IslandRoar

Trusting My Gut

I was supposed to go to New York City the weekend before last, to visit my 22-year old son.

We had tickets to the Tim Burton Exhibit at MOMA (Museum of Modern Art), and First-Born Son had decided weeks ago where we absolutely had to go to dinner.

But then came the weather report. You guessed it: more snow. At least 16 inches were predicted for Manhattan.

I got all kinds of advice. Fly; drive to Connecticut and take the train; cancel the trip.

I've spent my whole life in the Northeast, so driving in snow rarely fazes me. I'd even driven to Manhattan in a raging blizzard once before (not on purpose; it involved Broadway tickets, last minute changes in the weather report that somehow got overlooked...don't ask).

That trip took eight hours and exposed every last raw nerve in my body. Nothing could ever be that bad again; of that I was certain.

I'd just read Vodkamom's post about listening to your instincts, trusting your gut. So I drowned out everyone's words and concentrated on what I really thought was the right thing to do.

And I went.

The road was somewhat crazy weather-wise. Rain, snow, sun-showers, sun-flurries. It changed every 20 miles at least.

Crazy weather, yes. But unsafe? No.

I rolled into Manhattan in just under four-and-a-half hours. Record time.

It was still snowing. Huge piles created by plows. Slush and ice everywhere. Central Park got almost twenty inches before it was over. For once I was happy to be behind the wheel of my gas-guzzling environmental monster of a truck.

But I got to see First-Born Son and meet the new GF. Tall, smart, lovely. The three of us walked all around Times Square in the snow Friday night before dinner.

First-Born Son and I hit MOMA on Saturday. Saw the loveliest little snow-person sculpted jauntily in the middle of Park Avenue. We shopped uptown and down.

He watched in triumph as I chowed down on sliders and a tall Guinness shake in his restaurant of choice on St. Mark's. Not exactly the menu I might have chosen, but delicious nonetheless. Even the Guinness shake. Especially the Guinness shake.

I wouldn't have believed it myself, but, like everything else about the weekend, I'm counting the days till I can try it again.

What chances have you taken lately? Or, what have you done that you weren't sure you should, and then were so glad you did?

 

Let It Snow...

Like many places, it's been a snowy winter for Martha's Vineyard. Curiously enough however, we've not had any snow days from school. Quick, knock on wood before I jinx it!

Most of our snow has miraculously fallen on weekends, and our last blizzard was deftly maneuvered by an early dismissal one day, followed by a late opening the next.

Not that I don't enjoy a good snow day, so long as they don't pile up (the way I know they have for many of you this winter), or cause us to stay in school till July.

Recently, when Daughter #2's high school was dismissed at 11, the snow was falling thick and fast. We hunkered down with some Ben & Jerry's, purchased purposefully the day before along with the milk and bread, in anticipation of the storm.

Daughter #2 rejected my pitiful offerings from Netflix, so we indulged ourselves by watching (500) Days Of Summer on pay per view. 

Then she fell asleep on one end of my beautiful and comfy new couch, while I blogged from the other, our feet overlapping in the middle under the quilts, the wind whipping the flakes sideways as they fell in the yard.

It was a far cry from the snow days of yesteryear, when my kids piled outside to go sledding and build snowmen, working their way through multiple pairs of mittens, and not returning until their faces were numb and the hot chocolate was on the table. With marshmallows.

And, while those days were fun, I couldn't help but think, as I snuggled on the couch with 15 year-old Daughter #2, that this was pretty darned nice too.

What are snow days like in your neck of the woods?

 

A Bag By Any Other Name

I grew up calling my handbag a pocketbook. This is what my mother called it. And her mother...

Purse or bag might be the trendy terms for this today, but in our house, a bag came from the grocery store, and a purse was something you put change in. Women carried pocketbooks.

My daughters have apparently inherited the term, and for this they give me major grief.

"Do you know how weird it is to call it a pocketbook!" they say accusingly. "People laugh at us. They think we're old ladies."

"Just tell them you're unique," I advise.

I know they're right. And I'm trying to amend my ways, so that the words bag or purse will flow easily and elegantly from my mouth.

But old family habits die hard.

We grew up not eating fish unless we were at home. Family Mythology held that my mother's father, who'd died when my mom was only 13, had eaten fish from a restaurant and died that same night from food poisoning.

One of my mother's little brothers grew up to be a doctor, and he now disputes the accuracy of this, but he was merely six years old at the time, so what does he know?

All I can tell you is we were raised that to order fish in a restaurant was akin to drinking year-old milk, or swimming with your boots on; it just wasn't done.

Naturally I thought the entire world was in on this secret.

So imagine my shock and horror when, one week into college, my roommate told the cafeteria lady she'd take the fish.

"But they made that here," I insisted, tempted to fling it from her tray. "You can't eat that."

"Why not?" She stared at me like I was insane.

"Because it might kill you." For the first time, as I said the words out loud, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.

I watched her eat the fish. And live.

I might not have eaten it that night. Or for many nights to come. But I live on Martha's Vineyard, for goodness sakes. Of course I eat fish.

Now, if I could just keep reminding myself there is no such thing as a pocketbook, I might actually be getting somewhere.

How about you? Are there any old family legacies in your life better left behind?

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Baking

When the kids were little I wanted to pass on the tradition of making Christmas cookies. They loved mixing the ingredients and decorating with colored sprinkles.

Neighbors gifted us with their holiday treats and we'd pack up some of our cookies to return the favor.

Over the years I tried new recipes. If they were a success we added them to the list of regulars. I gave cookies to neighbors and friends, people at work, the UPS man and the guy at the post office. I boxed them up and sent them to relatives.

Somewhere along the line I became a machine. A possessed, compulsive, cookie-making machine.

There are at least 10 types of cookies that must be baked to avoid loud squeals of dismay from the three adult-sized children in my life. Not including the buttermilk brownies, ginger muffins, cream cheese brownie bites, and chocolate cream pie.

I enjoy all this baking. Really. I do. And my kids are aware that, if they want to partake of their favorites, they need to pitch in with the process. Daughter #2 is a champion whipping up dough. Daughter #1 is a decorating queen. First-Born Son, these days, is mainly a taste-tester. Sexist, I know.

This year I am trying to restrain myself. A little. Maybe I don't need to populate the entire world with cookies. Maybe a few close friends and family are enough.

It's so easy to take a good thing and turn it into a weapon of self-torture. But with age has come wisdom.

If my cookie making starts to drive me a little crazy, that's kind of defeating the whole purpose, right?

My family and friends deserve to enjoy not just my baking this holiday season, but a merry, more relaxed me. Wouldn't you agree?

For more Spins on Holiday Baking that may actually include some recipes go visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Recipes

Do you have any secret recipes, ones you refuse to share with anyone? Or maybe you share the recipe, but you leave out the fact that you add a certain extra ingredient or double another?

My ex-mother-in-law makes, hands down, the World's Best Potato Salad. Years ago my Ex managed to pry the recipe from her, but it wasn't easy. He had to watch her several times, pen and paper in  hand, because she basically claimed it only existed in her head.

And he now makes the World's 2nd Best Potato Salad. Hands down. But, you know, there's something missing. We remain convinced his mother's batches contain a pinch of something she may never share.

Daughter #2 read in some cookbook years ago that one should always double the amount of vanilla called for in a recipe. While I'd always been generous with the vanilla, I'd never gone that far. But we started doing it and it works, nearly every time.

Speaking of vanilla, I have a French Toast recipe with one secret ingredient. My kids love my French toast, especially if it's made with Portuguese sweet bread, very big on the Vineyard as are all things Portuguese. I have yet to share the complete recipe with anyone.

"That's so stupid, " Daughter #1 tells me not infrequently. "What if you die and we never know how to make it?"

Valid point. I'm this close to telling her. Maybe next time.

But then, alas, I will have no secrets left.

 

Realizing I may have cheated a little by not posting an actual recipe, I suggest you head quickly over to Sprite's Keeper for some legitimate Recipe Spins.

 

Suburban Bliss

 

I got back late from my weekend, and I'm still gathering my thoughts about my 30th high school reunion. So I'm running a post today I already had prepared. I promise I'll have a couple of posts about my weekend later this week. But since I was in New Jersey these past few days, this post seems pretty appropriate.

That Sweet Sound

I've mentioned before that one thing I really miss, living on an island, are trains. But something I know my kids felt the lack of right away after we moved here years ago, was the ice cream truck.

They were born and bred suburban kids from New Jersey. The sound of the ice cream truck was a quintessential part of their summer, as it had been part of my childhood summers years before.

When First-Born Son or Daughter #1 heard the organ-grinding, jack-in-the-box-like music somewhere in the neighborhood, their eyes would light up and lock with mine.

"Please? Can we?"

If I said yes, they would take off at top speed, racing toward the sound to catch the truck before it left the neighborhood (I say F-B Son and D#1 only because D#2 was too young when we lived in NJ, and therefore not allowed to cross the street).

I'd grab my purse, take D#2 by the hand, and meet them out on the street, where hopefully, they or some other opportunistic kid from the block, had managed to flag down the "ice-cream-man (or woman, as the case might be)."

At the NJ pool we belonged to, the ice cream truck came by every hour on the hour, blasting his music and taking one lap through the parking lot so we'd all know he was there. The ices had to be eaten outside the fence, and everyone who was going to indulge grabbed their towel and slipped on their flip-flops, or else paid for it by burning the soles of their feet as they picked their way across the searing parking lot black-top to reach the truck.

Throughout the many years my son played baseball for the town youth league, the only way to entice my daughters to sit through those long games, was the promise that, sooner or later, the ice cream truck would arrive. And we'd huddle in the bleachers, bundled in sweatshirts, spooning Italian ices past our shivering lips as we cheered.

There are some amazing ice cream parlors here on the Vineyard, but alas, no ice cream trucks. So, if you hear one pass through your neighborhood today, flag it down, buy an ice cream, and think of us as you enjoy it.

Sure, we can get in the car and go out for ice cream, or we can buy it and keep it in the freezer. But I'm sure you know exactly what I mean when I say, somehow, it's just not the same.