A Tangerine tangle of subjects for you

I promise this is the last of the promos for Tangerine Tango, the bright orange little book that all your friends are hoping to get for Christmas. (They may not know that they want it, yet, but the minute they see that you’ve bought it for them…) All the proceeds from sales (not just a measly 10%) are going to help fund research into Huntington’s Disease, so you can feel virtuous about each copy you buy.

This last set of extracts is pretty much a catch-all. Hope you enjoy them. You know where to find the rest of each article!

Stacey Caron is an antiques dealer and appraiser in New Jersey. She happens to love cooking and has her own blog devoted to food. She writes about traveling abroad via recipes and gives a wonderful recipe for a tart from Seville, Spain.

I love to travel.  Every night I travel to Italy, Spain and France – via my computer.  I guess you can call me an “armchair traveler”. I could tell you every good hotel in Piedmont and fabulous château in Bordeaux. What airline flies direct from New York to Milan and how many miles between Paris and Provence via the high-speed train.

I am always planning my next vacation, years in advance. Though we only take 1 trip a year, I make it worthwhile. I do as much research as possible, using  Google maps, best places to eat, neighborhoods, Tripadvisor, Yelp reviews, word of mouth, blogs, etc. In the end, it makes for a memorable vacation.

Try it. French, Italian or Spanish.  Open a good bottle of wine from the region, a cheese from the same region and make a simple recipe from that same place, and for an evening you are transported to somewhere special. 

I have just saved you a lot of money on airfare.

Judy Ackerly Brown works at a retreat center in North Carolina, and writes about nature:

There’s a new type of therapy called Green therapy or Eco-therapy. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku or forest bathing. Even the name sounds soothing.

Green therapy is said to help children with ADHD, reduce stress and pain, increase immunity and even help nursing home patients who suffer from dementia-type anxiety.

I find this concept ironic but affirming. It is so basic. Our ancestral hunter-gatherer relatives are probably shaking their heads in disbelief, Fresh air and absorbing nature is now a therapy!

Barbara Chapman is one of life’s survivors, having beaten cancer and lived with MS for years. She works at a hospice in Connecticut, and thinks it’s the best job ever.

I have the dream job. I work for Hospice.

I immerse myself into the life of someone who is in the process of making that final surrender and immerse myself in the lives of the loved ones gathered bedside; haggard, sleep deprived, and in tremendous emotional pain.

I am often asked how I could do this kind of work because it is so sad.  I tell them. Yes, it’s sad but also  a time of great honesty and vulnerability. I am invited into the tight circle of a family when they are spent. No one cares what they look like; no one remembers when they last ate. I plunge into the midst of it. It is an honor.

Take Merrill. He is listening to his favorite country western singer, Johnny Cash. In the final stages of Huntington’s Chorea,  Merrill’s body flails around in his bed uncontrollably. I sit beside him and initiate the same conversation I have had with him for several weeks. He doesn’t recognize me, so the conversation is always new. “Merrill”, I say, “Is it true that you were a paratrooper in the Korean War?”

 Leah Singer is a writer and blogger. You can read her other work on her blog, Leah’s Thoughts, but here’s something from the pieces she wrote for Tangerine Tango:

It has been a year since my husband , Bryan, and I said “I do.” It was a beautiful wedding. We stood under a chuppah adorned with flowers and there was just enough of a breeze to keep the July evening from becoming too warm.

While the wedding was certainly lovely, getting to the chuppah was not an easy task. Especially because Bryan and I were an interfaith couple looking to plan a wedding that was welcoming to our families and held to our own religious beliefs.

I was raised in what I would call a culturally Jewish family, but certainly not religious. We celebrated the Jewish holidays at home but never went to synagogue. As I grew older and went to college, Judaism became much more important to me and I began to seek out ways to bring it into my life. Bryan’s family was Catholic, and like me acknowledged holidays and little else.

 

Give a Tangerine for Hanukkah: 4

I’m still showcasing the writing in Tangerine Tango, the nifty little book edited by Lisa Winkler and perfect for a small gift during the holiday season. Since Hanukkah gift-giving is largely about children these two selections are on that subject.

Dawn Quyle Landau blogs at Tales from the Motherland and lives near the sea in the Pacific Northwest. Her daughter lives a long way away, and here’s some of Dawn’s article on that topic…

Kids are wired to grow up and shake the tree, right?  

So when our daughter threw us a curve ball, it was bound to be something truly noteworthy.  It was; and it all comes back to Israel. Yep, that tiny country that everyone seems to fight about is where my girl got interrupted. It’s where our solid relationship took a hard right. First, she went on a two-week trip with Birthright, the winter of her freshman year at college. There, she fell in love with an Israeli man. She returned the following summer and fell in love with the country… And then she fell deeply in love with her faith. Our daughter told us that she was going  to study in Israel her junior year, and she came home deeply immersed in a faith that we barely recognize as our own.  

 My husband, who I’ll call Smart Guy, is Jewish, and we’ve raised all three kids in the Jewish faith, but our faith is the Reformed brand. The watered down, less strict, simpler brand of Judaism, which (I admit) does what’s easiest, while still remaining Jewish.  We raised our kids in a Jewish faith that called for years of Sunday school, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and attendance on the High Holy Holidays.  Our faith leaves room for bacon, Dungeness Crab, driving on Fridays and Saturdays, using light switches, and calling ourselves Jews even though we do all of those things. (More in the book!)

Madeline Taylor is an elementary ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) teacher in Silver Spring, Maryland. The relationship she forged with her siblings as a child is still very strong, as you’ll see…

When I first joined Facebook, I  wrote my  “25 Random Things” list to tell readers more about me. Communicating on the telephone with my siblings came to mind. 

I wrote:

I speak to my sister, Lisa 4 times a day. I speak to my sister, Naomi 4 times a week and I speak to my brother  4 times a year.

I have no animosity toward my brother. Growing up, we were really close. We’re 11 months apart and shared a room until we were 9 and 10, seeing no reason to be separated except other people thought so.

It’s just that as adults and as parents, we seem to have less to talk about  and I have so much more to say to my sisters, especially on the phone.   We can chat about every mundane tidbit of our lives.  We can multi-task while sharing our stories.  We’ll be on the phone while cooking in our respective kitchens, sharing the steps and outcomes of our endeavors, wishing we lived closer for tastings.   We scrub the tub, load the dishwasher, or make a salad without missing a syllable.

 We talk about everything and nothing. I need advice on SAT tutoring for my daughter, Lisa needs to know why her banana cake doesn’t come out like mine, Naomi shares the latest news about her kids and our cousins. (You know where to find the rest…)

 

Give a parent a tangerine for the holidays: 3

My holiday gift shopping is about halfway done, I think. It’s not easy, with six children, six grandchildren and various other people to buy for. But at least I’ve solved the problem of stocking stuffers, hostess gifts and the like. I have a little stack of Tangerines, so I won’t be caught out wondering what to give the person I forgot about. The tangerines are, of course, copies of Tangerine Tango, the lovely little book that contains some of my work. The book’s available at Amazon in either paper or digital form.

I’ve already written about some of the pieces in the book. Today, I’m going to give you a few samples of the articles about parents. We’ve all had them, and no matter how much we vow we’re never going to become them, it’s amazing how often we find ourselves doing or saying something that could only have been learned from them. I expect my own children have occasional moments like that, poor things.

Donna Barry is a blogger, nurse practitioner and cyclist, among other things. Here’s part of her essay about gardening with her dad:

From the time I was old enough to walk I spent my early days following Daddy around the yard. Each summer evening after supper, he’d leave the inside work behind and tend the flowers and garden. Never mind that he’d just spent all day working in someone else’s greenhouse – this was the work he loved. We’d putter in the yard together. I’d follow along while he carried buckets of water, sifted composted soil and scattered pink fertilizer around the stems of young tomato plants. I learned the names of every kind of petunia, marigold and tomato. Big Boy, Early Girl, beefsteak, and cherry tomatoes, all went into the garden behind our greenhouse. Tiny tomato sprigs that Daddy had painstakingly started in our cellar from seeds back in March were now brave little plants that grew into bushes under our care. At the end of our gardening, there would always be time for a wheelbarrow ride, then sitting in Daddy’s lap in the cool darkness of the porch until bedtime.

Today, I no longer grow tomatoes, but I have flowers. Perennial gardens of Black-Eyed Susan, Sedum and Euonymus edge the house and yard…(the rest is in the book…)

Chris Rosen had this to share about her mother(s):

Born in 1908, Gertrude Smith was a flapper. Barely 5’2” tall, her blonde hair was neatly combed into a Marcel wave ending just below her ear. She told me once or twice, that when she was young she was a “rebel.” Her ancestors were Irish coal-miners, who settled in Scranton, PA. She was widowed three times. Although I wasn’t actually raised by my birth mother, I visited her often and eventually at the age of eleven moved into her home. I was her last child, and these are some of the things she taught me.

“Signs are for sheep.” My mother could always find her way in, around, over or under a problem. She encouraged us to think for ourselves, never to take “No” for an answer, and to always hit back harder when faced with a bully. She did not suffer fools at all. When Nell (who was my foster-mother) and my mother first met as teens, she was sporting a black eye. When asked how she got it, Nell said, “Your mother could swear like a sailor.” They didn’t know then that both women would become my mothers.

“I’ll not only walk again, I’ll dance on your grave!” After losing her husband to a brain tumor, and surviving a near-fatal car accident in that same year, 1949, this is what she had to say to her doctors.

There’s much more to read in Tangerine Tango. Just the book to dip into over the holidays, when a refreshing break in someone else’s world can help pep you up!

Give someone a tangerine (and some fudge) for the holidays: 2

As my regular readers know, some of my personal essays and a poem were published recently, along with those of 11 other writers, in a great little book called Tangerine Tango. Great, because it’s the perfect size holiday gift for a hostess, mother, stocking stuffer or just because. So I thought I’d share some of the pieces with you between now and Christmas. The book’s available at Amazon in either paper or digital form.

The writers represented in Tangerine Tango come from different parts of the country and have different outlooks on life, which is what makes this book so much fun. Since the holidays are approaching, I thought I could do worse than to give you a taste (Ho. Ho.) And today’s topic is fudge. At least three of the items in the book mention fudge.

Along with writing her blog, Friend for the Ride: Encouraging Words for the Menopause Roller Coaster, Barbara Younger is the author of 21 books for adults and children. She lives in a 180-year-old house in Hillsborough, North Carolina with her husband Cliff and collections of everything from old toys to hat boxes. Here’s one of her contributions to the book.

Fudge Prayer

Dear God,

I can’t decide if fudge,

Is good or evil.

Cocoa beans, sugar, rich butter,

Confection of good delight

Or calories of evil to the body temple.

The fudge is gone,

Swallowed,

Not unlike the cat and canary.

And now I offer this

Grateful Prayer of Thanksgiving

Or this humble Prayer of Repentance.

Amen and Amen.

You can follow Barbara on Twitter and Facebook.

Patti Winker , author of an online cookbook  Memory Lane Meals tells the story of how she came to own a fudge store, and what happened once she started making fudge:

I learned how to make beautiful pans of fudge.   I made sheets of pecan turtles, lovingly constructing each one with my own hands, decorating each with a little “S” swirl on the chocolate top for “Sweetie’s.”  Chocolate-covered cherries and fudge-filled chocolate cups.  I mixed batch after batch, late at night, and lined them up attractively in the display cases.

Then came the morning,  time to open the shop. And in came the customers.

I couldn’t deal with sending my creations, even if I was paid, away, to be eaten and destroyed.

My husband, in contrast, loved seeing the boxes and bags going out the door every day. He became puzzled at my increasingly sullen mood as business improved.  The more fudge and turtles I sold…(buy the book to read the rest!)

And our editor, Lisa Winkler, included her favorite fudge recipe. (Buy the book etc…)

Bon appetit!

Give someone a Tangerine for the holidays: 1

As my regular readers know, some of my personal essays and a poem were published recently in a great little book. Great, because the writing is good, and little, because, well, it’s small. A perfect size, in fact, for a holiday gift for a hostess, mother, stocking stuffer or just for fun. (Only $8.35!)

To give you some idea of the kind of book it is, I thought I’d share some of the pieces with you between now and Christmas. The book’s available at Amazon in either paper or digital form. Here’s a sample of writing from the editor, Lisa K. Winkler, my internet friend. Here you go.

Lisa Winkler and I – good fun!

There’s nothing like an ice cream cone.  And this summer, there are more flavors than ever to choose from. Creative expression has pervaded ice cream, exposing our palates to culinary experiences akin to dining in ethnic restaurants.

Cheeses- feta, goat, ricotta or blue can be found mixed with fruits and vegetables. Savory spices such as paprika, basil, rosemary, curry, pepper and even garlic are offered next to traditional chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.  In New Jersey, the Garden State, I’ve seen “Fresh Corn.”  For those who skipped breakfast, maple syrup and bacon flavors abound, and for those thinking salad, there’s olive oil.

Then there are the flavors invented by creative vendors whose names tell the customer nothing. Why don’t the stores tape an explanation of these flavors to the front of the case? Instead, customers have to ask what each is, wasting the scooper’s time and annoying the impatient Little League team waiting in line.

One stand offers a flavor named for the town’s zip code.  And “Special Flavor,” which changes all the time. Last visit, it was peach.  And the imaginative names, like Dirty Diaper, Elephants Never Forget, and Kong. 

GC: Wow – buy the book to read the rest – which includes a recipe for chocolate fudge sauce. Yum.

You can find Lisa on her website, on Facebook and on her blog

The internet yields pumpkin bread and a face-to-face friend

One of the great things about the internet is the people you meet there. One of the downsides is that one almost never gets to meet them face-to-face.  I follow several blogs, and certain of them have produced people of like mind, with whom I share values, comments and all-around goodwill. It was through one of my internet friends that I was asked to contribute to Tangerine Tango, an anthology of women writers. Lisa Winkler, otherwise known as the Cycling Grandma and author of On the Trail of the Ancestors: A Black Cowboy’s Ride Across America asked me to contribute some of my writing.

The book was published last Monday, and we still hadn’t met, even though Lisa edited the writing, and produced the book. So imagine my delight when I had an unexpected email from her saying that she’d be passing through my part of Connecticut and would like to get together for coffee.

Lisa Winkler and I – having fun!

She came yesterday, bearing a scrumptious loaf of pumpkin bread, and turned out to be even prettier than she looks on her blog, and just as much fun. We talked about the book, and how the promotion was going. (Please buy one!)  She told me about the Scandinavian woman in India who’d designed it, and we mulled over the question of what we might call Volume 2. My son, who happened to be around, came up with a few suggestions, including Pomegranate Papers, Mandarin Memoirs and Kiwi Chronicles, in line with the idea of fruit whose name has become synonymous with a color.  While trying to do this, it struck me how many of the fruit-whose-name-is a-color are in the orange range. See what I mean? Orange, pumpkin, pomegranate, mandarin, persimmon, and papaya, for starters. Lisa fancies the Kiwi Chronicles because she has a yen to produce a green book next time. This is probably because she’s a redhead, and green would suit her perfectly. Even so, any other suggestions are most welcome.

You can tell that we covered a lot of ground over a cup of Turkish apple tea (one of the things I brought back from a recent trip to Istanbul) and I was sorry when Lisa had to leave to get back to New Jersey. But the fact that we managed to meet at all has given me the hope that someday I’ll meet my other internet friends – just let me know if you’re passing through…

Weddings…

The only people who were really happy about our August 6th, 1983 wedding were Jay and I, my mother, my sister Susan, and Jay’s best man, Carl. That’s why, on our wedding photos, we are the only ones smiling with our eyes. My son and daughter are scowling at the camera, as much as to say “You made us come from Chicago to live in Connecticut for this?” Jay’s two girls are smiling, but their eyes look sad. They’re pretty sure they’ve lost their father. Jay’s mother and her second husband are trying to look gracious, but there’s a hint of disapproval there.

It’s 29 years later and things have changed. We acquired two extra sons along the way when my sister Susan died 16 years ago. Then we were presented with two sons-in-law, one daughter-in-law and six grandchildren. Our six children look amazed when we remind them we’ve been married so long – it makes them feel old. Our six grandchildren have never known us as anyone other than Grampa and Grandmama.

Remembering our wedding days, it’s a miracle we got married at all. Yes, days, because we were married twice. We’d married first on a cool Spring day in May, without telling anyone. I wore a chain store dress, and our witnesses were two people we rounded up on the day: Jay’s landlady and her gardener.  I was living in Chicago, Jay lived in Connecticut, and my Chicago immigration lawyer told me that I needed to get married because my US work visa was running out. It seemed like a terrible reason at the time, but I didn’t really mind, so long as, at some point, we had an actual wedding, for our family to attend.

We decided on August 6th, because it was a Saturday, not realizing that it was the 37th anniversary of the day the US dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. We found out that morning when the radio news reminded us. It was a hot sticky day, and we had no air conditioning in the small cottage we’d managed to afford. We switched on the fans, but were glad to go out on the deck for the wedding itself. The sun had disappeared, and the Justice of the Peace (who’d married us in May and kindly agreed to do it again) was casting worried glances at the lowering clouds.

We read our vows, which we’d written ourselves, and as the JP said “I now pronounce you man and wife,” the heavens opened with an almighty clap of thunder. We made a dash for the French doors, piling into the dining room in disarray.

After Jay’s family had left, we newly-weds, with Adam, Helenka, my mother, Susan and Carl, sat around, exhausted by the heat and the emotions of the day. Sweat dripped slowly down the back of my neck. We had fans on, but it was still humid, and wasn’t due to cool down ‘til later. I can’t remember who suggested it, but we all agreed with alacrity – we would go down to the beach for a moonlight swim. There was a moon by now, because the skies were clearing and we knew there’d be a breeze by the shore. We had the beach to ourselves – until a night watchman came up to demand what we were doing.

After we’d explained, he decided to turn a blind eye. He even wished us luck. We returned home, cooler and happier.

Our marriage has been like that. Sunshine and thunderstorms, family and friends, time alone and  time together, cool days and hot days. And through it all there’s been love, to keep us hanging in there.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. But now I’d do it somewhere air-conditioned.

Beach Madness

A year ago my husband Jay and I were going to sell the house on the lake in New Hampshire. It’s really too big for us. Mostly, there are only the two of us there, and the house will actually sleep 10 or more, so you can see the logic. I don’t really want a house that will sleep 10 or more – because then the ten people show up and need feeding.

So I was pleased when Jay finally decided that it might be fun to sell and a bit less thrilled when he decided we’d build something new. I remember the last time we built a house. I say we, but actually it was Jay who designed it, which is why I only have a quarter of the single closet we ended up with. Jay turned the other closet into a sauna when I wasn’t looking. (There’s a whole earlier post about that.) Anyway – what really made the prospect of a new house appealing was the fact that there was a piece of land further down the lake with that most highly prized feature: a beach. And not just any old beach but a long one with white sand, where in summer Jay would be able to lounge around reading a book under an umbrella and in winter he’d be able to drive his snowmobile out without (much) chance of falling off it and breaking something.

So we cleaned up the house and put it on the market. People liked it a lot, but the price was too high, they said. (Jay never prices a house to sell – he prices it to keep.) And, they said, they wanted a lawn, not the ecologically correct wildflowers and ferns that graced the back. And the horseshoe pitching thingy that was a long alley covered in mulch, which had never been used (why did I buy him those horse shoes?) was an eyesore. Plus, the house really needed power washing, and there were a couple of little things that needed fixing here and there…You get the picture.

After brooding for a few days, Jay decided he’d give it his best shot and immediately hired someone to do the power-washing, someone to fix the master bathroom shower (it came off in his hand, Jay said, about a year ago), someone to touch up the paint, and someone to turn the back garden into a lawn.

But once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. He had three huge bushes moved into the wilderness near the garden. He hacked down shrubs and tiny saplings that threatened to block the view (in 2037, if they’d lived). He and our middle son built some stone steps and a wooden railing down from the terrace to the new lawn. Jay bought a lawn-mower. (It seems like only yesterday, but it was actually 1984 when he swore he’d never touch one again…) Our house was ready to go back on the market. And then came the news – the beach property that we liked had been sold. To someone else.

Jay supervisingAfter brooding for a few days more Jay made a decision. We didn’t need to buy a beach. He would make his own. We have the falling apart remains of an old stone jetty that joins the shore at the bottom of the garden. It was strewn with rocks and boulders, but this didn’t deter Jay. He press-ganged two of our sons into removing the rocks that were making this so unsightly (and, quite possibly, holding the jetty together). This took a couple of weeks. And then came the sand. Eight tons, I think he said, in a huge pile at the front of the house. It all had to be taken to the back by the wheelbarrow load. That took another day or so. And the result?

I’m not sure it’s quite big enough for the 10+ visitors that will descend on us as soon as the news gets out. But Jay will think of something.

You’re never too old to publish

At the beginning of February, I wrote a post called It’s never too late for fun, about a woman, who, aged 88, wanted to sit on the cannons at Compo beach again, and, with the help of friends and strangers, did it. You can see from the photos on that blog just how delighted she was.

Now she’s done it again. Not cannons, this time, but a book. Illustrated, written and published with the help of friends and strangers. And Susan Malloy is very happy indeed. Here’s how it happened:

A year ago Susan, already a successful painter, was in Paris with her grandchildren, aged 10 and 17. As always, being an artist, she was sketching what she saw, when it struck her that there might be other young people who would like an illustrated introduction to Paris. And so the idea for a book was born. When she returned home to Connecticut, she gathered her pen and ink sketches and wrote brief paragraphs to go with each, introducing the famous sights.

Next she approached a friend of hers, another well known and multi-talented artist, Miggs Burroughs. He’s known particularly for his lenticular works (see one here: http:  Go to the site and click on one of the black & white photographs to see how they work. If you want to see another, you’ll have to leave the site and come back, since it only shows one at a time.) Miggs designed the layout for the book, and then came the long trek to publication.

A local copying and printing company produced a mockup of the book, and a French teacher in New York looked at it to make sure all the French words were spelled correctly. This is what one of the pages looks like.

Then it was time to find a printer who could print a small but high quality book. Susan turned to her friend, Helen Klisser During, curator of the Westport Arts Center, who immediately decided that a) she wanted to help, and b) she wanted Susan to submit the drawings to the Arts Center as part of the annual juried SOLOs exhibit, which features WAC member artists. The judges chose Susan as one of the artists to be exhibited. Taking the sketches to the local framing shop to have them matted and framed for exhibition, Helen asked the owner for advice on printing. The owner recommended a printer not too far away. He couldn’t do it, but recommended the guy upstairs, who was a printer of specialized materials. He couldn’t do it either, but came up with the name of the man who could, and did. He was Stephen Stinehour, a lifelong publisher of art-quality books, in a tiny town in the North East Kingdom of Vermont. Stephen helped Susan choose the right typography and weight of paper and agreed to print 300 beautiful copies at a very reasonable price.

On the day of her gallery opening, book signing and launch, she sold 50 copies at $10 each, and told Helen that this was one of the happiest days of her life. She’s a living example of what staying consistent and focused on the goal can do. And she’s a testament to the value of friendship and teamwork in making dreams come true.

Susan distributes the books through the Westport Arts Center, the Westport Library, and the Westport Historical Society. You can also buy them from her directly. If you’d like to buy one, let me know and I’ll be happy to put you in touch.