Weekly Photo Challenge – Sh

peacockLooking out my back yard one afternoon, I stared in amazement, rubbed my eyes, then looked again. 

A peacock! In full bloom, slowly strutting by.  Grabbing my camera in a flurry I took this shot. Although blurry, you can get an idea of the brilliance of the plume. 

I imagine the bird escaped from some neighboring estate as wild peacocks are not native to our region.

A moment to remember.

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The Crockpot

I should have gone with the pot roast.  A traditional, home spun, simple recipe. A crowd pleaser.  But rather, I chose what I imagined a more elegant entrée for the upcoming dinner I would be preparing for my husband’s brother and new girlfriend.  “Slow cooked Halibut,” was the name the recipe book had dubbed it.  I had illusions far more grandeur with perhaps a tweak or two.

It is an age-old struggle. That nagging but harmless question swirling in and out of my daily consciousness, “What should I make for dinner tonight?”  My sister once told me she had read a magazine article advising that the ten top stresses in life included not only the death of a loved one and public speaking, but what to make for dinner.

So, when I saw the gleaming crock pot that day in Costco, it was not the actual appliance that beckoned, but, rather the shiny, four-color recipe book attached, wrought with possibility.  Arriving home with this fabulous trophy I sat in bliss, pouring over the pages in awe and wonder.  But first things first — what to make for the special upcoming dinner?  I again turned to the halibut recipe, ignoring the nagging voice whispering, warning “never try a new recipe for a special occasion, never, never, never….”

Later that evening, I lounged with our guests on the sofa, sipping wine and chatting contentedly.  The table was set, the ambiance was jovial and my divine creation simmering in the kitchen, ready to be served at a moment’s notice. The beauty of a crock pot I thought happily, was that the dish could simmer indefinitely allowing more time for cocktails and chat.  Now where exactly did I read that?  “More wine anyone?”

At last the hour was upon us. My guests sat in anticipation at the elegantly set dining room table, amid flickering candle light and the strains of Nat King Cole.  Approaching the crock pot I lifted the lid then stared down in confusion.  The four pieces of halibut, which hours earlier had appeared firm and beautiful, had vanished.  I frantically ladled the mixture hoping to uncover the wayward fish.  Gone.  My dinner had turned to liquid.  Could I possibly pass it off as bouillabaisse?

I realized it was the tweak. Earlier in the day in a flurry of over confidence and mania, I had tossed a cup and a half of heavy cream into the pot in the hopes of achieving a rich and velvety texture to the halibut.  This tweak that was not found in any recipe book but rather, was spurred on by the excitement of owning the shiny new crock pot and the endless possibilities it lent in creative cooking. Yes, creative cooking at its finest.

I poured the entrée into four serving bowls and confidentially approached the table. As I placed the first dish before my brother in-law, I carefully refused to meet my husband’s eye. “Rolls for dipping” I sang, as I disappeared back into the kitchen. Thank god the guests were family, I thought.

“What exactly is this called?” ” My husband finally dared.  “Halibut a la cream” I replied.  And as our spoons clinked in silence, somewhere in the distance, I heard Julia Childs sobbing.

Cee’s Odd Ball Photo Challenge

  RED HEAD

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In his prime, over  fifteen years ago, “Red Head” as we affectionately named him, was a full-bodied hand puppet I purchased in New York City’s Grand Central Station.  His oddness beckoned me from the window of a toy store and I stopped in to take a closer look.  He was clad in overalls and a gingham checkered shirt making his appearance all the more eccentric. It was the vibrancy of his red hair and sprinkle of freckles that won my heart.

Through the years, Red Head was played with tirelessly but due to his appearance often the object of extreme roughness.  Children would often be frightened by his face which did bear a strange expression and would fling him in mock fright.

He lost most of his nose through numerous battles with our Toy Fox Terrier who too appeared to react to his appearance. The dog would grab the puppet in his teeth and shake violently which eventually led to the head being torn from the torso. I placed it on a shelf for safe keeping vowing I would sew it back.

Red Head was the source of many a prank. I often tucked him into my husband’s lunch bag and would  hide him in different places about the house.  Another time when my close friend had just broken up with a red-haired man, I placed the puppet in her mailbox with a little note saying “Please give me another chance?” She was horrified until I admitted I was the culprit.

Yes, I think the Red Headed puppet has brought more joy to me than to my children and I humbly submit his photo to the oddball photo challenge for today.

Magic Drinks

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ROCHESTER, September 26 — Eastman Kodak Company today announced its intent to stop making and selling slide projectors by June 2004.

“The Kodak slide projector has been a hallmark for quality and ubiquity, used for decades to produce the best in audio visual shows throughout the world,” the company said. “However, in recent years, slide projectors have declined in usage, replaced by alternative projection technologies.”

One of my happiest and most comforting memories of childhood was our family slide shows.  These coveted movie nights which generally took place once a year, consisted of nothing more than three simple ingredients:  a blank wall  in our living room, a Kodak carousel slide projector with my father at the mast and myself and three sisters,  huddled on the sofa,  pressed together in anticipation like peas in a pod.  My mother, who had seen the slide shows too many times to mention, usually busied herself with other things, occasionally stopping in to comment on a particularly beloved picture.  Prior to turning off the lights, my father would announce in a deep theatrical voice “Who wants a magic drink?”

They were always different in taste and made from whatever struck his fancy that night; orange juice with a splash of pineapple juice and Grenadine or perhaps apple juice and ginger ale with a jigger of seltzer.  The ingredients were unimportant.  It was the anticipation of what was to be and the lovely ritual of our movie night routine that we cherished.  Those magic drinks were just part of the show.

There was always one slide, without fail, that was turned upside down. This would halt the show momentarily, as my father with a slightly frustrated “tsk” would right the renegade slide. And we were ready to go once again.

I loved that Kodak carousel projector and the faded yellow boxes of slides stacked beside it. They were never labeled so each reel was a surprise in itself.  Who might appear on the screen that night was anyone’s guess — my six or sixteen year old self?  Our first family pet Bubbles the beagle, or our gentle giant of a Great Dane we called Jenny?  My mother posing on the beach in her youth, or proudly cradling her first grandchild? The lack of chronology only added to the experience.

Some days, in the quiet of my mind, I can still hear the slow deliberate click of the projector, advancing slowly, telling without words the story of our life.  Slide to slide, toddler to teenager, mother to grandmother, youth to twilight.  An entire lifetime displayed on the wall of the darkened living room.

When my parents died, I cared about no other of their possessions albeit that time warped machine that could somehow transform me back to family vacations, birthday parties and people and places no more.  With my sister’s blessings, I brought it to my own home with the promise to bring it to family gatherings, a carousal reunion of sort.  Though it is yet to be.  It sits up on a shelf in an unused room.  I have taken it down one or two times in a half -hearted attempt to have my own family slide show but then, as it spits and jams due to age, return it in frustration to the lone closet.  Surely there is somewhere that can restore the Kodak carousal to the beauty of its youth so we may once again enjoy those magical images.

And I will mix for my own sons, those magic drinks..

Death By Windex

If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, I am doomed. I love my husband and generally wish him no harm. But lately, I am getting tired of his accusations involving his lunch which I painstakingly make for him each morning to bring to work. He says it tastes like Windex. No, in case you might ask, he is not suffering from any mental disorder involving paranoia. He has all his faculties and then some, perhaps that is why his taste buds are so finely tuned.  And in fairness, the accusations do not come daily but generally once a month or so, and typically hone in on his turkey sandwich. Though yesterday he called in a panic to claim his grapes had a toxic-like taste as well. Not Windex this time, but something equally “bad”. “Don’t eat the grapes!” he shrieked. He asks if I am slowly trying to kill him.

And from where would this delusion arise? He claims to have seen me, on more than one occasion, spraying the kitchen counter in abandon and has attested to seeing droplets of Windex lingering in the air, slowly making their way down to his coffee cup. “You don’t pay attention,” he chides. He claims I inherited this trait from my mother. In fairness, he is not entirely wrong. She was a wonderful woman but indeed careless at times. I recall childhood memories of a defunct and blackened microwave oven, hidden in the corner of our garage, meekly awaiting my father’s return from work. A severe reminder that aluminum foil and microwaves do not mix. I can envision still, her pink plush bathrobe seared up the back, a result of standing too close to the stove’s gas burner on particularly frigid mornings before the heat kicked in. He reminds me of the time she added a packet of lemon dish cleanser, which had arrived as a free sample in that day’s mail, to our family’s chicken dinner. Luckily, before the dish was consumed, my sister remarked that the sauce had “bubbles” alerting my mother to a potential disaster.

I don’t know how to put him at ease. Take a bite out of his sandwich prior to packing? Do away with all my kitchen cleansers entirely and use only white wine vinegar (though that could mimic an industrial type cleanser taste as well). Consult with a professional? Yesterday, as I topped off his brown bag lunch with an apple and Hershey kiss, I tucked in a yellow stick-um note as well, as I sometimes do in my son’s lunch. It simply said “Made with love not Windex.”

In the Company of Women

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I was one of four daughters, attended all girl, catholic schools my entire life, have no idea how to change a tire and never experienced the bright stadium lights at a night-time football game.   My father did put up a basketball hoop once in our driveway, short-lived when the ball sailed through the glass pane of the garage door. There it stood neglected for years a sad testament to the son my mother never had.

My Scottish reared father never once expressed regret at not having a son. Rather, he reveled in his four daughters and life among them. He loved his girls. Though there were times we tried his patience. A flashback of his screams from the shower after being cut by a worn down razor blade used on too many female teenage legs. Or his aversion to the smell of nail polish remover. He hated the smell of nail polish remover.  He was equally content watching a rugby match as he was a cooking show.

During his daughter’s bridal showers, all four of them, rather than fleeing for the afternoon as most men might, my father would delight in being part of the celebration.  There he would sit center stage, in his recliner, newspaper in hand (a ploy to feign disinterest) among the squeals and chaos of thirty females.  Every now and again as a new gift was unveiled he would lift his head up casually and remark  “Ah what’s this one? Hold it up a little closer Kath…”

My sister Sheila, too experienced this sometimes disadvantage of not having grown up with or been schooled among boys.  When she and my mother visited Lord and Taylor to buy her first boyfriend a birthday gift, the saleswoman paused in puzzlement as she inquired as to where she might find the men’s “blouses.”

In addition to my father there was in fact one other male in our family.  A big, beautiful Irish wolfhound, brought back from a holiday in Ireland.  I recall listening in on a now famous conversation in our family between my mother and the vet. “I need to bring Connell in to be spayed,” The vet’s patient reply:  “You mean neutered Mrs. Dickinson. Connell is a male dog.” My sister and I stared at each other, and then burst into laughter. We thought that something must have gotten lost in translation as my mother, Irish-born, often had her own interpretation of words. Looking back however, I think she simply believed Connell like the rest of us, was female, at least in theory.

I married and ironically, have two sons.  My husband has taught them several things his own father taught him; how to throw a ball, fix a leaky kitchen faucet, use common tools for simple jobs, be kind and respectful.  My sons are equally in touch with their feminine side and have as many female friends as male.  They have five female cousins whom they see frequently further adding to their comfort level with girls, not to mention the added bonus of always have a date for the prom.

You might ask how it feels being on the reverse side at this point in my life, living among three men as opposed to my mother and three female sisters. I take a little solace in the fact that our new dog, a tiny toy fox terrier named Anabel, is female. My father would have loved her.

Spare The Phone

While talking to my friend one morning on the telephone, I hear the distinctive sound of a child’s heavy breathing from the upstairs extension. “Is someone there?” Silence. “Can you please hang up? I am using the phone.” I hear an abrupt click followed by fleeing footsteps and the slam of a bedroom door. The culprit was no stranger but rather my ten-year old son. I sat him down and explained that conversations are private and it is impolite to eavesdrop.

Oh the hypocrisy…

Flashback thirty years, to my teenage self, lying in the coolness of my suburban Long Island bedroom. It is midweek during the summer and raining. I am bored having not yet begun my summer job. I hear my mother downstairs in the kitchen talking to Lily, who is both her cousin and best friend. They grew up in Ireland together on nearby farms. I knew the drill well.  The two would chat for a while and then Lily would suggest she might “come over for lunch” the next day. My mother always agreed. And so it goes.

Their lunches generally lasted all afternoon into evening and were filled with stories of family, mutual friends and news from Ireland. The whirr of the blender competed with their laughter as they created a favorite après lunch cocktail, their signature frozen daiquiri. I often wondered on some days, how Lily made it home.

On that fateful day, I strain to hear their conversation, but cannot.  Knowing it is wrong, I pick up the phone extension gently and await the next pause between them. Putting on my best Irish accent in imitation of my mother, I ask “Lily, why don’t you come over tomorrow? “ Lily does not miss a beat, “Why I was just going to suggest that dear.”

The next few moments remain to this day, both vivid and jumbled in my memory. I recall a momentary silence as my mother dropped the receiver and then, her thundering footsteps ascending the stairs toward my room. In my haste to lock my bedroom door, I leave the receiver dangling on the bed. Lily is still on the line. I try to hold the door shut but am no match for my adrenaline pumped mother who with the strength of Goliath pushes the door forward and lunges toward me. Generally a nonviolent woman, the incident has unraveled her to the core. Grabbing the only available weapon in sight, the phone, she begins to pummel me with it. In the ensuing chaos, I do recall one thing oh, so clearly… Lily’s voice calling out from the other end “Hello! Hello?” HELLO? Is everything alright? Dear?” in between the strains of my screams of “Mom, NO PLEASE, I’m sorry!” MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Strangely enough, though I saw her numerous times after, Lily never mentioned the phone incident.  There is no doubt in my mind that having lain witness to the payback, if not in physical presence but in audio, was all she ever needed.  And, I learned my lesson in spades.  Though sometime, at family reunions, my sister with a gleam in her eye will beg me to recount the story of mom “and the phone” which remains to this day, an all-time favorite.

Screwdriver Parties

Pulling into my driveway late one afternoon, my eyes fell upon a dark sedan sitting idly.  Unable to recognize a face through the tinted windows and noting a New Jersey plate, a state from which I knew no one, a slight feeling of unease ensued. And then as if in slow motion, a window went down and a familiar voice I had not heard in over ten years bellowed, “Kathy, it’s me, Jim Cappello!” I drove all the way from NJ to visit you.  Look in the trunk!”

My old boss Jim Cappello whom I had worked with for over ten years at a publishing company in midtown Manhattan. Now eighty three years old and long retired, he had driven over two hours, on a whim to visit me at my home in Connecticut.  It was the pretzels, he said. The pretzels made him do it.

He explained he was at his supermarket in New Jersey saw a bag of pretzels which reminded him of me and, the screwdriver parties.  Every Friday at 5:30PM, in our small office on the 12th floor of the Chanin Building, we had a screwdriver party. Jim and I who sold the display advertising and Barbara and Irene the Classified Department.

I can still hear his voice now,  “Irene, get the ice, Barbara open the pretzels, Kathy go down and buy the O.J!” and Jim, well Jim always was in charge of the vodka. He was the perennial salesman. Outgoing, tenacious, social and charming.  He loved a party. Our own little madmen ritual in that tiny office on the twelfth floor.

“Look in the trunk!” He said again. I gazed down at two brown paper bags, one filled with a giant bag of pretzels and a container of orange juice, the other, a bottle of vodka.  “Let’s have a screwdriver!  For old times.”

We sat in my kitchen, Jim and I, and talked of our lives since the magazine closed. He shared how his beloved wife of fifty years had died three months before and how lost he felt in the weeks that followed.  I told him of the difficulty I experience in leaving my life in New York City behind for a small CT town in the suburbs.

We telephoned the classified girls, Barbara and Irene, who as luck with have it were both home.  As each picked up the phone I would announce “Do you recognize this voice?” And then hand the phone to Jim who would bellow “Irene! Barbara! It’s Jim Cappello!  I am at Kathy’s house. We’re having a screwdriver party! For old times.”

But it was not those Friday parties that bound the four of us together but rather the cadence of life, the highs and the lows as we worked side by side in that tiny office as the years ticked past.

The last thing we did together before he left was to walk down to the bus stop where my two sons, whom he had never met, were due home from school. As we walked back up to the house I wondered…was it the pretzels he had seen in the supermarket that prompted his visit or rather the need for comfort often found in days past?  The reason was unimportant.  It was a great day.