And I’d Want to Eat Head of Veal Why?

Because if you can convince me, I know where to get the best head of veal in Paris. Or so I’m told.

I just hope that, when served, it doesn’t look like this:

Lest you think I have no sense of adventure, I did – albeit very reluctantly – order pigeon at a wonderful three-star restaurant, Le Tour, in Sancerre. It’s yet another example of why it’s so important to, dare I say, follow your gut.  I couldn’t look at the dish without think of disgusting pigeons in the park, and then when the song, Feed the Birds, popped into my head, I knew I was pretty much doomed not to finish the plate.

But despite these two sketchy incidents, the food in France was wonderful. Some of our best memories are around food, both at restaurants and put together ourselves. I’m convinced that no one makes cheese like the French, and that their baguettes are to die for. Throw in the absolutely extraordinary produce we found, add some great wine, and you, too, can eat like a king!

I know I’m skipping ahead a little, but I did want to share with you how we ate lunch and breakfast everyday aboard the boat we piloted through the Loire Valley:

This was a wonderful way to see the French countryside and have a relaxing midday meal, unless one of your group is in a hurry to get to the next stop, and insists on driving the boat during lunch. This may have been a fine idea, and perhaps our friend, Doug, really wasn’t drinking too much wine, but when he veered to the far right to avoid a boat coming the opposite direction, the result was a small collision with a large tree branch. Food and wine went flying everywhere!

Quelle tragédie! Wasted wine! Oh no!

So the food was fantastic and memorable. The other experience that we just loved, and that I’d recommend to anyone going to Paris, was our side trip to Giverney, Monet’s home and the place he painted his famous water lilies.

Green, gorgeous, tranquil, and filled with flowers, Giverney takes you back in time. You can see, smell and feel how Monet was inspired. It was extraordinary.

Part of the visit is a tour of Monet’s home. For me, it was like visiting the holiest of all shrines.

Feasts for the stomach and for the eyes. Pretty darn cool. Next week, the long-awaited story of the Metro thief who chose the wrong tourist to pick.

A Sketchy Guide to France

For months, all I had to do was look at my email to see the confirmation for our trip to Paris – and I was happy. And rightfully so.  We just returned from France, and the trip was everything we hoped it would be. Sights, amazing food, good friends – even a thwarted pickpocket! How could you ask for more? Our trip was divided into one week in Paris, and one week boating down the Lateral Loire Canal.

My friend, Joani Porto Bartoli, suggested to me that I keep a sketchbook as my diary during the trip. Inveterate doodler that I am, I instantly loved the idea. Sketching was fun, and I hope you enjoy some of the results (I’ll spare you all 35 of them) – it’s a great way to tell the story.

So a warning to my faithful readers – I’m going to divide this up into a series of blogs.  I get into some of the juicier stuff later on, but what the heck – there are tidbits in this entry as well!

Our story begins at LAX, where we realized that traveling through Washington, DC on September 9 might not be the cleverest idea. Security was a nightmare…

But we made our flight, met up with our friends and family in Paris, and decided that since it was just midday, we couldn’t possibly waste a day in the world’s most gorgeous city. So we dragged our sorry, exhausted butts to Notre Dame. Where one of us (OK, my brother-in-law, Alan) fell asleep in the pews – look for him in the bottom left of the sketch.

Part of the adventure was getting three couples – our old, dear friends Doug and Peggy, my sister and brother-in-law, Joan and Alan, and us, of course – to travel well together. We knew everyone, but the other two couples had never met.  Each and every one of us is a Type A, opinionated sort. I was, with the exception of Peggy, the least so – and if you know me, you can only imagine what the other personalities were like!

I chose not to illustrate how this storming, forming, norming worked, but if I did, the sketch would have a lot of schnauzers top-dogging each other. Fortunately, we figured it out, and the sniffing, snapping and yapping settled down. The key was realizing we didn’t all have to do the same thing, and with that freedom, we could each explore Paris in the way that made each of us happy.

One thing we all agreed on was that the Musee d’ Orsay was top of our list. I was fortunate enough to spend a day here on an earlier business trip to Paris, and I was itching to go back.  One of my favorite paintings – the one by Cezanne with the hidden pig in a nun’s habit – hangs there.

So on a rainy Sunday, off we all went, and it was every bit as glorious as I remembered it. The greatest collection of impressionist art in the world. The collection is so big that we had to take a break for cafe au lait and pastries – not exactly a sacrifice!

There is no shortage of sights in Paris. And we did our very best to see them all. Including, yes, the Eiffel Tower.

Where I had a height-driven panic attack, and found myself clinging to an inner wall, sweating profusely. Every party needs a pooper, and that was my role for the day. Click on the picture and look at the top right – you’ll see me in my full, anxious glory!

I’ve rambled on long enough for today. And if this hasn’t scared you off, there’s more coming.

Next week: The highlight of my trip: Giverney. Plus musings on why anyone would want to serve head of veal. And why butter and garlic with NO moderation is a very good thing…

Mornings with Public Radio

With the recent hot weather, the Boo and I tend to strike out early on our daily three-mile hike through my hilly neighborhood.  She’s smiling and wagging the whole way, smelling delicious odors that (fortunately) escape me, rationing a few drops of pee for each deserving spot. I’m entertained as well, but while it’s Boo’s nose that keeps her occupied, it’s my ears.

My morning companions are American Public Radio’s The Story, Ira Glass’s This American Life, and the marvelous podcast, The Moth. This summer, I listened to the story of a marathoneer who, at the age of 23, found she had a potentially fatal heart condition, and I followed her through her eventual heart transplants (yes, she had two) and her special relationship with her cardiologist. Incredible.  I learned about the habits of ants (!), and why being a guy ant is not such a terrific idea. I was privileged to hear about the life of a rap singer who studied Bach in Africa, and the story of a man who grew up poor, never realizing that his threadbare, eccentric uncles were worth millions – and would one day leave it all to him.

I’m also a fan of the New York Times Book Review, where Sam Tanenhaus keeps me up to date on what’s new, including lots of books that I’ll never read, and a few gems that I never would have known about were it not for the podcast.

Slate Magazine’s Culture Gabfest endlessly entertains me. I love the camaraderie of the host and guests as much as I enjoy their review of music, books, movie and TV.

And finally, who can get by without listening to Terry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air?

I don’t listen to everything, mind you. If it’s depressing – no way. If it’s aggravating – forget it. If I find myself getting stressed out, as I did when listening to a recent episode on false confessions that ran on “The Story,” I stop listening.

Yes, I know there are bad things that happen out there, but when I’m out walking my dog, I want to be at least as happy as she is.  I want to be uplifted, thrilled, amazed, and humbled. I want to learn about the best of us, not the worst.  I want a happy ending, when you get right down to it.

Sometimes I can barely wait to get home to download a new album or book. (I suppose it’s a sign of my age that I have to keep repeating the name of the work to myself over and over so I won’t forget by the time I walk in my front door.) Other times I can’t take off my headset until I finish the episode, so I wander around my house puttering and listening until the story concludes.

There’s so much great content out there (Oh, no! I forgot to mention the Ted lectures!) that I never worry about running out of interesting material. And I’ve been known to sneak my iPod into bed at night, when I’m having a hard time sleeping, and catching up on a “Fresh Air” episode or two (I feel like an 8-year old child, reading with the flashlight under the covers!).

Small pleasures. Big rewards. I’m totally a public radio addict!

The Life – or Lives – of a Dog

I’ve been anxiously following the posts of my friend, Kathy Knopoff, as she cared for her dog, Laszlo. Laszlo’s kidneys were failing, and Kathy was by his side nonstop, trying to get him to take his medications and trying to tempt him with his favorite foods.  My heart has been heavy for her.

Laszlo left this earth yesterday, bound for… well, really, who knows? All I know is he left an empty collar, an empty spot by the bed and lots of memories behind.

By coincidence, I’m finally reading The Art of Racing in the Rain, the story of family, love and loyalty told from the perspective of Enzo, a dog on his last night of life. I was instantly taken by the book’s philosophy that when dogs pass on, they are reincarnated as humans. In Enzo’s own “words:”

In Mongolia, when a dog dies, he is buried high in the hills so people cannot walk on his grave. The dog’s master whispers into the dog’s ear his wishes that the dog will return as a man in his next life. Then his tail is cut off and put beneath his head, and a piece of meat or fat is placed in his mouth to sustain his soul on its journey; before he is reincarnated, the dog’s soul is freed to travel the land, to run across the high desert plains for as long as it would like.

I learned that from a program on the National Geographic channel, so I believe it is true. Not all dogs return as men, they say; only those who are ready.

I am ready.

From the first moment that I had my own place, at age 22, I’ve had a dog. Every one of them has been the very best dog ever (Well, except for the ill-fated Nell – for more on her story check out this post). I’ve thrown my entire being into loving these dogs, and so have had my heart broken time and time again when the inevitable happens. And while sadness has, on occasion, slowed down my need to get another dog, it has yet to stop me. Because the loss is so far offset by the joy of companionship that I swallow my tears in return for the friendship of a dog. A bargain, I should add.

So here I am, this person who doesn’t believe in an afterlife of any kind and who looks at religion’s view of heaven with a roll of the eyes, totally convinced that if anyone gets to go to heaven, dogs should be first in line. That dogs have souls just as much as people have them. And now, thanks to The Art of Racing in the Rain, I have a whole new way to think about the future.

Just imagine… you meet this new person with soulful eyes, red shaggy hair and a kind face. Maybe her ears are a little on the large side.  Could it be my last Golden, Annie, come back to visit me in a different form?? Or you meet a guy who is well intentioned but not too bright, very muscular but sometimes knocks things over in his enthusiasm, who is an independent spirit who will never listen to advice… Why, my goodness, I do believe that Nell, that bad but charming girl, has returned to life as an irresponsible but charming man!

Really, the possibilities go on and on.

When my mom was dying last year, I asked her if she thought she’d see our dad again in whatever afterlife there might be. She astonished me by saying, “Absolutely not! There is no afterlife. I believe in reincarnation.” You could have knocked me over with a feather! And she then said, “I just don’t want to come back as one of those sad cows in Africa with the flies on their eyes…” I assured her that I didn’t think that would happen – surely there’s a better life form for someone as kind as my mom.

Laszlo, Annie, Nell, Marley, and all the rest of the dogs I’ve known and loved – have no fear! We shall surely meet again. Maybe next time I’ll be on the leash and you’ll be saying, “Terry, sit! Stay!”

Big Hat, Big Job, Big Sky

You can picture it as well as I can – the prototype rancher with a sun-wrinkled face, wiry frame, cowboy hat, mud-spattered jeans and boots. He’s an icon of the American West, and has shown up in places as varied as City Slickers and Marlboro commercials.

But did you ever think about what it means to live the life, not just wear the hat? And that not all wranglers are weather-beaten guys?

I had an eye-opening weekend at Sweet Grass Ranch, a working cattle and dude ranch about 40 miles outside of Big Timber, Montana. We were there for the wedding of an old college friend’s daughter, a San Francisco-raised young woman who fell in love first with Montana, then with cattle wrangling and finally with a rancher.

There’s a lot to love about this part of the country, where you wake up every morning to spectacular vistas and go to bed every night with stars blazing in a pitch black sky. Where ranches are 10,000 to 20,000 acres, and talk at dinner is about where the cattle will be grazing next. Where you drive very slowly on winding gravel roads, and patiently wait for a calf to wander across the road in front of you. Where your livelihood is your entire life, and you raise your children, hoping that at least one of them will opt for the ranching life so your legacy can live on.

And weddings are not just family events – they are celebrations for the entire town.

Jenny was wed on the side of mountain in the foothills that you see here:

We sat on hay bales, and the bridal path was freshly mowed through the meadow. Our friend, Doug, performed the service against that breathtaking vista.

After the ceremony, everyone hopped into their pick-ups and headed to the groom’s ranch for the reception. Where the entire town was in attendance. Because when you get married in a ranching community, you invite everyone – after all, you never know when you’ll need to drive your cattle across someone else’s land.

But don’t romanticize this life, because there’s nothing Hollywood or glamourous about it. This is a tough, tough life. It’s physically and intellectually demanding. Yes, you need to be able to ride a horse and herd cattle, throw bales of hale and manage heavy equipment. But you also need to know what’s growing in your fields, and if the flowers in bloom will produce good beef or not.  You need to know the land like the back of your hand, and where to drive cattle for the winter, spring, summer and fall.

You need a big heart to go with this very big job.

I take my hat off to Jenny. God knows I could never live the life she’s chosen.  But this weekend has give me enormous respect for our country’s ranchers. Think about it the next time you eat a slab of roast beef.

Father’s Day… a Little Late

Fathers… One of the many reasons I married Scott was because I knew what a great dad he would be. And I suspect that was part of the appeal that our daughter saw in our son-in-law, Juan Carlo.

You know? There are worse reasons to get married!

I love watching Juan Carlos with our grandchildren.  He’s a natural dad, playful but determined, relaxed but disciplined. He can make Matilda giggle like nobody’s business, and he can sweet talk Lucas into a change of clothes by making it fun:

Carolyn and Juan Carlos are in the planting and sowing stage right now – raising and shaping those kids into healthy, responsible and independent individuals.  We, on the other hand, are in the reaping stage.  Our life is a lot easier!

Andrew came over for Father’s Day last Sunday, and we really had a wonderful time.  He was responsible for dessert, and made a delicious apple pie, flavored with cranberries bitters, mint and…scotch.  And, he taught me how to make a carmalized lattice top:

   
I must admit, however, that having a chef as our son does pretty much guarantee I’ll never put these newfound skills to work…

Dinner was so much fun. Scott and Andrew hung out in the hot tub, doing the Sunday crossword, while I made the rest of dinner. We started with an avocado, fennel and grapefruit salad, went onto pureed parsnips and grilled halibut, topped with balsamic onion relish.

Two truly exceptional bottles of wine later, we finished off with coffee and pie. Weight Watchers be damned – this was a feast worth gaining a couple pounds to enjoy!

Happy Father’s Day to all the great dads out there. We couldn’t do it – and wouldn’t want to do it – without you!

Spring Back in My Step

It’s hard to believe that just a year ago, I was in Cleveland with my mom in her last days on this earth. Those were dark days but I’ve had time to heal, get some distance, and rebalance my life.  And I’m doing great.

First, I think my mom is happy, wherever she is.  She was tired of her body falling apart and of not being able to do everything she wanted.  She missed my dad.  She was ready for whatever comes next. And we were ready to let her go. It was time.

Second, in the past 12 months, I’ve come to embrace my new life away from work. To my astonishment, I don’t miss it at all. I was worried that I would be bored, that I would be lonely, and that I would feel useless. And you know what? I’m not bored, lonely or feeling useless.

My family is happy that I’m around. My dog is thrilled.  I’ve planted a garden, traveled, read dozens of books.  I keep an active life online and stay in touch with treasured friends around the world. I give back to my communication profession as a Melcrum Black Belt trainer. I pick up the occasional consulting assignment – if it looks interesting. And if it doesn’t, I’m happy to refer it to someone else.  I’m here to tell you: this is an awesome gig!

One of the most healing things I did was go through all the old photos with my sister.  I saw my parents as young, middle-aged and old.  But happy through all the years of their lives. I saw how they loved family, friends, travel, their lovely home – and most important, each other. It made me feel better about saying goodbye to them, because, in fact, they lived wonderful lives. And have inspired me to do the same.

With joy, I watch my garden grow.  Peppers, tomatoes, citrus, figs, herbs and beans coming to fruition in their own time.  Like me.

10,000 Slides

Over the last few days, I visited Paris, Thailand, Romania, Brazil and Greece. I spent time at Fort Buchanan in Puerto Rico. I met up with more relatives than I knew I had. I saw myself as adorable, geeky, oh-so-hot and oh-so-not.

I made this amazing journey with my sister, as we painstakingly picked our way through dozens of old photo albums and box upon box upon box of old slides. Reviewing all those images and deciding what to save and what to toss were the final steps in wrapping up our mom’s estate.

Although tedious, time-consuming and occasionally mind-numbing, this was actually kind of a wonderful way to say our final goodbyes to our parents. After all, our most recent memories of our mom was when she was so sick and in pain. Being re-introduced to the vibrant, elegant lady who I used to know was really something special.

Our dad has been gone for seven years, and so my memories of him are no longer dominated by the last few truly dreadful months of his life. I remember him as my dad, and such an important part of my life.  But did I remember him as a young father? Did I know that his face lit up so much when he visited his homeland of Romania? Did I know how handsome he was as a policeman in Palestine, or how earnest as a young physician in the U.S. Army?

We came across more than photos.  We found our dad’s old sketch books, letters from our grandparents, immigration papers documenting how most of our family fled anti-Semitic Europe and found safety in Palestine, Brazil and the United States. (Some of whom were not so fortunate died in the death camps of World War II.) We found out how much our Aunt Pearl helped our father come to America to attend medical school. We found the lists of every single medical school in the United States and their admittance requirements that our aunt had put together for him.  We found his meticulously kept records of his academic record and qualifications. We found the numerous rejection letters – and the glorious acceptance letter from Case Western Reserve that changed his life and began ours.

I was born in 1952; my sister in 1950.  We forget how very close to the end of World War II that was, and how the war shaped so much of our lives.  Going through these photos and documents brought it to life.

I confess.  If it had been up to me, I would have trashed all those slides, photographs and documents without looking at them.  Going through boxes of old stuff is not something that I would normally do.  But my sister, more sentimental and more sensible than me, insisted. And by doing so, gave us the gift of time travel and refreshed memories. And what a wonderful gift that is.

The Zing of Zynga

Farmer Terry checking in.  Well, former Farmer Terry.  I was hooked on Zynga’s Farmville for a long time.  I had created quite the lush little farm – surrounded by fruit trees and roses, with horses and chickens and cows all neatly housed in their own barns.  For Farmer Terry, nothing but the cutest little farmhouse would do.

I checked in several times a day to virtually weed and harvest my crops.  I kept my property in good shape, even decorating it at the holidays, something I would never dream of doing in my real house.  Honestly? My husband thought I had lost my mind.

He may have been right, but it was fun. Until I realized that to get ahead, I needed to spend real money on the game. Tired of your crops dying before you can harvest them? No problem. A mere dollar will revive them.  Want a bigger house? Ka-ching here, and your wish will come true. Getting carpal tunnel syndrome from hand-harvesting and planting?  For a few bucks, you can buy gasoline for your tractor and let it do the work for you.

This month’s Vanity Fair features an article on the remarkable success of Zynga and the genius of founder Mark Pincas.  Pincas, who seems to have been consistently underestimated by Silicon Valley, is laughing all the way to bank, his path fueled by gaming fans who don’t mind plunking down their money to buy an advantage.

That wouldn’t include me. So I put away my farming tools and retired from Farmville. Ditto with Mafia Wars. And during the heyday of Second Life, I refused to put U.S. greenbacks into virtual dollars to buy outfits for my avatar. Outfits for my avatar??  Are you serious?

But I’m clearly in the minority. Lots of folks don’t mind doing this.  After all, the money you spend is chump change, and in return your online life is richer and easier. And your money fuels Zynga and its gaming counterparts to create more games and more fun.

My current addictions, PopCap’s Bejeweled Blitz and Zuma Blitz, truly mindless arcade-type games, are free. You can buy some advantages, but not enough to tempt me.

So I’d like to take a moment to thank all of you who generously support online gaming with real dollars, allowing cheapskates like me to play the latest and greatest for free.  Yes, we’ll always lose, but we can enjoy the journey – at least for awhile.

Adjustments

I spoke today with a friend whose son recently came out. Her son is in his early teens, and the announcement was not a surprise to her or her husband. They love and support their son completely, and want, like all of good parents, to spare their child hurt and pain.  Just that fact puts the three of them on a strong and steady path.

I was honored to be confided in, and even more honored to be asked to share my experiences in going through this same experience with our son.

Children give us many hints about who they are.  So many hints that, if we have our eyes open at all, we shouldn’t be surprised to be learn what their sexual orientation is.  But the lack of surprise doesn’t change – can’t change – the emotional roller coaster we find ourselves on.

The fact is, that from the moment you learn you’re having a baby, you start to have dreams about that child’s future.

We can’t help it. We want the best for our children, and we want them to have happy and fulfilled lives. And we visualize happiness through our own experience.

• If you’re a professional and love being a professional, you think that perhaps that would be good for your child.
• If you’re religious and find great comfort in your faith, you think that your child will likewise find joy in religion.
• If you’re hooked on sports and exercise, you think your child will naturally be active and even athletic.
• And if you’re straight, you think that your child will be straight. Of course.

Except it doesn’t work that way.

I shared with my friend the best story I ever heard as a way to grasp what you, as a parent, go through when you learn the truth. I read about this years ago in an Ann Landers column, in a letter written by a woman who had just given birth to a Down’s Syndrome baby.

Suppose, she wrote, you’re planning a wonderful vacation to Italy.  You spend nine months thinking about what you’ll do and what you’ll see.  You think about the delicious pasta, about the fabulous artwork, about the canals of Venice. You’re so excited when you get on the plane, ready to land in Rome. But when the plane lands, you find yourself…in Holland. Now there’s nothing wrong with Holland.  But it’s not where you thought you were going. It takes you a little while to adjust and open your eyes to the beauty there – the Van Goghs, the tulips, the windmills – and yes, the canals of the Netherlands.

When our son confirmed that he was gay, I had to come to grips with the fact that my son’s life would be very different from what I imagined. Worse, I had a whole new world of fears to contend with – AIDS, bullying, hate, discrimination. And if you don’t think that took a little while to adjust to, well, you’ve never been a parent.

None of this changed the fact that we adored (and adore) our son, and we fully support him. But we did have to go through some change ourselves. I learned how to stand up proudly and say, “My son is gay.” I learned to tell people who were telling gay jokes that I found that humor distasteful and not funny. Oh, and did you know my son is gay? I learned that some people are judgmental, and nothing you say will open their eyes to the biological facts of life.

And I learned that knowing my son, for who he is and who he will be, is an incredible gift.

If you find out your child is gay, I can almost promise it will be an adjustment for you. Our dreams are changed, and we must build new ones. But the new ones can be glorious, and the future bright.  If your heart is open to it.