Thanks but No Thanks

Nothing like a big juicy kiss from a tall, dark and handsome stranger now, is there?

No!!!

But this isn't about that. 

What I am talking about is a kiss - not juicy, but with lip involvement - his, not mine.  And it's coupled with a full body embrace, too. 

Oh - and it isn't from my husband, either.

Sounds tantalizing, right?

Well, this display of affection is consistently delivered by the proprietor of a restaurant that my family and I have frequented over the years - every time I enter and exit, and every time one of our daughters enters and exits.

It's not that it's offensive, but it's kind of creepy.  Why is this his routine?  It's not like I'm kissing him back or nuzzling in to get closer - I'm kind of a limp stick figure - one would think he would find this dance of ours rather dissatisfying.    

He's like Richard Dawson from Family Feud.  Dawson seemed way more excited to get a kiss from one of his contestants than the right "Survey Says" answer.  It seemed to me that the game show set-up fed right into his deep yearning to get affection any way possible.     

  

Certainly my family doesn't have to frequent this restaurant if we don't want to, but we like it.  It's one of about 5 to 10 places in our rotation, so it plays a valuable role. I don't want to make our world any smaller.

One day last week, I saw him visit table after table, kissing at least one woman from each group.  He looked like Don Juan working the room. 

     

Maybe I'm being too hard on the guy.  Perhaps a kiss is his way of showing that we customers - the female ones, anyway - matter.   Does it beat being taken for granted?  Maybe. I'm not sure. 

Other restaurant and shop owners make us feel special in different ways.  One greets us with a big smile, another asks how we've been, another will immediately show me what's new and different, another one adds yummy surprises to our meal and gives us candies when we leave (she knows the way to my heart)...everyone has his or her way of showing appreciation.

My husband also thinks this guy's enthusiasm is a bit over the top, and one of our daughters suggested I tell him Thanks but No Thanks, but I'd rather do what she and I did the last time.

Since he usually hangs out near the front door, we waited until he went behind the counter, and then we made a run for it, exiting without our goodbye kisses.  Call it passive aggressive, but it was effective. We at least were pleased with the outcome,

Will he get the hint? 

Probably not.

All in the Same

The arrival of Pope Francis caused quite a stir, shutting down the city like never before.

People from all over came to see a man whose progressive ideas are breathing new life into the Catholic Church and to society at large.  He's emerging as a compelling world leader, and many of us are tuning in.    

That's not to say that I'm on board with all his thinking, such as his stance on homosexuality, adoption with same sex couples or abortion, but his eyes and ears appear to be open, which is an important step in the right direction.

    

He can't erase the Church's wrongdoings of the past, but he is acknowledging them which will hopefully change the course going forward.

The Pope's presence here for the World Meeting of Families has awoken in many of us deep yearning and faith that the world can be a better place.    

  

And it's not just that he's calling for people to pray for it; he's calling on people to act upon it:  to help the impoverished, the immigrants, each other...to be the best we can be.    

     

In which case isn't this a humanitarian message, and not so much a religious one?  After all, it's not just Catholics who want to be good people and live in a peaceful world; we ALL do. We are all much similar than different, aren't we? 

Thinking like this always gets me into trouble, leading me to start questioning everything.

For example, what really is the difference between a Catholic woman and me, a Jew?

I'm no theologian, but I'd say that one of the most noteworthy hallmarks of each religion centers on the deity with which a relationship is formed and a prayer is directed...so while I pray to G-d, perhaps my Catholic friend would pray to a saint.

We could be standing side by side and praying with the same intentions at heart:  Make Bradley well, bring a baby into Jane's life, don't let Derrick and Joy lose their home and so forth. 

What I don't get is why associating with a religion that we call our own seems to create a divide that separates us far more than unifies us.  It's not like one entity is pure and one is evil. 

It's all supposed to be good.    

Kugel

We Jewish folk  may not believe in "Heaven," but let me tell you...

My mom's noodle kugel was heaven.

The smell of it, the taste, the look, the feel.

Everything about it was...divine.

"Kugel" for those unsure, is also known as noodle "pudding" or casserole.  The base can be made from noodles, potato or, during Passover, matzoh.   Fruit, cheese and vegetables are the most popular ingredients  to add, depending upon whether the objective is for a sweet or savory final product.

My mom's signature kugel was a fairly simple one - noodles, eggs, sugar, oil, cinnamon, vanilla and raisins - yet the pleasure it brought was immense.  I for one would drool when it came out of the oven as I longed for a bite of crispy noodles that were sizzling with oil and providing a protective cover for the succulent raisins hiding underneath.      

It was my dad's sister, Aunt Fay, who taught my mom how to make this fine dish, and I always stressed the historical context to my kids in the event they might want to pass it on to the next generation.   

The last time I made it, I felt so happy that one of our girls was in the kitchen watching me prepare it until she became horrified when I poured a whopping 1 cup of sugar into the mixture.    

"Is that a dessert?" she asked.

I wanted to say "Yes," because clearly she thought it should be and I admit that it could seem more acceptable as a dessert than as a side dish in today's world, but NO, it was actually the main part of our dinner.    

But what the heck.  We're Jews, and healthy meals aren't really part of our traditions.   

It never occurred to me when my mom served it that in actuality it wasn't really good for us.  

She made it.  We loved it.  End of story.

Over time, however, I've succumbed to the health-minded influences out there and reduced the sugar content by about 50% - and that's about how much I like it now! Someone suggested a sugar substitute, but I'm not comfortable integrating an impostor into the mix of something that at one time brought such pure joy to the family.

It's the real McCoy , or nothing.

Want to try it?   

A Taste of Heaven

(for 4-6 servings)

1/2 lb. medium wide egg noodles (follow directions for cooking)

Let noodles cool and pour cold water over top

Mix noodles with:

1 cup raisins

4 raw eggs (1 at a time)

1/2 cup sugar (no skimping allowed)

1/4-1/2 cup oil (scant)

1/2 tspn cinnamon

1 tspn vanilla

Grease loaf pan (about 9x5) and bake at 350 for approximately one hour.

I repeat:  DO NOT SKIMP ON THE SUGAR! 

Wishing everyone - Jews and non-Jews alike - a very Happy and Healthy year ahead, 

filled with great joy...and kugel!

Five Years

When I close my eyes at night, I can imagine just about anything. 

I can picture my stepson Matthew walking in the front door.  I can almost hear his keys jingling at the lock, followed by the squish of sneakers going up the steps to his room, which he shared with Michael. 

"Come in and say 'HI!' before you go upstairs," David would call out to him from the kitchen.    

"Come in and say goodnight," David would ask of him before he hit the sack, when he knew Matthew would be out late.      

Reliving this dialogue in my head can be very convincing that it's happening in real time.

If only it were.

Yesterday marked five years since Matthew passed away.

 

One of our little neighbors, Johnny,  just turned 5.  He rides a bike on his own and is a big bad first grader.  His whole life has taken place in the time frame that Matthew' s been gone.  

This is a most shocking and sobering measurement of how long it's been. 

While it's true that the passing of time helps the healing process, it can't eliminate voids of this nature. 

However, these days while tears are less constant and more sporadic than they were for the first year or two,  it's unnerving how the triggers can come from anywhere and at anytime.   

Take going out to dinner.  The waiter comes to our table and says, "Welcome to Mexican Food Factory, my name is Matthew and I'll be taking care of you."

Immediately, I ask myself, Couldn't we have a waiter with a different name?  Maybe I should check that before we sit down next time.  

Seemingly harmless conversation with friendly people can turn from entertaining to dreadful in a matter of seconds. 

A common topic - at a Bed & Breakfast, during breakfast  when unfamiliar couples sit together - usually starts with establishing everyone's home states and then almost always moves to the children..."Do you guys have kids?  How many? "   

I've become more assertive with taking control of the conversation from the getgo, which plays an important role in keeping the exchange light.  

I also dig into my meal at a fairly rapid pace so that we can make a quick getaway before it's our turn to answer potentially difficult questions.

But when I realize that the predictable questions are unavoidable, my heart goes out to the person or couple asking so innocently about our Brady Bunch configuration, knowing the potential for darkness is looming in the information I'd be about to pass on.

There are times I have to admit that I've wanted to say that we have 4 kids, not 5, but I'd be disappointed in myself to leave Matthew out of the equation just because it's easier for me.

It's not because I don't have great memories of and stories about Matthew and a desire to share them, but the road to them is too painful.

Maybe one day this part will become easier, but in my heart I know that may never happen.

Stay or Go?

David and I just got back from our annual 8-day vacation in Maine. 

 

Halfway through Day 1, already under the familiar New England coastal town spell, I was asking myself the same 2 questions that I ruminate about each year:  1 - Why wasn't I born here?  and 2 - Do I have to leave?   

Regarding the first question...seriously...why couldn't my parents have decided to set up shop in a lovely town right on the water - say in Camden or Boothbay Harbor - instead of the fifth largest city in the USA?      

Philadelphia is indeed rich in culture, history and the arts - and much more - but wandering around town doesn't bring about the serenity I experience feasting my eyes upon infinite hues of blues and greens that sparkle in the big, beautiful and boundless sea.

The reality is that my parents, who traveled around as union organizers in the 1950s, could've made great changes all over the country. It's not far-fetched to say that they could've worked their progressive magic for the thousands of lobstermen (for example) all over Maine who have struggled for decades to protect their livelihood and therefore their families, threatened by a variety of issues including market pricing, regulatory restrictions, the legislative process and so on.

So if my folks had been drawn to a life on the coast, a natural step for me would've been to become a sailor, a lobster fisherman, run a Bed & Breakfast on the waterfront, or maybe I'd express myself as an artist.  I like to think that I'd be known for my imagined series called "Reflections," which would highlight the images of people and trees and clouds and buildings and lights as they dance upon the surface of the water.       

And had I grown up there, perhaps I'd enjoy vacations completely opposite of that, like annual trips to Philly, though I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't be touring in the heat of the summer.  It's possible I'd be so sad to depart from the City of Brotherly Love as that week came to an end that I'd begin to ponder a move from Boothbay in the hopes of satisfying my longing to live in a vibrant, colorful, urban environment instead.  

Now...with regard to my second question above:  Do I have to leave (Maine)? 

Well I'm home, so yes, I knew I had to go, this time.    

But looking ahead, here's what I don't know, on the subject of wanting to stay, even as I go:  Is the allure of coastal living so strong because it contrasts greatly to my past and current lifestyle, or would I truly be happy and content through winter, spring, summer and fall?      

David says their winters are too long, cold and snowy, and we'd be stuck inside for what could be almost half of the year.  He knows first-hand how crazy I get when I'm cooped up (which probably scares him to death).

  

Joking aside, I respond by saying I want to experience autumn with its golden, amber and scarlet foliage and I want to breathe in the crisp, still air as I watch the winter snow blanket the ocean.    

Maybe next year...

One Step at a Time

I love my new toy!

Just opened up the package yesterday and there it was...my Fitbit!

As many of you know, the Fitbit is a wireless activity tracker which can sync with one's smart phone and computer to keep track of all sorts of details including steps taken, calories burned, floors climbed and so on.

I had my eye on this for some time, but since I'm generally gadget-adverse, I viewed it as a  trendy gimmick vs. a valuable tool, and so I dismissed it.    

But then a few conversations reignited my interest:

During my check-up last week, I mentioned to my doctor that I'm often very tired, especially when I'm at work.  To combat that, I tend to nibble on things - some healthy, some not - all day long, as I sit in my chair for what could be 9 or 10 hours, other than a half hour for lunch.

My doctor said that the new American Diabetes Association study recommends that every 90 minutes everyone should stand up and GET YOUR BODY MOVING. 

I don't have diabetes, although I had gestational diabetes with one of my pregnancies, but  the point is well taken.  GET OFF MY BUTT!

It echoed another recent message from the American Heart Association, which stated the importance of 30 minutes of exercise per day.   

My doctor's suggestion was that every time I reach for that next bite of something when I'm at my desk, I should take a walk to the water cooler instead.  (I just realized that I forgot to do this.)  

I brought up the subject of the Fitbit to see her reaction, and her eyes lit up.  DO IT! she said, enthusiastically.  I like my doctor.  I began to reconsider.

A couple days later, I was talking to one of my brothers about it, and he said he has seen some of the judges he works with wear the Fitbit, and he's also noticed that they are very fit people.   I liked the way that sounded.   I want to look like a fit person.

I told all this to my girlfriend at work. She too had been contemplating getting one.  Together we became very excited!   Now I had a partner to share in this new endeavor.  I was good to go.   

The Fitbit goal for the average person is 10,000 steps per day.  Initially, I wondered if that would be doable without a concentrated period of exercise. 

Last night I wore the Fitbit for the very first time at 6 p.m.  From then until bedtime, around midnight, I logged about 3,000 steps. This included a walk with Shea Doggy, going out to dinner, doing laundry and other stuff at home and even sitting down for 2 hours to watch a movie.  David said he didn't think the steps I took to get Milk Duds should count, but I told him it's all fair game, right? 

The beauty of the Fitbit is that all the steps accumulate, and being able to keep track provides instant gratification.  I didn't think I cared about that, but apparently I do.

Today was my first full day with my new companion, and I had high hopes for myself, but as of 9:30 a.m., I'd only clocked slightly over 600 steps.  I was nervous that I wouldn't get to 10,000, especially since Shea's performance outside this morning was rather disappointing.

I know it was hot, but he refused to take a long walk. He didn't respond when I tried to explain that I'm counting on him to reach that magic Fitbit number. He may not care about my situation since he gets his exercise running all around the house when he sees a dog or truck, but that doesn't help me any.

Therefore, I headed to the gym.   When I arrived, I had about 2,000 steps logged in.  After an hour - 20 minutes on the bike, 20 on the treadmill, and another 20 doing weight training - I was only at about 2,200: just 200 more than where I started.

I forgot to set the Fitbit to record my exercising.  I was so bummed!  

A couple hours ago, I received an email from Fitbit stating that I've received my first Boat Shoe step badge - I hit 5,000 steps. 

Shortly thereafter, I got another email stating that I just received my first Happy Hill badge, having climbed 10 floors.

Wow! I impressed myself!  

Minutes later, guess what?!?!??!

I checked my Fitbit, and I made it to 10,000!

Within minutes, I received my first Sneakers badge, congratulating me for accomplishing this milestone. 

Now I guess I won't have to make a late night trip to the freezer for some ice cream!   

Tony

Sunday mornings rock at my house - for David and me, anyway.

That's because we give in to our whim, which means we load up on carbs from a local breakfast/bakery/bagel joint, and we savor each and every bite. 

We usually get a mix of everything, sesame and poppy bagels, at times upping the ante with whitefish and/or lox and cream cheese spread.  We know this isn't a very healthy habit, and periodically with soft pressure from our loved ones we consider substituting various alternatives, but so far we haven't been able to make a lasting change.   

  

Perhaps this routine may be extra hard to break because it is about more than the bagel.  It is also about the man - and his entourage - behind the bagel.  

If it weren't for the proprietor of the store, Tony, and his buddies, our Sunday mornings wouldn't be nearly as entertaining, which of course makes our bagels more luscious.  All of these components have created the experience we are hooked on.

Tony, who my handsome but bald husband tells me wears a toupee which changes over time based on pictures in the store, is accompanied most of the time by 2 other guys:  "Shrek" and Peter or, as David and I refer to them in their entirety, The Three Stooges.

Tony is an enigma to us and, as such, David and I view him differently.  David thinks he's a good guy overall who at times can be rather crass, all in the name of being friendly; I, on the other hand, question whether he can be a nice guy when he can also be so offensive.   

Tony's friend Shrek - coined by Tony for his wandering eye - is forever the target of Tony's insulting remarks, often focusing on Shrek's unfortunate eye condition. 

Peter is all about damage control when Tony oversteps.  

The three of them are a well-oiled machine.

It's almost like Shrek is the official sidekick, paid to give Tony subject matter so that he can ridicule to his heart's content, all in the name of entertaining his customers. 

One day I asked Shrek why he puts up with Tony.    

  

He looked more disturbed by my comment than he ever did by Tony's name calling, and then he told me that he doesn't take Tony seriously.  "He's just talking," he said.  "It's no big deal." 

Maybe men are better apt to handle such bluntness and disregard than women are.  David isn't bothered that Tony calls him "Baldy," which David gets a kick out of since it's Tony who covers up his baldness under his rug, whereas David sports his naked head proudly.

Tony is a fair guy in that he doesn't discriminate; the harshness of his comments are equally distributed among sexes, ethnic groups and those with physical issues of one kind or another. 

When he called the young African American man who entered the store the other day "Hey Jamaican," I first cringed and then I looked for this guy's reaction.  I wouldn't have been surprised had he turned around and walked out of the store; instead, he sat right down and asked for a breakfast sandwich.

To be fair, Tony's not always insulting; sometimes he's just naughty and off color, but frankly I find these comments highly amusing.  I think I'd actually miss them if he had laryngitis.   

I'm not at all offended when he calls out to me "Hey, Sexy!" when I walk in to the store. 

In fact, I get a kick out of it - I even wait to hear it and would probably be disappointed if I didn't.  When a man addresses a 55+ year-old as  "Sexy,"  he's more apt to make her Top 5 List than to be shunned by her.  This may be shameful, but I'm fairly certain it's true.

Sometimes Tony gets a bit carried away, like when I reached the counter after a 10-minute wait and asked him if I could have one of the chocolate chip cookies he had offered to the little kids when they were waiting. 

"I'll give you something girl, but it's not going to be a chocolate chip cookie!"

It was a cheap thrill, I admit...but as Shrek said, Tony's just talking, and it wasn't nearly as objectionable as it was comical, since I chose to take it that way, thanks to Shrek's lead.

I'm sure some women would be appalled that I'd joke about his comment rather than hit him over the head or file a complaint against him, but no harm was done.  We each got a laugh out of it, which is pretty good on a Sunday morning at 8:30 a.m.

Maybe he should have control over his flirt-o-meter, but he doesn't, whether it's with me or any woman who strikes his fancy.  I actually feel embarrassed for him when he falls all over himself trying to be suave. 

"I see you brought your daddy in with you today," David heard Tony say to a pretty woman who came in with her husband.

The woman chuckled, as did her husband, and David and I were entertained by Tony's Archie Bunker/Howard Stern-style personality for the rest of the morning.

I thought about asking Tony to join us at home for breakfast one day...but not when one of our daughters is home.