{Dress for} Success story

Occasionally you do something that you feel really good about inside, and it's not that you want to boast, you just want to share. I had one of those days this week when I volunteered at a wonderful organisation called Dress for Success. DfS is a charity that helps women with low incomes get back to work by offering confidence-building attire and interview preparation. Clients are ushered into a room where a stylist will help them choose professional job interview outfit (down to shoes and handbag, and if necessary, what goes underneath the suit). The woman is then escorted into a comfortable office to receive one-on-one interview training from an experienced "executive." I was that executive that day, and throughout the course of six hours I was introduced to six women who were in most cases just hours away from an interview--for many of them their first interview in years after time spent raising children or being in the same job for years, only to find themselves now unemployed and seeking work.

I was issued my schedule for the day along with a list of some follow-up phone calls to be made in between interview sessions.  Scanning the schedule, the jobs today's client would be interviewing for were quite diverse--receptionist, police support officer, retail salesperson, estate agent, design shop assistant, NHS carer. 

After a briefing by Delwyth, the office manager, I dutifully read the interview packet I'd be discussing with each client, and jotted down some notes for opening questions to make them feel relaxed and welcome. Oddly enough, I was nervous; it was sinking in that these women would be looking for advice about how to win over the interviewer from me, and while I've been on both sides of the desk interviewing is not something I do regularly. I had to muster up a bit of my own confidence to be ready for my first client, and when she was escorted to my temporary office I smiled, shook her hand, and just got on with it.

Funny enough, the toughest question for most women was how to handle an icebreaker like tell me about yourself. Some women felt there was so much to say and they rambled; others weren't sure what an interviewer really wants to know when they ask that question. So we talked about what seemed relevant, and we practiced a few phrases that would get the interview started. In some instances posed the phrase so tell me about yourself no less than three times in the same session, just dropping it in occasionally while we talked about other things, until the woman looked me in the eye and confidently told me an answer that was going to work--concise, credible and compelling. The smile I received after nailing it was, well, brilliant in more ways than one.

My day was filled with wonderful little stories from these women who wanted to do their best and land the job. In turn, I wanted to help them succeed, and I gave them the best advice that I knew, from experience, that could give them an edge. And I believe that I gave them a bit of confidence--praising their eye contact, or their open body language, or their concise answers, or I gave a bit of advice on how to make their responses more relevant. And at the end of each session, I was thanked, warmly, for my time. 

It was, I must say, an exhausting day--harder than the job I do day in and day out--but ten times more fulfilling--that says a lot, because I love what I do. I was glad that I found my own comfort zone early on to get to the heart of what their interview phobias were. I struggled on a few matters, not surprisingly: whether to sidestep certain issues that were there, but not relevant; whether to mention you're a single mom; how to redirect one mother's enthusiasm for her children to talk about the skills she acquired being a mom; how to handle a group interview, etc. In the end, six hours later, I signed six feedback forms that made me proud, as each woman wrote that she found the interview session helpful. 

Before sending them on their way, I asked them all to be sure to call DfS to let us know how it went, and afterwards Delwyth told me that one in two who do keep in touch do land the job. 

I wrote little notes about the sessions on their paperwork--topics that we'd focused on so that someone else could help them if there was a next time. I hope not; I want each of those women to shine first time out of the gate. They deserve to--they have reached out for help, realising they want or in some cases need that job, and that they'd like to look and perform at their best. It's not easy to admit that you may not have the right attire to go on a job interview, or that you're not sure how to answer the question what is your greatest achievement? It was a bit humbling for me, recognising how hard it can be for women to make it back into the work force, particularly those on low incomes who can't put together a decent outfit head to toe. I suspect we all sometimes forget there is a slightly sad state of affairs out there. I know how fortunate I am, and a day like this one put a bit more substance to how true those statements are.

Mostly, though, it's exhilarating. I walked out of there as though walking on air. I practically glided down Essex Road to the bus stop, with that silly grin on my face that no doubt had passersby thinking I was from another country. 

Oh wait . . . I am. 

Easter and memories

Easter can be a tricky time for me, as the holy week coincided with my mother's death in 1998.  I'm no longer deeply sad when the anniversary comes around, but I do miss her, and it's during this time of year that I stop to reflect on my warmest memories of her.

On my last trip back to New Jersey I finally went through the last of the boxes Robyn was storing for me, mostly photographs and small artefacts that I didn't feel ready to part with four years ago. There were photos I'd forgotten about, and ones I knew I'd tucked away that would come back to England with me. In the latter collection were a number of 3 x 3  black-and-white prints of my mother when she was in her late 20s, I'd say, dressed in a crisp white shirt and wearing her dark hair in a short, wavy style reminiscent of Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. She was clearly happy and relaxed, not exactly posing but not being camera shy. I love these photos, glad to have kept them in my possession. In fact, Robyn coaxed me into giving her one of them--I was happy to, actually; at one point I think we'd had them displayed when we both lived in Harrison together.

There is yet another, an 8 x 10 portrait, her hair a bit longer, at her shoulders, a colour similar to mine.  She is wearing an aqua-coloured top, silky, and a silver choker. I always thought it was a most beautiful photo, and I imagined that it was taken when she was in her 30s--I don't know for certain, and I know that styles being what they were, photographs from the 50s and 60s always made their subjects appear older. There is no indication of the year anywhere on the photograph--only that it is a Lorstan photograph, and they have been around, in Newark, since 1926. When I was younger I used to imagine that she was 36 in the photograph, and that I always wanted to look that lovely when I got to be that age.

Another prized photograph is one taken much later, probably when she was close to 60, and she is wearing a leopard-print winter coat of faux fur, posing with a huge smile on her face, holding the coat tightly wrapped around her and just crouching a bit. I think I love this photo because she is truly happy. Christmas was a nice time each and every year--we all gathered at her home, and there were presents of all sorts no matter how little she had to spend; she always had something for us. She made wonderful food and pies and there was the Yule log on the TV, the Sinatra Christmas album and the tree twinkling in the front of the living room. Home, her home, was a warm, welcoming place--you knew you could always go back, no matter what, and she'd take you in.

My mom didn't have the happiest life, to be honest--my parents divorced in the late 70s and there was a lot on her to take care of all six of us--the youngest being just 11 at the time--and the family court was not generous with "maintenance." She did well to feed, clothe, and care for us. We had wonderful times together, particularly holidays when, as we got older we could afford to take her away, to places like Hawaii, the Bahamas, or Puerto Rico--places she truly enjoyed. She loved the beach and the sun, and was rather fond of the casinos in Puerto Rico! 

Funny, though, some of my more cherished memories are sitting around the kitchen table in the evening playing Scrabble or cards, or dropping by in the morning before work when, having long moved out of Jersey City myself I'd still go back to get my car serviced there, and I'd pop into the McDonald's on the way back and bring us both an Egg McMuffin, and she'd make some good coffee and we'd chat about life.

Today marks the anniversary of her death, and I miss her; I always will. I am sometimes secretly jealous of people who still have their moms, and I think that if my mom were still here, we'd still be friends, she'd have visited me at least once in London, and she'd make me laugh by forcing Mirepoix to sit on her lap, much the same way our cat was made to when we lived in Jersey City, despite not wanting to. She'd agree that the Queen looks like Babci--her mother, my grandmother. And she'd still beat me at Scrabble.

The Trouble with DIY

I am usually thrilled, and yes even sometimes flabbergasted, when a project that I've had a hand in that has anything to do with a tool--power or manual--comes together. I am not the most adept at DIY, though I can easily tell the difference between a Phillips head and a "regular" screwdriver, and I have put up shelves and painted rooms and managed the small things around the house. There is of course the language difference now--what I commonly called a wrench is apparently a spanner and pruning shears are secateurs . . . but I digress.

The trouble with DIY is whether do it yourself is better than don't invest yourself. Time is valuable to me, and the thought of spending precious hours painting a room or some other such project is unappealing when I consider the alternative—a walk along the Thames, brunch with friends, etc. In the past I’ve found myself calculating the overall cost of hiring someone who can do the job (likely better than me and while I'm busy working): so not just the fee, but also the time I'd be able to do something I truly enjoy. And I tend to be a perfectionist when it comes to making sure my home is lovely--patching up the holes properly, not getting paint on the running boards, not showing funny streaks when you look at the wall a certain way . . . I think you get the point.

Small jobs, those simply too trivial to consider hiring a contractor for lest he or she laugh at you over the phone, demand a bit more thought to strike the right balance—how can it be done well enough, in a time frame suitable, and more recently to consider, without breaking up a marriage? 

Even if you detest DIY, you either have to just do it, live with the consequence of not doing it, or hope your brother who can do anything, literally, lives nearby. (Mine has long moved to Texas!)

Having one of those small jobs at hand, Tim and I embarked on a bit of DIY that had all the ingredients for potential disaster . . . well, perhaps I exaggerate.

Pigeons have been sleeping in a space between the actual roof and the wooden planking of the roof terrace about seven inches above--just enough wriggle room to allow the pests to duck in and keep dry and comfortable. Hearing them cooing in the early morning is less a nuisance than having to clean up after them; they also perch on the railing or the edge of the roof terrace (fortunately out of view) and, well, make a mess. 

Tim's idea was to block the space by nailing a board across the gap. All 12 feet of it, from one end of the roof to the other. Three stories up. With no easy access to the space except from the roof terrace, lying on one's stomach, with no clear view of what you're doing. With a heavy drill to tighten the screws as you hang slightly over the edge.

You can probably sense my nervousness. As a precautionary measure, Maggie was moved from her usual parking spot just below to the neighbour's space, just to the left, in case a screwdriver or some other bit of equipment slipped out of hand or rolled over the edge. There would be no danger to either of us, as we would be securely on the roof and (Tim) wouldn’t need to stick too much out over the edge (lying on his stomach) to secure the boards. Still, I was a little nervous. There is a public footpath nearby, other neighbour’s vehicles, and no safety net!

Tim returned from B&Q with two six-foot planks that needed to be stained, some screws, and a plan. The roof terrace has steel wire ropes for barriers that are used to support canvas panels from floor to railing, which provide a sense of privacy and keep you from falling off the roof. In order to do the job properly, the lowest of the two steel wire ropes--about a foot high from the roof terrace "floor"--needed to be removed so that Tim could lean over the edge to nail the planks in place. It took some time to get them loosened enough--I don't have the best DIY tools, and the nuts and bolts weren't budging. Truth be told, a part of me was slightly relieved thinking the plan would not come together, until Tim changed tactics and was able to finally loosen the wire ropes and make a gap to lean over the edge, place the boards, and secure them. First mission, accomplished. Bonus? It was a lovely, sunny day; I couldn't offer much help to Tim while he tried to disengage the ropes, so I had to settle for sitting in the springtime sun, just warm enough to be comfortable.

Next we needed to place the first six-foot plank and get the first screws in well enough to hold it in place before getting them all tight to secure the board. I was slightly tentative about getting the plank in position, but it was easier than I thought--we worked together slowly to lower it in place (three stories up), and there are several inches of space where, once we gently lowered the board in position, it could rest easily without being nailed and with little danger of it falling--though trust me, I held my end in position until the first few screws were in place!

Tim had hoped to use his power drill as a power screw driver, but alas (or in my heart of hearts, whoopee) the drill bit wasn't good enough and he had to resort to using a standard screwdriver. I held the plank in place until two of the six screws were affixed--after all, the board could fall (three stories) and knock someone out, or veer left as it sailed down toward the ground to where the Peugeot was now parked and smash the windshield!!

Frankly I'm not quite sure where all this potential disaster thinking was coming from; all I knew was that my main objective in this project was to prevent anything like that from happening. So, when Tim placed the screw driver down, I cautiously moved it several inches from the edge, and when both boards were in place and he was leaning head and shoulders over the side to paint the board with waterproof stain, I kept nudging the can away from the edge. I always made sure that any screws or tools used were far enough away to not be accidentally knocked over as Tim moved across the roof (all 12 feet) to apply the stain.

Job well done, and the pigeons have apparently found a new perch. When Tim mentioned that should the pesky birds try to access their former home from the opposite side of the roof where we suspect there is a similar seven-inch gap that we could simply do the same, I said a silent prayer that they would live up to the reputation of being bird-brained and not figure that out!

My DIY lessons learned from this experience?  Well, as a homeowner it’s good to know that I have my own Handy Andy who can tackle those jobs too small for the no-job-too-small advertisers in the local paper. (I think Tim actually enjoys the little challenges now and again.)  And it was probably my fear of heights that made me envision potential disaster; I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, I just prefer my outdoor DIY to be gardening, where there is terra firma!  And while time is money, sometimes you have to JFDI. Y.

Simonized

You may recall my post on being Torbenated, trying to alleviate a nerve root irritation in my left leg. The five sessions left me, in the end, unhappy; while I always felt fine afterward, I didn't think I was making progress toward real recovery, and wanted to do more to help myself.

A few years back I had an elbow injury—a slightly violent clash with a rushing commuter as I was exiting a train and putting a rucksack on my back—and found myself going to a wonderful physiotherapist called Vicky who used a combination of acupuncture, massage, and exercise to help me fully recover, even while playing tennis. After my disappointing results with osteopathy, I thought to look her up again, only to find that the office she worked out had closed. I called my private health insurance to try to track her down, and they could not tell me where she was practising and only that she was still certified under my insurance plan. Sounding a bit exasperated as I did, the very helpful person on the other end offered to set me up—gratis for multiple sessions—with a physiotherapist through Nuffield Health.

And so I’ve been Simonized. I use the American spelling here because I’m not sure one uses that term at all in Europe; it refers to polishing with wax, as in polishing one’s car. And, I must admit, I am a far happier client. There’s still massage—that hurts, by the way, lest you think this is a pleasurable experience—which the osteopath used, but this time it feels more focused. And there is stretching—which doesn’t hurt, because if it does you’re not doing it right. And there is homework--the helping myself bit I was hoping for! My first two weeks I dutifully did my take-home exercises twice a day, and I must say I noticed a slight difference almost immediately. I still had occasional flashes of pain when I stepped down with my left foot, but the pain was less shocking and occurred less often. Having returned for a second session and giving Simon my update, I was issued more difficult and even more localised stretches, and once again I will dutifully carry these out in hope of further alleviating the pain.

I came to a realisation in chatting with Simon about my injury and other such diverse topics as philosophy (he’s a Buddhist) and cultural differences (he’s Australian), and he confirmed my suspicion: this treatment is not temporary;  it is part of a lifelong journey of keeping healthy, as Simon says, to optimise the quality of my life. There is no quick fix for what ails me; I will have to stay fit, keep on exercising, and yes, perhaps continue some stretching. I accept that, and honestly find that far more palatable than taking drugs—even Paracetamol or aspirin—which may mask the pain but not get to the root cause of the problem, ever. I like Simon because he is asking lots of questions to help provide me with guidance on how I can easily integrate wellness into my every day life without having to do things that I likely wouldn't enjoy, like core exercises or weight lifting, planning my longer-term path toward a healthy body. 

Are we a quick-fix culture? Sometimes I think we’re inclined to be less interested in treatment that requires even minimal effort, and then there are only a few who benefit from that—mostly large drug companies. I’d like to think that I’ll always fall on the other end of the spectrum—that I’ll be patient in treatment, and accept that steady progress and life-long vigilance will keep me enjoying  long walks along the seaside and relatively pain free. No matter how often I take that stroll along the Parade toward Gurnard, I always enjoy it—the scene is never quite the same, what with the boats and the wind and the tide and the colours of the sky from the sun, all painting a different picture each time I set off, making me smile, often softly, and always with a nod of gratitude for the chance to experience it.

And the Feast Goes On

A post or so ago it was all about satisfying my hunger for pizza, parmigiana, and proper bacon in my brief return to north Jersey, but that was only half the story. The latter half of our trip included yet more sampling of the local “cuisine.”

We headed south on the New Jersey Turnpike to visit with Tim’s family, which now includes my dear friend Karyn who is married to Tim’s cousin Danny. Karyn is in fact the person who unwittingly brought Tim and me together by asking me to help arrange a meet and greet with her then boyfriend Danny’s family when she came to visit me in London in 2008; the rest as they say is history!

For our South Jersey leg of the trip Tim was anticipating seeing his family, taking a trip to the Liberty Bell, having a taste of Philly known as the cheese steak, and continuing the tour of my former homes in The Garden State. Certainly the highlight was spending time with ”our” family—there was one point when we were sitting at the kitchen table in Karyn and Danny’s beautiful new home and we joked about how slightly odd it was that we were all now related, though Karyn’s brother J would have none of it! In fact J is the reason I know Karyn; years ago we all were on a trip together in Jamaica and had a wonderful time. Karyn and I stayed in touch and that has led to a wonderful friendship.

The double treat was having Aunt Ethnea and Uncle Pat—Danny’s parents, and Tim’s godmother—also staying with us. One night Uncle Pat made his famous chili—I say that because Tim still uses the same recipe he learned from Uncle Pat years ago. I must say we had a couple of lovely evenings together around the dining room table. Although Karyn and Danny had only moved a few days before, the house was in good order—I understand that Uncle Pat, having been in the US Navy and moved dozens of times, was a good part of the reason why! Poor Danny didn’t exactly know where everything was—he looked more bewildered than I did one morning as I was searching for the salt and pepper—though I suspect by now he’s opened all the cupboards and figured out where most things are.

Tim and I did take the time to go to Philadelphia so Tim could see one of the more well-known artefacts of American history. It was a lovely day, sunny and just a little cool, and there was no queue (or need for tickets) to walk through the Liberty Bell centre and take a tour of Independence Hall. I hadn’t been myself in years, and it was nice to see history from another person’s perspective—I’d not have noticed the coloured string around a bundle of legal papers in one of the rooms, but Tim picked it up instantly. To this day the barristers in England still tie case briefs in string, which I find at once quaint and slightly out of step with technology!

After our stroll through the area we headed uptown to Reading Terminal Market, with an eye toward having some lunch. We stopped by Carmen’s and watched the man behind the grill prepare a Philly cheese steak, and thought we could share one. Tim went to order while I found us a couple of stools around the square stall—the market is full of little places to buy local produce, meat, etc, and also a few places to grab a bite. Tim returned a bit overwhelmed—ordering brings so many choices (with onions, what kind of cheese, etc). The classic Philly cheese steak is made with whiz—Cheese Whiz, that bright yellow processed cheese in a jar—though Tim (wisely) opted for provolone. He also requested tomatoes, but when I wrinkled my nose at the thought of them on a cheese steak Tim asked the cook to remove them, and he did. I’m not a huge fan—it’s just one of those things you need to experience in Philadelphia “cuisine,” and it sufficed as a satisfying lunch.

We walked on en route to the Rodin Museum, one of my favourites in the area, only to find it was closed for renovation. No matter, the Philadelphia Museum of Art was just steps away and had a Van Gogh exhibit on, so it was a more than adequate second choice. Museums in the US often have a hefty entry fee—both the MoMa in NYC and the PMA asked $25—which when you’re used to simply walking in startles you (the Tates here in London by contrast are both entry-free), on top of an additional fee for special exhibits. We ponied up the cash and walked through the exhibit, which for the fee at least gave us free audio. I do enjoy Van Gogh’s work, and it was well worth the visit and the dollars.

There is one other local food favourite—the hoagie—that I’d forgotten when planning our Jersey adventure, and when  J suggested a Carmen’s Deli lunch at his new home I was delighted—Carmen’s has always been the place to go for a great sandwich, and I hadn’t had one in years.

I must say, while the hoagie was fantastic, the treat of the day was seeing J’s beautiful home, which he designed, nestled in the woods of Mullica Hill not far from where I used to live. One of the more striking features is a stone fireplace that reaches all the way up the 24-foot high ceiling, and apparently well below into the basement. It is a gorgeous place, with lots of light and air and wood and modern appliances.  I am thrilled for J that his dream house is no longer a dream, and am very impressed for his captivating, innovative design. My little twin home down the road pales in comparison, but I still took a swing by to show Tim!

Our last meal in our Jersey adventure was actually at the airport—memorable only for its price (you’re a captive audience and they know it), though the food was certainly good. While dining in the sports bar I got the chance to see a little of Jeremy Lin, all the rage in basketball at the moment owing to his Harvard pedigree and reasonably good play (apparently most people think brains and sports don’t mix), and I felt only slightly wistful at recalling my love of American sports. No matter, I’ve managed to learn enough about rugby to enjoy the game, and look forward to the remaining Six Nations matches to come!

Stuck in the Middle

I’m generally not one to attend posh dinners where most of the guests are either sailors or lawyers as I can’t speak intelligently on most related matters, but I made an exception this year to attend the Bar Yacht Club’s annual dinner. Having dined at Middle Temple Hall before, I knew what to expect of the food and wine, and having had most of Tim’s crew come through our home in Cowes during the sailing season, I was looking forward to seeing them in something other than waterproofs  and chatting about life off the water!

This year is the 75^th anniversary of the Bar Yacht Club, and the club's Admiral happens to be one of the royals, who was asked to and graciously accepted the invitation. Brush with royalty? I was happy to rush out to Debenham’s for evening dress and practise a curtsy, just in case.  In fact, I would venture to guess that most of the ~ 300 guests were not there to hear Commodore Sir Michael Briggs talk about the many different trophies he had before him, but because it was made known that a special guest would be in attendance that evening.

And what a superb evening it was—a black-tie / evening dress affair for all of us, and most of the regular crew of Coh Karek in attendance—either at Tim’s end of the table, which (ahem) happened to be at the front of the room, or down the bench just a bit with the crew of XtoSea, the boat owned by the Vice Commodore and the vessel on which Tim did most of his sailing before acquiring his Contessa.

Picture me in this:

After a quick change from work attire into my purple evening dress, Tim (looking resplendent in black tie after his own quick change at chambers) escorted me from my office reception to Pegasus, a bar just steps away from Middle Temple Hall. The bar  is usually filled with barristers and solicitors; this evening it was complimented by a bevy of lovely ladies in posh frocks and men looking very smart in black, sipping champagne and chatting away on what we’d been doing since the last time we were together. It was the first time in a long while we’d seen some of our friends, and certainly the first time we’d all been in the same room in ages—we were 17 in all, though one couple closely related to Tim were stuck in a taxicab on Oxford Street whilst the champagne poured for the rest of us!

I am always a bit in awe, a bit thrilled by the ceremony of events held at Middle Temple—the grand pronouncements, the rapping on the floor with a tall rod several times to call us to order, the toast “to the Queen”, etc. I might also add that I am and also quite fond of the food and wine selection at Middle Temple; I’ve come to understand that the Inns of Court spare little expense on certain pleasures.

The hall, dating back to the 16^th century, is laid out bench style, with long rows down the length of the hall; the main table at the front of the hall stands across them. Behind the main table the wall is filled with portraits of many royals including Queen Elizabeth I, who is said to have dined there many times during her reign (which ended in 1603). The hall itself is 101 feet long and 41 feet wide; to say it is impressive is an understatement.

Shakespeare fans will know that Twelfth Night was first performed there in 1602.As an American I simply love England for its history, reaching back longer than America has existed.

 I’ll temporarily bore you with a few details from the menu—gravalax with a seafood timbale followed by filet of beef with a confit of oxtail, mango and passion fruit brulee (just one of three desserts), petit fours, cheese, and more. It was all delicious, and as expected the wines perfectly complemented each course. I was most impressed with the Chateau Lafitte Premiers Cotes de Bordeaux 2009—that year being one of the greatest in Bordeaux history, it worked a treat with the beef and was in fact the only wine that I gratefully accepted a second pour; while the others were equally lovely, including the Louis Latour 2009 Macon Lugny Les Genievres, I have always sided with the reds.

The piece de resistance was neither food nor wine; it was the speech by The Admiral, His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, that stayed with us long after the plates and glasses were cleared. I truly felt privileged to be inches away from Prince Philip as he was escorted past our table—all of us standing at attention as he smiled at as many of us as he could. During his speech he joked about how he is generally invited to such events only when things are going horribly wrong, and how he was happy to forgo golfing outings to his second son (Andrew, former husband of Sarah). He looked well, though a bit shorter than I’d imagined—he is said to be six foot tall (to the Queen’s five feet four inches); perhaps with my own heels and standing tall I was merely appearing taller than my usual five feet five!

Tim, as a member of the Bar Yacht Club committee, had the honour of greeting HRH and escorting him through the rooms within Middle Temple before dinner. He said the Duke seemed in fine form, and while Tim talked rather nonchalantly about it, I suspect he was chuffed as cheeseballs to have had the opportunity to get up close and personal with HRH.

Cowes on the 25^th of July as part of the celebration of her Diamond Jubilee. My calendar is already marked as out of office for that day when I hope for another glimpse at royalty. How lucky can you get?

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!