Zone de Confusion

Before Bill and I met he took a trip to France. He told me that it was a trip of mixed emotions. I think a lot of the time he was miserable (he went alone). But, he brought back two important purchases: (1) he imported a Mercedes Benz - a car that he kept on the road for years after; and (2) a French traffic sign that he had purchased in a sign shop. This is precisely the kind of thing I would never buy while abroad because the shipping is so difficult. Bill said that he drove all around France with it (in his new Mercedes) and ended up shipping the sign out of England. I think the car was easier to bring back than the sign.

Bill was drawn to this particular sign. He had it hanging in his house when I met him.  It was unframed and steel - it's an honest to goodness, real Department of Transport (or whatever the French equivalent is) sign. He pointed out to me its authenticity and that it had called to him in the store. It had made him snicker at the French sensibilities: "Look at zee Gallic nose, zee suit coat with zee cinched in waist, and zee pointed chic shoes." Not only was this a warning sign, it was a fashion statement. And the heading: "Zone de Confusion" - how much more descriptive could you get? This was so much more than merely a 'Construction Zone' notice. Look what could happen if you wander into this zone. All Hell could break loose. Or Thor could throw his bolt.  Or your body could give off hot heat waves.  Mon Dieu! The possibilities were endless.

When Bill and the kids and I went to France he had talked so much about these 'Sign Shops' that we were determined to find one for ourselves. Will was especially keen to find a cool Gallic sign for his room. We looked everywhere in Paris for such a shop but, to no avail. "Cette boutique n'est pas ici" (Will was already speaking better French than his parents and the sarcasm was evident). In the end, Will had to settle for ripping a paper sign off the walls of the Metro. It's still hanging in his room.

I admired Bill for finding such a shop, spotting this wonderful sign and hauling it home. He had purchased it for the pure pleasure of having this constant reminder of the French mindset. The sign is now properly framed and hangs above my own confusion zone: my desk. 

Viva Italia



Actual photo of Bill's family in Licata, Sicily circa 1950

When I was first dating Bill I had a bit of an issue: he was Italian. I know, I know - what a bigot!  But, 25 years ago I thought it was a fairly significant factor to consider - since he was a potential spouse.  And, up until then, my dates were pretty much exclusively WASPs. Ok, there was one Catholic in there, but he was non-practicing.

I didn't go out of my way to discriminate... it was the pool within which I was dating. I  was from a small town in north-central Ontario, for crying out loud. Once I moved to Buffalo the pool waters got much deeper, so to speak.

After a few weeks with Bill, the whole Italian thing turned out to be a non-issue (obviously). And, since he hadn't been inside a church since the Johnson administration, the Catholicsm thing didn't matter either.  So, we were good... until I met his parents.

It wasn't so much the Italian part that was an issue, because they were far from the  typical Italian- Americans I had envisioned. It was the noise. And by noise, I mean the decibel level of their conversations. Put Antionette (or Billy as she was more affectionaley called), Frank and Bill in a room and the place could go supersonic.

If you weren't following the conversation, or were in another room, or down the street...you would swear that they were arguing about an earth-shattering matter. But, if you cared to listen in (and it wasn't hard) you would find that they were talking about mundane things. This! This would be the hardest part of marrying an Italian, I thought.

The family that I came from is much more quiet. In public, we try to be unobtrusive. We do not raise our voices unless the situation calls for it. Yelling was for the barn when you couldn't hear above the tractor.

Years later, we visited Bill's relatives in Sicily. I braced myself. We went once alone and then, a few years later, we took the kids. I don't remember anyone speaking loudly.  Not even once. What I do remember is a unbelievably warm welcome with a lot of food and laughter and open arms and more food. It hit me in Agrigento just a few miles west of Licata, home of Bill's cousins.  After we had travelled all the way from Venice to Palermo and I had seen the beauty of the country, marvelled at the art, architecture, history and incredible intelligence of the Italian people I thought: How LUCKY that my kids are half Italian! 

Even a WASP can listen and learn.

Guilt

Today was an absolutely marvelous day... for someone who lives free from guilt. Imagine: Breakfast with two lovely friends followed by a spur of the moment manicure and pedicure (unhurried and relaxed), shopping at a stand-alone shop much like Marshall's (OK - it was Stein Mart - where the merchandise is not quite as discounted- but there was a red dot sale) then home to an empty house. I then put on the fire, set up the portable TV and popped in a video. I sat in front of the fire, as the snow fell outside the windows, and watched a Denzel Washington thriller.  Oh, and I made myself some hot chocolate with Ghiardelli chocolate. When the movie  was over, I pulled my newly purchased sweater closer and promptly fell asleep for 20 minutes. A day in heaven? You bet! But, my feeling of guilt was so great that when I awoke I quickly jumped into action and cleaned the kitchen. What a giant waste of time indulging myself!

When I was growing up, the majority of my childhood was spent on a farm. That is where my father taught us the mantra "when you wake up, get up - when you get up, do something." I'm plagued by those words. I have an incredibly difficult time enjoying doing nothing (which is what today equated to). It was easy to live by those words when the kids were little - there was precious little time for sleep, let alone relaxation. But, now I have "spare time"  - a rare and beautiful and cursed thing.

Like a lot of women, I married a man who is much like my father. Bill does not waste time. Even when he's watching TV, he's reading or playing his guitar. Last night he played a gig in Ellicotville, drove home after midnight, woke up around 8 a.m., worked out with his trainer and went to work for 6 hours.... It's Saturday! This is how he spends his Saturdays. Some Sundays, too. Bill would never spend a day like the way I spent it today (especially the mani/pedi). 

Comparing myself to others I know, I think I get a lot accomplished in a day. But, I am positively slothful when I compare my output to Bill's. We talk about the difference in our 'energy levels' and when I tell him how inadequate I feel, Bill always says: "Liz, it's ME who isn't normal". I'm crazy."

Maybe he is.  But, if he is... we need a lot more crazies in this world to get shit done.

Recipe Box

Today at lunch a co-worker mentioned that she has a drawerful of recipes that she had printed from the web. She had every intention of organizing them, but somehow they just stay in the drawer strewn in a haphazard manner. She admits that it would be easy to just put them in some sort of a book, but instead she leafs through them every time she's looking for a specific recipe.

Another co-worker confessed that her sister had given her back a recipe box of family recipes that my co-worker had assembled for her as a wedding present. "I'll never use these," she said. Imagine!

We have one of those drawers that is chock-a-block full of recipes. We also have a couple of baskets full of pages downloaded from cooking.com and the food network as well as torn pages from individual magazines and newspapers. There is even a bordelaise recipe written on a butcher's receipt/bill from years ago. The butcher hand wrote it and gave it to Bill when he was picking up some beef for a dinner party. The butcher shop is no longer there. I don't think the butcher/chef is alive either. The collector of all of these recipes, for the most part, is Bill.

Bill loves to read recipes out loud and think about making the dishes. His collection methods have changed with the advent of the PC and printers. He no longer rips the NY Times Sunday magazine apart.  The bookcase full of cooking books largely goes untouched. He peruses Rachel Ray's site or Emeril LaGasse's. He'll even go to the website after a cooking show on TV has indicated that the recipe can be found on it's sister site.

I am much more traditional in my recipe habits. I like the old fashioned 3x5 cards. My most prize recipes are written on those white cards with blue lines - handwritten by my mum, my grandmother, my friend in Rochester, my friend in Peterborough, my friend in Pembroke, my friend in Vancouver, my mum's friend in Oakville, my dad's secretary etc. What I don't have is the recipe for the most sumptuous chocolate dessert I ever ate. It was made by a French woman who invited us to her house for dinner. When I innocently asked for the recipe she REFUSED, I mean REFUSED to give it to me. She said it was rude of me to ask : It was her signature dish! What do I know about French women?

With recipe cards I like looking at the handwriting of the chef. Some of them are even dated! Most of them have food stains on them. Part of the charm of actually following the recipe is thinking of the woman who wrote on the card. This recipe card thing is a tradition that I fear which will not last much longer.  It's so easy to go to web, type in the name of a dish, or some ingredients and voila : you have an instant recipe (yes, that was a slam against my French chocolatier). The downside is that you end up with a lot of information on 8x11 pieces of paper.

 I kind of like that all my tried and true recipes are in one easy, retrievable box of love.

A doll's house

Most people complain about the amount of darkness we have to endure in the winter. It is a burden. But, there are some benefits that I bet you hadn't thought about.

By the time I leave work, it is completely dark. I purposely take the city streets (remember I try to avoid the 33 - that is Bill's domain). I have devised a lovely route that takes me past Delaware Park and down some of the more tony streets of North Buffalo. The houses along Nottingham and Depew are some of the loveliest in the area. And the residents, very kindly, leave A LOT of their interior lights on. First, second and third floor! Because I am an impatient (read "fast") driver, I do not see details - but rather form impressions of the interiors. And the impressions they leave are of warmth and order and family and togetherness. I'm not so naive as to believe that this is what is ACTUALLY going on. I realize that HOLY HELL could be breaking loose in these abodes. But, at 40 mph, the illusion is wonderful.

As I drove home tonight,  I also recalled a doll house I had as a wee girl. I wasn't more than 7 because I distinctly remember NOT playing with dolls after that age.  My mum had given me an old doll house. It wasn't one of those plastic "Barbie" houses that kids get nowadays. It was a one-of-a-kind handmade house. My friends were envious. I remember whiling away the hours assembling 'scenes' in each of the rooms and trying to replicate our own lovely home. My parents were very good at creating a sanctuary for us.

One of the most harrowing experience of my childhood life was seeing that same doll house at a sidewalk sale in my home town. My mum (the one who tells me to pitch things on a regular basis) had whistled it out of the house once she realized I no longer played with it. I hadn't noticed. But, when I saw the "FOR SALE" sign on MY HOUSE I just about died!! But, that is another story.

Bill and I walk in our neighbourhood when we can, but mostly in the spring, summer and fall. I love to walk at night with him at dusk. It's hard to see into people's houses at that time, and that's probably a good thing, since I'm walking and not driving, and could therefore see details.

When we turn the bend to our house, I look from the sidewalk and into our own front windows. And even though I cannot see the details, I know that inside there is warmth and order and family and togetherness - a sanctuary. I wish that everyone could have the same.

Change Fees

Today I received a cheery note from JetBlue inviting me to go online and confirm my flight. I thought, "Wow, that's weird, usually they do that the DAY before the flight, not the MONTH before the flight." Then I looked at the itinerary -  I had mistakenly booked tickets to a conference in Ft. Lauderdale for Bill for February 3rd instead of March 3rd. Do you know that the change fee is $100 per ticket. That is almost 1/2 the price of a dishwasher ( if you don't  buy the "better" model ! HA!). My stomach fell. Then I noticed some red bold writing on the JetBlue site that said TRAVEL ALERT - Fee Waivers for Northeast and MidAtlantic flights. Since we were in the middle of th "storm of the century" they were allowing fliers to re-book without incurring any fees. They'd been cancelling flights all over the place. What a great time for me to make a mistake!! WOOT! Buffalo is in the northeast,  I can get the fee waived. But, Buffalo - city of snow and ice - was not on the list of permissible cities. Do you know why? Because we KNOW SNOW and our Airport ROCKS!  Buffalonians can handle snow - they can plow it, melt it, ski it, have fun with it,  move in, around and through it.

I called JetBlue anyway and tried to connive my way through. They weren't buying it:  "The Buffalo airport is not experiencing any delays".  Can you hear the voice of the nasal woman saying that?

So, I took a deep breath and paid the damn change fee plus the additional fee because apparently, traveling to Ft. Lauderdale in March is more expensive than traveling in February.

And while I was in the mood, I booked a trip to Florida to see my mum in April ... on Southwest which does NOT charge change fees. You KNOW I checked the date a half a dozen times to make sure I hadn't screwed up.

I had been looking at my empty 2011 calendar and lamenting the fact that I had ZERO trips planned. And, my son, Will has taught me me that 1 of the 5 keys to happiness ( his personal mantra)  is to ALWAYS have something to which you can look forward. And, I needed to feel happier because of my stupid mistake. So, that is what I did. And it worked. I felt happier immediately.

When I confessed my booking error to Bill he said : "...and the problem is...?  Can't you rebook?" I said:  "Yes, I can replicate the flight but it's going to cost you more" . He said " Jesus, I make mistakes all the time. Book it and RELAX".

And, that made me feel happier, too!
  

  

A man and his clone



Inscrutable Bill

 I invite you to look at these two photos. These are two people who constantly fight with each other and with the world at large. (Bill actually gets paid to "fight" with the world, Emma doesn't really have an excuse).  They love and hate each other fiercely -  and at the same time. You do not want to be their enemy (they can hold a grudge like noone I know) -  but, if you are their friend you will experience a loyalty like no other... unless you break the unwritten law. So far, I have not broken that law.

They are separated by 38 years, but they are the SAME FRICKIN' PERSON. I know that Emma shares only 50% of Bill's DNA - but sometimes I think that I was merely the vessel, the carrier, the means to an end - and that  Emma inherited everything from Bill.

Look at those stares, that uncompromising countenance, the stylish dress. Could these two people not be more closely aligned?



Impenetrable Emma

At this writing, these two people are having dinner together in Toronto. I am glad I am not there because I am usually relegated to the role of referee - unless Will is there. Will is a natural born peace-maker.

Emma was excited that her father was coming to see her because he had promised (a) to bring her 2 bottles of red wine and (b) to take her to a nice Italian restaurant on Wellington. Bill was excited to see Emma because he honestly enjoys her company - and he was going to be able to show her off to one of his favorite clients. In the parlance of Emma and Bill - a "Win/Win" situation.

They are both smart and savvy shoppers ... and as Bill says "savvy is 2/3 of our last name." They actually look forward to shopping on Boxing Day  in MALLS with all those PEOPLE.  And they both love to race around tracks in a controlled atmosphere. Emma races around a roller derby rink  (the attached photo is courtesy her Roller Derby team - the Gore Gore Roller Girls). And, Bill loves to drive his little red Ferrari at high speeds around a curvy track. Emma can even fit into Bill's racing suit. (Please don't suggest that Bill try on Emma's leopard skin team uniform. ) 

You would think that two people who are so similar would always be agreeable with each other. But, you would be wrong. Sure, in short bouts of time they work fine together. But, put them together for over a week and the sparks will fly. And, I love them both to distraction! How did I get so lucky to have BOTH of them in my life??