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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Family of One Says Goodbye to Aunt Louise
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.
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.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Family of One Dines in Paris 2010
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)
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)
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Family of One Contemplates Peeping Toms
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.
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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Family of One Has an Unpleasant Encounter in Paris
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.
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.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Family of One Celebrates Valentine's Day
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.
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Family of One Prepares a Salad for Eight
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.
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.
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