A Moveable Feast

Without fail whenever I am asked what I miss about America, one of the top three answers has been "pizza." Pizza in England is not like pizza in the NY/NJ region of the US--for starters, it's rare to find pizza by the slice, even in London. There is no pizza "joint" in London that has the aroma of a neighbourhood pizza place--and isn't that smell a big part of the experience? (Lest we forget, close to 80% of what we taste is actually attributed to our sense of smell; smell also has a powerful link to memory.)  The combination of crispy crust, melting cheese, and a dash of oregano that then becomes folded with an ever-so-subtle "crunch" from the top of the crust before a small bite off the pointed end, careful not to burn one's mouth from the piping hot cheese . . . THAT is what I was missing, and in a recent whirlwind trip to America I rediscovered my love of the great American "slice."

And, of course, Tim had to be there for the occasion--more of a revelation than the reliving a memory for him. There were a few choices of venue: John's, on Bleecker Street, my "local" pizza joint as it was nearby to NYU when I went there. Lombardi's, the other pizza family in Little Italy, on not-too-distant Spring Street, was also a possibility. And what of Famous Ray's? I've had a few of those in my time, though I always found Ray's crust to be a bit more doughy than the other famous houses.

In the end, perhaps owing to my impatience, the winner was a tried-and-true neighbourhood place that Robyn had discovered, in Belleville, near her home. Robyn and I spent the morning sorting through the last of my boxes in storage--mostly photo albums, tchotchkes, and various and sundry tax and financial papers. By the time we'd finished unpacking, sorting, trashing, and/or preserving the contents of nine cardboard boxes, almost two hours later, I was ready for something warm and delicious, and the pizza place was just a few blocks away-the obvious choice. We fetched Tim from Robyn's flat (we were on the ground floor, in vacated office space) and headed out.

I knew we had it right when I opened the door and that lovely aroma of pizza wafted out as I breezed in. The counter held several pies--plain, sausage, veggie--but this was my first experience in a bit, and it had to be the plain the first time. And a Coke (OK, diet for me--more calories to expend on pizza). I sat in a booth while the pizza counter worker tore off a slice for me, a slice for Robyn, and one with meat (sausage, I think) for Tim and popped them in the oven for a minute or two. Served simply, as ever, on thin white paper plates and carted to the booth table on an orange plastic cafeteria tray, behold, the slice. Tim has never seen me smile so widely, he said.

The lift. The fold. The sensory intake of fresh pizza before me, and then finally, the bite . . . I am home and in pizza heaven. It is good. It is better than good, in fact, and after enjoying it all the way down to the crispy crust with just enough bite to it to make it chewy, it's time for slice number two. Mirror image, only this time with a dash of garlic powder. Delightful. Life is good.

The rest of the trip to America was a lot like that--reliving dormant food experiences for me, enjoying new tastes for Tim. Next on tap was my favourite Italian restaurant in my old neighbourhood of Harrison, where Robyn and I live for a bit. We had a routine--Thursday nights, Nino's, and then often after dinner a twenty-step walk to the Dunkin' Donuts on the strip for a takeaway coffee and, sometimes, a large cookie. Nino's appeal for me is twofold--one, the place is family-owned friendly and the food has always been good--not spectacular, but always fresh, tasty, and simple. Mr Nino would greet you with a smile if he was in the house, and on chilly, snowy days when I'd pop in for an eggplant parmigiana with spaghetti and a side salad he'd offer me a cup of coffee while I waited for my takeaway, on the house of course. The other draw to Nino's was that eggplant (pardon me, EU readers, aubergine) parmigiana I just spoke of--it was the second best I'd ever had next to my ex-Italian father-in-law's homemade dish. (My first husband was of Italian descent.

We'd planned for dinner on Friday night, after a quick trip to see my eldest sister Debbie's family in Bayonne, where the XBox was fired up and we were soon bowling with Alyssa and Danny, my niece and nephew, and then dancing--well, Tim danced, I watched, with the excuse that I was going to dinner and didn't want to sweat (rather than I'm uncoordinated and don't want to).

The dinner guests included Robyn and Jimmy and my eldest sister Debbie and her husband Bobby. I also invited my dear cousin Judy and her husband Carroll, who I am very close with. Surprise guests were my nephew, Robert, who is now 24, and Regina and Pat, friends of the family and with cousin Judy our babysitters when we were growing up in Jersey City. What fun it was--and the food, particularly the eggplant, did not disappoint; Robyn was a bit worried that perhaps the chef or the recipe had changed and I'd been looking forward to the meal for weeks before the trip, but it was as delicious as I'd remembered. Tim started with eggplant rollatini

And the company, of course, was wonderful--after dinner some of us changed seats so we could catch up a bit. The hugs were long and slightly emotional for me at the end of the glorious evening--I'd see Robyn and Jimmy on Sunday for a wedding we'd been invited to, but not the rest of the crowd until my next journey home.

A trip to New Jersey is not complete without a visit to a diner, the Diner Capital of the World, where 600 diners dot the Garden State. For my money one of the best is Tops, in East Newark, a stone's through from the hotel we were staying at in Harrison. I'll admit that I chose the hotel for its proximity to Belleville, home to Robyn and the wedding reception hall, the New Jersey Turnpike, the train to NYC, Nino's, and the Tops. Diner breakfasts are huge--meaning both important to the business and largely portioned. Tops Diner has a queue every Saturday and Sunday morning, as I recall, and the staff is well trained to take names, clear tables, and keep the hungry crowd moving. Eggs and bacon, with an enormous amount of hash browns on the side and toast piled high continuously stream out of the kitchen. 

Bacon. Proper bacon--crispy, thin, salty. You can get Oscar Meyer bacon in London, but it's just not the same as having it at the diner. Out of practise on my first run, I failed to ask for no hash browns and to have my butter on the side of my wheat toast. No matter; I politely picked at the potatoes, about the same amount of those as the scrambled eggs, and scraped a bit of the excess butter off the bread. Tim, unaccustomed to the American lingo, ordered "brown" bread. The waitperson laughed--all toast is brown, after all! After a brief exchange of what was on offer Tim decided on rye, and when she brought the bread minutes later, she chuckled and said "it's a little brown" when she placed the plate on the table. I had to smile. 

The breakfast was delicious, of course, and would carry us through the morning, as Tim and I began in Hoboken, New Jersey, to see the town where I spent a few years as a single girl. Hoboken is just about a square mile and there is a bar on practically every corner, with lots of shops and restaurants to boot along the main drag called Washington Street. It's become home to singles and young families who can afford the high price of property or a rental--even when I lived there, back in 1996, the rent was steep but not as steep as Manhattan, just across the river. Part of the trip was giving Tim the tour of the places I lived in New Jersey--Hoboken, Harrison, Kearny, Lyndhurst, and later in the week Mullica Hill, near Philadelphia. I chose to skip my birthplace, Jersey City. Though we were in the city itself, we didn't go by the two places I'd lived--the first, where I spent my first 5 years, is no longer there, and the second, where I lived until I was almost 25, is in a rough neighbourhood that even in the 70s and 80s was known as a haven for drug dealers, muggers, and other dodgy types. We were close with our immediate neighbours, and early on had a wonderful time growing up, riding our bikes and playing wiffle ball or double-dutch in the street. Everyone was kind and good and we all looked after each other, but year after year the area was overtaken by a less desirable element. The house looked run down years ago when I last drove down Kennedy Boulevard and espied it from there--we actually lived near the corner of  Lexington Avenue, a one-way street that meant having to travel up to Bergen Avenue to come down the street, and pass the apartment houses where many an evening the Jersey City police were dealing with some sort of fracas. No matter; Tim would see quite enough on The Donna Tour!

And there is so much more--the trip to Manhattan later that day, where we skipped the pizza (neither John's nor Lombardi's does "the slice") and opted for a deli sandwich, a walk around the World Trade Center site, an expensive drink in a revolving bar near Times Square called The View to see Manhattan from 48 stories high, and a trip to Riverside Drive on the Number 1 train to visit with friends Heike and Mahmoud. The dining table in their beautiful flat was crammed with cheeses and olives and dips and breads and, well, wine of course. The sparkling Lambrusco we started with was a treat, and the night was filled with conversation among the other guests--the couple from Italy (Torino and Genoa); Gowan, from White Plains (NY) whom Tim had an engaging conversation about the Anglican church; Eva, from Austria, who spoke of the wonder of the Viennese balls and answered "NO!" and then laughed out loud when I asked if it was all right to wear the same ball gown to two different parties! And of course catching up with Heike, who I have known for a couple decades, and meeting her Mahmoud for the first time, well, that was special. Heike's parties are always international--they and their friends are a wonderful melting pot.

After a good night's rest we yet another engagement, with my dear high-school friend Jill and her husband Mike. (High school means ages 13-17, so that's how long I know Jill.) Jill found a lovely little cafe in Nutley, near to where we were staying, known for good food. The Chestnut Cafe has lovely hardwood floors and high ceilings, and handsome wooden tables that make the place feel cosy. We went at brunch time, where the menu is filled with eggs and omelets and burgers and paninis--all sampled by the four of us. Tim went for the burger, Jill and I for panini and Mike for eggs, and all of us simply loved the food. And how wonderful for me to watch Tim and Mike and Jill chat--when you have special friends you want them to really like your partner, and it was simply nice to chat around the table about life and work and holidays and leave with a sense of warmth that recognises a special moment in time. 

OK, so why did we go to America in the first place? The reason for the trip was a wedding--my friend Gary and his partner Randy, together for twenty years, had decided to throw a big, fat party to celebrate their relationship and recent wedding in New York. Gary wanted it to be the best party we'd ever attended, and I must say, the couple did their best to make that happen--the food was, well, anything you can imagine and then some; the entertainment was brilliant--the Barbra Streisand impersonator was wonderful, particularly when she sang both voices of the duet "You Don't Bring Me Flowers." 

The dancers were fabulous, the DJ had us on the floor, and the desserts for the Viennese hour, much like the cocktail hour, were anything you could think of. I personally enjoyed the chocolate-covered strawberries and bananas, but there were many others to choose from: creme brulee, cherries jubilee, crepes, zeppole, and of course wedding cake (that we were given a slice to take home). I was happy that despite 213 other guests Tim and I had the chance to chat briefly with both Gary and Randy--each very happy and radiant on their day. Gary is a treasure in my family; I know him since I am 15 (do the math) and before moving to London he was not just a family friend but the man who cut my hair! A trip to his salon, or to his fabulous apartment on Greenwich Street in Manhattan, was always a treat for the conversation. I couldn't help but think how my mother would have loved to be at the wedding; Gary treated my mom so wonderfully and it's partially that emotional tie that makes me want him to be happy. 

The moveable feast continued to southern New Jersey, Philadelphia, and then Newark, NJ  . . . and I think I'll save that for the next post! After all this recollection, I need to eat!

Small kindnesses

I am still a little surprised, a little impressed, and always heartened by the little things I see people do for each other in the course of a day.  It reminds me that I want to always be thinking of ways to perform small acts of kindness--not for any glory, but simply to make someone smile. I know how it makes me feel when someone offers me a seat on a crowded bus or subway, or stoops to pick up something I've dropped. That and, I think it's contagious, and why not spread a little love?

I recently had one of those days where it seemed everyone was in good form, and there were small displays of caring in quick succession: a young man exited his seat on the Bakerloo line to a woman at least four times his age. The woman in the elevator in front of me held the door for two gentleman, one with crutches, so they didn't have to wait for the next elevator (and believe me, that's brave when the elevator is close to full and on its way down). The bus driver paused to let a man who was running toward the bus actually make the bus--here in London, it seems like the drivers are forever on a tight schedule and no matter how hard you run, many of them simply won't wait.

I smiled at all these little acts of kindness I saw my fellow citizens do for each other. I know it probably happens far more often than I observe--I hope it does--but when it happens on a day when you're feeling like crap or you're tired or angry, and you can take a deep breath and take the time to watch the world around you unfold, well, it is a lovely thing.

Speaking of lovely things, a small update on an altogether different topic--driving in Britain. The lovely part isn't the driving--LOL--it's the fact that I've decided with Tim's coaxing (and a bit of his dosh) to buy a small lovely Peugeot to get around the Isle of Wight. It's had its fits and starts, literally--while we both test-drove the car and had no issue driving it away two weeks later from the owner's home in Ventnor, she has been a bit tetchy about starting and staying running (and note she is an automatic). Tim has a trick to simply start the car in reverse rather than in park, so of course it will move immediately and you need to be careful of your surroundings. I tried that once and hit the car park bumper (which is better than hitting a car) and decided it wasn't an option for me. We'll get the little blue Peugeot checked, and in the meanwhile we've tidied her up with a fabulous jet spray bath at the local petrol station and a good hoovering and wiping down of the interior so she looks pretty and actually quite sporty for an old gal--a '96 with 126,000 miles!

The idea to get a car on the IoW has been in our minds for a little bit; while there is bus service, it's not frequent and you almost always need to start in Newport to get to any of the other areas like Ventnor or Ryde, etc. The Cowes-to-Newport run is about 20 minutes, whereas with a car you needn't always go in that direction and of course you generally don't stop to pick up / drop off passengers. It's also good to have for carting ropes, cushions, and other boat-related items to and from the marina, where Tim's other woman now sits patiently for the winter, getting prettied up for her spring coming out.

Having a car opens up possibilities for when guests come, to see more of the island, or to simply do what we did with our first weekend having the Peugeot--we went to the movies in Newport to see The Iron Lady. (By the way, the car is a lovely shade of blue Mrs Thatcher would approve of.)

Which reminds me . . . my dear friend Leah asked me what I've named the Peugeot. I hadn't thought to name her, though I recall my sister Robyn always having names for her vehicles, unusual names like Betsy, whereas I never really called my car anything but my car.

So, draped in blue, a bit old, conservative yet still a bit feisty . . . dare I say . . . Maggie?

Tim, no doubt, has just fallen off his chair.

New Year, New . . . Pub?

What makes a favourite pub? For me, a few important things, not in any particular order—a fireplace; a decent wine list; proximity to where I want to be; atmosphere; good food.

I’ve decided my favourite pub is The Union Inn, a very short walk from home in Cowes. It’s just recently won an award as the best Fuller’s pub in England—Fuller’s being a massive pub-owning lot with 364 in all in England. (Fuller’s also brews London Pride, a well-known quaff, and has been a British institution for 165 years.)

Here’s where I like to sit at The Union:

There’s a fireplace to the left, where you can see some exposed brick. On chilly autumn and winter nights, it works a treat.

I have other favourite places here. There is no place in Cowes that beats the view from the Island Sailing Club, and with an outdoor deck it’s lovely in the summer. But it’s not really a pub—it’s a place to go to have a glass of wine and soak up the view. And it’s actually a few steps closer to home than The Union, with nice food and a lovely wine list. (It’s starting to sound like the fireplace factors in quite highly!)

The Fountain Inn, just outside the RedJet ferry terminal which means I must pass it heading home, has always been comfortable. Before having a place to call home in Cowes it was the place to stay. Some of the rooms have a view of the Solent, though I recall it all being a bit cramped. The pub is cosy enough, and the food is always cheap and cheerful and tasty. The Fountain is where Tim and I usually go to watch  rugby, and we enjoyed our Buck’s Fizz (aka mimosa) on the morning of the most recent “big” royal wedding (mean Kate and Wills and not Zara and Mike).

Like home, The Union Inn has no television. Like home, I think there are board games; I recall seeing some stashed on a shelf. I keep a game of Scrabble here, and Tim is generally game to give it a go in lieu of the telly (well,let’s face it, he has no choice).

For other lovely pubs in my southern home, there’s also The Wight Mouse, in Chale. Frankly it almost has it all—the fireplace, the wine list, the food, the atmosphere. What it doesn’t have is the proximity to my front door, but when we are out and about, it’s a lovely place to stop. In fact it is a stone’s throw from a western-facing view where you can watch the sun set. Last week Tim and I popped in for a cup of tea and a biscuit after watching the sky grow pink as dusk came, leaving me slightly disappointed that it was too cloudy to see the sun on the horizon dip into the English Channel. There will be other sunsets near Chale, I am sure, now that we have found a place to watch (and we have purchased an old Peugeot to knock around the island with) and we know the Wight Mouse is nearby.

I think I shall have a resolution in 2012 to explore more of my southern England home. Let’s see how The Union fares come same time, next year!

Happy New Year to all!

Thankful for . . .

It's funny the way the weather can make you smile. This has been the mildest November I can ever remember, and it is a delight. I am bopping out of the house each morning without scarf or gloves, and taking in long, deep breaths of air that almost smells as sweet as spring.  There are big, beautiful hydrangeas bursting on the enormous bush in our front garden. I'm fairly certain I am wearing a silly grin as I head to the bus stop. I'm smiling at everyone who passes . . . I occasionally get a smile back.

This weekend Tim and I saw some people in shorts walking along Cowes High Street. No flip flops were on display, though even shorts this late in November gives pause. Our long walk along the parade to Gurnard was glorious--I was wearing a jacket, but unzipped. A couple of times I realised I stretched out my arms as if to let the air envelop me, and making a cape of my jacket. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore, happy as Larry (one of those odd British-isms), and would have gladly tossed my beret high in the air, only it was too warm to be wearing a hat. And I felt so in love--with life, with all that I have, with my husband. Lovely weather, my friends, is an elixir. 

The nights this November have been just a bit cooler than the days, with inky dark skies. To my surprise this weekend it was clear and dotted with stars that you don't often get to see in the better-lit London skies.It all feels so precious, this November warmth, and I know it is short-lived. Everyone is talking about it--and yes, Brits do talk a lot about the weather (apparently because it's generally rubbish), but this spring-like spell commands a lot of talk in the coffee shops and at bus stops where the outerwear ranges wildly from knit scarves (because it's November, it's what you're supposed to wear) to light jackets (which are more prevalent).

At the same time this unusual stretch of weather has thrown me a bit off kilter--I am having trouble rationalising this fabulous, temperate weather with all the decorations that scream "Christmas!" along Oxford Street. And I realise, well, I need to write out Christmas cards before we go on our honeymoon. I need to buy gifts for the nieces and nephews. 

But I can't quite get in the mood. Perhaps as Thanksgiving approaches, it will set me straight. This year we are bypassing our usual Thanksgiving gathering at Bodean's BBQ in Soho for the more comfortable and likely less noisy environs of the home of our friends Taron and Neil, who will be hosting an honest-to-goodness Thanksgiving feast. I'm excited; an intimate occasion in a warm home that will no doubt have the aroma of home-cooked turkey, stuffing . . . I am hoping there's pumpkin pie. 

In fact Thanksgiving had always been a favourite holiday of mine--it brings friends and families together without the need for cards and pressies; it reminds us to be thankful, and to cherish our ties far and near. I liked that all of us trouped to my mother's house or, later, to my sister Debbie's home for turkey and ham and the ever-popular mushrooms in a sour cream sauce, and of course the array of pies--pumpkin, yes, but also apple and mince pies too that my mother would make. It was a rare occasion to get us all together as we got older and gained spouses or significant others, yet more often than not we managed it for a number of years. I think I was first in the family to throw a monkey wrench into the annual gathering--going away for Thanksgiving became a bit of its own tradition for me in the late 90s and for the next several years--still spent with friends and, even in a place like Jamaica, turkey on the menu.

The first year I was in Britain I found it strange to work Thanksgiving Thursday and Friday--I didn't miss the Black Friday shopping, but I did suddenly miss having Thursday with my family, like the good old days. Having my American cadre of friends here helped fill the gap--and Bodean's even showed NFL football, which before coming to England was a staple of not just Thanksgiving but many of my weekends. 

We adjust; we find ways to celebrate the things that are important to us even when those things may not be widely recognised in our new landscape.  I suppose the Fourth of July is another example--but here there is Guy Fawkes Night, and the fireworks are legal!

I have learned to be grateful of one more thing this month--don't laugh--the Transport for London's new online bus arrival schedule in real time. OK, go ahead and laugh, but I'm becoming slowly addicted. You punch in your stop--the name, or the number if you know it--check the correct direction, and voila, a list of all the next buses coming toward you! It's brilliant, especially now that I've practically stopped using the tube because most of my travel is on foot or by the double-decker, where I still inwardly squeal when the seats at the front of the top deck are empty and I can sit and watch the London scene. 

Case in point: Tim and I take the 341 from Waterloo Station back to our home in London. The 341 runs notoriously poorly--you just never know how long you're going to wait. As popular as the Waterloo bus stop is, it is one that does not have an LED display of arrivals and several buses stop within feet of each other at three stops in a row. As each bus several blocks down turns the corner on to Waterloo Road I'm squinting to see if it's a 341, or just another 172 or 168 or 4 (which is an alternative, but requires a transfer at Angel). Thanks to the TFL I can now simply whip out my Blackberry, go to the site, and know exactly how long the wait will be. And, I can call the site up while we're still on the train, approaching Waterloo Station, and then know whether it's worth hoofing it to the bus stop or if a leisurely stroll will get us there in the nick of time.

I found myself calling up the site this morning at my bus stop to the office--3 minutes! Know what I'm afraid of? I'll start a little earlier--before I leave the house--and arrange my time around the bus schedule. The good: more time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing there won't be a bus. The bad: less time with Tim in the morning sipping coffee, knowing I can catch a particular bus if I just look at the site. Deep breath. I   won't   let   it   happen.

Life's simple pleasures: Family. Friends. Food. Love. Life. Technology. Be thankful.

Ode to the 40+ Females

I'd forgotten how I enjoyed Andy Rooney's monologues until the media reported his death last week. I read it in the NY Times, not the British Times; there may have been a small piece in some newspaper here, but at the moment it's all gloom and doom in the Eurozone that takes up the newsprint. (That and Princess Zara's husband being kicked off the England rugby team. A minor scandal as royal scandals go.) 

I may not have always watched the entire hour of 60 Minutes, the talk program Rooney held the last three minutes of, but I was almost certain to tune in to hear what topic he was going to bring his brand of sensibility to. He wasn't always politically correct and had more than a few dissenters--I certainly didn't agree with everything he said--but I found he often made a good point. I don't really watch much TV now, and honestly I don't miss it--most Brits in fact bemoan the fact that most of what's on the telly is crap. 

Hearing of Andy's passing though made me pause and reflect on how my habits have changed since coming to the UK--getting to the theatre and opera more, spending Sundays without football (though I'll admit I truly enjoy rugby at the national level), watching almost no TV (I didn't even own one the first year here and still don't on the IoW), and, alas, eating less pizza. Those are all actually good things, but oh how I get that craving for a slice from back home. 

The day after Rooney's death, a friend of mine shared a monologue that is commonly attributed to Andy, but in fact was penned by a gentleman called Frank Kaiser. Andy wasn't all that fond of women over 40; his response to whether he agreed with Kaiser's opinion is said to have been "not particularly." No matter; I appreciated Rooney for his honesty.And I liked that he occasionally referred to his wife, fondly, in his three minutes.

Some of what Frank Kaiser said made me smile, and thought was worth sharing. For my friends over 40 and those inching ever closer to the mark, then, enjoy:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: An over 40 woman will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think. If an over 40 woman doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And it's usually something more interesting.

An over 40 woman knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is,what she is, what she wants, and from whom. Few women past the age of 40 give a darn what you might think about her or what she's doing.. An over 40 woman usually has had her fill of "meaningful relationships" and "commitment". The last thing she wants in her life is another dopey, clingy, whiny, dependent lover. Over 40 women are dignified. 

They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it.

Over 40 women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. An over 40 woman has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. A woman over 40 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her. Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to an over 40 woman. They always know. An over 40 woman looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Over 40 women are forthright and honest.

They'll tell you right off you are a jerk if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her. 

Yes, we praise over 40 women for a multitude of reasons. 

Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coifed hot woman of 40+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

It's Not about Love

Sometimes you just feel like you have to post, even when what you have to say isn't interesting or funny or important. It's been a while since I've blogged, and that's partially because I've been uninspired. Yes, I know, again. It's not that there haven't been wonderful things going on; it's just that they haven't compelled me to write. Time has also been hard to find, and yet when I did find the odd hour or two, I found myself preferring to do something else. I sense I'm going through one of those phases where I'm trying to figure out what I want my blog to "be"--at this moment I've settled on "whatever comes to mind"!

I thought about posting about love. My friend Taron, who writes a wonderful blog called Mind, Body & Scroll, encouraged her mates to write on the topic in October . . . but my adventures in love have been complicated, and I felt like I couldn't be true to my feelings about the subject without possibly unsettling others. I will simply say that each love has been different in wonderful ways, and I am blessed to have had an abundance of love in my life, which shows no sign of fading with age! I think, deep down, that I didn't want my current love to think there was anyone or anything more important to me than him--that is the truth--and sometimes bringing up the past can place too much meaning on what should, simply, be left in the past.

I came across two things that struck me today. One was from Mona Simpson, who eulogised her brother Steve. Her words were simple, evocative, and honest. She made me cry. There are phrases like "He treasured happiness." Or "Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day." I thought, what love between them; what genuine caring and admiration her words spoke. I want to live some of those words, I want to emulate that caring. I hope I do. And oddly enough, I feel I was taught some of those lessons from someone who, like Mona's brother, battled with pancreatic cancer. At the end of the article I smiled and wished I could reach out to her and say, well done and thank you.

The other bit that crossed my inbox today was a clip of Malcolm Gladwell, one of my favourite writers, giving a presentation for TED about the Norden bombsight. Norden was born in 1918, a Swiss engineer who developed the technology to target bombs. He is not all that different from Steve--he worked hard every day, passionate about his contribution to the greater good. I'll admit I watched the 15-minute video because I like Malcolm Gladwell; he is an interesting, funny, and compelling person who finds unusual things to talk about and make me think. The message, at the end of the day, was that Norden was a Christian who wanted to mitigate the human cost of war by being able to, with pinpoint accuracy, target important sites and make the enemy weak. In fact it was an inaccurate device, owing to the constraints of technology and the presence of anything but clear blue skies in a time of war. And, in the end, his device delivered the bomb that annihilated Hiroshima.  Apparently no one told Norden that it was his device the Enola Gay carried; as Gladwell said, it would have broken Norden's heart. I'm not sure what the moral of the story is meant to be; for me, it is simply that sometimes things go awry even with the best of intentions; we don't always have control of that.

It is November! I won't count down the days until Christmas--I did take note that the sandwich shoppe placed my takeaway in a bag that was decorated with holiday trees. I am quietly anticipating time away for a delayed honeymoon; time away to see wonderful things, eat delicious food, and explore a different part of the world with someone who I know will make it exciting and brilliant and fun and romantic.

I think this is perhaps my most unusual post--both for its brevity and stream of consciousness. I half thought to scrap it, and dig out the day planner that reminds me that I went to a French cheese and wine tasting earlier this week, or that I've officially changed my name and have the passport to prove it . . . then again, those stories today moved me, and whether you love them or hate them, I wanted to share them.

Nightfall

It’s a cool evening in London and I’ve just finished having a quick chat with Tim, who is sailing on Nightfall to bring her home to England from Sweden. It has been a slightly arduous journey—not the best weather, small mishaps, and while the journey has been wonderful, I sense the desire to simply be home in Tim’s voice. They will all have wonderful stories to tell and fond memories, of course; it is one of those adventures of a lifetime—sailing down the Baltic coast, seeing a different part of the world, experiencing ports and people in places that are quite different from England. No, the desire to be home is less about wanting the trip to end than it is simply wanting to be here, with me. Am I a bit conceited for saying that?

Nightfall is just beyond Norderney, less than 300 miles now from the coast of England—they plan to head for Ramsgate, a port close enough to call home, and almost due west of Zeebrugge. With favourable wind, Nightfall should reach Ramsgate by Saturday, which is a relatively short train journey back to London for Tim.

When Nightfall first set off with a crew of four (owners Tom and Karen, Tim, and Eddie), the two-week journey was meant to exclude night sailing, but now that the trip has been delayed due to weather, etc, tonight they sail the North Sea, three hours on/three hours off for the helmsmen. Tim is used to it; for the 16-day trip from Gran Canaria to St Lucia on Tom’s previous sailboat, Nightlife, it was the same interval. No doubt there will be little chance of flying fish leaping on to this boat as it traverses the North Sea!

Here’s a quick look at what’s left of Nightfall’s maiden voyage:

Mirepoix the Cat and I have managed well since the 2d—even without electricity in key rooms in the house, no land line phone service, and a broken shower pole (when it rains, it pours)! We are fine here in London, and we are both anxiously awaiting Tim’s return. Poor Mirepoix has been without milk and any decent table food!

I had a wonderful postcard from Nakskov today from Tim—addressed to “Mrs” . . . it made me smile. I’m not sure if absence makes the heart grow fonder—I am, after all, very fond of Tim even when he’s sitting three feet away from me as we read email on our computers.  I do miss conversation; we spend the time together most nights while preparing dinner simply catching each other up with our day, and that continues into the meal and with the lingering sips of wine that follow.  Life’s simple pleasures.

There is rose champagne chilling—one of life’s adventures (and I don’t mean rewiring the house with leads to have a cold fridge or a cup of tea) deserves a celebratory toast—and I will be home on Saturday in London, waiting for the text from Tim that tells me when he will arrive at my doorstep.

Until then, a safe journey to Nightfall.