Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

Let’s talk about the Instant Pot . Or as I call it, the InstaPot mainly because it annoys Tom. He always corrects me. “It’s called the Instant Pot, you know,” he says.  I reply, “Yes, honey I love my InstaPot.”  http://amzn.to/2kJtIgu Tom got it for me for my birthday, and if I choose to level up the branding, so be it. Did I mention the InstaPot has bluetooth? It seriously is a Tool for a New Lifestyle. You can turn it off while sitting on the sofa. As long as you're within range. Here's what I like most: You open up the pot and dinner pops out like some kind of genie in a bottle. Except instead of a bottle, you have a kitchen appliance. And instead of a genie, it’s a delicious kidney bean fricassee. I don’t know how I ever survived without beans in like half an hour. They go from dry in the bag to ready to go with no soaking or anything. It’s kind of like a magic trick. This is practical because beans are a mainstay when it comes to a plant-based lifestyle...

We went out to dinner with Stacie, Andy, Stacie's mom and Fred. Fred is Stacie's mom's... boyfriend? It's odd to call a seventy year old a boyfriend . "Partner" also doesn't cut it. Partner sounds too new and hip to refer to a guy on the darker side of grandpa age. The word " sambo " would be perfect, except it's a Swedish word that  means something very different in English.  In Swedish, a sambo is an unmarried person of any sex or age who lives with their significant other. Swedes are good like this. They also have the word "särbo" which refers to a person in a long-term relationship who doesn't live with their other half. Anyway, I wished for the word sambo. Then I got into a deep conversation with Fred about temporary tattoos. As you do when you meet your friend's mom's gentleman. I recalled my grandma talking about the temporary tattoos she used to get on Coney Island back in the day. There was a name for them...

Atlantic City Ironman - map of the run part of the operation Andy and I look at our watches and wait for Tom, and then Stacie. We stand at the rope separating we spectators from the triathletes running by. At this point in the race, the Ironman competitors already swam 1.2 miles, rode their bikes almost 57 miles and were about half done with a 13.1 mile run. It's hot in the sun. Most of the runners look some greyish shade of completely beat. Andy gives me this weird look when all of a sudden I break out a really spirited whoop and shout, "Go David!" He wants to know what just happened there and how I knew the random Ironman dude's name was David. I say I just interviewed David for the podcast like last month. I knew exactly who he was because he had his company name emblazoned across his shirt and he looks exactly like his headshot. I tell Andy I sent David a LinkedIn invite and he never accepted it. Andy says, "Instead of cheering, you should have ...

Andy says to me, "I always worry that you won't be able to find something on the menu that you can eat. But then you manage to order something gigantic." He eyes up the salad I could barely fit on the table. And I know he's thinking of these pretty huge eggplant rolls I put down at dinner yesterday. "Yep," I say, through a mouthful of broccoli rabe. It's hard to chew broccoli rabe fast. You have to fletcherize ."I'm excellent at hunting and gathering." I dig into my beans. Just a quick sidebar for the uninformed who don't know what fletcherizing means. Your father clearly did not take it upon himself to regularly squawk about its importance. Fletcherizing just means to chew really thoroughly so you appreciate your dinner. I have no idea why or how my pop became so enamored by the idea of it. He's not exactly what I'd consider an epicurean. Regardless of your capacity to fletcherize, it takes a lot of energy to do this no ...

First we went to the Crows Nest , that place on the East River behind the hospital. As we approached the restaurant, Tom said, "I see how this went down. They needed more seating and someone thought, 'hey, let's just jam a boat right up against the side here.'" Very practical, I nodded. Very practical. You go in the Crow's Nest and feel like you're in the cartoon part of Nantucket or something. The part of Nantucket where the interior designers only have a misty impression of what goes on in Nantucket, but joyfully barrel forward anyway. A checkered napkin, wood paneling, life rafts and ship steering wheels, astroturf, salsa and chips, lots of Russians attending a private cocktail party in spandex. Astroturf adds a sportsy touch. It was all good. Darcey and Kent were in town and we met up with Helen and Matt. Ancillary to seeing our awesome friends, I had a little revelation up there atop the Crow's Nest: I'm a raging tonic water snob. B...

Jack on the 1st day of 4th Grade Jack went with Grandma and Grandpa to the Insectarium  in New Orleans. There's a cafeteria at the Insectarium. Jack ate a few chocolate "crick" cookies. As in, cookies made from crickets. I asked Jack what the cricket cookies tasted like. He tilted his head to the side and contemplated his answer: "They tasted like regular cookies. With a hint of meat."

Photo credit: https://bentleyhotelnewyork.com/greenwich-village/ 1 am in Greenwich Village: On the sidewalk in front of us, the one pudgy short girl in very tight pants motored ahead of the other pudgy short girl in very tight pants. And when I say, "motored ahead" I mean in a relative kind of way. Tom and I just kind of strolled by the two of them. We might have appeared nonchalant, but make no mistake, we were paying attention. There was drama. The one in the back squawked at the one in the front, something about slowing down. I couldn't really hear so well. I was totally distracted by the frantic slapping of their strappy sandals on the sidewalk and my disbelief over how it was possible to move one's legs that rapidly and at the same time achieve such low velocity... I was astounded really. It was like watching hummingbirds. Hummingbirds from say Long Island. The one in the front really started to pull away. But by then they were way behind us. I ask...

The twins, my niece and nephew, turned ten last Monday. I decided the big one zero was certainly old enough for Jack and Ella's first game of Dungeons & Dragons.  We all were upstate for the week. My mom and pop, otherwise known as Grandma and Grandpa, rented a cottage in the woods near Lake Placid. I was full-on prepared to overcome long evenings with only dial-up DSL. We would go OG old school with dice and graph paper and photocopies. No worries that I had not actually played D&D for something like 30 years. Being Dungeon Master was like riding a bike, right?  It seemed frivolous to consider that nobody else besides me had ever actually played a game of D&D before. Tom and Grandma were in, and so were Jack and Ella. Grandma grabbed a piece of graph paper and said she’d draw the maps. Ella situated her iPad-mini on the table, at the ready to total up her gold pieces. I was pleased with the adventuring...

The sun boiled the city in a pot of July humidity. Meanwhile, I decided it would be the perfect morning to lug one of Grammy’s fur coat uptown to get the pockets and lining fixed. I Yelped like a mofo and meticulously determined the finest establishment to perform the fur surgery.  The furgery, if you will.  I wrapped the coat in a garment bag and slogged up to a place on 30th, in the heart of what’s left of the fur district. Both my dad’s grandfathers were furriers who had shops on 28th street. And my grandfather was a furrier manufacturer, whatever that entails exactly. His place was on 23rd . This is what I told the fur store owner after I managed to get inside his establishment. Apparently I really suck at noticing doorbells and signs saying you have to ring to enter, no matter how large they are. We discussed the coat I’d brought in, made by Louie, my dad’s dad’s dad. For at least the first half of my life...

Central Pennsylvania Photocredit: http://davidottenstein.com/2010/06/ photographing-in-central-pennsylvania/ I carpooled to the Women’s March with Casey and Steven and a friend of theirs I had never met before. Turns out, Rhoda's hometown is the town next to my hometown.  We both grew up in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, I mean the bleeding heart of the place. Rhoda hails from Lancaster— which only tourists pronounce LanCAAAASTER. Like nails on a chalkboard, people. Correct pronunciation is LANcister.  Me— I’m from outside of Lebanon. Please say that LEBnin. Or if you’re really Dutchie, you’d say LEPnin. So when Rhoda told me she married a man from LEBANON, I had to sit back in my seat and bluster a little bit. Here was a gal from LANCISTER totally mispronouncing LEBNIN, her hometown’s sister city for crissake. No, said Rhoda. She married a man from LEBANON. Beirut, to be precise. 

It was Rachel, Rafael, Tom and I, minding our own business over at Karin and Ronnie's. Suddenly, Karin's phone beeps. It's her work phone, weird that someone is trying to reach her on a Saturday night.  Here's the text she got: The text Karin got on her work phone at 7:13 PM Saturday night. Karin has no idea who any of these sassy ladies are. What a puzzle.  We make some deductions. Clearly, the gal pals have gone away for the weekend. And one of them has texted photos to a wrong number. Tom checks the metadata on the photos, as you do, if you're Tom. We feel our suspicions are confirmed. The photos were taken and sent from a resort in Florida: The Metadata on the photos reveals the photos were taken at a resort in Florida. We are woebegone with envy. Here are these ladies whooping it up poolside, while we are indoors because it's freezing and pounding rain in New York. Someone has a great idea. We should re-enact the photos....

When I go to Carnegie Hall, I like to dress the part. I take my Grammy’s mink from the back of the closet. Sometimes I find a hat. Definitely a vintage velvet handbag. It’s hectic to pull this kind of finery together on such short notice, but you can only get the $4 rush tickets a couple hours before showtime. Also, comfortable footwear is a must, given the endless and dizzying staircase up to the nosebleed section.  I like it up there. The musicians on stage are several miles away, but you’re really close to the ceiling. Plaster artisans back in the day had some kind of attention to detail.  The stage at Carnegie Hall from the nosebleed seats. Most lately, we were up there with Kent and Darcey before they left town. We settled into our red velvet seats, bathed in the cavernous golden glow of the place, occasionally brushed by a crystal from one of the massive chandeliers dangling just overhead.  The gorgeous chandeliers in...

This weekend I learned a valuable life skill. If your parents give you birthday gift that happens to be compost-pile related, it's the not the best idea to leave it in the car for three days.  A bag of cow shit tied with a festive ribbon. But seriously, what girl doesn't love some fresh cow shit to sprinkle on compost? Thanks, Mom and Dad! 

My dad was out riding his bicycle and he got pulled over by the cops. Here's his account of the incident: I was biking south on winding Sandbridge Road in Virginia Beach last week.  The road was being prepared for a much needed repaving and the construction crews had milled about .7 mile section of the road creating a surface a Paris-Roubouix bike racer would find challenging.   The milled area was far worse on the edges where the grooves were deeper.  Though there were smooth spots where car wheels had worn down portions through the travel lanes.  I escaped the first section of creases by riding a multi-use lane that more or less paralleled Sandbridge Road.  The multi-use lane, as many do, abruptly ended forcing me out on to the milled roadway.   I now had a choice to ride the side of the road with strewn gravel and deep milled  ridges or take the far smoother, cleaner travel lane flattened surface. The road is heavily traveled and I felt...

Just got back from dodging babies on the streets of Havana. It's not a sight I'm accustomed to, toddlers striding purposefully down the sidewalk that close to midnight. Some are off to the ice cream shop. You have to hold the door because these shorties can't reach the handle. It's easy though. You just pull open the door and they saunter right under your arm.  Don't get me wrong, it's not like munchkin city. But once you say "excuse me" to a member of the under-5 set like you'd say "excuse me" to any fellow pedestrian you almost tripped over, your worldview scrambles just a little bit. We were very busy in Cuba, and I mean even beyond Mission Mojito, which I think we won. Upon arrival at our Air BnB, I spotted a thick packet of papers tucked between some magazines on an end table. It was a print-out of a Powerpoint presentation, clearly left by someone who stayed in our room before us. The Powerpoint detailed a very, very, v...

Last week at English Language Conversation Hour, a lovely twenty-something from Puerto Rico was in my group. She said she was having trouble with a word. I said hit me with it. “Bitch,” she said, enunciating very clearly. “Mmm, I think you got it,” I replied. “No, no,” she said kind of frantically. “I don’t mean bitch. I mean like ‘It’s really hot today so I was thinking of grabbing my bathing suit and my sand bucket and heading to the bitch.’” We spent about ten minutes of me saying “BEEEEEETCH” and her replying “BIIIIIITCH.” Finally, I suggested she might want to skip 'the bitch' and just go with 'the shore.’ Discretion is the better part of valor and there are worse things than sounding like you’re from jersey. 

So what's new with you, Rat? At Uncle Bob’s birthday dinner, someone asked what was new with me, and I said I’d just seen a remarkably huge rat galloping down 51st street. The rat swerved out of a garage, covered some quick ground and vanished through a hole under the door to someone’s office. It was the size of a herd animal, this rat. It was big enough to harness up and plow a field, which could have major implications for sustainable micro-farming.  Because the family is generally okay with inappropriate dinner conversation, Sue remarked with some remorse that she didn’t recall any personal incidents involving a rat. Not to worry, I have plenty. My all-time favorite was the one in the 2nd Avenue F-train stop.  We looked down the subway tunnel and saw a newspaper billowing in the air, coming toward us. Odd, because there was no wind. At all. It was one of those sultry nights where the still air becomes a Petri dish and the s...

Ella wasn’t hungry and Jack said he would only eat a hotdog. Only a hotdog. Mark was hungry and so was Tom but Seth and Mary were not hungry. So we canceled our lunch reservation at the place across the street and walked to the closest hotdog joint - Chelsea Papaya.  In a wild coincidence, Chelsea Papaya occupies the exact former location of  my grandfather’s furrier manufacturer business . So we felt right at home, even though the furrier manufacturers lost their lease sometime prior to 1950. We ordered a vat of deep fried nitrates. Turned out, Jack didn’t want a hotdog at Chelsea Papaya. He wanted a dirty dog from a midtown food truck.  At the bar table by the window, Uncle Tom played a fun game called “talking about the tourists on the sidewalk but not pointing at them.” It’s harder than you’d think. With no need to waste valuate time eating anything, Jack practiced holstering his finger for the durat...

I covet a sauna. I like a sauna all right. I like the rocks and the earthy smell of your hair smoldering. But then, a couple days ago, I read about the fantastic health benefits of sauna-ing. I began to covet a sauna.  Our friend Guy has a sauna in his basement. His very own sauna. It is electric powered, but an all-wood and glass real-deal. It kind of looks like a small woodland-style enclosed porch. When Guy's daughter was little, she had a playhouse (aka the box their new washing machine came in) positioned right next to the sauna. It was like father-daughter tiny neighborhood. Seriously, I wanted in. But the YMCA has a sauna. Any day of the week, I can go over to the YMCA and sit in the sauna.  So I did.  I was sitting in the sauna, not staring at my phone. Phones fry in saunas. As do Apple Watches. I stared at the wall thinking deep thoughts. This whole sitting-in-the-sauna-at-the-YMCA experience was pretty much exactly the same experi...

Something -> Dinner -> Dessert -> Drinks Last Friday night, it was Dinner -> Dinner -> Dinner. Mainly because Tom, in a failed attempt to take his cholesterol medicine, popped a sleeping pill by accident at 2:30 PM. He began walking into walls about 3. He drank 2 pots of coffee and a large Dunkin' Donuts Columbia Blend and managed to remain upright. Of course, adult beverages were not an option for him. For safety reasons. Also because if he drank any more fluids he might have exploded his bladder. But we were starving, so we had an early dinner. And then we went to a cabaret show that had a two item minimum. And Tom could’t drink, so he had another dinner. Then we met up with some friends who hadn’t eaten. So we had another dinner. Each successive dinner got smaller, however. I don’t want you to think we’re complete pigs. Mostly, we do Something -> Dinner -> Dessert -> Drinks. I’m talking about your average Fridays and Sat...