Summer on 9th South meant tuna sandwiches at the table with Grandma and Grandpa. (They like to call it supper instead of dinner). It meant a new pair of summer shorts fashioned by Grandma from phone call to finished product in 30 minutes, tops. Any fabric in her collection was ours for the taking. The sewing room doubled as a guest room, the door of which was plastered with stickers by Uncle Roger and David; a collection of their high school and college years. Their old bunk beds served as stern and bow for numerous voyages out to sea, Marshall, Libby, Winton and I taking turns at the helm.
Summer meant time with cousins from all across the country; Grettle's van parked under the tree by the patch of strawberries on the east side of the house where snails slid across the cement, hoping for an outing on the grass. It meant slumber parties with Anna and Meka in the spare bedroom upstairs where Mom and Karen used to sleep. They shared everything from late night gossip to jewelry to Mom's Frye boots, even if Karen didn't ask permission. Summer meant time in the garden with Grandpa, pulling up carrots and snacking on sugar peas. It meant Sunday dinners on the deck with the whole family and ice cream cones on the green benches where we liked to dangle our bare feet above the front porch. It meant piggy back rides to the park and under dogs on the swings. It meant popsicles from the big white freezer in the family room full of frozen peaches to top all sorts of delicious desserts.
Summer on 9th South meant tearing old sheets to help Grandma make rag rugs which still cover every kitchen from Boston to the Big Apple to Beach houses in Southern California. It meant fresh sheets out of the dryer in the laundry room with the green walls and the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. It meant perfectly made beds, corners tucked and turned down just so by Grandma. Summer on 9th South meant dividing up reunion t-shirts by family, from youngest to oldest, in piles on the family room floor. It meant togetherness, traditions, and the slow hum of the swamp cooler. It meant sewing together strings of buttons and bean bag tosses outside in the side yard. It meant fresh oatmeal raisin cookies for Grandpa, chocolate chip cookies for the grand kids and dough for the tasting.
There are still goodies in the freezer, rag rugs by the back door and fresh sheets on all the beds. I'm now give piggy backs instead of getting them and the walk to the park doesn't seem that far. But summer on 9th South remains the same - Grandma at the loom or on the sewing machine, evenings on the porch with cousins from near and far. We dangle our feet from the benches moving them to and fro and talk of memories, like swings, rocking back and forth inside our minds.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
it's electric
I took his rough hand and gave it a firm shake. "He's the best electrician in the City. Well..." (he paused) "This guy's not just an electrician, he's an electrical artist." His eyebrows raised with the enunciation of his title, as if I should be impressed. I was more inquisitive than impressed. I followed the contractor and his virtuoso down the hall, my mind trying to imagine what type of electrical "art" the contractor meant.
* * *
We gathered on the porch to watch the storm. Arm wrapped around the column, I crossed one leg over the other and rested my head against the post, pensive. My line of site was just above the roof. Lightning cracked across the summer sky, bright white against dark gray. Electrical art. E's face lit up and un-lit all in an instant, the Artist in the Sky commander of a giant switch board. The rumble of thunder followed as neighborhood girls ran barefoot from one porch to another. I felt a drop on my shoulder; one on my cheek. I tucked my head back under the porch, wiping the raindrop from my face.
Within seconds, the ground was covered in dark spots, speckling the dry cement until all the spots met at the edges, merging to make a solitary wet canvas. I listened to E and S talk about this and that, voices clouded by the clapping of thunder. I only caught bits of conversations here and there; so many thoughts floating in and out; rows and rows of big dark clouds.
* * *
After everyone left and all but one here at the YBH had tucked in, I switched off the lights on the porch. As I closed the blinds, lightening continued to flash in the night sky; an electrical composition, artistic indeed.
* * *
We gathered on the porch to watch the storm. Arm wrapped around the column, I crossed one leg over the other and rested my head against the post, pensive. My line of site was just above the roof. Lightning cracked across the summer sky, bright white against dark gray. Electrical art. E's face lit up and un-lit all in an instant, the Artist in the Sky commander of a giant switch board. The rumble of thunder followed as neighborhood girls ran barefoot from one porch to another. I felt a drop on my shoulder; one on my cheek. I tucked my head back under the porch, wiping the raindrop from my face.
Within seconds, the ground was covered in dark spots, speckling the dry cement until all the spots met at the edges, merging to make a solitary wet canvas. I listened to E and S talk about this and that, voices clouded by the clapping of thunder. I only caught bits of conversations here and there; so many thoughts floating in and out; rows and rows of big dark clouds.
* * *
After everyone left and all but one here at the YBH had tucked in, I switched off the lights on the porch. As I closed the blinds, lightening continued to flash in the night sky; an electrical composition, artistic indeed.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
silver spoons
I recently read an article about a woman who has spent the better part of her life trying to recreate a tuna sandwich she ate as a seven year old one summer while visiting the east coast. To her, this sandwich embodies childhood; The Good Life. Perfection between two slices of bread. The sandwich was just moist enough, the tuna not too fishy. There was a mayonaise ratio she's never been able to duplicate and the celery had been diced just right. Sure (she argues) it could have been the fact that she was very near starving by the time her parents decided to pull of the road to appease their little travelers. Or, it could have been the charming Swedish couple who made this American sandwich to perfection. But, to her, this was it. Ambrosia to her seven year-old palate. If only she could recreate that experience now. And, according to the article, she'll die trying.
* * *
It was late August, and Suzan and Mom let me tag along. I felt beyond lucky to be the trio to their usual duo. It had been three months since I'd sat under Suzan's tutlidge, and I felt a bit more comfortable going as a "friend." We arrived at Fresco on 15th, dipping our heads beneath the curling ivy to enter the enchanting eatery. Elbows perched a top a crisp white tablecloth, I follwed their lead, agreeing that indeed soup was the way to start. Suzan asked for three spoons and together, we slurped away. Thinking I was being polite, after four or five spoonfuls of the most delicious summer soup, I rested my spoon on the edge of the thick-rimmed soup bowl. "Just exactly what do you think you are doing?" She stopped mid-slurp and looked at me with her all-knowing teacher-eyes; the I-can-see-straight-through-to-your-soul stare. "Uh...I thought I'd..." She cut me off. Stern, yet kind, she told me to pick up my spoon and finish the soup. She brought both her hands forward to guesture and leaned her face close in near mine. "Oh, dearie. Listen. Food is an experience." While I continued scrape spoonfuls of soup out of the bowl and into my mouth, Suzan spoke of dinners in Paris while Randall was painting. Meals in Eastern Europe. Breads. Cheeses. Life-changing cheeses. She closed her eyes as if the very thought of them transported her to that time of her life as she and Randall wandered from country to country, savoring soups and chewing cheese. The patio lights graced the curves on her face as a smile forced her cheeks taut. She opened her eyes and joined us back at Fresco just as the votives began to scatter round shadows across the table.
We enjoyed a main course and then dessert, during which my fork never rested. Not only did the food taste better, but my memory of that evening is forever inscribed in my mind: the creeping ivy along the pergola; the lantern light; Mom's face as we spoke of college plans and portfolios; Suzan across the table infused in the atmosphere; in the moment.
* * *
As I read the article about the tuna sandwich, my mouth began to water (and I don't even like tuna!) I thought of dinner at Fresco and the best chocolate cake I've ever sunk my teeth into at Pesto, a restaurant in D.C. I thought of Ruby's in SoHo where I devoured the best burger I've eaten to date. I longed for the mint chocolate chip ice cream from Belmont, enjoyed alongside Thomas and Evan when I first visited Boston at age 10, and beignets with Anna from Cafe Du Monde in the French Quarter - If I try hard enough, I could produce a confectioners sugar cough, the result of inhaling the to-die-for frost a top those fried fancies. So, for lack of a better post, I thought I'd list a few of my favorite restaurants from favorite cities I've visited, for any and all travelers. Looks like I'm staying put as of last Wednesday. There are worse things. And, until I can curb my urge for another escape, there's always Ruth's Diner, Fresco, and Trio here in the City of Salt to cater to my cravings.
Kitima Thai Cuisine: Irvine, CA (We split six or seven entrees - there were a lot of us. They were all excellent.)
Cafe Du Monde, French Market Coffee Stand: New Orleans, LA (Get the beignets. They're world famous)
Brigham's Ice Cream: Belmont, MA (I will argue that their mint chocolate chip is the best in town)
Pesto: Washington, D.C. (Two words: chocolate cake. It will change your life.)
Ruby's: SoHo, NYC (Best. Burger. Ever.)
Mama Mexico: Uptown Manhattan, NYC (Live Mariachi Band. Guacamole and salsa made right at your table. Sizzlin' hot entrees. Guys in sombreros.)
Patsy's Pizzeria: Various locations in Manhattan, NYC (Gooood pizza).
Even Keel Cafe: Nantucket, MA (Eat on the patio. You won't regret it. In fact, you won't regret anything you do on Nantucket. It's one of my favorite places on earth!)
Jaguar: Coconut Grove Miami, FL (Mexican lasagna that's too pretty to eat. Eat it anyway. It's amazing as is the interior design).
* * *
It was late August, and Suzan and Mom let me tag along. I felt beyond lucky to be the trio to their usual duo. It had been three months since I'd sat under Suzan's tutlidge, and I felt a bit more comfortable going as a "friend." We arrived at Fresco on 15th, dipping our heads beneath the curling ivy to enter the enchanting eatery. Elbows perched a top a crisp white tablecloth, I follwed their lead, agreeing that indeed soup was the way to start. Suzan asked for three spoons and together, we slurped away. Thinking I was being polite, after four or five spoonfuls of the most delicious summer soup, I rested my spoon on the edge of the thick-rimmed soup bowl. "Just exactly what do you think you are doing?" She stopped mid-slurp and looked at me with her all-knowing teacher-eyes; the I-can-see-straight-through-to-your-soul stare. "Uh...I thought I'd..." She cut me off. Stern, yet kind, she told me to pick up my spoon and finish the soup. She brought both her hands forward to guesture and leaned her face close in near mine. "Oh, dearie. Listen. Food is an experience." While I continued scrape spoonfuls of soup out of the bowl and into my mouth, Suzan spoke of dinners in Paris while Randall was painting. Meals in Eastern Europe. Breads. Cheeses. Life-changing cheeses. She closed her eyes as if the very thought of them transported her to that time of her life as she and Randall wandered from country to country, savoring soups and chewing cheese. The patio lights graced the curves on her face as a smile forced her cheeks taut. She opened her eyes and joined us back at Fresco just as the votives began to scatter round shadows across the table.
We enjoyed a main course and then dessert, during which my fork never rested. Not only did the food taste better, but my memory of that evening is forever inscribed in my mind: the creeping ivy along the pergola; the lantern light; Mom's face as we spoke of college plans and portfolios; Suzan across the table infused in the atmosphere; in the moment.
* * *
As I read the article about the tuna sandwich, my mouth began to water (and I don't even like tuna!) I thought of dinner at Fresco and the best chocolate cake I've ever sunk my teeth into at Pesto, a restaurant in D.C. I thought of Ruby's in SoHo where I devoured the best burger I've eaten to date. I longed for the mint chocolate chip ice cream from Belmont, enjoyed alongside Thomas and Evan when I first visited Boston at age 10, and beignets with Anna from Cafe Du Monde in the French Quarter - If I try hard enough, I could produce a confectioners sugar cough, the result of inhaling the to-die-for frost a top those fried fancies. So, for lack of a better post, I thought I'd list a few of my favorite restaurants from favorite cities I've visited, for any and all travelers. Looks like I'm staying put as of last Wednesday. There are worse things. And, until I can curb my urge for another escape, there's always Ruth's Diner, Fresco, and Trio here in the City of Salt to cater to my cravings.
Kitima Thai Cuisine: Irvine, CA (We split six or seven entrees - there were a lot of us. They were all excellent.)
Cafe Du Monde, French Market Coffee Stand: New Orleans, LA (Get the beignets. They're world famous)
Brigham's Ice Cream: Belmont, MA (I will argue that their mint chocolate chip is the best in town)
Pesto: Washington, D.C. (Two words: chocolate cake. It will change your life.)
Ruby's: SoHo, NYC (Best. Burger. Ever.)
Mama Mexico: Uptown Manhattan, NYC (Live Mariachi Band. Guacamole and salsa made right at your table. Sizzlin' hot entrees. Guys in sombreros.)
Patsy's Pizzeria: Various locations in Manhattan, NYC (Gooood pizza).
Even Keel Cafe: Nantucket, MA (Eat on the patio. You won't regret it. In fact, you won't regret anything you do on Nantucket. It's one of my favorite places on earth!)
Jaguar: Coconut Grove Miami, FL (Mexican lasagna that's too pretty to eat. Eat it anyway. It's amazing as is the interior design).
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