It's always NY

With all the travels I have been doing or have done, I still can't avoid feeling there is no place for me other than New York City. It gnaws at me. Every time I think I want to live somewhere else, I find there is no where else. I blend here. I find myself being who I want to be because I can be in NYC. Don't kid yourself, the city is not necessarily for just the young and beautiful. It is for all. It is for those who are young and beautiful who go to the best clubs and lounges (like Anthony & Christine), or for the NBA Store (like Thomas) or for those that want the culture, free Shakespeare in the Park, the latest costume exhibit at the Met or brunch and a French foreign film at the Film Forum (like me). For Tony, well it just has traffic but when he gets to a place that has a great brunch and a lot of interest, he is happy. Yesterday, July 4th, it had fireworks. Theeee fireworks - the Macy's fireworks on the Hudson. We were up on the roof top deck of my cousin's apartment overlooking the Hudson. My cousin, over 60, living in the city and blending. We have the city in common if nothing else. We have been to the free concerts in Central Park with the Philharmonic, plays that have included Patti Lupone in Evita and Richard Burton in Equus. It has always been our common denominator. I have her and she has me. We blend in the city. And on July 13th, we have the concert in the park with Tchaikovsky and fireworks to look forward to. And every year, we have the Macy's fireworks on July 4th.

Snow days

There is never a good reason to worry about getting stuck indoors when a nor'easter is heading your way for the second time in 1 month. After the first storm, you should know that running to the store to buy bread you will never use is fruitless. What you should be buying is the ingredients of a wonderful dinner to make easily, giving you time to do something during the day like putting your photo album in order. The best part, all the family is with you at dinner (a rare thing with adult children living at home). I don't know about you, but I can always grab the attention of anyone with a good meal. snow day meals are a bit special in that everyone seems relaxed in knowing they cannot go anywhere, do not need to go anywhere and find something simple to do, like eating. The snow dinner consists of:

• Spinach salad with sauted mushrooms, cucumbers, red onion and roasted beets
• Roast leg of lamb with special Armenian marinade
• Roasted sweet potatoes
• Lemon risotto

Spinach salad (a recipe I got from my cousin's restaurant in Armenia):

• Bag of baby spinach (buy the pre-washed stuff)
• Bunch of beets (do not discard the leaves as they are going into the salad)
• Portabella mushrooms (again, buy pre-sliced but rinse them)
• 1 cucumber, peeled and sliced
• 1 red onion, sliced thin

Cut & wash the beet tops Mix with the spinach Boil the beets, until the skins come off easily. Add to the salad Saute the mushrooms in butter for about 4 minutes (add water to avoid burning if necessary). Drain most of the mushroom's liquid, then add to the salad. Dressing (the most important part) 1/3 cup olive oil 1/4 cup lemon juice 1 large clove garlic, crushed (I eyeball salt and the pepper) about 1/2 tsp salt about 1/4 tsp pepper Mix well and add to the salad just before serving. Using lemon instead of vinegar makes all the difference. Lamb Roast: About 4 lbs leg of lamb, de-boned. Have the butcher roll and tie it. Marinade for about 5 hours: 1/2 cup olive oil 1 TBS ground coriander 1/2 TBS paprika 1 tsp salt 1/2 tsp pepper (Note: do not add any citrus like wine or lemon) Set oven to 425 degrees. Put lamb in for 25 minutes uncovered Lower oven temperature to 300 degrees and cook until meat thermometer registers 155 degrees (about 2 hours in total). Let meat rest for about 15 minutes and carve. Risotto: 1 onion, chopped 1 cup risotto 1/2 cup white wine about 2 - 3 cups chicken broth 1 1/2 lemon juice 1/3 cup grated romano cheese Saute 1 chopped onion in some olive oil add 1 cup risotto, mix Add chicken broth 1 ladle at a time until risotto is not hard add lemon juice finish with grated cheese. Let rest about 10 minutes serve The end result is a happy me with a happy family, full of good food: Lovely

Me and Julia

I am a very good cook - maybe a very, very good cook. I enjoy it and love having people over to cook for. I usually prefer up to 6 people at a time as it is easier to manage a recipe for that many people although I have been known to make meals for 20 that haven't turned out too badly either. The larger parties usually mean a less complicated and less expensive menu that consists of pasta and a roast of some kind. On the shelf alongside my favorite cookbooks, I have a 3-ring black binder with recipes I collect from magazines, newspapers and from people who's meals I have enjoyed and are willing to share the formula of their creation. Having said that, I cannot remember if I have ever followed a recipe where I did not alter it to accommodate the likes or dislike of an ingredient, suit my taste more or use up something that has been in the fridge too long. With much anticipation, this weekend, I saw the movie Julie and Julia. The movie was okay - Meryl was great as was her character. I found the Amy Adams role a little dull. Seeing the movie however, spark my interest to pull out my 1971 copy of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" and cook one of the recipes. So I spent most of Saturday shopping for and cooking boeuf bourguignon (page 315). The results were excellent - even if I do say so myself, but not without alteration. The recipe calls for 3 cups of very good red wine and 2 - 3 cups beef stock. a) that is too much liquid as only 3 total cups is needed to cover the meat. b) unless you make the beef stock yourself, the store bought version is either salty or tasteless (low sodium version). c) 3 cups of red wine adds a sharp taste to the sauce that can be unpleasant. 2 cups is enough. d) my frugal personality cannot pour over 1/2 a bottle of good wine into a sauce when I could be pouring it down my throat. Other adjustments included using pancetta as I had a piece in my freezer and I couldn't find a slab of bacon in my hopelessly white-breadish Stop & Shop. The same for not using thyme as I wanted fresh and it was nowhere to be found. As usual, I blame my mother for causing this inability to not follow recipes in its strictest detail. She never owned a measuring spoon, never measured a thing, and used regular cups (not measuring cups) to determine the right amount of flour. Recipes for Armenian foods are not easy to come by, so if I wanted to learn how to cook these foods, I had to sit in front of her taking out what she put into the bowl to measure it and then write it down. She so hated my doing that as it interrupted her thought process. Consequently, it was not quality mother/daughter time. I have found that there are cookbooks meant to cook and others meant to teach. Julia's cookbook is meant to teach you how to cook as stated in her forward which goes, "Our primary purpose in this book is to teach you how to cook, so that you will understand the fundamental techniques and gradually be able to divorce yourself from a dependence on recipes" To summarize, spend quality time with your mother by buying the cookbook and then get a divorce.

California

It is finally here. The vacation I have planned since February starts tomorrow. Tony and I are going to California. The itinerary is to start in Solvang (the land of the movie Sideways), drive up the coast to Sonoma and end in San Francisco. Tony will be going to the Laguna Seca motorcycle race on Sunday. I, luckily, have a cousin who lives in San Francisco who will enjoy keeping company with Tony at the race while I am tooling around town with his lovely wife. I have never been to the west coast except for business and that wasn't much fun. Tony hasn't at all. The kids, oh yeah, they will be home alone. Honestly, it doesn't worry me that they are home. It worries me more that both my husband and I are traveling together. A feeling of danger came over me this week. My organizational skills kicked in. I'm flying to the land of fires, mudslides and earthquakes. What if I don't come back. I quickly pulled out my will. OMG, it hasn't been updated since 1997 when Anthony was 11! This will not do. Even if I am not around, I can't be leaving this planet without a plan. I know this is morbid but I am a realist and need to have things in order. I called the lawyer and asked to have the will updated before Tuesday. He said not to worry, most deaths occur within five miles from one's home. Very comforting, very lawyerlike. I typed up a While We Are Away sheet of things the kids should know about the house (empty dehumidifier every day, when the garbage is collected, where the electric panel is and what it does, who to contact for what). I have an emergency contact sheet that is hung up on the cork board in the laundry room. It once included the phone numbers of the nearest relatives, schools and doctors. It now includes my lawyer, accountant and financial adviser. I'm hoping they won't have to use it but just in case they should know I was thinking about them. I would have loved to have taken them along but schedules between 3 kids and 2 adults gets impossible to coordinate. Last year, I planned a week in Newport thinking the kids would join us. They didn't. It's okay, I get it now. I'm thinking they wouldn't want to go to the places in CA that we would be going to anyway (maybe). I'm packing tonight. My husband always tells me I overpack. Well what do you expect when I read that the temperature is 88 degrees during the day and 55 at night. The Mark Twain expression "the coldest winter I ever spent was the summer in San Francisco" keeps popping into my head. I like to be prepared clothingwise for anything. Doesn't everyone take 6 pairs of shoes? When we come back, we will have some new pictures, some good wine and hopefully, we will all be safe. We're California Dreaming, on such a summer's day.

Woodstock 2008

I've always been a little embarrassed about my going to Woodstock in 69. When I tell people I was there, everyone wants to hear my story. Unfortunately, it really isn't a story worth telling except for the fact that I somehow got there, saw a handful of acts and came home. That alone though makes me bigger than a rock star to my kids and their friends. This weekend I went to Woodstock - the site of the actual concert in Bethel Woods. It has been almost 40 years and being it was covered with half a million people and I was dodging rain a lot, I remembered little of the actual topography of the farm . I was nowhere near the stage and spent most of the time hanging out with people I had met, keeping dry. (See my post from August 17, 2007). But I wanted to go to Woodstock and see the site and new museum. I bought tickets for the Ringo Starr concert that was to take place this past Saturday. In 69, I was in a VW bus with 3 girls and the guy driver. This time, I’m with our two good friends who own a beach front home in Newport and my husband in our E-Class Mercedes. :-). The concert, although I looked forward to it, was secondary. It was the site and museum that was the draw for me. As we exited off the highway, a neon sign revealed that the concert was canceled. The truck carrying the equipment broke down at the Canadian border - they said. Well okay now. Sometimes life works out. The museum was very well done. It took you through the early 60s leading up to the Woodstock weekend with memorabilia and photos of the festival, and then progressed to how the festival influenced life afterwards. The artifacts included the 3-day tickets, like the ones I still have, with their price of $6 per day. There was a copy of the programs that never got distributed. There was a list of the original line up that changed last minute when the first act got stuck in traffic forcing Richie Havens to open the festival. Towards the end of the museum, a little booth with a computer was set up to allow Woodstock alumni to relate their experience. I clicked on a couple of the stories and found I wasn’t the only one who didn’t see many of the acts, swim naked in the lake or get stoned on acid. There were others, just like me, who were there with people, they may never see again, at what turned out to be an experience of a lifetime. Aside from the great, overpriced T-shirt I bought in the gift shop (click on the picture above to get a good look at it), I left with a renewed feeling that I really was lucky to have been part of something good that embodied my generation and will never happen again. When we left, we went to the spot where a monument was placed where the stage was to have been. A woman offered to take the picture of the four of us in front of the plaque. She said she overheard us talking and realized I was at the concert. She wanted to hear my story. So I told her, although I didn't know it then, I know now, it was far out!

The Jersey Shawh

It's not spelled incorrectly. That is how it is referred to here, The Jersey Shawh, not shore - shawh We drop our Rs here in Jersey (or as they say, Jeasey). So it is the first weekend of summer and a considerable number of the population is down the shawh, uh shore. Each of the Jersey shore towns are distinct to different age groups. Its a shoreline that almost follows the generations in order. Starting with the most southern tip you have Cape May known for its Victorian B&Bs and good restaurants which attract childless couples, seniors and families with children between 10 and 16 years of age. Just north is Wildwood and Wildwood Crest where families with very young kids go. Then there is LBI (Long Beach Island) for families with teenagers. Then comes the towns furthest north of Cape May, Belmar and Point Pleasant. Belmar and Point Pleasant cater to the college age and above crowd. Now it starts to get rowdy with Tiki Bars and clubs. Finally, there is Seaside - the party town for high school seniors and juniors particularly after-prom or on Memorial Day weekend. In recalling the first time I got together with a group of girls to go to Seaside on Memorial Day weekend I was excited for a week before. It was like getting your first pair of high heels and finding a place worthy of wearing them. We rented some junky motel room which was fashionable decorated in a orange and brown shag rug. We had a plan to go to thee hot club on the boardwalk - with fake ID of course. Mine was so terribly fake, I didn't get in. But the night wasn't a total loss. I stood outside the club with all the other under 21s who didn't get in and found consolation on the beach - with a bottle of some horrible, cheap wine. Of course, I got so drunk, my night ended with me staring at the ceiling of my hotel room bed, hoping the room would stop spinning. Typical ending. Even now, writing about it makes my head hurt. So here it is 30 years later, and all the shore towns are the same as they were then. I wonder how that happens. Seaside has not lost its draw. It is still the place to be as a teen and on Memorial Day weekend. That crummy hotel is probably still there (and probably with the same shag rug) and booked to capacity with kids drinking their cheap wine or maybe now, expensive Cuervo but still getting sick off the balcony. This Memorial Day, I am sitting home. For those of you who didn't know, my poor husband came down with phenomena last week and after 4 days in the hospital and, oh the worse, missing his son's Fordham graduation, he is home recuperating. Luckily, he is practically as good as new. Also luckily, my kids are not down the shore. The older ones have been there, done that. Thomas, well next year he will be a senior and there will be after-prom. Let's hope he keeps his head from spinning.

My Rocky Mountain High

As a child, I was pathetically un-athletic. Couldn’t ride a bike and never learned to swim. I blamed these shortcomings on my over-protective parents. Having come from foreign countries where they survived wars and genocide, they were convinced that any physical activity outside of cleaning the house would have lead to my death. Then I had kids and I was insistent that they do all the things I couldn’t. They were enrolled in swim classes and learned to ride a bike like normal children. On their own, they even went on to enjoying the winter sports like ice skating, hockey, snowboarding and skiing. Every winter we would head up to Mountain Creek where they would ski for hours and I would sit in the lodge contently reading a book. Until one day. I think kids keep you young. You show them your world and they open yours to what’s new, trendy and different. So it was because of them I was at the mountain every weekend. But it was my husband who decided we needed to get out there and try skiing. So it happened seven years ago I took my first lesson. The instructor felt I should get on the chair lift as so I did. After my first fall, I said oh no and proceeded to walked down the slope. If you think skiing is hard, try walking down the bunny slope. You would think I would have gone back to the lodge and the book but, for some reason, I couldn’t give it up. I have this thing you see. I do something and if I don't get it right, I do it till I do - to a fault (ask Tony about my countless attempts to make chili which I finally gave up at his insistence and one too many bathroom trips). Anyway, I was determined to get this skiing thing down. So after two years on the bunny slope, it started to grow on me. It wasn’t just the skiing; it was the mountain scenery, the feeling of doing something during the winter months and learning a sport that I enjoyed. I went to the mountain to practice during the week. And after a few years, I was even comfortable on some blue trails. But seven years later, my kids had gotten away from it and Tony has moved on to another risky sport (motorcycling). I only skied once this winter and alone. Then at the end of February, one of my closest friends, Chris who now lives in Houston, called me up, feeling she wanted to get away and suggested a long weekend together. I immediately responded that I wanted to go skiing somewhere. I wanted to experience real snow, wide trails and towns geared for the skiers . I am talking to Chris, a girl who grew up in Canada, skiing. Within 24 hours, we booked a flight to Calgary with hotels in the Canadian Rockies. I have to say my excitement was also tempered with the thought that I might be in over my head. For a girl who had never skied outside of New York or New Jersey and was over 50, was I taking on more than I should? But I had to do this. I wanted to do this. So I did it. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did. It was the most awesome experience I have ever had. We skiing only one day but one perfect day.We stayed at the Sunshine Lodge at the base of the mountain where it is ski in/ski out to five chairlifts going to different mountains. After getting warmed up on two of the mountains, we felt we could move on to a bigger elevation. (Check out the trail map.)We got on the Angel Express chair lift. It started up and up and kept going and kept going and still going. We looked at each other and said “OMG, what have we done”. I was thinking, I probably wouldn't be able to walk down this mountain but maybe I could just stay on the chair lift and go back down. But I didn't. When we finally arrived at the summit, Chris asked a man who was with his family where the green trail was. He had a smart English accent and told us to follow him. He advised if you don’t know where you are going, you could wind up on a black trail. So we followed him every inch of the way. He told me what to do and I did it. I skied fast to keep up the momentum and dug in to keep my balance, just like he told me. When I reached the base it was with an exhilaration I have never felt before. We broke for lunch at the lodge where I had the best chili ever (so that's what it is supposed to taste like). I was in one piece, no injuries and my spirits were as high as the mountain. I thanked my Liverpool guide and his family for giving me the guidance I needed to get me down the mountain and decided I was done – at least for now. Chris and I, joined by two other girls (we were girls this weekend) spent the rest of the weekend in the town of Banff. It is full of skiers mostly from Australia and England who come to ski – lovely. We stayed here and ate a delicious meal here and a great brunch here and woke up to views like this all around us. The Main Street of Banff Lake Louise The water is that color - no touch up here. The girls of the weekend. Aren't my boots the best! I now know how my husband feels when he takes his motorcycle trips. Beautiful country, a little risky and you end the day with a nice glass of wine. I tip my glass to Chris, my Liverpool guide and my husband and kids for making me get out there. I finally can say, I can do one sport. One for my bucket list.

Storage solutions

It was warm this President's Day. The temperature broke 58 degrees. We promised ourselves that the first warm weekend day we would clean the garage. It starts out very civil-like "do you think we will ever need these bikes again, dear" or "how do we get rid of the plastic Santa Claus, my love". As the day goes on, we resort to "for god's sake, what ever will you do with this stuff. You don't throw anything away". That is my love to me. I'm not nostalgic - really I'm not. It's the Armenian in me that simply can't throw out good stuff that just needs a new home or that we may one day still use or that my grandkids will use. And I have good stuff. I mean the mountain bikes were bought from a bicycle store for $350 each and one day when my kids need the exercise, they will want that bike. The hockey net bought when Anthony was fanatically into roller and ice hockey is worthy of some kid who plays roller hockey in the driveway or ice hockey on the lake and whose mother has a mini-van big enough to cart it around in as I did. The plastic Santa Claus and 2 toy soldiers - how do you throw those out. Do you put them out with the garbage and watch them be thrown head in into the dump truck. Good grief that's Santa Claus! Then there are my ice skates. I can't throw out my ice skates or anyone else's. Ice skating was the first sport I did ever and besides, we might want to go to Wollman Rink one day. The roller blades, I learned to roller blade in my 40s after learning to ice skate and downhill ski. All this stuff is still in good condition. And the skis - no way are they going! I think part of the reason I can't part with this stuff is that it reminds me that I'm not afraid of it. I was never athletic as a child, teenager or young adult. Somewhere in my late 30s and 40s, I started to roller blade, ice skate and ski. All of this was a direct influence from my kids. Anthony started to do most of this stuff first. It caught my interest so I dragged the kids to the ski slope and we started to ski, then ice skate, then roller blade. So while the kids picked up on the sport within a week, it took me 3 years on the bunny hill before I ventured out to the green and blue hills. But hey, I loved being out there and who cares how long it took to be good. Unfortunately, that age thing gets in the way. I'm more afraid of breaking a bone than I use to. The lake doesn't freeze as often as it use to so I don't ice skate that often. Every time I go skiing, I feel a sense of satisfaction knowing I finished the day and am still in one piece. Now don't try and tell me I am as young as I feel. I do feel great. But I'm not as flexible as I use to be. So if there such a thing as a personal storage trainer this person will look at my garage and know that I will never go to Wollman rink or put on those roller blades and by the time the kids want to ride bikes again, those bikes will be outdated. This week, I called a friend and donated the hockey net to her son who plays ice hockey. I will keep my skis and skates. I don't care if I never use them. I want them. Between the 3 motorcycles, 2 cars, a snowblower and lawn mower I should be able to fit this in because it keeps me young.

What Inning Are We In?

Ah, the Super Bowl. To me, it has always been a reason to have a party.We decorated the house in Giant's colors. I made the traditional Sunday sauce with meatballs, sausages and chicken cutlets and enjoyed the company of our friends to cheer the local team. It was a great game; four hours and I didn't understand one thing that went on in the game - again. I admit it. I am football challenged. I can't tell you how many times people have tried to explain the game of football to me; my husband, his niece, my son, various friends. It all makes sense when I am at the game. I walk away, and one week later, I'm at square one. I am hopelessly unable to get what a down is, why it is a good thing and know when it happens. Trying desperately not to make a jerk of myself, I scream with joy when others do hoping my cover up will not be discovered. My husband says I am like Hot Lips Houlihan in the movie version of MASH. Towards the end of the move, the MASH unit plays a football game against another MASH unit. Hot Lips is the head cheerleader. A gun is shot and she cries "Oh no, they shot someone". Colonel Blake replies, "That marks the end of the first quarter, you blithering idiot". I am the blithering idiot. Fine - I accept the role of the blithering idiot for the sake of comic relief. Now, I am on a mission. I have until my son's football season which starts in August, to figure this game out. I am making a plea to those of you who can educate me on this sport. If anyone is willing to comment with a written set of rules of the game of football (abridged version please), I will use it as a cheat sheet at my son's next game. I may even throw in a prize of a Sunday sauce dinner. In the meantime, I will be in the kitchen making the sauce. Good Going Giants!!

Skating Away

The winter can be brutal and unpredictable. It comes with freezing cold winds or snow that is only welcome when you are home safe and warm and not trying to get somewhere. But sometimes, amongst the bitter cold, you get a treat. It happened this week. The temperature was consistently around 20 degrees every day. I knew it would happen and it did. The lake froze to a perfectly smooth surface and it was ice skating time. I didn't have to go, I knew it was frozen. I recalled those times and wondered if the kids remember any of those days as fondly as I do now. The freezing of the lake for ice skating is like a lunar eclipse - a feat of nature. It doesn't happen every year but when it does, it is the best time winter can offer. Skating on perfect, clear ice without the restriction of going round and round as in a rink, well, there is nothing like it. I think it was my son Anthony who got us interested in skating. The year he was 8 years old, we all got ice skates for Christmas - including me. Me, who was and still is athletically challenged, can't ride a bike or swim, and hates to be cold. So in my 40s, I decide to ice skate. I think something hit me while watching the winter Olympics one year and Oksana Baiul. It just looked so graceful to be sliding on ice. Anthony went on to play ice hockey for the high school team for 4 years. Last year, I took a group of kids to the ice rink in Bear Mountain. Thomas skated rings around the other kids. I also got on skates - very wobbly at first but then I got the beat and skated away. It was good, but not as great as the lake. My skating is intimidated by my fear of falling. I am older and feel if I fall, my recovery will be too long to stand. I now watch with envy and remember. This Saturday, Anthony went out around 4 pm. A few minutes later, he called. "Hey mom", he said, "Guess what, the lake is frozen over and there are people out there skating. I'm thinking I'm going skating tomorrow". He had such enthusiasm in his voice. It was great. I think it would be safer if I lived a little through his enjoyment.

The 30 Minute Meal

It's Friday night. I call my kids and ask if they will be home for dinner. Anthony and Thomas say "yeah, sure". Christine says, "don't worry about me" (only to later come walking in the door hungry). I plan dinner for 4. Shop for about $60 worth of some special meat or fish, expecting to make something like broiled stuffed trout with broccoli rabe or fillet mignon with sauted spinach and roasted potatoes. I pick a wine for Tony and I and go home only to find out that I have 30 minutes to get the food on the table. The kids made plans to go out with friends, to a game, or whatever and are leaving at 6. It is now 5 and I know, if they do not eat at home tonight, like Cinderella, this beautiful, wine-worthy dinner turns into the leftovers which will shrivel up and die an old, slow, unappealing death in the refrigerator. So with determination and a focused look on my face that is translated to "get out of my way, I'm on a mission", I am now rushing around to serve a gourmet meal in half the time. Rachael Ray has become famous for her meals in 30 minutes. Well, I could turn chopped meat around in half an hour too, but I reach higher. It's my fault for two reasons:

1. I haven't learned to stop making things from scratch. I've never bought bottled salad dressing and sauce in the jar just tastes all the same to me - overly tomatoey.
2. I still cook as if all 5 of us are together at dinner, even though most nights, we are not. I still shop at Costco at least twice a month. I always think I should have more food just in case one of the kids invites a friend over for dinner. Truthfully, that hasn't happened since high school.

Old habits die hard. This Friday, I will plan a dinner with my husband, buy a nice bottle of wine and forget about the kids. Yeah right. I will probably do the same thing I always do and hope they will be there to eat.

Columbus Day Weekend

It was Columbus Day weekend when the fall colors are usually at their peak. In previous years, Tony and I would try and use that weekend as our fall getaway. When the kids were little, I would ship them off to my mom’s. This mini-vacation relieved us for a short time from parenthood while it was a few days relief from parents for the kids. My mother, brother and his wife would treat the kids to everything that their ever-trying-to-be-the-perfect-mom did not do for them. Their weekend would include a visit to McDonald, as much TV as they wanted, and a trip to the toy store where they would come home with some noneducational toy. I think we all made out.

Typically, Tony and I would go to some B&B either in the Berkshires or upstate NY. This Columbus Day weekend, given we had just went away and could only do a day trip, we decided to drive up to Dutchess County NY. I had heard about a winery up in Millbrook where there were great photo opportunities and good wine. So with camera in hand, and the top down on the Miata, we left home.

I can say the reports were accurate. The winery was very picturesque and the wine was surprisingly good. We attended a tasting where we picked up a couple of bottles each of a white Chardonnay and a red table wine, both under the winery's label for under $20/bottle and delicious. If the Miata didn’t have such a little trunk, I would have purchased a case but, little did I know, that little trunk would be the reason our day’s plans took a nose dive. After leaving Millbrook, we headed on Route 301 to Cold Spring. Shortly after getting off the Taconic, Tony, of course, picked up the vibration while I was still contently looking at the countryside. Before I knew it, we were pulled over on this two lane country road with nothing but trees as a landmark, and a large hole in the left rear tire. Oh yes, that little trunk, that did not have room for a case of wine, it did not have room for a spare either. We tried fixing the hole with tire repair fluid which leaked out as fast as it was pumped in.

Trying to be calm, I called AAA getting an operator who didn't want to be bothered. I gave her my coordinates but she kept asking me for an intersection. I should have told her we were between Maple and Elm. Then, of course, I got disconnected. We then called Mazda roadside assistance who first said courteously they would help only to called back five minutes later to say we were on a restricted road (??) and to call 911. I later found out that most auto company use AAA as their roadside assistance centers. Figures. Our lovely day was quickly melting. If I had a corkscrew, Tony and I would have had a better time.

So I now I feel that if I don’t get out of here alive, I am going down bestowing a verbal tirade on some deserving AAA person. I called AAA back three times before I got someone who didn't hang up on me and actually knew how to read a map. He found the road we were on and dispatched a tow truck.

In response to the 911 call, the local police came and so did Casey’s Towing for AAA. We headed back home in the cab of Casey’s tow where we made conversation by complementing his truck. Never mind that the cab was air conditioned by a small fan powered by the cigarette lighter. An hour and a half later, cranky, tired and eating hot dogs for dinner, we were home.

I'm determined to try again to see the fall colors, so this weekend, we are going up to Vernon, NJ. Its only 40 minutes from home and this time, I'm taking the Jeep and a corkscrew. I'll let you know.

Weekend in Rhode Island and the French chef

As I mentioned before, I love this time of year and can't get enough of the fall festivals. This past weekend, Tony and I went to Newport, RI where they were having a Wine and Food Festival. So with the weather being predicted as perfect and good friends who welcomed us in their Newport home, we were set to do nothing but eat and drink wine all weekend - nice idea if you ask me. On Friday night, we attended a dinner at one of those elegant mansions in Newport, the Rosecliff. I have to say, I'm a sucker for a good night out in a elegant mansion reminiscent of the Gatsby era. I act like I do this all the time. The setting was beautiful particularly in the back of the house where 2 Bentleys were parking in front of the water's edge with a moon whose light spotlighted the cars as if they were sculptures of art. It wasn't until the end of the night that I realized the famous French chef, Jacques Pepin was there signing autographs of his books. Being an avid but amateur cook, I was excited to meet this great artist of food. By the time I arrived at the table, a woman behind the counter said he had finished autographing books for the evening. As he got up to walk away he started to walk towards me. I asked him if he would sign my book. "Of course", he said in that wonderful French accent and asked me my name. I felt like a teenage girl in a new school where the most popular football player asked me to dance. He proceeded to sign the book I selected which was his autobiographical, "The Apprentice: My Life In The Kitchen". I am reading his book which starts with his early beginnings in the outskirts of Lyons, the capital of the French cuisine. His father is a member of the French underground and his mother bicycled to markets to buy the best foods every week. If I was alive then, I would probably have done the same. He was 10 when he stated he wanted to be a chef. It wasn't until the next day that I looked at the inscription in my book. He wrote, "To Virgine, Cook with Love, Jacques Pepin. I think I love cooking even more.