Getting Kicked to the Curb

At our first encounter I was enthralled. Physical beauty reeled me in—as well as the addictive scent it wore. And even though the physique was a bit portly I chose to overlook it. Nothing in nature is perfect. And I couldn’t wait for the dressed up attire—the sparkle—the compliments that would reflect back on me. I had chosen well.

But by the time the party was over I was no longer so enamored. In fact my interest had waned--significantly. I began to contemplate demise. Its usefulness had been outlived. I was totally bored. I now viewed maintenance too high to keep rather than a pleasure thing to extoll. I saw only superficial beauty---nothing that could plant root. My enjoyment had dried up. So as judge and jury I put it on death row and set its date of extinction.

Today is the day I will execute my plan. After I pack up the ornaments and pull the bag over its apex that seasonal conifer will be gone and kicked to the curb. There is no more room in my life for a Christmas tree. Christmas is so last year. There are other holidays waiting in the wings to be celebrated.

Adios Christmas tree. It was nice knowing you. Maybe your replacement next year will enjoy an extended stay—but I doubt it. Beauty that is only skin deep never lasts. Unless of course you arrive with roots—beauty and roots are the only way I will allow you to plant yourself perennially in my life—just like with people.

My Kindle Fire

When I was in elementary school and the teacher handed out textbooks on the first day of class I immediately looked to see who the previous user was. And if the previous user was someone I perceived as “yucky” I would remain convinced for the entirety of the school year that I might catch “cooties” from the pages of the book. And even when Valerie Daly gave me a cootie shot, I reserved concern.

In college, unless it was absolutely necessary, I never bought used textbooks. I always bought new ones. By then my “cootie” neurosis transformed into germophobia. I never trusted where that textbook had been. Especially amongst college students. Especially amongst male college students. Especially amongst right-handed male college students who do things with that hand that I do not wish to contemplate.  Which is why I also have an aversion to library books—they smell weird and may have been touched by tainted fingers (not to mention my little issue with library delinquency).

When I organized my book group I made sure that all parties agreed to purchase the selected reading. This worked well for my phobia but not with space issues on my bookshelves. Because of book group I now own books up the ying-yang.  The shelves are starting to resemble the library in the film Beauty and the Beast. And although books are not animate beings I feel badly throwing them out. The characters have become my “friends” and I do not wish to reject them. So even though I love to touch sterile pages and hold a real book in my hand when I read I made the decision to purchase an electronic reader.

And for Christmas I received a Kindle Fire. I decided that if I was going to use an e-reader it may as well have other capabilities. So now I have a tablet that I can use for email, play Words with Friends, check Facebook, listen to music and videos, flip through People magazine with, as well as use the Office app for blog writing. I am so busy during the day using my Kindle for all sorts of things that I have barely used it for the purpose for which it was intended—reading. It has taken me 5 days to read 7% of my new book because I am too distracted by all the apps. So while I now have a germfree spacefree vessel of literature-- no reading is taking place.

So much for technology. Instead of improving my book count it is enabling my attention deficit.  

I wonder if they make a “cootie shot” app? There is an app for everything else.

Why Buy the Cow....?

In an attempt to illustrate my mother’s high moral view, she would say Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?   I used to think why do people judge the cow? The farmer is the one pimping her out. He is the idiot not making the profit—not the cow. She has no vested interest whatsoever in who drinks her milk. But for many years out of respect for my mother I simply listened and said nothing.

But not too long ago when my mother gave me the milk for free speech I responded with Who buys a pair of shoes without trying them on first? And she got a little angry despite my witticism and said that’s not the same thing.

But the truth of the matter is that it is. We no longer live in an age where purity is expected. In fact, the idea of premarital purity is a vestigial appendage of the past—like the wisdom teeth of the moral code. And while some people retain their wisdom teeth with no ills; most people, because it is more prudent to do so, have them yanked before they cause problems. Keeping those wisdom teeth is a gamble.

We live in an age where couples marry later in life and understand that wearing a “shoe” that fits, is comfortable, and will wear well over time is an integral part of a lasting relationship. And there is nothing like a great pair of shoes—go ask Cinderella and her prince for verification.

On a Hallmark card I once read: Why buy the pig when all you want is a piece of sausage? I agree. Especially when it comes to chorizo.

The Greatest Gifts

The last time I recall being totally overcome with emotion upon receiving a Christmas gift was a few years ago when my girlfriend Elissa gave me a framed photograph of the two of us. The photo was taken in 1977 the day we returned from our European trip. We both donned Dorothy Hamel haircuts. The frame said forever faithful… friends.  I was overcome---the sentiment—the thoughtfulness---the purity of the intent---all touched my heart.

Christmas morning my children and husband chose me to kick off the opening of the gifts. I thought it was out of pity. On December 22^rd I had cut my hand on some broken crystal and received 5 stitches on the palm of my left hand. The injured hand was useless for all practical purposes (hence no blog posts).  But I was not chosen to open my gifts first out of pity. It was because I was about to receive a special gift from my husband.

The box appeared not to have been wrapped by a professional wrapper—that added to the charm. I knew my husband had done the wrapping all by himself. And when I opened the box—which was quite heavy—I saw that there was a hardcover book inside. The title was Thoughts from Karenland Volume 1.

My husband had taken all my blog posts and created my first publication. And that is when I lost it.

It finally clicked that I had created something real. I was an author. I had written a book. It was something I could touch. My mind had value and I owned it completely. The tears flowed. My husband accomplished what I would never have taken the time or had the patience to do myself. He gifted me: myself.

And as I flipped through the pages I was incredulous that all those words had fallen out of my head. There were so many of them! It was surreal. It had taken my husband hours and hours to put the book together--probably longer than it had taken me to write it. And despite the fact that the editing wasn’t perfect nor did I have a contract from Simon and Schuster it was perfect to me. It was a hardcover bound book and my name was on the cover. I had a copyright. A dream was realized. I had worth.

The greatest gifts always take your breath away—they connect your heart to someone else’s. You find yourself exalted and taken to a place higher than your legs could ever carry you. It hardly ever is the thing itself generating the joy. It is almost always the intention behind it--just like a prayer.

My Thoughts From Karenland Office Party

Yesterday I had my Thoughts from Karenland office Christmas party.

I ate thinly sliced Boar’s Head bologna on an onion roll as I watched The Chew on my kitchen television set.

That is also where my boss presented me with my holiday bonus: 2 mini Nestle toll house cookies.

She also gave me a can of Diet Coke. I drank it straight from the can.

Not a bad deal. Especially since it is based on my unpaid salary.

Karen's Baked French Toast

While my mother was a wonderfully creative cook and baker, there was one meal she did not prepare: breakfast. Not even on holidays.

 I love a big breakfast. Especially on the holidays. But I also do not like complicated recipes. Especially on the holidays. Which is why on Christmas morning I always prepare Baked French Toast.

I assemble it on Christmas Eve day and then refrigerate it overnight. And as it takes 30 minutes or so to bake we open presents as breakfast cooks itself.

ENJOY!!

Karen’s Baked French Toast

v 1 large loaf Challah bread cut in 1 inch slices

v 3 cups whole milk

v 3 eggs

v 3 heaping tablespoons brown sugar

v 1 -2 teaspoons vanilla extract

v ½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice or cinnamon (more if you like)

v Pinch of salt

1.     Generously grease a 9 x 12 pan with 1-2 tablespoons melted salted butter

2.     Arrange bread slices in two layers filling in the gaps

3.     Beat all the ingredients and pour evenly over bread

4.     Wrap tightly and refrigerate up to 48 hours

5.     Bake at 400-425 degree oven or until golden and puffed

6.     Garnish with powdered sugar and serve with baked apple slices, REAL maple syrup or whatever fruit or nuts you like

7.     Serves 6-8 people

Christmas Eve at Nonny's

Nonny--my Grandmother Vespo-- was the perfect grandmother. She never criticized you—ever. She only had love. And she loved each of her family members equally. She did not have favorites. And although she was not wealthy in monetary terms she gave unendingly. Nonny’s wealth lied in the abundance of love she felt and shared with her family.

As the youngest grandchild of the youngest daughter, my family perspective and experience differed from my older cousins---especially on holidays---especially on Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve at my grandmother’s 3 room walk up apartment in the Bronx only ever included my Aunts and their families. None of the Zi-zi’s or Aunt Jean’s or Uncle Joe’s families were ever there to my recollection. Nineteen people was enough.

I do not remember a big fish dinner prepared by my grandmother. She was too old to put in all that effort by the time I met my first memories. But what we did eat on Christmas Eve was every child’s fantasy. We ate pizza from Sorrento’s—the local pizzeria-restaurant. It was the best pizza I ever ate. There were boxes and boxes of pizza—some plain, some with anchovy and some that just had marinara sauce because my Aunt Jackie did not eat cheese. And I know that Nonny prepared side dishes of baccala and calamari but little kids do not eat that—that was for the grown-ups to enjoy.

And all the cousins stood around and ate in the tiny kitchen at the chrome and formica table with red vinyl chairs. I got to sit on the special step stool that converted to a chair---it was a prized seat.

And Nonny would only concern herself that we had eaten enough. She would ask how many slices we consumed and then we would lie—we wanted her to believe we had eaten more than our quota just to please her.

And when dinner was finished the grown-ups did a grab bag while we children waited patiently to get to the good part—our gifts. When the gift giving was over we ate pastry from A and M bakery or Prestano’s on White Plains Road.—cannolis,  sfogliatalle and strufoli. Sometimes my mother made homemade cream puffs or cassadettas.

It was wonderful.

And when it was over we drove back home to the suburbs enjoying all the Christmas lights along the way. I often wore newly received flannel pajamas with my patent leather shoes for the car ride.

And then we waited for Santa to come.

But somehow Christmas day always paled to Christmas Eve—even though Santa had not yet arrived. Our greatest Christmas gift was the time spent with family on December 24th. It was the jocular atmosphere and anticipation. It was Nonny’s laugh when she opened her gift. It was the yule log playing on an 8 inch black and white TV sitting on top of the refinished mosaic tiled top liquor cabinet. It was the manger arranged on the TV console cabinet with the empty crèche that Grandpa laid some cotton in so baby Jesus would be comfortable when he arrived.

Christmas was always about Christmas Eve at Nonny’s.

And Christmas is still all about Christmas Eve—although now it is spent at my brother’s house.  We have a traditional fish and seafood dinner followed by gift giving and strufoli and Julia’s cookies. It is still about laughter and anticipation and my brother reading from Dicken’s A Christmas Carol. We enjoy a roaring fire from his electronic fireplace instead of the channel 11 yule log. And when my girls were little they wore their new flannel pajamas home with their black patent leather Mary Jane shoes just like I did.

Christmas Eve is still all so special. It is still all so magical. And while physically absent, Nonny is still there—watching approvingly--- without criticism--- and with endless love.

Merry Christmas to all my friends and family---may you keep Nonny’s  love with you all through the year. And remember: wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas.