tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32407338180947821952024-03-23T06:14:54.632-04:00In the Kitchen with ArlenDespite our differences in many areas, kitchens are places where we all unite. I love being in kitchens, creating different foods, and connecting with lots of people. As a former restaurateur (Mambo 64, Tuckahoe, New York), cookbook author, writer, educator, traveler, wife and mom, I've had plenty of opportunities to log kitchen hours as home chef, host, and guest. Though this blog was born in my "cocina," it shares a collection of tales about life both inside and outside of my kitchen! Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-19544067151548254582024-01-16T18:00:00.001-05:002024-01-16T18:00:00.146-05:002024 Comes In <p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmnjz9_Ywgf-H7mAs_imd0sx8qHpbgyRg3zgS782q6oYONkSnvpAu7zAYbHCagr3KG-2j6rd3dt6YgJNyQY_a0VrGQU4plPytvvfyGgECne3f6DoMYhb7G8JI2ZVrtqN8ZsKF8CxEIO8y5uCOlqmhvqtY3vsg0K-GkKlc59BifWCFkdB4H0y8XZs2a1M/s640/Paul%20C%C3%A9zanne%E2%80%99s%20%20%20%20%20Pines%20and%20Rocks.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcmnjz9_Ywgf-H7mAs_imd0sx8qHpbgyRg3zgS782q6oYONkSnvpAu7zAYbHCagr3KG-2j6rd3dt6YgJNyQY_a0VrGQU4plPytvvfyGgECne3f6DoMYhb7G8JI2ZVrtqN8ZsKF8CxEIO8y5uCOlqmhvqtY3vsg0K-GkKlc59BifWCFkdB4H0y8XZs2a1M/w237-h316/Paul%20C%C3%A9zanne%E2%80%99s%20%20%20%20%20Pines%20and%20Rocks.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Paul Cézanne's <i>Pines and Rocks </i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Notice the brush strokes—how he uses space, how nothing is
wasted,” my mother says to me. I’m nine years old, and we’re at the Museum of
Modern Art in New York City. We’re looking Paul Cézanne’s </span><i style="text-align: left;">Pines
and Rocks,</i><span style="text-align: left;"> but move to </span><i style="text-align: left;">The Bather</i><span style="text-align: left;">, and she points out the lines of model’s
muscular leg, and the color palette of the background. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">“No wasted space,” she reiterates. This was to
become her mantra in art, and in life.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In my memory, it’s just my mother and I walking through the
museum. Today, I’m on my own. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mother’s voice comes through me as I admire Van Gogh,
Picasso, Gauguin, Seurat, Monet, Matisse, and Chagall. Their work swims into my eyes
and triggers a pool of memories. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA8NYyutPP33g26KcehoM7g8lmyv2Dn_lMUVdqcBzILAv8-BdyLDYkpcyZtVFR1SBNna7O6iauDYD21CNaZrowzx0Ux3TxYwIO1He-yuMwyEl3Lgzllbp5WzYNpAqae6Utu_QSDRLW4ZSdYxPVBzrAkWn5C416wVcq0G3TCpb-e5fDewrHDrZUeIAOpLI" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="243" data-original-width="203" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjA8NYyutPP33g26KcehoM7g8lmyv2Dn_lMUVdqcBzILAv8-BdyLDYkpcyZtVFR1SBNna7O6iauDYD21CNaZrowzx0Ux3TxYwIO1He-yuMwyEl3Lgzllbp5WzYNpAqae6Utu_QSDRLW4ZSdYxPVBzrAkWn5C416wVcq0G3TCpb-e5fDewrHDrZUeIAOpLI" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Marc Chagall's <i>I and the Village</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">I smile at the playfulness of Marc Chagall (<i>I
and the Village</i>), and hear my mother talking to me about artists’ phases,
stages, and senses of humor. She often spoke about process, and taking time to
explore different subjects as well as styles of painting and drawing. In retrospect I realize that
this—taking time to explore and try out—was also part of her modus operandi. I can see a variety of style in her paintings, illustrations, sketch
books, and subjects.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I flash back to her trying to teach me how to translate what
I’m looking at onto paper in the form of sketching. Now I try to ingest in all the images I see, and transfer them into words.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I stop in front of Rousseau’s <i>The dream</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I relish the personal space I have at that
moment to approach the canvas, and focus. I remember my mother telling me that
though he never went to Mexico (as he apparently claimed—thereby entitling his
“Mexican pictures”) self-taught Henri Rousseau, was able, from his home in
France, and thanks to his rich imagination and frequent trips to the Paris botanical
gardens, to translate jungle images from his head onto his canvas. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tears start to sting as I hear my mother’s voice again; she
is proud of my recollection of the artists and their styles, her lessons, and
for my taking the time to visit the museum, and ponder all. No wasted time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIK2oZWWywS797AsHh_rHHKIkmYkfAu5zS_g9jLLZZ_qZKCXipm41tw6m2AHVt0z0Gwj1IRV5WqOF7KQKP90j_UWvQ4ViwZ-7j2S7JAmbK3ZGdPClaPlRLMDjy_LBx65AhQrw-fLJvhAZm8Ed0n3lMcVMnUlNkJO3_NYPxLoSlH5Yj1ik7EN55oMCmi00" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="208" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIK2oZWWywS797AsHh_rHHKIkmYkfAu5zS_g9jLLZZ_qZKCXipm41tw6m2AHVt0z0Gwj1IRV5WqOF7KQKP90j_UWvQ4ViwZ-7j2S7JAmbK3ZGdPClaPlRLMDjy_LBx65AhQrw-fLJvhAZm8Ed0n3lMcVMnUlNkJO3_NYPxLoSlH5Yj1ik7EN55oMCmi00" width="184" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Sonia O. Lisker Gargagliano</span> </td></tr></tbody></table>I consider my mother’s “Mexican pictures,” which she created
after spending time in Mexico—before I was born. I look at her brush strokes. And
I can’t help but notice in her paintings, many of which surround me at home,
that there is no wasted space.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And so now in mid-January, we
welcome 2024—and consider what we’ve done, what lies ahead, both anticipated and not.</p><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Last year I had several goals: to dance
flamenco, try new recipes—to read more, write more, and learn Italian. I
still need to work on all, and I add to the list. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I can hear my father now, telling me—as he always did—that I
have to take chances. (He was referring to talents and skills, not skydiving
nor bungi jumping!) Taking chances is on my list. No wasted time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Life, after all, is precious. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-27085985526458464292023-06-14T21:15:00.002-04:002023-07-01T08:35:58.311-04:00All Clear <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7UxxK00BQ-EtbWJ6_uzJ-6xE2rRKmNrI7AhwfHTAnFVSOI5UjgOMNSbRiXBE9MAU6CeF52hkt1SEcFdKiMq0M8AbuAWGoNmSDpAWc6D84vQDJf_gB139Mkh0-6_o5SAX2Ia5Jca85oWESPu2rMlgL4pKFyzatEFW5glUr1AZ22uxpAM21a62niEnj" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7UxxK00BQ-EtbWJ6_uzJ-6xE2rRKmNrI7AhwfHTAnFVSOI5UjgOMNSbRiXBE9MAU6CeF52hkt1SEcFdKiMq0M8AbuAWGoNmSDpAWc6D84vQDJf_gB139Mkh0-6_o5SAX2Ia5Jca85oWESPu2rMlgL4pKFyzatEFW5glUr1AZ22uxpAM21a62niEnj" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Day of And a Few Days Later</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, it’s like this <i>all the time</i> in New Delhi!” an
older woman said to me last Wednesday, in Midtown Manhattan, waiting at the
crosswalk. I had noticed her cane, her stance, and her lean on the mailbox
prior to the change of the walk sign at the cross walk, and so I had asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and, in typical NYC fashion, that was the end of our exchange. The light turned green, and we separated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This was on the day that NYC was blanketed in sepia, the day the
wildfire smoke hit the city. Dazed and masked, people twirled, phones
in hand, recording and marveling at the scene. Words like “apocalyptic, smoky,
orange,” echoed through the throngs on Fifth Avenue. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to three days later. The sky is blue, the air seems fresh, and yes, it appears to be all clear—at least around here. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We are always looking for an all clear. Or, perhaps, in my
case, I’m also looking for clarity—and hope I offer the same. Thinking about
relationships, work, stories, and trips, I consider that all clear is synonymous with
a go ahead, or that we can proceed in a positive way. I'm also equating all clear with clarity. <o:p></o:p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTWZuFab8ewCDh0aHTYUTFlFqywkMlrH7S2eNZoezwN0KE3fjpcba6ABfwrlZAHwJ53n9ka-kX2dgtI5WBfj9RJoPz72i4Ex-uUfat0l7x_b4X9el2c2qngYmFBv6dffmnXMNFWbQc2cyu46NA0TE9j4c_1GSa2dfUFgilBCmcLv5WFxMJgl41fGz/s2048/A%20Clear%20Reflection%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUTWZuFab8ewCDh0aHTYUTFlFqywkMlrH7S2eNZoezwN0KE3fjpcba6ABfwrlZAHwJ53n9ka-kX2dgtI5WBfj9RJoPz72i4Ex-uUfat0l7x_b4X9el2c2qngYmFBv6dffmnXMNFWbQc2cyu46NA0TE9j4c_1GSa2dfUFgilBCmcLv5WFxMJgl41fGz/s320/A%20Clear%20Reflection%20.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Clarity of Reflection </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t help but remember a student I had at Concordia
College, so many years ago. Lorenzo, from Puerto Rico, came to Concordia to
play volleyball and, like many on his team, also to learn English. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At that time, I had a habit of asking my students, “Is it
clear?” after explaining something in my ESL class. (Wait—maybe I still say
that!) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Lorenzo frequently responded, with a grin, “As clear as mud,
teacher!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He chided me, and was often quite the jokester, but
sometimes he was on target: my explanations often required a second round. I
take that recognition with me, and try—whether talking to family and friends or
students and teachers—to be clear. It’s a skill I’m still working on. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But back to last Wednesday, I walked up to the Museum of
Modern Art, where I had decided I wanted to revisit Georgia O’Keeffe’s exhibit.
I watched as people stopped in front of one work or another, saw them
observe, listened to their commentary, accolades, and more. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An older bespectacled gentleman with tanned skin, a white
beard, and a straw fedora, came to a full stop in front of “Evening Star.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood, hands behind his back, and gazed,
deeply at one painting, and then the others in that series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgu8i4Qn0wWR_ITO3I0t4G57tMUC40mMfu43bs4EQGba6hAphlsCtarvAxdZb5llzdeU1zBQSlExWmoPRCm52qbWi6WN3pHgegfl12M5O9QLIA_RP8MVS4Kb3eJ3Pp50EmeCR7i5TGO3XLKvT89u5UWKpMKwOHUEwctGmFK9F0bqCgiZ08zXmT-3UB/s2011/Georgia%20O'Keeffe%20Evening%20Star%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1563" data-original-width="2011" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgu8i4Qn0wWR_ITO3I0t4G57tMUC40mMfu43bs4EQGba6hAphlsCtarvAxdZb5llzdeU1zBQSlExWmoPRCm52qbWi6WN3pHgegfl12M5O9QLIA_RP8MVS4Kb3eJ3Pp50EmeCR7i5TGO3XLKvT89u5UWKpMKwOHUEwctGmFK9F0bqCgiZ08zXmT-3UB/s320/Georgia%20O'Keeffe%20Evening%20Star%20.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">From Georgia O'Keeffe--One of the Many Currently at MOMA <br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>I wanted to ask him what he was thinking when he looked at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was a meaning clear to him?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was clear to him?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But he moved on as a young couple with a toddler moved in
front. </p><p class="MsoNormal">As I continued to walk around the museum, my thoughts of clarity
continued. I considered how clarity comes in different realms: art, communication, movement, music, and another one of my favorites, flavors.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Recently I found clarity in a dish I made: Crispy Lemon
Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since it was quite well received, I decided to explore
variations on the theme. A few nights later, I made pork chops with an orange
sauce that somewhat emulated the previously-made lemon-infused dish. The result? Another sunny, and tasty citrus-themed plate (served this time with broccoli and wine-caramelized onions, and roast potatoes). <o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFvExoqCNNShObxFxkzqNu-AT97uKvirGlmT5jUbGjccriyc-nGhCJ3pD2GuWe42ohcSmsoLUYcmhcpu4FO_UQ99MbV2pNFvIPa4yRC2fBq2lPR3f9H2npreVSDXxym3_tnWBhh0HpMU8SsQs2sPYcRDFa44xrTpKcyxkB7NlDyoITIQ2m7UXiRXj/s3780/The%20Original%20Chicken%20.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFvExoqCNNShObxFxkzqNu-AT97uKvirGlmT5jUbGjccriyc-nGhCJ3pD2GuWe42ohcSmsoLUYcmhcpu4FO_UQ99MbV2pNFvIPa4yRC2fBq2lPR3f9H2npreVSDXxym3_tnWBhh0HpMU8SsQs2sPYcRDFa44xrTpKcyxkB7NlDyoITIQ2m7UXiRXj/w256-h320/The%20Original%20Chicken%20.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Crispy Lemon Chicken Cutlets with Salmoriglio Sauce</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillwayaDqoamwUVbFB3A5riLavETfZaiinTfmHIkAoKJDHD0o7sehhg1OD80JZxr6bVRP-A0D9i5TB9PcrXMFPOWHwFJ9odM89Zp3BEjBt5y2gwYpQ-LP3LeDKOSy9tSZphyO11ilXuji-0k9PypOmAsc-XjNRDJVjL_Hw82ZWlC6oQePnaQgZbOEq/s2048/Orange%20Pork%20Chops%20.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillwayaDqoamwUVbFB3A5riLavETfZaiinTfmHIkAoKJDHD0o7sehhg1OD80JZxr6bVRP-A0D9i5TB9PcrXMFPOWHwFJ9odM89Zp3BEjBt5y2gwYpQ-LP3LeDKOSy9tSZphyO11ilXuji-0k9PypOmAsc-XjNRDJVjL_Hw82ZWlC6oQePnaQgZbOEq/s320/Orange%20Pork%20Chops%20.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Crispy Pork Chops with a Fresh Orange Sauce</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I enjoy clarity of flavor as much as I enjoy clarity of explanations, communication, and more. I find clarity when I run, when I cook, when I dance, when I draw, and when I write. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Today as I ponder the message of all clear and clarity, I think of the bold, dazzling colors of nature that boast their individuality, yet work and grow together. <o:p></o:p></p>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09S4s2E43zB7Nu-JB0pPPRho6lGFf6yM4pFgTlkQLOZ3C9cMWGZ7ILZBY6YyHCriwE5zrlZO2C-vGhcFYT4Y6Qa_0TXSqWChrAfNcdaKjNM2-1aX6hiuefqFzte5dmZV6HNvshfvKrJHg4nxBIrlwZip8G38qzh0UmCLbd1QeuVy9Ldiac0ug7k7w/s2048/Flowers%20in%20California%20.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi09S4s2E43zB7Nu-JB0pPPRho6lGFf6yM4pFgTlkQLOZ3C9cMWGZ7ILZBY6YyHCriwE5zrlZO2C-vGhcFYT4Y6Qa_0TXSqWChrAfNcdaKjNM2-1aX6hiuefqFzte5dmZV6HNvshfvKrJHg4nxBIrlwZip8G38qzh0UmCLbd1QeuVy9Ldiac0ug7k7w/s320/Flowers%20in%20California%20.jpeg" width="240" /></a><br />
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com2New York, NY, USA40.7127753 -74.0059728-36.061540863175686 145.36902719999998 90 66.619027200000033tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-91404374830569377632023-03-12T18:30:00.014-04:002023-03-16T21:13:26.640-04:00Almost Spring's Big Dig <p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaRpWaSE01o6kMdx4yCTqLqExiUrygAc75u5clCVkHBw7Bjgw4bwloV5zr2-yOVklkRdbFE8S-hbI9DQpaYNAkzg5rX4zGvYA-F3kNMvnpkz58hFhe8CLs2t3NArZbtm6jW-MPry3YtQp9zDtaMYA3wBd9O7uAx8aBmpA-VJ5ukN-oK0ZC9qPykLNz/s640/Mom%20and%20a%20StoryBoard%20.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaRpWaSE01o6kMdx4yCTqLqExiUrygAc75u5clCVkHBw7Bjgw4bwloV5zr2-yOVklkRdbFE8S-hbI9DQpaYNAkzg5rX4zGvYA-F3kNMvnpkz58hFhe8CLs2t3NArZbtm6jW-MPry3YtQp9zDtaMYA3wBd9O7uAx8aBmpA-VJ5ukN-oK0ZC9qPykLNz/w240-h320/Mom%20and%20a%20StoryBoard%20.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and a Storyboard</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">“Look at her!” my friend Sus declares as we uncover photos of my mom. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I’ve found the black and white photos of my mother at work.
She was one of the first female art directors on the “mad men” scene of Madison
Avenue. I heard the story so many times, about how I was almost born at Y&R (Young
& Rubicam) but how she just barely made it to Flowers and Fifth
Hospital—after a quick stop to pick up a nightgown in Bloomingdale’s<o:p></o:p>—and then on to the hospital to give birth to me. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I go through photos—there are hundreds, maybe even thousands
of them. They date back to the time my mom was little, posing on the Boardwalk
in front of her parents’ home in Brighton Beach. Posing…they were always
posing. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Words are tangled in my throat as I peruse her sketchbooks,
and flash back to the times she sketched at parties, when curious guests
couldn’t help but come by and ask what she was doing, look over her shoulder,
admire her fluid intake and translation of the scenes around her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I was not like the guests; her sketching made me
uncomfortable. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Now, as I leaf through the dozen or so sketchbooks, I have an
uneasiness mixed with pride and regret that I didn’t enjoy her drawing—while she was drawing. Why did her sketching bother me? Why
didn’t I accept it more readily? Why wasn’t I proud then? </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-CFCmdwh5waz1m9tHRrawKDGKcj4GqkoDkZY0AuY4U3SEaBRIlEmIlFx0nqjn0WX-N0hnv5yPrd081KMkt7IPyYXNjCJVcvMNm3qTyTwwkhU4w6YrsVEMinQdCCzSmRSdTD-pOun5FjqyA7Fpxf9OkW9YqJLkxgDQc4z9WMmuAlQwopwQDpnLDch/s640/Mom's%20Flamenco%20Dancers%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-CFCmdwh5waz1m9tHRrawKDGKcj4GqkoDkZY0AuY4U3SEaBRIlEmIlFx0nqjn0WX-N0hnv5yPrd081KMkt7IPyYXNjCJVcvMNm3qTyTwwkhU4w6YrsVEMinQdCCzSmRSdTD-pOun5FjqyA7Fpxf9OkW9YqJLkxgDQc4z9WMmuAlQwopwQDpnLDch/s320/Mom's%20Flamenco%20Dancers%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom's Sketches in Spain </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">As some of you may know, now over two years ago, we moved
from a house into an apartment. At that big downsizing time, I took a lot
of my old photos—okay not only mine, but those from and of my parents (their
ex-spouses!), grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents-in-law, siblings, kids…well,
you get the picture. Tons of photos! They were packed into large Rubbermaid
tubs and put into storage. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">One of my new year’s resolutions was to go through, sort,
keep or toss: my big dig. And so, it’s begun. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">It’s amazing how many blurry photos, how many duplicates,
how many “unknowns,” and how many trees and sunsets were captured. And as I
sift, I try to identify criteria for saving. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">My criteria has yet to be defined. I do know that I’m not
going to scan them all; I want to keep the “hard copies.” Not sure what I’ll do
with them, but I’m enjoying going through them…remembering so very many moments.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">In another box, I’ve found letters. Those I’m loathe to
toss…at least some of them. Especially words from people, like my parents, who
are no longer on this earth with us. I've put those aside for now. I'll read them all. Eventually. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">This all comes back to my kitchen. As many of you may also
know, food is another way I keep people ever-present. Menu planning is
something I enjoy daily: I think about who’s going to eat it, what the weather
is like, what’s available, and what people might be craving. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I open up a recipe box, and look for one of our Christmas Eve
classics: The orange Jell-O mold, complete with shredded carrots and crushed pineapple, which she
always made in the shape of a Christmas tree.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">I never thought I’d ever make it. Now I pull out the
recipe, and look for the pan that it will set in. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkglbeG-RMLSHxcoGA-yiggmBKs1KxLQsOMKYT7Cm6K10SxqdgEApkU4ocyFBRQCwbNuRR81xBt8FDAiP3KDlolz0ddpzkNnVnpcZJRIeqSeORSs7gY3CWDjGTRqTJw9fTxoXENzv4Rd94iBLJVoooWx-1FQhGNS8SfNyLWaHICrDdrXiN9rV8nmn/s640/Mom's%20Recipe%20Box.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkglbeG-RMLSHxcoGA-yiggmBKs1KxLQsOMKYT7Cm6K10SxqdgEApkU4ocyFBRQCwbNuRR81xBt8FDAiP3KDlolz0ddpzkNnVnpcZJRIeqSeORSs7gY3CWDjGTRqTJw9fTxoXENzv4Rd94iBLJVoooWx-1FQhGNS8SfNyLWaHICrDdrXiN9rV8nmn/s320/Mom's%20Recipe%20Box.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSC-eckBI9XBUeS4Nme9IuoMmBO-qEKVbQDs7fFu2pR3fEKoPbpD6gvkLrD5pcYpUz_1IaSIqYfz-MvKChOU0WuwIzu44Um-zvifhXDGt5ePyi1gCjovAVcWYdITPodFF0JaCQz7s_-oqUQb9cxOpA-Y5Dp48tjGk14sXIVTzlJcLPR6oMJdV-RmCu/s640/Mom's%20flamenco%20Dancers%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-47411177579877441192022-12-04T18:30:00.001-05:002022-12-06T17:52:42.494-05:00And Just Like That, It's Soup time in December <p class="MsoNormal"> I don’t mind when
the sun paints my face, with thick broad gentle strokes, forcing me to
recognize it, which I do. It reminds me
that I should focus on the now, the present. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> At this very
moment, it’s all about today. Focusing on the elements around—the feelings,
paired with sounds, sights and smells, has a balancing effect. My mind is
racing elsewhere: thinking of the books I’m listening to, the wonderful big
band music I saw and heard on Friday night, the headlines slapped across this
morning’s newspaper, the dinner I will make tonight, the work I need to do, the
nostalgia for family no longer here, one that profoundly infuses me this time
of year. The elements, and the rhythm of my feet below, ground me and push me
forward as I run. <o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"> My mind goes back,
as it so often does, to the recipes. The weather’s chill has me thinking of
soup. And though I could rifle through my collection of saved NYT cooking
recipes, or the many books that I still have (even after unloading hundreds
haver the move!), I am set on one: carrot soup from Moosewood Cookbook. <o:p></o:p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxhZspEY7KAez47OtT-hvSI5pTPcWkTL_fHpY9xxs1TW0sypIdR3mkxwoupO-lY03gxi530WAQKlCJQM8cmTw47XVsqh8UFxPaUnklMfrMfzckrniaJjsikF82UBGNVeVVCtRChoicANKHCDrsPwPikkItdmcuzYtEGzJNQq4t7RQK-nF8OMOMoQd/s640/Mousewood%20Cookbook%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxhZspEY7KAez47OtT-hvSI5pTPcWkTL_fHpY9xxs1TW0sypIdR3mkxwoupO-lY03gxi530WAQKlCJQM8cmTw47XVsqh8UFxPaUnklMfrMfzckrniaJjsikF82UBGNVeVVCtRChoicANKHCDrsPwPikkItdmcuzYtEGzJNQq4t7RQK-nF8OMOMoQd/s320/Mousewood%20Cookbook%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><p></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"> And this is what
brings my after-run steps to my book shelf, and right over to one cookbook in
particular, to a page I have marked from long ago. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> Moosewood
Cookbook, the original, was one of my first on-my-own cookbooks.What I mean by
that is that I always had my mom’s recipes, yet I searched for those recipes I
could adopt and call my own. Moosewood, at the time, was my great resource. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> Moosewood was also
the first cookbook I ever endeavored making <i>just about everything</i> from. The book
itself, now decades later—food stained and a bit unsteady in keeping all the
pages together— represents a period of time, my twenties, when I expressed a
lot of my independence and creative energy through food. (Wait, am I still
doing that?!) <o:p></o:p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> This carrot soup
offers the balance of two flavors I love combining: sweet and salty. But as I sit to write this
blog, I recognize that you might not share my passion for cooking. Still, I’m
guessing you probably share my joy of eating.
It’s funny how when I teach, I touch on the topic of food and almost all
my students have a positive reaction; though they are still struggling with
English, their second, third, and even fourth language, food remains a first
language. They wax nostalgic about their grandma’s cooking, dishes that say
“home” to them. Food is their common ground…our common ground. This is why I
still say if we could just all sit down and share a meal, we might have peace
in this world.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> In the meantime, now and in the next year,
I will continue my ever-expanding exploration of dishes (so many recipes, so little
time!), as well as travelling, dancing, reading, writing, teaching, and of course enjoying the
many meals I look forward to composing, creating, and consuming with family and friends. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> With these
thoughts, and this note, I wish you and yours lots of peace, and many many delicious soups and other dishes with loved ones during this holiday season, and in the year to come. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> <o:p></o:p></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnsUUwFpcviFMkepBPUWTf4_QXiodebBNboKTCt-gtNDNwaI5U4PbGdjwWg1fUZSFeHSl33PxHBFTxV8mVteFQTvE8fQl3pW6UQTTfhur_aM0Plu2rBWEAQzTwGtHmQFNJw5VB0p6HS4-K9F0ip_UvSB9I8WyR4q2yoYfE7okju7B0MKgW-cC4vQw/s640/Soup%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnsUUwFpcviFMkepBPUWTf4_QXiodebBNboKTCt-gtNDNwaI5U4PbGdjwWg1fUZSFeHSl33PxHBFTxV8mVteFQTvE8fQl3pW6UQTTfhur_aM0Plu2rBWEAQzTwGtHmQFNJw5VB0p6HS4-K9F0ip_UvSB9I8WyR4q2yoYfE7okju7B0MKgW-cC4vQw/s320/Soup%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrot Soup Garnished with Roasted Apple, Toasted Almonds, and Parsley</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div></div><br /></div><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p><br /><p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com6New Rochelle, NY, USA40.9114882 -73.782354912.601254363821155 -108.9386049 69.221722036178846 -38.6261049tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-80606460881843347562022-09-20T19:00:00.003-04:002022-09-20T19:00:00.193-04:00In Walks September <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIJ8xK7G1Aj29zMikB8OS5qmknVdHgJfsa0Cu-A3vFvwac1WmgEa2t2Rj3gQ71doN9wFrxegMvpLBTIuF7Aq_xoJlNoJXvYwswINheC7-uO2NjjXtOxFQye1k-6WHhv_wYN97mT2bK9iFlTUEsvew2yoqMT5eA9TeTlH-DgcpRknQZwiXBiVU4pUM/s640/First%20day%20of%20school%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifIJ8xK7G1Aj29zMikB8OS5qmknVdHgJfsa0Cu-A3vFvwac1WmgEa2t2Rj3gQ71doN9wFrxegMvpLBTIuF7Aq_xoJlNoJXvYwswINheC7-uO2NjjXtOxFQye1k-6WHhv_wYN97mT2bK9iFlTUEsvew2yoqMT5eA9TeTlH-DgcpRknQZwiXBiVU4pUM/s320/First%20day%20of%20school%20.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Is this the writing class?” A twenty-something, light brown-skinned woman asks me in a slightly marked accent as she steps into the doorway. “Can I come in?” she adds. It’s about 8:50, and
class will begin at 9. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She’s slight, bespectacled, and smiling broadly, though I
hear some nervousness in her voice. She sits right in the middle of the
u-shaped tables that face the front of the room. She’s the first of my 16 students to
arrive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I welcome her in, and she tells
me she’s from Ecuador, from Cuenca. I want to tell her that my son lived in Ecuador,
but I save that. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes! This is the writing class” I declare, and welcome her into the room. “Please
tell me your name.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Alejandra,” She announces. “But you can please call me
Alex.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Okay, Alex,” I say as I scan my roster and tell her, “My name
is Arlen. And wow, Alex! You are the first to arrive!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I like to be in
time,” she proudly announces. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I do, too!” I say. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Prior to that morning, I had seen all my forthcoming
students' names on my roster, and considered how those names would “translate” into
actual people, and how these same type-written names will look differently on
that page after today, the first day of class. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s the same feeling I’ve had for years: the anticipation,
the excitement, and even some of the nervousness on the first day of school.
All of my white board markers are ready, I’ve written the date and my plan on the board, along
with a “Welcome!” I’ve played with the colors of the markers so that—I think—the
board is visually pleasing. I like to alternate between colors, at least a bit.
I’ve got my folders with handouts, and my pads with paper, in case someone
needs paper. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Several students follow Alex's lead and enter the classroom. I welcome them in, and ask their
names, trying to commit them all to memory. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They unpack their bags, reveal new notebooks, pens, and sharpened pencils. We are all poised, ready—and so we start a light
conversation. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Probably some will be late today, but let’s get started!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I declare. They nod, albeit nervously—not
knowing what to expect. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so, it’s September. A time I’ve always embraced as a new
beginning. Whether it’s in my classroom—or my kitchen—it’s a time to start
something new, I think. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I play with my lesson plans, just like I play with my food.
I try to find something new—something that will inspire. Something that sparks
interest. Something that will resonate with my students. </p><p class="MsoNormal">At home, I look for something that will resonate with my dinner guests. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikeriRf8HaWX6oxK7yMNe9cDmZouNu1ZuxdSqUrAvEK_kpgL_-BkPCYitC0S3iK0kPoE8kCTUSztsugCgbetUCaBRW3MNOHcSy5xClm_zekM3LuntVloBWi-ZjWN1XkKwpeXLJ3HalNsLd3wcl7ULczVY6HyOgQNIItWW2oWjQT9C2SrdxGxuQhBGw/s640/Sur%20la%20Table%20.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikeriRf8HaWX6oxK7yMNe9cDmZouNu1ZuxdSqUrAvEK_kpgL_-BkPCYitC0S3iK0kPoE8kCTUSztsugCgbetUCaBRW3MNOHcSy5xClm_zekM3LuntVloBWi-ZjWN1XkKwpeXLJ3HalNsLd3wcl7ULczVY6HyOgQNIItWW2oWjQT9C2SrdxGxuQhBGw/w150-h200/Sur%20la%20Table%20.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Appetizers for an End-of-Summer Dinner</i> </td></tr></tbody></table></div><p class="MsoNormal">For now, I’m still enjoying the farmers’ market bounty.
Tomatoes are still out. I’ve even got some green beans from the community
garden that Seth, my husband, tends.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I put all the ideas together, and come up with a fresh
version of perhaps a dish I’ve enjoyed before. Building—or scaffolding (as we
say in the ESL teaching world) so that one idea or dish flows into another. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The beach is still fresh and welcoming. Pumpkins are out. September has walked in. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCpk0YPgyvRsNgAtX4y-DYPZ-BV6X2BY8ZCDI2-dQgqWiHlhc-sF-KyR64m8UPGpyt1usMwAKmbo3PAYBuGRRom-rtyVKn3BQHBzLI06PohqjqiQ4jbLYvZZ7d7HibQG8Hthv5FBTvauVIiF3CWgXSMwAGXVKibmRjF7NZoBcG3WzCRUEJtsPq7UE/s640/Beach%20Art%20.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKCpk0YPgyvRsNgAtX4y-DYPZ-BV6X2BY8ZCDI2-dQgqWiHlhc-sF-KyR64m8UPGpyt1usMwAKmbo3PAYBuGRRom-rtyVKn3BQHBzLI06PohqjqiQ4jbLYvZZ7d7HibQG8Hthv5FBTvauVIiF3CWgXSMwAGXVKibmRjF7NZoBcG3WzCRUEJtsPq7UE/s320/Beach%20Art%20.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Living Art at the Beach</i></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Lug_VxuYFWD3ybGQF5GHm8AM6E-nv0nBG0wGBCMab6ozrMyMJprEZYeN0dIkFJxPOUBD2agJHuHRrH2h9VJJKgSsSloprrnnS2eE4RrkI8mqByyNnbYkGbYIKK7yP8e-1ybClwBgb8qvzJJ2eWtZcSQMhzLC5P1ft3NXyJ8U_nCwsB-TWbnCfdN/s640/Pumpkins.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_Lug_VxuYFWD3ybGQF5GHm8AM6E-nv0nBG0wGBCMab6ozrMyMJprEZYeN0dIkFJxPOUBD2agJHuHRrH2h9VJJKgSsSloprrnnS2eE4RrkI8mqByyNnbYkGbYIKK7yP8e-1ybClwBgb8qvzJJ2eWtZcSQMhzLC5P1ft3NXyJ8U_nCwsB-TWbnCfdN/s320/Pumpkins.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pumpkins on Display </i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-54131850476693844242022-07-18T19:45:00.001-04:002022-07-18T19:45:00.181-04:00Mid-July Contemplations and Colors <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbekH8z4GEb6wckLXE6Iwqjz-WVpvpqC5hzPkxmcN2GqaWI1sOeBF6RmvOUSbGIiIv50iVTmx-mjJOb7MnLUSXj2Zk0u-nihmW5U9a6hBX5iRlWVQ0nloM5FujJkE9y2wVy-L1IK6NO2uSh1fJ3Qu3X7pSMFGW2lxtwpmezZsEjYPdZZeGWo0_Swh4/s640/July%20Blog%20photo%20flowers.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbekH8z4GEb6wckLXE6Iwqjz-WVpvpqC5hzPkxmcN2GqaWI1sOeBF6RmvOUSbGIiIv50iVTmx-mjJOb7MnLUSXj2Zk0u-nihmW5U9a6hBX5iRlWVQ0nloM5FujJkE9y2wVy-L1IK6NO2uSh1fJ3Qu3X7pSMFGW2lxtwpmezZsEjYPdZZeGWo0_Swh4/s320/July%20Blog%20photo%20flowers.jpg" /></a></div>
“It’s like we are all on a bus,” Silvia begins to tell me her theory of life, and death. "And then," she continues, "often without warning, the bus makes a stop, someone gets off. Still, the bus continues on, stopping from time to time.” <div><br /></div><div>Silvia’s life analogy resonates with me now more than ever, as it seems too many people in my life are getting off the bus, and, at this point, I can only see them in my memories. <div><br /></div><div>Silvia was an ESL student of mine at Concordia many, many moons ago. Like so many—if not all—of my students, she taught me way more than I could have ever taught her. Silvia introduced me to Pedro Almodóvar; I believe we saw, <i>Mujeres al Borde de un Ataque de Nervios </i>(Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown)” together. It was my first Almodóvar movie, and I was blown away by his humor, his cleverness, and his irreverence. (Of course, I loved hearing the Spanish, too.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Silvia also gave me a copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s <i>El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera </i>(Love in Time of Cholera). This book has made the move from our house, and survived with an inscription:
Este libro y mi amistad, para Arlen, para Siempre –This book, and my friendship, for Arlen, forever.
…And signed it.
On this steamy and stormy mid-July day, I pull the book off my shelf and make a note to myself: it’s time to reread it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also thinking about timing, food, reunions, and colors. More specifically, I’m especially focused on colors on my table. Some from the flowers that Seth brings from the community garden he so carefully tends, and others, from food.
Long ago, I became aware of the importance of presentation of food. I learned a lot from Harry—of Harry’s Sauteuse—who wouldn’t let a plate go out unless it was garnished; parsley, for example, (his most popular of garnishes), had to be artfully placed on the dish. </div><div><br /></div><div>I also learned a lot from my mom, who was all about the creation of a plate/platter, as well as attention to detail. Maybe it was her artist’s eye that transposed a canvas, so to speak, onto a plate. Actually, it wasn't just the food and the table. All aspects of her meals and dinner parties were carefully choregraphed: the guest lists, who sat next to whom, the menus, the wines, the presentation, and of course, the music. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKsQLh915oLMky48xQzoFnmeuW0Zo3Q3esplJ3MP1OWKSxbUQH6LlnXBpwSkeG9AY5N3w4gi2GiuEUoI8xdHYv_kDopr3U7up2GbqHZZP62IaNw90dvz2mMSY5C14c0-za-b-m5QDcLNk1svRcwGG02qmvSUvj0be4eVWbX9O-DB84Yn4FSSm-4tV/s640/July%20blog%20photo%20%20tomato%20and%20green%20beans.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKsQLh915oLMky48xQzoFnmeuW0Zo3Q3esplJ3MP1OWKSxbUQH6LlnXBpwSkeG9AY5N3w4gi2GiuEUoI8xdHYv_kDopr3U7up2GbqHZZP62IaNw90dvz2mMSY5C14c0-za-b-m5QDcLNk1svRcwGG02qmvSUvj0be4eVWbX9O-DB84Yn4FSSm-4tV/s320/July%20blog%20photo%20%20tomato%20and%20green%20beans.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July Garden Bounty </td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIcTy1MTMudN1UV8k2iNI6UtiTmLdQwfTCvNcGRYGr1-L7vBDjO1-WqFaZLQLx6rx08jZY8ADv3hWoN1y8WNFWpQeA55IH9AxQyGvs3YlkERhCuV1vOjfag8Sn_dLDZMf1zyFVTQxq74xFDNitiIuw1c9zF7RoSd6M3dPMhHveaw4OV-_3KRHOIIq/s640/July%20blog%20photo%20potato%20salad.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIcTy1MTMudN1UV8k2iNI6UtiTmLdQwfTCvNcGRYGr1-L7vBDjO1-WqFaZLQLx6rx08jZY8ADv3hWoN1y8WNFWpQeA55IH9AxQyGvs3YlkERhCuV1vOjfag8Sn_dLDZMf1zyFVTQxq74xFDNitiIuw1c9zF7RoSd6M3dPMhHveaw4OV-_3KRHOIIq/s320/July%20blog%20photo%20potato%20salad.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Purple Potato Salad </td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrSBuTORnUUySrU07e7d326He6DRnExqPDD0MZg3SomZhPJmPcqW8LnkfCp7dMsVBDilIHETrvvHEHqHgZLB75vy9wT-cV9u4oW9An-sW5ekZ9-oekavd4A5TEHMlX7BPYzgrGK0qrEKU4J__vSrY0fWzksTdv4z26j3zUsE4z3CbABuGpTjuqWOr/s640/July%20blog%20photo%20coleslaw.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="583" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrSBuTORnUUySrU07e7d326He6DRnExqPDD0MZg3SomZhPJmPcqW8LnkfCp7dMsVBDilIHETrvvHEHqHgZLB75vy9wT-cV9u4oW9An-sW5ekZ9-oekavd4A5TEHMlX7BPYzgrGK0qrEKU4J__vSrY0fWzksTdv4z26j3zUsE4z3CbABuGpTjuqWOr/w252-h276/July%20blog%20photo%20coleslaw.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coleslaw</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCIcTy1MTMudN1UV8k2iNI6UtiTmLdQwfTCvNcGRYGr1-L7vBDjO1-WqFaZLQLx6rx08jZY8ADv3hWoN1y8WNFWpQeA55IH9AxQyGvs3YlkERhCuV1vOjfag8Sn_dLDZMf1zyFVTQxq74xFDNitiIuw1c9zF7RoSd6M3dPMhHveaw4OV-_3KRHOIIq/s640/July%20blog%20photo%20potato%20salad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yk9D1jGlFymcR8AHu-XguJH26G7MMsnzkzHpfSpZRX7MNAWnD9ZVSt1M1QjHlsCtxQtFtoSRecn-HoYjizV1RXE_TdC3WnY87-zwimJiOz8ZhcS4Khdk1Vh3yUdHXlmTW7yQJa7Gy1KAzeEFb3sk5QttMhd_i9MLDlK_o-CsNzwOCXfn_qY1Ky8C/s640/July%20blog%20photo%20shrimp.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="640" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yk9D1jGlFymcR8AHu-XguJH26G7MMsnzkzHpfSpZRX7MNAWnD9ZVSt1M1QjHlsCtxQtFtoSRecn-HoYjizV1RXE_TdC3WnY87-zwimJiOz8ZhcS4Khdk1Vh3yUdHXlmTW7yQJa7Gy1KAzeEFb3sk5QttMhd_i9MLDlK_o-CsNzwOCXfn_qY1Ky8C/s320/July%20blog%20photo%20shrimp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sautéed Shrimp in White Wine and Pepper Flakes </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Color on a plate, and a combination of textures—and of course flavors—that all </span><span style="text-align: left;">complement each other, is something I still strive for and gain great happiness from. Yes, my ol’ dear Mambo 64 customers know I loved combining these key elements. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">These days, I’m combining at home—so when I can mix the deep blue/purple of a Peruvian potato, or the cream-colored meat of new potatoes, and contrast it with bright yellow of mango (yes—in a potato salad!) I do it. And yes, my friends, I do try to keep it more local for the most part, which is so much easier to do this time of year. And even the simple fresh green beans, cucumber, tomato, fresh herbs, and scallions (purple ones) radishes—and much more, topped with a sprinkle of fresh basil leaves, still dazzles. </span></div></div></div></div><div dir="rtl" style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I guess it’s the freshness and immediate gratification of food –admiring it before devouring it—that still gets me. But it’s not too different from the way my body reacts to a beautiful scene—wild flowers, sunsets, a new baby connecting with a parent—sibling, or grandparent. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRGgEahA1dBdubNTcI0xcgVsL3dJWjnzsw7YIPR_ocQHvujwUYn4Z0YsLVNPvcCLvtgDT6Ssz-NZ_8QAUHW39U03Xzm0kMHFpdoXLbcwLx6XRAWHitzFLISXcjMZDFGNLWHSylPbWCzv8NJ2xX4wengPap0pcYKPnrClr2_F890slIrcFOX30Kfq9/s640/July%20Blog%20Photo%203%20Ready%20for%20Yoga%20--.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcRGgEahA1dBdubNTcI0xcgVsL3dJWjnzsw7YIPR_ocQHvujwUYn4Z0YsLVNPvcCLvtgDT6Ssz-NZ_8QAUHW39U03Xzm0kMHFpdoXLbcwLx6XRAWHitzFLISXcjMZDFGNLWHSylPbWCzv8NJ2xX4wengPap0pcYKPnrClr2_F890slIrcFOX30Kfq9/s320/July%20Blog%20Photo%203%20Ready%20for%20Yoga%20--.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-Yoga Class View of Bryant Park </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Last Wednesday, when I was walking by Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan, I saw a different kind of connection. There was a yoga class going on, and several hundred people were participating. As the teacher directed, they reached up to the sky, they all stretched up, in unison, and the sea of arms—not unlike an Esther Williams swimming movie, only more colorful as far as shades of skin. The collective movement was evocative. There they were, all different people, all different ages, moving in the same way, reaching for the same goal. It was an illustration of togetherness—of human contact positively and constructively achieved. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked away from that scene, got to meet my son for a quick coffee, and headed to my flamenco workshop. Still, a few thoughts about that Bryant Park yoga scene, along with some others from recent days, have stayed with me. I’m sharing four of them with you here: </div><div><br /></div><div> 1) Life is so crazy short. We need to take care of ourselves, and our loved ones, as best we can. So much is out of our control, so we need to foster the things we can.
2) We need to express our love, enjoy our loved ones, and celebrate what and when we can. </div><div> 3) It’s important to speak out about what we believe in, but equally important to listen to others, and hear where they’re coming from.</div><div> 4) There’s so much to live and learn—languages, books, music, art, dance, recipes—ah, places to visit! People to meet! </div><div><br /></div><div>My list grows in all different directions and I hear both of my parents’ voices encouraging me to continue on all fronts. As they would often say, “If we’re lucky, we keep learning—always.”</div><div><br /></div><div>I wish you all days rich of joy and laughter, the courage, confidence and assistance you need to work to change things that you are unhappy with, and the opportunity to find happiness in learning, and living, many kinds of experiences.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>With love always,</div><div>Arlen </div>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com10New Rochelle, NY, USA40.9114882 -73.7823549-36.201529592923727 145.5926451 90 66.8426451tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-56277392559330802222022-05-17T19:00:00.017-04:002022-05-17T19:00:00.184-04:00Mid-May Musings <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpcuxjFByZAUfiCiP-rT7oRhncoB_d4EySilcdZvsXtL_VUweEVTG73W05niD_pe73wSpxARk80pOGnp26qq7Ay0Pne6TPIgCAZIFW6Pkb1WX6SUmXszabRwaPxk_HfM_oBXiVG7bwtR9X6iyhcYKOK6C9t2joxeTonSQYodmybA_jCfzaA20a-G2/s640/Moss%20Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpcuxjFByZAUfiCiP-rT7oRhncoB_d4EySilcdZvsXtL_VUweEVTG73W05niD_pe73wSpxARk80pOGnp26qq7Ay0Pne6TPIgCAZIFW6Pkb1WX6SUmXszabRwaPxk_HfM_oBXiVG7bwtR9X6iyhcYKOK6C9t2joxeTonSQYodmybA_jCfzaA20a-G2/s320/Moss%20Photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moss That Carpets the Rocks in New Paltz New York </td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Introduction: <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On this mid-May day, the air is
fresh and sparkly. I’m lucky to work and duck out for a run, and then get back
to work. The run clears tangled thoughts in my head, allows me to catch <i>la
vida cotidiana</i> or daily life of the people around me. It helps me put the
headlines aside for a bit, admire the babies that parents and grandparents
push in strollers, the kids playing in the schoolyards and parks, greet people on the street,
watch the crazy construction machines as they paw voraciously into the earth,
while others stretch up to the sky, and move my body which, in turn, always
helps my mind. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On this mid-May day, I reflect on the past few weeks, and
try to organize some thoughts and slices of life. Today I consider our capacity
for so much in life—our strengths and support, and our multifaceted ability to
live many lives in one.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Part One:</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Flamenco class, right?” The older elegant Black gentleman
who monitors all the events of this West 43<sup>rd</sup> Street building greets
me with a broad smile. I’m delighted he has identified me as a flamenco dancer.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s Saturday, and I’ve come to dance for an hour, to gain
insight and wisdom of movement. I see the goal in my mind; I want to be like my
teacher—like the other dancers—for whom all the gestures, the movements, the sounds,
flow gracefully. I’m in love with everything about flamenco: the music, the
emotion, the expression, the feeling I get when I watch it, and how I feel when
I attempt to dance it. I recognize that achieving my goal requires time. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNjzhVYSnWOvTaHSQRO33dLzR6eGsmLm8ABDOZYwyaZgPq-fIc73j_ch9yHZXw2kzr0sqZx5jexptUJxiJCZJO3ht62CzaCj8o1C12Fo50VW8SWwM8vIsr0ZbjElWak6kVaQj0ZyQxbaMHRUgKFKKidkPmWAGJSE9sweav2zFEShBOCAlJpz0OTuu/s800/with%20Deirdre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNjzhVYSnWOvTaHSQRO33dLzR6eGsmLm8ABDOZYwyaZgPq-fIc73j_ch9yHZXw2kzr0sqZx5jexptUJxiJCZJO3ht62CzaCj8o1C12Fo50VW8SWwM8vIsr0ZbjElWak6kVaQj0ZyQxbaMHRUgKFKKidkPmWAGJSE9sweav2zFEShBOCAlJpz0OTuu/s320/with%20Deirdre.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With My Beautiful/Wonderful Teacher, Deirdre</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Time. And effort. I’m relishing both.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Time, lately, has invaded my thoughts, it seems. I’m finding
ways of dividing it, categorizing it, and most of all, attempting to enjoy it
and shift it into different realms of being.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps that’s why references to time are fascinating to me.
Just a few weeks ago, when I was reading Elizabeth’s Gilbert book <b>Signature
of All Things</b>, I learned her protagonist, Alma Whittaker’s, proclamation that
there are many types of time, ranging from Human to Divine, and including
Geological and Moss Time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Moss Time. This may be my current time of choice. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It moves slowly, and in a colorful manner…softening the
rocks it rests upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="background: white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Part Two:</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People who know me, know that I am “enamoradiza.” It’s one
of those words that can’t be translated easily from Spanish into English. Still,
I can explain the meaning: it means I fall in love easily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Recently, and perhaps due to the accumulation of decades of
life experience paired with some thought of looking ahead, I’ve been trying to
fill myself with experiences and knowledge—of many sorts. More and more I’m
considering what I want to do paired with how I am supporting myself (and
realize that this is a privilege). There are, I see, ways to fill life up with
a myriad of choices that are both enjoyable and meaningful. Ideally, they are not
mutually exclusive. I also like the multiple life theme…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’ve got some great models; I know plenty of people who
have multiple lives. Take my older brother Shawn, who works in construction by
day, and as an artist by night—and on days off. AND he works with a whole group
of construction workers who are also artists! And he plays soccer. And more…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Funny, I remember my parents talking about “Gentle Julius”
when I was a little girl. Apparently, he was not only a dentist—which is how
they met him in the first place—but also an accomplished violinist. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I remember being fascinated by that. I had never heard of
someone able to do such disparate things. After all, I thought teachers lived
at school—and slept there. I viewed employment as monogamous. As a child—and
despite the many activities and even teachings of my parents--I thought people
did one thing—and that’s what they did. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My, how wrong I was! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Part Three: </b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Onward ever, backward never!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is yet another quote, one of many notable ones, from
Elizabeth Gilbert—one of the authors I’m currently in love with. (Told you I
was enamoradiza.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She’s been talking to me (yes—it feels that much more personal
when someone is speaking in your ear—even if it’s an audio book narration!)
about setting time aside, about not being afraid, about enjoying the process. I
recognize that this is a luxury that I’m lucky enough to be able to enjoy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I take in her words, and then scatter them throughout my own
thoughts—not unlike sprinkling my much beloved cilantro, fresh lime juice and
salt on my avocadoes. Her words complement my ideas. They bring out the best in
flavor. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Part Four: <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Audiobook<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Listening to a good audiobook is like trying a new recipe:
there’s an unknown bit that can bring delight in the form of flavors of
thought. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Words fill my ears—some go deep, some stay with my earrings.
In the past few months, I’ve discovered the joy and depth of audio books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Voices accompany me on my walks—and runs—and
as I cook. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The beauty of the audiobook is that it’s flexible: you can
start it whenever you want—and you don’t have to carry it with you. Like a
paper book, you can go back and replay sections. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What do I look for in an audiobook? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>The narrator’s voice has to be one that I enjoy
hearing. (I started my whole audio book
foray with a voice that I most enjoy: Barack Obama’s)</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->A plot/story of interest: this is obviously key.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span>Interleaving of nonfiction and fiction titles,
and a diversity of authors (though now I realize that my latest books were all
written by women). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Some of the books are pictured below. </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Conclusion:</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On this mid-May day, I share with you dreams of peace, an end of so many wrongs in our world, and
wishes for love…always.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">With love always,</p><p class="MsoNormal">Arlen </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJEltvQuJsR1UuK3KNx0K5zwAfCvD_YpEmqpLd6wMiH7tBWC26-EigWj72TRQNmm4hJP_e9uWlaS82T2KdZ2ETGc8Yq91vRy6u1h_e3ipJ9rzxLX2IjjF9-Elj6hfRgUy848DA3ZEuAmtTvHY9R6E_GElMzpspGACdUGibXl5-gSXZt5-xTzLRPbJD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="825" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJEltvQuJsR1UuK3KNx0K5zwAfCvD_YpEmqpLd6wMiH7tBWC26-EigWj72TRQNmm4hJP_e9uWlaS82T2KdZ2ETGc8Yq91vRy6u1h_e3ipJ9rzxLX2IjjF9-Elj6hfRgUy848DA3ZEuAmtTvHY9R6E_GElMzpspGACdUGibXl5-gSXZt5-xTzLRPbJD" width="220" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZOlbUb9y1HvueQKWJhv-3umfc6lihqvYI2lb9tkbMgfRqlNjEUBgHI9vbRvuSwv__wAwzvFJXNjpPKQNuLqDoyF7yMiYV5YXA9sCRejOE_TJO3BZk-luVL55kJ-Nhx3_6nEhcgifp8JXI9y5PVRgEeqRnO-5qPQhSeoJFatSwHqU_pIMklcp2zNEn" style="clear: left; 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margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwGDyPPOEM6FYhz1RL-aKahY099FTsZeK59nCG_Eq8zMAPozYA5TYbtoqoUewxnwYcSO0N_bTPUb7ZAsdbaswpY9pF6QSmrxn3HUhnqRnUXDKdxjZmXm4eCxzoBs8T1AHsWZHZxjimLprvdSqi4pgx6Ll-LgRSqK13g9vceLYWtXuJP2f0vJDZ0edH" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="799" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhwGDyPPOEM6FYhz1RL-aKahY099FTsZeK59nCG_Eq8zMAPozYA5TYbtoqoUewxnwYcSO0N_bTPUb7ZAsdbaswpY9pF6QSmrxn3HUhnqRnUXDKdxjZmXm4eCxzoBs8T1AHsWZHZxjimLprvdSqi4pgx6Ll-LgRSqK13g9vceLYWtXuJP2f0vJDZ0edH" width="217" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5Va-jUfsx-g_da6aiaukXV0e9eJ_aufbmLny8meqIBImGk8drI_qnkRVEGLO1FJheaqQHlR3wghRG-AzmHipyu3xK3bZdkuQOLkkpl8P7lsNViau6ZRJJeXnW8g8Vz_pyk0RH8Ik-kZHnP404DRds_PCzUkXFtAIXIzuQkrCNMJ0ggHfGOkGI15aR" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="824" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj5Va-jUfsx-g_da6aiaukXV0e9eJ_aufbmLny8meqIBImGk8drI_qnkRVEGLO1FJheaqQHlR3wghRG-AzmHipyu3xK3bZdkuQOLkkpl8P7lsNViau6ZRJJeXnW8g8Vz_pyk0RH8Ik-kZHnP404DRds_PCzUkXFtAIXIzuQkrCNMJ0ggHfGOkGI15aR" width="244" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1VuN_uc3T1mC6oiJonjhGyS4bGFBdWRr9xhGQysR0XTjmpob_d6NBWVZORgh6snZBR24bB57q-LOYsIjAXxARO8hUcSpwf_udqbSWkOoSUKbMDSEnQFYLkBJ5Xup_dasTeecoSrxR54umeX0Oszk_k890mRW6p-RbhGxBU5rH7xfiXoAg-VthQ4rz" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="986" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1VuN_uc3T1mC6oiJonjhGyS4bGFBdWRr9xhGQysR0XTjmpob_d6NBWVZORgh6snZBR24bB57q-LOYsIjAXxARO8hUcSpwf_udqbSWkOoSUKbMDSEnQFYLkBJ5Xup_dasTeecoSrxR54umeX0Oszk_k890mRW6p-RbhGxBU5rH7xfiXoAg-VthQ4rz" width="259" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-22654135145092562052022-03-17T19:00:00.001-04:002022-03-17T19:00:00.242-04:00A Few Days in March: Spring is on the Way<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBkOeJbU6jYg2wd4cH5sUm8wmF1GIuBa4P2nimrfFu2CW_YRYA7QRBN9sRs4vqv3QJlbL-EjPPGBXeRXzw-nR02Aovz2a5IXjKNKZ-IY0Uc5aDg_JRUPfE5XFxNLtOJIuTZ6NNyoqxr6TFJtVD-C_gZgS3eGIByey7jnhRYAkOK2TkWIla5-K9fw0b=s869" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBkOeJbU6jYg2wd4cH5sUm8wmF1GIuBa4P2nimrfFu2CW_YRYA7QRBN9sRs4vqv3QJlbL-EjPPGBXeRXzw-nR02Aovz2a5IXjKNKZ-IY0Uc5aDg_JRUPfE5XFxNLtOJIuTZ6NNyoqxr6TFJtVD-C_gZgS3eGIByey7jnhRYAkOK2TkWIla5-K9fw0b=s320" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Early March Comfort Food: White Beans, Spinach, Tomatoes, Potatoes...and Some Sausage </span><br />March 5<sup>th</sup><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Last week I was thinking about
what games to buy; this week I’m thinking about arming myself.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">These were the words of a Ukrainian
guy I heard interviewed on NPR. Talk about playing the last week at this time
game…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Still, I’m playing with time and
going back weeks, months, years. It seems like photos make time seem that much
more tangible.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I don’t mind not being able to see
what’s coming; divining the future was never one of my three wishes. (Though—I
have to admit—my number one wish was always the greedy, ‘I want more wishes!’
wish!) Of course, I did always want to be like Bewitched,
and touch my nose and make magic happen—or maybe more like I Dream of Jeannie (always
liked the outfit), so I could just cross my arms and nod my head to make some magic happen.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">However, and maybe, I’ve matured a
bit. Though I still have many wishes, these days, I speak my wishes aloud, with
palms pressed together in front of my chest, while I’m standing on my favorite
rock at Davenport Park, feeling the sun on my face, and facing the
ever-inspirational water. These days, I wish for the health and wellbeing of my
children and my loved ones. I wish for food and shelter and equity of treatment
for all. And I wish for peace. These days, my wishes are more embracing of a
larger picture.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Since it's cooler, I go back to making comfort foods.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpvOiBPdqx0cq7-Hu9vVCHBGT_pSmDPvGR7bWsfUP9l4X_QCVzrjDFPdwClz_bWu-80raYO4SG2k8JNv_KA3CZEn-KE2QoT-JkDyvD9_A4emifOcKihyNtc-g5kzfIQHk23L3qTXLyc48g36xXszwbaTkJBwlwqp4A4_P_Hd46CMhR4bPD_gRHozDU=s940" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="752" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpvOiBPdqx0cq7-Hu9vVCHBGT_pSmDPvGR7bWsfUP9l4X_QCVzrjDFPdwClz_bWu-80raYO4SG2k8JNv_KA3CZEn-KE2QoT-JkDyvD9_A4emifOcKihyNtc-g5kzfIQHk23L3qTXLyc48g36xXszwbaTkJBwlwqp4A4_P_Hd46CMhR4bPD_gRHozDU=w256-h320" title="Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup" width="256" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Red Lentil Sweet Potato Soup--with Spinach, Cilantro, and Toasted Coconut</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">March 12<sup>th</sup></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It’s a rainy/snowy day. I’ve
finished Educated, by Tara Westover, and have re-started Calypso, by David
Sedaris. I’ve got Caste, by Isabel Wilkerson, The Beekeeper of Aleppo, by Christy
Lefteri, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and am continuing We are Each
Other’s Harvest, by Natalie Baszile. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My book pile is my treasure. The books are filled with ideas
that will plant themselves in my head, and will be woven in between my own
thoughts—will support the ideas and beliefs I have. They will make me laugh.
They will make me cry. Most of all, they will make me think. I start, and then
put them aside so that I can write. The words the spring forth—though inspired
by the words I’ve read, expressions I yearn to adopt—sometimes I feel like they
might not be mine, but my brain envelops them, embraces them all, and moves
them into the realm of my own usage. They become mine.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though I’m writing, I am distracted by my book pile. I stop
writing, and look—due to force of habit—at my phone. I scroll through my
messages. There are many I could/should erase. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve kept a few from my aunt; she passed away
last year. I can’t erase her messages. Yet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I listen to her voice and a collage of tangled memories
comes fourth—and though they delight me on one hand, they deeply sadden me. I
haven’t been able to listen to my mother’s voice—recordings—since she passed
away, now almost exactly 4 years ago. Wow. Four years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine speaking with her—I have so many
questions that are known lying, suspended in air. Unanswered. I also think
about what I’d like to update her with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">March 13<sup>th</sup><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sun is out—the wind is biting, but the sun manages to
wiggle its way onto my face and I hold it there. I’m walking/running—and
watching others do the same. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see a young man, walking near Viva Grande in New Rochelle,
and talking on the phone. I can hear him speaking in Spanish—commenting on the
weather, “A veces, sí—demasiado frío,” and I imagine he’s arrived, perhaps from
Mexico—judging by his accent--not too long ago, and recounting bits of his
job…and the weather. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind is
whipping is straight black hair around, but he lets it go. I want to see whom
he’s speaking with, and imagine his mother—and maybe others gathered around. He
smiles at me—perhaps because he sees me watching his hair dance. I smile an
hola back to him. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My thoughts drift. I think about other young—and older men—
and women, in his same position: those who have left their country and family
behind in search of opportunities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">March 16</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It’s back to spring. The
children’s squeals at Trinity Elementary School are paralleled by the parrots’ squawks.
I wonder if they notice each other. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The children are not wearing masks—only wait, some have them
as a kind of chin strap. I imagine their moms saying, “Make sure you keep your
mask on!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That brings me to thoughts of my mom, who passed away almost exactly four years
ago, in four days.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now running, I'm at the bottom edge of Davenport Park. The water glistens in the
sun. I climb atop my prayer rock, the large one that rests right over the Long
Island Sound. I think of peace, stability, sanity, health—and all the people I
want to send warm thoughts to. I close my eyes and let the sun rest on my face.
I tell my parents I love and miss them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2OE6wpbBsQEaVy53VxQb5BBxTB7BivpQBZ6YBocT1tTzi2hd4rsPAEFwQf-W47A5GwJYdy8C9whFbeJtP9H__sUuLRVX4sFi_pAb3IbKWqYkZ0zJvkMQdb9we81asK4TrxQDgS0NGHNRHYJwX3nssAcKwPEwb5GYu5exTRk_Mkze8R3ny9FVejZpF=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2OE6wpbBsQEaVy53VxQb5BBxTB7BivpQBZ6YBocT1tTzi2hd4rsPAEFwQf-W47A5GwJYdy8C9whFbeJtP9H__sUuLRVX4sFi_pAb3IbKWqYkZ0zJvkMQdb9we81asK4TrxQDgS0NGHNRHYJwX3nssAcKwPEwb5GYu5exTRk_Mkze8R3ny9FVejZpF=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I turn around, and run up the hill back to the street. Running
up the hill today seems easier, but still, it’s not easy.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then I run back to Viva Grande, my market, where I’ll pick up
some vegetables and more for dinner. <o:p></o:p></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-10133446099586721792022-01-19T21:55:00.001-05:002022-01-19T21:55:26.215-05:00 Comerse el Coco: A.K.A. Rumination <div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="513" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoxeVJ9WJvHHi9QpfP9Mi0p-WsQw3Kx0XNg9E85oKbhjtEVezpoZv6NRBG7uPoRpuX8d3NB2IN9cZdWA4JUNyvfSZCkAWHA4SJIsPPRbSSuIdG6p3RnjmbGYDj_HqeX6qxRT7KYClAGT_9pbwpfyKcjodzr3IrU-UsJlQ6dT1Pzli6mSHpNheZLQaK=w249-h280" width="249" />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My Illustration of one of my Parrot Friends </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">T<span style="font-family: inherit;">heir voices catch me by surprise—as do their green tails. I stop my running, pull out my earbuds, and look up into the tree to see and hear them. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen the parrots of New Rochelle, here, next to Trinity school. But it’s winter, so I was not expecting them. I stand under the tree where they’ve gathered, and watch them as they dance above me. They're all feasting on the small buds that line the smaller and very thin twig-like branches.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">It was then that I had my “Axolotl” moment (I refer to a wonderful short story by Argentine author, Julio Cortazar). In the story, the protagonist loses part of his own sense of self, and experiences a type of metamorphosis: he adopts the identity of the creatures he’s observing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In my case, I knew I wasn’t actually becoming a parrot—despite my desire to join in, feast, and then fly with them. But I started to ponder: How do these parrots see me? Here I stand, a white female human with cream-colored knit hat, almost nest-like blonde meets brown curls of hair sneaking out underneath, a red down vest, black leggings and red rimmed socks poking up above my black running shoes. I wonder what they notice and if, in fact, they are observing me observing them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7Y3lnAqvNnpYkFZ_ZIAbfjK_rTql19ZaBq1NPQslxJfyVNN5iVQ_IaOmr6_4kCNYY_LPv9jugBMPKg3EoGOtD3oK4a8GGuE-pugv2zyEz5GKL0JuYnkaxWIl_UEVpLMHlggen_0-EuCaio_84YiP_hSA-iURC76-YW8kIadVlWN0blU8MDZLlklds=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj7Y3lnAqvNnpYkFZ_ZIAbfjK_rTql19ZaBq1NPQslxJfyVNN5iVQ_IaOmr6_4kCNYY_LPv9jugBMPKg3EoGOtD3oK4a8GGuE-pugv2zyEz5GKL0JuYnkaxWIl_UEVpLMHlggen_0-EuCaio_84YiP_hSA-iURC76-YW8kIadVlWN0blU8MDZLlklds=s320" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Looking up at this bevy of birds, thinking about their impression of me, reminded me of something else: a story about noticing, one that I’ve told my students over the years. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My story starts several decades ago, when I was hired to do a training in a university in West Virginia. The school had been recently acquired by a Japanese company. At the time, I was working with predominantly Japanese students at Concordia College in New York, and had done some presentations about cultural differences in communication styles of English language learners from Japan. Hence, I was hired to travel to this university to work with their teachers for a couple of days. Little did I realize that I was more foreign to this group of instructors than their new Japanese students were. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I remember I dressed in one of my standard NYC-type suits (we’re talking about the early 90s)—which was a simple black linen single breasted, shoulder-padded waist coat and a matching almost knee-length skirt. I wore ivory stockings, and black Mary Jane heels and a pair of longish Peruvian silver and lapis lazuli earrings that poked out from time to time between my dark brown curls. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">When I saw them, I noticed right away that they were all white, mostly quite a bit older than I was then, and more conservatively dressed. The women all looked like Aunt Bees to me (from Mayberry RFD), with grey or dyed sand-colored hair, piled up high. Maybe wearing pearls? </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">One gentleman, who looked a bit different from the rest of the crowd, sat in the front row. He was wearing a white mock-turtleneck shirt, and a navy-blue corduroy jacket with suede patches on the elbows. His hair was straight and sandy blonde and long, and pulled back into a tight and long ponytail. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“Aha,” I thought, “here is my ally.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">But I was dead wrong. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I told the teachers, as part of my spiel, that their new students might not be as voluntarily vocal as some of their others. In fact, I continued, they should of course encourage all of their participation, but then call on individual students to speak up. Additionally, these students might not answer as quickly as we might like. To this end I advised, when asking questions of their English language learners from Japan, teachers should wait a bit longer for a response. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My “ally” in the front row leaned back, and spoke up: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“What do you mean, wait longer? What are you saying? Is five minutes long enough?” His rapid fire questions were shot off in a sarcastic-meets-accusatory tone. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I tried to rapidly recover from the sting. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">“Let me clarify,” I began. “It’s that many of your students may not have had the chance to practice their spoken English, and they will be concerned about formulating the correct answers prior to saying them aloud.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I went on to explain that English classes in Japan generally—especially at that time—didn’t focus on speaking skills, but instead primarily on grammar and writing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I didn’t look directly at him, but scanned the audience. The group nodded in what appeared to be understanding. However, according to my memory, that man in the front row with the ponytail and corduroy jacket unthankfully grimaced. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The rest of that workshop is blurry to me. But I do remember vividly that later, at break time, as we gathered next to the large coffee pot, sipping from white Styrofoam cups and eating delicious homemade peanut butter cookies, the Aunt Bees graciously thanked me, and apologized for their colleague’s behavior.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">That was when I became aware of two things: I was judging them all based on my personal collection of preconceived notions and, well, they were doing the same thing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">So, what does this have to do with “comerse el coco?” Well, that expression means—literally—to eat your head; to ponder many things at once, and have these thoughts crashing around with jagged edges. Rumination. I think we all do this—especially these days, when so much is going on immediately around us both locally and globally. This pondering is not necessarily a bad thing. But it’s a thing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I’m back to the present. I’m still under the tree. Suddenly, I feel something lightly tap my head, and think, “Wow! Bird droppings! This could mean good luck.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I take off my hat to examine, and immediately discover that it’s a small twig. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Still, I feel lucky.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></p><div><br /></div></div>
Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-9503628947315081042021-12-15T19:00:00.053-05:002021-12-15T19:08:59.829-05:00Back to the Blog--And Looking Ahead <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgR0L1HKok4TJtjiDKbWYi-y8aI8Jh9Ru2Bps8j_21wFfBSSa30mBvrMCwQwF8fnfPs7Ocrk2esjlwU0YtKqNy2dvp4-6N9MuX0dnxNivR0t230XFC5w0cw0vwCSuIq1e1kdZS-uz1Uo/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbgR0L1HKok4TJtjiDKbWYi-y8aI8Jh9Ru2Bps8j_21wFfBSSa30mBvrMCwQwF8fnfPs7Ocrk2esjlwU0YtKqNy2dvp4-6N9MuX0dnxNivR0t230XFC5w0cw0vwCSuIq1e1kdZS-uz1Uo/" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday Pre-Dinner Assortment</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It’s never just the flavors—it’s not
even just the food. It is a combination of colors, textures, aromas and tastes. This is what I like to give to my family and friends. This is what reaches my soul. This is what brings me back to this blog. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Last night’s sunset
cloud dance (pictured below) inspired. It fed me some ideas.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiza7FiOKvglBx53LAwTLXuKfnD1ibmuB4LA1FLtJ2hSV2CXNOYT59Zcuoa1m9S1ymX3LXc58I61wp8lLFk2QzcjB2mGGs2F4-nvdawQzlT-GyCk3TVQD9tGRmXpcQhrTh5GryBMEG35y8/" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiza7FiOKvglBx53LAwTLXuKfnD1ibmuB4LA1FLtJ2hSV2CXNOYT59Zcuoa1m9S1ymX3LXc58I61wp8lLFk2QzcjB2mGGs2F4-nvdawQzlT-GyCk3TVQD9tGRmXpcQhrTh5GryBMEG35y8/" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr></tbody></table><br />And now, today, it’s December 15: ten days before Christmas,
15 days before my birthday, and 17 days before January 1—the typical resolution-start
day.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet my soul brings me right here, and right now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Actually, it’s not so much resolutions; it’s more of a plan
of action. So, here we go with my top ten: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--> 1) <b>Read more.</b> This year I’ve slowed down
with my reading. Of course, I read every day, but not the novels and short
stories like I used to. It’s time for this, too. <o:p></o:p></p>
2) <b>Write more.</b> I've left this blog aside for a year+. It's time. I’m working on several
writing projects, but I want to get back to making this one--my solo venture--more of a disciplined effort. As part of that, I
looked into my own time management system—my way of brainstorming and pre-writing.
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><b>Cook more.</b> Well, actually, I do cook a lot—but
I want to cook differently. I want to keep the favorites, but start exploring
different combinations of spices, ingredients, and flavors. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Dance more.</b> This wasn’t as easy to do
during these past two years, at least not outside my home, but I’m bringing it back now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Watch and listen more.</b> Here I’m specifically referring
to plays and live music. Have to say, I’ve already started this one, and it’s
delightful. I’m continually blown away by the talent that surrounds us. Watching
performers is an emotional experience because it dives into you and pulls out
feelings--while delighting your senses. It's evocative. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s living life within life—and allows us the privilege of seeing from different angles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Observe more.</b> There’s so much going on
around us all the time. I want to take a step back and look at the details. At the risk of being cliché, I want to respect a mindfulness of
the eyes. This means slowing down and taking in: appreciating a child’s smile,
someone’s wave as I pass, a sunset, the sight of people greeting each other.
Life moments. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Express more.</b> Sometimes I hold things in
my throat, instead of saying them. I don’t want to—as my dad used to say—look
back and exclaim, “Woulda, shoulda, coulda” about anything, but especially
about expressing certain sentiments. Now, I’m talking about the positive
things. Negative ones I will keep a lid on—for as long as my current filter
allows. But I want to be clearer with my loved ones. I want them to know that I
love them, now and always. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Create more.</b> If something speaks to me, either
evokes some kind of inspiration to bring out my colorful markers, I won’t wait,
as I once did. I have my pens and my pads. It’s time to translate visions in my
mind through my fingers and onto paper. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Savor more. </b>So many moments pass so quickly.
I want to stop and savor—literally and figuratively. I want to listen more. Savoring is the recognition that right now, this very moment, is the moment. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b>Celebrate more.</b> Yes—there’s a lot NOT to
celebrate, but there’s also much to recognize and relish. I want to focus on that
without, as I’ve said before, putting my head in the sand. I’m not ignoring the negative—and do want to work and support those who work to make things better all around. But I also want to recognize the positive. I want to celebrate what we can, when we can. That’s
my plan.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCJLRbfRffQiftdGL9O1RmlRyH710hS5OhxJm5GDoPlvf7ADpeS2Ut7BjGsnbQuQo_-Qq7U08jAVlx4XKeZdLS5Hfiqv5v2Llp6CQmsVP_Nq73m2-FmAyBFDxFlldiElOrGTyN-15NGc/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCJLRbfRffQiftdGL9O1RmlRyH710hS5OhxJm5GDoPlvf7ADpeS2Ut7BjGsnbQuQo_-Qq7U08jAVlx4XKeZdLS5Hfiqv5v2Llp6CQmsVP_Nq73m2-FmAyBFDxFlldiElOrGTyN-15NGc/w168-h218/image.png" width="168" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> Like many of us who have children that are now grown, I miss their early days. They were magical. Today I found this photo of my mom and me. It is clearly a moment of celebration of surroundings--wishes, and joy. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish this kind of magic for all of us--for all of our souls. </div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><br /></p>Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-16248715203361201882020-05-10T13:00:00.000-04:002020-05-10T13:00:08.421-04:00Ode to Sonia O. A.K.A. Mi Mamá<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVt5zYUIpy4J-pRmG2VxKCfBs9XaJGB_WbSdx8zG5Uhx7DfPDRMYsUnQ24tNYfkpkAf65PW8plPxrMrJ_W3nyhxXONhDb7wo3nxF_3Okz0mmrs0JBzPMvKGqJaBQYD2TRwIoFqKXLmboE/s1600/Mod+Mom+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVt5zYUIpy4J-pRmG2VxKCfBs9XaJGB_WbSdx8zG5Uhx7DfPDRMYsUnQ24tNYfkpkAf65PW8plPxrMrJ_W3nyhxXONhDb7wo3nxF_3Okz0mmrs0JBzPMvKGqJaBQYD2TRwIoFqKXLmboE/s400/Mod+Mom+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Mod Mom--Many Moons Ago in Italy<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“What do you notice about the line of my shoulders versus the line of my hips?”
My mom asks me as she stands before me in her studio. Her hand, purposefully placed
on her right raised hip is that much more pronounced due to her lowered right
shoulder. Her head, in true model fashion, is slightly titled to the right. Thick
dark and perfectly arched eyebrows accentuate her almond-shaped eyes above her light
brown flawless skin and high cheekbones. Her straight dark brown hair is cropped
carefully and closely to her head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her deep
chocolate eyes focus fully on me. She’s exaggerating her stance as she poses in
front of me. She wants me to see her with an artist’s eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>My sketchbook lies
open on my lap and my charcoal pencil is in my right hand. I’m sitting up
straight on her royal blue covered couch, observing her observing me—eyes
peering into mine—as she models. Her easel and stool are behind her, as is the red
French Roast coffee tin filled with different-sized paintbrushes, and the adjacent
palette dotted with small piles of shiny colors. The smell of fresh oil paint breathes
towards me as does the warm light from the skylight above.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The lines of your shoulders and your hips are slanting in
opposite ways?” I say—with a question in my voice to cover myself in case I’m
incorrect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Exactly!” her Audrey Hepburn smile lights up her face and I
bask in her approval. She maintains her stance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now sketch me,” she commands. I know she means for me to
pay attention to her position and figure, and not the details of her outfit: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>black and white thinly striped turtleneck
cotton and high waisted capris black pants, tapered at her skinny waste, as
well as toward her thin, sockless ankles that lead into ped-cushioned feet, and
her loafers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was probably nine years old. This was one of many art lessons
she gave me. I’m sure I resisted at times. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I tried to keep my complaints to myself,
especially when she recounted how the only way to get good at anything was to keep at it—and never give up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This class was probably given just before she put me into
African dance classes with Mr. Ashangi. When I started those classes I did
complain--about being the only white girl, about the other girls who wondered
why I was with them—and Mr. Ashangi, who made fun of me and told me that as a
white girl, I couldn’t possibly have rhythm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In response to my whining about the class, Mom told me that
I needed to work that much harder so that I could <i>get </i>rhythm, and that this
class would be a good lesson for me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now,” she claimed, “you’ll understand what it
feels like to not be in a majority!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for my mom, she didn’t appear to have ever struggled with
rhythm. In fact, she seemed to have been born a natural dancer—as well as someone
possessed by so many other attributes. We have home movies of her, from the 40s,
dancing on the roof of her Brooklyn apartment. In the films, she’s about 11
years old, and imitating Carmen Miranda while being coached and coaxed by her
parents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looks sun kissed and happy.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mom kept her love of the sun, dance, and smiles her whole
life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a young teen, my Brighton-Beach-Brooklyn-born-and-raised
mother worked to lose her native accent. She won the argument to go to Cooper
Union to study art instead of being sent to secretarial school. She worked in
advertising, television, as an illustrator, a children’s book illustrator—and
author, teacher and more. She often told me tales of being the first female art
director, at age 23, at Young & Rubicam, and how she had to repeatedly prove
herself in order to “hang out with the boys.” Apparently, she did.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NTjU-BImBMOq8Dq2620lIHLOFaaQUdVpts4OI94WCuKiQmZZjG_Ta-oW9GS_0WaDdHjCtonj64B8oO86HwqlrSsuDoPYNXgAEukl2oAjutmFGhXs4ITOGGycx8iPC9lxiH1Hn6n8wmw/s1600/Mom+and+Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NTjU-BImBMOq8Dq2620lIHLOFaaQUdVpts4OI94WCuKiQmZZjG_Ta-oW9GS_0WaDdHjCtonj64B8oO86HwqlrSsuDoPYNXgAEukl2oAjutmFGhXs4ITOGGycx8iPC9lxiH1Hn6n8wmw/s320/Mom+and+Dad.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Dad in the 1960s In NYC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYKu_FyzghpzkVUzqRuN2m_xMg-0SJH8ZYkU5bY3Til8m7YY1SToefU08VauJLyGB_nl6tGCHHzeOxMqXHnFJ2CZ4S4mLLMGgSJjXJcczktm7svkIXlUHOA_-8fVwFT12lHq12RwBX3Q/s1600/Mom+and+Dad_NB+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLYKu_FyzghpzkVUzqRuN2m_xMg-0SJH8ZYkU5bY3Til8m7YY1SToefU08VauJLyGB_nl6tGCHHzeOxMqXHnFJ2CZ4S4mLLMGgSJjXJcczktm7svkIXlUHOA_-8fVwFT12lHq12RwBX3Q/s320/Mom+and+Dad_NB+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">M & D in the 1980s in North Brookfield, Massachusetts</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
Hostess and cook extraordinaire, those that knew my mom
extol her virtues as an entertainer, as well as a quick-witted extrovert.
Clever and creative are just two of the many wonderful qualities she had.
Controversial could be added to that list.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2773MQmJ_SNVuXa1CDNocqjp6aOILH8DcuDHQWPcwImpUVKbP3L9aKxvGueNoiSRqpaHbMz-klnTT9FIfp5GjqXjlRE9DJWopv7Cc1s4hvjq6Mv58gWrwEt16m5MBPOTOhwPDXHTwW4Y/s1600/Four+Generations.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2773MQmJ_SNVuXa1CDNocqjp6aOILH8DcuDHQWPcwImpUVKbP3L9aKxvGueNoiSRqpaHbMz-klnTT9FIfp5GjqXjlRE9DJWopv7Cc1s4hvjq6Mv58gWrwEt16m5MBPOTOhwPDXHTwW4Y/s320/Four+Generations.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four Generations: Sonia, Sofia, Arlen, Grandma Sophie, in the 1990s, Larchmont, NY</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Recently, a dear friend suggested I write a book about her. Mom
was, after all, a fascinating trailblazer in many ways. I told my friend about her many accomplishments, as well as a bit about her being quite
controversial, both amongst her five children (from three marriages) and their significant others, and grandchildren, as well as friends,
and colleagues. He immediately retorted: “That makes the story that much more
interesting.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, perhaps I will dive into that in the future.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I glance around my home at her numerous paintings, sculptures,
furniture designs, photos, and books; memories
of her and my dad’s parties, her taking me to so many museums, shows, and
movies, her sharing of books, tales,
travels, and more come into my mind. It’s a bittersweet wave that runs through
me as I write about her. I feel lucky, and hope I told her that before she
passed away two years ago.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lsg-_ox2I9wl5ip5x2dpPDi4bE05GS94te3Glt9Zcq3BR9iIWWhAPcpPUVpWquAr9HxPibdIlCa0oFjuiePv4Cd51yTRcCCkG6lguwy1nQQdlbm86POV10I_7a_J1BCPYo0jg_5GrAo/s1600/Mom%2527s+books+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="439" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lsg-_ox2I9wl5ip5x2dpPDi4bE05GS94te3Glt9Zcq3BR9iIWWhAPcpPUVpWquAr9HxPibdIlCa0oFjuiePv4Cd51yTRcCCkG6lguwy1nQQdlbm86POV10I_7a_J1BCPYo0jg_5GrAo/s400/Mom%2527s+books+.jpg" width="352" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three of Mom's Children's Books </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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However, dear family and friends, my objective is here is
not to be sad; on the contrary, I want to celebrate her life today. Today, after
all, is Mother’s Day. And so, it’s a pleasure to share Sonia’s Blueberry Pie with
you. Both of my children, Sofia and Wes, not only love this pie, but also have
made it for their friends on occasion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In conclusion, to all of you—mothers, fathers, sisters,
brothers, children, I hope you enjoy this treat as much as we have, and do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gqLkhIqG6HUEXbkDIfZ8xQhK8-qbmV5RvVSa0uCUbbwNG-RRpGNqZBnHl_b3zm6TwHKybAOh5EYxfOQ-FMDM_0PBiOO-lTHAIMPfsDoPgsSUgjsRIelXqVFNgSUO8nS2KPHBvnGrtlk/s1600/Pie_2+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="870" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gqLkhIqG6HUEXbkDIfZ8xQhK8-qbmV5RvVSa0uCUbbwNG-RRpGNqZBnHl_b3zm6TwHKybAOh5EYxfOQ-FMDM_0PBiOO-lTHAIMPfsDoPgsSUgjsRIelXqVFNgSUO8nS2KPHBvnGrtlk/s640/Pie_2+.jpg" width="344" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blueberry Pie and Flowers </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 30px; font-weight: 700;">Sonia’s Open-faced Blueberry Pie</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Makes one 9-inch pie<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Graham Cracker-Nut Crust: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 1/2 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>cups graham
cracker crumbs (you can buy them as crumbs, or crush 1 ½ packages<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in a food processor) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1/2 cups pecans (I prefer) or walnuts, toasted pulverized
(in a food processor) or finely chopped <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 tablespoon raw brown sugar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1/4 <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>teaspoon ground
cinnamon<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4 tablespoons butter cut into ½-inch bits<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Preheat the oven to 375ºF. Combine the ingredients in a food
processor and process until it becomes just about smooth. Press into a buttered
9-inch pie pan. Bake until lightly toasted, 8 to 10 minutes. Let cool <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>For the filling: <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3 cups fresh blueberries (you can add blackberries, too!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3/4 cup blueberry jam or preserves (can be a blueberry and blackberry
mixture)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1/4 teaspoon minced fresh lemon rind<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 pinch nutmeg<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 pinch cinnamon<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In a medium saucepan, combine ½ of the fresh blueberries (about
1 ½ cups) with the blueberry jam or preserves. Add the lemon rind, nutmeg, and
cinnamon, and cook, over medium heat, until warmed through, about five minutes.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Scrape into the cooled pie crust. Top with remaining
blueberries, serve, and enjoy!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-65171117055710636762020-04-26T19:30:00.000-04:002020-04-26T19:30:01.641-04:00Inspiration from Meals, Music, and Muses: Alexander Smalls' Latest Cookbook <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not quite sure what day of the quarantine we're in, but I do know
one thing: it’s time!<br />
<br />
What is it time for?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s time to put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, and
get back to what I started many moons ago. And so, my friends, I’m going back to one of my true
loves: food writing. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To “re-inaugurate” this blog after a two-plus year hiatus, I turn to a chef, author,
restaurateur, singer, dear friend/mentor whom I admire tremendously: Mr. Alexander
Smalls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMP7N01Wz041DmlIvA9u86fTD6nJw87w9K6GSd7CJfrnMVvmtUnV5KG-Gl_eRjb805N25fgg2g7WzP4gkR2TlsIzhyphenhyphenvjF5RBAFjM-JyixzpR0XTxDWDnzlioVwHkV_-eui62mrlfDxOo/s1600/With+Alexander+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="625" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlMP7N01Wz041DmlIvA9u86fTD6nJw87w9K6GSd7CJfrnMVvmtUnV5KG-Gl_eRjb805N25fgg2g7WzP4gkR2TlsIzhyphenhyphenvjF5RBAFjM-JyixzpR0XTxDWDnzlioVwHkV_-eui62mrlfDxOo/s320/With+Alexander+.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Alexander Smalls, a Few Years Ago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, Alexander and I met about 15 years ago, when my agent
at the time thought we would not only get along well together, but that we could also collaborate on a book project. At that time, he had already published <b>Grace the Table (</b>which is available via Amazon and other outlets).<br />
<br />
Well, the book Alexander and I worked on together didn’t get
published, BUT others have been—and continue to be—and we are still very much
connected.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which brings me to this blog.<br />
<br />
Alexander—in the past two years—has
written and published <i>two </i>wonderful books (pictured below): <b>Between Harlem and Heaven, </b>and<b> Meals, Music and Muses: Recipes from My African American Kitchen</b>.<br />
<br />
It’s <b>Meals, Music and Muses
from My African American Kitchen, </b>published this year, that pushed me into my Easter Sunday menu.
And that, my friends, is exactly what I’m sharing with you here!<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQvlGeJrg4py2thBbxjQXj4DIg8mRvV3F24P7A8c6rjFQqdIK3CqlZJnBJNCZOAZuyxbWVVpXdW_l_WyOQd-onveIGcu1mh73VNbc9ikg2ENwHGllHECaxHYHC2RVvG2wCz52LpFPMkE/s1600/Alexander%2527s+Books+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="640" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQvlGeJrg4py2thBbxjQXj4DIg8mRvV3F24P7A8c6rjFQqdIK3CqlZJnBJNCZOAZuyxbWVVpXdW_l_WyOQd-onveIGcu1mh73VNbc9ikg2ENwHGllHECaxHYHC2RVvG2wCz52LpFPMkE/s320/Alexander%2527s+Books+.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of Alexander's Books, with Post-Its Marking my Yet-to-Make Dishes </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for the recipes in his book, I encourage you to buy it. Actually,
you should buy both of his recently-published books to read, keep in your library, and gain inspiration from. After all, if you are lucky enough to
be home, healthy, and with loved ones or neighbors who would benefit from
your cooking, now is the time to cook—and share. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of sharing, some of you may recall advice I shared a while ago: when
creating a new menu for family/friends, it’s a good idea to incorporate one ol’
favorite along with the new dishes. The old favorite I incorporated are the Brazilian cheese puffs, a.k.a. pão de queijo. Now—as I've also told many of you—recipes evolve and adapt depending on availability of ingredients and on what you like—or dislike, not to mention whose at the table with you. So this recipe for Brazilian cheese puffs, since first published in my cookbook <b>Mambo Mixers</b>, has gone through some changes. Here, below, I send you my latest version. But first, check out the photos from our Smalls'-inspired dinner:<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZbJuXgikyWeRe4sTDgIM_YUlUQ4kNOpyEUmgaOFLdqml0hBusm-kip0Qbl2AuQtXY-pOEn5j8CP5KFOXFsp540Tkr6Ull2ljTjoMA2cHL_iojYHH3-6b5shiP84X3y-vfc3CtLKa3jc/s1600/Easter+Table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="640" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZbJuXgikyWeRe4sTDgIM_YUlUQ4kNOpyEUmgaOFLdqml0hBusm-kip0Qbl2AuQtXY-pOEn5j8CP5KFOXFsp540Tkr6Ull2ljTjoMA2cHL_iojYHH3-6b5shiP84X3y-vfc3CtLKa3jc/s320/Easter+Table.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Easter Table</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icebox Lemon Pie = dreamy...</td></tr>
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<b>Here’s the menu </b>(Note: <b>All are from Meals, Music and Muses--e</b>xcept for the Cheese Puffs!):<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Brazilian Cheese Puffs <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Deviled Eggs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Carolina Hoppin’ John (Rice and Peas)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Carolina Cabbage Slaw with Roasted Sweet Corn<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Barbecue Ribs with Bourbon Praline Sauce<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "symbol";"> </span>Icebox Lemon Pie <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And, with this menu, and encouragement to explore, I sign off. In the meantime, I urge you to make the additions suggested to your cookbook library—<br />
and to play with your food!<br />
<br />
Warmest regards,<br />
Arlen<br />
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<b> Here's the Cheese Puff recipe: </b></div>
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<b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Brazilian Cheese Puffs</span></b><br />
(Adapted from Mambo Mixers,©2005, Arlen Gargagliano)<br />
<br />
Makes about 6 dozen small cheese puffs <br />
<ul>
<li>1/2 cup canola oil</li>
<li>1/3 cup water</li>
<li>1/3 cup milk</li>
<li>1 3/4 cups tapioca starch (doce) or manioc flour (available in large grocery stores and Latin markets)</li>
<li>1/4 cup tapioca starch (azedo)</li>
<li>2 eggs, lightly beaten</li>
<li>2 cups freshly grated Sardo (Argentine parmesan), your favorite parmesan, or Pecorino Romano cheese</li>
<li>1/2 cup shredded mozzarella cheese </li>
</ul>
Preheat the oven to 375ºF. In a medium saucepan, combine the oil, water, and milk and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, pour the starches into a large bowl. When the liquid has boiled, add it to the starch and mix well. Let it rest for about 15 minutes. Then stir in the eggs and the cheeses and mix until well blended. <br />
<br />
Form into medium size balls, about the circumference of a half dollar. (At this point you can refrigerate them up to three days in advance.) Just before your guests arrive, place them an inch apart on parchment paper covered sheet pans. Bake in the top rack of the oven, until they start to brown (about 15 minutes). Then flip them so that they brown on both sides. Let them cook for another three to five minutes. Serve immediately--with caution because they will be hot! Keep remaining (if you have any left!) cheese puffs in an airtight container for up to 5 days. Reheat, wrapped in a paper towel, for about 15 seconds in the microwave.<br />
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<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-30181793071633722392017-05-29T10:00:00.000-04:002017-05-29T10:00:13.420-04:00El Cubanito: The Cuban Bloody Mary <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just keep writing, sweetheart.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This phrase was repeated throughout my life, but especially
during the last few years, when I enjoyed the privilege of spending a lot
of time with my dad. Now, after a bit more than half a year, I return to the site that chronicled our last trip together just two weeks before he passed away. Because it was an honor flight honoring fellow WWII veterans, as well as Korean Vets, Memorial Day seems like the perfect time for remembrance and honor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another favorite saying of my dad’s was, “Food is love!” And
those of you who knew Tony, recognize that this sentiment was behind the driving
force of our many dinners and fiestas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, food is hugely important, but, as I've often done, I’m bringing cocktails into that mix! So here, <i>mis amigos</i>,
is my first 2017 blog, written in honor of my dad, Anthony Gargagliano, who also urged me to travel, travel, travel...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The place: Havana, Cuba<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The time: April 2017 <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cocktail: The Cubanito, or the Cuban Bloody Mary <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Maybe it’s because O’Reilly 304 shares its name with its
street address—like my ol’ Mambo 64. Or maybe it’s because wandering around Old
Havana makes one thirsty. But whatever the case, I found myself, after spending
the day at nearby Santa Maria beach, wanting to explore something beyond
mojitos and daiquiris. O’Reilly 304 fue perfecto! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, Havana Vieja had me delighted even before I
set foot there; O’Reilly 304 was no different. The encantador (charming) staff
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ambiente</i>—despite the Tony Soprano
reading a newspaper painting above the bar—reminded me of why I loved Havana.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After a brief discussion with the bartender,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and a “tour” of the bar<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>menu, I opted for a Cubanito, which
is a kind of Cuban Bloody Mary. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
you’re a fan of this ideal brunch drink (and hangover cure), I encourage you to try its Mexican
cousins (click on the names to get to the recipes!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the <a href="http://food.lohudblogs.com/2013/01/18/latin-twist-brunch-cocktails-part-2-bloody-maria/" target="_blank"><b>Bloody María</b></a>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a which I wrote about for LoHud
a few years ago, as well as <a href="http://food.lohudblogs.com/2013/01/11/latin-twist-mexican-style-spiced-tomato-juice-cocktail/#prettyPhoto"><b>Sangrita</b></a>,
which I also wrote about for LoHud! Please know that if you or family members don't imbibe, you can always keep out the rum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, here, my friends, below the pictures, is the Cuban version of this brunch
classic! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you’ll enjoy it—and please do let me know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92YRDQ0LitBfqd5MGvVZy3i7dhfhvd5jfkF0Pp0Cg-tVyV3LPoP1b4H7YwZLSVWuTJOlfGkxAiIUGn45IxrZ9bF3uFH_qLoYdMu9YS4UHqID_33CcwuvMcHZxkRKwjEDNBN6dsFGTfTI/s1600/O%2527Reilly%2527s+making+the+Cubanito+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92YRDQ0LitBfqd5MGvVZy3i7dhfhvd5jfkF0Pp0Cg-tVyV3LPoP1b4H7YwZLSVWuTJOlfGkxAiIUGn45IxrZ9bF3uFH_qLoYdMu9YS4UHqID_33CcwuvMcHZxkRKwjEDNBN6dsFGTfTI/s320/O%2527Reilly%2527s+making+the+Cubanito+.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bartender Encantador Starting the Cubanito. (My dad's<i> tocayo </i> relaxing behind him!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v-pArmYfuc6oTBJok99G2cRCncLfu1qb93eSX4vUpJ8JBemMT6qLNTejJA3nZ1PD9dSIUfP6WQ1V7aff6CPxfvSMbonGDwkng9ybTMv1Ti6dFX-OTs56ZAY9kylX-KlElEpOv-6gxMQ/s1600/O%2527Reilly%2527s+Bartender+Finishing+Touches+on+the+Cubanito+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_v-pArmYfuc6oTBJok99G2cRCncLfu1qb93eSX4vUpJ8JBemMT6qLNTejJA3nZ1PD9dSIUfP6WQ1V7aff6CPxfvSMbonGDwkng9ybTMv1Ti6dFX-OTs56ZAY9kylX-KlElEpOv-6gxMQ/s200/O%2527Reilly%2527s+Bartender+Finishing+Touches+on+the+Cubanito+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He lights rosemary--for fragrance, and his special touch! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZODNyY2pbYOnab-U2MCZdOyuckjZ6xy9Zwhfe8ZHv_XnfVmedlqJZbREJbEAJIrfJDo2EdqwQhU7CuztCmeGBoGoCikSkiPXEE6QdyoMHorkb01ZH07eVRfZOrx1fSFROXM7q9vWvQU/s1600/O%2527Reilly%2527s+Cubanito+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZZODNyY2pbYOnab-U2MCZdOyuckjZ6xy9Zwhfe8ZHv_XnfVmedlqJZbREJbEAJIrfJDo2EdqwQhU7CuztCmeGBoGoCikSkiPXEE6QdyoMHorkb01ZH07eVRfZOrx1fSFROXM7q9vWvQU/s200/O%2527Reilly%2527s+Cubanito+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Cubanito--ready to be sipped! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
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El Cubanito—Cuban Bloody Mary <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is my simple home-adapted variation of the Cubanito I tried at
O’Reilly 304, pictured here! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Serves 1<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
Lime segment<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(for rimming), plus a lime
cut into<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>quarters<o:p></o:p></div>
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1/2 cup ice<o:p></o:p></div>
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1/2 ounces <a href="http://www.food.com/about/rum-180"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">light rum</span></a> (Havana Club Añejo 3)<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 teaspoon <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.food.com/about/worcestershire-sauce-176"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Worcestershire
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Add your garnishes, and a colorful straw (to stir with, too!), taste, adjust, and serve. </div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-70223889305502922942016-11-06T19:30:00.000-05:002016-12-07T21:32:00.332-05:00Off We Went, Into the Wild Blue Yonder: Honor Flight with Dad<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQiJnnsF81ST1gKpSJt_FIZBj9WN4rVcan3G_iH56szpwWY6OisdEGneW6M4lSI4YS82Nseh7576UqHO_YleHXkKf0u3BdFroMf-6_PFX1zN58iQC_EcND6mebWgGtdc8fLi2NW426Sw/s1600/Off+we+Go%2521+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQiJnnsF81ST1gKpSJt_FIZBj9WN4rVcan3G_iH56szpwWY6OisdEGneW6M4lSI4YS82Nseh7576UqHO_YleHXkKf0u3BdFroMf-6_PFX1zN58iQC_EcND6mebWgGtdc8fLi2NW426Sw/s320/Off+we+Go%2521+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Write it all down while it’s fresh, Sweetheart,” my dad
says as I kiss him goodnight. He’s sitting in his chairlift, bound for his TV
room, where he’ll enjoy a glass of wine and a bite before he goes to bed. He’s
kissed my mom goodnight, and had one of the fullest days ever, and is too fired
up to go to bed despite the 11:00 time….marking his 19<sup>th</sup> hour of
being awake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I smile, he kisses my cheek
and the top of my hand, “thank you—again—for sharing this all with me,” he says, and
then starts going up in the lift, singing, as always, “Off we go into the wild
blue yonder, climbing high into the sun.” After spending the day with him and
61 fellow veterans, this song has a different meaning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On October 29th, we started our day much earlier than most; we were at the
Westchester County Airport prior to 6 am. We were greeted by a slew of
red-shirted volunteers helped us with everything to getting Dad into his first
of many wheelchairs, finding donuts and coffee, shaking hands, patting backs, smiling,
supporting, and sharing a camaraderie that is so strong, so precious, and so
unique.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the first moment on, the
day was an unforgettable adventure of faces, young and old, smiles, stories, remembrances,
and tears. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The travel portion of the adventure began as we boarded our
police motorcycle-led bus brigade (made up<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>at least 10<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>local police officers—several bikers), which
took us on a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dawn ride, past fire
departments where we saw firefighters in full regalia standing at attention and
saluting as we passed. As the sun rose, Dad could see our local police escorts.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took my hand and exclaimed, “Wow…this
is for us?” Yes, I smiled all for you. He held my hand tight and said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m so glad you’re with me!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was one of many
moments when I couldn’t help but feel that this time—this Honor Flight trip—was
one that was so valuable to each and every one of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
great differences in lives, professions, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>likes and dislikes, we all share the
fundamental need to love, be loved, and appreciated. The Honor Flight gave both
the much-deserving veterans, and us—their guardians and other volunteers—that
reward: we all felt appreciated and loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The group—collectively—was dazzling! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ranging in age from I think a twenty year-old
grandson (guardian), to an 101 year-old WWII Vet. The journey talk was
peppered<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with clever quips, all kinds of tunes and
tales, with many of our beloved vets enjoying the much-deserved privilege of
speaking their minds on a hugely varied array of topics. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From fellow guardians, to volunteers—the
“angels” as my father termed them, like Jennifer, Marianne and Fred—and many
more, to our uniformed companions, all were ever-present and tireless in their
desire to assist as needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day—despite its freshness—is a bit of a blur of young
and old folks, reaching out their hands to my dad and the other veterans,
offering praise, congratulations, and great thanks. Soldiers saluted, whole
families parted to let us pass, and the warmth was way beyond that of the
beautiful sun that graced our presence in Washington DC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The visits to the memorials and Arlington
National Cemetery were filled with poignant and provocative moments.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dinner, like the rest of the day, was unlike any I’ve had in
quite some time. Part sitcom, other time adventure, just when I was thinking
about how tired this crowd must be, they would shine with a look, a smile, a
tear—a remembrance. They never ceased to effuse, amaze—and entertain! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During mealtime I gave Dad the chance to sit with our dear
friend/family pal Steve, and I sat with a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“new” group of delightful companions who, I’m sure could also double as
stand-up comedians. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I love having this
lady next to me!” said one of the vets when I spooned the Italian dressing on
his salad, adjusted his coffee cup so it wouldn’t spill, and spread out his napkin. “Look at her attention
to detail!” he exclaimed to the rest of the table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Of course you love the attention," remarked another from
across the table. And I knew I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>wasn’t the first “young” woman he’d flirted with that day! Then, when his
guardian, I’m guessing about 20 years younger than the 90+ vet he was
responsible for, started taking his charge out for a visit to the men’s room,
he leaned over to me and asked in a stage whisper, “So, tell me: What did General
Douglas MacArthur say to his troops?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
“I’ll be back?” I asked, sheepishly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both smiled and declared in unison, “I shall return!” They
made a dramatic u-turn, the guardian swirling (gently!) his charge around—while
both managing to wave to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then the dinnertime speeches at the podium, which were both reflective and thankful, commenced. Discussion of
pictures (ah, that would be how my grandparents referred to movies!) was paired
with talk <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>about things going viral! And
then came the Hollywood finish: Michael (A.K.A. Isaac) recounting—interrupted by
an emotion that resonated in all of us there listening—the tale of the wonderful coincidence of reuniting, at our pre-flight Meet and Greet, with his friend Russ after 73 years. Not a dry eye was in that dining room, and
we were stamped with a smile/image we’ll all feel in our hearts forever. Appreciated
and loved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like our evening speeches, that whole day was about presence, gratitude, and honor. To every person that shook my dad’s hand and said, “Thank you
for your service,” he returned with a shake (okay, with the women it was a kiss
on the hand!) and profound thankfulness. Appreciated and loved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After landing back at Westchester County airport, on the
plane and waiting (to get my dad back on a wheelchair). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stood near the exiting aisle, and enjoyed the privilege of asking each
and every one of the passengers, as they filed by, if they had enjoyed their day. I was acutely aware that this was so not like any other flight; they were not pushing
to get off, but rather taking the time to savor those last moments on the Honor
Flight plane. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I guess the veterans must
have thought I was one of the organizers, since they were so effusive <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with me in their appreciation. One man
took my hand in both of his, looked me in the eyes— and I could see his tears
(which of course inspired my own), and said, “This day was so beautiful. I’ve
never had a day like this. Even when I came back from the army, I never felt
like this. Thank you so very much for all you did.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just held his hand, smiled, and then hugged him a thank
you, for all he did. Though the words were different with each passerby, the
gratefulness, and smiles remained a constant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we finally exited the plane and arrived, once again, at
Westchester County Airport, we received yet another hero’s welcome: we were greeted
by an array of welcomers—from girl scouts, and family members, to cadets. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look!” I said as I pushed Dad’s wheelchair towards the welcoming
crowd so he could once again shake hands, and hear the heartfelt “Thank you for
your service” declarations. But I stopped pushing—just for a moment and leaned
over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Dad,” I said—close
and loud enough so I was sure he could hear me over the din, “they’re all here
for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I kissed his cheek, I could feel his smile, and his tear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzuiaUhMFiLwHpBD9Vsb7KEWTpG2OShnNLgzNN0SEYVCfFwbyjiV4KNU3KYL_tO2tCJ_a8mvzp1u8pMMJDtX-jbXOM29k47chqgYMYswdpYVFlSZawwambNL9K5DrvqeK72lb9yZeLnc/s1600/Dad+singing+on+the+plane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPzuiaUhMFiLwHpBD9Vsb7KEWTpG2OShnNLgzNN0SEYVCfFwbyjiV4KNU3KYL_tO2tCJ_a8mvzp1u8pMMJDtX-jbXOM29k47chqgYMYswdpYVFlSZawwambNL9K5DrvqeK72lb9yZeLnc/s200/Dad+singing+on+the+plane.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singing, "Off We go..." with Bill and our Beautiful Flight Attendant<br />
(with HVHF Founder the Wonderful, Frank Kimler, the Man Behind the Curtain!) </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQImX7mW_gFb-ZZugEudk6odio4wwYb6Nfxuqz1gw8sU1RGfCmEhA0ZV5emKHrK72ue_Z8T5kmzBbHa-EZNEhBGjAGg2Nfe-lZCnGcyswiUchGKXQmMXcVwYXM4phTuOmnVFDk5SpJpZY/s1600/Dad+Solo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQImX7mW_gFb-ZZugEudk6odio4wwYb6Nfxuqz1gw8sU1RGfCmEhA0ZV5emKHrK72ue_Z8T5kmzBbHa-EZNEhBGjAGg2Nfe-lZCnGcyswiUchGKXQmMXcVwYXM4phTuOmnVFDk5SpJpZY/s200/Dad+Solo.jpg" width="150" /></a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmIpgN01QJ9BOmLGspkzdzXKIL-18orBCtp-tZS_JETWTyM4VITytlAY8RdGGjH7y0_inhSyst5IDO1L-F2ePztZdNkfuLG3SJNox5j8muQSlzJGajzPew0JHRVdd298c3b1FIAf4bRs/s1600/Dad+and+Steve+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmIpgN01QJ9BOmLGspkzdzXKIL-18orBCtp-tZS_JETWTyM4VITytlAY8RdGGjH7y0_inhSyst5IDO1L-F2ePztZdNkfuLG3SJNox5j8muQSlzJGajzPew0JHRVdd298c3b1FIAf4bRs/s320/Dad+and+Steve+.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Steve...the One Who Introduced Us to the Hudson Valley Honor Flight!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaBSo3IoV3w2oboq7-F6_lmCxLcKX9AMovtE_w3TEiHO802W9LRQLi3KItxwRMQzE124Hnn9MqtTxsVNtfEevc5oJWNj1275z7CtDYKmora6RSxsvvli_DRsijiaxVBdFeBFg1Rb0rT4/s1600/With+Ian+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaBSo3IoV3w2oboq7-F6_lmCxLcKX9AMovtE_w3TEiHO802W9LRQLi3KItxwRMQzE124Hnn9MqtTxsVNtfEevc5oJWNj1275z7CtDYKmora6RSxsvvli_DRsijiaxVBdFeBFg1Rb0rT4/s200/With+Ian+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Lovely Ian </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04xfrnJ7rs1eIcOM0-ugzI_AfDF2fgUnYCdGF_ckKJwdZciZIiF0PBfhqKUIR2QLYB9yHQBScG0cM47cHzef18i4JbSAiRVGK3KrpR9wW3i5wRYKLqW5w7NYttTUfLNjMe693cg8Oi_Q/s1600/With+Sharon+and+Steve1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi04xfrnJ7rs1eIcOM0-ugzI_AfDF2fgUnYCdGF_ckKJwdZciZIiF0PBfhqKUIR2QLYB9yHQBScG0cM47cHzef18i4JbSAiRVGK3KrpR9wW3i5wRYKLqW5w7NYttTUfLNjMe693cg8Oi_Q/s320/With+Sharon+and+Steve1.jpg" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Our Beloved Steve Scholem and His Sister, Sharon Scholem</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhlK8betruqLSNWDmBSfwu_QdRrk6W3Qk06nviULlunKdkiISHljccbaqKYF-1Yt7CUclt5yiPMD1DkutYV5JCA_4fTOIh6n7YRAvTf5cU-Av2bqhMmlT1LOVxrvweEzBcQ15yDagx-8/s1600/With+Liz+and+Bruce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhlK8betruqLSNWDmBSfwu_QdRrk6W3Qk06nviULlunKdkiISHljccbaqKYF-1Yt7CUclt5yiPMD1DkutYV5JCA_4fTOIh6n7YRAvTf5cU-Av2bqhMmlT1LOVxrvweEzBcQ15yDagx-8/s320/With+Liz+and+Bruce.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Fellow HV Honor Flight Friends: Veteran Bruce Gavril and Daughter Liz Gavril </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglT0ApfdEZe1X_a8t0UHHLUgXLsXWoGFhQkY7KSlbvBTo4NAubdQITxOB5EANdjQ5TGVaC0LtYNYJGEZj_SN589UI4IyscqCuNUpqZxr2GPwqOw1MgfCm1RTdaU2c70jhE_Q5u4QXKU_0/s1600/With+Steve+and+Jason+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglT0ApfdEZe1X_a8t0UHHLUgXLsXWoGFhQkY7KSlbvBTo4NAubdQITxOB5EANdjQ5TGVaC0LtYNYJGEZj_SN589UI4IyscqCuNUpqZxr2GPwqOw1MgfCm1RTdaU2c70jhE_Q5u4QXKU_0/s200/With+Steve+and+Jason+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Steve, and our Charming and Helpful Guide, Technical Sargent Jason </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xBoq2byYeQnlEjCbAup5j1r8hJCBMOx6y6ytc4zjAy1oFbl7HjmuMH9BgFoGPiFvLJ31FD0eyzrRHJgBoTpMJLm3MIPcp0r0wT-DW4JuTelGNYWYN7_wnhf-CRmtmyHSCzQ_wdyc-Wc/s1600/Dad+with+his+Angels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xBoq2byYeQnlEjCbAup5j1r8hJCBMOx6y6ytc4zjAy1oFbl7HjmuMH9BgFoGPiFvLJ31FD0eyzrRHJgBoTpMJLm3MIPcp0r0wT-DW4JuTelGNYWYN7_wnhf-CRmtmyHSCzQ_wdyc-Wc/s320/Dad+with+his+Angels.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad and His Angels: Marianne Mutoli-Schmidt and Jennifer D'Elia-DeFrancesco </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijiaxob9xdl5Kf5VXa0FbXkNusl7CoSJnyMJkWPJQOhaM93Bk-d1d8VmYZJjgCoZyaKfxCWj7RUHDEJZGShKEHcSHIjo_4yH2LqsxTLHC5Iz2IPEsc820nfRQxGEOAOpXWock1Mi_b5Oo/s1600/Dad+teaching+the+handshake+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijiaxob9xdl5Kf5VXa0FbXkNusl7CoSJnyMJkWPJQOhaM93Bk-d1d8VmYZJjgCoZyaKfxCWj7RUHDEJZGShKEHcSHIjo_4yH2LqsxTLHC5Iz2IPEsc820nfRQxGEOAOpXWock1Mi_b5Oo/s200/Dad+teaching+the+handshake+.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dad Teaching An HVHF Guardian <br />
Nora's (His Great Granddaughter's!)<br />
Special Handshake </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xBoq2byYeQnlEjCbAup5j1r8hJCBMOx6y6ytc4zjAy1oFbl7HjmuMH9BgFoGPiFvLJ31FD0eyzrRHJgBoTpMJLm3MIPcp0r0wT-DW4JuTelGNYWYN7_wnhf-CRmtmyHSCzQ_wdyc-Wc/s1600/Dad+with+his+Angels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG56hbo3aywPl3NvBJ0kKPPX8rumhv70oMvRDfwjuXtT0p1sor9eE8SfM8yAm7VUqJj-xtkawfE7T2shilvR-j6YLN-o8a7M_bJ2AjSjFL8FAXPMUDUeIJAxeU22L96wxv1HeUElo0FrQ/s1600/WIth+Dad+in+the+Airport+before+returning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG56hbo3aywPl3NvBJ0kKPPX8rumhv70oMvRDfwjuXtT0p1sor9eE8SfM8yAm7VUqJj-xtkawfE7T2shilvR-j6YLN-o8a7M_bJ2AjSjFL8FAXPMUDUeIJAxeU22L96wxv1HeUElo0FrQ/s320/WIth+Dad+in+the+Airport+before+returning.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Airport--Talking about the Day! </td></tr>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-21779792801026385902016-10-18T19:00:00.000-04:002016-10-18T20:28:11.654-04:00Playing with Pumpkin (Or, really, Kabocha!) <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Mis queridos amigos,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It seems a bit crazy to be writing about pumpkin bread today. After all, right now it's in the low 80s here in New York. But, well, we know that this probably won't be the case for too long! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And speaking of before too long, I'll be back in ol' Mambo 64 stomping ground--at Broken Bow Brewery--on November 10th from 6 to 8, with my old friends, talking about using their fabulous beer to make some treats! (Please contact me for info on signing up for that class...it's filling up fast!) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So last Saturday, as some of you know, I had the great pleasure of being at the New Rochelle Grand Market Farmer's Market, where I shared some of my fresh-baked pumpkin (kabocha) bread. Kabocha, pumpkin's cousin, is sweet and moist, with has dark green skin, and orange flesh that is slightly sweeter than pumpkin (and with more of a chestnut-like consistency). I have to say, that this is so moist, it's more like a bread pudding. Luscious, spiced, and sweet--though not overwhelmingly so--this is as delightful as a breakfast treat, as it is for a snack, or dessert. The key, I discovered, is baking (roasting) the kabocha separately, and then puréeing it. The result is totally worth the time! (And yes, my friends, I will share that slightly sparky (thanks to cayenne pepper) pumpkin soup, too. Maybe next time?!) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Would love to hear how you like this one! </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3e6y80hEtU3ErtNe9nCgCjDyvniXryxg279NfrQc5FIdiijhcRyoMSrMBEnELajfy_Q1diB5ACaZcPb_3jchzpE3fzXuX9tzjiesNxifRJjyO-Qv9ek3QaDavuC-zcUEnGJbrqmvLKQ8/s1600/Pumpkin+Bread_Dark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3e6y80hEtU3ErtNe9nCgCjDyvniXryxg279NfrQc5FIdiijhcRyoMSrMBEnELajfy_Q1diB5ACaZcPb_3jchzpE3fzXuX9tzjiesNxifRJjyO-Qv9ek3QaDavuC-zcUEnGJbrqmvLKQ8/s320/Pumpkin+Bread_Dark.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the Loaves! </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPZ1gLXcbIGY4Go8_I6FoykQnlMbo64Kd2PZ8rHlA5ucpoP0oHC9Tu0niZUgD7H42usbN7asvewVrB6PPX1au9ZSJJsNpa2a7GdFusE5_j_qEtDOR5juX1PqlA5jhyphenhyphenklqNu61nvFaf8M/s1600/Pumpkin+Bread+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmPZ1gLXcbIGY4Go8_I6FoykQnlMbo64Kd2PZ8rHlA5ucpoP0oHC9Tu0niZUgD7H42usbN7asvewVrB6PPX1au9ZSJJsNpa2a7GdFusE5_j_qEtDOR5juX1PqlA5jhyphenhyphenklqNu61nvFaf8M/s200/Pumpkin+Bread+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sample Kabocha Bread--See those Raisins? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_EFFf9pFGlZkvoIqAWjAVjQ0voJ67iPI0DhvqLZoIYMJxLrZWok9C3aw1f9pYTZIAGYAgxBdJCdhvazaXs8d14rJ_NdgGUZkT5v2VDXSK1vSCWz3cR_Kcu7xu-rjcS-j270tA1pdx4E/s1600/With+Peppe+at+the+Farmer%2527s+Market+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_EFFf9pFGlZkvoIqAWjAVjQ0voJ67iPI0DhvqLZoIYMJxLrZWok9C3aw1f9pYTZIAGYAgxBdJCdhvazaXs8d14rJ_NdgGUZkT5v2VDXSK1vSCWz3cR_Kcu7xu-rjcS-j270tA1pdx4E/s200/With+Peppe+at+the+Farmer%2527s+Market+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Peppe--showing off--at the Farmer's Market! </td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<h3>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></h3>
<h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Kabocha Bread </span></h3>
<h3>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Makes two standard-size loaf pans </span></h3>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: -24.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1 tablespoon unsalted butter, for greasing the pans</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1 teaspoon baking powder</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">3/4 teaspoon baking soda</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">3/4 teaspoon fine sea salt</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">2 teaspoons ground cinnamon</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1/4 teaspoon ground allspice</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">2 cups packed light brown sugar</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">4 large eggs, at room temperature</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1 cup canola oil</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">About 3 cups of roasted kabocha purée (I wash the
outside, cut about a 4-pound squash into smaller pieces--quarters to
eighths--seed it, drizzle olive oil and honey or brown sugar, and roast on a
foil-lined pan at 400° for about 35 minutes or until softened. Peel,
coarsely chop, and purée in a food processor.)</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Optional: 2/3 cup golden raisins and/or toasted
pecans</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">1. Position a rack in the middle of the oven
and preheat to 375°F. Butter the bottom and sides of 2 loaf pans. </span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour,
baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">3. In the bowl of a stand mixer with a whisk
attachment, mix the brown sugar on the lowest speed to break up any lumps. Add
1 egg and continue to mix on low until smooth and incorporated. Add the
remaining eggs, one at a time, and mix on low until smooth and well blended.
Shut off the mixer and scrape the mixture down the bowl. Return the mixer
to low then add the oil in a thin steady stream and continue to beat until
fully blended.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">4. Add the flour mixture in 3 batches.
Use a large rubber spatula to fold the mixture together until just
incorporated. Fold in the roasted kabocha, along with the raisins and /or nuts,
if using.</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.0pt;">5. Divide the batter between the
prepared pans. Bake until the the breads are firm and risen and the tip of a
paring knife inserted in the center of the cake emerges clean, between 50 and
60 minutes (and you may want to rotate the pans once during the baking time).
Transfer to a wire rack to let cool for about ten minutes minutes before
inverting. Serve fresh and warm, or let them cool, wrap them and refrigerate
for up to 2 days, or freeze for up to 1 month. (I love it toasted...with a glass of port, and with some vanilla ice cream!)</span></div>
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Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-81404570797203411392016-09-13T19:30:00.000-04:002016-09-13T20:31:01.579-04:00Three Years and a Lifetime Later! Maybe, as you start reading this, you can hear me sigh. <br />
After all, it's been a very long time since I've blogged here. In fact, it's been exactly three years and three days!<br />
<br />
So, let's see. Since then, I've opened and closed a restaurant (ah...Mambo 64 in Tuckahoe, New York...which we closed exactly 1 year ago today), written Latin Twist, a blog for LoHud, gone back to teaching ESL (English as a Second Language), been an event planner and caterer, taught many cooking classes, made dozens of drinks, served many meals, had the pleasure of meeting lots of lovely people, watched my son move to Ecuador, my daughter to Brooklyn, and most recently, started spending way more time with my husband, parents, and friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinX9etP01RB7RyXlHHbkQ7OHmcxFMjt_t1ePsKTU4d6ORjsfPbD6ZFLCXaI0SHRd0hKiag0vWy5DPVv5VHVYD2H3cGv2BtmvFzALOdSk-KECu_109Ae3cGL2sDAtZIlaztwRlQpKvEUn4/s1600/GAZPACHO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinX9etP01RB7RyXlHHbkQ7OHmcxFMjt_t1ePsKTU4d6ORjsfPbD6ZFLCXaI0SHRd0hKiag0vWy5DPVv5VHVYD2H3cGv2BtmvFzALOdSk-KECu_109Ae3cGL2sDAtZIlaztwRlQpKvEUn4/s320/GAZPACHO.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Those of you who know me know that all of these things are so important in my life. I can't imagine life without my big three Fs: family, friends, and food. The connection between people and food/culture is full of beauty and delight; it's one that that never ceases to impress and amaze. My mission continues to be that of bringing together diverse people and their stories over our common ground: food.<br />
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I'm kicking off this first blog<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;">—</span>after being inspired by a Saturday visit to the New Rochelle Farmer's Market<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;">—</span>with a recipe for one of my favorite soups, <i>gazpacho</i>, which was published two years ago in my <b>LoHud</b> Small Bites column, <a href="http://www.lohud.com/story/life/food/small-bites/2014/09/05/latin-twist-gazpacho/15132837/">Latin Twist </a>. <br />
<br />
And also, speaking of the New Rochelle Farmer's Market, I will be doing a demo there on<br />
<a href="http://www.newrochelletalk.com/content/1008-chef-and-cookbook-author-present-latin-food-demonstrations-11-am"><b>Saturday, October 8th, at 11 am</b></a>. I'm still figuring out what I'm making; the market has so much to choose from.<br />
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So I close today, with the promise of bringing you more tales and treats in the not-too-distant future.<br />
Thank you for your support always, and I look forward to seeing all of you in the kitchen!<br />
All the best,<br />
Arlen<br />
<br />
PS My new portrait, featured here on my blog, was taken at Alvin & Friends, by the fabulous New Rochelle-based photographer, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RodneyBedsolePhotography/?pnref=lhc"><b>Rodney Bedsole</b></a>.<br />
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<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-517698071356551752013-09-10T13:52:00.003-04:002013-09-19T08:47:50.638-04:00Monday's Mambo 64 Musings: And now it's September! Last weekend we were graced with many new customers at Mambo 64 (thanks to LoHud, friends' blogs, Yelp, Trip Advisor Facebook, and more!) and they asked me the same question: When did you open?<br />
<br />
Honestly my friends, in many ways it feels like a looooong time ago! But truth be told, it's only been a few months. The adventure continues!<br />
<br />
I was thinking about how beautifully intertwined our lives can be. When I was just 19, sitting in Casa Peret (Jamie and Cary, I'm sure you were with me!) student lunch cafe in Barcelona, drinking wine--which was cheaper than water--and eating, eating, when I met the person that would become my year-long roommate: Margarita Maza. <br />
<br />
Marga, who is Chilean, shared an apartment with Montse and Maria Cinta, two Catalanas. They were looking for a fourth roommate, and that's exactly what I became. That lunch in Casa Peret, and the casual conversation I had with Marga, led me to find a place to live, as well as people who taught me so much about my new home. On top of that, I had--serendipitously--found contemporaries from a totally different culture who were as fascinated by many of the same things I was. Our living situation was ideal.We enjoyed hanging out, listening to music, going out, and of course, cooking.<br />
<br />
But the whole thing--and my point of today's post--is that my year abroad also taught me something huge about people: I learned that despite our very diverse upbringings, we could share so much. For example, and I remember so vividly this moment, we were sitting on the beach in Tarragona--where Marga's mom lived. And we were talking about qualities we enjoyed and appreciated in people. Like a lightbulb (raised on cartoons, you know!), it went off in my head: we are so different as far as where we grew up, both geographically and politically, yet we share similar tastes, interests, and values.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7evuHnbFtYz9Dn-Xk1qFb6eaGkbNwM2w9AsuRXiMwsEilFm6pFGuDiS3HgoBhxbJz5-geI8-U2Qwp_6zeXRfP4l_arUDxlJ54KSPI3xvZJsl3wrGG4cyFa2NteamkBAQ6O1gBTB56qlQ/s1600/With+Marga+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7evuHnbFtYz9Dn-Xk1qFb6eaGkbNwM2w9AsuRXiMwsEilFm6pFGuDiS3HgoBhxbJz5-geI8-U2Qwp_6zeXRfP4l_arUDxlJ54KSPI3xvZJsl3wrGG4cyFa2NteamkBAQ6O1gBTB56qlQ/s320/With+Marga+.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Marga at Her Home During our Reunion Visit!</td></tr>
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That sharing has, thankfully, occurred on numerous occasions--and on many continents: Asia, Africa, and South America, North America--as well as Europe. Whether they're market vendors, servers, students, managers, tourists--it seems that I have had the pleasure of meeting so many wonderful people with whom I bonded on one level or another; and each time I am delighted and amazed by it...and often moved to tears when it's time to say goodbye.<br />
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These days I most enjoy meeting different customers--who also have a myriad of backgrounds and stories! And though thankfully I'm not as tearful upon my customers' departures (!), I continue to find people fascinating--even, and perhaps especially, when we're from different places--but share a love or appreciation of something, be it a flavor--or something totally non-food related. </div>
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The adventure continues...</div>
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Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-5505184005245936812013-06-24T12:30:00.000-04:002013-06-25T08:01:23.006-04:00Monday's Mambo 64 Musings: Lunch Starts Tomorrow! <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqMP5NrBRCuI6K3aKiNQMIumrYXhRg0rVeJ0b2DYRssIgeZD7-8aphvSz_NQJgjujmquvbb0IIsyj4mZ9oU8Tatfg-clDi9Ew0130Qj-BUq1fZ_V2_T-oVwHhRuvSZoIK573DVsP3dMk/s1600/Lunch+Banner+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqMP5NrBRCuI6K3aKiNQMIumrYXhRg0rVeJ0b2DYRssIgeZD7-8aphvSz_NQJgjujmquvbb0IIsyj4mZ9oU8Tatfg-clDi9Ew0130Qj-BUq1fZ_V2_T-oVwHhRuvSZoIK573DVsP3dMk/s320/Lunch+Banner+jpeg.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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The adventure continues at Mambo 64--and I'm still enjoying the post-opening delight of meeting and greeting old and new friends! I'm currently delighted and fascinated by our guests; many of them share my passion for travel and food. I thank you all for your shared enthusiasm, and your lovely wishes!<br />
<br />
On Saturday I was telling a customer that our menus are not only reflective of my travels, but also of what I like to eat.<br />
<br />
This is as true for my dinnertime menu, as it is for lunch, which, my friends, starts TOMORROW!<br />
<br />
But, okay, I have another confession. As much as I love Cuban sandwiches, and miss my Miami jaunts where I feasted on 'em, it was my husband's idea. Yes, Seth was the one who said, "You should feature Cuban sandwiches on the lunch menu!" <i>Y, pues, aquí están</i>--here they are!<br />
<br />
But it's not just Cuban sandwiches; we are including some other bits (bites!) which, again, are some of my favorites: maduros--perfectly roasted ripe plantains, sweet potato fries--I've been in love with them since I lived in Peru many moons ago, and finally--the nutty-sweet flavors of yuca, topped with our red sofrito. Salads--well, they're always a lovely complement, and we're offering the night-time selection, as well as one based on what we find at the market! Our soup--which will be our interpretation of a classic Spanish gazpacho--is refreshing and tasty (perfect with a glass of our Sauvignon Blanc, OR Passion Fruit Sangría--OR an ice-cold beer...or, of course, our ginger lemonade!).<br />
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Hope to see you at Mambo 64 for lunch--dinner, Happy Hour--all of the above! </div>
Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-42282783173954139132013-06-03T12:30:00.000-04:002013-06-03T12:30:00.244-04:00Monday's Mambo 64 MusingsRemember when your baby was little, and you were so concerned about everything--just simply everything--and in a kind of delirious state of joy mixed with frequent concerns/anxiety? I think that aptly describes the first week of restaurant ownership! It's an exciting and wonderfully consuming venture. And though I'm exhausted, I can't help but liken it to the same feeling I had when my little babies were born. Yes, I feel like I have a newborn!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My "newborn" Mambo 64! </td></tr>
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And I feel lucky...</div>
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Don't be fooled: just like raising a child, growing a business requires great patience, persistence, and assistance, in every sense of all those words. As I've said numerous times over the past few weeks, it's all an amazing adventure...</div>
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So, last Friday morning, at dawn, I had the pleasure of watching the sunrise over Manhattan--from the Jersey side. I'd never been to Weekhawken before; Wow--what a view of New York from there! And though it was crazy early, I talked--with lovely Vicky Sosa--about making my passion fruit sangría which, my friends, is the perfect cooling cocktail. (We've got it chilled and waiting for you at Mambo 64!) </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Posing "on set" with my Passion Fruit Sangría for Friday's Buenos Días Nueva York segment! </td></tr>
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For the recipe, please check out my <a href="http://food.lohudblogs.com/2013/05/31/latin-twist-passion-fruit-sangria/">Latin Twist post for Passion Fruit Sangría</a>! </div>
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More tales from Mambo 64 coming soon!<br /><br /></div>
Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-4801207469150242552013-05-20T12:30:00.000-04:002013-05-20T12:30:01.670-04:00Sunday Dinners: Pizza in the Afternoon! <br />
Well, times they are a changin'--and Sunday dinners at home will be moved into meals at the restaurant... And these days it's all about getting Mambo 64 up to speed so that we can open our doors and let some people in! It's an adventure every day, and a learning experience like none I've ever enjoyed before. Am I excited? Of course! Nervous? Definitely! Happy? Totally--<br />
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What I like most about it is that it's a challenging experience on all levels. After all, I've always cooked for family and friends, and welcomed them all into my home (and of course cooked at others' homes, too!). But this is different...and I know my ride has just started.<br />
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So, though I didn't cook the typical Sunday dinner, I had a great afternoon snack (thanks Petie!)--<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afternoon Snack-- of Chicken Marsala Pizza--with some hot pepper flakes--thanks to my brother, and Villaggio Pizza, next to Mambo 64! </td></tr>
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--and Seth sampled Chef Steph's execution of my jerk chicken, roasted tomato and black bean quinoa, sofrito, cilantro rice, some pernil...and a few other tasty treats to be featured on Mambo 64's menu...<br />
Yes, the ride is just beginning...<br />
<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-85047901147970580362013-05-13T12:30:00.000-04:002013-05-13T12:30:03.211-04:00Sunday Dinners: Mother's Day Dinner...Shrimp with a Blood Orange, Onion and Cilantro SauceIt's been quite an interesting week plus, and I'm wondering if I should be calling this, "In the Restaurant with Arlen!" from now on! Well, regardless of the name, it will be a little bit of that!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sign on the front is true: We are almost there! </td></tr>
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So, as of the 1st, I've been spending all my days--and evenings--getting my restaurant (YAY!) ready. We hope to open the doors to the public at 5 pm on Tuesday, May 28th (YAY again!). In the meantime, it's been a wonderful whirlwind of all kinds of activity.<br />
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Well, now I know that this is probably one of the last Sundays I'll cook at home (or in my parents' home) for a long time, and, of course, it's Mother's Day! So, while Seth is making ribs (one of my favorite grilled treats!), I wanted to make something I thought my mom would like--and something that I might bring into Mambo 64: Shrimp with a Blood Orange, Onion, and Cilantro Sauce. Hence this dish was born!<br />
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And, since Seth, my dear husband, was in the mood for ribs (and we're ALWAYS in the mood for Seth's ribs!) he made 'em. Perfect combination. We're thinking about maybe having a Seth's Ribs Night in Mambo 64! Oh--I also made a side of mixed grains (couscous, and more!) with roasted tomatoes, toasted almonds, golden raisins, and fresh basil. That also worked well with both dishes! (And if I can write about it on Wednesday, I will!)<br />
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Oh--by the way, Mom loved it. Dad, too. Actually both dads... Well, really we were all happy!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seth's Ribs in the Background, Shrimp in the Foreground! </td></tr>
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Here's the recipe for the shrimp:<br />
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Shrimp with a Blood Orange, Onion and Cilantro Sauce<br />
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Serves 8 to 10<br />
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Olive oil<br />
2 red onions, peeled and coarsely chopped<br />
Salt<br />
Rosé or white wine<br />
1 orange, peeled, pitted and diced<br />
3/4 cup frozen blood orange purée concentrate<br />
1/2 teaspoon minced ginger<br />
Shrimp<br />
2 pounds large shrimp (I used frozen, 20/25 count), frozen and thawed or fresh (I prefer fresh...)<br />
Fresh asparagus from the garden! (We were lucky!)<br />
Cilantro<br />
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Heat the olive oil in a sauté pan. Add the onions and cook them until they soften, about 3 minutes. Add about 1/4 cup of rosé (that's what I had on hand!) or white wine, and let it absorb. Add the orange and the frozen purée concentrate. Cook, stirring frequently. Add wine for more liquid as needed (you want it to be a little liquidy). Set aside. When you're about ready to serve dinner, heat a bit of olive oil in a sauté pan. Add the ginger and cook until lightly fragrant. Add the shrimp and stir. Add the sauce, a splash or two of wine, and continue cooking for a couple of minutes. Add the fresh asparagus, and cook until the shrimp is tender (don't overcook) and the asparagus is bright green and crispy. Add the cilantro and serve! </div>
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Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-55219806307392468912013-04-29T14:23:00.002-04:002013-04-29T14:23:38.287-04:00Sunday Dinners: Spring Fruit Salsa with an Italian TwistThose flower "snowballs" of pink that contrast so beautifully against a blue sky, not to mention the bright yellow of the forsythia, and wow, so many more colors, all remind us: spring is a great time.<br />
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Inspired by the season, and by what I saw in the store (I'm SUCH a sucker for any well-displayed produce!), I created this spring salsa.<br />
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One thing I do have to tell you: I used that amazing Italian olive oil I've been telling you about: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Poggio Grimodi</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: #262626;">Extra Virgin Olive Oil. </span></span>(And I promise to soon tell you how you can get your hands on it!) The quality of all the ingredients, as I've mentioned before, will totally make your dishes shine...</div>
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Back to my spring salsa...</div>
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Simple, colorful, and so tasty, you can serve this on a chip, or atop grilled fish and/or chicken. Hmmm...I'd try it with shrimp, and maybe grilled zucchini. Ah, my friends, the sky's the limit! </div>
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Spring Fruit Salsa</div>
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Makes about 1 1/2 cups of salsa </div>
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6 large strawberries, washed, stemmed, and diced</div>
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1/2 cup fresh diced mango</div>
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1/4 cup fresh diced pineapple</div>
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1/4 cup mache lettuce, coarsely chopped</div>
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Cilantro (optional), to taste</div>
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Excellent quality Italian olive oil (about 2 splashes, or to taste) </div>
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Juice from 1 orange, or 1 splash white balsamic vinegar </div>
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Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste</div>
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Combine, taste, and serve! </div>
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Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-12547904998845894022013-04-22T12:30:00.000-04:002013-04-22T12:30:01.947-04:00Sunday Dinners: Basmati Rice with Roasted Corn, Pork, and Fresh Cilantro. When I started working with Chef Rafael Palomino, he gave me a bunch of cookbooks to look through. He said, "Read through these to see how different flavors are combined. You might find some recipes to follow, but more than that, I'd like you to see the possibilities of how ingredients work together."<br />
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Shared with me close to 15 years ago, I still stick to the idea that so much of cooking is about exploring the unity of different ingredients, textures, and of course tastes.<br />
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Now I confess, what I'm writing about today is NOT what I served yesterday, but it is a dish I made last week and wanted to share. You'll see that I'm not posting an exact recipe; I'm giving you ideas so that you can put it together--your way.<br />
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Rice, like pasta, makes a great canvas. And if you love rice like I do, using it as a base gives you the chance to appreciate its presence and flexibility. </div>
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So, when this was created, it was partly because I was craving the popcorn-like fragrance and almost nutty flavor and long grains of basmati rice, which I always manage to have on hand. I was also yearning for sweet corn and really enjoy combining the sweet crunchy flavors of caramelized corn with rice, and cilantro. </div>
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Now stay with me, non-cilantro fans! You can also use flat leaf parsley. OR, in this case, basil would work nicely. And the list goes on--</div>
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But back to this rice dish, I also had made roast pork chops with onions the night before, (<a href="http://inthekitchenwitharlen.blogspot.com/2013/02/midweek-food-musings-pork-chops-with.html">here's</a> one I posted about in February), and, since I had some left over, I wanted to use them as well. </div>
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And so, this dish was born. </div>
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Last night I also made a rice dish, but I apologize because I didn't shoot it! (Believe me, I try, try, try to photograph all, but sometimes I get caught up in, well, cooking and serving...and the photos get pushed aside!) I used brown basmati rice, and combined it with grilled chicken and apple sausage chunks, also roasted red onion and orange segments, and fresh cilantro. </div>
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At any rate, you get the idea. As always, the sky's the limit...</div>
Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-82792861541745862842013-04-17T12:30:00.000-04:002013-04-17T16:15:33.570-04:00Midweek Food Musings: Roasted Portobello Mushrooms with Tomatoes and Onions--atop Red QuinoaWell, looks like I'm STILL in my roasting phase (this one, my friends, may be permanent!).<br />
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Mushrooms are a special treat for me. My husband is not a fan <i>at all</i>, and I'm a big fan, so if I'm preparing something for others (and he's not around!), I'll make 'em. Now, I've got a lot to learn in the mushroom department...but I do know what I like. And I love portobellos.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ArTr5xhcvLQmhPoXCcRTvIs7v8bkyc9M5S-GEu6c7MRF8ZYg5SA-UvP541JEcI-gQ0T0-Zdg6VNB2S6J2G0aYtvFwu8JF4-keHxYGxWjSY54JcCcl6DKCLQ4Szhx7lmURZmbzNZPBcs/s1600/Portobellos,+onions,+and+tomatoes+before+roasting+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ArTr5xhcvLQmhPoXCcRTvIs7v8bkyc9M5S-GEu6c7MRF8ZYg5SA-UvP541JEcI-gQ0T0-Zdg6VNB2S6J2G0aYtvFwu8JF4-keHxYGxWjSY54JcCcl6DKCLQ4Szhx7lmURZmbzNZPBcs/s200/Portobellos,+onions,+and+tomatoes+before+roasting+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before roasting! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa57hMOy4OdZd-UAI_OzJXPUPlsKdqvj6S_ocnoEy4PQti0AOi0PI90Dy8SBBGIKlZ-eiHpqSpzeEzz76T-oIFuu7-OoDS_6WUFLQCdLNWCF7Y5dLTFSFWIqjx1p0u8bLIoLgOuB1eJc/s1600/Portobellos,+onions,+and+tomatoes+after+roasting+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa57hMOy4OdZd-UAI_OzJXPUPlsKdqvj6S_ocnoEy4PQti0AOi0PI90Dy8SBBGIKlZ-eiHpqSpzeEzz76T-oIFuu7-OoDS_6WUFLQCdLNWCF7Y5dLTFSFWIqjx1p0u8bLIoLgOuB1eJc/s200/Portobellos,+onions,+and+tomatoes+after+roasting+.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After roasting! </td></tr>
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The beauty of the portobello, and many of their brethren, is that with just a bit of olive oil and salt, they're just fabulous. So, for this meal, I know I wanted to have a red quinoa bed (by the way, quinoa offers the perfect backdrop for MANY roast vegetable dishes!), topped with portobellos. Also, I had a gorgeous assortment of baby heirlooms to play with...and I always have red onions and garlic. Hence, this combo emerged!<br />
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I served this atop red quinoa, and with a salad of baby arugula (love the peppery flavors of that leaf!), clementines, black olives, toasted pine nuts, and an orange vinaigrette. Nice combo...even for meat lovers looking for a break! Also, the next day, this mushroom combo is perfect atop lettuce for a lunch salad.<br />
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Serves about 4<br />
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8 portobello mushroom caps (about 5 inches in diameter), cut into 1/4-inch slices (see pics!)<br />
1 package (about a pound) of heirloom or your favorite cherry tomatoes<br />
1 red onion<br />
Olive oil<br />
Coarse salt<br />
Fresh cilantro (or basil, or flat parsley!) leaves to taste<br />
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Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Combine all the ingredients in a lightly oiled baking pan.<br />
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Bake for about 35 minutes or until cooked to your desired doneness! Serve on top of your favorite grain. (I put this atop 1 1/2 cups cooked red quinoa!)<br />
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<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3240733818094782195.post-90878948876582115242013-04-15T13:29:00.000-04:002013-04-16T16:27:01.619-04:00Sunday Dinners: Roasted Tomato, Onion, Pepper--and Sausage--Sauce + Pasta Note:<br />
I wrote this blog post on Monday morning...hours before the bombs exploded, and we had news of the tragic incident that rattled us all. "Now is the time," I say--and I'm quoting Dr. King--for us to remember so many things that are positive and strong in this world. My faith in peace, and in people, continues. Today, still raw from sad and disturbing events in the world, I have decided to share this. Please join me in thinking about the comfort we all need, now and always. Peace.<br />
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It's ironic: it was so warm this week (though not as warm yesterday) yet I was still craving the aromas of roasting vegetables. I was also looking for something I could work on while I was working...on the computer. I roasted the peppers with some chopped onion in a pan with some olive oil at 400-degrees for about 45 minutes, and did the same with the tomatoes (I cut them in half before roasting) with more onions After combining all, I was short tomatoes, so I added a large can of diced tomatoes.<br />
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We served this sauce atop small penne pasta (used 1 box for 10 servings), along with a salad of baby arugula, mixed greens, clementines, cucumbers and capers topped with toasted cashew pieces, and a light orange vinaigrette, and some garlic roasted broccoli rabe.<br />
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The crowd was happy!<br />
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Roasted Tomato, Onion, Pepper and Sausage Sauce<br />
(with artichokes, basil, and toasted pine nuts!)<br />
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Serves 10 to 12<br />
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2 pounds homemade sausage (I used parsley and cheese, and fennel)<br />
3 red onions<br />
12-16 medium size tomatoes (I used the larger-than-cherry size), halved<br />
3 to 4 cloves of garlic, sliced<br />
4 roasted red peppers, cut into bite-size pieces<br />
1 (large) jar marinated artichokes<br />
1 large can diced tomatoes<br />
Basil<br />
Toasted pine nuts<br />
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Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Lightly grease a pan with olive oil, and place the sausage, with 1 to 2 diced onions and some garlic in the pan. In a separate pan also lightly greased with olive oil, add a layer of tomatoes, onions, and some garlic. Roast both until done; the sausage should be browned, the tomatoes lightly caramelized and soft, about 45 minutes.<br />
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When the sausage is cooked, cut it into bite size pieces. Combine it with the tomatoes in a stock pot. Add the roasted red peppers, artichokes, and diced tomatoes and simmer for about 15 minutes. Just before serving, add basil leaves and pine nuts (I also kept some aside to add as I was plating).<br />
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Mix in with the pasta, and enjoy!<br />
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<br />Arlenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16860193608479770823noreply@blogger.com0