Monthly Archives: June 2012

A Little Summer Sweetness

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Respite can come in the shape of a small blue berry.

This morning, the kids and I stole some time from our daily duties to share a bit of breakfast—hobbit-style—at a favorite restaurant in nearly nearby Frenchtown. My pal Jeanne introduced me to the delights of the Lovin’ Oven a little over a year ago, and we’ve made roughly monthly pilgrimages to enjoy the meals made with local ingredients ever since.

I know this sounds weird, but it’s a joy to watch your children gobble sautéed kale and black beans with huevos rancheros and sweet potato biscuits. The food is so damn good you can’t help but slow down and savor it. The pace of the meal always turns continental.

Usually such family visits end with a trip to the Lovin’ Oven’s homemade desserts case, although the kids are too stuffed for much more than a chocolate chip or sugar cookie. But I’ve had dreams about the banana cream pudding and a hush falls over the table whenever the server sets down a slice of peanut butter pie.

Today, however, it’s blistering hot and each kid chose a fruity dessert (albeit two of the three were also graced by chocolate’s presence): an impossibly tall and impossible to finish slice of orange cake (four layers!) frosted with chocolate ganache, a warm and homey apple crisp, and a little lemon curd tart topped with fresh blueberries.

Hidden beneath the curd was, of course, a layer of chocolate.The tart, promptly consumed with focused silence, disappeared down to a tiny wedge, which was photographed (above) in the palm of a serious chocolate lover’s hand before vanishing.

It was a little summer sweetness for me, too, who am consumed by daily affairs and obligations that never seem to slow or pay homage to special days or a change of season.

But this is also a choice, and something I have to remind myself I am in charge of making. It’s healthy and healing to take a break and break bread—or blueberries—with those we love.

When I looked around the restaurant the diners at every other table were doing exactly what we doing at our table: talking and laughing together over a well-fashioned meal despite the brutal heat and pressing burdens of the day.

So forget (forgive me, Mom) the roses—I encourage you, even as I vow to remind myself, to take more time this summer to stop and taste the blueberries.

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    Curiologics

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    Today’s Best Word Ever is curiologics: writing that employs representative pictures rather than symbols, for example, hieroglyphic writing.

    A plural noun that is singular in construction, from curiologic, Greek kyriologikos, “in an obvious sense,” from kyriologia, “obvious language” (kyrios ”ruling, literal,” from kyros, “power, might” + -logia, -logy) + -ikos, -ic.

    Scratching his bald pate, renowned archeologist Gimball Kimball readjusted his spectacles and peered closer at the etchings carved into the cave wall: “What curious curiologics!” 

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      Nuts for Nutella

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      Whenever I check the site statistics and review the searches that lead to this blog, without fail the list includes a search for Nutella—most often Nutella pancakes.

      People are nuts for Nutella.

      It’s quite popular in our household, too, and certain family members (who shall remain nameless) have even gone so far as to purchase and stash a personal jar.

      I confess that I am somewhat mystified by all this devotion to Nutella. Perhaps it partly because I am not a superfan of pancakes or hazelnut or chocolate. I’ll take peanut butter and jelly any day of the week.

      That being said, “breakfast for dinner” remains in the top-ten menu choices at my house. I can flip a mean pancake and have fine-tuned an array of favorite toppings that include, among others items, warm maple syrup and whipped cream, sliced bananas tossed with cinnamon and honey, mini chocolate chips, fresh blueberries, and pumpkin butter. And when I ask, “Do you want it to snow on your pancakes?” a yes means a flurry of dusted powdered sugar.

      Nutella is not included among this list of toppings because it’s somehow regarded as a convenience food, something fun and filling to have on the fly. Breakfast for dinner, you see, is a meal that we like to linger over.

      In addition to the pancakes, I usually cook each family member an egg to order, sunny-side up or over easy, with a side of sausage or bacon. After a holiday, there may be grilled slices of fragrant honey ham, or a hash of leftover potatoes. Popular too, is a plate of kielbasa and eggs. Completing the meal is always a tossed salad made from whatever fruit currently fills the oversized bowl on the kitchen table.

      If I’m feeling extra gracious and spacious, I may caramelize fresh apple slices, and the last time I did this I added two handfuls of mulberries, fresh-picked (while the birds complained) from one of several mulberry trees in our backyard.The berries turned the apple mixture a bright red, which looked lovely atop the slightly crispy pancakes that were flavored with a bit of vanilla.

      My favorite part of this meal, and family favorites like it, is that it puts everyone in good spirits, and encourages us to slow down and enjoy each other’s company. Who knew that pancakes are a portal to open communication?

      When I see the search for Nutella pancakes on the blog’s statistics I’d like to think that it’s someone searching for a recipe to make an inviting meal for loved ones. And I’d like to imagine further that it’s a recipe that will become a household favorite.

      So what does all of this have to do with writing? Nothing, really. It’s just that it’s nice sometimes to chat over coffee and pancakes—or waffles and Nutella, if you prefer—on a relaxed summer Saturday morning after another hectic week.

      Could you please pass the syrup?

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        Blowing More Bubbles

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        Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou wilt ever dig.
        —Marcus Aurelius

        Life is mostly froth and bubble,
        Two things stand like stone,
        KINDNESS in another’s trouble,
        COURAGE in your own.
        —Adam Lindsay Gordon

        It is worth mentioning, for future reference, that the creative power which bubbles so pleasantly in beginning a new book quiets down after a time, and one goes on more steadily. Doubts creep in. Then one becomes resigned. Determination not to give in, and the sense of an impending shape keep one at it more than anything.
        —Virginia Woolf

        Give fools their gold, and knaves their power;
        let fortune’s bubbles rise and fall;
        who sows a field, or trains a flower,
        or plants a tree, is more than all.
        —John Greenleaf Whittier

        Do not spend time thinking about the world or about your relationships to individuals. These are all impermanent….Pay attention to that which lasts, to that which is permanent. All things involving the world and human relationships have to do only with the body. The body is like a water bubble. The mind is like a mad monkey. So do not follow the body or the mind. Follow the voice of God. It is the voice of unchanging truth inside you. It will direct you toward your highest good.
        —Sri Sathya Sai Baba

        Reputation is a bubble which man bursts when he tries to blow it for himself.
        —Emma Carleton

        Double, double toil and trouble;
        Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
        —William Shakespeare

        I had a stick of Carefree gum, but it didn’t work. I felt pretty good while I was blowing that bubble, but as soon as the gum lost its flavor, I was back to pondering my mortality.
        —Mitch Hedberg

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          Wild Ride

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          Editor’s Note: We’d like to welcome once again Pages and Patterns guest blogger, Francesa Ciotoli, who reflects on the pages on her shelves and patterns in her life. As always, readers are invited to share your reactions in a comment.

          WILD RIDE

          Joe and I recently took Christopher and Ava to the Wild Safari at Great Adventure. Prompted by Christopher’s interest in cataloging animals according to their habitat (thanks to a favorite DVD), we wanted to give him an opportunity to see the real deal. I’m not ashamed to admit I was pretty excited about the opportunity to get near a giraffe, an animal I have adored since childhood.

          It was a spontaneous decision, something that almost never happens in our family. Outings usually require intense preparation. Christopher is highly allergic to several foods and I always have to pack more than enough food for the day. We usually prepare him for where we are going using highly structured language—“First we will go… Then we will do…”  Having pictures helps a lot.

          This kind of preparation helps decrease Christopher’s anxiety and sets limits. It requires anticipating as much as possible what to expect and plan for the inevitable triggers that cause an OCD spin, which is usually stairs. Have you ever noticed how many staircases exist around you? They are literally everywhere! Long flights, shorts steps, winding stairways, twin sets: Christopher wants to climb them all.

          In fact, the compulsion to climb stairs is so strong Christopher will race ahead to them heedless of cars or anything else in his path. So the anxiety to keep him safe often keeps us at home.

          Despite the fact that we had little knowledge about Wild Safari and no time to prepare Christopher or ourselves, we took a leap of faith, packed a makeshift lunch, the Epipen®, jumped in the car, and ventured out.

          The ninety-minute ride went smoothly—we talked about the animals and both kids were obviously excited.  Even the forecast of showers couldn’t cast a shadow on our smiles. The radio sang along with us as we pulled up to the park entrance, blissfully unaware of what lay in store.

          How could we know that to reach the safari we had to pass the water park? How could something so innocuous derail the day? Imagine the stairways of Christopher’s dreams: towering twisting tube structures attached to complex, snaking staircases that seemed to touch the sky. Christopher immediately started screaming, “Stairs! This way! I want stairs!” And from that point on, he had one mission: to get to those magical stairs. Nothing else mattered.

          We soldiered on, handing our ticket to the collector (who has surely seen his share of roaring children) and taking a slow, torturous trip through the animal kingdom. Joe spent most of it squeezed between the car seats trying to calm Christopher, I did my best to block out the screams and not crash the car, and Ava took it all in stride—as she has done since birth.

          The ride was wild, but not in the way we anticipated.

          It’s hard to keep composed at such times. Joe and I often feel that we are in a battle with Christopher’s OCD and it is emotionally and physically exhausting. As I gripped the steering wheel and prayed that the cars ahead of us would  move already so we could complete the damned tour and go home, I saw rising ahead of me the sleek neck of a giraffe.

          For a moment my world stopped as this impossible creature gracefully lumbered forward, weaving on stiletto legs among the cars. All limbs, she seemed to be coming toward me alone. I savored each long step that closed the distance between us. I rolled down my window (despite posted warnings NOT to do so) and reached out my hand.

          Running my fingers over her neck I gazed up into her luminous, velvet eyes. Her long black tongue unfurled to lick my hand and I was enraptured in that deep peaceful silence of two beings connecting.  And then she was gone—onto the next car, the next hand, the next photo opportunity.

          As we drove home—completely spent—I kept envisioning my girl, marveling at the contradiction of grace and awkwardness, the paradox of power and gentility, the ridiculous improbability of meeting a giraffe just off the Garden State Parkway. The encounter hasn’t left me; I can and do conjure it at will during stressful moments. It’s a soothing balm.

          Perhaps this is because it’s similar to my relationship with Christopher. At times, looking into my son’s eyes is like falling into a deep well. We are completely different creatures trying to live together. I feel the complex paradox and primal unity of that connection.

          Although our safari trip was awful, I can’t say it was a failure. Writing this I am struck, once again, by the contradiction that there is suffering in beauty and that I love my son because of and in spite of our differences.

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            Bubbles

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            Chapter Eighteen: The Tavern

            excerpted from
            The Inn of the Half-Hearted Angel
            a novel manuscript
            by Felicia Sanzari Chernesky

            “What will it be today, my friend?” asked Barley, as Professor Mutton entered the tavern several hours later.

            “Greetings, Barley! A glorious day for a bit of discourse and a sip of Angel nectar,” bellowed the Professor good-naturedly.

            “I see you are in fine form this afternoon, Matty,” Tobias called out from a table near the bar. “And none the worse for losing our debate this morning. Join me. I’ll stand you a gin fizz.”

            “I agree to nothing but the drink, sir!” Professor Mutton rejoined. Everyone in the room laughed. He shook hands with Tobias and sat across from the bookseller and began ruminating. The tavern returned to a comfortable clink and murmur as the men drank in companionable silence.

            A sudden bustle coming from the hall caught everyone’s attention. Mrs. Mother entered the room carrying a steaming tray of cross-buns.

            The Professor’s eyes gleamed at her presence. Everyone else was staring at the sweet glaze crosses decorating the honey-brown buns.

            The room filled with anticipation.

            “Now, these are not for any of you,” she admonished. “I am bringing them to Pastor Crane for his visitors’ repast. His table, I am told, is full this evening.”

            “Allow me to get the door, madam.” The Professor jumped to his feet, nearly toppling his drink. “Shall I accompany you on your journey? Perhaps I’ll have the opportunity to slay a fearsome dragon or two along the way—”

            “No need, thank you,” Mrs. Mother countered brusquely as she bumped open the tavern door with her meaty hip and disappeared before the Professor could insist.

            Barley noticed his friend’s downtrodden look. “Another fizz, Matty?”

            “Thank you, no, my friend,” he replied. “I remain, alas, a one-fizz fellow.” Barley and Tobias exchanged looks. “I could, however, use a puff and ponder. You see, I am considering penning a treatise on the salubrious effects of rainwater on a duck’s tail in the scientifically crucial month of April. Tobias, I thank you for the uplifting glass of spirits. Gentleman…” he gestured to the room and, bowing, exited.

            Through a tavern window Barley watched the Professor pause at the bottom of the steps and turn his head to the right. He seemed about to move in that direction—the same path that Mrs. Mother had taken—but stopped himself.

            Matthias Mutton was clearly agitated. He pulled a long pipe from one of his myriad pockets, and a small tube from another. After carefully pouring a measure of thick glistening liquid into the bowl of the pipe, he capped the tube and returned it to a pocket.

            Barley watched the Professor sigh. He could almost feel his friend’s shoulders rise and fall as a deep exhale of disappointment joined the vibrant fall air. The Professor put the pipe to his lips, took in another breath and exhaled again, this time more gently but with precision. A long even stream of iridescent bubbles ascended from the bowl of the pipe. They rose in the air like hope and rode away on back of the October breeze. Barley was aware that unlike his scientific contemporaries the Professor did not believe in the healthful benefits of tobacco; he said that the bubbles induced serenity.

            The shimmering orbs caught the attention of a passing group of children. Barley could hear their squeals of delight through the tavern window.

            “Again, Professor Mutton!” they appealed, running toward him. “They’re so pretty! More bubbles, please!”

            Barley watched the side of Matthias’s face, which had been drawn down, rise up as the pink-cheeked children surrounded him.

            “Very well, my young friends,” he replied gravely, as if granting a great favor.

            Barley knew otherwise. This was a joy to the childless Matthias.

            Professor Mutton puffed slowly and several enormous bubbles labored up from the bowl of his pipe. The children began to dance about him, laughing and poking at the thick, fat bubbles with outstretched fingers.

            The Professor then shot a long line of tiny bubbles high into the air. The bubbles coasted off on the breeze. Delighted, the children shrieked and chased the train of bubbles as they drifted down the thoroughfare. The Professor’s shoulders bounced. Barley could feel his friend’s laughter and he watched him stroll off in the opposite direction.

            “My friend, I think you really were meant to be content,” Barley murmured.

            He considered life outside the tavern window a while longer. It was a bright afternoon on the brink of brisk autumn. The children were gone. So was the Professor. Occasionally, a glimmering stream of bubbles sashayed past.

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