La Bella Figura

Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

                      -Sophia Loren

Another year has passed with lightning speed. The last few days are spent in celebration and the anticipation of new beginnings. The start of a new year sparks in many, the desire to make some positive changes in our lives. We reflect and resolve.

The exercise of committing to writing, a list of goals for the new year, is an important custom, perhaps more so that putting up (and taking down) the Christmas tree, and the multitude of other activities that make this season so special and yet so harrowing at the same time. Resolutions are a good thing and no matter what our age, it is never too late to shape and mold ourselves. We are never too old to learn, to improve, and to grow in some way.

As I make my list, I am careful not to choose words, like never or always, as I know them to be the enemy of such well intended guidelines. I am continually learning to appreciate the power of words. Words carefully chosen can motivate, stimulate, and move us forward in a positive way. Words thrown thoughtlessly about can wound and hold us back. I seek within my vocabulary just one sentence, which could serve as my foundation for this goal setting exercise.

I ponder some phrases until the perfect choice comes to mind. As a seemingly lifelong student and lover of the Italian language, I am enamored with the poetry and the magic of its phraseology. The Italian language is rich in expressions, a common one is Fare Una Bella Figura.  Literally translated this equates as “to make a beautiful figure.” The meaning of this expression, however, goes far deeper than staying in good physical shape.

La bella figura is a concept that applies to all factors of appearance, dress, manners and actions. It is difficult to define, but we know it when we see it. A person with la bella figura exudes poise, but is not arrogant, is attractive, but not vane, has impeccable manners, but remains warm and approachable. This person behaves with style, elegance and grace in all situations, yet she is accepting of others and never snobbish. She walks with confidence no matter her age, bank balance or size. She is well dressed but not overdressed. She is open to new ideas and respectful of the opinions of others, while at the same time, she remains comfortable with who she is. She knows to laugh at herself when she makes a mistake and realizes that no matter how good her intentions, that she is human and will sometimes fail. She knows that it is as important in some situations to remain silent, as it is in others to speak her mind.

La bella figura requires that a person take care of themself, both physically and emotionally, as a tired and miserable person cannot carry this off. The woman that knows this is careful to nourish her body as well as her soul. She chooses the right ingredients and does it often.

And so I have made short work of my writing exercise and I have reduced it to but one subject. For the coming year my resolution is;

Fare Una Bella Figura!!!

Happy New Year to All!

Camera Phones for Dummies

Social media is the new frontier, fueled by camera phones and other gadgets that allow the user to capture the moment, upload, and share with the worldwide web with just a few pokes on tiny little buttons. It seems one can’t turn around these days without someone snapping a shot or two.


Photo sharing can be a good thing and I do enjoy perusing the pics of family and friends, especially those living far away. Vintage shots feed feelings of nostalgia and warn the heart. I am never too busy to see updates on hobbies, recipes and family events. After all that is what friends are for.

Alas, too much of a good thing can become a bad thing. Certain places should be a picture free zone. Common sense must rule. For all of us, a few words on picture posting etiquette:

• A good friend will take care to post only the most flattering pics of her posse, no double chins or belly rolls permitted. Only post those with eyes open and fly shut, please.

• Never, never catch someone while shoveling food into their mouths, while bleary eyed after a night on the town, or from behind. Exceptions are made of course for the twenty-something group, who look good no matter what. Oh yes those were the days!

• Never post pictures of bodily afflictions, whether it is a bad tooth, swollen ankle or any other abnormal growths. No one wants to see this. Period.

• Never post anything that could get you fired, arrested, kicked out of school or otherwise into hot water. Never put anything out there that you would not want the entire world to see, because you never know who is checking.

• Never do this to anyone else either.

So as we roll into the holiday season, cameras ready, I look forward to seeing the smiling faces of family and friends. We are a multigenerational social media family as grandparents, parents and kids all get into the game. Happy snapping to all and to all a good night.

The Eagles Can Still Fly.

What are three things that improve with age? Fine wine, redwood trees, and The Eagles, as they so convincingly proved at a recent stop on their Long Road Out of Eden Tour.

Oh what a night!

The harmony, the guitar solos, the percussion in all the right places, combined so brilliantly that a couple of times I had to ask myself, “Is it live, or is it Memorex?”

Live it was!

This iconic all man band, provided the audience with spot on performances of so many hits it boggled the mind. The Eagles are a band so prolific and popular, that they can still fill the house with an audience of all ages. They needed no opening act as they churned out the tunes one after the other. Their easy on stage presence was a rare combination of dignified cool. No tight fitting costumes or buxom backup singers a third their age, interfered with this stage show. The performance provided each member of the audience with both, a fantastic in the moment good time, and a heart tugging trip down memory lane. Yes, I did tear up a couple of times. I couldn’t help myself.

I saw these guys perform, some 35 years ago, as a slip of girl in some outdoor venue that I can no longer recall. What I do remember is a bunch of us piling into a car and heading out to see a group of guys, who like us, were in the beginning stages of a long and varied journey. A lot has happened since, to them and to us. Glen Frey jokingly referred to this go around as “The Assisted Living Tour.” 

Jersey boy Joe Walsh provided contrast to the harmonious melodies of the other three with his piercing renditions of Rocky Mountain Way and Life’s Been Good. My daughters joked that he was a combination of Tom Petty and Gérard Depardieu. Yes, the aging process is a wild and wondrous thing.

At the end of the show we were all left feeling good. The band seemed to be genuinely touched by the enthusiasm of the crowd. The crowd streamed out with the good feeling that so rarely happens when something far exceeds our expectations. It was great to see that this group of old guys could still do it and do it so well.

A Trampoline and Other Adventures

The voice of an old friend came across the line, an unexpected pleasure, the best kind. This friend and I go way back. We raised our kids together for a time and shared all kinds of experiences. As single parents we learned to enjoy simple pleasures, like sitting on the back porch to share a bowl of strawberries or a trip to the beach with our kids. Those were the days when each one was truly an adventure and a test of our parenting and other survival skills.

There was never a dull moment with what mischief the two of us and our six kids, three each, could get into. One day in particular stands out among the memories of this era. The two of us had been out shopping for the afternoon. We arrived at her home to find an empty house and a strange odor.  Puzzled, we set down our packages and prowled about in search of the source. As I stood in the living room I heard a scream come from the back of the house.

“OH MY GOD!!!”

This was in the days that when someone said, “Oh My God”, it meant something. It was not an overused acronym added for emphasis on any given topic. This was an all caps, fully spelled out, ear splitting scream, with a triple exclamation point.

I ran toward the scream to the bathroom and there they were, four large black fish swimming in a fully filled bathtub. There was another one in the bathroom sink and later we found two more in the kitchen. It appeared that her boys had caught quite a string while we were out. I did what any really good friend would do in that situation. I laughed myself silly and went home.

Years have passed since then, but each time I see her, I think of this day.

This friend, who is now in the process of moving, was calling because she had a few things that she wanted to get rid of before she leaves, one of them being a trampoline. I paused at first as my weekend was all planned out. There was not time for this in my busy schedule. But then…. I searched my mind for a way to make this work. I called her back a few minutes later and agreed to buy this trampoline as long as her hubby would bring it to my daughter’s house and set it up. In route to my next stop on the day’s agenda, I notified the family troops that we were moving Sunday dinner so all of the grandkids could jump.

That following day, I had not been in the lawn chair long, when little voices beckoned, “Come jump with us Grandma.”

“How hard can this be?” I thought to myself as I clumsily climbed up and struggled to get my bearings with children bouncing all around me. I took my stance, firmly in the middle at first and began to jump.

“When was the last time I jumped?” I wondered out loud.

The kids smiled with that look of endearment that younger ones give to older ones when they are attempting to do something that makes them look really silly. We jumped and laughed and I will never forget the joyful looks upon these little faces, the same ones that will grow too fast.

A few days later I spoke with the old friend and told her of our trampoline escapades while moaning of sore muscles in places I had forgotten existed.

“By the way, what did you ever do with those fish?” I asked her as we walked around memory lane.

“Well, we cleaned them of course.” she answered.

I thank you dear old friend for the trampoline, and for the reminder that we need to answer the call for new adventures and spontaneous fun when they come to us. I thank you also for the laughter filled memories of fish in the bathtub and smiling faces flying in the October sky.

A Toast to Autumn

Autumn is the season of the harvest, the third act ......

Varied hues create character, no longer green. Skin tingles in the fresh fall air as the leaves drop, one by one, to the ground without a sound.... Quiet.


 An occasional rustle breaks the silence. It is true the birds and cicadas no longer play, but the mosquitoes too are gone, the trade off. Sandals make way for sweaters pulled from the shelf..... Comfort.

And so it goes, as we harvest what we have sown, in our families and our friendships. We gather. Experience tells us what to take with us and what to leave behind.... Reflection.

Around the fire, nostagic notes blend with recent tunes, a pleasant recipe.

My favorite season, so far.......

I raise a well aged glass to you.

For a favorite oldie.....Click Here.                                                      
                                                 Stevie Nicks, Landslide
                                                       

Turn it OFF, Turn it OFF!

I am suffering from numb thumb, also known as remote control, out of control syndrome. My knuckles have cramped up from holding on, as I peruse the multitude of options available for my viewing pleasure. After scrolling up, down, and all around, through the vast maize of many choices, I decide that there is really nothing on.


                                  This could be a result of any of the following:

                                 a) I have already seen it and I watch too damn much TV.

                                 b) I am out of touch and don’t know what I am missing.

                                 c) I don’t know how to operate the remote.

                                 d) Most of what is offerred is really just plain crap.

                                 I am going with d.

I ask myself, do I want to spend an evening watching the minute by minute activity of another person’s life? The answer is clearly no. Do I want to waste my precious, few, free hours of the day listening to commercials blasting across the airwaves, for products that I never intend to buy? No way.

According to the A.C. Nielsen Co., the average American watches far too much TV, more than 4 hours of TV each day (or 28 hours/week, or 2 months of nonstop TV-watching per year). In a 65-year life, the average person will have logged an equivalent of 9 years glued to the tube or some other form of media.

September 19-25 has been designated as Turn Off Week (fka TV Turn Off Week) by the Center for Screen Time Awareness. The Center for SCREEN-TIME Awareness is an international nonprofit organization based in Washington, DC and seeks to reengage people with their families, friends and communities.

Life is out there, if we get out of the chair.

I have started my list of things to do during TurnOff Week. They include:

1) Take a walk.

2) Write a letter with pen and paper.

3) Call an old friend or a relative.

4) Read a book from cover to cover.

5) Create something from old things around the house.

6) Take a long hot bath with wine and candles.

7) Bake from scratch.

8) Clean a closet.

9) Attend at least one live entertainment event.

10) Learn a language or skill.

What’s on your list?

Bell Bottom Memories

A favorite pair of jeans or a well worn sweat shirt can take the edge off a hard day. We all have them, these items that bring comfort to our lives, the ones that we can’t seem to part with no matter how torn and frayed they become.

As a teenager I had a pair of jeans with many patches. These were placed haphazardly across the backside and in various places along both legs. Colorful swatches of many colors and patterns were attached with clashing thread. Jagged edges and odd shapes were laid one upon the next, to cover each hole, as the threads wore bare with a few more for effect.

My mother and father could not understand why I wanted to wear these things, when a closet of more suitable clothes waited untouched. A teenage basement dweller, I would rise from the deep as they shook their heads and exchanged looks of irritation each time they spotted the dreaded patched pants. Their reaction only served to reinforce my desire to wear them as often as I could.

Fashion rules change and for a few years, the rule of cool was bell bottoms. Denim drug the ground, causing frayed ends that only added to their appeal. Talented seamstresses added color fabric to the side seams to further widen the leg. Hip huggers, topped with wide belts, propped up with platform shoes, were what the groovy kids wore. No one wanted to be caught wearing floods, or high water pants, the polar opposite of cool. Cut off shorts made from the last year’s favorites, were the norm in summer attire.

Skirt lengths were more forgiving, as there was an array of choices from the mini, the midi and the maxi. Maxi coats and skirts paired with granny glasses were hip. Fringe hung on everything from belts to bags and the ever popular suede vest. The true hippie chick donned love beads and flashed an occasional peace sign.

Designer jeans rolled onto the scene in the 80’s, as this generation tight rolled and tucked to avoid any kind of flair at all. Shorter lengths were all the rage and stone wash ruled. Waistlines rose higher and higher, now referred to as mom jeans. By the 90’s the designers had found ways to get big bucks for jeans that came prewashed and pre torn.

I hung onto the old favorites for many years until finally they were too hideous even for yard work and with trepidation, I tossed them into the trash can. The stone wash, ankle length mom jeans are but a memory as well.

As we roll through life, fashion concerns can often take a backseat to the many other areas that demand our time and attention. As I survey my closet, I find that the jeans residing there are all the wrong length, color and size. I find that it is time for a closet intervention. No matter how comfy the old standby’s are, some more fashionable alternatives are much needed. Jean shopping I must go. So I head to the mall with my credit card and memories of styles past tucked into my back pocket.

Where are you Bobby Sherman?

1970, Anywhere USA


Giggling and girlfriends go together like bread and butter, peaches and cream, and toast and jam. Each ingredient is pleasing by itself, but put them together and you just can’t go wrong. Nothing can start the giggling like swooning over boys.

Swoon we did! It may have been the Age of Aquarius, but there was no lack of love for wholesome hunks in the heartland. Many an afternoon was whiled away as we flopped ourselves down on our pink chenille bedspreads, with the 45’s on the player, as we gazed upon our favorite fresh faced, shiny haired, pop icons with the pearly whites. Walls came alive as posters pulled from the pages of Tiger Beat were tacked and taped to every available inch of plaster. No room was complete without Bobby, David, and Donny.

Bobby Sherman was both a singing sensation and a TV star with a role in the hit TV series, Here Come the Brides.  He is alive and well and volunteering with the LAPD.

Bobby Sherman, Then

Bobby Sherman, Now

                                           To see Bobby perform, click here.

                                         Bobby Sherman, Easy Come Easy Go!

David Cassidy did prove that it can be cool to be on stage with your mom, with his role in The Partridge Family.  David continues to perform live in venues around the world.

David Cassidy, Then

David Cassidy, Now

                                                      To see David perform, Click here.
                                                              David Cassidy, Medley


Donny Osmond sprang onto the stage at the age of five and has been bringing the house down ever since.  His most recent success was to win the competition on  Dancing With the Stars.

Donny Osmond, Then

 

Donny Osmond, NOW

                                           To see Donny perform click here!

                                           Donny Osmond, Go Away Little Girl

How things  do change and yet they stay the same !  Newcomer Justin Bieber has adolescents across the globe swooning as he croons.  

                                                    To see Justin perform, click here.

                                                         Justin Bieber, Baby

How do the pop icons of the 70's measure up ?  You decide.  Leave a comment below or vote at the top of the screen.

Those Were the Days

                                                                
Fast forward. Years speed by as we charge ahead and life moves on faster, faster, faster, while we acquire more and more. Suddenly, we stop and take a long look in the rear view mirror. Nostalgia takes over as we long for old times. Memories are mined for hidden gemstones. Rewind….


I yearn for evening breezes through the lilac bushes, kool-aid, bomb pops, a run through the yard sprinkler, some-mores, and chasing lightning bugs. I long for a game of hop scotch, jumping rope, and a drink of water from the fountain.  Popping the heads from dandelions, picking violets, a search for a four leaf clover, and the discovery of grasshoppers and monarch butterflies, were but a few of the simple pleasures of summer.

Unscheduled time, with no plans and no expectations, paved the way for many adventures. Mothers maintained the home base as calloused feet hit the sidewalks each morning. Stingray bikes, with banana seats, some of them specially equipped with a basket, horn or playing cards clipped to the spokes, provided further transportation. Food, drink and the occasional band-aid would eventually draw the bicycle crusaders home. Lunch and dinner were served with regularity at the kitchen table and mothers used their vocal chords to call when a tardy vagabond did not report for meals.

Suntans were all natural, as days were seldom spent indoors. There were no scheduled play dates. Impromptu matches of four square, kickball, baseball, and an occasional card game developed in the neighborhood parks, vacant lots and in the streets themselves. Neighborhood tribes roamed free into the evenings for games of hide and seek, also known as “ditch em”, and other forms of mischief.

Imaginations were put to use as items were built, created, and crafted. Each neighborhood found a way to fashion a fort or a clubhouse and a few go-carts, from scraps of wood and other items scavenged from who knows where. Kids will be kids was the unspoken rule and rarely did anyone complain if a few flowers, or a tomato or two were missing from the neighboring gardens.

Clotheslines filled with laundry dotted the landscape and the windows were always open. The neighborhood grocery stores brimmed with customers, including kids clutching shopping lists, with an extra coin or two for a treat of their choice. My favorite was the pop machine with glass bottles of ice cold soda in many flavors. I remember the clink of the coin and the clunk of the bottle and the feeling as I pulled out a bright red strawberry, my usual.

Girls would be girls as our mother’s and grandmother’s discarded clothes, hats and jewelry, became costumes, topped off with necklaces created from colorful strands of pop beads. Cardboard boxes became dollhouses, with empty thread spools for chairs, material scraps and tissues for blankets and curtains, all displayed against the designer crayon drawn wallpaper. The beloved Barbie doll was adorned with stick pin earrings, the ones with the colored ball ends.

Boys would be boys as an old tire became a swing and strips of the discarded inner tube tied to a piece of wood, became a sling shot. Dirt mounds were shaped into villages for matchbox cars and toy soldiers. Empty cans were fastened together with black electrical tape to make cannons as tennis balls rocketed through the air.

Middle class values prevailed as toys and clothes were handed down from one child to the next and a less than perfect item was still considered useful. A doll without arms was still a doll. A car with a missing wheel was still a car.

The wish book provided more fuel for our imaginations. Each Christmas and every birthday a box was unwrapped that contained a new Barbie or Chatty Cathy doll, a chemistry set, a microscope, perhaps a kit to make Creepy Crawlers, or a paint by number set, some Lincoln Logs, an EasyBake Oven, a View Master, an Etcha Sketch or a GI Joe.

An occasional trip downtown with a dollar tucked in our pockets would provide entertainment options with a visit to local movie theatre or to the “Dime Store”, for small treasures such as a Slinky, Silly Putty, Superballs, Clackers, bubble stuff, Playdough, a Mood Ring, a Troll doll, or a tasty treat of Incredible Edibles, candy cigarettes, Cracker Jacks and Bazooka bubble bum..

From all of these excursions, experiments and escapades a few words of experience ring true. Never use a slinky as a collar for your cat. It is not wise to take a test run on a go cart until some form of brakes has been attached. Once you cut a doll’s hair it will not grow back. Neighbors do not take kindly to holes in their clothing from any “stray” bb shots that come from the bushes and the right combination of  chemicals will definitely cause an explosion. Police do show up when enough fireworks are set off in the backyard and laughing while drinking soda will cause it to come out of your nose.

Every generation looks back fondly on years gone by and perhaps Archie Bunker said it best. Those were the days!

                                           Archie and Edith Bunker's Theme Song.

"She Don't Eat No Tomatoes?"

About a year ago, my son brought home his new girlfriend. Now he is not the kind that falls in love easily and we knew that if he was bringing her home that it must have been a pretty serious thing. So I did what I always do when we are about to have guests, I started  to cook. I put the sauce pot on and the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of basil and garlic dancing in a thick tomato sauce.


For years my specialty was manicotti filled with a creamy four cheese mixture , topped with a zesty tomato sauce and then baked until bubbly hot. Stuffed peppers are another family favorite. Small red and yellow peppers with a hearty meat filling are topped with the special tomato sauce that is a feast for the senses. Heavy sauces like carbonara are reserved for holidays, but for quick entertaining, a spicy amatriciana sauce, made stove top in a skillet is a quick and flavorful hit. It is an easy blend of bacon, onion, red pepper and tomatoes, the key word being tomatoes.


I went to work in the kitchen and I mixed up a caprese salad, garden tomatoes and fresh mozzarella , with  a drizzle of olive oil and a pinch of basil and garlic. I decided that it would be fun if we all made our own personal size pizzas, so I made ready the ingredients, including a thick tomato sauce, and I awaited the arrival of our new guest so the fun could begin.

“ My son introduced me to this new girl and we are instantly delighted. The conversation flowed easily, we talked, we laughed and I suspected  that they may be a good match.”

“Anyone hungry?” I asked.

I then went on to describe the menu that I had planned.

“Michelle doesn’t eat tomatoes, Mom,” he answered with slight trepidation in his voice.

The scene that followed was like the one in the film My Big Fat Greek Wedding. The room fell silent and then....

“What do you mean, she doesn’t eat tomatoes?”

“She doesn’t eat tomatoes. That’s it.”

“Do you mean raw tomatoes?”

“No I mean no tomatoes, no tomato sauce, no tomatoes.”

Dumbfounded, I found myself at a loss for what to do and I struggled as I searched for the appropriate response. I envisioned future family dinners without any sign of tomato sauce and I am stunned into silence for a moment or two.

I recovered and pulled myself together. I can usually think pretty well on my feet, so I pulled out a jar of alfredo sauce from the pantry. I added it to the choice of ingredients for our pizza making party. I shook it off and moved on.

Michelle built a “white pizza” with the alfredo sauce,  a bit of cheese and  a sprinkle of herbs. I tried a piece and will admit that it wasn’t bad. The topping on the pizza was not after all, the most important thing. I realized that the ingredients in the food were not nearly as important as the people around the table. Many gatherings have come and gone since then and we have managed to alter the menu to accommodate our newest member of the family by adding a dish or two. It has challenged me to try new recipes and to change things up a bit. I will admit that I do struggle for ideas.

That’s Ok I’ll make chili!

"Change Your Hair and Change Your Life"

As I stand in line at the grocery store, I check out the other ladies, like a woman does. We size each other up, make comparisons to ourselves, assess our success or failure on the attractiveness meter. As I continue to wait my turn in line, I notice something. Among the women my age, I determine that our hair styles are all pretty much the same. We are all some combination of blond highlights, mostly straight and with nothing below the shoulder. I wonder to myself. When had we all stopped trying to be different? We had gradually morphed into the same middle aged woman in capri pants.

I start to whistle Little Boxes. For anyone not familiar with this song, it was recorded by Malvina Reynolds in 1961, and came back into the spotlight as the theme song for the Showtime series Weeds. It is a somewhat of a social commentary on sameness.




There is a certain comfort in sameness, in knowing where we fit. There is a certain sadness in it too. Turning fifty is a time of reflection for many as we take a closer look at ourselves. We question and we self evaluate. Why am I here? Why do I have the same outfit and the same haircut as everyone else? Is it a lack of imagination, a lack of courage, or is it simply a lack of effort? It does take effort to be different. It is not always the popular thing to do. Some may view it as uppity, immature or even crazy.

So as my mind continues to wander,I think of people with great hair, truly amazing ,unforgettable hair, and I am jealous. Why was I born with this straight, thin, nothing hair? I lament to myself. This is my fate, to be just like everyone else with this hair. If only I’d been born with thick, curly hair, then perhaps I would stand out in the crowd. I’d probably be a famous author by now, living in a fabulous villa, sipping limoncello by the sea. It’s all my damn hair’s fault! I decide to myself that some change must be in order!

When a woman changes her hair, it is usually just the beginning. There are bigger changes to come. Change your hair and change your life, so the saying goes. Since I am pretty comfortable with my life, I pause to reevaluate my plan and then I think of Aunt Doris. Aunt Doris wore the very same hairstyle from the time that she was in her early twenties, until the day she died. It was the same color and style, meticulously coiffed and properly rolled each and every day of her life. She never changed a thing,ever. I am sure that her hair stylist loved her.

For most ladies, your hair stylist is an important member of your team. You just don’t change unless you have a darn good reason. It is like re-electing the incumbent. Fear of the unknown can take over and often will lead to complacency. Why change when accepting the status quo is so much easier? We know that what we have is not all that bad, so why risk getting something truly awful?

So again I think of Aunt Doris and I remind myself that change is good. Maybe it is time to take off in a new direction. I will start with the hair and see where is goes from there. My villa by the sea is waiting.

Fear the Carb Nazi!

We all know them. They can rain on a dinner party when the sun is shining. They can make you feel small and weak and downright lesser than, these folks with ironclad willpower and the willingness to show it. I call them the Carb Nazi’s. Carb Nazi’s will look down their noses with suspicion at those who indulge in the glorious world of the carbohydrate.

For those of us of Italian American descent, carbohydrates are like water and air. We simply can’t live without them. There is a common expression in Italian, “Buono Come il Pane”, which translates as ”As Good as Bread.” This expression is used to describe someone or something of true goodness, simple and down to earth. We get together to “Break Bread.” The act of tearing off a junk of hard crusty bread from a shared loaf is a sign of friendship.

The world of Italian breads is vast and wide. We’re not talking Wonder Bread here folks. Wonder Bread is one of those products that I put in the same category as Spaghetti O’s. No self respecting Italian would eat them unless starving on a desert island somewhere with nothing else. These breads are truly a thing of beauty. A walk through an isle of your favorite bakery or Italian grocery store is a feast for the eyes and the nose, with stacks of paper wrapped loaves in varying shapes. Ciabatta, focaccia, braided breads, and flatbreads will grace the senses.

Then there is the pasta. There are more types and shapes of pasta than I could possibly expand upon in this short post. Sauces dance across these varied shapes al dente, using fresh simple ingredients to create culinary bliss.

The problem that we often have with pasta in this country is the same problem that we have with everything else, over doing it. The oversized, over sauced, over cooked and over cheesed dishes arrive to the table in many restaurants in buckets, not plates. In Italy, pasta is not typically served as the main course but as a first course, un primo, following gli antipasti, the appetizers. It is most often served as a smaller portion, with light flavorful sauces, as a primer for what is to come. You see it is not an all or nothing proposition.

Carb Nazi’s take the all or nothing approach to the extreme. Carb Nazi’s really do want to eat carbs. The more they deny themselves, the more they want them. The act of making anything off limits only serves to increase the desire. Their eyes glaze over and their backs stiffen as the bread basket is passed. They look straight ahead and avoid eye contact with the bruschetta while nibbling lettuce. It’s painful to watch, poor dears.

Call my crazy, but I’d rather spend my time in a quest for a fuller life, than a smaller waistline. I’d much rather spend my time around the table with friends and family happily breaking bread.

Road Trip Therapy

There is nothing like a road trip with your honey when you need to get the heck out of Dodge. When the need to escape overwhelms and to go anywhere, just anywhere, takes over. We do enjoy sailing down the highway with the radio on. There is something so freeing about this no matter what the final destination. Along the way we have this little game that we play.

“Who did this song?” he asks.

I lean back in my seat and listen for a few lines. More often than not I can tell him. Every once in awhile I get stuck, and since my hubby is ahem, a few years older that I am, he will often know the answer. I love his knowing look as he nods and gives me the name of the song and the performer.

At times I impress him when I am able to belt out entire songs, word for word. You have to know someone pretty well to feel comfortable enough to do this sober. Who knew all this was still in there? I call it my RAM, random access memory, the stuff l have tucked away that pops out from time to time. It’s just one of those fifty something moments when I can recite the entire lyrics to Maggie May, but will not remember where I put the car keys or my glasses. Maggie May, now there is a song for you. I can name that tune from just the first guitar chords.

Old radio hits can stir up all kinds of memories, some of them shared, some of them unique to our own experiences. Flashbacks from old rock concerts and reminiscences of music festivals in the rain wearing moccasins and frayed bell bottom jeans resurface. Nostalgia takes over as I recall listening to record albums in my parent’s basement until they pounded on the floor or yelled down the steps that the floor was vibrating, again. I was a particularly annoying teenager and loved to rock the house with ZZ Top’s, La Grange. This was a guaranteed floor shaker. I will admit that I had no idea what the song was about at the time. I only knew that it annoyed my mother with its rafter shaking guitar buzz. Sorry mom!

Faces of old friends pass before us in between the road signs with blue skies glowing overhead. Happy times both them and now, we tell stories and laugh over the time that so and so did this or that. With each melody we recall all modes of tacky dress and silly behavior after sucking down sweet sticky drinks like the tequila sunrise, the sloe screw, the salty dog, and the fuzzy navel. Well at least we all got our fair share of vitamin C!

As the sun begins to fade we look at each other and smile. Where did the time go we often say? I wonder, how did this young rebel end up in this old body with sensible shoes? Lots of twists and turns along the way have lead to this place. Even so it’s fun to let it all go for a weekend or a while. As far as getting older is concerned, I have just one comment. What happens on a road trip stays on a road trip.

Mothers Day Reflections

It’s the little things about motherhood that stay with you forever, like the feeling of little fingers grabbing your own and holding on tight. Baby fingers leave me awestruck, these small creations with tiny knuckles and dainty fingernails. Baby toes are equally as pleasing. If there is a more perfect moment in all of motherhood than holding a tiny foot and kissing it over and over, I have not found it. Baby smiles are followed by baby giggles, the best sounds on earth. They come forth from hours of coos and gurgles, mother’s music, as we sit and admire these little creatures from top to bottom. A soft kiss to a child’s head as they sleep, with lips brushing across silky fine hairs and the smell of powder, warms the mother’s heart like nothing else can.

The taste of chocolate, lady bugs, and butterfly kisses, are but a few of the countless discoveries each day. These shared adventures strengthen the bond between mother and child. Small arms reach, stretch, pull, and grasp each experience with innocent joy. The first steps come and we watch as they totter back and forth. We know that they will fall, more than once, and that we have to let them or they will not learn to walk for themselves. Long strolls while learning the words for cow and grass and sunshine, never last long enough before it is time to rush them off to school with a lump in our throats as we turn to leave them.

We watch with trepidation as they take their first turn at bat, their first jump off the diving board, and their first ride without the training wheels. We stand guard at the playground and gasp as they climb just a little too high. We have to control ours emotions so that we don’t give the neighborhood bully a good spanking, but instead teach our children to stand up for themselves when they need to.

Brush your teeth, eat your vegetables, clean your room, and do your homework, the familiar lines of a mother’s tune. A good mother knows that they won’t like us all of the time. We don’t let it break our hearts when they scowl and turn to run to their rooms in disgust after we have to tell them no. We remember fondly the days when they thought mom knew everything, but our chests swell with pride as they learn to think for themselves.

We support them when we can, but not too much. We can tell them when we think they have veered a little off course, but must respect some decisions as theirs alone to make, and can only pray that the road they ultimately take will be a good one. We hope that they will surpass all that we have done and want for them only the best that life has to offer, knowing full well that there will be pitfalls along the way. We must teach them that life is not about perfection, but about doing our best. That is all we can ask of them and that is all that they can ask of us. As mothers we are not saints or angels, but women, who do the best that we can with this awesome responsibility that has been bestowed upon us....

and we treasure every minute of it.

The Family Garden

For Uncle Mike

I come from a family of gardeners. For generations we have tilled the soil, planted and harvested our bounty to the family table. Rows of fine flowers have lined our yards, a symbol of pride for those who reside there.

My grandfather Armando and grandmother Rose planted a garden so vast it would feed an entire family with enough to sell to the local grocers, to provide money for the things they could not grow. Ripe tomatoes and hot banana peppers remain the staple of family recipes to this day.

My grandmother Eva and grandfather Perry once raised a garden to sell by truck. Years later, as a child, I wandered the strawberry beds, the apple trees, the rhubarb patch and marveled at the many wonders growing there. Small hands shelling peas into the white porcelain bowl and snapping beans for the next meal, while hearing the stories of Eva, are treasures that reside in my mind’s eye.

My mother has spent her life tending to the family garden, providing beauty to us all. A favorite photograph of my daughter at three, sitting proudly by the flowers that she helped her grandmother plant, resides in the family album.

With the end of the hoe I break through the crust of the earth that has formed there. The many months of snow have passed and the earth lies here, waiting. With hoe and rake I work this square of ground, picking out the dead, the rocks, the sticks, the leftover root systems, clearing the way for new life. With a push and a shove, I start the first row, looking down to check for depth and then up again. The first row is the most important. It must be straight. The others will follow.

I crawl between the rows; placing the seeds, then with bare hands, gently cover them as if they were my children. As each row is complete I stand up to look it up and down searching for imperfections. I pound a stake on which to place the seed package, a guide for future reference.

There is something so special about this process, so special in creating living, flowering greenery from this dirt, where nothing stood before. Tending to these seedlings each day, builds to excitement as the first lettuce leaves push forth and the bean creatures poke out their ugly heads. We have done this for centuries, digging this earth, planting our seeds, and then waiting, watching in wonder as these beings push forth as if it were the first time.

As summer passes, I will spend my evenings picking through these rows, planning dinner in my apron, like my grandmothers before me. Perhaps a crisp salad with scallions and a banana pepper, a sauce of tomatoes with fresh basil, or an omelet with baby asparagus will be the choice today. I look and listen, as the plants call out to me.

Keep Pushin On

I would not have wanted to miss this morning, with the snow outside my window. It would have been a shame not to be here, in my kitchen sipping coffee, while listening to soft music. I treasure this moment and I am thankful.

I think of an old friend who has died. I see his young blue eyes and mischievous grin as I chop the vegetables. I wonder where the years have gone and I cry a little as I remember what once was and ponder what could have been.

I would not have wanted to miss the phone call that I received last night from my son announcing his engagement, a sign of so many good things to come. As I stir the soup I think of wedding plans and children.

I think of this old friend and all that he will miss now that he has passed from this life so early. I am sorry for him and for all that he has lost. I am sorry for his family and for the friends who remember him like I do.

I would not have wanted to miss the wine, conversation and song that we enjoyed last evening with old friends and new, around the kitchen table. Each day I will celebrate and roll with the changes.

I think of this old friend as he was at twenty, full of hope and confidence. He loved life and REO Speedwagon. This is how I will remember him.

I would not have wanted to miss this moment, as I put my thoughts on paper, and listen to the wind chimes outside my window. I am home.

Keep on Rollin.

Twenty Six Letters

Twenty-six letters
provide possibilities,
an infinite selection
of words carefully chosen,
arranged to mold sentences
layered one upon the next
to shape prose.

Words peppered with punctuation,
seasoned with personality
become characters, whose actions create the plot,
artfully presented to form the novel,
the reading of which spawns ideas that beget
greater ideas, combined together
to incite opinions, illustrations, song.

Phrase and verse evoke emotion;
move the listener from laughter to tears,
provoke anger and may sway the reader
to the other side, or not.
Power comes in words selected,
crafted, and composed from only these
twenty-six letters.

Everybody's Fine

A film starring Robert De Niro,is a remake of the Giuseppe Tornatore film Stanno Tutti Bene that is written and directed by Kirk Jones

Widower, Frank Goode, is readying himself for a holiday visit from his four children when the phone starts ringing. The cancellations roll in, each one with a different excuse. Frank does not take this lightly and sets out on a road trip to pay surprise visits to his offspring in order to get closer to them, to know them better. Little does he know that he hardly knows them at all.

The Goode family has many secrets. They only give their father the often embellished good news and spare him the true details of their lives. Frank Goode worked at an ordinary job fabricating the plastic coating that covers telephone cables. He, like most parents, wanted more for his kids and was not afraid to push them. Thus the push and pull of expectations and independence from them has driven each of the Goode children far from home.

Robert De Niro is believable as the aging father. We have come to accept him in this role since Meet the Fockers. His former mobster persona allows him to realistically portray this father figure that everyone seems to fears just a little bit. We understand as they all strive to please him even if the way to do this is to stay away.

Drew Barrymore, Kate Beckingsale and Sam Rockwell give adequate performances of three of the Goode children, even if they do seem a bit stiff and fake. After all, that is the point. They are playing characters who are themselves acting, playing a role. These are not genuine folks, but characters that do not delve much below the surface for fear of being exposed.

The visual effects of the film add to the storyline. As Frank Goode sees each of his children, a flashback to what they looked like as children appears as they speak to him. What parent does not at times, look into the faces of their grown children, only to see the small child they once were. We miss these little people so and would welcome the chance to turn back the clock and spend some more time with them. We can identify with Frank Goode as we wish we could take back some of the hours spent at the office or in front of the television, and spend them sitting around the family table as we savor each moment.

The image of the telephone lines are used throughout the film. As Frank moves from city to city, his children relay messages about him and the fate of another sibling. The phone lines illustrate how they are all connected even as they live apart.

Frank travels along in his favorite state, oblivion, until a series of events unfold that force him to admit that everything is not fine. The movie illustrates with clarity, a character who like so many people, pass through much of their lives with blinders on. It is only when a life and death situation occurs that he faces reality and is able to accept the truth about himself and others.

This film is two parts drama, one part mystery, with a dash of comedy for good measure. Although it has not drawn much in the way of critical acclaim or box office success, I enjoyed it for its simplicity and for its message. Savor the present for it is too soon past,and learn to accept life the way that it is.


     

Were You Always a Guido?

What started as a second rate reality show has quickly become a phenomenon. The Jersey Shore, places eight housemates, four men and four women ranging in ages from 21 to 29, together for a summer at the shore. The male cast members are Mike aka “The Situation” known for his cocky attitude and his ripped abs, DJ Paulie D, the king of the blow out, Vinny a self professed mama’s boy and rabid fist pumper, and Ronnie, muscle bound lover and fighter. The females are led by Nicole aka “Snooki” whose only goal in life is to find a guido, marry him and have babies, J-Wow a female predator with enormous breast implants, Sammie Sweetheart, romantic interest for Ronnie, and a short stint by the tough talking Angelina.

Outcries from Italian American groups, protesting the derogatory stereotypical depiction of Italian Americans, have only helped to thrust the MTV cast further into the spotlight. The Guidos and the Guidettes, as they prefer to be called, have achieved notoriety on a worldwide level and have become the cultural equivalent of professional wrestling and roller derby. While few will admit that they watch, many actually do.

The guido archetype is nothing new. Maria Laurino describes a similar group from her past in her book of essays; Were You Always an Italian?

“In high school, the Italian-American boys were known as the “Ginzo Gang”; they were greasers with beat-up cars that first chugged then soared, thanks to their work at the local gas station (Palumbo’s), owned by the father of one of them. Olive-skinned and muscular, they were sexy in their crudeness; and their faint gasoline scent and oiled-down hair defined the image of Italian-Americans in our school. The young women who hung out with them had little separate identity other than that as the girlfriends of the Ginzos.”

John Travolta brought this stereotype into the mainstream with his portrayal of Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back, Kotter. It is no coincidence that his last name resembles the word barbarian. We laughed at ourselves a little easier in those days as we watched Vinnie swagger into our living rooms for each of seventy eight episodes that aired between 1975 and 1979. Travolta took on the nightclub scene via Tony Manero, in the smash movie hit, Saturday Night Live, which put disco on the map for many. During this era, Travolta won hearts with his portrayal of Danny Zucco in Grease, as another none too bright pretty boy with tight pants and a slick hairdo.

The guido lifestyle is portrayed as an obsession with physical appearance. The guidos and guidettes spend their days tanning, pumping themselves up with weights, and applying hair products, specifically hair gel. By night they cruise the night clubs and “hook up” with random partners. Their personas are swarthy, exaggerated caricatures of macho bravado, and I am not just talking about the men.

The origin of the word Guido is the Italian equivalent of the name Guy. It is also closely related to the verb guidare, which translates as, to lead or to guide. The term guido, as used in the US, has a negative connotation and has often been used as an ethnic slur. So why does this group of young people choose to embrace this label and adopt this archetype as a lifestyle? The answer is simple. Why do young people in general like to dress and act in overtly rebellious ways? Because they do, that is all. Each generation searches for new territory to exploit and explore so they can believe, even if for a little while, that they are different. Rebels without a cause they may be, but no one can say they aren’t at least rebels.

The protests by the Italian American groups are not without merit, even if they do smack somewhat of another look down the proverbial nose at the mezzogiorno. The age old battle between Northern and Southern Italians wages on. At some point each group must embrace the other as part of “Italianness.” As a fifty something woman of Italian descent, firmly planted in the heartland, far from the Jersey Shore, I think we do protest too much. We must look at this for what it is, entertainment. Reality shows are based upon the extreme rather than the norm and I do believe that most people are intelligent enough to understand this. As Italian Americans we are not by default guidos, guidettes, mobsters or mamma boys, but fearing to acknowledge the existence of these characters, only serves to highlight our insecurities.

Laurino goes on to reflect upon her own feelings about the Ginzos;

“The Ginzos were my rearview mirror, a reflection of the near past that I wished to move beyond.”

Rumor has it that due to the unprecedented popularity of the show, season two is in the works. Across the nation, Jersey Shore parties are popping up. The cast of the show has been on every talk show and red carpet and it members have become overnight celebs. What can we do? Not much but laugh, roll our eyes, and take some pleasure in the fact that Snooki and Sarah Palin once sported similar hairstyles.



 

Grammys are for Grown Ups

Grammy night, the ultimate evening of guiltless pleasure for the music enthusiast, rocked in the night like a rollercoaster. It was up and down, then round and round. Lady Gaga opened the show with Poker Face followed by a trip to the fire pit, only to rise from the ashes in a dueling pianos duet with Sir Elton John. Putting these two together was nothing short of brilliance as the lyrics of Gaga’s Speechless were interwoven with that of John’s Your Song.

Throughout the evening, pairings of the oldies with the newbies made for some interesting entertainment. Leon Russell looked the part of father time as he collaborated with newcomers the Zack Brown Band on a harmonious rendition of America the Beautiful. One combination that fell short was that of Taylor Swift with Stevie Nicks. Now Taylor fans don’t get your bobby socks in a bundle. I am sure that Taylor is a fine talented young woman, no disparaging remarks to be made here. I must however make note of the fact that Taylor sang off key for most of her performance. What she lacked in talent she made up for in enthusiasm and I will give Ms. Nicks much credit for her patience with the situation.

And the beat goes on…. Sorry another era.

Pink twirled around in a body suit that looked like it was made of masking tape and left little to the imagination. It was truly awe inspiring and I watched in amazement and wondered aloud, “How can she sing like that?” However breathtaking, I am so pleased that I was not one of those in the audience that got water whipped as she spun about flinging droplets like a lawn sprinkler.

My favorite quote of the evening came from comedian Stephen Colbert as he wondered to the crowd why Susan Boyle was not in attendance. "You may be the coolest people in the world. This year your industry was saved by a 48-year-old Scottish cat lady in sensible shoes," Colbert poked.

There was too much rap for my taste, but of course, any rap is too much rap for my taste. I’m sorry; I just do not get it. It all sounds the same. Bad. I will make an exception for The Black Eyed Pea’s, I Got a Feeling which has a hip hop, rap, but feel good kind of sound, and with lyrical genius such as; “I got’s my money, let’s spend it up,” well who could be unimpressed.

We can’t leave out Beyonce, the queen of the awards this year taking six to Taylor’s four. Thank god, as we did not want another replay of the outrage that was expressed by Kayne West last year at the MTV awards. I must confess that I could empathize with these feeling a bit as I watched Taylor receive the award for album of the year, but I am far too much of a lady to run up on the stage and say so.

Beyonce stole the show as she marched on stage with her posse of futuristic soldiers, grabbed her crotch, and belted out If I Were a Boy, followed by an Alanis Morrisette cover of You Oughta Know.

Other highlights of the evening included the shared splendor of Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Andrea Bocelli and Mary J Blige performed for Haitian relief, classic tunes by heart throb Jon Bon Jovi, a rocking medley by Green Day and tribute to Michael Jackson. No matter what your preference in music, Grammy night is a free opportunity to experience it all, take away from it what you like, and leave the rest. Where else can you see such star studded, eye popping performances fireside in the comfort of your home?

I for one, plan to get out there and buy me some Lady Gaga. Now I know what you are thinking. Does a fifty something female have any business becoming a fan of Lady Gaga? It just doesn’t seem right does it? But fan I must become. This might even make exercising fun. I could break out the old leg warmers and torn sweatshirts and bust out a little Flashdance action in sunglasses, red lipstick, crazy hair, and tights. I can see it now, the expressions on the faces of my friends and family as I show up to future functions Gagafied! Call the hairdresser, I need some help here! Forget the Red Hat Society, let’s form the Gaga Club.

Could be fun.