Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Dempsey's

"Nooooo," my husband said.

He'd heard my daughter who lives in Malden say she was going to Dempsey's which is about a ten-minute walk from her house. https://www.dempseysbreakfast.net/We were chatting on Facebook as we do regularly.

The "nooooo" was jealousy that we weren't going with her.

What is Dempsey's?

Not a gourmet restaurant but a breakfast and lunch place run as a family business. Stepping into it is like going back to the 1950s in decor and offerings.

Llara took Rick and I went there often when we visited and now it has become a must-stop whenever we stay with her. We need their waffles, their home fries, their bagels.

You can have you cookie cutter Starbucks or your Tim Horton's.

We don't know when or if we will ever be able to go back to Boston and if we do will be allowed back in to Schengen countries.  Probably but not soon.

Meanwhile we can fantasize a plate of waffles, a big glass of juice, a mug of tea, a...


Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Savings vs. charging

This is not directed to people on minimum wage. And people who are still paying off student loans taking a large part of their income. It is directed to those that live paycheck to paycheck whose income should cover their expenses and then some. It is directed to those who have charged things they don't need, duplicate things they have, and not saved.

I am also not saying don't ever buy anything. I am saying save and buy wisely.

Many of them are in trouble when the paycheck stops. They have no back up plan but plenty of debt from purchases that were probably not necessary and relegated to some closet or storage area if not thrown out.

I come from a family of savers. My grandmother didn't believe you buy anything until you had the money for it. You also saved for a rainy day, according to her. Thus if we needed a new water heater, the money would be there.

My father was a saver. Ten percent of any paycheck went into the savings account. Because he was a salesman on commission only it could be as little as $3 or as much as $300. In the 1950s and 60s $300 was a lot of money. He always had money for emergencies. And he had money for some fun things too.

As a kid I had a bank account with my own savings book that recorded my small deposits, seldom over a dollar.

As a single mom, money was often tight. There was a period that my disposable income was 25 cents daily, the price of a can of coke. It should have gone into savings, but it didn't always.

As my salary improved money was looser, but I never gave into the habit of not charging things with the exception of my American Express and that had to be paid off each month.

I was lucky by living with another couple for years so my expenses were far less than if I lived alone. Eventually my daughter and I did live alone, but again, I tried to save. At one point I had a Coke bottle bank that came to my waist. I put my change at the end of the day in it. The amount quickly added up to four figures.

There was one time I did end up in debt when I couldn't work normally and my mother was dying of cancer. By the time I moved to Europe, I was in debt and I limited my purchases until I had the cash. At the time I was selling computer services. I lived on my salary and saved all my commissions with the money that didn't go to paying down the debt.

One big saving was not having a car. It wasn't necessary. What I saved allowed me to buy a small apartment in cash. The retirement studio I bought was also paid for in cash. I thought in retirement I would be able to live on about $600 a month. I still could without pensions but fortunately I don't have to. It would be tight. My Nest, as I call it, is adorable and has absolutely everything I need to be comfortable. I have tried not have one extra thing in it.

When I married, we did move to a large place. We bought our furniture that we really like in a recycling shop. They refurnish donations giving work to people who need it, a win-win. We only buy what we love. Nothing ever went on a charge card.

I slapped a good percent of my Swiss salary which was ridiculously high and after years of being underpaid, into savings. I felt it was the universe adjusting itself. It also allowed me to save.

I put five Swiss franc pieces (about $4) in a bank and that paid for my Masters Degree at Glamorgan University in Wales. It was not an expensive program. I needed the money as well for the nine trips required to the campus. EasyJet started with cheap air fares a few weeks after I graduated.

It didn't take too much convincing for Rick to buy our saving pig (photo) for our change. The store owner made us promise to use the plug to open it and not break it open. Rick is slowly converting over to the spending prudently mentality.

That doesn't mean I never spend money. By being frugal there's money for trips anywhere in the world, and we've been to almost every European country, the U.S. and Canada. If the pandemic ends we will travel again. We eat out and attend events from concerts to plays.

It means that I could buy my husband handmade hickory golf clubs for his passion (other than me). It means we don't have to worry about money because our outgo is always less than our projected income stable with pensions and variable from clients.

I may sound sanctimonious. Yup, I definitely do. Blame it on my grandmother.

Monday, April 27, 2020

WFH

I first worked from home in the 1970s on Fridays. It gave me the chance to do in-depth projects without interruptions. I did in half a day what might have taken several if I'd stayed in the office. It also gave me the chance to do the laundry and a few weekend chores leaving me Saturday and Sunday free.

 My boss once asked "How do I know you are really working?"

My secretary, who was with us, replied, "Because she bring in tons of stuff for me to do on Monday."

I loved my condo, every bit from the entrance's red carpet to the garbage bin out back . It was the first place I owned on my own. I loved my bay windows in the kitchen and my bedroom and the nook where I set up in my office.

What was wonderful when we had a snow storm and I could huddle down. Selling it was sad but it paid for my European future.

After I retired, I started a credit union newsletter for Canadian executives. Forty-eight weeks, I produced between 30-50 articles all produced from home. I so preferred working from home in Southern France. My desk looked out at the street where I could hear the sounds of life.

I called it my Nest, a fourth floor tiny loft, once an attic in a 400-year old building. The photo is the view from desk where I produced some of my first published novel. The studio was only 18 sq. meters. but I felt joyous being there. I loved everything about it and still do. I now use it as a guest room.

Where I live now is two doors down from the Nest. It's also a renovated 400-year old building which is better suited to my husband and me. The Nest would have been too crowded. Again, I feel joyous being there. I love our art, the memories we made furnishing it and the life we are building together.

Although I enjoy going out and I do miss things because of the lockdown like the marché and café sitting, going to others' homes, I don't mind being indoors. We recently had several days of pounding rain. The music of the rain just added to the joy of being home.

My husband and I are professional writers. We do spend time sitting at our computers pounding out words. My work area is a few feet away from him in what double as the "Snore Room" where I escape some nights. We both have deadlines. We share our work with the other.

My love of being at home goes back to my childhood. I enjoyed school, but I also loved being at home. I had so many things I wanted to do and I hated if forced into some stupid after school activity, I would miss out on my imaginary world. I should say we lived on 14-acres of land with a 35-pine grove in front of the house, two huge rocks that would become anything from Greek temples to western badlands and sometimes mansions in which to have afternoon tea. It was the stage for my hopes, dreams, adventures.

Yes, I like visiting friends. I love how we've traveled around Europe, to Canada to the U.S.

I might not be as happy in lockdown if I had three fighting siblings needing on-line lessons. If my husband was abusive it would be different. If I were worried about paying for food and rent it would be different.

It is none of those things and I know how lucky I am.

Thus unlike for many the lockdown has not been a hardship for me. It has been a gift.


Sunday, April 26, 2020

Fake News



Fake news, fake news, fake news...

It seems that people convinced of their position who hear things they don't like, scream "FAKE NEWS!!!!"

Often their news source is one place, one that backs up their opinions on whatever issue. This opinion they may reinforce on various social media, decrying any disagreement.

My mother only read the Boston Herald. Her best friend only read the Boston Globe. Their views of the world were a prelude for the red and blue divide.

Not much will sway those that are exposed on only one point of view, one selection of facts.

They can watch a video clip and still think it is fake and to be fair a clip can be doctored. Sometimes they look at something live and still proclaim it is fake.

I never saw Fox News until this winter. No source. When Geneva television started carrying it, I wasn't impressed. As a journalist myself I could see where the slant was. This does not mean that other news media don't slant and mislead.

I think of the cartoon of the number 6. Two people stand, one on the top, one on the bottom. One claims it is a Six, the other a Nine. They are both right with the information they possess. The other can claim the other's point of view is fake news. They should walk around the number and see the other side is also correct.

And there is the story of six blind men each touching a different part of an elephant and only that part. They all swear they know what an elephant is like. Needless to say none do.

That is the problem of limiting sources be it direct or indirect experiences.

I'm a news junkie. Not just U.S. Papers but sources from around the world. Naturally, I can't read/listen to them all. Depending on the story I will scan or delve deeply into any given story.

One of my favorite programs is BBC's Dateline where reporters from different parts of the world give their take on the international news of the day. Sometimes I wonder if it is the same story. I decide that the divide is due to different experiences and culture.

I do pride myself on trying to be open minded by reviewing the following sources, not just one.

Newspapers scanned with some articles read in depth depending on issues at any given moment: Both liberal and conservative.
  • Washington Post
  • Boston Globe
  • The Guardian
  • The Independent
  • The Scotsman
  • Tribune de Geneve
  • Le Temps
  • Le Monde
  • Le Figaro
  • Le Temps
Television stations or online
  • CNN
  • Bloomberg 
  • MSNBC
  • BBC
  • Sky News
  • France24
  • democracynow, org
  • Euronews
  • NHK
  • i24
  • RT
  • Al Jazeera (my Arab friends think it's CIA run which I find  sadly amusing)
  • TSR1
  • DW (when in Geneva) 
  • Euronews
  • China Times
  • Intercept
For those that want to find these sources and others.
I am fortunate by living in Geneva, I have a chance to make the acquaintance of people who have lived what others have only read about. I know them socially from get togethers, living in the same building and walking our dogs together, being in the same writing together. They are more than ambassadors of their countries or lower level staff. They are friends or at least pleasant and good acquaintances. It is far different to have a cup of tea with a Palestinian whose family was thrown out of their home when Israel was granted nationhood than just reading about it in a newscap.

I will admit I lack patience when someone who has only one news source and has never been out of their own living space claims fake news.

My former assistant used to say, "Ignorance can be corrected, stupidity is forever." In today's online world, there is no excuse for ignorance.


Friday, April 24, 2020

Jealousy in the time of Corona

My husband and I are both writers. Although I've been a journalist, he still is. I am more of a fiction writer having several published books to my credit. www.donnalanenelson.com. Both of us have worked in PR, a different type of wordsmithing. 

We both spend a great deal of time at the computer banging out words, weighing words, rearranging words.

Why am I jealous?

Concentration. 

The world could end and Rick wouldn't know till he finished an article.

Me?

A grape leaf can float gently to the ground outside my window and my concentration is broken. Right now I'm trying to whip my new novel DayCare into final shape despite concentration lapses.
  • Anne-Marie should not believe Liam. ooops there goes another leaf. Where was I now?
  • Will Brenda meet her boss? A message dinged in on FB. I'll check it out.
  • Should I add a pet to the story? The dog jumped on the bed. Maybe he needs to go out.
  • Sally's parents, did I make them too extreme? Another cup of tea would be good.
And so it goes.

I love being married to a writer. We can talk about wording in our work and in whatever we are reading.  

It thrills me when he asks me if he can read the lead on the story he just finished. I am thrilled when he tells me he likes what I've written.

We both get to where we want to be at the end...well not quite...even after things are published we might want to change a word, add a sentence.

As for the concentration, I wish there was some type of concentration cell in his blood and we were of the same blood type and there could be a transfusion.


Thursday, April 23, 2020

the family dinner

An article reported that being locked in during the COVID-19 crisis has brought back the family dinner.

People have been so rushed be it from work or going from activity to activity that the members seldom have time to sit down together for a meal, even when a parent has time to cook, which could be infrequent.

Leo Buscaglia, Dr. Love talked about growing up in a big Italian family where Mama put on a good meal, kids had to wash their hands, but they had to bring some fact to the table to discuss.

My grandmother did most of the cooking. She was a plain old fashioned New England cook. Meals could include vegetables from the garden, leftovers from Sunday lunch, some home made dessert. My mother was more of a gourmet cook and her meals were frequent. No matter who cooked I remember discussing everything possible. I remember the pewter pitcher with cold water. It is now in my Nest in France.

We weren't a family that said grace. As a six-year old eating at a friend's house one Sunday, I was invited to say grace and I had no idea what they were talking about. The mother, seeing my embarrassment, took over.

My ex and I would make it point to eat together all nights he wasn't on duty. He was a cop. He hated to eat in restaurants, something I loved. We used the time to catch upon our day's events, make plans, talk about just a bit of everything.

When I lived with another couple for a decade plus, we would all get home from work, have a cup of tea and decide on dinner. All of us were good cooks, but often we would go out to eat having a long list of favorite restaurants in the Boston/Brookline/Waltham/Cambridge area.

There were many night between people working late and two of the three of us working on degrees that we weren't together. My daughter, once we moved into Boston, lived with friends where the school system was better. I'd leave her on a Monday morning, try and have a date with her Wednesday night and pick her up Friday night.

Friday night became "Family Night" and it was sacrosanct. We would eat at some Harvard Square restaurant, go to bookstores to pick up the week's reading and listen to street musicians.

Since we were renovating the townhouse where we lived and most weekends were spent, either stripping paint, re-plastering or myriad other repairs, Sundays were important meals to have together. While we worked, someone would be cooking a pot of spaghetti, a soup, whatever they felt like. Our neighbor across the street would often join us at the end of the day, a relaxing end to a work-filled weekend.

Once Llara and I lived on our own in a condo down the street from the townhouse, we usually ate at night. I did more of the cooking, but every now and then she would produce a meal. The situation changed decades later when she was living with me as an adult and job hunting in Geneva. I'd come home to great meals. I'd cook on the weekend. Having to cook 7/7 takes all the pleasure away.

Our meals were often shared with families who lived on the same floor and we enjoyed extended Indian, Syrian, English and Czech family meals.

Rick and I decided we should share cooking. His days are Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. He puts on a huge Sunday breakfast so good, that we've invited people in place of a normal dinner party. My days are Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday evening.

As writers working at home, out big meal is lunch. We try and make it nutritious, attractive and pleasant. We may include music, eat on the patio or sometimes even in front of the television. There are the days (pre-virus) when Rick, more than me but I do it too, when we say, "I'm cooking at LaNoisette or Flowers or Marro or any other restaurant we enjoy" and happily we trot down the street leaving us free to chat away as we enjoy our food.

So for us lockdown hasn't changed much when it comes to family meals, family sharing. It stays a part of the day where sharing is more than "pass the bread, please."

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

Hug histories



I did not come from a huggy family or even a touchy one.

My first encounter with hugginess was after my divorce when I moved in with a work colleague and her family. They became almost like in-laws. Their daughter became my best friend, and boy could she hug. We joked it was because she had breasts. We joked when I hugged her she had to imagine breasts.

When my daughter was little many days started with EMCs -- Early Morning Cuddles. We would both hug her at the same time planting loud kisses, one of us on each cheek. My daughter grew up as a hugger.

My late friend Barbara...when she hugged you, you knew you were hugged. About six feet tall she would come at you arms open and engulf you in her warmth.

May housemate for 11 years has a son, another person who gives good hug. With his arms around me, I gain the strength to battle whatever I need to battle and find the peace that escaped me pre-hug.

Hugs are not common in the Franco-lingual world. Two or three kisses, alternating cheeks is the mode depending on the area. This is more routine than signs of affection or encouragement.

When I spent a month in an uppity Florida community there were cheek kisses, but people often used it to check the label on the back of your blouse. This was confided to me by two transplanted Yankees independently of each other.

Cheek kissing and hugging are now forbidden by the Covid-19 virus. Sadly, it is wise. As much as I love to be hugged and to hug many of my friends when they need it and sometimes when they don't, it is not worth the risk.

One French friend, who spent a couple of decades in the States, is doing a countdown until hugs are safe when we are scheduled to come out of lockdown, although President Macron will move the May 11th  date if the virus isn't under control.

Probably cheek kissing and hugging and even handshakes may take time to come back into vogue if they are not gone forever or reserved to immediate family members. My husband and I still hug. But the six-foot rule is hard to apply when two people share a bed and hold hands while watching DVDs, Netflix, news, etc. Thank goodness.

I've seen people who pass far apart on the street mime a hug and cheek kiss. Some do the oriental bow. Others use their hands to form a heart. Sad to live in a hugless world.






Monday, April 20, 2020

Scattering my mother's ashes



April 22nd will be the 30th anniversary of scattering my mother's ashes.

I put Albert and Amadeus, my Japanese chins in the car and picked up my girl friend Susie, who was sitting on the front steps of her Boston townhouse.

"I looked at Emily Post to see what you should wear to an illegal ash scattering of someone you didn't like," she said. She had opted for jeans and sneakers, reasonable for a walk through the woods.

I laughed. She was there to support me. We met up with my brother who brought the ashes to the woods behind my mother's apartment complex. She loved to look into the woods although she thought it was awful that teenage boys and girls wandered in to do ? the ? being her imagination.

After the scattering we went to McDonald's and even bought hamburgers for the dogs.

Clumps of sodden earth
cling to our boots.
The forest whispers,
whines.
A brook, too full, complains,
falling over itself.
A bird trills a prayer
for no more rain.

My brother carrying the
cardboard carton
goes first.
As he pushes through brush.
He forgets to hold a branch,
It hits me like another
forty years ago
in a different wood.

We come to a meadow with
last year's grass
engraved in mud.
He lays the carton
on the ground.
"Here."
Inside a plastic bag.
We each take a corner.
The wind catches the powder,
lifts and plays creating
a mini cloud
too close to earth.

I think
how much power
that ash once held.
How little now.
Done.
We walk back
trapped
in our ancient silences.

Sensual lockdown



The rain arrived from Barcelona. When I walked to Chez Elizabeth (allowed with filled in permission slip) for strawberries, I couldn't see it, but the mist covered my face. I loved the feel. Rain, especially spring rain makes the air smell fresh, more so now that there is almost no cars.

Once home the rain resumed and beat its music on the skylight, a beautiful sound.

Breakfast was strawberry-cinnamon pancakes. Strawberries are a beautiful red making my eyes happy and my olfactory nerves enjoyed both their sweet odor and the cinnamon smell. The sizzle of the butter in the pan was a pleasure to hear and watching the holes come up in the cooking pancakes just increased my appetite.

I have always loved peas. Fresh are best and this is the season. Shelling them has its own pleasure with the tiny pop each pod makes when I break it open. They also make a delicate plop into the pan. In a way it is like a treasure hunt because I never know what is inside, a couple, lots, half round, bursting. Two peas made a runner, one down the drain, one across the floor. I guess Sherlock doesn't like peas because he made no attempt to capture it.
The main course was chicken fricassee. I get less excited about pulling the meat of the chicken carcass, but that I could feel the cold through my nerve-deadened fingers, proved once again I was alive thanks to the chemo that stole my nerves.

Watching my roux accept the bullion and thicken was another pleasure. This time I added just a little cream.

As usual when we eat, Rick and I had no problem finding something to chat about. The topic this time was more focused on Sherlock who was being extra adorable.

I can truthfully say I have never been bored during the lockdown. There is too much to do, see, feel, read, write, watch, think, play. Being with the man and dog I love, is a pretty good way. Yes, I miss the cafe sits and impromptu inviting someone in for coffee/tea. I miss hugs and cheek kisses, but it is a small price to pay for my safety and the safety of my friends and neighbors.






Sunday, April 19, 2020

Meadowbrook burns





A high school friend sent me an article from the Boston Globe of the Meadowbrook Golf Club on fire. Another sent me a photo and news article of the burned building. I'm grateful to both of them for the information.

A piece of my childhood went up in smoke. As a kid I was forced to take golf lessons there.

I remember Family Night suppers where kids were allowed. Every family brought something. There were a lot of good cooks. 

In the basement, the lower right hand corner of the building we would congregate away from the adults. Almost every time Andy Bellevue would spell antidisestablishment and Mississippi before some parent would set up the movie camera with cartoons.

My friend Rosemary and I would often play canasta in the club house when our parents were out on the course. We listened to 45s including Stan Freeberg and the new Rock and Roll stars, Bill Haley then Elvis. We brought the records from home. Sometimes we would putt on the putting green.

My retired Uncle Alley worked in the proshop. My mother helped him get the job because he hated the boredom of retirement. He still charged us for candy and soft drinks.

My future burned too. Rick 2 and I were slated to play golf there in September when I went "home" to Reading for my high school reunion. It was all arranged along with my thank yous for doing it. Rick is an avid golfer and he thought it would be cool to play where I had played. I thought it would cool to where I played and tobogganed.

I am sure they'll rebuild. The course is still there. 

So many of my childhood buildings have disappeared including schools, the house I grew up in, farms near my home. 

Time matches on, sometimes through ashes.


Saturday, April 18, 2020

Poor Socialist Denmark

Poor socialist Denmark. They don't have any of these long lines for food like the US. What are they doing wrong?

A Danish friend, a doctor when I asked her said, "We don’t need that in Denmark (nor in Scandinavian at all) as we have a welfare society."

And the other horrible thing Denmark is doing? It is making sure that workers will get paid so when the society opens up again, everyone is ready to go back.

How will the Danish people survive without all that worry about surviving financially?

And poor Denmark, when they pay their taxes they get good things back. How will they ever learn to panic and suffer? Why they even have guaranteed health. Horrible.

Poor, poor Denmark. 

The missing pillowcase mystery


I have no idea where one white pillow case has gone. We have three: two of our bedroom and one for the snore room.

We also have a duvet with two matching pillow cases in a pretty Scandinavian print, thank you IKEA. 

We deliberately don't have extra.

Last week I washed our bed linens, a normal regular chore.

Rick pointed out that one of our white pillows was missing the case.

Hmmmm.

We searched:
  • Laundry basket
  • Ironing basket
  • Inside the duvet cover
  • Between the sheet and mattress
  • Under the bed
  • Behind the bed
  • Washer
  • Linen trunk
  • Patio (maybe on the white tile we didn't see it--nope)
  • Every room
  • Around every piece of furniture 
  • On the pillow itself in case we put two cases on one pillow
We don't have that big a flat.

I dreamed we found it. It was on the pillow case itself only it was made of vanilla ice cream.

As of this writing I can't think of any other place to look.

I'm a mystery writer. I should be able to solve this crime.




Friday, April 17, 2020

Missing the marché

One of the things I miss most about being locked down are the Wednesday and Saturday marchés.
When we walk Sherlock early on those day, the merchants are setting up their stands. Some have elaborate setups other's just tables. After they finish, they sit in the various cafés for coffee before the people come. They are friends comparing notes, politics, any topic at all.

The smell of roasting chicken wafts over rue de la Republique.The rotisserie will provide meals for many of us.

The marché covers several streets. One can find almost everything such as pocketbooks.
We even bought this plaque to put up on our patio wall.

There are the merchants we see every marché: Alain the sausage salesman, the honey man, Catherine the Brownie lads (and savory tarts too). There are the shop keepers like Rosella the potter whose shop is between stands. Nadia has sold me many outfits including a suede suit for 35 Euros. It would have run four figures in Geneva.

We routinely returned the cartons to the egg lady. (the googly eyes were my edition for the camera). When I asked her how many chickens she has, her reply was "beaucoup." What is she doing with the eggs now the marchés are forbidden because of the virus.

There is on caravan that sells various meats and there's usually a hopeful dog sitting outside.

The cafés, l'Hostalet, La Noisette, Mille et une, are crammed with people chatting. It is possible to see most of one's friends and to join them when a chair frees up.

Street musicians play popular music, sometimes French tunes, some time anglo.

Name something you might want, it is probably for sale: soap, cloth, shoes, socks, toys, games, sewing kits, brooms, sponges, clothing, watches, bracelets, clocks, spices, cheeses (it is France afterall and these are the cheesemakers selling their own product).

So after we buy what we want, we find a café and friends and sit and talk. Around noon the crowd thins out and we head home to eat from the treasure trove of goodies that we've bought.

After lunch, when once again Sherlock needs to walk, we take him out. In our stroll on the same streets that were teeming with vendors and buyers, there is nothing. The stands are gone, the boxes that carried the produce to the marché have disappeared. The street sweepers have picked up all debris. Even the cafés have closed for lunch.

One day the vendors will be back with their stands and products. One day. One day. One...




Wednesday, April 15, 2020

Bras and the virus



On Facebook I asked how my women friends were dressing when confined to the house during shutdown. I published the results in my https://theexpatwriter.blogspot.com/2020/03/dressing-in-time-of-corona.html

I tend to dress up a bit. When I say dress up, I don't mean like I would for an office, a business meeting or a formal night out. I mean, color co-ordinates down to matching up underwear. I also dress for comfort. The two are not mutually exclusive.

One of the things many of the women reported they've had when staying home is the joy of going braless.

Up until my 40s, I always went braless. This was not a feminist statement. I found my empty AA cups depressing.

In high school when they were measuring girls breast sizes for their graduation robes, I was embarrassed when the measurements were being called out. "35, 34, 36, 38, 30." I was the 30. The only time I filled out an AA cup was immediately after giving birth and even that was impossible on leaving the hospital with my newborn five days later.

In my 40s, I was glanced at myself in the mirror and LO and BEHOLD. I had two breasts. I went out and bought pretty bras and matching panties.

Then in my 60s, I developed a tumor, and in it's removal my right breast developed an eyebrow. I chronicled the procedure in another blog https://breastisyettocome.blogspot.com.

Later I put the blogs in a book, The Cockeyed Nipple which I published for the anglo community in Geneva. It's hard enough going through breast cancer but not speaking French made it harder.

Still at that point, I could choose to go braless or not depending on my outfit.

In a second round of breast cancer, they lobbed off my breast. No way was I going to have reconstructive surgery. I'd had enough of hospitals. Now if I decided to go braless, I was lopsided. If I wear a loose sweatshirt, but anything remotely fitted and I'm lopsided.

My lovely husband doesn't care, but I'm too vain.It has nothing to do with the virus.

Tuesday, April 14, 2020

Pandemic Peeping

I have now been to Trevor Noah and Tom Hanks homes. I checked out what kind of coffee machine Tom has, and Trevor explained the bowls behind his couch. Okay they were on television and sheltering from home.



When news stations interview people from their homes or even have their newscasters reporting from home, I get an insight into at least one room in their houses. What impresses me is often the size of many experts' libraries. Some have all visible walls covered with books. I only wish the cameras would zoom in to see what they are reading.

There was one expert whose broadcast was from his bedroom. His queen-sized bed had a nice beige bedspread. 

Another reporter had a beautiful grey-color flat with everything co-ordinated. She likes plants. 

Fred Pleitgen, the German CNN correspondent has a very interesting drape in his Berlin flat.


I spied a painting of a dog on a green background of one of CNN highlights of an astronaut. I was so busy looking at how it resembled the painting Pauline did of Sherlock I forgot to notice the name of the astronaut. The dog's fur was the same color as our dog's BUT his ears didn't stand up.

I can imagine right before they go on camera, they pick up what they don't want the camera to see, or maybe add something that they do want the camera to see.

I've been interviewed more than once for TV, but never for live TV. We didn't want the chess set to show, but the paintings were okay. Our bookcases are not in a good TV shot position.

I wonder why Hanks chose his kitchen. Maybe the counter was a good height for his laptop.



Virus Apple Pie

Another day, another lockdown.

It poured, making a tattoo to rival the Edinburgh tattoo (without bagpipes) on the skylight.

It was a perfect day to make an apple pie. I had all the ingredients, including pre-made pie crust. 

My favorite crust will always be Crisco, but the Crisco in the cupbard is over 7 years old. I didn't want to risk it. 

It was left over from when I used to make one apple pie a year for a special get together with my friends Rosalie, Barbara and Lydia. It was the most difficult part of the pie making. Much easier to unwrap and fold the crust onto the pie plate. After we lost our friend Barbara, none of us had the heart to continue the tradition. Maybe someday we will be ready but it is more likely we will have the pie as a dessert for a meal we share not the occasion for being together.

My daughter, when a student in Edinburgh, was doing a Thanksgiving dinner for her Scottish friends.

"Can you bring me some Crisco when you come?"she asked. We were visiting the week before the American holiday and would be back in Geneva for our own with America friends. Neither the Swiss nor the Scots celebrate the holiday.

The American store had Crisco enough for both our Thanksgivings. All went well until we hit Geneva security. 

"What is this," the security officer held up the can. He was probably in his late twenties and cute. I explained. He was satisfied but not until I told him where to get the Crisco and gave him the recipe which was in my head.


The knife hitting the cutting board as I chopped the apples was a counterpoint to the rain. The cinnamon made a pleasant aroma, and of course the pie baking, added to the ambience of the flat.

I wondered how many other pies had been cooked on the table. We bought it at a Depot Vente and it had all the markings of a table that had seen many pies and meals be prepared over the decades if not the century. I suspect it probably was handmade as well. I wish the table could tell me its story.

The last step before baking the pie was to cut a vent. Usually I use a bird cookie cutter used by my mother, grandmother and great grandmother. This time I used an airplane cookie cutter. Rick and I had bought it at a Williams Sonoma store in Boston a few years back. It was its maiden use. This was not just a virus apple pie but one that captured Rick's passion with flying. 

Now maybe it is time to get rid of the old Crisco. If lockout ever ends and we get back to Geneva we can get new Crisco at the American store.

Who would have guessed that a world-wide pandemic would create another in a long list of apple pie memories. So it wasn't just the pleasure of the baking and the eating.






Monday, April 13, 2020

Missing Socks

There are all kinds of jokes about socks getting lost in the laundry.

Years ago, my former housemate Bill Jordan found the solution. He pinned his socks together before putting them in the washer. Not only did he save time and energy matching them up it helped me, as a stealer of his socks. I never had to look for socks that match either.

Sock stealing has continued with my daughter's and my husband Rick.
Rick did curb my sock-stealing by buying me unusual socks. Why steal regular socks if one can steal a pair decorated with popcorn? I think that was his motive. If I love mine, I'll leave his alone.

I pin my socks too but I did it even before my pretty socks. No chance of one disappearing forever in the great washing machine diaspora. 

Viva le pin.

Saturday, April 11, 2020

Easter in lockdown

Easter is a four-day holiday in Switzerland, three-days in France.

Most years for decades I would go to Argelès-sur-mer (ASM) on the break.

Even before I moved to Europe, I would try and go.



There was the year my stepmom, Llara and I flew from Boston. We heard the Easter carolers in native costumes as they walked by our house. 

My Catholic mother was moved almost to tears by the Easter service where the statues left the church and did their own dances. Her joy became mine. It was another in a long list of good memories I have of my stepmom.

After I moved to Europe, there was the year Llara and her university friend came down from Mannheim, Germany where they were students. My French daughter came from Toulouse and we joined my friend Barbara from Boston who now lived in ASM full time for a four-day, five-decade in age female slumber party filled with good food, laughter and sharing on so many levels. This was a never to be duplicated memory in my treasure chest of memories.

Most years now our Brit friends, P&P, Carol and Tony, Daphne and Roy show up as well as Irish Angela and Egyptian Mohamed, Irish Pamela and Adrian arrive along with Danish friends Ingolf and Kikka to name a few. It is like a mini reunion of summer people before summer.

Almost every year we've shared Easter dinner be a formal gathering at my place or at Jackie and Pierre-Bernard's, our Swiss friends who have a summer home on our street and who we've lovingly called the Sandwich because of their initials PB&J. There have been years that Easter dinner has been a picnic next to a lake. We've played games and had a chocolate egg hunt. One year I served colored deviled eggs.

The important part was being together as each year a new memory was built on the old ones.. 

We were lucky enough to spend the day with the Sandwich and to combine lunch and a tour of their city of Fribourg, Switzerland before coming to ASM.

This year there will be none of this. Lockdown is keeping us apart. 

They can't leave their countries, and if they could, the can't enter France. 

And although I wish it could be different, knowing they are safe and healthy is more important. There will be other times to create more memories.

I said to Rick, that I was thinking of roasting a leg of lamb, which is what I would have prepared for The Sandwich had the lockdown not happened. His enthusiasm was limited.

We decided to go to the butcher (allowed with the correct permission slips) early and buy what we felt like at the time.

Easter holds no religious significance for me, but I respect the traditions for those that it is important.

This year there will be Rick and I, no special friends, no hidden chocolate Easter eggs, which considering the dog is probably a good thing, no carolers, no church statues budging from their year-round posts. Even the meal will be more or less ordinary. 

But then again, any day with Rick has its own special meaning.  We are safe, warm, virus-free, surrounded by our creature comforts denied to many on this Easter weekend.

Maybe one of us can figure out how to make a rabbit costume.


Whoever reads this, Happy Easter.







Normal in the time of Covoid-19



How normal we were tonight. 

Normal!

Just like before lockdown.

Le Pâton, pizza place was open. Open. Open!

It was the first time any eating establishment had been open since the lockdown.

We are a couple who eat out a lot, claiming it supports local restaurants. It also supports our own lazy desires not to take the time to cook or clean up, although we both enjoy cooking. It's a good thing we find pleasure in cooking, because we've had no alternative since the beginning of March.

Rick hotfooted it down to Le Pâton and stood outside (no one is allowed in) until they handed him our two boxes. We do his and her pizzas.

For the first time since the fall, we ate on the patio in front of a lit fire. Soft music was piped in from the living room.  This is also a back to normal moment.

As always we had plenty to talk about. Despite being almost exclusively limited to each other's company we never lack for conversation be it business, writing, books, Sherlock, the lockdown, friends, Facebook, movies, politics etc., etc., etc.

Saturday morning wasn't normal. No Marché.

I woke up and decided I would do homage to Cristin Lavin's "Eating Cold Pizza for Breakfast."* Lyrics below.

Some people eat grapefruit for breakfast
some people eat oatmeal
there are those who are sure
granola is a very good deal
but not me I don't go for that stuff
when it comes to nourishment I get more than enough
nuthin' satisfies my taste like sitting down to a great big plate

of cold pizza for breakfast
warm coke to wash it down
AAAH!
maybe a couple of pepperoni
make this meal well rounded
gimme cold pizza for breakfast
in a pinch cold spaghetti'll do
but there's nuthin' in the world that I like better
than eat cold pizza with you

My man takes me out in the evenin'
he treats me so nice
we go to the movies
we go dancin'
we go for more than a slice
yes we order a pie eat what we can
take the rest home that's part of the plan
but in the mornin' when the sun rise
he sees that crazy look eyes

I want cold pizza for breakfast
warm coke to wash it down
AAAH!
maybe a couple of onion rings
make this world go round
gimme cold pizza for breakfast
in a pinch cold spaghetti'll do
but there's nuthin' in the world that I like better
than eating cold pizza with you

I know . . . that Oprah . . .  would never . . . approve
but Oprah Winfrey has a private cook!
(she doesn't cook)
she doesn't buy groceries because she's so busy
starring in her fabulous TV show and reading fancy books
(and memoirs)
Oprah got skinny
well, thank God not too 'skinny'
but Oprah now only eats sensible food
(no junk in the trunk)
but wouldn't you love it if she called her local pizza parlor said,
"Boys, this is Oprah . . . guess what I'm in the mood for?"

Cold pizza for breakfast
warm coke to wash it down
AAAH!
maybe a coupla carrot curls
keep this girl well rounded
cold pizza for breakfast
in a pinch cold spaghetti'll do
nuthin' in the world that I like better
than eatin cold pizza with you

nuthin' in the world that I like better than eatin cold pizza
oh oh oh
nuthin' in the world that I like better than eatin'
cold pizza with you . . .
AAH . . . 


*If you listen, her other songs are amusing too including the one about passwords.

Thursday, April 09, 2020

Too many words

I suffer from insomnia many nights.

Oh I can fall asleep alright, but sometime between two and four I will wake. Whatever I've been writing starts pummeling my brain.

Last night, I woke realizing that in the DayCare, the novel I thought I was on my final-final-final-final draft had a continuity problem.

That is a guaranteed bed tosser and turner.

In between trying to work out if it should be Sally, Brenda, Maura or Ashley where I should make the adjustment, two blogs interrupted my thoughts.

I could have gotten up and started work, but even if sleep was avoiding me, my bed was warm. My husband and dog were sleeping blissfully quiet beside me, making me both appreciate and curse them because they were too comfortable and I was jealous.

The next morning, I was at the computer, corralling the words into the chapters where they belong.


Wednesday, April 08, 2020

Patriot's Day

It was a crisp, not a cold day, the kind of day one thinks of apple cider, hot donuts, corn stalks and pumpkins about to be harvested for jack o'lanterns.

My husband Rick and my treasured friend Bruce were walking the Lexington and Concord battlefield, the site of the "shot heard around the world" the start of the American Revolution. For Rick it was a first, for Bruce and I, natives of the area, known soil.

I made sure to pause a moment at the grave of the British soldier as I always did. I'd often wondered about him, how he happened to have died so far from his homeland. I wondered about who may have mourned him in England, if they even knew where he was buried.

We headed to the tourist building. The National Park Service does an amazing job sharing information. As always I headed for the book racks.

Bruce and I picked up a copy of Longfellow's Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. It was one of those poems, I had to memorize in grade school.

Without a word of agreement we started reading the poem aloud alternating at logical breaks despite my not having my glasses and squinting. Bruce has a clear reading voice.

I had always loved that poem. It brought forth my heritage, my ancestor who fought in the Revolution that started a country which would for better or worse eventually affect the lives of everyone and the planet itself.

I didn't ask Bruce, although I should have, if he thought of his late father, also a good, good friend, who participated in the reenactments of the battle. I know I did, another memory cascading through my brain.

That day was serendipity combining friendship, love of New England, history and so many aspects of my life...a simple opening of a book.  

The website for the reenactment of the battle https://home.nps.gov/mima/patriots-day.htm doesn't say that the 245th anniversary events have been cancelled on April 20th, but I suspect they will be. The other Patriot's Day event the Boston Marathon has been postponed until September because of the pandemic.

Paul Revere’s Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - 1807-1882

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When be came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.*


*Paul Revere didn't finish the ride. William Dawes  (April 6, 1745 – February 25, 1799) did.