I’ve always loved music as evidenced in other entries. Today I had a blast from the past when I heard Bruce Springsteen’s 80’s song “Hungry Heart”. It reminded me of how crazy I was and still am over music.
I don’t exactly know how I came to love that song or who introduced it to me. But I know I had the vinyl 45 record of it. I would place the album on the record player, lower the needle and raise the volume. I was insanely obnoxious because and I played it over and over. The repetition was necessary so that I could learn all the words and sing it without the music. Not sure if I was trying to audition for the inception of what American Idol was going to become or what? I was obsessed with the song and with Bruce Springsteen.
I don’t know why my mom never kicked me in the derriere for the migraine I must have given her with loudness of the music. I don’t recall my sister telling me to knock it off with the ridiculous droning of the raspy voiced Jersey native. I chuckled when I heard the song today and yet I stilled remembered all the words. I sang along with the song as if I were still a young adult obsessed with the song. (Though my obsession with ‘The Boss’ has changed a lot over the years.)
I guess a little observation can tell you a lot about how a child will be as an adult after all.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Shell Shock
One of the things that I take pleasure in during the summer is fresh fish and seafood. I try to cook lots of clams and mussels because I enjoy the flavor that those bivalves bring to dishes. Coming from towns just off the beaches in Italy, my parents instilled that appreciation in me and my siblings from an early age.
One day I had made some mussels cooked in a little tomato sauce which were quite the hit. After eating the meat from inside, we collected the shells to toss away in a separate bowl. When we cleaned the table, I tossed the shells into the garbage. I did the dishes and then proceeded to watch some television.
After a while I began to hear a clunking sound in the kitchen. Then it stopped. A little bit later, I’d hear something rattling the plastic garbage bag and then it too ceased. Clunk! Yet again. I got up from the living room to see what was going on and when I walked around the corner to the kitchen; there was Foxy with a shell in her mouth.
‘Foxy?’ I said with a high pitch. Knowing she was caught doing something bad, she opened her mouth and dropped the shell on the floor. She hung her head in shame and then sped under the table waiting for her punishment.
I kind of laughed to myself because I realized that she was biting off the little valves that were left on the shells that we didn’t eat. But I couldn’t have her going through the garbage. So I crawled under the table and asked her “Foxy, do you think you are a raccoon? You can’t go through the garbage for snacks and food!” She looked at me and then again looked down with regret.
I went to inspect the garbage can to see how she had gotten in there to collect the shells. She somehow had figured out that the foot pedal, when pressed, would open the garbage can. I examined the garbage can further. I realized that if I unhooked the top, which had a lever that connected to the food pedal, it would make it harder for her to go through the garbage. Problem solved.
I went back to the living room to read the newspaper. After about an hour, I heard clunking again. I got up immediately to go to the kitchen. Foxy was nowhere to be seen. Clunk! “Where is that coming from?” I asked myself.
I walked to the foyer. Under my mom’s curio table, Foxy was spread out on her tummy surrounded by shells. She had a shell in between her paws which she leveraged open somehow and was scraping the valve out of the shell with her teeth. She looked like she had been stranded on a beach if it weren’t for the linoleum in the foyer. I did get mad at her but I had to give her credit for being pretty resourceful. In a way she taught me a lesson on how not to be wasteful. If I had scraped those valves out of the shells, this incident never would have happened at all.
One day I had made some mussels cooked in a little tomato sauce which were quite the hit. After eating the meat from inside, we collected the shells to toss away in a separate bowl. When we cleaned the table, I tossed the shells into the garbage. I did the dishes and then proceeded to watch some television.
After a while I began to hear a clunking sound in the kitchen. Then it stopped. A little bit later, I’d hear something rattling the plastic garbage bag and then it too ceased. Clunk! Yet again. I got up from the living room to see what was going on and when I walked around the corner to the kitchen; there was Foxy with a shell in her mouth.
‘Foxy?’ I said with a high pitch. Knowing she was caught doing something bad, she opened her mouth and dropped the shell on the floor. She hung her head in shame and then sped under the table waiting for her punishment.
I kind of laughed to myself because I realized that she was biting off the little valves that were left on the shells that we didn’t eat. But I couldn’t have her going through the garbage. So I crawled under the table and asked her “Foxy, do you think you are a raccoon? You can’t go through the garbage for snacks and food!” She looked at me and then again looked down with regret.
I went to inspect the garbage can to see how she had gotten in there to collect the shells. She somehow had figured out that the foot pedal, when pressed, would open the garbage can. I examined the garbage can further. I realized that if I unhooked the top, which had a lever that connected to the food pedal, it would make it harder for her to go through the garbage. Problem solved.
I went back to the living room to read the newspaper. After about an hour, I heard clunking again. I got up immediately to go to the kitchen. Foxy was nowhere to be seen. Clunk! “Where is that coming from?” I asked myself.
I walked to the foyer. Under my mom’s curio table, Foxy was spread out on her tummy surrounded by shells. She had a shell in between her paws which she leveraged open somehow and was scraping the valve out of the shell with her teeth. She looked like she had been stranded on a beach if it weren’t for the linoleum in the foyer. I did get mad at her but I had to give her credit for being pretty resourceful. In a way she taught me a lesson on how not to be wasteful. If I had scraped those valves out of the shells, this incident never would have happened at all.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Colorful People
Occasionally you meet people that make an impression on you from the moment they walk in the door. It’s a very difficult skill to master, I’m sure. However some people know exactly what it takes.
Recently I met a number of my husband’s friends and their parents. One group of parents walked in and was so lively that I couldn’t help but notice. The wife, who was tall and thin, was wearing almost all black and a pair of big sunglasses indoors. She quickly lifted the lenses from her face and greeted everyone without completely knowing who everyone was. The husband, also thin and tall, wore a bright yellow shirt, was bald and had a fantastic Einstein moustache. As the father walked in he exclaimed loudly “WOW! What a ridiculous bunch of unfortunate people!” Normally this entrance would have turned me off. However the energy that he had in greeting everyone was so contagious and genuine that I couldn’t help but see that these offhanded comments were just his little ‘thing’.
As the event moved on I talked to the husband for a bit who was just as enthusiastic as when he walked in. He told me how he knew my husband (from years of his son running with my husband and from riding bikes together on the weekends) and what a ridiculous unfortunate fat head he had become. Later on his wife talked to me a little bit and said she couldn’t believe how %(&^#$%# fat my husband had become. I told her that he no longer runs like he used to. But she did tell me that she thought he was the most *%#&#%# wonderful kid she had ever met. She also told me how she had family in Brooklyn and was hoping to get to New York soon to visit them.
The next day my husband informed me that this couple had invited us to dinner with them the next night. I was looking forward to seeing if these people were the same in their home as they were in public.
My husband rang the doorbell to which the husband replied, yelling from the window, ‘who is there?’
My husband yelled his reply and the man said “WOW!” or some other interjection that I can’t remember now. He raced down and opened the door. He gave me an enormous hug thanking me for coming to his house to which I replied “Thank you for inviting us to your house.”
The minute we walked it I was greeted by the couple’s youngest daughter and her two children, who were already in their pajamas. I said hello to the couple’s son and his son, Santiago, who was very adorable and edible worthy. Then the lady of the house came out of the kitchen. She gave me an immense hug as well. She said how she was so happy we could come to her house and share dinner with them. Yet again, I thanked her for the invitation. She said that I didn’t have to thank her. Having my husband at their house for dinner was like having their own %*^#%#% son to dinner. He was like family to them.
We talked for a while – about how my husband and I met, about my father, about my family’s traditions, about what makes good wine and art, etc. We then moved to the dinner table where we continued our talks. The woman of the house told us how she moved to Mexico from the Dominican Republic in December 1972 wearing very light clothes and being so cold she nearly wanted to turn around. I told her that I had visited in January and I had thought I was getting away from the New York winter only to be greeted with the no head chill of a Mexico City morning. She laughed at my story and said ‘My husband could have told me to bring a ^(&#%%)&*^ sweater!’
She then talked about the differences in culture between Mexico and the Dominican Republic. She said that she was shocked by how cold the Mexicans were when she arrived. They were ^(&#%# stuck up and unfriendly. She also said how she didn’t understand how they drank their coffee. In the Dominican Republic, she would have a small espresso and would be wide awake for days but in Mexico people would drink Nescafe. Her eyes opened wide and she exclaimed “What the ^&(#^&(# *%*% was this Nescafe?” I almost cried because I had the same feeling when I first saw everyone drinking Nescafe. I told her how I thought it was the most insane thing to see people sipping coffee sprinkled water. The first time I came to Mexico, I fell in love with the lusciously smooth and flavorful light brewed coffee. She and I laughed and I could tell we bonded.
As the night came to a close it was time to say good bye and good night to the little ones who were running around upstairs. They came down into the kitchen with their footsy pajamas and gave us hugs and kisses goodnight. One of the children, the only girl, was lifted into her grandfather’s arms where she kept petting his moustache in awe. She finally gave him a big kiss and was off to bedtime in her own house. It was time for Santiago to leave as well. He was very energetic and was talking about his toy while his father zipped up his sweater. His grandfather asked him “Santiago, why are you so ridiculous?” to which Santiago gave a big smile. He then was lifted up and shaken in his grandfather’s arms for a big goodnight kiss.
After the grandchildren and their children left, we were left alone with the couple. While the lady of the house cleaned up, the husband gave us a tour of their house. He really enjoyed doing handiwork and showed us how he made their dining room table. He talked about some of their paintings, which were all from the Dominican Republic and were very bright and colorful. Then he and my husband talked about their bike rides together.
Sadly it was time to leave. They walked us to our car. They told us that they were planning to come to New York and that they would love to see us. We told them that they should definitely let us know when they would be in town so we could get together.
It’s nice to be around people who are exactly who they are. It makes you feel like you can be yourself. I appreciated that about this couple and their family. It’s refreshing to meet people who are straight with you and don’t have any hidden agendas. What’s most fantastic about it is the sense of warmth and friendship you can feel so quickly for people who just don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of them.
Recently I met a number of my husband’s friends and their parents. One group of parents walked in and was so lively that I couldn’t help but notice. The wife, who was tall and thin, was wearing almost all black and a pair of big sunglasses indoors. She quickly lifted the lenses from her face and greeted everyone without completely knowing who everyone was. The husband, also thin and tall, wore a bright yellow shirt, was bald and had a fantastic Einstein moustache. As the father walked in he exclaimed loudly “WOW! What a ridiculous bunch of unfortunate people!” Normally this entrance would have turned me off. However the energy that he had in greeting everyone was so contagious and genuine that I couldn’t help but see that these offhanded comments were just his little ‘thing’.
As the event moved on I talked to the husband for a bit who was just as enthusiastic as when he walked in. He told me how he knew my husband (from years of his son running with my husband and from riding bikes together on the weekends) and what a ridiculous unfortunate fat head he had become. Later on his wife talked to me a little bit and said she couldn’t believe how %(&^#$%# fat my husband had become. I told her that he no longer runs like he used to. But she did tell me that she thought he was the most *%#&#%# wonderful kid she had ever met. She also told me how she had family in Brooklyn and was hoping to get to New York soon to visit them.
The next day my husband informed me that this couple had invited us to dinner with them the next night. I was looking forward to seeing if these people were the same in their home as they were in public.
My husband rang the doorbell to which the husband replied, yelling from the window, ‘who is there?’
My husband yelled his reply and the man said “WOW!” or some other interjection that I can’t remember now. He raced down and opened the door. He gave me an enormous hug thanking me for coming to his house to which I replied “Thank you for inviting us to your house.”
The minute we walked it I was greeted by the couple’s youngest daughter and her two children, who were already in their pajamas. I said hello to the couple’s son and his son, Santiago, who was very adorable and edible worthy. Then the lady of the house came out of the kitchen. She gave me an immense hug as well. She said how she was so happy we could come to her house and share dinner with them. Yet again, I thanked her for the invitation. She said that I didn’t have to thank her. Having my husband at their house for dinner was like having their own %*^#%#% son to dinner. He was like family to them.
We talked for a while – about how my husband and I met, about my father, about my family’s traditions, about what makes good wine and art, etc. We then moved to the dinner table where we continued our talks. The woman of the house told us how she moved to Mexico from the Dominican Republic in December 1972 wearing very light clothes and being so cold she nearly wanted to turn around. I told her that I had visited in January and I had thought I was getting away from the New York winter only to be greeted with the no head chill of a Mexico City morning. She laughed at my story and said ‘My husband could have told me to bring a ^(&#%%)&*^ sweater!’
She then talked about the differences in culture between Mexico and the Dominican Republic. She said that she was shocked by how cold the Mexicans were when she arrived. They were ^(&#%# stuck up and unfriendly. She also said how she didn’t understand how they drank their coffee. In the Dominican Republic, she would have a small espresso and would be wide awake for days but in Mexico people would drink Nescafe. Her eyes opened wide and she exclaimed “What the ^&(#^&(# *%*% was this Nescafe?” I almost cried because I had the same feeling when I first saw everyone drinking Nescafe. I told her how I thought it was the most insane thing to see people sipping coffee sprinkled water. The first time I came to Mexico, I fell in love with the lusciously smooth and flavorful light brewed coffee. She and I laughed and I could tell we bonded.
As the night came to a close it was time to say good bye and good night to the little ones who were running around upstairs. They came down into the kitchen with their footsy pajamas and gave us hugs and kisses goodnight. One of the children, the only girl, was lifted into her grandfather’s arms where she kept petting his moustache in awe. She finally gave him a big kiss and was off to bedtime in her own house. It was time for Santiago to leave as well. He was very energetic and was talking about his toy while his father zipped up his sweater. His grandfather asked him “Santiago, why are you so ridiculous?” to which Santiago gave a big smile. He then was lifted up and shaken in his grandfather’s arms for a big goodnight kiss.
After the grandchildren and their children left, we were left alone with the couple. While the lady of the house cleaned up, the husband gave us a tour of their house. He really enjoyed doing handiwork and showed us how he made their dining room table. He talked about some of their paintings, which were all from the Dominican Republic and were very bright and colorful. Then he and my husband talked about their bike rides together.
Sadly it was time to leave. They walked us to our car. They told us that they were planning to come to New York and that they would love to see us. We told them that they should definitely let us know when they would be in town so we could get together.
It’s nice to be around people who are exactly who they are. It makes you feel like you can be yourself. I appreciated that about this couple and their family. It’s refreshing to meet people who are straight with you and don’t have any hidden agendas. What’s most fantastic about it is the sense of warmth and friendship you can feel so quickly for people who just don’t care what the rest of the world thinks of them.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
In Dreams
Lately I’ve been having some very interesting dreams. Every so often I go through a phase where I wake up completely confused by what I’ve experienced in my sleeping state.
Here are some of the highlights of my recent dreams:
One night I had a dream that I was in a Broadway show. My job in this show was to do lots of different voices that could be heard by the audience. One of my main tasks was the nightly reminder to the spectators to turn off their cell phones during the performance. On the particular night of my dream though, I had a cold. So when I went to make the announcement, instead of sounding like a British person, I sounded like a congested Cartman from South Park. The producer looked at me with disappointment. As I went through the curtain to wait my next appearance, the cast members shook their head in embarrassment. That is all I remember of that dream.
On the subsequent night I dreamt that I had to go to the prom. Every couple was given a color that they had to wear. The color given to me and my date was a satin blue. So I went shopping and I found a wonderful burgundy dress that I bought because it looked super fabulous on me. I figured at the time that I had enough time to get a blue dress because the prom was months away.
Finally the prom rolled around and I realized that I didn’t have a satin blue dress. My date, who I’m pretty sure was my husband in the dream, came over with his satin blue tuxedo blinding me from the reflection of the light. When I went into my closet to show him the burgundy dress, what should appear but a shiny blue dress that I would never ever wear in real life. But I wore it and we went to the prom.
I’m pretty sure the dream I had last night had to do with being in the circus but I can’t remember much of the dream in detail.
What do these dreams mean? I’m not sure right now but once I get to analyzing them, maybe they will help me understand what is going on in my subconscious.
Here are some of the highlights of my recent dreams:
One night I had a dream that I was in a Broadway show. My job in this show was to do lots of different voices that could be heard by the audience. One of my main tasks was the nightly reminder to the spectators to turn off their cell phones during the performance. On the particular night of my dream though, I had a cold. So when I went to make the announcement, instead of sounding like a British person, I sounded like a congested Cartman from South Park. The producer looked at me with disappointment. As I went through the curtain to wait my next appearance, the cast members shook their head in embarrassment. That is all I remember of that dream.
On the subsequent night I dreamt that I had to go to the prom. Every couple was given a color that they had to wear. The color given to me and my date was a satin blue. So I went shopping and I found a wonderful burgundy dress that I bought because it looked super fabulous on me. I figured at the time that I had enough time to get a blue dress because the prom was months away.
Finally the prom rolled around and I realized that I didn’t have a satin blue dress. My date, who I’m pretty sure was my husband in the dream, came over with his satin blue tuxedo blinding me from the reflection of the light. When I went into my closet to show him the burgundy dress, what should appear but a shiny blue dress that I would never ever wear in real life. But I wore it and we went to the prom.
I’m pretty sure the dream I had last night had to do with being in the circus but I can’t remember much of the dream in detail.
What do these dreams mean? I’m not sure right now but once I get to analyzing them, maybe they will help me understand what is going on in my subconscious.
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Treasure of Tomatoes
As the summer come to an end, mutterings of an annual event begin to crescendo. It’s time for tomatoes.
My family has been canning (or should I say jarring) tomatoes for as long as they’ve been in diapers. In my youth my father, mother, my aunt and various other members of the family would attack the field of eastern Long Islands in search of farms bursting with rouge orbs. They would scatter about on the selected farm with the strategy of collecting bushel upon bushel of the fruit to bring home and jar for use over the winter.
Occasionally I’d join my family in their collecting (because it was before the school year started), squatting down amid the myriad plants – poking, pushing at the flesh and then picking a variety of shades from green to orange to bright red. After the assembly there was a sorting exercise that would occur. The green were placed in a basket to await their maturity; the orange ones sat in another basket to be ready for use in a few days. All the red ones would be for immediate preparation.
Back in the day we’d convene at my aunt’s house to fill the jars. We would wash the tomatoes, cut them half and clean out all the seed and then cut them into even smaller pieces. My aunt would occasionally flash steam some tomatoes so we could remove the peel. Some of my relatives had food issues so we had to cater to them and create a set of jars with no tomato skin.
When we had strainer upon strainer overflowing with tomatoes, the filling would begin. There was a very specific technique to pack the jars. We needed fresh basil and parsley on hand and sliced bell peppers to assist with the filling. Once we’d accumulated a certain amount of jars, we’d put lids and bands on the card and we’d boil the jars for a while. Voila a stash of summer lusciousness to have through the winter.
When my husband first saw this tradition, I’m sure he wanted to board a plane back to Mexico. Not only because we looked crazy (although that could have been a reason) but also because he didn’t really like whole tomatoes.
In the last couple of years, I’ve been assisting my parents in searching for good tomatoes as well as in filling the jars. This year my husband has been observing in preparation for our taking over the tradition in years to come. I think he’s beginning to see the joy of one’s efforts come to fruition in our year-round, fresh tomato sauce and in the blooming of our veggie garden. Tasting a fresh tomato while being stuck in a blizzard was quite a feat of nature; I enjoy seeing all the work that we do be available throughout the cold winter months.
My family has been canning (or should I say jarring) tomatoes for as long as they’ve been in diapers. In my youth my father, mother, my aunt and various other members of the family would attack the field of eastern Long Islands in search of farms bursting with rouge orbs. They would scatter about on the selected farm with the strategy of collecting bushel upon bushel of the fruit to bring home and jar for use over the winter.
Occasionally I’d join my family in their collecting (because it was before the school year started), squatting down amid the myriad plants – poking, pushing at the flesh and then picking a variety of shades from green to orange to bright red. After the assembly there was a sorting exercise that would occur. The green were placed in a basket to await their maturity; the orange ones sat in another basket to be ready for use in a few days. All the red ones would be for immediate preparation.
Back in the day we’d convene at my aunt’s house to fill the jars. We would wash the tomatoes, cut them half and clean out all the seed and then cut them into even smaller pieces. My aunt would occasionally flash steam some tomatoes so we could remove the peel. Some of my relatives had food issues so we had to cater to them and create a set of jars with no tomato skin.
When we had strainer upon strainer overflowing with tomatoes, the filling would begin. There was a very specific technique to pack the jars. We needed fresh basil and parsley on hand and sliced bell peppers to assist with the filling. Once we’d accumulated a certain amount of jars, we’d put lids and bands on the card and we’d boil the jars for a while. Voila a stash of summer lusciousness to have through the winter.
When my husband first saw this tradition, I’m sure he wanted to board a plane back to Mexico. Not only because we looked crazy (although that could have been a reason) but also because he didn’t really like whole tomatoes.
In the last couple of years, I’ve been assisting my parents in searching for good tomatoes as well as in filling the jars. This year my husband has been observing in preparation for our taking over the tradition in years to come. I think he’s beginning to see the joy of one’s efforts come to fruition in our year-round, fresh tomato sauce and in the blooming of our veggie garden. Tasting a fresh tomato while being stuck in a blizzard was quite a feat of nature; I enjoy seeing all the work that we do be available throughout the cold winter months.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Medicine Mom
Moms love to give advice; there’s no doubt about that. Sometimes it’s great advice and sometimes, you just have to laugh at what they say.
My mom means well when she gives me her advice but there are times where I just have to turn away and pretend that I didn’t hear what she said. With all my back problems this year, she told me that if I would just wear a girdle all my troubles would be over. Now as much as I’ve been looking into quick fixes to ease my pain, this one certainly never crossed my mind. The only girdle that could help me would be one that was heated and would give my back electrical stimulation. I haven’t seen any infomercials with those benefits yet! My mom is obsessed with girdles (cross reference blog entry Control Top for more on my mom with her girdles-- http://stratforduponangie.blogspot.com/2010/04/control-top.html). She thinks they can help me lose weight, grow a couple more inches, cure world hunger, etc. I’m not sure how something so constricting could be so helpful but my mom thinks the world of them.
Ocean water is another of my mom’s cure alls. She thinks that going into the ocean can cure cuts, bruises, sprains, repair broken bones, cures infertility, and shines silver as well. It’s the ginsu knife of panaceas. Who would have known?
I won’t deny that when I went to the Dead Sea I definitely experienced some healing of skin issues I’d been having. But that’s the Dead Sea; that is what it’s known for. But the oceans on the east coast with all the filthy detritus, why would I step into that to cure anything? Not to mention that if I were going to try to cure something, I’d probably be bitten by a shark. That’s just the kind of luck I have.
Thanks mom but I’ll have to pass yet again on your girdle cure and on the ocean salvation.
My mom means well when she gives me her advice but there are times where I just have to turn away and pretend that I didn’t hear what she said. With all my back problems this year, she told me that if I would just wear a girdle all my troubles would be over. Now as much as I’ve been looking into quick fixes to ease my pain, this one certainly never crossed my mind. The only girdle that could help me would be one that was heated and would give my back electrical stimulation. I haven’t seen any infomercials with those benefits yet! My mom is obsessed with girdles (cross reference blog entry Control Top for more on my mom with her girdles-- http://stratforduponangie.blogspot.com/2010/04/control-top.html). She thinks they can help me lose weight, grow a couple more inches, cure world hunger, etc. I’m not sure how something so constricting could be so helpful but my mom thinks the world of them.
Ocean water is another of my mom’s cure alls. She thinks that going into the ocean can cure cuts, bruises, sprains, repair broken bones, cures infertility, and shines silver as well. It’s the ginsu knife of panaceas. Who would have known?
I won’t deny that when I went to the Dead Sea I definitely experienced some healing of skin issues I’d been having. But that’s the Dead Sea; that is what it’s known for. But the oceans on the east coast with all the filthy detritus, why would I step into that to cure anything? Not to mention that if I were going to try to cure something, I’d probably be bitten by a shark. That’s just the kind of luck I have.
Thanks mom but I’ll have to pass yet again on your girdle cure and on the ocean salvation.
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