that I have ever had) which was just perfect. And, the chef prepared some housemade pasta with olive oil and cheese. Absolute heaven. By now, Erin, Annette, and I are all great friends. Erin insists on treating me to a glass of an amaro which was powerful and helpful. Annette brought over orange and passion fruit sorbet in addition to the cantaloupe one that I had ordered. The chef came out to make sure that they had not overwhelmed me. The manager came over to make sure we had all hit it off as he thought we would—based on the fact that when I entered the restaurant and he said, “Miss Southern, I presume,” I replied, “who wants to know?” And, as Erin had assured me, I DID feel better. Not great, but good. And, I strolled down Michigan Avenue to my hotel to watch Mad Men in high def , realizing that Avenues had been but a blip in my dining career.

To be continued. . . .

With—what transpired from the meeting with the Avenues manager, dining at a classic Chicago institution, and dining with Chef Randy and Donnie. . . .

Family of One Goes to a Reading

2010-07-20T05:43:00.000-07:00

It was with some horror that I realized recently that I have been spending way too much time lounging on the sectional sofa. I believe that is referred to as cocooning and can be very restorative for one's mental health; however, as I noted that I spent every Sunday night and most Saturday nights in the triplex, I realized that it was time to get out a bit more. Trips to NYC and points beyond are wonderful, of course, but one should not ignore the marvelous city just outside the gates of the triplex community.

Monday night had been a night for catching up on work and assorted other doodads around the house, but when I saw that Jennifer Weiner was giving a reading at my beloved Books and Books, I decided to make a night of it, complete with dinner in Coral Gables.

I had been abstaining from readings since the the last couple that I attended were either so boring as to be embarrassing or so borderline hostile as to be irritating. Per the latter, I had been very excited about meeting a certain somewhat successful authoress who has written one of my alltime favorite novels. There to tout her latest, I was shocked at her gaunt and spindly appearance, resembling nothing like the lissome creature on her cover photos. She insisted on reading from the book in different voices for each character which I found off-putting. But, not nearly as off-putting as when I approached her to sign my book and said, "I must think about your book xxxxxxxxx every couple of days. What a fascinating world you created". Looking at me in a way that can only be called supercilious, she replied, "Don't you have anything better to do? I don't even think about it like that and I wrote it".

So, an evening with Jennifer Weiner promised to be the antidote to such brittleness. And, indeed, it was. I loved being surrounded in the audience by smart, attractive women talking with each other in an animated way about their latest goings-on. There was a large crowd and the energy in the room was full of happy anticipation. I helped an elderly couple relocate from their cramped seats in front of me and ended up learning all about them, including the fact that rather than get married for the third time for each, they are happy to be companions--at the age of 86. An Asian woman came over to speak to them and told me how familiar I looked to her. It turns out that we worked together 15 years ago at Harper Collins in NYC.

The author has a real gift for making the room a delight. She has written quite a few best sellers and tells a great story as well as creating warm, memorable characters. She was kind, funny, lovely, and passed out huge trays of Misha's cupcakes. I asked a question that elicited lots of supporting murmurs from the people around me and a very kind response from her. Afterwards, as I stood in the long line to have my book signed, I observed how she personally connected with each person and I loved seeing the smiles on thier faces as they walked away from her. I enjoyed my moment with her as well.

Then, the return to another tradition that I had abandoned. At one time, I was journeying to Ruth's Chris (which is in the next block) with much frequency although you will be happy to know that I did not have a steak except once a month. I stopped going because they replaced most of the comfortable club chairs in the bar where I ate with high stools that were not so comfortable. But, I felt like it was a good night to go back. I strode in and there was Mike, my favorite server. "Mary Jo," he calls out, "there is your favorite table". And, indeed, there it was, one of the three surviving tables with "real" chairs. Within minutes, "here's your lemon drop". Sighing with happiness, I settled in with my book, a chopped salad, and a crab-tini (a freshly luscious crab salad) and savored the evening.

Family of One Goes to Madrid

2010-06-28T07:51:00.000-07:00

In a little while, I will be heading off to Madrid where I plan to do little more than stroll through lovely gardens, seek out cathedrals that I have not visited, sit with my novel for hours in a tapas cafe, and, of course, chow down during the dinner hour. I will be back in ten days. Maybe.

As I prepare to depart, I couldn't help but think about an interesting adventure that I had with Mother. When I was in college, Mother and Dad took me on the Grand Tour of Europe, aka an American Express tour. While in Rome, we had a group dinner at one of the fabulous villas just outside the city and there was dancing to the strains of a local band afterwards. Certain gentlemen had been enlisted to dance with the ladies in the group. The forty-something pseudo-Lothario who danced with me was, shall we say, very excited by this opportunity and he danced me outside the restaurant where we made out frantically. This was all very exciting to a 19 year old.

As we prepared to get on the bus for the ride back to Rome, there was a group of young men--all incredibly handsome--loitering around the bus. I am not sure why because they weren't pan handlers, but, at any rate, they caught site of another young woman on the tour, a lissome, but demure, beauty from Asheville, NC and me. They went crazy whistling and yelling and making the international symbol for I would like to have sex with you. I couldn't help but look over and give a saucy glance or three.

We got on the bus and they went even crazier. Now, they were standing on each other's shoulders and peering in the bus and continuing to make their hand signals accompanied by leers and obscene mouth movements. Mother got wind of this and went into action. She made the international sign for I don't really care for you (third finger erect) and, then, not understanding how truly insulting this was, the Italian sign for get you know what--hand under chin in a dismissive gesture.

The crowd went wild and now started rocking the bus back and forth! This was much more exciting than being thrown out of the Louis XV hotel casino in Monte Carlo because I was underage. They were kissing the windows and giving Mother obscene gestures and almost out of control.

Finally, the bus driver (on whom I had a crush, one of my early brushes with an older man) had to step outside and put a stop to this frivolity. Mother was lecturing everyone around us on the evils of sex and how men should be kept in cages until they were 25. I was trying to get one last peek at the sight of all these adorable men.

I don't plan on taking any bus tours in Madrid, but I shall certainly be on the lookout for any restaurant experiences that include being danced on to a veranda and smooched passionately.

Family of One Has a Birthday Weekend to Remember

2010-06-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

Even though it has been three weeks since my birthday weekend, I am still so pleased that it was, indeed, a birthday to wipe away all memories of the dreadful ones of years past. I enjoyed every minute at the Gramercy Park hotel, even when the room hadn't been cleaned at 4:30 in the afternoon and there were light bulbs missing because this led to a scene straight out of the Marx Brothers' Night at the Opera when what seemed like hundreds of people filled their tiny stateroom. I had six workers in the room and the bathroom and we were all just giggling with the absurdity of the situation. I loved sitting in Gramercy Park. I loved Maiolino, the restaurant in the Gramercy Park hotel where I had Italian breakfast, brunch, and lunch (not on the same day. I loved seeing Please Give and Solitary Man. I loved going to the Redhead and having incredible homemade potato chips with brown butter onion dip, a one-eyed Caesar (Caesar salad with a brioche topped with a perfectly fried egg), and duck andouille gumbo, all under the aegis of Gregg Nelson, possibly the nicest person in the New York area. I loved seeing Cristina and Frank at the Mandarin Oriental and enjoying the glorious view and key lime cosmos. I loved being on the first row for La Cage aux Folles and seeing Douglas Hodge give one of the best performances that I have ever seen. All of this would have been a fabulous gift to unwrap, but I had more experiences, all in restaurants, that made the weekend one to remember for a long time.

LA TOCQUEVILLE ROMANCE UP CLOSE:
Dear friends had recommended La Tocqueville, just off Union Square and I was anxious to give it a try, so I sauntered over there after seeing Please Give. As the Zagat guide says, it is a jewel box of a restaurant and reminded me of how I had pictured all NYC restaurants when I was growing up. It is spacious and comfortable with an extremely high ceiling and muted colors complemented by beautiful moldings. The food was lovely--a vegetable salad with marvelous ingredients right from the Union Square greenmarket and a perfectly poached lobster with celery root puree and a lovely little flan. All very tasteful and relaxing. I am feeling very cosseted. But, at a table about six feet away are an older man and a younger woman. I roll my eyes at the cliche of it. He is short, but appears handsome, and wearing a suit (very unusual). She is completely overdressed like something out of a Carol Burnett parody of New York and has the worst overbite that I have ever seen. It is so pronounced that I keep running my tongue over my teeth to make sure that my teeth are stil alinged. Yet, she seems to think that she is a combination of Ivana Trump and Cameron Diaz. The other patrons are casually dressed and speak in calm, if enthusiastic tones. I try very hard not to hear every word being said, but as the evening wears on and diners depart, I have no choice. The lady asks the man to describe every woman he has "known" in the capacity that he has known her. Gentle Jesus, I cry to myself, don't go there. But, there he goes, enumerating what he has "loved" about his other "women". Then, he talks about why he loves his wife and why he will never leave her. I am starting to get annoyed, but I decide to sit back and watch this unfold. It is like some kind of two-character play for which I would pay $90. The gentleman then used the word "mistress" to describe his guest--the horror, the faux tears, the recriminations. I wouldn't leave for anything. Then, he asked her about the men she had loved. It was all I could do not to shush her as she proceeded to dish for more than 20 minutes about the one man to whom she had been engaged growing more and more unappealing as she described the falling apart of their relationship. During this tirade, the man never stopped sitting straight up, but his entire body language became more and more withdrawn which, of course, that poor fool never noted. There were so many facets that fascinated me--why they never acknowledged me, as close I was sitting; the wistfulness emanating from each of them as they completely missed each other; and, as I departed, the fact that this was one unattractive man as his face and body resembled that of Rumpelstiltkin and a woman who was desperately trying to look 35 even though she was probably 50. As I strolled back to the Gramercy Park hotel, I savored my Family of Oneness and made mental notes on how not to talk if and when I find myself in such a situation.

A MODERN BIRTHDAY

Lunch at the Modern barroom seemed like the perfect place to while away a couple of hours. And, indeed, the white gazpacho, the housemade sausage, the himachi sashimi, the adult Kit Kat (chocolate dacquoise) were all fabulous. But, even better, I chatted with the most lovely couple of a certain age next to me who were from Columbia, SC. They had met after their first spouses passed away and friends insisted on introducing them. They were utterly happy and so comfortable in their conversation that I teasingly told them that I could not believe that they were married. They had been together about seven years. The gentleman offered to buy me a glass of champagne and the three of us had the most delightful time comparing living in NYC to living in the South, the mercurial nature of falling in love, etc. As we dished and chatted, a family of four across the aisle was eyeing us-an elderly lady, two middle-aged fellows, and a young woman in her 20s. One of the men yelled over, "it's our grandmother's birthday and she is 95!" Said lady got up and came over to the table and we marveled at the serendipity of meeting on our birthdays. Turns out the group was from Charlotte--the elderly lady, her gay son, his partner, and her niece. I said--"you are just like your own TV show". We were all screaming with laughter and everyone else wished that they were sitting close to us. We all agreed that we would love to spend the afternoon yukking it up, but we had places to go--weddings for the couple from Columbia, the Twyla Tharp show for the family from Charlotte followed by dinner at Cafe Boulud (God, that 95 year old had more energy than I did! ), and Think Pink salon for mani/pedi with my darling Meme.

EMP

On Friday, my beloved K journeyed in from Rhinebeck to join me at Eleven Madison Park. For Christmas, Aunt Louise had given me an envelope with ten ten dollar bills in it and said for me to take someone to lunch at someplace special. So, I asked K if she could go with me to EMP to use that money. K was delighted and said that she would subsidize the rest. It was the meal of a lifetime in so many ways. Of course, we went crazy over the roasted chicken for two, the very best chicken I have ever tasted. We savored our tuna tartare and our gnocchi and our other treats. We didn't talk that much--we had already had our usual heart to heart chat while we strolled through Gramercy Park. From time to time, K's eyes filled with tears. It was a truly magical lunch because, best of all, K met nearly every member of my EMP dining family who presented themselves at our table like courtiers. And, as K put it, "I shall never forget the sight of Chef Humm making a beeline for OUR table". She was quite taken with him (the latest James Beard award winner) and his easy charm and down to earth attitude. Afterwards, we strolled back to the hotel where we could only loll in a state of suspended happiness and recount every morsel we had eaten and every lovely person we had seen. K's parting remark--"EMP is truly a bubble of delight in this crazy world and no wonder you cherish it so much because everything else just falls away".

I returned for my birthday dinner and had a marvelous meal and yukked it up with the folks who have become so very dear to me. My dear friends, the Rs, whom I met through EMP, made sure that I had a glass of champagne sent over. Interestingly, I can't say that the dinner was any better or different than the usual meal there, but I think that is a wonderful thing. Although the captain did bring me my very own bottle of Woodford Reserve for after-dinner imbibing. I was there until 1:30 AM, so it was quite an evening. I savored my conversations with each of my EMP family-each so devoted to good food and wonderful living, but so different from each other and with whom I have an unique fondness for each one. Just like a family!

Here is the menu:

Santa Barbara sea urchin/custard with Sterling Royal Caviar, Green Apple and Shellfish Ragout

Ice Cream Lollipop--carrot and kasha and presented in a silver bowl filled with green grass from which you pluck the lollipop

Spring Pea chilled soup with buttermilk snow and Bayonne ham crisp

Peekytoe crab sald with pickled Daikon radish, crustacean mayonnaise, and spring flowers

Arctic Char seared with Oregon morels, garden peas, and pearl onions

Milk Fed Veal blanquette with spring vegetables, tarragon, and crayfish

Artisanal cheeses

"Soda Pop", a concoction of tangerine, grapefruit, pomelo, lemon and pop rocks

Milk and Chocolate variations of flavor and texture (this is one of the few weak links that I have ever tasted at EMP)

What a relief to have such a weekend and what a joy to re-live it with you!

Family of One Celebrates a Birthday

2010-06-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

There is something a little more special about a birthday that falls on a Saturday. At least, I have always thought so and when my birthday fell on a Saturday in 2004, I decided to do something different and have a dream party for myself. I had been living in Miami for about two years, had a favorite restaurant in the still dilapidated Midtown part of Miami, and had collected an interesting array of acquaintances. I asked the owners of the restaurant, a small Victorian home featuring better coconut cake than the Peninsula Grill, to close for the night and we planned a buffet menu and asked their piano player who had played with Count Basie and accompanied Sammy Davis, Jr. at the Fontainebleau to be there. Because there was a theme to the party--it was going to be a jazz cabaret and everyone who wanted to could sing a song. I prepared two songs. H, one of my BFFs, flew in from Atlanta. I had 25 RSVPs.

It was the worst birthday of my life and when I tell you what happened, you will see why I gave up on planning parties.

As a family of one, birthdays in general are fairly tricky. I had been part of a couple for nine years just before this birthday and was used to having someone plan the celebration. In the years after our parting, I took a trip somewhere like Sanibel or the Keys for a couple of days.

But, I liked the idea of this party and it was received with much enthusiasm. As I began planning the party, I started seeing an attorney and it was going well, so I was faced with the dilemma of whether or not to invite him. My instincts screamed no, but I fretted that he could find out about the party and have hurt feelings. He was very enthusiastic when I invited him and offered to be my accompanist since he was an accomplished piano player.

Everything was all set. I was beside myself with excitement. But, the day was eerily quiet. I developed a strong sense of foreboding throughout the day. Around 4:30, B called on all my phones while H and I were taking rests--much like Scarlett and the girls did before the Twelve Oaks barbecue. When I heard his voice on the message, I knew what a mistake I had made. He professed to have food poisoning. I was upset because I knew he was lying, but I was also counting on him to play the piano for me. In addition, a couple of people had invited their beaux to fly in from places as distant as Connecticut so that they could hang out with us.

Just after I spoke with him, the phone began ringing incessantly with people calling to say things like-my husband's cousin is in the hospital and we are going to need to go visit him or I forgot that it is Chick Flick night with my girls group and they will kill me if I don't come. Suddenly, the guest list was down to twelve.

My heart was no longer in the party. I just wanted my friends to reopen the restaurant and I would pay them the $500 I had promised them. H convinced me to just show up. So, I did.

And, it was a wonderful affair. The 12 people who showed up all hit it off. The buffet was magnificent featuring a roast turkey, all kinds of pasta, and a chocolate fountain. Billy Ray showed up to play the piano and he and I melded perfectly. At one point, I looked around and thought--how amazing that these people came together in this charming cottage in the heart of one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami for such a night.

Everyone tactfully avoided mentioning B. But, towards the end, a local radio personality with a flair for the theatrical and for wearing clear plastic pumps designed to look like Cindertella's leapt up on a table and screamed out, "B has a tiny dick". I was horrified because many of the people there attended my church. It was very interesting that they were the ones cheering her on with additional vicious epithets.

I found out months later that B's Brazilian girlfriend with whom he had a stormy history had called the night before the party and asked to come back and live with him. Four months later, when she moved out again, he was calling me contritely.

Even though it turned out to be a lovely evening, I decided to not put that kind of pressure on myself again. So, tonight, I am ensconced at the Gramercy Park Hotel anticipating a lovely dinner for one at EMP on Saturday night and a day spent reading and relaxing in Gramercy Park with a stop at Think Pink for a mani/pedi. My dear K is journeying in from Rhinebeck to have lunch with me at EMP on Friday.

When I drove away from the RoseBriar Cafe on June 5, 2004, I could not have imagined the dark days that were ahead--which is a good thing. But, nor would I have ever imagined the wonderful and splendid delights that were ahead, many of which involve you, my dear, dear friends.

Family of One Goes to McCrady's

2010-05-31T19:33:00.000-07:00

When in Charleston recently on one of my monthly business trips, I decided to branch out from the usual places I go where I am considered, well, part of the family. Sean Brock had just won the James Beard Award for the Southeast, so I thought it might be fun to give it a try. I was also desperate to sit with my book and just have a lovely meal and do some observing, something that always rejuvenates me.

Sometimes, my experiences dining alone in the fancier Charleston restaurants have been less than stellar. I am often treated much worse than when I started going to fancy restaurants alone in the early 80s although now I have the confidence to speak up. I had no reason to think that McCrady's would not be welcoming. I had dined there alone on a Saturday night ten years ago and was treated wonderfully.

So, it was a combination of sadness and something close to rage that I spent my first half hour at McCrady's. I was given a prime table on a banquette overlooking the room. I was at a comfortable space between two couples who were all sitting on the banquette. Both couples were around my age. One couple was eyeing me in a friendly and kind way. One couple was making out.

I was treated in a dismissive fashion by the waiter who did not introduce himself or make eye contact and acted as if he would prefer that I was dining at the Wreck of Richard and Charlene. On his second pass, I made the point--somewhat tactfully, I hope--that I am a big fan of the James Beard winners and try to get to as many of their restaurants as I can. I hated to be so potentially pretentious, but I wanted him to know that he was dealing with a neophyte who would not know a ramp from a shallot. Twenty minutes go by and all I have is ice water. In the meantime, he has served four tables and brought cocktails to a fifth.

I catch his eye and he frowns as he comes over to the table. "Sir, I find it bordering on disrespectful that you have not even taken my drink order after the amount of time that I have been sitting here. Is there an issue because I am here alone? Because I am feeling that there is something slightly hostile going on here."

Christ on a crutch, I hated to be so blunt, but I had time to think through what I was going to say and the letter that I would write to Sean Brock. Does winning a James Beard award give you the leeway to make your guests feel so badly? The waiter did not seem perturbed; however, within about five minutes, I was approached by a warm and kind waiter with the most appealing demeanor.

"Hello, Mrs. Southern," he greeted me. "May I call you by your first name?" I was so stunned by this turn of events that I could only nod. "OK, I will call you Miss Jo," he rather somberly stated. "Well," I said, "that is not really my name, but if you want to call me that, it's fine". And, indeed, I liked the idea of being called Miss Jo--it had a rather jaunty ring.

Ross and I very quickly established that I was thrilled to be in the restaurant and wanted to try as many flavors as possible, so we set up a mini-tasting. In the meantime, the couple on my right had become very engaged with my efforts to receive service and I ended up having the most delightful time with the Kellys from Minneapolis who were celebrating their 25th anniversary. We were laughing! We were screaming! We were discussing how to get to the aforementioned Wreck of Richard and Charlene! I was as happy as Bo Diddley.

And, when the food started coming, I was very happy that I had stayed--

***yellow squash bisque with wild ramps from West Virginia-lovely with a delightful lemon undertone
***Special of the Day which was a warm vegetable salad with the most vibrantly tasty, interesting array of vegetables with four or five dollops of various sauces (I actually replicated this at home with moderate success)
***Kimberly's stone crab with strawberry gazpacho, green strawberries, and wood sorrel which was one of the best things that I have eaten all year and for which I told them that need to charge at least five more dollars
***Country friend sweetbreads with Sea Island red peas and Wadmalaw onions

The dessert was one of the most interesting presentations, if not tastes, that I have ever seen (and that is saying a lot)--10 different flavors of sorbet about the size of a marble on ten petite ice cream cones and standing up in an especially made holder. There was coconut and basil thyme and blueberries and cream. . .frankly, the sorbet was not as memorable as the presentation, but it was a fabulous way to end the meal.

Ross and I continued to have a wonderful time and I asked him what had been going on that I had been treated so dismissively. He said that JJ had gotten a whole bunch of tables at once and just got overwhelmed. Then, when he got off to such a bad start with me, he just decided to have as little to do with me as possible. I pondered this. I was not happy that things had started out so bumpy and I felt that JJ should have not been afraid to make amends. But, I decided to implement one of my favorite tenets about dining alone--behave as if you are a guest in the chef's dining room, not a customer.

I asked JJ to come over and I told him that since he had been my waiter, I wanted to give him a gratuity and I discreetly handed him a ten-spot. I thanked him for making sure that I was taken care of and we ended up having a very pleasant exchange.

Now,I can hardly wait to go back! And, almost more importantly, it was a valuable reminder to me when dining alone--nothing is about you, but then again, everything is about you, so it is up to you, the guest, to make of the experience what you can.

Family of One Ponders Movie Etiquette

2010-05-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

I had one of the most lovely experiences at a Saturday night movie in Miami that I have had in years. Driving home along the leafy, winding roads to Coconut Grove, I thought--why can't all experiences at Miami theaters be like this? The movie that I saw was nothing special---Just Wright--which is a fun little romance with Queen Latifah, plenty of NBA action, some jazz, and some stunning shots of NYC. What was best about the movie was the audience--about 50% of the theater full of folks of all ages including one whole row of teenage girls. No one kept their blackberry on, issuing that annoying light. No one talked on the phone. No one screamed out or talked incessantly. And, here is the part where I felt like I was in a dual reality--folks were shouting at the scream, en masse, "kiss her" and hissing at the villianess and breaking into applause at the appropriate times. There was--and I hate to use this cliched phrase-such a wonderful energy that I left the theater so in love with Miami.

This is not usually the case, especially on Saturday nights, as moviegoers in Miami tend to be loud, selfish, stupid, and rude. I continually have to play MJ Southern, movie palace policewoman, which distracts from my overall film experience as well as possibly earns me death threats or, at the very least, nails in my Camry tires.

In fact, I try to go to the movies in NYC as much as I can because the audiences there are so respectful. I recently saw The Secret in Their Eyes at the Lincoln Cinema Plaza, an arthouse that could definitely use a sprucing up. But, I loved it because, even though the theater was completely full, there was total silence and no eerie lights emamanting from people's laps. Of course, the median age of attendees was probably 52, but nonetheless, it was refreshing to attend a movie where folks actually wanted to watch it.

I have been grappling with what do about asking folks to shut off their blackberries. I would be very interested in your thoughts on this. Shushing people is not that difficult, but asking them to keep their texting and incessant checking delayed until after the movie is something that I have not mastered. The few times that I have said, "could you turn that off until after the movie?", I only get comments like "this can't be bothering you" or "I'm not talking" or "I can't be out of touch" or "shut your hole, Granny". I made that last one up, but it's pretty close to a real reaction.

Lately, this is what I have been doing. At the sure-to-be-a-classic Hot Tub Time Travel, I was surrounded by folks with their phones glowing merrily and the sound of Chiclets being chewed in SurroundSound. These people were, for the most past, what appeared to be UM students, so I had a real challenge to untether them from their life support. The fellow on my left appeared to be a graduate student, so a little older and hopefully wiser. Every time he lit up his device, I leaned over and said, "who are we texting now?" This, of course, garnered me exasperated and even irritated looks, but I kept this going. Now, people around us were shushing me, but I said, "I am just seeing what my seatmate is texting, so you'll have to forgive us". I stared him straight in the eye and said, "look, I will annoy you to death as long as you are annoying me with your blackberry. Every time you look at it and that light comes on, I want to see what is being written to you. You feel that it is OK to disrupt my viewing experience, so I have the same right to disrupt yours. Don't you agree?"

This actually works, but, Christ Almighty, it is so tiresome! I will look forward to any suggestions you have for ameliorating the Friday/Saturday night viewing experience. Please don't suggest only going on weeknights or waiting for the DVD. Sometimes, there are movies that must be experienced with a crowd on opening weekends and I can't let being a Family of One deprive me of that privilege.

Family of One Attends Stephen Sondheim's 80th Birthday Celebration

2010-04-22T19:00:00.000-07:00

About twenty-one years ago, I had one of the most fabulous weekends of my life in New York City. When I tell you about it, you will think that I am making it all up. But, it really happened and I have only recently been able to enjoy it because it was so painful to think that those times were over.

I stayed at the delightful and charming hotel called the Wyndham, not part of any chain, but more of an apartment hotel on W. 58th Street, just across from the Plaza. The suites were reasonable and huge and decorated in wonderful chintzes. Lots of folks appearing on Broadway would stay there. So, it was like coming home to stay in one of those suites.

On Thursday night, I took one of my favorite beaus (a man whom I saw off and on for over twenty years) to a restaurant called Aurora where I had been very friendly with the chef for a couple of years. I thought it was oh so French to take a current lover to the restaurant of a former lover and, indeed, we had a fabulous meal. As I walked out of the restaurant which was at 49th Street and Madison Avenue, I had one of those incredible magical moments in NYC. It was a very foggy night and the fog was all around, but you could see the tops of some of the building over it. I stood by myself and savored how lucky I was to be in New York and all that I had to look forward that weekend.

On Friday night, I saw the stupendous show, Jerome Robbins' Broadway which was such a treat for one who loves musicals as I do. On Saturday, I met a good friend for gingerbread pancakes in the cafe at the Hotel Pierre and then saw The Heidi Chronicles by Wendy Wasserstein starring Joan Allen. That night, I went to a restaurant down on Seventh Avenue South that my chef friend recommended. It was called Rakel and there was a hot new chef in the kitchen. I found it energetic, if unremarkable, and returned to my suite where I did the most unlikely thing and went to sleep at 9:30. By the way, the chef's name was Thomas Keller.

On Sunday, I saw a revue called Black and Blue followed by dinner at Cafe Luxembourg. After the dinner was the real piece de resistance of this enchanted weekend--a salute to Stephen Sondheim by the NY Gay Men's Chorus with "special guests" at Lincoln Center

I wore the most divine LBD of pure wool which I had purchased at Jaeger and featured a cowl neck, cinched waist, and came just above the knee. I had on sheer black hose (remember those days?) and three inch black pumps, classy, but not stilettos. I was beside myself with excitement to be wearing this outfit and going to this show and to have had this NYC weekend. I would never have suspected that would be my last NYC weekend by myself for many years which is probably why it has been so painful to remember it.

The show was remarkable. There was Elaine Stritch singing Ladies Who Lunch and the ladies from Follies and the original cast of Company. There was such an excitement in the air because everyone just knew that Sondheim would make an appearance even though those around me said that he was very shy and usually did not attend these concerts. In 1989, there was not one of us at the concert who had not been personally affected by AIDS, so there was a very bittersweet energy as well. The most moving part of the night was when the chorus sang "Our Time" and "Not a Day Goes by". Tears rolled down my face as I saw the looks of yearning and acceptance and devotion and affection on the faces of so many around me. Most people were quietly weeping as well. Suddenly, from the back of Avery Fisher Hall, came a slight, bearded figure running down the aisle with amazing speed. In reality, he was probably just striding, but, in my memory, he was running. He had a huge smile. It was Stephen Sondheim. Every single person leapt to his feet and was clapping, clapping and crying and laughing and hugging the people around him. It took my breath away and remains, to this day, one of my most poignant theater-going experiences. The quality of the show, the affirmation of hope amongst such sadness, and the connection that we all felt in the audience will be with me always.

Later this weekend, I will be going to another show in NYC--this one saluting Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday. I look forward to letting you know about this show. And, I am grateful beyond words to be back on my path to NYC, having wonderful meals, seeing dear and devoted friends, and wearing a new black dress that may not approach the sexiness of the Jaeger LBD, but which I have to admit looks pretty damn good.

Family of One Has the Chef's Special

2010-04-18T19:00:00.001-07:00

I don't know about you, but sometimes when I have been traveling for a few days, I just get so weary of having to make a decision about what I am going to order, especially for dinner. Sometimes, when I run up against cuisine fatigue, I will use the hours before to think through what I want, especially if I have seen the menu. But, sometimes, I just am sick of reading menus and pondering what would be good. I have developed a new strategy that works pretty well. For restaurants where I know the chef (and sometimes even if I don't), I will call the restaurant and tell the reservationist to let the chef know that I will eat anything that he prepares (except, of course, for green peppers) and how many courses I would like. This never fails to cheer me as it gives me the feeling that I am going to a good friend's house for dinner, but I don't have to worry about bringing the wine.

This is an incredibly busy time of year for those of us in college publishing because this is the time that all of our customers (professors)choose the textbook that they will be using for fall. In my case, I work with sales reps and the professors to customize the books to their specific needs and, of course, all of the decisions are being made now, but there is only one of me to get all of the books prepared. I have learned to pace myself during this time and to take time for one fun hour or so a day.

I had a reservation for one at Anson's, one of my favorite haunts in Charleston where a new CIA-trained chef, Jeremy Holste, has recently taken over the kitchen. I met him on one of his first weeks there and we hit it off as we both love the Wreck (the fabulous fried seafood den on Shem Creek), sweet tea vodka, and, of course, almost anything edible.

Jeremy had sent me a few taste treats over my last visits that were not on the menu, so I had high hopes for a very lovely dinner. I was not disappointed and I was tickled to be served personally by Jeremy who would then sit down with me in my booth that will hold six and discourse for a few minutes. Here is what I had--

***Chilled cauliflower soup served over diced smoked salmon and tomatoes, very thin celery, and a tiny bit of chopped nut for texture. Outstanding.

***Perfectly prepared diver scallop (albeit a bit salty, but that was fine with me) and perfectly prepared ravioli--one of each with tiny bits of pea sprout, pancetta, and pearl onion

***Thin and tasty carpaccio covered with an array of wonderful tastes including something akin to a caponata, a green tomato relish, pickled garlic with pine nuts, and tiny bit of a mustard/mayonnaise combo. Each bite was unique, but none of it was cloying or overwhelming.

***Pan roasted tilefish with a fingerling potato or two served in a sauce with Anson's bacon and a hint of truffle

***Baked Alaska served over strawberry sauce.

I don't know if I would have ordered any of these taste sensations. I doubt it, since I am always drawn to the oysters and pork products at this delightful restaurant. But, what a marvelous way to rejuvenate my palate for a memorable meal.

And, of course, I was visited throughout the evening by the manager, the bartender, and the waiters whom I have grown to adore in the past couple of years. I have been going to Anson's for fifteen years, but it was never a restaurant where I felt like family. I love turning that corner.

And, of course, I can't wait to go back although, next time, the seven layers of heaven pork belly and cornmeal fried oysters may be calling my name.

Family of One Celebrates Easter

2010-04-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

There should probably not be a reason for a single person to feel down on Easter; after all, the holiday is about the resurrection of our Lord Jesus and not particularly wrapped around celebrations with family and friends. In its purest form, it is the holiest of days, a day for reflection about one’s faith and joy about the message that He is risen and what that represents for eternal life.

So, why did I feel so sad? I love my church in the Grove, I have so much to which I look forward (Stephen Sondheim’s 80th birthday celebration in NYC, a visit to Madrid this summer, countless visits from beloved friends, etc). But, I really felt that I was missing out by not participating in one of those lovely, scrumptious Southern buffets that are traditionally served as part of Easter lunch among many of my friends. I had told myself that I was sure it would be OK to visit one of these friends, but I don’t like the thought of intruding on their family time and being seen as one of those dreaded “orphans”, like on Thanksgiving Day.

After lolling on the sectional sofa on Friday evening, pondering a solution to this dilemma, I realized what I needed to do. Being in possession of several fine side dishes that I had brought back from a fabulous dinner at Prime 112 with colleagues AND having just purchased a tres petite ham as well as some lovely white asparagus, I decided to make my own buffet.

Usually, I will prepare a lovely plate and either eat while watching something on TCM while stretched out on the blue sofa on the second floor of the triplex OR I will curl up on the sectional sofa on the first floor of the triplex while listening to music. It had never occurred to me to create a buffet for myself, but it was wonderful fun.

I heated the ham and roasted the asparagus and placed those on one plate. Then, I filled faux Chinese porcelain bowls with the sides from Prime 112—mashed sweet potatoes, cauliflower au gratin, and creamed corn with truffles. I opened a half bottle of a 2006 St. Estephe that I brought back from Paris. I stretched out on the blue sofa since there was a wonderful documentary about Hollywood musicals filling the screen. I was happy as Peter Rabbit.

And, then, of course, today I had a wonderful time at my church service, particularly enjoying a rousing rendition of Widor’s Toccata in G and a thoughtful sermon, followed by brunch at my dear Jaguar where I saw a colleague from Boston as well as friend from book club.

I must point out that when I told Mother about the buffet, her immediate response to my description of a tiny ham was “that ham did not come from a pig because no pig could produce anything tiny—that ham must have come from a squirrel”. I really could not argue with her logic.

On another Mother related note, I was surprised that she did not become obsessed by the recent storms that decimated many homes in the High Point area. Thanks to many of you who wrote to make sure that Mother and Dad were OK. The night of the storms, she called and said very mildly that there seemed to be some bad storms heading for Guilford County.

A couple of days later, she recounted the following—“on the night of the storm, someone rang our back doorbell (an outside door that leads on to a sun room of sorts)—I peered out to see who it was and it was a person dressed in a long, black coat with a ski mask and a big, black hat. I said, ‘dear Lord, please don’t tell me that Carson and I are going to be killed tonight’. It was Mrs.C.W. Scott, Jr, from next door who braved the storm to tell us that our phone was off the hook. She had put on every conceivable piece of clothing she could find. “

I pointed out that the killer probably would not ring the doorbell and, hence, she was not in immediate danger. But, she came right back—“they ring the doorbell to throw you off the track”.

Our thoughts and prayers are with those folks who suffered considerable damage during the terrible storms.

And, hoping that you have a lovely Easter or Passover or beautiful spring day.

Family of One Goes to a Funeral

2010-03-30T17:56:00.000-07:00

There are very few things in life that I have dreaded as much as the start of the demises of my three immediate family members—Mother, Dad, and Aunt Louise. Having to cope with the inherent drama, the myriad of details that surround an illness and a death, the unknown grieving process—I just wasn’t sure that I could handle it well, if at all. I am happy to report that, with the passing of Aunt Louise, I now see that, as one ages, death becomes an entirely natural process and is not at all unwelcome. Because we had so much time to prepare for Aunt Louise’s passing (two months of being in critical care), I had the opportunity to work through a lot of my grief. And, thank goodness, I can look back on this trying time and be content with the choices that I made on her behalf. I do enjoy a good session of second guessing myself, but this is one area of life where I am totally at peace.

In planning her funeral, I was on new ground, not having anyone with whom to really consult. Thankfully, Aunt Louise had pre-paid her funeral, but she had also given me a very specific list of directives for her service as well as what she wanted in her obituary. I begged and pleaded with her to put this in writing, but she never would. She loved the control of telling me. For example, she wanted butterflies released at the end of the service; she wanted the local cardiologist’s wife to play the flute; she wanted a luncheon in her memory with sandwiches and iced tea. As Mother said, “even John D. Rockefeller has not discussed his funeral in such detail”. When I started investigating the logistics of her requests, they were going to be such high maintenance requests plus she had never written them down, so I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted.I just decided to plan the service with input from Mother, the pastor, and a couple of her friends.

I don’t know how much experience you have had with planning a funeral, but I have had basically none. My only real experience was when G’s father died in a tony suburb of Hartford and I had to go with him to plan the service. Mr. W was a real character—about 5’ 4”, read Evelyn Waugh, asked me to play “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground” on the piano every time I visited him, and hit on me constantly. He passed fairly peacefully in his late 80’s. A handsome, if unctuous, funeral director met with G and me to plan the service. He asked very traditional questions to which G responded in a most unusual way--- “What music would your father like to have played?” “None, he objected to all music and felt it was frivolous”. “To what charity would your father like to have memorials sent?” “None, he did not believe in charitable organizations.” “Whom would your father like to have as a speaker?” “No one, he was an atheist and did not want anyone spouting aphorisms at his service”. I was very puzzled because, basically, none of this was true.

Suddenly, G asked the funeral director-“Does my father have to wear pants in the coffin?” The funeral director looked very stricken. Even though Mr. W. was being cremated, there would have to be a coffin because G insisted on an open viewing. “I have never had anyone ask that question before”, the F.D. said, looking imploringly at me. I suddenly lost control and began laughing hysterically a la Mary Richards at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. I did have the good sense to immediately bow my head and act as if I were crying. “Well,” G said, “my father disliked wearing pants intensely and I had promised that he would not have to wear them to eternity.” Not bothering to point out why an atheist would think there was an eternity, the F.D. said, “I suppose anything is possible” and he agreed to a nude below the waist corpse. I was horrified. I knew that Mr. W had recently flashed the woman delivering Meals on Wheels, but I had never heard this kind of request or the other nonsense from G. When I asked him what was driving his answers, he replied, “I’m not spending that kind of money for some aging queen to play Rock of Ages on the organ or for some elderly hack to read Thoreau. And, I’m damn sure not going to sacrifice a perfectly good pair of pants that I can give to the Goodwill next week. I’m mad enough that I have to pay for the coffin and waste a good shirt and coat.”

So, with that experience hovering at the edge of my memory, I travel to High Point to execute the memorial service. It was a wonderful experience, more poignant and moving than I could have imagined, but with a great deal of warmth and humor. The funeral director in High Point could not have been more helpful or more gracious. I had envisioned a portly man with a bad comb over, but instead Mr. B went out of his way to make sure that all of our requests were handled with respect and grace. Several cousins appeared on the scene and this made for a nice reunion of sorts. These cousins are all in their 70’s and 80’s, so I had never gotten to know them well, but they were lovely and respectful to Mother and Dad. And, the folks at Aunt Louise’s church came together to create a very lovely service with a choir of about ten and a reception of about fifty. There was much laughter, a fact that I don’t think Aunt Louise would have particularly appreciated. I think we had all been under so much stress caring for her that we were joyous that she, along with us, was out of such misery.

I gave a brief eulogy and it was such a moving moment to stand at the pulpit and look out on so many folks who had given so generously of their time and energy to keep Aunt Louise in her apartment for so long. And, to see my parents, 90 and 88, as they observed and listened to everything going on. I mentioned the fact that, just last summer, Aunt Louise had told me that her favorite movie was “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, which got a huge laugh, but was also very poignant because, as I said, how many other facts were there about her that we simply did not know. No one would have guessed that was her favorite movie. I mentioned her delight when the church organist played “The Wells Fargo Wagon is A ‘Coming” (from The Music Man) when she led in her Sunday school class as she had directed him to play something appropriate and they had just been to see the musical. I thanked the three women who had been the most consistent caregivers for Aunt Louise and told them that they represented the ideal to which we should all aspire, churchgoers or not. I closed by talking about how, when she came to visit me in New York City, her hotel room was directly across from the street from my apartment window and how we stood in our respective windows before we went to bed, just looking at each other. Even though she could never really tell me how special I was to her, I knew it and those evenings in New York were part of the reason I understood. Her favorite proverb was “I live in a small house, but it looks out onto a big world” and, indeed, Aunt Louise was a fabulous observer of life, much more than a participant.

In the days after the service, I gradually learned to not dread the sound of my cell phone ringing and giving me the latest update on her increasingly serious condition. I lost my voice for a few hours one day and gave myself the gift of just being still and letting others do the talking for me. I savored all of the wonderful things that I so enjoy. And, I realized with a hint of bittersweetness, that I am now prepared for what lies ahead as I face the funerals of my remaining immediate family. I think what was most affirming to me were the many unanticipated acts of kindness from my friends, my colleagues, and folks who just happened to cross my path.

Family of One Says Goodbye to Aunt Louise

2010-03-10T21:47:00.001-08:00

As you know, Aunt Louise had been dying for a couple of months. One thing led to another and, for a 93 year old, she just didn't have the stamina to keep fighting. At least, that is how it appeared.

I told her goodbye two weeks ago while she was still alert enough to know that I was there. But, out conversation was definitely one-sided. Before I went in to see her, I sat in the parking lot and wondered what it would be like to literally tell someone goodbye. I can report that it is one of the most powerful things you will ever do. It was just a bit emotional, but more focused and energizing than I could ever have imagined.

Even though Aunt Louise was still around, she didn't say a lot. I ran out of things to say after about 30 minutes. I thought about what else I could say. I have only lost one other person through death who was incredibly dear to me-my beloved Bonnie Biller with whom I worked at Prentice Hall in 1996 and who died from lung cancer three years later. She was one of the most darling, perceptive, and kind people that I have ever known. I still miss her although I can feel her presence from time to time. I asked Weezie (as I called her) if she would look up Bonnie Biller when she got to heaven. In one of the two times that she actually spoke to me, she said, "yes, I will find Bonnie Biller". Her other comment was related when I reviewed, yet again, whom she would see in heaven (this is what the nurses will tell you to do). She rolled her eyes with something akin to scorn. She said, very clearly, "I will also see the people that I never liked". I assured her that since it was heaven, there would only be people she liked. She rolled her eyes again. That was the last time we really spoke to each other.

Aunt Louise's journey over the last six months has been arduous--told that she would have to leave her apartment because the church that owned it was selling it; being rushed to live in a nursing home; being rushed to a hospital; and then living in two facilities after the surgery that she had to have. For a woman who lived at least 20 years in one place at a time, this was a lot of moving around. When the nurse called me today to say that she had passed, I was truly happy that, at last, she could be at peace.

Aunt Louise was not given to warm declarations or yucking it up. She took life pretty seriously. She was an incredible craftswoman who could make a crocheted cover for my iPod or craft shredded coconut crust for a key lime pie like I will never taste again. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and always reminded me that even though I am a family of one, I have been incredibly blessed with friends who are much better than family.

I felt just a tiny bit alone tonight, but I savored it. The next few days will be spent with my parents and being there for them which is as it should be, but still very taxing. The times that I had always dreaded facing as a family of one are starting. And, thankfully, they are not so bad. Love to each of you.

Family of One Dines in Paris 2010

2010-03-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

At last, I have a chance to finish telling you about the meals that I had in Paris a few weeks back. I consider this trip one of my best because I carefully balanced my rich meals with less robust ones as well as bistros with haute cuisine. Enjoy!

BEST SATURDAY LUNCH—I can think of few greater pleasures than getting off the plane for Paris, driving though a rainy Saturday morning to a charming hotel on the Place des Vosges, and then strolling about a block to a café bustling with relaxed Parisian energy. I was lucky to be pointed in the direction of Le Petit Marche by the hotel concierge. Fabulous lentil soup, salad with goat cheese—that sounds so basic, but it is so delicious when prepared with TLC as only the French can do. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking une rue typique—welcome to Paris! Le Petit Marche, 9, rue de Bearn (just off Place des Vosges)

BEST SUNDAY AFTERNOON—the hotel concierge almost wept when I told him of my plan to stroll over to Bar a L’Huitres for at least a dozen oysters and a half bottle of something white. Indeed, perched in the café overlooking Boulevard Beaumarchais, steps from the Bastille was even more wonderful than I had imagined. The Belons and Claires were superb. The accompanying pork rillette was something for which I would have cheerfully paid. The half bottle of a white Burgundy was fabulous. Almost as wonderful—being surrounded by happy, chattering folks doing the same thing on a brisk, sunny Paris afternoon. Bar a L’Huitres, 33, blvd Beaumarchais.

BEST ENERGY—I stayed away from La Coupole for years because I had the notion that it was overrun by tourists. I found out differently a year ago and I very much enjoyed the energy of a Friday evening on this trip. It was completely mobbed—with locals. I had to sit at the bar for 45 minutes while I waited for a table in this brightly lit, cavernous restaurant. The food is fine—not bad, not stupendous. But, what is wonderful is the incredible energy emanating from everyone—the captains, the waiters, the patrons. The steak tartare and pommes frites are not bad and very affordable. And, who wouldn’t love a place where each person waiting is assigned the name of a composer rather than a number? La Coupole, 102, bd du Montparnasse

WORST MEAL—While I like Au Pied de Cochon as much as the next person—it practically defines French onion soup and the setting is just delightful—I made a crucial error in ordering pig’s trotters. Every time I have ordered this dish, it is always served as the pig’s heel, filled with some sort of scrumptious dressing. But, this time, I received, literally, the pig’s trotter—a mass of bones and tissue that resembled something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was able to extricate exactly two bites—and I mean bites—of meat. Fortunately, there were wonderful pommes des frites which I dipped into the accompanying Béarnaise sauce. I certainly didn’t go hungry. But, next time, I will stick with more oysters (who can ever get enough?) or one of the fish dishes. Au Pied de Cochon, 6, rue Coquilliere

BEST MEAL/EXPERIENCE—I suppose it goes without saying that my best meal would be at Taillevent, long considered the very finest restaurant in Paris and one of the best in the world. As I wrote last year, I made the mistake of ordering the prix fixe lunch which was lovely, but not memorable. This year, I was determined to order a la carte and what a wonderful decision that was. I was given a wonderful table and greeted sincerely, if not effusively, by Jean-Marie Ancher, le directeur, as well as several lovely captains and waiters. I was trying to maintain a sincere, but not effusive air, myself. But, then, Jean-Marie and I connected over our mutual respect for Danny Meyer and his fabulous NYC restaurants and I relaxed into myself and a fabulous dining experience starting with the marvelous gougeres of which I ate about 15. I consulted with my captain over which dishes to order, dallying between a crab tart and roasted winter vegetables. I decided to go with the latter, simply because I had eaten so few vegetables on my trip. I also ordered the scallops in a simple lemon butter sauce. And, a chocolate soufflé.

Much to my surprise, the crab tart was brought out. I could not imagine that I was being given a lagniappe at such a deluxe restaurant, so I asked the server it that was correct. He answered, “oui”, with a hint of a smile. The captain came over and beamed—“ce n’est pas les vegetables”—and we both beamed. The crab tart was luscious: slightly creamy with handfuls of crab and a very light, buttery crust. And, just a hint of shallot. Next, came the roasted vegetables accompanied by the captain with a truffle and a grater in his hand. P’sh, p’sh, p’sh went the grater until the vegetables were covered with a mound of truffles. I almost wept at the generosity and the anticipation of the wonderful taste and the sheer wonderfulness of a fabulous lunch served by people who knew how to make a guest feel truly pampered on a sunny Friday afternoon. This time, Jean Marie strolled over, bent down, and whispered—“ you have a friend in the kitchen”.

For some reason, I had a hard time with those scallops. It took me about thirty minutes to eat about ¾ of them. I chewed and chewed and drank wine to help me swallow, but they just weren’t as tender as the ones that I am used to. Of course, as I am writing this, I am marveling that I was able to even eat two of them, given what I had already consumed.

And, then, the chocolate soufflé which was perfect in its texture, temperature, and flavor.

I was the last person in the restaurant and I apologized profusely to the staff for keeping them there. It had been a dining experience to treasure—the unexpected treats, the wonderful flavors, the stately space, the kindness of the staff—all filled me with such happiness.

I saw Jean-Marie sitting at his computer in his small office off the hall and asked if I might come in. He immediately rose to his feet and we chatted amiably while a cab was called. More than 20 minutes passed and he continued to chat amiably. I told him that I would be fine alone, but he said, “I consider you a friend now and I would never let a friend wait alone”. We began talking about restaurants in Paris and he cautioned me about going to ones that are not only outrageous in price, but not of a high quality. He asked that I consult with him about my next round of restaurants and I cheerfully agreed.

Finally, the cab arrived and I waved au revoir to my new friend and smiled all the way back to my hotel, thinking of such a lovely experience.

Other recommendations-

One of my best meals was at Le Cameleon, a bistro off Blvd de Montparnasse, and featuring lovely dishes—I had a boudin noir, sole meuniere with some of the best pommes pureed of my life, and a delightful apple tart. This sounds pedestrian, but it was all perfectly prepared and the setting was elegantly casual with lots of well-heeled Parisiens in their 50s and 60s crowding the banquettes. Le Cameleon, 6, rue de Chevreuse

La Ferrandaise—located near the Sorbonne and frequented by scholarly types, this neighborhood bistro has a charming, effortless appeal. Wonderful, if a little robust, cuisine. I had a pate, boeuf bourguignon, and a chestnut soufflé and could not eat again that day. La Ferrandaise, 8, rue de Vaugirard

Tan Dinh—when you cannot handle another hearty, rich meal, I suggest this excellent, if stark, Vietnamese restaurant just behind the Musee d’Orsay. Cash only and fairly expensive—at least $60 euros—but well worth it for the change in cuisine. Tan Dinh, 60 rue de Verneuil.

Sensing—called the anti-bistro, this Guy Martin is a real find, especially when you tire of the same décor in the brasseries and bistros. Excellent and not-too-rich cuisine and a wonderful bar in the front. 19, rue Brea (just off Blvd de Montparnasse)

Family of One Contemplates Peeping Toms

2010-02-23T19:10:00.000-08:00

I recently had cause while chatting with a friend to think about peeping Toms. I had not thought of this subject in many years and I wondered if there are fewer peeping Toms because previous participants are now on the Internet gawking away or if increased home security programs prevent such predilections or if there is activity and I just don’t hear about it in Coconut Grove, FL.

At any rate, I was reminded of one of the most exciting evenings of my young life when a suspected peeping Tom was in our neighborhood. As a very small child, we lived on a most lovely boulevard, lined with beautiful trees and charming cottages and one-story homes.

One summer evening when I was about six, we got a call from our next door neighbor, Mrs. Collins, coincidentally the mother of my dad’s best friend, Paul Collins, and who was usually just called Collins in the neighborhood, but Mother insisted that we call her Mrs. Collins. She reported in hushed tones that the lady across the street two doors down had heard from another lady that there was a peeping Tom loose. She insisted that we come to her house immediately. “Popcorn is on,” she said.

Mother demurred as she did not want to risk being accosted by said perpetrator while we crossed the 25 feet to Mrs. Collins’ house. Mother and I were alone, per usual, because my father worked most evenings until 10:00 at his drugstore. After a little thought, Mother decided that we should not be alone in “this hour of decision” as she referred to any crisis. I was never sure what a decision had to do with the pending crisis at hand, but I sure understood the code. There was going to be much drama! And, Mrs. Collins always fixed Jiffy Pop popcorn in moments of stress.

I am sure that you probably know about Jiffy Pop popcorn, but just to underscore its fabulousness, I will tell you that it was a bunch of popcorn kernels in an aluminum pan with a foil lid and metal handle. You heated it on the stove and the aluminum foil would expand and expand in the most delightfully alarming way. Just when you couldn’t stand it any more, it would burst open and there would be this horribly acrid popcorn, but it was so thrilling that you didn’t mind.

Mrs. Collins had as her houseguest a cousin from “up in the country” who was mild and agreeable, but slightly agitated about the current state of affairs. There was much discussion about lights off or on, candlelight or flashlight. Did we want to see the fellow’s face? Did we want to risk being identified? The houseguest ventured, “I can’t wait to see him”.

While we were waiting, Mrs. Collins got to laughing. She said to her houseguest, “Do you remember when there was a peeping Tom in Cousin Bombay’s neighborhood and she went upstairs to get away from the windows? Well, sir, he pulled a ladder over to her second floor bedroom window and peeked in and she peed in her breeches and had to run to the bathroom while he stood there looking in.” Mrs. Collins reported this with so much pride and glee that it was hard to remember that an actual crime was involved

This accounting of a real peeping Tom titillated and horrified me all at once. Why would anyone want to run to the bathroom after they had already gone to the bathroom? Why would they want to miss one minute of this excitement? What urge drove this man to get a ladder and how did he know exactly which window? Also, you must remember that, at that time, the word “pee” was not bandied about like an after-dinner mint as it is today. That alone was shocking, so shocking that I would never even repeat that part of the story to anyone until recently.

Just after this anecdote was related, the phone rang and the neighbor announced that it had been a false alarm. A teenage boy was taking a shortcut and happened to glance in Mrs. White’s window while she was standing in her bra and girdle. We sat crestfallen in candlelight amid the ruins of the Jiffy Pop. Mrs. Collins insisted that my father come over and walk us home “just in case”.

This theme continued to emanate through the years. For example, when we moved into our more upscale home in a subdivision, I would often stand in front of the sheer drape that covered my bedroom window, lost in thought. If Mother happened to walk by and see me, she would go cuckoo and remind me that “insert neighbor boy here” would like nothing better than to see my unclothed figure at the window. She had a point, so I was more careful about closing the drapes, but I never tired of hearing her tell about the night we almost saw a peeping Tom.

Many years later, I lived in New York and could see across First Avenue into the gigantic UN Plaza apartment building where such stalwarts of NYC as Truman Capote, Bobby Kennedy, and Johnny Carson had owned living quarters. I could clearly see into many apartments and loved to see how they were decorated. One in particular that I took to be a relative of Diana Vreeland’s always fascinated me. The walls were all red and the furniture was all baroque. I could not imagine that someone really lived there, but I could see their shadowy selves moving around every night. What I enjoyed the most was seeing that these inhabitants of this, to me, magical building were doing just what I was doing—watching TV, eating dinner, chatting with each other. This was always very comforting to me and I greatly missed this diversion when I moved back to Boston.

Could I be considered a peeping Tom? I think not, only extremely curious. Let me know what you find out about any sightings in your neighborhood and remember to keep your curtains drawn.

Family of One Has an Unpleasant Encounter in Paris

2010-02-22T16:05:00.000-08:00

As previously related, I had the most splendid time in Paris with nary an uncomfortable exchange or stressful moment--except for one which took place in the cozy, charming lobby of the Hotel Sainte-Beuve--and involved, bien sur, an American.

Picture a tiny boutique hotel just off Boulevard Raspail. Enter the front door and, to the right, is a lovely little sitting room with two couches, a few tables with interesting tchotchkes, and a demeure fire. Just behind this sitting room is a more modern area with several sectional sofas and a couple of small dining tables with chairs. This is the area where breakfast is served. It is also charming.

After a lovely dinner at Sensing, considered the "anti-bistro" for its modern stylings and fare, I returned home, looking forward to a quick chat with ma mere--also known as Mother-- and then relaxing in front of the well-needed fire with my iPod.

I had sent Mother print-outs of where I would be staying; unfortunately, the one for the Sainte-Beuve had described it as being on an alley, so Mother thought that this had robbery AND kidnapping written all over it. I was happy to give her a quick call when I returned from dinner.

As I entered the hotel, I glanced to my right to see that a lady of around 60 was comfortably ensconced on one of the sofas. Wanting to be considerate, I went to the part of the lobby with the dining tables which is separated from the living room with several posts, a couple of replicas of the Washington Monument, and some large plants. As you know, I am a stickler for cell phone etiquette, so reminded myself to keep voice low and conversation brief. Then, I could lounge on the other sofa.

The call was predictably brief--remember that I always give miscreants at the Biltmore gym five minutes for any call--but then Mother decided to discuss issues about the care for Aunt Louise. I pondered going to my room, but the elevator would disconnect the call and she was saying, interestingly, some very wise things.

Suddenly, this lady climbs over the partition, between the Washington Monuments, and says, "Could you please take your conversation elsewhere?"

I nodded and said, "of course".

Mother immediately reacts--"is that a kidnapper? Don't talk to anyone. Don't give out any information."

I attempt to get us back on track, albeit briefly.

I say to the woman, "I have a very ill relative back in the States and we are discussing her care. I will finish this up quickly, please indulge me".

About another three minutes go by. I wind up the call, but not before the woman again climbs over the partition and tells me to either take the call downstairs to the toilet or go outside. She also says, "I can tell you are from the South and you people pride yourself on your good manners. I know you would not want to be considered rude."

I hang up. The woman climbs back through the partition for the third time, now to be begin the lecture in earnest. She went from societal influences, the death of good manners, the advent of the cell phone, the importance of self-protection.

I thought it best to let her have her say, but finally said, "I am so sorry that I disrupted your evening. It is hard to get a good signal in my room and, by coming to this part of the lobby, I thought I was signalling to you that I was respecting your privacy. I, too, am in need of some quiet time as I have been dealing with this ongoing drama for several months, so I know how you feel".

Her response--"I, too, have a very ill relative back in the States and I came to Paris to forget about it for awhile, but you have succeeded in doing nothing but reminding me". Editorial note--I somehow didn't buy this--just a little too convenient--and I was starting to think she might be slightly psycho.

I murmured my sympathy, turned on my iPod, and proceeded to lounge on the sectional sofa as if I were back in the triplex.

Once again, she climbs through the partition--this is getting a little silly. She starts again on "you people from the South" and "why did you think that you invented good manners?" and "where were you when that lesson was taught?"

I am now more amused than anything. I have briefly reflected on my own shushings and realize that I have never emitted more than a sharp SHHHHHH or, on occasion, had a brief, but pointed, dialogue, focusing on the situation at hand, not a history of manners in the United States. Note to self--do not adopt this strategy.

I stand up and look her straight in the eye as she dangles between the two Washington Monuments. "This is quiet time now", I say. I put my fingers to my lips. "Let's see how quiet we can be. Let’s be very, very quiet”. She keeps nattering. I smile wistfully. “I am going to come over and sit in front of the fire with my music”. She keeps blabbing.

When I don’t engage with her, she becomes quiet. Suddenly, in a moment that she has obviously been practicing mentally, she stands up and makes a grand exit to the elevator like Katharine Cornell in a Broadway play from the 1930s. “Just like all people from the South, you may think that you have the premium on good manners, but from my experience with you tonight, it is clear that you don’t”. Exit to waiting elevator.

I sigh. I shake my head. I continue to listen to show tunes. The fire is just wonderful. Not another soul comes into the lobby.

Family of One Celebrates Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T10:09:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is a pretty rough holiday for someone living alone. To tell the truth, it has never been a particularly fun day for me even when I was with someone. While I was strolling back from church today, I tried to think of one warm Valentine's Day memory from my days with G and could not come up with one. But, in the first years that I was on my own, the day was fraught with anxiety. People--well-meaning, albeit--would say one of the following: "Don't worry, next year you will be with someone"; "don't worry, you won't always be alone"; "don't worry, next week you will be with someone". I always bought into their sagacity. After all, wasn't Valentines meant to symbolize the importance of being in a a couple and never to stop striving for that happiness?

Several years ago, it occurred to me that I might not be with anyone any time soon and that was OK. And, even when I do meet someone lovely, I don't think the trigger will be Valentine's Day. But, that doesn't mean that I turned into one of those curmudgeons who says--"oh, that is just a day that the greeting card company made up to make money". I actually think it has a very sweet purpose.

Now I take the opportunity to send a few cards to my beloved treasures of friends and a few gifts here and there--old friends, new friends-- and I try to think of something whimsical for Mother. This year I sent her the Mardi Gras beads that my friend C brought me when she stayed with me for the Super Bowl and a selection of perfume samples that I had been collecting. She was thrilled and wore the beads to Costa's Fish House as soon as she received them.

Later today, I will fix a selection of treats including some foie gras that I brought back from Paris and I'll listen to some delightful jazz. I'll browse through the cards that I received and cherish the handmade Valentine from my 90 year old father. I'll think with warmth about those of you who are celebrating wonderful relationships and toast you with my Bordeaux.

And, I will start giggling, as I always do, when I think about the most wonderful Valentine message that I ever received from an--shall we say--admirer--and I am cleaning this up to a PG rated version for public consumption--I wish for you much copulation and foreplay in the year ahead.

Family of One Prepares a Salad for Eight

2010-02-12T13:38:00.000-08:00

I love my new church and was very happy to hear that there would be Dinners for Eight, organized by a couple in the church wherein we could sign up and be assigned a dish and a host.

Faithful readers will remember that I am not usually a fan of such events, but, I thought it might be worth a try to have this experience.

At my old church, I actually had headed up an effort to begin such an endeavor, but the politics were just too overwhelming--what about a vegan host? what about children? what about children where alcohol was served? My nerves were frayed after one meeting.

So, when my hostess called this week, I was delighted to hear from her. She told me that I had been assigned the salad. Immediate flashback to my old church and how the older, slightly sad single ladies were always assigned the salad for church functions and they brought a huge aluminum pan of iceberg lettuce and weary sliced tomatoes from Publix.

Was this what I was supposed to do? Maybe this is what folks wanted for "salad"? Herein, our conversation--

MJS--What do you mean by salad?

Nice lady (NL)--Well, you know, some lettuce and maybe a tomato. . voice drifts off. .

MJS--(picturing the description above)--I don't think that I have ever prepared a salad for more than two people. I'm not exactly sure what you are expecting.

NL--(starting to wish she had called someone else first and thinking to herself that this call should have taken about two minutes from her day)--Well, I don't think this should be that difficult. Would you like to bring the appetizer?

MJS--(feeling like such an underachiever because she can't bring the salad)--No, I am determined to bring the salad. But, you see, I consider myself a bit of a gourmet cook. If you are expecting iceberg lettuce and a sliced tomatoes, this is probably not the best dish for me to bring.

NL--(now wishing that she had a nerve pill) I am sure you will bring something that we will all enjoy (and silently hoping that I am also medicating myself the dinner)

MJS--How about green leaf lettuce, arugula, and mache with sliced heirloom tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, and a homemade vinaigrette-I make all of my salad dressings.

NL--silence

MJS--Would that be OK?

NL--Are you making that up?

MJS--I hope that it is the kind of salad that folks would like, but if it is too fancy, I understand.

NL-You are like a dream come true. I can't believe you would bring something so lovely. That sounds absolutely marvelous.

MJS--I am happy to do that, I just don't want to look out of place if a more traditional salad is preferred (how diplomatic was that?)

NL--I look forward to meeting you and I hope that you will always be assigned to my house.

After this conversation, I call Mother to tell her about this and distract her from the ongoing sad saga that is Aunt Louise.

Mother--Lord help, that lady is sorry she ever got your name. Don't you know she was wishing she had just asked you to bring the beverages? But, you would make a production out of that. Can't you just act like you have good sense? Why would you need to go into all of that? Just put some lettuce in an aluminum pan and slice up some tomatoes.

So, for the record--here is the salad--
Mache/arugula/ green leaf lettuce
Grape tomatoes (from Homestead, so nice and fresh)
Cucumber
Squash
Baby bella mushrooms
Shredded carrot (more for color than taste)
Avocado
Pumpkin seeds

Vinaigrette made from champagne vinegar and basil oil.

BTW, no applewood smoked bacon--although it was tempting since you know how much I love cooking with it.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Family of One Has a Lovely Vacation

2010-02-04T18:37:00.000-08:00

As you may know,I recently went to Paris. Having had a particularly stressful few weeks what with the holidays and end of year custom text shipments and dealing with a health crisis with Aunt Louise, I really needed to get away. Do you understand that feeling when you need to get away, but you are afraid to acknowledge it in case it doesn't happen? That is how I felt.

The day before I was to leave, major decisions had to be made about Aunt Louise. These decisions are, of course, always monitored with the help of Mother. Need I say more about my stress level?

Thankfully, every single thing came together at about 11:15 AM and I was leaving for the airport at !2:00 PM. Although Mother did point out that my timing was rather bad. It turns out that my timing was good because Aunt Louise settled into her longterm care facility just fine. There weren't even any kidnappers lurking around.

I knew that this trip was going to have a different feel when I got to Philadelphia and the lady in the Envoy lounge asked if I would like to be moved to row 1. I am usually suspicious of "gifts" so hesitated for a moment, then remembered that row 1 is the row where the seats become beds. I couldn't say yes fast enough. It was also interesting because Elizabeth is the same lady who always checks me and I stand in her line even if there is a wait. On this occasion, several ladies were just sitting there and started taunting me that I should check in with them because Elizabeth was too old. I think they were kidding; however, I stayed with Elizabeth and it was worth it.

Just anticipating having a bed made me as giddy as if Warren Beatty was picking me at the airport and driving me to Provence for the weekend. And, after my crazy few days, it was the most wonderful feeling, after the pseudo-gourmet meal, to recline and actually sleep. My friend K has forbidden me to actually book Row 1 moving forward. She says that I can justify outlandish expenditures better than Dolly Parton at a wig convention. Indeed, I am already thinking. . .now if I only took ONE trip a year. . could I splurge on the bed? Nah, just thinking out loud.

I had a lovely couple of days at the Pavillon de la Reine, a small hotel on Place des Vosges and then I moved over to what I consider my Paris spot--the Sainte-Beuve.

I arrived on Saturday and, on Wednesday, I had that day that we all hope to have when we go on vacation--that absolutely perfect day that we always reflect on and that keeps us planning vacations because it is so sublime. On a slightly drizzly morning, I took a cab to Fauchon in the Place de la Madeleine from where I was going to stroll over to Le Meurice for lunch. I left plenty of time for procuring gourmet treats and strolling. I finished up with lots of time to spare--in fact, I had an hour to kill. What to do? Angelina for their legendary hot chocolate--no, too rich before lunch;more shopping--no, I didn't want to carry more bags; oh, there's the Ritz--what about a pre-lunch glass of champagne?

I am seated on the banquette where I have sat before and enjoyed a glass of the house champagne along with marcona almonds and a selection of olives. And a USA Today. There is hardly anyone there, so I can enjoy the coziness and understated decor all to myself. By the time I leave, folks are starting to come in, especially women wearing Hermes scarves tied in ways that I can never seem to pull off.

On to Le Meurice. This has to be one of the most beautiful dining rooms in the world. It is a grand room with large windows overlooking the Tuileries. There are four chandeliers, incredible Baroque art, and much, much gilt. It is probably the closest that I--or anyone--will ever come to eating in a palace. It is worth the $$ to just sit there. But, then, there is the view of the Tuileries which, in the winter light, is somber, but stunning.

I had told myself that, having had less than stellar meals last year when I ordered the Prix Fixe menus at fancy places, I would order a la carte. One look at the menu and I had to rethink that strategy as an appetizer was around $120 and a main course was around $150. I don't mind being self-indulgent, but I do have my boundaries.

Because I loved everything on "Le Dejeuner" and because almost everyone was ordering it, I had it as well. It was luscious and rich and memorable---just like one would imagine:

Vol-au-Vent a la tour de Nesle which was a lovely rich soup with escargots and mushrooms, slightly robust, but not overwhelming.

Filet de sole braise a joinville which had to be cooked twice because the chef was not happy with the first preparation and was served in a jus d'huitres that was light, but so flavorful

Fricassee de rognon de veau a la grainte de moutarde which were perfectly prepared veal kidneys served with incredible creamed potatoes. Never did I think that veal kidneys could be so delectable.

Moka-- served as a cake roll which was fabulous although I was starting to get very full because there had also been amuse-bouches, incredible bread, etc.

For the wine, I enjoyed, in addition to a glass of Bollinger, a glass of Chassagne Montrachet 2006 and a Chateauneuf du Pape "boisrenard", both of which were so unique in their tastes--woodsy and dank for the Montrachet and velvety and rich for the red.

Feeling incredibly blissful, I climbed into a cab and was transported back to the Sainte-Beuve where I wasted no time taking a long, restorative nap.

Around 8:00, I strolled over to a place where I had been the night before called Sensing. It is a new "anti-bistro" in Montparnasse, very modern in decor. I told le directeur that I had dined at Le Meurice for lunch. He invited me in and insisted that I have an appetizer sampler with only four tastes on it, a bit of cheese, and a frozen clementine souffle. The perfect end to my day.

Well, no, not the end. I strolled back to the hotel and encamped on a couch in front of a faltering, but lovely, fire with a glass of red wine and listened to my iPod to my heart's content. The next day, I slept until noon.

If snyone ever says to you, why would anyone take a vacation by themselves, I want you to tell them about this day because it was the standard. But, not because everything was so ritzy (no pun intended). It was because there were such unexpected delights as well as moments that I had anticipated for months. Everything came together and nothing was grating. It was like a day in a bubble which is a vacation should be.

And, just to bring the trip full circle, as I was boarding the plane to Miami from Philadelphia, who spots me but a dear friend who is an employee of the airlines, also heading back to MIA. He offers me a ride home which I gratefully accept. I come out of the baggage terminal as he pulls up. Anyone who has ever dealt with accepting a ride at MIA knows what a nightmare it can be. So, the ease of jumping into a waiting vehicle was, in itself, a small miracle.

I arrived at the triplex not mopey or sad, but invigorated by running into my friend and pondering how the unexpected serendipitous moments of this trip would be with me always.

More later.

Family of One Goes to Paris

2010-01-14T19:06:00.000-08:00

You might have heard that I will be spending a few days in Paris. I have lunch reservations at Le Meurice and Taillevent, a charming hotel (Pavillon de la Reine) for the weekend, my beloved Sainte-Beuve for next week, and, mainly, plans to wander, read, browse, and basically unhook. You may recall that during last year's visit, I was felled by a nasty flu, so I am very grateful to have a do-over in 2010.

I will be in touch when I return!

Family of One Goes to Christmas Dinner

2010-01-13T18:49:00.000-08:00

As previously reported, I have made sure these past few years that I have my own Christmas dinner, one that compares favorably with others that I have heard about in terms of cuisine and company. I take myself to my favorite restaurant, Eleven Madison Park, in New York City. I sit at "my" table, top level, closest to the windows. I yuck it up with almost everyone who is employed there. I have my book and my iPod. I reminisce with myself about the year just past. And, of course, I eat the delectable food stylings of Chef Daniel Humm and his remarkable staff.

I found this year to be an especially wonderful experience. I'm not exactly sure why. The folks in the restaurant are still over the moon about their four star rating from the New York Times, so the mood there is glorious. Chef Humm continues to challenge himself to create marvelous food. I felt fabulous, having enjoyed a successful work year and being in a good place, so to speak. On this particular evening, there were two experiences that made it a bit unique.

I have gotten to know most of the staff well, but had never had a chance to really talk with Will Guidara, the general manager, as he has been off on most of the nights that I visited the restaurant. I had heard great things about him from my dear friends, the Rs, and, indeed, had enjoyed chatting with him at a lovely lunch to which the Rs treated me the day before my dinner. I wanted to follow up on a couple of things that were mentioned, so looked forward to seeing him.

After a little while, I realized that I had spoken with almost everyone but Will. In the meantime, the fellow who seemed to spend most of his time downstairs kept coming over and asking if I needed anything. I was very dismissive of him. He had not buttoned the lower button of his blazer and I made a note to tell someone. I also could not understand why he kept leaving his station to come up to see me. I scoffed to myself that he must have seen all of us screaming with laughter and wanted to be a part of the fun. Well, he was not going to horn in on our party. He came by again and I picked up my book.

In a few minutes, I asked--where is Will? Oh, I was told, there he is and he has stopped by, but you are always preoccupied (what a lovely way to say that I was ignoring him). Oh, Lord Jesus, how rude could I be? I was horrified, particularly since we had engaged in such a lovely way just the day before. I could only chalk it up to the angle at which I was looking at him.

At any rate, he did return and we had a most delightful chat during which we discussed the various reasons that folks like to go to EMP--some for the incredible food, some for the beautiful dining room, some to be cosseted, some (like me) for the overall experience of being a part of something wonderful. It was during this exchange that the next wonderful thing happened.

On my way to the restaurant, I realized that I had left my reading glasses at Veselka when I was having bortsch and veal paprika for lunch. I stopped to buy another pair, but I really missed my original ones. I asked RK, one of the managers, to alert Sandra, a treasure of a maitre d', if she could call the restaurant and see if they had them. If so, I could jump in a cab and go down to the East Village and pick them up. I thought that calling from EMP might lend the request more credence than my trying to negotiate with the Ukrainian hostess.

Of course, you know what I am going to tell you. The lovely Sandra comes over to the table with my reading glasses on a tray! I nearly wept. Will was entranced as well. Even now, three weeks later, I still shake my head with awe at the kindness that did not need to be extended, but that simply was.

So, with all that excitement AND the laughs AND the ribaldry AND the exchanging stories, I need to remember that I did have an excellent meal-one of my favorites--

Santa Barbara Sea Urchin--cappucino with Peekytoe crab and celery root: one of my favorite dishes, so subtle in its textures, but so powerful in its saltiness and taste of the ocean

Foie Gras--mille feuille with big eyed tuna and watercress: an interesting juxtaposition of flavors that you think isn't going to work, but comes across amazingly well, especially with the textures of the foie gras and the tuna

"Winter in Provence"--black truffles, chevres frais, and potatoes: For this dish, a cooking table was rolled over and I, of course, had to comment that I did not realize Benihana influenced EMP. After Chef Fabien had cooked this dish for me, I almost had to lie down on the banquette. The combination of the various flavors--strong, bitter, soft, sweet--incredible. Although the dish did resemble a child's finger painting within seconds of presentation. A most memorable taste sensation.

Scottish Langoustines--poached with cauliflower, almonds, and raisins: delightful, subtle, discreet

Everglades Frogs Legs--sauteed with parsley and porcini custard:lovely in its simplicity, this dish is a tiny bit on the salty side, but I adored it.

Four Story Hill Farm Veal--braised veal cheeks with celery roots and black truffles: How could you go wrong? My favorite flavors in a robust, yet not overpowering, portion.

Fromage: Twig Farm Soft Tomme, Petit Sapin, Abbaye de Tamie, Cave Aged Gruyere

"Soda Pop"--Tangerine,grapefruit,pomelo, and lemon: a truly original rendition of that old favorite, pop rocks. Is there a more interesting feeling than the juxtaposition of exploding candies in your mouth while seated in a four star restaurant? I had two of this dessert.

What a Christmas dinner!

Family of One Faces a Family Crisis

2010-01-12T18:58:00.000-08:00

As you know, just hearing the word "family" sends me into something akin to orbit.

There is nothing like family. Family comes first. No one loves you like family. All phrases pretty much without meaning to me. As much I don't want to write that, it is true.

Until last week, when I saw, in action, that the family we create for ourselves is, indeed, the family of which platitudes are made.

At a sales conference in Dallas with my work family, I was tracked down by social workers and surgeons and nurses at High Point Regional Medical Center and told that Aunt Louise was in grave danger due to an infection that had gone untreated by her own physician.

Regular readers will recall that he is the one who was cursed out by the assisted living administrator who told him that he did not deserve to represent the Hippocratic oath for the horrible treatment he had given my 93 year old aunt.

His nonchalance is still wreaking havoc, two months later. With Aunt Louise semi-conscious, not able to swallow, and not coherent, the next of kin had to step in. Of course, Aunt Louise being Aunt Louise, she had refused to name a next of kin because she was afraid that it would hurt someone's feelings.

Christ, what a debacle. Between Mother's standard flair for the dramatique, my father's complete lack of attention because the doctor calling was from India and he professed not to understand him, and my getting bits and pieces of the story. . .well, it was just a bit stressful.

I was able to give the necessary authorization, but was told that we should be ready to move her to hospice.

Mother, of course, sees hospice as the multi-purpose solution, not realizing that it is, of course, a synonym for death's door. Mother kept telling the social worker, "Let's just put her in hospice and wait for her to get better". The social worker said to me, "do I have to continue dealing with Mother?" I would not have been surprised to hear Mother waxing rhetorically about the possibility of a kidnapping.

I had to decide whether or not to fly into the maelstrom that is my family in the greater High Point area.

At this point, I saw what it means to have "family". I walked back into a meeting room in which sat several of my nearest and dearest friends. Just seeing their faces as they assiduously worked on their spreadsheets brought joy to my heart. I would know what to do and they would be there for me. My beloved C talked me through several options. Dearest J and Darling J helped me focus and offered their wonderful perspective. New friend W offered practical and loving advice.

I made the decision to protect my mental health. I could manage Aunt Louise's care at a distance and probably do a better job from my own surroundings. I did not fly to High Point. At last report, Aunt Louise is holding her own. Yesterday she was doing "great"--eating ice cream and watching Carolina play Virginia Tech. Now, she is facing more surgery, but I am confident that she is receiving excellent care and I talk with her a couple of times a day. Whether her final days are next week or next month or next year, I am comfortable with how this is going.

Now, here is the part where I should write that it was wonderful to have that understanding of how a family can be a good thing. And, that is true. But, unfortunately, having seen that up close has only made me a bit sad for my life in Miami without anything close to family.

I can't tell you how many of you have told me your own stories of living in a place where you know so many lovely people, but your close friends are elsewhere. I know you will empathize and not think, "Lord Jesus, what else does this woman want? She has such a great life."

And, of course, I get to see my "family" often enough, maybe every two or three months. But, as I toy with goals for this new decade, I ask--maybe it would be a good thing to have one close friend nearby.

I am sure that by tomorrow, I will be back at 100%, delighting in my independence and, indeed, I have another post to share about my recent Christmas dinner. But, just for tonight, it feels good to let my guard down just a bit.

Family of One Celebrates 2009

2009-12-31T18:02:00.000-08:00

I started out this decade in a relationship from which I had no idea how to extricate myself and living in a town that I tolerated. I loved my job, but had done it a long time. I could not fathom how I would ever get myself to a place where I was happy. One move to Miami later--well, we all know what happened. Even though I am convinced the best is still ahead of me, I as so grateful that I had the chance to spread my wings in this city that I adore and start another whole new life.

That is pretty much all I have to say about the decade that we just lived through. But, for 2009, there were a few remarkable milestones that I would be remiss in not sharing with you.

UNC WINS A NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP--Truly one of the sweetest victories in a championship game--to see Tyler and company vindicated after the humiliation that they suffered in 2008 was a lesson in perseverance, grace, and teamwork. The regular season was not that much fun to watch, but, oh, the tournament! Perfectly executed play after play coupled with almost blind determination made for a series of games that was a joy to watch. I so wanted my dear dad to see one more championship. He has now seen five championships for the Tar Heels! Which leads me to the next milestone--

DAD IS 90 and MOTHER/DAD CELEBRATE 60 YEARS TOGETHER--I marvel every day that I still have both of my parents and that they are in reasonably good shape. Certainly, Dad is doing well enough to get very upset last week when the Heels lost the Meineke bowl and he just had his Mercury Marquis inspected so that he can continue driving in the greater High Point area. The marriage of these two so completely different people has not only survived, but thrived, and their devotion to one another is so touching.

SOMETIMES IT IS MORE FUN TO SAY "SAYONARA" THAN "BONJOUR"--I am sure you understand how difficult it can be to cut off relationships that have outlasted their "sell by" date. I had a particular problem with this concept. What if this person changed? What if that person really needed me? What if I was misunderstanding what he was saying? In 2009, I finally learned how to say "goodbye" with firmness and very few sentences. What--well, not exactly fun--but something nearing delight. The fact that I have an Eternal Backup who has been in the picture for three years doesn't hurt. What is important is to remember the feeling from when we first connected and make sure that is the feeling for all connections moving forward.

22 DAYS in NEW YORK CITY-here is a place that claims my heart and mind with the power of the most ardent love affairs. The feeling that I have for this wonderful city almost surpasses the great loves of my life. Yes, I was lucky enough to live there for two years, but I think NYC might be a better romance than steady relationship for me. In addition to my holiday weekend jaunts, this year I cancelled a trip to the wine country of Oregon in order to take advantage of nine solid days in Manhattan and it was a wonderful decision. Gramercy Park on a summer afternoon, catching up with beloved friends who happen to be in NYC, seeing friends who live there, marvelous meals, seeing Angela Lansbury and God of Carnage from a third row seat,and watching a blizzard from the best table at Tabla, overlooking Madison Square Park--all of these and so much more made me very happy to get on that nonstop AA jet for LGA.

I DID NOT GET KIDNAPPED or ROBBED--Despite Mother's greatest fears, I was not kidnapped in 2009. Her new obsession is that I could be robbed. Just last week, when I was in High Point, I was carrying a jar of coins to the Harris Teeter to exchange for cash. She became very agitated and said that I was certain to be followed into the store and hit over the head once I had the cash in my hand. It never fails to amaze me that Mother has the scenario all in place. She demanded to go with me so that she could act as a lookout and fight the person who attempted the robbery. As I contemplate trips in the next couple of weeks to Paris and Dallas, I can only imagine the scenarios that will be presented. Oh, Mother!

Family of One wishes you a wonderful 2010 and a decade filled with unexpected delights. I'll be in touch!

Family of One Celebrates Christmas

2009-12-18T18:29:00.000-08:00

For the past few years, I have been journeying to NYC for my Christmas holiday. When I first started going in 2006, I had the entire few days completely to myself and I savored every second. I saw A Chorus Line, Ceremony of Carols at St. Thomas Church, Steve Tyrell at the Carlyle, Young Frankenstein (well, not every second could be fabulous!); I took a rickshaw down Fifth Avenue past all of the enchanting store windows; I ate wonderful food; I enjoyed fabulous hotel rooms. Every year, I go to the Met to see the stunningly beautiful tree and the incredibly touching manger scene spread beneath it and I spend some time at the Temple of Dendur.

But, a funny thing happened along the way.

I started making connections which turned into friendships and now I have a plethora of folks that I cannot wait to see--my dining family at Eleven Madison Park, my darling Frank at the Mandarin Oriental and my Cristina who recently had a baby, my nail technician Meme, my former colleague and adored reading/restaurant correspondent, Shani. Now, I have to make sure that I will have time to see the Georgis O'Keefe exhibit at the Whitney and see one of George Cukor's early films at the Film Forum.

I can think of no better place to be. And I can buy a Georgia O'Keefe book and look at the drawings that are in the exhibit.

For, this year, in addition to the aforementioned, I am having an assignation with a new friend whom I met through the folks at EMP. When I sent them the T-shirts earlier this year, they gave two to a couple who regularly goes there. The lady wrote to thank me and we struck up a correspondence that has become very dear. It can be such a wonderful thing to discover a new friend, don't you agree?

Mrs. R and I agreed that we should definitely have lunch at Eleven Madison Park which would also give me the opportunity to have my Christmas dinner there as a Family of One. We also agreed that we just had to get together prior to EMP, so we are meeting for a cocktail on Sunday night--her husband, Mrs. R, and me.

What a wonderful holiday!

It wasn't always this way. I spent five very sad years in the 00's, tending to my parents for a week. It was not a holly, jolly Christmas. But, I felt that it was the respectful thing to do.

Then, it hit me that I was only short-changing myself by not having a true Christmas celebration. Being a martyr can only take one so far. I made my decision that it was OK to have a Christmas and I never looked back. I go to NYC for a few days, fly directly to High Point, and never say a word. Remember, this is our secret!

I think it is one thing to celebrate Thanksgiving alone because it can turn into something dark with a twist of the stuffing pan, so I am happy to be on my own. But, Christmas is different. Religious connotations or not, there is something so necessary about being around people who bring us positive energy and to whom we bring the same.

That is why I am happy to be heading for NYC once again and seeing all of my various family members--dining, grooming, publishing, and one representing an opening door.

Now, I better get my doodlebugs down to first floor of the triplex and finish packing. I have a taxi coming at 4:45 AM!!

Family of One Ponders the Future

2009-12-05T18:56:00.000-08:00

Before I continue with descriptions of four more fabulous meals in the greater Spain area, I wanted to bring you up to date about Aunt Louise and let you know a bit of what has been on my mind about the future.

You may recall that Aunt Louise's assisted living facility was saved from being sold out from under her when it was disclosed that the church managing the facility violated all sorts of regulations in offering the property to the local university. Residents were told that they had at least a year to find a place and that the assisted living folks would help them. So, we all breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Louise could remain in her apartment, as she so dearly desired, for another year.

I had encouraged her to move up an early December appointment with her doctor so that he could be aware of her living situation. On Monday, November 2, she went to the doctor. When I spoke with her that evening, she was unusually exhausted and could barely speak. She said that the doctor thought she was doing well.

The next day, Mother called me to report that Aunt Louise was being rushed to a nursing home to live. I could hardly process it. What had happened in less than 24 hours? It turned out that Aunt Louise had been keeping a lot of secrets about her health and was relying more and more on the other old ladies to take care of her. One of them became very worried and went to the assisted living administrator who asked Aunt Louise about her condition and she confessed all. She could not move her leg, she had terrible bed sores, her ankles were swollen double their size--these are only a sample.

The assisted living lady called Aunt Louise's doctor and cussed him out and told him he was an insult to the Hippocratic oath. He weakly said that he thought she was doing OK for 93. This lady leapt into action and found Aunt Louise a place in a very lovely nursing home and also paid for a nurse's aide to stay with her since she could not be left alone.

I was intrigued by the timing of this as I was leaving on my trip. Should I cancel it and go to High Point to be with Aunt Louise for this traumatic move? The move that she had said that she never wanted to make? Or, should I let the process unfold as it seemed to be doing so as to spare as much emotion and drama as possible?

I spoke with Aunt Louise and asked her what she would like me to do and she said emphatically that I was to go on my trip and she wanted to focus on getting herself to the nursing home. So, a friend took her away from her apartment of twenty years and left all of the sorting out to the incredible assisted living administrator with some help from Mother.

She is now receiving excellent care. She was listed in critical condition for a couple of weeks, but she is now able to take meals with others and has been moved to a room with a roommate. This, of course, was her worst nightmare, but she is handling it pretty well.

Back on Monday, November, 2, I asked myself what I would like to happen. My fondest wish had been for Aunt Louise to pass quietly away in the apartment that she loved, surrounded by her things. But, I also realized that she needed care quickly or she was going to meet a very grisly and unhappy end. I asked that she be cared for if that would be the best way to insure a comfortable end of her life and that wish was granted.

Of course, I tortured myself that I should have been more forceful in making sure that she was taken care of, but this is a woman who wouldn't even sign a power of attorney, so I had to accept the fact that I had done the best that I could.

And, then, of course, I pondered my own future. What was the lesson that I could learn from this cautionary tale and share with you as well? Leaving out the fact that I will have no living relatives that I even know if I live that long and that my closest circle of friends could be living in that great Bookstore in the Sky, I realized that I would need a plan. But, not right this year or even next year.

But, I have decided that when I am 75, I will make sure that I have a plan A and a plan B in place to make sure that I have the care that I might need. I think that is realistic. Any earlier seems a bit premature. Although I think it is incredibly important to continue going to the Biltmore gym and save a bit of money.

Most importantly, this is the lesson that I have learned. Aunt Louise feared two things more than anything--being a burden and leaving her apartment for a nursing home. She was always talking to me about how important it is to be close to one's family--even though I don't really know any of mine--because they will always be there for you. While she was pontificating about this, she was becoming more and more reliant on the old ladies around her who simply couldn't take it any more and are, of course, also trying to avoid going to the nursing home. She completely lost her perspective on being a functioning member of a family and what that means. It seemed inconsequential to her that she was causing so much stress and anxiety to those around her. The family that really cared about her was on the brink and, in the end, there was really only one solution which could give us some relief.

So, moving forward, I am going to try to always remember that in growing old, there are responsibilities not only in taking care of oneself, but in not taking too much advantage of the kindness of others. Family of One or Family of Twenty, we owe that to ourselves and those around us.

Where is Mother in all this? Well, she went to Aunt Louise's apartment and took the family heirloom water set for me as well as the manger scene that Aunt Louise made in ceramics class. An antique sewing machine from the 1880s only warranted scorn--"who in the world would want that old thing?" But, touchingly, she was very moved by Aunt Louise's china baby doll whose head I had inadvertently busted open as a child and for which Aunt Louise had carefully crocheted a cap to cover the hole in its head. The china doll is now living at Mother's.

Family of One Has a Top Ten Meal

2009-12-03T16:39:00.000-08:00

As promised, I want to tell you about the most wonderful meal that I had on my trip to Spain. In the next few days, I'll share with you the runner-up meals, but this one has such a special patina that I decided to lead with it.

I had been told to try Sergi Arola's restaurants and so I made reservations at his restaurant at the Arts Hotel in Barcelona and at what appeared to be a casual restaurant at the Reina Sofia Museum in Madrid. Because I had so many other high-maintenance reservations, I decided that would be enough of his cuisine.

On Monday, November 9, knowing that it was a national holiday, I scampered over to the Reina Sofia Museum to see Guernica and to have a delightful lunch. I had checked the guidebook and it said that the museum was open on Mondays, even holidays. When I arrived, it was closed up tighter than Dick's hatband (a favorite expression of Mother's which I don't completely understand). I was not particularly disappointed as I was a bit jetlagged and the thought of a long nap on the Heavenly Bed was fine, especially since I had recently partaken of the enormous buffet at the Westin Palace dining room. I decided to stop for a Coke Zero and a can of Pringles and climb into bed with my book. I had seen about as much of Madrid as I wanted to and it was a cloudy, gray day.

Returning to my room, I put on my Queen Bee pajamas and flung myself across the bed. I decided to look over my restaurant reservations for Barcelona and, as I was doing so, I noticed that the reservation that day for Arola was not at the Reina Sofia, but on a street whose name I did not recognize. I realized that American Express must have made the reservation at one of the "real" restaurants. Cuss a rutabaga, I said to myself. I should probably go down and tell the concierge to call and apologize for my not cancelling the reservation which was for 1:00 and it was now 2:30. I placed on my casual walking clothes and went to the concierge.

As soon as they saw me approaching, there was much consternation. "Where have you been? They are looking for you to be at Arola", they screamed. I explained what had happened. They got on the phone with the restaurant and much high-pitched Spanish ensued. They looked at me and nodded, "Yes, she will be there in ten minutes". They hung up and said, "they only have a few reservations today because it is a holiday and they are getting ready to close and we told them to hold the restaurant open for you". I was aghast. "Oh, that is not necessary", I said, "I will be OK going another time". "No, you must go today. There is to be no more discussion. We need to get you into a cab".

I am most happy when I know where I am going. I don't think that I am alone in this preference. I had absolutely no idea where the cab was going. I only knew that I had over 200 euros, so I should have enough to cover it. I called my beloved K from the cab and said, "do you think this is going to be OK?" She screamed with excitement and said, "you are having a surprise meal--how incredibly fun--enjoy every second". And, it's true. When you are traveling by yourself, you always know where you going to eat, so it is very unusual to have a meal for which you have no advance knowledge.

The taxi drove down several beautiful tree-lined streets and suddenly pulled up at a restaurant in a very posh district. The most handsome man was standing in the street waiting--for me, it turned out. He was anxiously looking from side to side and smiled happily when he saw me. He ran over to open the door and said, "we must get you into the restaurant". I apologized profusely for causing him to stay open and he said, "not another word, just relax and enjoy yourself. You will be the only person in the restaurant".

Well, that wasn't exactly the case as I entered a long, narrow room decorated very sparsely, but in an attractive contemporary style. I was seated on a banquette towards the back, about four tables away from a couple who was finishing up their meal.

The treats immediately begin arriving--cod fritters, Catalonian olives, tiny potatoes with a tiny bit of potato foam. There was a lovely glass of wine.

I was treated respectfully, but with alacrity. I could barely process what was happening, but I knew it was wonderful.

My first course was chestnut cream soup with sweet potato puree and bacon ice cream. Incredible.

The server asked me if I liked mushrooms and I assured her that I did. She said, "the chef has some extras from today and he would like to make them for you". I was served the most tasty range of mushrooms--delicate, earthy, chewy, smooth--in an incredible sauce that did not overwhelm the mushrooms.

It was about this time that I got just a little perspective on what was happening. Do you know that feeling when you suddenly find yourself with the opportunity to have incredible, passionate sex either with a stranger or your partner? You want to have that moment forever--the desire, the anticipation, the sensuality--but, you can't hold on to it for too long because real life will intrude and ruin the moment. That is how I felt--like I was being swept off my feet by one of the most magical meals that I would ever have. Part of me wanted to weep at the fact that I did not have hours to enjoy this experience, but the practical side of me knew to savor and enjoy every second, every moment. Because these folks wanted to get the hell out of there and enjoy their holiday, so I had to be considerate of that.

I could see into the kitchen and there was no one there except for a lone female chef and a fellow mopping the floor. She was literally cooking this meal for me. The other patrons had left. It was the most empowering, humbling, hedonistic sensation to be alone in that restaurant.

Next up was one of my favorite fish that I always order on my European adventures, red mullet served with cucumber and what I can only decipher as cream of flores in my rushed handwriting. Lovely. Simple. Perfect. It was accompanied by one of the most interesting taste sensations ever--perfect tiny Kenyan green beans with peach sorbet. I wonder if I could duplicate that in the triplex kitchen? Probably better not to try.

The dessert is one that I will remember forever--the taste, the texture, the temperature, the saltiness, the sweetness--coconut curry souffle.

The lovely staff started bringing out the petits fours, the macaroons, etc. I said (even as it broke my heart to have to leave this enchanted vacuum), "please just pack those for me so that you can go and enjoy your holiday".

Thank goodness I know that I can return to this restaurant so that I can have a more leisurely experience. But something tells me that no return visit will every duplicate the intensity, the excitement, the joy of this unexpected gastronomic adventure.

Family of One Enjoys Madrid and Barcelona

2009-11-28T15:38:00.000-08:00

I am still reeling from the fabulous time that I had in Spain. I say this because I did not expect to have such a grand time. Interesting, maybe. Delightful, at times. But, I was completely seduced by Madrid, so much so that I am planning a return trip next summer. I adored the wide, leafy boulevards, the courteous, intelligent people, the interesting food, and the sense of contentment that I felt while I was there. I liked Barcelona and am happy to have spent five wonderful days there, but it was Madrid that really claimed my heart. Which fascinates me because I had not expected it. I felt such a familiarity there unlike anything I have experienced. When I am in Paris, I am just madly in love the whole time I am there, walking around saying quietly to myself, "je suis en Paris," and enchanted by every single experience. Which, let's face it, can become somewhat tiring. In Rome, I am mesmerized that I am attempting to buy a souvenir or have a meal next to a place where real life was going on thousands of years ago, so I am always slightly worshipful. But, in Madrid, I just felt happy.

While I had some wonderful meals, I am going to tell you in this post about some of my overall best experiences and I will post next week about the meals. They warrant their own post!

Best meal, hands-down: Just to whet your appetite (pun intended), the best meal on the trip, not to mention one of my Top Ten meals ever, was at Arola in Madrid. More to come.

Best taste--At another of Sergi Arola's restaurants, this one at the Arts Hotel in Barcelona, I had the most simple, yet flavorful, dish of the trip. I was served on the ubiquitous white dish--one fresh clove of garlic, one sliced tomato, a little pile of sea salt, divine olive oil, and a loaf of bread-voila, pan amb tomaquet. This was a dish that originated with the peasants who had very little to eat, but could always make a nutritious meal from these ingredients. So, I was instructed to spread the garlic on the bread, rub the tomato over it, sprinkle with sea salt, and pour a tiny amount of olive oil. Incredible. I thought that I could easily duplicate this in the triplex kitchen, but I am not so sure. The blue sea just beyond the window and the sheer perfection of those ingredients might make it tricky to replicate.

Best find--Gastroteca de Santiago was recommended in a New York Times article and was so good that I went there twice. Located just off the Oriental Gardens in Madrid, the restaurant is on a tiny square where only locals seemed to walk. To be continued.

Best hotel--The Palacio del Retiro exceeded all my expectations and now ranks as my second favorite hotel of all time. Located across from the beautiful Parque del Retiro, it is a seamlessly modern hotel in an early 20th century residence that has been beautifully converted. My room had four sets of floor to ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard and covered in gray sheer drapes that were like something out of a Catherine Deneuve movie. There was a comfortable sitting area, a fabulous king-size bed, lots of room, and, best of all, a four foot tall Phillips speaker on which I could play my iPod. The bathroom was equally posh with a wonderful shower and a soaking tub. Did I mention that I am going back next summer?

Best museum visit--I wandered over to the Prado on my first day in Madrid, having had a four hour nap in the Heavenly Bed at the Westin Palace where I stayed during the first part of my trip. I thought I would get the lay of the land, so to speak, something my father taught me on our many, many voyages through the 48 states when I was growing up. To my surprise, there was hardly anyone in the museum and I had quite a bit of energy. So, I toured a great part of it, having all of the galleries to myself. I was fascinated by the Titians and Tintorettos in particular. Although I will go back, I must remember that 5-7 on a Friday is the perfect time to go. The most interesting painting that I saw is by someone unfamilar to me and whose name I cannot decipher from my notes--Venenuano--and he painted A Last Supper that was very unusual as it depicted four dogs lolling on the floor and several of the disciples leaning back in an expansive mood. I must go see this again.

Best park--Yes, I love my dining experiences, but a close second is visiting parks and gardens. I carefully study the maps before I go to each city to find little-known parks and gardens, such as the one at Palau Robert in Barcelona. But, my complete favorite is Parque del Retiro in Madrid. So expansive, filled with such interesting architecture, such interesting people, and lots of venues to just sit and watch everyone. I loved that I was able to experience autumn and see lots of leaves on the ground, something that is foreign to the greater Miami area, of course.

Best cathedral--I also love exploring cathedrals. One of the most beautiful that I have ever seen was not exactly on the beaten path, but well worth the trip. San Francisco el Grande boasts the second highest dome in Europe outside St. Paul's in London and is so astounding and breath-taking in its majesty and elegance that I could not begin to capture it with a photo. There was a mass going on when I was there and it was a remarkable experience to see the parishioners who go there regularly in this magnificent space

Best concert venue--I was looking forward to seeing Brad Mehldau and Cassandra Wilson perform at Palau de la Musica as part of the Barcelona Jazz Festival. But, I was not prepared for the enchanting Art Nouveau architecture with one of the most stunning interiors that I have every seen. I was fortunate enough to be on the first row and so could appreciate every detail contained in the bas-relief muses on the back wall which can change color, creating a most magical effect. It was very interesting to be in an audience where I could not understand what was being said around me. It gave me a chance to really savor the incredible surroundings.

Most welcome meal--After a week of tapas and molecular gastronomy and sometimes not knowing exactly what I was eating, it was a pleasure to find a place simply called Entrecote, a short walk from my hotel in Barcelona. I now know that this is a "chain" called Le Relais de Venise, recently reviewed in the New York Times since an outpost had opened on Lexington Avenue , which boasts a very simple formula---wilted (not on purpose) iceberg lettuce with a mild dressing, nicely cooked and sliced entrecote in a tangy, yet soothing, sauce, and perfect French fries. Nice red wine and wonderful profiteroles. A very desirable meal, nicely executed.

Most overrated meal--Speaking of the New York Times, I could hardly wait to try the World's Best Sandwich, as touted by Mark Bittman. It was at a small sandwich shop called Viena on Las Ramblas. It is that wonderfully crispy bread with wonderfully salty Serrano ham, a bit of tomato spread, and olive oil. I could see that, at one time, this was probably a wonderful sandwich, but, in the three years since it had been so touted, I believe it had lost its edge. Let's just say that it cannot compare to the French dip at Houston's in the greater Miami area.

Another overrated meal (s)--I tried to like the gestalt at Alkimia and Cinq Sentis, both part of the "molecular gastronomy" scene. I had a better experience at Cinq Sentis where the tomato sorbet and the pan-seared scallop in sunchoke and onion glaze and the oxtail braised for 36 hours were all memorable, if not incredibly delectable. At Alkimia, I was given the worst table, in an alcove with no light. I asked for another table and was given a lecture on how lucky I was to have a table at all. Despite this unpleasantness, I settled into a nice routine with the servers, but I cannot tell you one thing that I had (they promised to give me a menu, so I didn't take notes) and I heard not one laugh, one chuckle, one guffaw in the dining room during the three hours that I was there. Dutiful is the word that I would use -for the service, for the food, for the experience.

Best hangout--I loved going into the huge, domed, somewhat shabby, but still sophisticated Lobby Bar at the Ritz. I went there after my exploration of the Prado and was fortunate enough to be in time for high tea which tasted just perfect. I went there several nights for post-dinner amontillado. My last day, I was so craving something "normal" that I went there for lunch for creamy vegetable (read tomato) soup and a plate of tea sandwiches. While I was there, visiting royalty prevented us from leaving the premises, so I was forced to watch as about twenty-four personages resembling younger Hillary Clintons and a man dapperly dressed in dark suit and sporting several medals entered the lobby. I never did find out from where he came. Still, an interesting way to spend an afternoon and much more satisfying to the soul than having to wait for an entourage containing the cast of Entourage to exit the Delano Hotel.

Best fancy meal--Beautifully prepared and served at Lasarte in Barcelona where Martin Berasategue earned his one Michelin star after only being in business for ten months. A striking and lovely 35 seat venue. More to come.

Most interesting meal--Viridiana in Madrid where the longtime chef openly scorned me, but I made the acquaintance of a lovely couple next to me--the woman named Marie-Jose!!-as well as an actor from the US who had gone to Duke and was a huge Yankees fan. As they say, what are the chances?

At this point, I will either need to say good night or book a trip for next week, so let me repair to my own kitchen for some spaghetti Bolognese and a glass of St. Emilion. To be continued with the emphasis on the five best meals.

Family of One Celebrates Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T19:09:00.000-08:00

Thanks to all of you who have asked for an update of the travels and meals in Madrid and Barcelona. I have been just a tiny bit consumed with getting back orders filled for my customers, but I will have an update for you by the end of the weekend.

For now, I wanted to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving and to tell you that I am looking forward to a lovely day tomorrow. I am going to a nice breakfast in a fancy hotel somewhere in Miami and, for the big meal, I am going to the lovely Azul, the restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental where I have requested a seat on the balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay.

Thanksgiving used to be a fairly tough holiday for Family of One. There is so much emphasis on joining around a table of bountiful blessings, overeating and storytelling with family from near and far. I was always invited to several dinners, usually with the word "stray" or "orphan" attached. I know that these invitations were well-meaning and the dinners were fine. But, one year, I decided to just do what I love best--make a reservation at a lovely restaurant and enjoy my own company as well as checking out what is happening around me. I never looked back.

Until last year. I was issued an invitation by the husband of my minister at the time. I thought--I need to not be so focused on this single person enjoying T'giving. He said that there would be a large group of their friends and he did not use the word "stray". There were indeed lovely people gathered. But, not one of them was from Miami and they were all a part of the same friend circle, so every joke, every reference had to be explained to me. I felt badly for them because it had been a well-meaning gesture. But, I could hardly wait to get home and revel in my own company and talk to my friends to exchange stories about the Thanksgiving table as we like to do.

So, I am looking forward to a six course tasting menu tomorrow and the food issue of the New Yorker to keep me company. There will be at least a couple of tables that will strike up a conversation with me. And, I will order at least one glass of Veuve to toast you, my friends far and wide, so very dear to me. And, hope that you are having a fabulous day as well.

Family of One Takes a Vacation

2009-11-05T10:33:00.000-08:00

I wanted to let you know that I will be taking a holiday in Spain--Madrid and Barcelona--and will return in two weeks to update you on the adventures of traveling alone.

I must tell you that I have been very nervous these past few days as I contemplated being completely on my own for twelve days, the longest time that I have ever spent totally in my own company. I am hoping that I do not get totally sick of myself because I am not sure what the solution would be if I did. My trips recently have been filled with interesting interactions, so I am hoping the same holds here. Although I did go to Lisbon last summer and spoke to not one single person of interest for a week. But, I am planning a do-over trip there before long.

Last year, in Prague, I saw the most lovely lady having breakfast with her husband in the dining room at the Four Seasons where I was staying. She was a delight to look at because everything about her was just lovely. So, I went over and told her how great she looked and that she should be very happy that she had taken such good care of herself because it had really paid off. Later, I ran into her husband and her on my floor and I was petrified that she thought I was stalking her.

Well, about three days later, I was finishing up breakfast at the Four Seasons in Budapest about 10:30 and who walks in but her! She acted like she had seen Angelina Jolie and came running over to my table. She said that she had never gone out on her own on a vacation and while her husband was taking a tour, she decided to come and have a snack and browse through a Vogue that she had just picked up. She asked if I would join her in a glass of champagne and said how much my compliment had meant to her. It turns out that she had married this wonderful doctor rather late in life and they had a fairy tale life of travel and long, sexy weekends in their A frame home in northern Michigan. It was such a delightful treat to run into her.

OK, I am feeling better. Maybe I will meet someone like her. Or maybe not. But, I will let you know when I get back!

Family of One Deals with Miscreants at the Biltmore Gym

2009-10-31T15:54:00.001-07:00

As I was working on the draft for this post, I pondered exactly why this particular subject could be considered relevant in a blog called Family of One. After all, each one of us has our particular annoyances at the gym whether an orphan or a quadruplet. But, it occurred to me that the reason I wanted to share these thoughts with you is because as a Family of One, I don't have the luxury of being able to regale a captive companion (i.e., spouse, significant other) with them. I am not sure if this is especially good or bad, but I do think that it is important for us to be able to process our annoying experiences through the lens of someone else to keep our perspective. I am counting on you to help me do that and thus prevent me from one day going completely ballistic in the gymnasium and risking expulsion as I did last year when I had the resistance set on 25 on the recumbent bicycle and almost had a heart attack.

To me, the overarching annoyance at the gym can be summed up very simply--it's only about me. You know that expression that we all use about our business plans--80% of the total is controlled by 20% of the customers? Well, that is what I think about the folks in a gym. 80% are perfectly lovely, considerate, well-behaved. They take the time to wipe off the machine with a wet towel before they leave, they only stay the alotted time, they make eye contact and smile pleasantly. But, that other 20%? Oh, boy! Do they ever make life miserable for the rest of us!

After watching how one person can ruin a workout for twenty, I decided that it was causing me too much stress to keep quiet. The principal rudeness is talking too loudly on a cell phone, followed closely by chatting with others in a loud tone.I did not want to become known as the local bee-yotch, but nor did I want to be known as that middle-aged plump lady who will put up with anything. I established a five minute zone during which the person is allowed to blab as loudly as he likes. It quickly became obvious that there would need to be different strategies for different groups. For example, middle-aged to elderly women respond best to "SSSHSHSHSHHH" in a sharp hiss. Younger women respond to "Please be a little quieter" with a pleasant look. Men in general respond best to "sir, could I ask you to be a little quieter as I can hear you through my iPod on its highest volume?" These strategies have all worked out pretty well. I will be interested in what you say at your gym to such badly behaved gymnasts.

One of the more interesting exchanges--and just having an exchange is interesting because they so rarely happen--occurred a couple of weeks ago. I was on the elliptical next to a treadmill. A man in his late 20s who was obviously very important as illustrated by his high quotient of designer gym ware jumped on and immediately began taking calls on his blackberry which, unfortunately, had the same ringtone as mine. Every time it rang, I jumped out of my skin. He tried to make eye contact with me in a triumphant way to share his importance with me. Finally, I had enough. I said, "sir, your phone has the same ringtone as mine and it is completely ruining these few minutes when I am not a captive to it. Cell phones are not allowed here anyway, but I was going to let you get by with a brief conversation. But, this is becoming very tiresome". He smiled in a condescending way and said, "oh, you are mistaken. Cell phones are not banned here--just look at all of the people with them" and, as he said this, he looked around triumphantly, quizzically, despairingly. It was a beautiful sight because there were, of course, no cell phones to be seen. I smiled pleasantly and said, "I have three minutes left in my workout. May I ask you to silence your phone for those three minutes and, after I leave, you may return to talking and annoying the next person on this machine?" He begrudgingly agreed. But, guess what? When I left the gym twenty minutes later, he still had the phone turned off and exactly where he had left it!

The most annoying abuse of the machine that I have witnessed, however, did not revolve around a cell phone. There were four members of a family all using the ellipticals--a father (who was sporting a particularly heinous tank top and short shorts), a mother (late 40s, lots of bling), two lissome daughters fancying themselves to be Paris and Nicky Hilton. They had been on the machines longer than the allotted time, but showed no signs of getting off even though there were several of us waiting. In fact, they delighted in flaunting the fact that they were going to stay on the machines as long as they wanted! They treated them like an amusement park ride. They held hands in a long line of four while climbing; they turned around to face us and worked the levers backwards; they constantly gave each other high fives and screamed with laughter. I cannot tell you how much this was grating on me. You may ask why I simply didn't go to another type of machine, but, in the name of Madonna, I was going to get my workout on that elliptical. Finally, the mother stepped down in a fit of exhaustion, breathing heavily and doubling over. I leapt over and jumped on the machine with a dexterity that surprised everyone, especially me. Within seconds, another lissome daughter was at my side with a pouty face. "My mami said that I could have this machine and for you to get off". My response: "too bad".

When I first started going to the gym two years ago, I was approached by a wiry, older gentleman who was cute in a kind of aging leprechaun , Frank McCourt kind of way. He wanted me to show him how to use the various machines and it finally occurred to me that he was hitting on me. Indeed. His was a most direct approach: "The best lovemaking that I ever had in my life was with a large woman who lived on the Upper West Side of New York. You remind me so much of her. I am sure that I could have a better experience with you. I am happily married, but I would welcome the chance to get to know you better". I was fascinated by his approach--had I joined Plato's Retreat without realizing it? I have also been intrigued by a fellow named George who is about eight feet tall, approaching 70, bald, and has the loudest voice that I have ever heard. I was pondering how to get him to pipe down when I realized that he is considered the Biltmore Gym mascot, of a sort. Everyone knows him and tolerates his yelling because he is truly a kind guy and the gym is his main social outlet. So, I introduced myself to him and now I laugh and giggle with him and it is all very pleasant.

You might be wondering-ha, I bet Mary Jo has her moments of annoying others. I truly hope that I don't because I pride myself on being considerate in this world that can be so rude at times. But, I will confess to you that while on the recumbent bike the other day and, I swear, with no one around, I could not help myself from belting out the refrain to "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered", the fabulous song from Pal Joey.

Family of One Deals with an Unusual Old Folks' Crisis

2009-10-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

I was in High Point about ten days ago dealing with a very unusual crisis revolving around Aunt Louise. When you hear what it was, you will be so incensed. And, I have to say, dealing with it reminded me that sometimes it is good to be a Family of One, but sometimes, it would be nice to be a Family of Fifty or Sixty.

Before I tell you, I must relate an interesting exchange that took place on one of first nights there when Dad and I were watching the ALCS. I professed my affection for the Yankees. This caused a great outburst--wasn't I for the Red Sox?? Yes, I demurred, but I liked both a great deal with a slight edge going towards the Red Sox. "That is NOT allowed," affirmed Mother with much indignation. "You have to be for one or the other. Everyone knows that. Why do you have to do everything so oddly?"

I reminded them that, as a child, I had an undying fascination with anything revolving around New York or Boston. This all started when my father would regale us with stories from his quarterly trips to New York to buy toys, cosmetics, the 1960s versions of electronics, and other sundries for his drugstore chain. The restaurants--Gallaghers, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars, even The Playboy Club, the shows--Mame, Hello, Dolly, Half a Sixpence--it all sounded so fabulous. And, to top it off, my dad always brought me the latest Nancy Drew book from Macy's.

"So," Mother queried, "it is Dad's fault that you were not content to live in High Point like a person with good sense and that you had to move up North?" I indicated that she was correct. There proceeded much excoriating of my dear father who quietly accepted responsibility for sending me on the path that led to the glorious delights of living in Boston and New York.

My aunt lives in a very nice, government-subsidized apartment building for the elderly which is owned by the Wesleyan church in the High Point area. They somehow got it into their heads to sell it to the local university for a dormitory and had a meeting where they announced to the 89 residents that they would need to find a place a live--pronto. Most of the folks there do not have cars and, of course, had been expecting to live out their lives there. There were no immediate openings in local assisted living or independent living communities. After the local TV station featured it as the opening story on the evening news, all you know what broke loose and, by the time I got to High Point, the spokesperson for the Wesleyan church had apologized for being a bit too hasty, the local university was posting disclaimers everywhere that they did not realize that the old folks had no place to go, and the government had threatened the church with serious repercussions for violating their contract.

The folks who live there have been given a year to find a place and have been assured that the place will not be sold until every person has found a place to live. This has taken considerable pressure off Aunt Louise who has gone on record as saying that she hopes her next destination is her heavenly home. When told this, Mother snorted and said, "she should be so lucky". Mother has forbidden me to try to help her because, of course, what do I know about how to find an old person a place to live?

As for having a family, I have dear friends who helped me research what was going on, brainstorm solutions, and provide moments of much-needed levity. I was taking my beloved J to breakfast the day after I found out and I said to him that there had been a crisis with Aunt Louise. His response, so very kind, was "has she passed?" My response, maybe not so kind, but accurate: "would that be a crisis?"

After visiting Aunt Louise, Mother wanted nothing more than a trip to Belk's, the local emporium, at a somewhat nice shopping mall. But, what would we do with my dad, she wondered? I said, very matter-of-factly, "why can't he sit in the car?" Just as matter-of-factly, Mother replies, "oh, no, someone will shoot him". I told her that I had not heard of any murders in the Oak Hollow Mall area in several months, but she was adamant that he could not sit in the car. Instead, we took a drive all through the backroads of Guilford County and it was a lovely end to the weekend.

Family of One Goes to Eleven Madison Park

2009-10-12T16:43:00.000-07:00

Many of you know of my great fondness for the fabulous New York restaurant, Eleven Madison Park, and how thrilled I was this summer when the restaurants received the highly-coveted and rarely-given four stars from the New York Times. I started going to the restaurant regularly back in 2006 when four stars were a dream for the new chef, Daniel Humm, who had come from San Francisco and the restaurant at the Campton Place hotel. I don’t know exactly what made me decide to go there, but I am awfully glad that I did.

After many years of not visiting New York, I had developed a taste for going there again and I was looking for a restaurant with which I could become associated. I call it my “tentpole” restaurant and it is one which totally captures my heart and my palate and which becomes a regular stop for me. I look forward to getting to know the folks that work there and to seeing how the restaurant changes. My fancy dinner on that trip was at Le Bernardin and so I was looking for something lovely, but maybe not quite as precious. I had frequented most of Danny Meyer’s restaurants and so thought I should give Eleven Madison Park a try.

When I walked in, I was totally captivated because the large, elegant, beautifully decorated space with the giant windows overlooking Madison Square Park was exactly as I had envisioned NYC restaurants when I was growing up in High Point. There was a slight drizzle outside which only made the scene more enchanting. The food was excellent and I enjoyed getting to know the general manager who had recently come from Charlie Trotter’s. I walked away with a good feeling.

I went back at Christmas and the next spring and the next summer and soon I had lived through a couple of changes in management. With the third group, I started feeling very much at home. I was given “my” table, at the top left hand corner of the highest level where I could watch everyone in the restaurant and with a peerless view of the park. I started growing fond of the staff. I started looking forward to the incredible gougeres and amuse bouches and the wonderful goat cheese butter that accompanies the bread.

At the same time, I did not want to put all of my culinary eggs into one basket, as it were, so I also formed an attachment to a restaurant called Country that was also highly touted and conveniently located in the hotel where I often stayed. It, too, was a beautiful restaurant, lovingly restored, but with much more of a cozy feeling. I started getting to know the staff there as well and had some marvelous meals including a truffle tasting.

At EMP, I now looked forward to finding out the latest in the lives of almost everyone I knew. I mourned when ones that I had grown close to left. I had received requests from friends to go with me to EMP, but, somehow, it had become my place, the place where I could read and listen to my iPod and eat increasingly delectable meals. Taking someone would break that spell.

Every year, I go to EMP just before I go to my parents for Christmas. I consider that my Christmas dinner since my actual Christmas celebrating is a bit, shall we say, muted as it is in the presence of a ninety year old and an eighty seven year old. Last year, one of my favorite managers told me that he had a present for me. The staff is always kind to me in letting my try new vintages or new dishes so I supposed it was a special course. Imagine my delight when Rob presented me with a menu, based on what I had eaten that evening, focused on my upcoming trip to Paris that gave staff members’ personal recommendation for places that I would like. At the top, it said, “From your EMP dining family”. I was so touched and grateful and would have sobbed, but I had not had the cheese course or dessert.

So, when I saw the announcement that EMP had gotten four stars, I was beside myself with joy as if a treasured colleague had closed a spectacular sale. I had Tshirts made for the staff that said—EMP Four Star Summer 2009—because they are my dining family.

As for Country, the story is not so pretty. There were several changes in management, but none of them could get any traction. They were repeatedly closed for health code violations. Finally, the restaurants closed with a slight whimper. I made the decision that one tentpole fancy restaurant is enough.

Let’s just say I am sticking with EMP.

Now, here is what I had on my last visit in early September—

Thousands of gougeres
Amazing amuse bouches
Sweet corn veloute chilled with bacon bavaroise
Santa Barbara sea urchin cappuccino with peekytoe crab and cauliflower
Hawaiian prawns roulade with avocado, lime, and yogurt (I had never had this and it was one of the signature dishes)
Organic rabbit rillettes with Concord grapes, pickled onions, and grilled pistachio bread (one of the rare misfires)
Atlantic halibut seared with sweet corn, summer radishes, and purslane
Four Story Hill pork belly applewood smoked with summer truffles (and presented in the most breathtaking—literally—way under a glass dome of swirling smoke)
Elysian Fields farm lamb herb roasted with petits farcis Nicois
Fromage including Brebirousse d’Argental, Aria, Tomme de la Chatigneraie, St. Nectaire
Blueberry and sweet corn bread pudding with buttermilk sorbet

Family of One Deals with Mother and the Kidnappers

2009-09-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if you know that Mother has always been obsessed about kidnappers.

It started when I was four or five, living on the lovely tree-lined Westwood Avenue, and Mother told me not to leave the yard with strangers who would come by in a large, black car because they would take me out way out into the woods and cut off my arms and legs. I am sure that she told me this not only as a deterrent to my talking with strangers, but because she was convinced that this strategy would insure that I would stay in High Point, if not her front yard, forever. Instead, the reverse happened and I determined that I would need to leave a place where strangers roamed around, creating torsos with heads, and that it might be best if I headed for a big city where I could be anonymous.

Fast forward 40+ years--I have lived in a variety of big cities including Boston, New York, and Miami. Mother is still convinced that I could be kidnapped at any time. She is a special devotee of the kidnapping ring of which she points out the vagaries on a bi-weekly basis. There is no situation where I find myself that Mother cannot think of a way that I will be kidnapped either by a ring that has just formed, a long-standing ring, a man or woman working alone, or someone employed by the hotel or restaurant where I am currently ensconced.

A couple of years ago, I was on my way to a Miami Heat game at the American Airlines arena. I told Mother this fact knowing that there could not be kidnappers at an NBA game where I would be surrounded by a multitude of husky, strong men. Mother was adamant--"you are going to be kidnapped tonight because they have a kidnapping ring organized at the basketball games"--I replied, "I don't really think we need to worry because I will be surrounded by friends". "They are looking for people like you" was her confident reply. "It is going to happen tonight".

My dear friend P came to stay last month. Mother was convinced that he was part of a kidnapping ring that was using the guise of his friendship to enter my home and confiscate me. I took P to the hotel where he was staying for a conference and called Mother knowing that she would be delighted that he was no longer staying in my home. But, no. Her response--"You are an easy target for the kidnappers because as long as saw P in your car as you were driving around Miami, they would leave you alone. Now, they see you by yourself. Why couldn't P have stayed longer?"

I must tell you that, through the years, this kidnapping theme has gotten very old. I can be in Paris or Santa Monica or Chicago, having the time of my life, and I have to listen to how to watch out for people walking by me carrying Kleenexes because they are doused with chloroform. I was almost to the point of asking her to please, please stop talking about this absurdity when I had an insight. Mother is not known for being particularly affectionate or sentimental. She is not going to wrap up a gift card to Williams Sonoma for me or give me a big hug when she sees me. She is not going to say please tell me what is troubling you and let's talk it through. Warning me of kidnappers is the closest she can come to telling me how important I am to her and how much she treasures me.

Once I realized this, it has given me much more patience with dealing with her. Last week, I went to book club and parking in a parking garage across from the bookstore where we meet. I was chatting with Mother as I navigated my way through the garage. Without thinking, I said, "ok, I need to hang up now because I need to focus on parking". When she found out that I was in a parking garage and would be taking an elevator to the ground floor, she said, "this has got murder written all over it". I replied by telling her that there had not been a robbery at this particular garage for over two weeks. She said, "you call me before you leave that garage so that I know you are all right and that I do not need to contact the Miami police department to report a kidnapping".

This brings me to a new tradition that we have begun--when she "rides home" with me. When she knows that I am going out at night, she will say, "do you want me to ride home with you?". Huge sigh. I was going to politely decline when I realized that this is Mother's way of keeping her child safe and of staying connected to me. We have had some of our best conversations as she rides home with me.

Mother swears that she would not pay the ransom if anything befell me, but I think it safe to say that I have kidnapped Mother's heart.

Family of One Flies Home on a Jet

2009-09-22T18:30:00.001-07:00

You will be happy to know that, after the misadventures experienced on the flight to Charleston, I had nothing but a pleasant time on the regional jet to Charlotte. And, being upgraded on the flight to Miami was a lovely surprise on a Friday afternoon. I was feeling unusually wistful about returning home with no plans or no one to see. When I am wistful like that, I try to remember to ask myself--are you really sad or just tired?--and I decided that I was just tired after all of the fun trips to NYC and to my parents' anniversary weekend and to my beloved Charleston. Once I acknowledged my exhaustion, I was very excited about the plane taking off.

Need I say more?

You guessed it--just as the plane was literally ready to take off, we were informed that there was a malfunction in the navigation system and we would have to return to the gate. Visions of getting home the next day and spending the afternoon in the food court filled my brain.

But, very interestingly, the attendants made sure that they were nothing but optimistic and kept us supplied with drinks and lovely conversation. I was very impressed by how they reflected none of the anxiety that was permeating the plane.

An hour later, we were on our way and I could finally start envisioning what I was going to do as soon as I arrived home. But, I wanted a word with these delightful attendants, so I walked up to the galley and told them how much I appreciated their fabulous service, especially in light of what I had been through earlier in the week. They wanted to hear more, so I told them; they returned the favor by telling me how badly behaved some attendants can be. They encouraged me to write to the vice-president of US Airways and let him know about this travesty of an attendant, but I told them that I would prefer to focus on the positive and tell him about their exemplary behavior.

Hugs all around! Smiles abound!! Everyone is happy! No one is making sarcastic remarks about my questions about baggage storage. I hope you are lucky enough to see Tracy Schlor and Dianne Britton on one of your flights. They reminded me of how wonderful it can actually be to take a flight.

And, sure enough, I was just fine when I got home, not wistful, just thrilled to be able to have a very quiet weekend.

Family of One Flies on Regional Jets

2009-09-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

In a week that has been marked by outbursts not just inconsiderate, but downright uncivil, I wanted to share an experience that connects yet another family--the Family of Frequent Fliers. This week, I flew on back-to-back regional jets from Greensboro, NC to Charleston, SC. Never my favorite mode of transportation, I am finding the two claustrophobic flights to be top candidates for fraying my nerves on a regular basis.

On the first flight, I was seated next to a youngish man who appeared to have an occupation as perhaps a rodeo rider. His "daddy" could not find his seat and demanded that I let him have mine. I let Clint Eastwood, Junior handle the situation since it was determined that Daddy's seat was two rows back. But, then, once in the air, how nonplussed was I to find this young man using a Dr. Pepper plastic bottle as his spittoon. Approximately every 90 seconds, he let go a long stream of tobacco juice into the bottle. This was a first---and, I hope, a last--for me. I tried keeping my left hand over the side of my face as a quasi-screen, but it was not much use. Goodness.

On to the second flight.

I boarded this regional jet with my standard black carry-on, the exact suitcase that you and thousands of others have. As i was in row 2, I looked for a convenient overhead bin, but every bin was full until about row 12. In what I promise you was a lovely, kind voice, I asked the attendant why the bins were so full. She replied in a frosty, tense voice that those were the crew's bags. I did not ask the question that was on my lips--why in the name of Amelia Earhart would the crew take up all the space at the front of the plane--but said to her, "would it be easier for you to check this bag?" She rolled her eyes and said, "There is no way that I am taking this bag back to baggage claim for you. You made the choice to bring this bag on the plane, it is up to you to find a place for it". Once again, the word "nonplussed" sprang to mind as most attendants almost dance with glee at the thought of having one less bag in the cabin. Thankfully, a kinder attendant named Jeremiah came from the back of the plane and said that he would find a place for the bag and that he would make sure that I got it as soon as the plane landed.

Now, it is time for me to take my seat--2F. There is a casually, but elegantly, dressed gentleman in 2D. I say--once again in a lovely tone--"sir, could I trouble you to let me take my seat?" He stands up, but snarls at me, "An excuse me, sir would have been enough and even preferred--don't you have any manners?"

As I sit down, he says to the aforementioned hellcat of an attendant, "this is exactly what we have been talking about" and points at me as if I am Kanye West at the VMAs. She screams with flirtatious laughter and says, "yes, she is a perfect example."

Once seated, I say to the gentleman, "Sir, I am sorry if I have offended you but not using the phrase excuse me, but I felt that I was awfully polite in the way I asked if you would let me in". Again, he snarled, "it's obvious that you have no manners."

Just when I think that things cannot get any more uncomfortable, the attendant takes the microphone and proceeds to regale the cabin with the fact that Republic Airlines, our regional carrier for the flight, is known for their witty and warm conversations with the passengers. She proceeds to read her itinerary for the next several weeks, pausing to trash Greensboro, NC and what she insists on calling Myrtle Beach, North Carolina as particularly backwards places. She then talks to each person in the first two rows, pointedly ignoring me, and asking each person to tell a little bit about themselves. To a woman with one young child, she delivers a five minute lecture on the importance of not having another child for a long time.

I am reminded of the wonderful scene in Annie Hall when Woody Allen wishes for a sock filled with a manure to use on a self-important moviegoer standing close to him in line.

I manage to avoid any further exchanges on this dreadful flight by keeping my Pat Conroy novel completely held upright and completely in front of my face.

Once landed, I ask the attendant if it would be better for me to deplane and have Jeremiah bring my bag to me to prevent my holding up the line. In an exasperated voice that implies I have the IQ of Cheetah, she says, "if you step off this plane, we are not responsible for what happens to your bag". So, when some unfortunate soul about midway back gets caught between the seats, I take the opportunity to race back and get my bag and, I must admit, haughtily depart the aircraft.

You will be relieved to know that I only have one regional jet flight tomorrow.

Family of One Celebrates a 60th Wedding Anniversary

2009-09-10T19:59:00.000-07:00

Even though I have just returned from New York where I had a four star dining experience at Eleven Madison Park which I am eager to share along with many other urban adventures, it hit me today that I really need to speak about my upcoming weekend.

I am leaving tomorrow to fly to High Point to celebrate the 60th wedding anniversary of my parents who were married on September 11, 1949 in a lovely ceremony. As you know, my parents are still in their home and still very engaged in the world around them including, but not limited to, watching Tar Heel sporting events, asking me how my sales are, and casting aspersions on President Obama.

Several months ago, I asked them how they would like to celebrate the day and offered them a plethora of choices including a party at a local club, a dinner at a local bistro, any number of friends they wanted, a day trip somewhere. They were not keen on any of the above. As Mother put it, “we don’t know from one day to the next if we’ll even be here, so let’s not get carried away with plans”. Her suggestion—put out locally made chocolate layer cake in her three different dining areas, invite in folks, and let them have at the cakes.

This idea was later ixnayed because Mother felt that she would be sure to forget someone and there could be hurt feelings and testy exchanges.

Our plan is for me to spend an entire weekend in their company and, hopefully, journey to a variety of local eateries including Rainbow Diner, Spyros on South Main, and Carolina Diner. This sounds wonderful to me not only because they are both able to enjoy these places, but because they all serve fabulous fried shrimp which is very hard to obtain in the greater Miami area. We will not be going to IHOP because we went there last month and Mother was apoplectic because the bill was $30 for the three of us. I am taking the new Pat Conroy book to enjoy on their lovely back porch and look forward to some reading time as well as reminiscing with Mother and Dad.

I was having a hard time coming up with an appropriate gift for them. For their 50th anniversary, G and I took then to Wild Dunes for a week at Christmas where we had rented a beach house out of some fabulous chick flick. I was still pondering the gift when I went to NYC last week. I took along with me a very charming picture of them as newlyweds. I ventured into Tiffany’s on Saturday afternoon which resembled a ride at Disney World more than it did a scene out of a Blake Edwards film.

The gift department had a calmer ambience, so I selected an Art Deco frame and the lovely assistant placed in into the frame for me. I had barely glanced at the price, so when she handed me the bill, I was a bit taken aback. I quickly computed that I could buy my parents two TV sets or several iPods or, well, you get the picture (no pun intended).

I took a deep breath and looked out the window which had a perfect view of the Plaza Hotel with Central Park in the background. It was a lovely September day. I thought about how very fortunate I was to be standing there in a city that I love so dearly and looking forward to seeing both my parents on such a special day. I acknowledged to myself that there would have been a time that I would have practically thrown myself on the floor at Tiffany’s because I would be journeying to High Point alone, without a mate, and worrying about how we had no family with which to celebrate.

And, then, I smiled my biggest smile and said, “I am so thrilled to have found the perfect gift”. There were hugs all around and I departed in a cloud of goodwill.

I really don’t know what Mother will think of the gift. I think she will be amused that Ms. Astorbilt (as she refers to me) shopped at Tiffany’s for her. But, the day that I bought the frame will be a wonderful memory for me and that is worth a lot.

And, now, it's time to celebrate the fact that 60 years ago, a wedding took place between a young woman who had the clever idea to untie the bow on the sleeve of her dress and ask a certain young pharmacist if he would mind retying it for her. Yes, that is how their first date happened--when Mother walked into Dad's drugstore with an untied bow.

Family of One Takes a Holiday

2009-09-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

Wishing everyone a happy Labor Day weekend! Those of us in college textbook publishing are exhausted from the rigors of fulfillment season when we help our customers with their materials as the students go back to class. I will be lolling in New York City for a couple of days, but will be back next week to give you a report.

In the meantime, I want to thank you for the enthusiastic response that you have given this blog. It has been very interesting to hear from so many of you about your own situations. At least 40% of you have told me that, even when you are married with children, you often don't have a close friend in your town and rely on technology to stay connected to those whom you treasure the most in your friendship circle.

I look forward to hearing more from you, so feel free to post under the comments section here.
With much affection, MJS

Family of One Interacts with Mother

2009-09-02T15:02:00.000-07:00

You may know Mother. If you have not met her in person, you may feel as if you know Mother. She is very—unusual. She is 87, still lives at home with my dad, and still offers her opinions on everything. As she has gotten older, she has retained her beauty, but the filter that would keep one from being a little too honest has dissipated so that talking with her often requires the skills of the publicity handler for Jon and Kate.

For example, on a recent visit to High Point, Mother said in a very conversational tone as her attention was turned to the omnipresent Fox News, “do you regret that you never had any children?” She had never asked me anything so thoughtful or provocative about my choices, so I thought about my answer carefully. “Yes, I think it would have been wonderful to have had that experience and I think I would have been a good mother”. Very calmly, and without taking her gaze from the TV, Mother says, “you would have been a terrible mother. All you think about is where your next meal is coming from”. This was, shall we say, a bit shocking in its brutal assessment and, once again, I wanted to reply as calmly as possible. “I think that had I married one of the delightful men that I dated in my 20s or 30s, it would have been fine. I would have been a good wife and we both would have been good parents”. I was very pleased with this reasoned answer. Once again, without turning her head, “no, you cared just as much about where you were going to eat back then. It would have never worked out’.

So, it was not without a little alarm that I spoke with Mother last week about the possible demise of Aunt Louise, who is 93 and lives alone in an independent living facility. Her phone had been off the hook all day and Mother was convinced that she was lying dead on the floor. I tried to explain to her that since Aunt Louise wears a Life Alert necklace, we would know if she had been incapacitated and that we would have to accept that her phone was off the hook. Yes, it was very annoying to continue hearing her message, but, perhaps, a tiny break from dialing the phone every ten minutes was in order.

It was very troubling to both of us that we don’t know anyone at the “home”, as Mother calls it, who could check on Aunt Louise. I assured her that Aunt Louise would pick up the phone to make a call and all would be well.

Mother is nothing if not determined, so she called the management of the “home” to no avail. She then called and told me that she was going to take the extraordinary step (in her mind) of calling Bobby Auman, who used to deliver prescriptions for my father’s drugstore. As a rather new resident, Mother hated to impose on him and she was also not comfortable with the male/female dynamic involved, but she was getting really shrill, so I told her to go ahead.

Breathlessly, she called me back and reported that he would go over and check on her as soon as put his shirt on. Mother was slightly discomfited that he was watching TV shirtless. She stressed to him that “Aunt Louise is an old maid, so please don’t attempt to enter her apartment. Just call out her name and make sure she is alive”. She also encouraged him not to engage in further conversation as she would be waiting to hear from him. Mother is nothing if not focused in her requests.

Sure enough, Aunt Louise was happily watching her beloved Atlanta Braves and very annoyed by this needless drama and appearance of Bobby Auman at her door. Aunt Louise called Mother and there were sharp words exchanged, as one can imagine.

Thankfully, Mother spoke with the management of the “home” and she now has several numbers that she can call when she is worried.

As for me, I am just so grateful for the advent of texting which meant that I could engage with two dear long-distance friends who are having similar issues with their mothers.

It is at times like this that, as a Family of One, I wish that I had some company as I traverse the path of assisting aging parents. But, then again, I wouldn’t have Mother all to myself.

Family of One Goes to Dinner and a Movie

2009-08-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

Three out of four Saturdays, I am either entertaining a guest, traveling, or collapsed in a heap on the sectional sofa. But, on that fourth Saturday night, I partake in the pastime that consumes much of the world on Saturday nights—going to dinner and a movie.

I used to resist this activity, thinking that it smacked of single woman showing the world that she, too, could have a life. And, so I tended to just hang out at home, cooking and watching a movie. But, then, it occurred to me that the reason that the dinner/movie is such a popular combination is because it is fun and easy. So, why should I be deprived of such a wonderful way to decompress?

I learned the tricks of making this a delightful process. First, about Thursday, I say to myself, “Self, would you like to go out to dinner and to a movie on Saturday?” You will be relieved to hear that I do not carry on a dialogue with myself in two different voices because that might indicate that I am crazy and we know that is not the case. Instead, I start looking online to see what is opening and what appeals. For the dining part of the evening, it is important to select a restaurant that is good, but not great. There is no need to savor every mouthful because I need to head for the movie. But, it is important to go to a place that serves a variety of nice dishes as well as an acceptable wine list. I don’t want to go to one of my places where I am considered part of the dining family like Jaguar or Houston’s because then I have to spend my dinner talking with everyone and I don’t really get to relax. There are a few places in the Grove, South Miami, and Miami Beach that are the perfect places for these casual, yet charming, dinners and so I go through my list and decide what is most appealing.

There is definitely an art to selecting the correct movie. I don’t want to select a blockbuster or event movie because there will be crowds with shoving and pushing to get to the seats and that is not fun at all. I don’t want to select anything that has the potential to traumatize or cause nightmares because this needs to be a relaxing experience and not require six Lunestas. I find that there are usually a couple of choices and I use the critical thinking skills espoused in the many textbooks to which I have access to determine the best choice.

Last night was a very pleasant evening. I decided to go to a relatively new Italian restaurant on the fringe of Coconut Grove called Calamari. The food is good, the service is lovely, and there is a very nice ambience. After dinner, I would see Taking Woodstock, a movie which fit all of the above specifications.

Meandering through the Grove along the brick sidewalks and under the lush greenery is always a pleasant experience. On this particular evening, I did become a bit warm as the temperature hovered at a humid 94 degrees. I was greeted by the shrill harmonica of Bob Dylan as I approached the hostess stand, so we made the decision that I should sit inside with my favorite waiter who calls me his lucky charm. I was in a room overlooking Main Highway, a lovely road awash with the aforementioned greenery. Next to me, there was a table set up for 40, but I assumed that I would be long gone before this banquet got underway. The only other people on my side of the restaurant were a couple.

I ordered simply—a glass of Pinot Grigio and a veal piccata accompanied by pasta and some wonderful crusty bread. On my Saturday dinner/movie nights, I usually don’t read because I read so much the rest of the time. I just sit and sometimes I will give myself an agenda like—how many dresses should I buy this fall? or how many nights should I spend in Barcelona? And, of course, I love observing what is going on around me.

It only took a minute or two to establish that the couple close to me was on a semblance of a date. The man with a modest combover did not stop talking about blogs that he is quoted in on Washington politics as well as the current state of Florida politics. He never asked the woman anything. I established that this was a date by leaping up when he went to the men’s room and asking the woman if she was on a date or married. When she looked at me quizzically, I told her that the level of their discourse was so interesting and that, if they were married, they had one of the most intellectual partnerships I could imagine. She said. “well, he’s a friend, but it’s not a date, but I am hoping it becomes a date”. From this I surmised that it was an Internet date, set up on one of the many online dating sites. I came to this conclusion because they obviously did not know each other, but she appeared to have high hopes for this meeting.

I have to report that online dating was a complete disaster for me. When I say disaster, I mean a disaster akin to never being able to eat fried oysters again. Of course, I feel that I might have shot my online dating wad, so to speak, because I met G through a dating service, the precursor to Internet dating sites. We have stayed connected for almost twenty years, so I do understand that these types of services can be beneficial and I understand that many of you have had good experiences. With that said, I am overjoyed that I never have to go on another horrible Internet date and, as I listened to his continued prattlings and her shy efforts to add something to the conversation and watched as the man walked in front of the woman, never looking back at her as they made their way to his car, I shook my head and wondered if chivalry is really dead or only taking a small vacation.

Now the folks are starting to drift in for the party. It’s a good-natured crowd with a variety of ages, but most folks seem to be in their 30s and there are a few kids around 10 or 12. It is always so interesting to me how quickly these groups become segregated with the men and women in different groups. And, of course, a group of about four women formed the dreaded Surround at my table—backs to me, but completely blocking my table so that I cannot stand up. And, of course, my only view is of their backsides.

This irritates me to no end, especially when I am not fortunate enough to be getting ready to leave. I do not understand why people think that because one person is sitting at the table, that person is not entitled to the right to breathe, see the other patrons, and not have someone’s rear end in her food.

I stood up and said sharply, “excuse me” and gave them each a baleful stare which is not a pleasant experience for them or me. They just kept chatting, exchanging their scintillating stories. I said, again very sharply, “please get out of my way so that I might exit the restaurant”. They barely moved and kept chatting with each other. So, I looked over at their husbands and smiled my most ingratiating smile and rolled my eyes in amusement at their silly wives. The husbands were waving and saying, “have a great evening” and “you have had so much fun over there by yourself’. You better believe the women let me through and they were as quiet as little sheep. The husbands were still waving.

Well, this little encounter did raise my blood pressure just a little because I am not a fan of groups of women behaving so badly.

But, I was determined to stroll down the brick sidewalk to the Cocowalk theaters in a placid and calm manner. I continued on to the movie which had just the right amount of people (about 30% full) so that I felt comfortable, but not overwhelmed and, even though the movie did not have much of a story, I enjoyed the excellent set details that Ang Lee provided and it was all very pleasant. Which is just what I wanted.

Then I strolled home under a beautiful Miami moon and thanked myself for the lovely evening.

Family of One-Introduction

2009-08-26T14:59:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time alone. I mean, a LOT.

I live alone, I work from a home office, and I live in a city where I have many lovely acquaintances, but no close friends. I have no spouse, no children, no siblings. My parents and my aunt live 800 miles away; they are 87, 90, and 93 and, while they are in reasonably good shape, they do not form what could be called a support network.

I used to dread seeing the look that would cross the faces of folks that I met on a plane or a business meal or at church when they heard that I had no spouse, no children, no siblings, elderly parents. I used to dread the invitations to “bring your family” to the Doodad Festival and “make sure to bring enough food for your family to share”. I won’t even give you the list of epithets that escaped my lips when I heard about couples-only and family-only events. And, the thought of a weekend alone with no plans would always remind me to focus on the fact that, one day, there would be someone with whom to share everything.

A few years ago, I was consumed with the thought of becoming an orphan. I fretted endlessly about what would become of me when I no longer had my parents .I had recently gone through a break-up with my boyfriend of nine years and, shortly thereafter, I lost my job which had been my primary form of self-identification for 20 years.

Then, things got even worse.

I have since read that all of us go through a period usually in our 40s/50s called “the rapids”when we are coping with a great amount of loss/changes in a short time and that the tumult can be almost overwhelming. Demons are unleashed, problems appear unsolvable, and hope is in very short supply. I thought long and hard about what was the point of any of what we call our lives.

As horrible as that time was, I learned a lot about leaning on yourself, knowing whom to trust, and savoring the serendipitous moments that lead you back into the light.

I realized that I had been living in a state of suspended longing, thinking that I would not always be saying that I was alone. And, then, I realized what a wonderful gift it truly is to have this freedom. I started looking on those empty weekends as wonderful opportunities to read or sleep or cook or watch 50s sitcoms, all of the things we say that we will do one day. I realized that even if something did happen to my parents, it would be OK if I happened to be strolling down the Via Giuliana and I began traveling to, well, pretty much wherever I felt like going. I started saying “no” when the church called me to prepare a dish for—you know---a family.

It dawned on me that I was a family---a Family of One. It made a lot of sense and I was shocked that I had not thought about it sooner. I had actually gone down the road of joining “groups” and becoming part of “communities”. But, if you have ever been around me in a group of more than about six or seven, you will realize that I sometimes seem distracted. This is because my brain is doing this kind of exploding thing trying to take everything in. I had always thought that I might have some kind of unusual mental disability that could be found in the DSM III.

Of course, upon thinking it through, I realized being alone was a pretty natural state for me—after all, I had spent my formative years alone as an only child with only a visit from a cousin every couple of years; the first nine years of my career on the road, driving, eating, hanging out alone; and lived most of my life on my own. Why it was a miracle that I was even walking around!

So, being comfortable alone made perfect sense and I stopped all of that nonsense about trying to make myself happy in a large group of people. I finally understood that I was happy to go out by myself and talk with interesting people that I met and observe the human condition while having a wonderful meal or strolling through a museum.

Before you start thinking I am getting all Lifetime Movie on you, just think about the people you know who are single and, if you are single yourself, think of how much fun (and support) we can have talking about ourselves in such an optimistic way.

Every week or so, I’ll write a piece about—mostly—the joys of being a Family of One—my favorite experiences. But, of course, I’ll have to let you know some of the irritations and pensive moments as well.

Upcoming Posts—(suggestions welcome)—include----
Family of One Goes to Eleven Madison Park (latest four-star restaurant in NYC)
Family of One Attends a New Church
Family of One Sends Scathing Looks to Miscreants at the Biltmore Gym
Family of One Sees Ponyo
Family of One Plans a 60th Anniversary Celebration for the Parental Units