Bah, Humbug!

There's nothing like missing the morning train to put me in a foul mood. It has only happened a few times, but when my timing is right, it really ticks me off. And since I'm a regular train commuter - not someone who usually drives but then decides to take the train when the weather is bad, I feel even more outraged.

I aimed for the 7:29 and I will admit my commute to the station was a little tight, allowing 14 minutes when I usually allow 20. I pulled into the station lot at 7:27 and had to park at the far end. As I was getting out of the car, the train arrived. It's hard to sprint the block-long distance to the platform when you are carrying a purse, briefcase, lunch, keys, hat and wearing a long, down coat and Ugg boots, but I tried. Just as I got even with the doors to the first car, they closed and the train pulled away. It was only 7:28.

I wasn't alone. There were other commuters who missed it by seconds as well and we were all fuming. The conductors had to have seen us.

I smoldered in the train station to wait for the next train which arrived 20 minutes later to an even larger than usual group of passengers. Still mad, I took my seat and read the paper. Emerging from Union Station to walk to the office, the snow began in earnest. But the walk actually helped and by the time I arrived, I felt better. It's amazing how a cup of coffee always has a way of improving any situation with that first sip.

I should do commercials for Dunkin' Donuts - their coffee, that is.

Mrs. Buffet's Pumpkin Bread

This is a recipe from my sons' kindergarten teacher at St. A's, Pam Buffet. The pumpkin bread was part of their Thanksgiving Feast. I make it every year and have tried a number of variations, like adding chocolate chips. I also have made a low fat version by cutting the oil in half (canola) and using 2/3 cup applesauce; and 2 eggs plus 1/2 cup of egg beaters instead of 4 eggs. If you make 2 large loaves instead of 4 small ones, they will take longer to bake.

3-1/3 cups flour, 3 cups sugar
2 tsp. baking soda, 1 cup of oil
1-1/2 tsp. salt, 4 eggs
1 tsp. cinnamon, 2/3 cup water
1 tsp. nutmeg, 2 cups pumpkin (not pumpkin pie mix)

Mix dry ingredients in bowl. Blend in oil, eggs, water and pumpkin. Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees. Makes 4 small loaves.

No Jolly Ranchers, Thank you...

I never know how much candy to get for Halloween. I panic at the thought of running out, but hate to think I may have bags of tempting treats tipping me off the scale. In the past, I've brought leftover candy to work, where it disappears very quickly, but not before I've stashed away some of the good stuff. And the good stuff has to be some kind of chocolate - none of the sour, tart or gummy treats.

I've always thought that the Milky Way is the perfect candy bar. As a Brownie in third grade, our troop visted the Mars Candy Company and at the end of the tour we each received a box of samples. Unfortunately, it was during Lent and on the bus ride home, I managed to refrain from eating any of the samples, even though my public school troop mates dug right in. The box stayed on a shelf until the following Sunday, but then of course, I had to share my booty with Mom and my sisters.

In recent years, though, I've become more enamored of Butterfingers and Reese's peanut butter cups. The peanut butter-chocolate combo is tempting enough to forsake all the weight watcher's points for lunch and just eat a couple pieces of candy. Not very nutritious, but satisfying - and there has to be some fiber in that peanut butter, right?

I haven't had to run the pre-Halloween costume-creating obstacle course for quite a few years since my sons have grown. The continuous changing of minds up until the week before Halloween would drive me crazy. One year the boys wanted to be Thundercats, specifically, Lion-O and Tigra. I found patterns for lion and tiger costumes and painstakingly sewed them on my trusty Kenmore, even stuffing the ears and tails so they were nice and stiff. My sons watched as I struggled with the costumes and as they were almost completed, they critically commented that they weren't "Thundercat enough." My husband saw the look of dread on my face and quickly shuttled the boys far away from me and my sewing machine. We managed to improve the look with face paint and, of course, cool swords.

My one son still talks about a costume we created together when he was about six.

He was the grim reaper and I found the simple instructions in a Good Housekeeping magazine. The best part was creating the darkened eyes and skeletal mouth with black and grey paint. I knew it was a success when he was reluctant to take it off after trick or treating and it was time for bed. He still enjoys dressing up for Halloween parties and last year was quite a hit as Paulie Walnuts from the Sopranos - complete with velveteen running suit, gold chains and graying at the temples.

I'll probably make a trip out to Costco today for another bag of candy. Since Halloween is on a Saturday, the number of tricksters may be a lot more than last year - and the people at my office can always take care of the leftovers, but not before a few Butterfingers find their way into the freezer.

Sempere fedele

September 11, 2009

Today, family and friends said good-bye to a hero.

Lino “Leon” Roggi of DesPlaines was laid to rest at Ft. Sheridan after a funeral Mass at St. Mary’s. He was 84 years old and was buried in his US Marine’s uniform with full military honors. He leaves behind his beautiful wife Marina, four children, grandchildren, a large family and many friends.

In 1944, Lino, Leon – or just “Roggi” as many called him, was a 19 year old Marine in Guam. His accomplishments in combat earned him a Silver Star and Purple Heart – as well as near-fatal wounds that left shards of shrapnel throughout his body. He carried those reminders of his war experiences for a lifetime; pain was a constant companion and memories of battle were never too far away.

Like many of his generation, Roggi spoke little of those events in the Pacific so long ago. We did know his actions saved the lives of other Americans before he was hit by machine gun fire. Despite the fact that he was given little chance of survival he was sent home to recuperate, or die, at Great Lakes. Perhaps it was his Italian hard-headedness, or simply knowing that nothing he had yet to face could compare with the horror he had already experienced, but he fooled them all.

He returned to Chicago, married Marina and started a family. One of my earliest memories of Roggi was when I was five or six and my parents were setting up for a party in our apartment in the Austin neighborhood. As the couples arrived, all dressed up, my sister and I were in our pajamas, ready for bed. Marina and Roggi walked in and I can remember turning to my mother and saying, “Mommy, he’s sooo handsome!” And he was. He had a wonderful laugh, dark hair and big brown eyes that held a mischievious glint, a sparkle that never faded over the years.

Roggi loved his friends, his cigarettes and the lotto, but most of all, he loved Marina and his family. He was a good friend to my parents, always there to celebrate, support, share, and return love. He was firm in his convictions, often not quietly expressed, but he had a soft side, especially where kids were concerned. His laugh was loud and genuine and his tears were real and heartfelt. He looked you in the eye when he spoke to you. You knew from the moment you met him, there was nothing phony about Leon.

Like my father, he was born in Italy and came to the US as a child. More than once, his naturalized citizenship caused confusion with local bureaucrats and during the 1950s, it was questioned by an election judge as he attempted to cast his vote. When Leon explained he had been born in Italy but naturalized through his parents, the judge insisted he couldn’t be a citizen. Frustrated, he opened his shirt, displaying his scars and saying “I wish I knew that before I got this!” The judge called the police and tried to have this decorated veteran arrested. I don’t know if he ever voted again.

Leon was proud of his service to his country but he scoffed at being called a hero. “The guys who didn’t make it home – those are the heroes,” he would often say. But in the eyes of all who knew him, he truly was a hero. It wasn’t only because of his brave actions as a young Marine, but how he shouldered that experience, never letting it go, and allowing it to forge him into the strong and loving man his family and friends came to know and hold very dear.

Semper Fi.

Ma's Home Cooking...or is she?

The first time I ever encountered polenta on a menu in a restaurant, I almost laughed out loud. It was listed as part of an entree, and the description made it appear as if the polenta was a gourmet delicacy from northern Italy.

Give me a break.

Growing up, polenta was often my nonna's answer to potatoes. One of her tastiest dishes was what we kids called "chicken with the red gravy" - a chicken cacciatore - (to most Italians, 'gravy' is our word for 'sauce'). A nice serving of polenta topped with chicken with the red gravy -mmmm - it doesn't get much better.

Polenta is one of the simplest of dishes. It consists of water, salt and corn meal. Period. Its simplicity is what makes it so versatile - it is improved and elevated to greater heights by what you put on top, usually something with a tomato base. Also, you can punch it up by adding grated cheese as it nearly cooked, but a nice sprinkle of asiago, parmesan or romano on top will do just fine.

I've learned that there are a few tricks to making good polenta. You want it to be firm but not dry. Too soupy and it is useless. I vaguely remember it took a while for Nonna's polenta to cook, but she was usually making enough to feed a small army. My recipe - from start to finish - is for a smaller portion and takes about 15 minutes tops.

It's interesting how some things become popular or in demand. Anything to do with Tuscany has been the rage since Under the Tuscan Sun. When we were young, few Americans used olive oil in cooking - now it's worth its weight in gold and comes in different flavors. Pesto (Nonna's kitchen always smelled of basil and garlic), zucchini flowers, tiramisu, espresso, veal saltimbocca, prosciutto - and don't get me started on gnocchi - we had all these things growing up. In many cases they are simple things that our grandparents had as staples that helped to stretch meals. My mom told me that when she was a girl, lunch often consisted of a slice of Italian bread spread with gravy (tomato sauce) and maybe some cheese sprinkled on top. Since her family owned Nuti Bakery in Chicago, they were never without bread. I'm sure Nonna fed quite a few kids in the Taylor Street neighborhoods with this version of Depression pizza.

Here's my polenta recipe:

Bring to boiling in a saucepan

3 cups of water

1-1/2 teaspoons salt

Gradually stir in a mixture of

1 cup yellow corn meal

1 cup COLD water

Continue boiling, stirring constantly, until mixture is thickened. Cover, lower heat (to the lowest) and cook slowly 10 minutes or longer, stirring occasionally. (I've never gone over ten minutes.) Transfer cooked polenta to a warm platter and top with your favorite dish such as chicken cacciatore, tomato sauce with sausage and mushrooms, or roasted red peppers with garlic.

It is very important that the water mixed with the corn meal be very cold. I've even put some crushed ice in the water, but make sure it is no more than one cup combined.

To get the smooth look of the polenta in the picture, I pour the cooked polenta into a rounded pyrex dish to let it set. Then I invert it onto a platter.

Happy 4th

It was the 4th of July, 1960. I was nine years old and my family was in the process of moving from Chicago's Austin area to the nearby suburb of River Grove. We spent the day at my Aunt Alice's house - her family was already in RG, moving from Chicago's west side.

I'm sure there was lots of food, maybe the adults played cards, watched baseball on tv or just visited together while we five girls (my two sisters, my two cousins and I) probably spent the day entertaining ourselves with games of hide and seek or tag in the empty lot next door to Alice's house. It was space that was part of the property - the biggest yard we had ever seen. Coming from apartment living, we reveled in the space that the lot afforded us. We immediately found it to be where we could run ourselves silly, then collapse on the back steps of the house, panting and sweating with bright red faces. The lot was nothing but grass but it was our own private playground.

Over the years we would expand our repertoire of activities in that lot to softball (using chunks of concrete from a busted up sidewalk for bases), bocce, spud and in the back, creating a teeter-totter out of an old plank with a hole in the middle that we positioned over some kind of pipe that stuck out of the ground in the yard. The thought of impaling ourselves on such a contraption never entered our minds as we rode up and down and spun each other around on it. We wore away the grass to a fine dust and then ran through the sprinkler to wash away the dirt and grimy sweat. Eventually, Alice would get an above-the-ground pool and summer weekends would take on a whole new aspect of fun in the sun.

On that first 4th of July, both our families were new to the village and didn't know much about how everyone celebrated. After supper as darkness fell, our parents sat around the kitchen table having coffee, sweets, cigarettes and probably a few punccinos (coffee, whiskey or rum, lemon and sugar). We kids were out in the lot, catching lightning bugs and getting mosquito bites. My uncle might have brought out a bag of sparklers he picked up on his routes as a truck driver and we lit them off as our moms watched nervously. They would go back in for another pot of coffee and left us to our games outside, even though it was late and the street lights were already on.

My cousin Carol is about ten months older than I am. Often, growing up, we escaped our younger siblings and would go off together just walking and talking - forming a special bond as each other's first friends since birth that we still have. That night, as the others went back in, Carol and I heard thumping sounds coming from not too far away - the sounds of fireworks. We followed the sounds to as far as we were allowed to go, the corner of Thatcher and Greenwood. We looked to the west and a little north and could see the brilliant colors of the display just above the trees that were going off at Gideon's Field - a place where most of the people in our town were enjoying the final celebration of the day.

Carol and I stood on the corner and watched enviously, wishing we could be there or at least just a little closer. Then we managed to climb onto the mailbox that stood near the sidewalk, straddling it like two kids on a horse and giving us just a little bit more height to catch sight of the reds, whites and blues as they exploded nearly a mile away.

We were two city kids who had lived on very busy streets in Chicago. We found the quiet of this little suburb very different but we didn't miss the sounds of the "L" train behind the house going through the alley or the ambulances speeding south on Laramie. We had a lot of exploring to do, a new school where we would start fifth grade together in a couple months, and being a lot closer geographically than we had in the past. We wouldn't need our fathers to drive us to each others' homes - we could just walk during the day, but when our dads were home, we would end up driving the six blocks anyway.

That night atop the mailbox, we craned our necks to see the finale explode in the night's sky. The colorful sparkles above the trees stopped and we knew it was over; it was a fitting end to the day's activities. We slid off the box down to the sidewalk and walked back to the house. We told our parents what we had seen, and we knew that next year, we wouldn't be watching from a far away corner. We would be joining the throngs with a blanket and folding chairs, sitting on the damp grass with family and neighbors, ohhing and ahhing with each explosion. Then, still smelling the smoke in the air, we'd make our way back to Alice's for another pot of coffee and another game in the lot.

Here come the Hawks...

When Bill Wirtz passed away in 2007, I sent the following letter to the editorial page of the Chicago Tribune.  Now that the Chicago Blackhawks are experiencing a renaissance, particularly with regard to their fans, I resurrected that letter.  Even if the Hawks don't win another game this year, it has been a fabulous season!

I had the opportunity to meet Rocky Wirtz a number of years ago and I told him this story.  He chuckled as I related it, but I couldn't help but notice a bit of sad frustration in his eyes.  I'm sure that today that feeling has been replaced with elation and excitement, something he readily shares with all Chicago Blackhawk fans. 

Thinking of Bill Wirtz…

In the spring of 1971, I was a junior at Northern Illinois University in DeKalb. I am the oldest of five children and each of us, and our parents, were die-hard Blackhawk fans.  This was the era of Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, Tony Esposito, and Keith Magnuson, to name a few. This was also the spring of the Blackhawks’ march to the Stanley Cup playoffs. But without my rabid family around and pending final exams, I wasn’t keeping close track of the team’s progress.

One Sunday afternoon, my mother called me in my dorm to tell me that the entire family wanted to drive out from River Grove to see me.  The thought of my dad popping for dinner at a restaurant instead of the usual dormitory fare was enough to get me at least a little excited about their visit.

Before I knew it, there was a knock on my door.  I opened it to see my dad standing there, a portable black and white TV under his arm, and the rest of my family standing impatiently behind him.  The word, “Hi!” was barely out of my mouth when they all rushed into my tiny room, looking for an outlet to plug in the TV.  “They’re dropping the puck any minute!” one of my sisters said.  Then it dawned on me.  Of course! They weren’t really there to see ME, because once again the Hawks were blacked out in Chicago – but you could get the game in DeKalb.

Together we watched the whole game in that little room, yelling and screaming for the Blackhawks.  I’m not sure, but I think it was the game they won against the New York Rangers.  Sadly, the Cup went to the Canadiens that year.

When I heard Bill Wirtz passed away the other day, I thought of the Blackhawks and all the games we never got to see on TV.  But thinking of him also made me think of that one Sunday in DeKalb when we found our own way around the blackout.

 

 

So-So Sewing

There was only one elective in the curriculum as I started high school.  In addition to English, Algebra, Religion, Latin, PE, and study hall, I had the option of Home Ec, Art or World History.  Why my parents pushed Home Ec is beyond me.  I think I would have done much better in Art.  I know I learned more about cooking from my mom, aunts and grandmothers, but I have to admit that the semester we spent learning to sew was worthwhile - even if I didn't think so at the time.

My Nonna had an old fashioned Singer sewing machine - the type with a the foot treadle and wooden drawers - but I had no clue how to use it. At sometime during my early teen years, my mother managed to get a sewing machine that she probably paid for by sending ten dollars a month to Sears.  Once I was assigned the project of making a blouse and jumper in Home Ec, it was up to me to figure out how to use our machine.

While Sr. Raphael wasn't exactly Rachel Ray in the kitchen, she did know her way around a Singer.  She taught us everything from the mechanics of the machine, to how to select a pattern, buy material, lay it out, cut it and put the whole thing together.  She was very particular about things like knowing the grain of a fabric and  fitting sleeves (no puckers).  I did get an A on my blouse, but as I got going on the jumper, time was running short. We were allowed to wear our completed outfits instead of our uniforms on one special day before the end of the school year - but of course, first we had to get a passing grade from Sister R.  I ended up with a C+ on my jumper because I used a double thread on my hem and in tacking down the facing around the neck and arms - a real rookie mistake and clear evidence of rushing to get it done.

Despite the mediocre grade in home ec, the class did provide me with the basics - and the courage (foolhardy or not) to take on other projects with the sewing machine.  I think most girls my age were expected to know how to sew - at least a little.  It wasn't unusual to see an outfit in Seventeen Magazine and then go to Wiebolt's to find the Simplicity or Butterick pattern, buy the fabric and have a new skirt or blouse inside of a couple weeks.  Lots of girls made their prom dresses - a bit too daring for my abilities.

Junior year I was in Glee Club.  We were rehearsing songs for our spring recital and early on, Sister Sheila announced that we all needed to wear the same dresses for the performance.  Then, she turned to the blackboard in the choral room and wrote the Simplicity pattern number for the dresses we were to MAKE. There were groans from the altos to the sopranos. The dress was simple and actually rather stylish, considering a nun picked it out. It was sleeveless, scoop-neck, and floor length with an empire waist (pronounced "ohm-peer") and it had to be white.  The only unique option was the ribbon at the waist - we could pick any color.

We probably wiped out the supply of patterns at all the local department stores - because those of us who were the same size ended up sharing the pattern.  Since the dress had to be white, we searched for the most inexpensive cotton fabric, so many of us used bed sheets. Quite a few moms ended up pinch hitting for sewing machine-phobic daughters. Mine didn't turn out half-bad but the back of it could have been duct-taped together since it only had to last for one performance and we would be far from the audience up on the stage. I don't think anyone used the dresses for prom, but considering everything was handmade, we all looked pretty good up there for the recital. I used a shiny green ribbon on my "ohm-peer."

As I got older, I got braver. I made a button-down white shirt with black polka dots for a friend in a rock band. During my freshman year in college I actually took apart a brand new winter coat and put it back together.  I thought it was too big and instead of trying to return it, I figured I could alter it myself.  I made all kinds of clothes as I prepared to go away to school (only to spend most of my time in jeans and t-shirts).

I got my own Kenmore sewing machine for a shower gift and I can't list the number of sets of draperies I've made, duvets for comforters, shams for pillows, shower curtains, and on and on. One of the dearest memories I have is finding a quilted material and making heavy drapes to cover the glass doors to our balcony from the nursery, preventing my newborn twins from any winter drafts. The machine came out for a few Halloween costumes, and eventually got tucked away in a closet.

Not too many people sew anymore.  I retrieve the sewing basket to hem skirts or pants by hand, sew on a button or to dig out the measuring tape when I'm convinced I have to keep track of the size of my waist and hips.  

In all these years, the machine hasn't failed me once.  I can still pass the thread through all the tensions without a hitch, but I do need glasses to thread the needle.  I have bobbins with many colors of thread in the sewing basket, ready for any new project - but lots of them are in the earth colors of the 70s.  

I pull the machine out every once and while for the odd decorating project or to hem jeans. I know I could probably get a new machine that can do a lot more tricks and at a pretty reasonable price.  But seeing as there are few outfit/drapery/costume projects in my future, I think I'll just keep the one I have.  It has served me well.

Afghan Moments

There were no boys in our extended family until six girls had been born.  This includes my two sisters and me, two cousins on my mom's side and one on my dad's.  So, a lot of our playtime consisted of girly things like dolls, tea sets, and dress-up - but we also did a lot of roller skating, sledding, exploring, hide and seek, swimming and softball.  Still, there was one annual, truly girly event that we never missed, and we relished every moment:  the Miss America Pageant.

When we were very young, we got together, glued to the tv in my nonna's living room, watching every piece between commercials and hoping that Miss Illinois would win the crown.  The bathing suit competition, the walk in the evening gowns and even the questions Bert Parks would ask toward the end had us commenting like race horse handicappers on the best bets.  But the talent competition was the part that oftentimes had us cringing as many a young woman's time in the spotlight became material for "America's Funniest Home Videos." The talent competition was fertile ground for any contestant to embarrass herself, and lots of them did.

This is where the term "afghan moment" comes from and, I'll state right now - my sister Judy coined the term. It has nothing to do with Afghanistan. An afghan moment occurs when you are watching the talent competition in the Miss America Pageant and Miss New Jersey forgets the words to her operatic aria, or Miss Arizona drops her flaming batons, or Miss New Hampshire's grande jete ends with her nearly falling into the orchestra pit.  That is when you take the afghan that you always have on the couch, and ... you cover your head with it because you just can't bear to look.

There are other things on tv that have given me afghan moments.  Almost anything George Costanza said or did on Seinfeld made me cringe.  So, it's no wonder I can hardly watch the antics of Larry David on Curb Your Enthusiasm without my trusty blanket. Dancing with the Stars, American Idol and The Bachelor are all so full of these moments I just can't watch any of those shows. Even the Oscars are rife with afghan moments but I can bear it for the most part.  My sister Judy is made of stronger stuff when it comes to the cringe factor and she will still call me with Afghan Moment Reports or Alerts and we co-cringe as she relates the incident. It's easier when you have cringing partner.

Obviously, everyone has afghan moments in everyday life - whether it is passing gas in a yoga class, congratulating someone on being pregnant (when she isn't), whiffing the ball in golf when others are watching you tee off, laughing so hard you either force milk through your nose or you wet your pants, commenting about someone you thought was outside when he or she is standing right behind you, or tripping on a crowded sidewalk - just to name a few.   Of course, in our family, we loudly replay these incidents over and over again, hoping to embarrass the individual as much as possible, sending him or her searching for a handy afghan. After a number of years and many retellings, you do get over it - kind of.

So, if "Afghan Moment" becomes the "not-a-pretty-sight," "awesome," "think out of the box," or "bad hair day" phrase of the next five years or so, the credit goes to my sister Judy.  And you heard it here first!

What are your afghan moments?

The famous t-shirt

My son wearing the shirt at left, and my husband wearing the shirt, at right, while helping clean out my parents' basement after a flood, in 1972.

Tale of a T-shirt

Besides my diploma, I have a few items that still remain from my college days.  There's a green mug with the school crest that was perfect for hot lemon tea with a shot of my buddy Baker's Canadian Club when I had a bad cold.  In a file somewhere, there is a manila envelope with letters and cards, including a batch from the English class of my student teaching days.  I even have the trunk I lugged back and forth, even though it sits in the garage and is filled with deflated basketballs and rollerblades.

Before leaving DeKalb for good, so many years ago, I stopped in the bookstore and picked up an NIU t-shirt and a red football jersey with my year of graduation on it.  Both were on sale and even though I was running low on money, I still managed to arrive home with $10 in my pocket.  The t-shirt was for my boyfriend (now husband) and God knows what happened to the jersey - though I have seen old pictures with different siblings wearing it.  But that t-shirt has lived on.

NIU's colors are black and red and most Huskie apparel comes in these shades.  The famed t-shirt, however, is navy blue with white lettering and it did get lots of wear over the years. Someone wore it while painting - I think it was the back fence from our house in Evanston - and it acquired many white splotches. Then, for some reason, our sons thought it was a cool thing to wear and it managed to survive their high school and college years as well.

It was torn under one arm, and just generally became more and more worn as time went by, but apparently it was made well, and despite its age, avoided landing in the rag bag.

Last week, one of my sons came home for the weekend.  On Sunday morning, he came down for breakfast wearing - of all things - the blue t-shirt.  "I can't believe you still have that thing," I told him.  "It's a lot older than you are; I thought it was falling apart."

"I had it fixed," was his sleepy response.  I learned that he actually took the t-shirt to a tailor at his local cleaners and had this 37-year old, paint-stained t-shirt repaired into fairly decent shape.  I don't want to know how much that cost him.

It's funny how an inanimate object can take on a life of its own.  The shirt has traveled with me from DeKalb to River Grove to Madison, Wisconsin; to Chicago, to Evanston, to Glenview, to Bloomington and Oxford, back to Glenview and then back to Chicago - the last time in my son's duffel bag.  

I remember the night he and his brother moved out of our house to their apartment in the city. As they drove the moving truck to the end of the street, they banged on the sides of the doors and hooted with excitement.  The shirt was with them, something that had to remind them a little of home, kind of like a little security blanket but a lot cooler.

I hope he holds on to that ratty old shirt.  It makes me think that wherever he goes, he's taking a little bit of his dad and me with him.

Taking a Digger on Van Buren

As kids, we often judged the severity of a winter by how many times the ice or snow caused us to fall on the sidewalk, street or alleys.  Our grammar school was only a couple blocks away and we made the trek through two unpaved alleys that were nothing but tire ruts punctuated by dozens of potholes.  The potholes would fill with snow which would get tamped down by cars, then thaw a little, then freeze.  It was inevitable that you would fall at some point, often falling on loose stones and sending books and pencil cases across the ground.  

If you happened to tell my Aunt Alice that you fell - at any time of year and for any reason - she would immediately start to laugh.  It didn't matter if you hurt yourself or not, she found any fall hysterical. If a sibling saw you fall, Alice would be the first to know. My beloved aunt has been gone for a number of years, now, but she is never far from our thoughts.

Today was brutal.  Single digit temps with sub-zero windchill. Any leftover snowpiles or slush puddles along the sidewalks were completely frozen over, and therefore treacherous. I managed pretty well going to the office, but heading to the train in the evening was my downfall, literally.

As I stepped off the curb on Van Buren near the LaSalle Street Station, my feet went right out from under me and I fell forward in the middle of the street.  I landed hard on one knee but my many layers provided enough padding and spared me from torn slacks.  Of course, I immediately stood up, looking around to see if anyone saw me.  I was in between packs of people and those ahead of me kept on moving, oblivious to my spill. But as I started to get to my feet, I heard, "oh, wow..." from behind me.  Turning quickly to the voice, a man asked if I was ok.  I was more embarrassed than anything else and motioned I was fine.  

I didn't lose much time getting to the train, took my seat and settled in. But after a couple stops, a dull ache started in my knee. I imagine that will be a nice shade of blue and purple by tomorrow.

In the last couple years, YouTube-style videos of (usually) women falling have been emailed back and forth among the women in our family.  Women dancing on tables at weddings who fall off, women who bend too far over when tossing a coin in a fountain and fall in, women who try out the kids' swingset or trampoline and fly off - these visuals are perfect for causing my sisters and cousins, (and me, too) to laugh out loud at the computer screen, and thinking, "that looks like a Judy fall, or a Carol fall..."

As I scrambled to regain my footing on Van Buren today, I could have sworn I heard someone laughing.  I'm sure my Aunt Alice is enjoying this winter.

My Sister Went to the Ball

My sister Amy, the youngest of my siblings, spent a lot of time over the summer and into the fall promoting Barack Obama.  I thought it was only fitting when she told us that she would be participating in the Big O's celebration and attend the inaugural.  With a close friend living in DC, she had a place to stay.  Her friend Ed came up with a mother lode of miles so they could fly for free.  She had her ball gown - a dress from our parents' 50th Wedding Anniversary celebration a few years ago.  A big splurge was a pair of fancy shoes from Nordstrom's that were both ball-worthy and comfortable.

A few days before her departure, she stopped by and together we went through my closet looking for other things she might need.  She ended up with my suede evening bag; a long, black coat to wear over her gown - but probably wasn't warm enough as the temperature in DC was pretty cold.  She also used my husband's suit carrier for the long dress and coat.

Then, off she went with the good wishes and love of her entire family.

As Inauguration Day dawned, the frantic texting back and forth began. Just as I was about to leave my car after parking it in the train station before heading off to work, Amy excitedly called on my cell phone to tell me she and Ed had been interviewed by MSNBC as they rode on the subway.  I told her I would spread the word to the rest of the family and we would look for the interview on tv.  "Have a great time," I told her, "but be careful." The big sister stuff never goes away.

From the CNN live feed on my computer at work, I could see the mall in DC was rapidly filling up with thousands and thousands of people.  I texted her again:  "It looks so crowded!  Watch your purse and be safe!"

I decided to watch the inauguration ceremony in the Student Center, taking my camera to get some candid shots of students as they watched on the many flat screens.  It took a while for the Center to fill up, but well ahead of the actual swearing in, the place was filled to overflowing.  We watched as past presidents and dignitaries filed in and took their seats; then, finally, the new First Family came through the door.  We listened to Aretha sing, to the beautiful quartet play in the cold wind, listened as the preachers blessed everyone and our soon-to-be new President, and we watched with not a little nervousness, tearful eyes and smiles all around as he and the Chief Justice stumbled through the oath.  

But as the words, "So help me God," were uttered, the Center exploded in applause.  "You did it!" someone yelled to the screen.  Yes, he did.

We listened to the speeches, celebrated with some cake, (actually in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr.,) and little by little the students found their ways to their next classes. It was a great way to watch the ceremony - with so many students who took in every word and left the Center with a definite happiness at what they had just observed. And I got some pretty good pictures for the College's website, too.

By the time I got back to my office, there was another text message on my phone from Amy:  "Safe and thrilled!"

 I guess that pretty much said it all.  Our baby sister had witnessed a high point in our nation's history.  The ball that evening was just the icing on the cake.

Amy sent text messages to just about everyone in our family who then passed them on to one another.  My sister Sue did some sleuthing and managed to find the MSNBC interview in an article in Newsweek that was posted on their website, and sent that around to family and friends.  Now Amy was famous, too!

Before she left, I had told Amy that while our dad's participation as a soldier in Roosevelt's funeral after he returned from the Philippines was a historic event for our family, her attendance at the inauguration hit a new high.  Happily, it's a high she is still savoring.

 

Friday night warmth

Dealing with the 16 degree temperatures last week turned out to be a walk in the park - or maybe a walk in the Loop - compared to the last few days.  I dealt with yesterday's -17 degree early morning temperature by only venturing out of the house once:  to retrieve the papers at the end of the driveway, and then spent the rest of the day cooking, baking and getting ready for dinner guests.  

The house has been pretty warm, with the exception of some cold spots around the front door.  From the inside, a thick layer of frost has developed around the metal of the deadlock bolt.  We had an easy remedy for this...a strip of duct tape, and then pulled a rug up against the bottom of the door. Not too attractive, but it works.

There is something comforting about fending off the brutal cold by spending time in the kitchen. As Martha Stewart yammered away about Persian cats in the background,  I started by making a killer Bolognese sauce (no thanks to Martha) that ended up simmering on the stove for six hours.  And it is so true that the longer it simmers, the better it tastes.  I also used one of the last frozen containers of pureed tomatoes from my garden.  Combined with some porcini mushrooms - a hint from my mother who makes the best Bolognese in the world - the sugo was outstanding.  We had it with farfalle pasta, a salad, garlic bread, wine and the company of best friends.  Some brownies and hot apple crisp for dessert rounded out a great meal.

It's amazing how the cold outside simply melts away, at least from our thoughts, when there is so much warmth within - and not just the warmth generated by the furnace.  Our table conversations covered our kids, work, the upcoming inauguration, some politics (although not too much - we still want to remain friends) and a few disagreements on American history (was Gerald Ford ever Speaker of the House?) that were settled with a quick Google search.  

At gatherings like these we always, gratefully, toast our friendships that have lasted decades. And as the candles on the dinner table dimmed, the warmth remained. 

Scrabblemania

Most Chicago boomers remember a time when there were only four channels to choose from on tv:  2, 5, 7 and 9.  Channel 11 (in pre-Sesame Street days) was selected on the odd chance there was something other than Julia Child or a war documentary and you were desperate to watch anything.  Sure, we watched a lot of tv - but there were many times when there was nothing that caught our interest and we simply found other ways to entertain ourselves.

Aside from playing outside or making up games (that is worth a post unto itself) we enjoyed cards and board games like Candyland, Clue and Monopoly. We also really got into Landslide! - a game on the election of the president and fighting over electoral votes.  But for some reason, we didn't get into Scrabble.  We had the game somewhere in the house but no doubt half the tiles  would be missing whenever someone suggested we play - something we always blamed on younger siblings.  Even as I grew older and had children of my own, Scrabble was always outvoted in favor of Pictionary, Bogle or Trivial Pursuit.

I've had an iPhone for almost a year and as soon as I found out I could play Scrabble on it, I bought the application.  I have to admit, I thought I knew all the nuances of the game, but quickly found (after losing five straight games to this mini-computer) that you should look for opportunities for triple count words, finding two or even three word combinations and chances to exchange letters.

Little by little, my scores were getting larger, so I knew I was getting better - even if I continued to lose.  But I've had a few instances of my words being turned down by the Scrabble Dictionary and it has really ticked me off.  Words like 'swinger,' 'peonie' (one of my favorite flowers; it has to be spelled as 'peony') and 'ying' (when they do accept 'yang') were all disallowed.  'Ying' really got me mad - it would have been worth 43 points!

Playing a quick game helps pass the time while waiting for the train to arrive as I stand in the station in the morning, while waiting for the oven to preheat before putting in the meatloaf or sitting in the doctor's office.  However, the addictive quality of Scrabble on the iPhone and your circumstances should definitely be considered before starting a new game.  Riding home on the train, I could easily end up near the Wisconsin border before realizing I've missed my stop.  The onions sauteing on the stove could turn black before the smell brings me to my senses.  I could spend a whole lunch hour playing without eating a bite.

Also consider your surroundings. There are the comments you might make, not realizing you've said them aloud, when your computer opponent uses that "j" in a triple count word, just before you got the last tile to spell out 'justify.'  It's not pretty.

I read somewhere that doing word games helps keep the mind sharp and fends off dementia as we get older.  Scrabble, along with my affinity for crossword puzzles, might also help me lose weight - that is, if I spend anymore lunch hours without eating or nuke anymore dinners.

Hiding from the cold

BRRRRRR...

It's damn cold today; only 16 degrees.

When you live in Chicago and have to walk any distance to get to work, you learn how to dress appropriately.  Fashion definitely takes a back seat to warmth, so I have different levels of dress, depending upon how low the temperature goes.

When we start talking wind chill factors, the woolen coat goes back in the closet and the LL Bean insulated coat with a hood comes out.  I've often told the story of how, one day last winter, I was ridiculed by a complete stranger for my appearance.  First of all, each day I walk from Union Station to State and Congress - about a mile.  On this particularly cold day, I was wearing my LL Bean coat, which almost reaches my ankles.  I had on a hat under the hood, gloves and sunglasses (no matter the cloudiness, they help prevent my eyes from tearing up in the wind) and of course, my Uggs.

The LL Bean had a faux fur trim on the hood.  Once I velcroed and zipped myself into the coat, there was a rather small opening so I could see where I was going. The sunglasses provided the last bit of disguise and only my Italian nose was really visible.  As I made my way east on Jackson, a man going west stopped dead in his tracks and pointed at me, from about ten feet away.  He was laughing as he pointed, saying very loudly, "I can still see you in there!"

Right in the middle of the busy sidewalk in the Loop at 8:30 in the morning.

How hysterical.

I quickened my pace past this moron and darted into a building on the southeast corner of Jackson and Wells, my only block-long cut-through on my way to work.  As I relished the temporary relief from the cold, I recovered from the insult, thinking, "At least I'm warm."  The other consolation I took was that in my cold weather get-up, no one could recognize me.

The older I get, the more frustrated I become about fashion.  At the risk of sounding like an old lady, I can't believe how so many professional women are foregoing pantyhose and working bare-legged in the middle of winter.  Granted, most of them are a lot younger than I am, but this style seems so uncomfortable to me, if only from the aspect of having bare feet in high heels.  To me, that equals blisters and your soles sticking to the inside of your shoes - yuck.

I have a number of friends from high school and college who now live in Arizona.  This mode of fashion is second nature to them, but then again, they don't have to worry about snow in their shoes or stepping in a five-inch deep puddle of icy slush at a street corner.  I have another friend who spent ten years living in Alaska.  She thinks those years were a breeze compared to the bone-chilling, damp cold in Chi-town.

Well, despite the near frostbite I experienced on my shnozz this morning, I think I'm ok with our annual deep freeze.  Not that I love the cold by any means, but it beats hot flashes in the middle of July and it also gives me something else to "wear" every day - my frosty badge of courage and strength for making it through another Chicago winter.

Back to Work

Working for an educational institution has definite benefits when it comes to the holidays.  Along with all our students, those of us on faculty and staff have come to love our Christmas break, giving us almost two weeks of respite from meetings, classes, projects and deadlines. 

This year, the return to normal was off to a slow start.  A number of people extended their breaks with a vacation day or two and I found myself almost totally alone in our office suite on my second day back.  It was conducive to getting a lot done, but the quiet was also a little disconcerting.  Still, as a new year starts, I am surrounded by lots of good intentions - on the parts of many - to grab 2009 with a fervent desire to do more, do better and fill up that clean slate of a calendar with wonderful accomplishments and successes.

Another example of this fervor can be found at our local community center where my husband and I try to work out three times a week.  We get up at the ungodly hour of 5:10 a.m. and after blindly pulling on sweatpants, socks, t-shirts and shoes, are on the treadmill or elliptical no later than 5:40.  It's a good thing my husband drives because I tend to nod off on our short trip to the center.  Actually, it's a good thing he even sets the alarm and gets out of bed so quickly - I'm sure that I wouldn't make half the sessions if we didn't exercise together.

On the first Monday after New Year's, all the treadmills were in use as we arrived:  the "resolutionists" had taken over.  So, instead of my usual run, I did my cardio on one of those machines that makes you look like you are riding a bike while standing up.  I then had to wait for a bench for free weights and also had to squeeze my floor mat into an area that put me in peril of being stepped on. As irritating as the newbie onslaught was, we knew it wouldn't last long.  Give it a month, I thought, and we would be back to the usual early morning gang with lots of machines to choose from.  

The change was already obvious this morning - Wednesday.  Maybe the inch or so of snow kept people from coming in, or they were still sore from Monday - who knows? But so much for resolutions, at least as far as working out goes.  On the other hand, we may see them back on Friday, or perhaps they came in later. 

I'm hoping that a renewed excitement for the work we do in education will last longer than the desire to exercise away all that holiday overeating - not that such a desire isn't admirable, but I do so enjoy the enthusiasm on most people's parts as we return to our jobs.  Even as people show up, bemoaning the fact that our break was over too quickly, many do seem to approach work with a reinvigorated spirit that gets us off on the right foot.  

It's a nice feeling to turn the page on the calendar (or click the arrow on any electronic version) for a new year. Dates start to fill in and we're back to our busy selves, but not without a little more energy and optimism.  Even many who didn't have much of a break and put in regular hours during the days between Christmas and New Year's know the feeling - here's to 2009!