Letter From Elba

Ellen’s Web

Posted on July 10, 2016 by Ellen Ross

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Caution. If you’re a vegan or keep kosher, you may want to skip this one.

Hope you had a glorious Fourth of July, Dear Readers. I had a wonderful three day weekend jam-packed with fun, friends and family.

And food.

Which brings me to this post…

When I was a little girl, I got a very special gift.

It was this.

First Edition Collector Sidebar: It will probably come as no surprise that from the time I was about six, I read voraciously and coveted books greedily. And the VERY first thing I would always do with a new arrival was to rip off the dust jacket and throw it away. I did this to make the book “mine.” A dust jacket made the book look like it belonged to the library. Alas, now that I am a grownup collector, I know what a sin this is. Hence most of my treasured book collection is missing a very important part of its appearance. (And value.) Oh well. C’est la vie.

Published in 1952, Charlotte’s Web was a seminal book for me. I had always been dog and horse crazy. E.B. White’s captivating story and Garth Williams’ enchanting drawings now made me want to go live on farm.

When I got Charlotte’s Web, I was the exact same age as eight year old Fern. And I, too, longed to hang out with White’s barnyard animals like she did. The stuttering geese, the patient draft horses, the wooly sheep, even Templeton the rat-villain, seemed like creatures worth getting to know.

And then there was Charlotte.

Clever, confident, a little blood-thirsty- a realist with a knack for coming up with just the right word at just the right time.

And finally, the hero of the piece.

Wilbur. The pig.

Wilbur was the runt of the litter and the book opens with Fern’s father heading to the barn with an ax to do away with him. Fern intervenes and rescues him, but the rest of the book deals Wilbur’s justified existential fears and his friends in the barnyard collective efforts to save his bacon.

My sympathies were firmly on the side of the pig and I was always relieved when their mission was accomplished and Wilbur went on to live a long and happy life.

Until last Sunday.

When I went to my first ever pig roast.

Like my book, the event took place on a wonderful old farm in West Brooklyn, Illinois.

Never heard of it? Me, neither.

It is 96.5 miles west of Chicago in Lee county and was founded in 1894. The population is 142 and has a total area of 0.11 square miles.

The farm must take up all of it.

A picturesque white frame house shared its stately turf with barns, cornfields, flower gardens, a beautiful pool, nine platinum Labradors, a few assorted other dogs, and children of all ages.

In one of the barns there was a groaning board of food.

Salads of every description, fried chicken, meatballs, homemade pies, cookies, cakes, brownies, chocolate-covered pretzels, ice cream…

And the pièce de resistance

Yep.

And he was delicious.

Let’s hope his name wasn’t Wilbur.

Fern would never forgive me.

Good to be back, Dear Readers.

Posted in Children's Literature, Cooking, E.B. white, holidays | 7 Comments

Graceland

Posted on June 26, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: Dear Readers, this will be my last post until Sunday, July 10. Next week I’m having the first of two cataract surgeries and I don’t want the pressure of being Mr. Magoo and having to type on a keyboard. Wish me luck and hope all of you all have a Red, White and Blue Fourth of July.

And now a very belated Congratulations to the NHL’s Pittsburgh Penguins. Champions of the 2016 Stanley Cup. What a season! What a cliffhanger of a finish. Great, great hockey.

The Penguins’ big victory got me thinking about birds and that got me reminiscing about this…

When he was ten, my son, Nick, longed for a parakeet. For months he carefully studied all the candidates the Wilmette Pet Center had to offer.

Each week he would scrutinize the birds for color and personality. Dollars were dutifully saved and finally, the great day arrived when Nicky triumphantly pointed to a dapper specimen with a lemon-colored head and bright green body.

Money exchange hands and the bird was boxed for the ride home.

Nicky was bursting with plans, dreams and career goals for his protege. With a BIG future in mind, he christened the parakeet “Elvis.”

We went up to Nicky’s room and I got the cage out.

As a former owner of Pete the parakeet (when I was about eight) I wanted to make the delicate transfer maneuver from the box to the cage.

But Nicky begged.

“Please, Mom, let me do it. He’s my bird and I want to do everything right from the start.”

I good-naturedly gave in to his demands and handed him the box with Elvis in it and the empty cage.

But, as Nicky tried to put the bird in his new home, the parakeet wriggled out of his newbie grasp and in a blind panic, flew around the bedroom.

Right into the wall.

Dazed and stunned, the bird let us pick him up and place him in the cage. That ‘thunk” when he hit the wall had sounded ominous so we watched him closely.

Elvis looked ok when we covered his cage for the night.

In the morning, Elvis had left the building.

Nicky was beside himself.

The shock- it had all happened so fast- the excitement of the car ride home, the joyful christening, the careful preparation of the new cage, and then, the mad dash for freedom ending with fatal results- had completely unnerved him.

“I killed Elvis, Mom,” Nicky sobbed. “I let him escape and now he’s dead and it’s my fault.”

“No, Nicky. It was an accident. You didn’t hurt him on purpose.” I tried over and over agin to console him but I wasn’t much help.

Poor Elvis.

Poor Nicky.

Poor Mom.

An hour later Nicky was still wiping the the tears away as he ran for the school bus. Klara, our housekeeper, was heartsick, too.

“Elvis was so cute,” she sighed. “And I’m worried because Nicky is so sad.”

(Here’s Klara last October fussing over my grandson, Sam- The Next Generation.)

It was raining but I went downstairs for a shovel.

“Come on,” I called to Klara. “We’re going to give Elvis a great funeral!”

We buried him in the woods of our backyard in a small hole lined with rose petals. During the nondenominational service, we praised his good looks and his fierce dedication to freedom.

We concluded the ceremony by singing “Born Free” and “Rockin’ Robin.”

We covered the little grave with leaves and more roses, and we made a marker so Nicky could visit it when he came home from school.

But the empty cage still sitting in Nicky’s room look so forlorn.

I hightailed it over to the pet store to replace the late Mr. Presley.

The friendly salesgirl remembered me.

“Weren’t you in yesterday?” she asked.

Feeling every inch a bird murderer, I related the sad tale of Elvis’s untimely demise and explained, that even no other bird could ever take his place in our hearts, I wanted to buy a new bird for my genuinely grieving son.

“I’m going to get the manager,” she said.

“Please don’t.” I was embarrassed. “I just want you to help me pick out a parakeet with similar markings.”

But over my protests she found the manager and explained that Nicky’s bird had died after only one day.

She listened carefully

“How old is your boy?” Barbara, the manager, asked kindly.

“He’s ten and he’s so upset,” I answered.

“Of course he is and I can well understand it. Please take a new bird at no charge.”

Now I was really mortified.

“I can’t do that,” I protested. “It wouldn’t be right. It’s wasn’t your fault. We were careless and the bird had an accident. Please let me buy another one.”

“No,” she stood firm. “You must have another bird immediately.”

Then she handed me her card and said, “Tell your son if wants to talk about the accident or discuss his worries or concerns about the new bird, he can call us any time or come in. We’d be glad to counsel him.”

I was deeply touched by her compassionate response to our family crisis. I gratefully picked out a new bird and walked out of the store.

When I got back home. the rain had stopped and I could have sworn that I heard “Blue Suede Shoes” somewhere up above me.

Posted in Childhood, pop culture, Wilmette | 21 Comments

Punchlist

Posted on June 23, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Just a short post today, Dear Readers. I just don’t have the time.

I beg your indulgence. I didn’t know – but I bet (sadly) many of you did- that there is SO much to do after a parent dies.

Ever since the hospital called at three in the morning last week, my brother Kenny and I have been on a whirlwind tour of errands, phone calls and things to wrap up.

I don’t remember being this busy after my father passed away. Maybe because my mother was still alive and so much of the legal stuff etc. just reverted to her.

But this time, what a difference.

There is real estate to sell and de-clutter. There are banks, lawyers and stock brokers to visit. There are decisions to make about EVERYTHING from who gets the big screen televisions to what do we do with her handmade needlepoint tapestries?

(And if you know anybody in the market for a moody, sullen oil-painted portrait of Moo Moo, just let me know. We’re asking $1,000,000. OBO.)

And then there is the emotional exhaustion to deal with.

Eating? Eh. Not so much.

Sleeping? Fuhgeddaboudit.

Mourning? I’m too busy with the minutia of death and the pressures of making right decisions.

And then there are the photographs and letters.

Boxes and boxes of them- most unseen since childhood.

Some are great and bring back floods of happy memories.

Others? Not quite so much.

This picture opened up a whole can of conflicting emotional worms.

Sigh.

Scary feeling booby traps are lurking within every box, closet, photo album and stray envelope and I don’t have the energy to deal with them right now.

(Or maybe ever.)

Well, gotta go. My brother is picking me up and we’re off to meet with Fran, the lady who’s going to efficiently dispose of a lifetime of Moo Moo’s stuff.

Thank goodness I have Kenny.

He always makes it better.

Posted in Parents | 14 Comments

Mister Roffe

Posted on June 19, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Happy Father’s Day, Dear Readers. Hope it’s a glorious day for you and your families.

Those misspelled (No two N’s in “Benjamin”) dog tags are souvenirs of my dad’s Navy career. He was a radarman on the U.S.S. Shangri-La.

Here he is in the Pacific on August 17, 1945- two days after the ceasefire ending the hostilities with Japan.

(The crew was at quarters on the flight deck for the first time since entering the combat area.)

My dad told me a lot about his Navy days. He told me a lot about everything.

And he didn’t just tell. He showed.

My dad took us everywhere and I have lots of fond memories of Kenny and I going to his office on Saturdays.

He worked for a company called Zimmerman Brush. My uncle Mike Zimmerman was the boss. It was headquartered in an old factory on West Lake Street in Chicago. Back in those days, the factory was dilapidated and the neighborhood even more run down.

These days the building has been repurposed. It contains expensive condos for well-off Gen X’ers. Check it out now.

Who would have thunk it?

My dad always took us to the ball park and my favorite drive in- Henry’s.

(Yum. I loved the hamburger deluxe. Wish I had one now, brother.)

As he grew older, the roles reversed. It was my pleasure to take him to things.

Andrea Bocelli at the United Center.

And we always went to the movies together. In 2006, I took him to see The Queen. He loved it.

I’m sure glad he did. It was the very last movie he ever saw.

I loved watching him learn to ski- at 81- and I got a kick out of how much he enjoyed life in Colorado.

Old age didn’t slow him down.

Except once.

Dad and I had tickets for “An Evening with Anjelica Huston” at The Wheeler Opera House in Aspen.

It was a retrospective of her films and a Q. and A. session with the audience to follow.

It was just she and a moderator on the stage of the theater and Dad watched, enrapt by her anecdotes, poise and Hollywood lineage.

And then he turned to me.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he whispered.

And he quietly got out of his seat and disappeared.

A few minutes later he reappeared.

On stage.

He had taken a wrong turn somehow and ended up smack in the middle of the show with Anjelica.

He looked sheepish.

The audience roared.

An usher was quickly dispatched to show him back to his seat.

But you see, that was really where our father belonged.

Center stage.

Where he remains to this day.

In my heart and Kenny’s.

A round of applause for all our fathers today.

Posted in Ben Roffe, Childhood, Fathers | 8 Comments

The River

Posted on June 16, 2016 by Ellen Ross

These are Kenny and my baby shoes. Somehow they seem appropriate today because our mother, Leatrice Roffe, died early on Tuesday morning.

No matter what her death certificate says, let me make this very clear.

She didn’t die from the broken hip, a stroke or heart failure.

She died as a direct result of her mental illness.

This is a terrible affliction. It ruined her life.

And blighted mine.

We can only pray that at long last, at very long last, she is at peace.

Most of you know that she was a crack card player. A real shark.

There was no game at which she didn’t excel. Poker, Bridge, Hearts, Casino, Canasta, Pan, Craps, the Slots, Roulette, Bingo- for Pete’s sake- she always had the winning hand.

Her acumen and risk-taking nature made her a stock market ace, too. To the very last, she wanted to know how the Market was doing.

We buried her yesterday with her purse, a deck of cards, her driver’s license, a gift card for McDonald’s Arch Club and a schedule for her underground poker game.

I wish I could tell you that she is in Heaven with her beloved mother and father.

But I know better.

She’s in the High Roller’s Room at the Big Casino.

And she’s all in.

Wishing you nothing but royal flushes, Mom.

Love and luck from Kenny and Ellen

Posted in Lea Roffe, Parents | 45 Comments

Whee!

Posted on June 12, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Wow, Dear Readers. At long last, it finally feels like summer around here and that brings one great thing to mind…

Riverview!

Yeah, I know. Riverview Amusement Park is long gone. Sold to a developer in 1967 and vanished overnight without a trace.

But the warm memories linger on…

It all started – like so much neat stuff- with my father.

Once a year, he would take my brother Kenny and me on the summer adventure of our suburban lives.

(Taken in Eagle River, Wisconsin, but this is about how old Kenny- and our dad- would have been.)

We would drive from the North Shore ALL the way to Belmont and Western Avenues in Chicago. My mother would never go with us. She shunned Riverview because it was always crowded, dirty, noisy, smelly and filled with sketchy people.

But Kenny and I were rarin’ to get there.

We could hardly wait to meet up with the “Guess Your Weight” guy and the cotton candy machine- or any of these wonderful things.

Riverview was seedy and exciting and a little dangerous to our suburban minds.

And that made it even more appealing.

As a teenager in high school, Riverview really held me in its thrall.

It became an awesome date night destination, and if the boys wanted to impress me, they would take me there.

If it was a hot, sultry night, we always started on this.

This is the Shoot the Chutes. And the sloppy splashdown was guaranteed to get your clothes- and hair- drenched.

(Come to think of it, why didn’t we go on this ride last? That way we didn’t have to walk around in dripping madras Bermudas and wheat jeans all night. I never said we were street smart. Just suburban.)

The next stop was the Rotor.

OMG! This ride spun around- and the bottom of the floor dropped out as you were flattened against the wall.

All to the accompaniment of deafening screaming.

You’ll have to ask someone else to describe this monster. I hate centrifugal force. I can get seasick on this.

So I always gave the Rotor a wide berth. It wasn’t considered cool to get sick on your date back in those days.

(I wasn’t crazy about the Tilt-a-Whirl, the Wild Mouse or even the Carousel for the same nausea-inducing reasons.)

But as much as I hated getting dizzy, I hated being called “Chicken” more.

Hence I did my time on this.

That’s the fearsome Bobs roller coaster. The ultimate of clattering, super jet speed terror.

It was considered especially cool to ride it back-to-back.

Doing this was a badge of courage and I just couldn’t let the team down.

I would gulp, and fake smile and pray that it would soon be over.

(All the time trying to look cute and alluring to the poor sixteen year old Aramis-drenched swain who had just forked over his entire month’s allowance to show me a good Chicago time.)

In the exact same daredevil vein, I would always take on the Parachute Drop.

Before you and your fella got on (this was a ride you could do as a team) you had to take off your shoes.

This was ostensibly to protect the heads of passers-by.

Dutifully, we New Trier kids would kick off our Weejuns and penny loafers into a nice preppy pile and then manfully, with our hearts in our lily-livered mouths, we would make that looong, slooow ascent up the tower.

And then…

Whump!

We would be plunged to earth faster than the Mercury Astronauts.

And just at the last minute…

The chute would stop and sway about one foot from the ground.

I’d jump off laughing- all the time praying that my head and guts would eventually meet up and make friends again before the car ride home.

I was real good at faking it.

Ex Husband Alert: don’t even THINK about commenting.

What I did like -without faking it- was this.

That’s a swan boat and it was going through the Tunnel of Love at just my speed.

(For decorum’s sake, I will not be discussing the guys who got a little carried away in the dark and went for bases other than first. You know who you are.)

Now here’s a good look back at Riverview.

Save me some cotton candy and let me at that “Guess Your Age” geek.

I’ll let Freddy “Boom Boom” Cannon have the last word.

Different state

Same state of mind.

Posted in Chicago, Childhood, Dating, Nostalgia | 20 Comments

Danny Boy

Posted on June 9, 2016 by Ellen Ross

These are my friends, Danny and Karen Lee.

I met them in a galaxy long ago and far away at an opening of Return of The Jedi in 1983.

I’ve already explained why I so adore the Lees. If you don’t already know them, read about them in my post called Angel Face.

But if you’re lazy, let me sum it up. They are terrific, generous menschy human beings- and they have both been very kind to me.

When I needed the name and contact number for Mickey Mantle’s agent, it was Danny who got the info for me.

When I wanted to go to the Grammys, Danny instantly fixed that up, too.

When I needed sponsorship for my television show in Aspen, Karen generously underwrote several episodes.

And when I had a terrible ski accident in Aspen- on Danny’s birthday in January- it was the Lees who made sure that Nick and I got home safely four days later. Danny even left his own party to come to the hospital and make sure I got checked in. Delirious and not making too much sense, I didn’t remember my spouse’s social security number. If it wasn’t for his intervention, I’d still be laying on that gurney.

Whenever I asked for anything, they always said “Sure.”

And they are not just nice to me. Ask anyone who knows them.

They have two adorable daughters- Sarna and Jessica- and five beloved grandchildren.

And now the Lee family needs our help.

Ten years ago, Danny had cancer. Esophageal cancer. That’s a rough one but he made it.

But he didn’t get off scot-free.

The life-giving chemo slowly destroyed his kidneys. And now he’s on dialysis three days a week.

Forever.

I know the pluses and minuses of dialysis only too well. My dad was on it for nine years, and even though that machine saved his life, it took a huge toll on all the rest of him.

It hurt to be hooked up. I hated to see my stoic and uncomplaining father wince and cry out in pain whenever they attached the ports. Sometimes he’d faint after the treatment. And it slowly siphoned off some of the oxygen to his brain cells, as well.

Like I said, I am NOT whining. We got nine extra great years with my dad and I’m grateful for the genius who invented that wonder machine.

But…

It’s a real trade off and not what you’d wish for anybody. Three hours a day tied to a machine that only partially cleans your blood?

Not a walk in the park.

I’d like to help Danny find a better way.

It’s called a living kidney donor and we’re all on the look out for this altruistic white knight.

Danny is type O+ and that’s what he needs to meet his match. (He can take an O Negative kidney, too. Anyone with a blood type O is an eligible donor.)

(Don’t look at me. I’m A+. I found this out in 1969 when my fiancé and I went to get a marriage license. Back in the day, you had to take a blood test. Billy and I took it at his GP’s office in Glencoe. He walked out with the results. “Well, you did it again;” he grinned. “Got a better grade than me. You’re A+ and I’m B+.)

But even though I can’t donate, there just might someone out there who can.

Interested in helping? Read all about the process here.

My heart is achin’ for you, Mr. Lee.

Fingers crossed, my friend.

Posted in Friends, Kidney donation, Tributes | 8 Comments

Now and Then

Posted on June 5, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Hi, Dear Readers. It’s great to be back. Hope you had a wonderful holiday. I sure did.

One of the reasons is right here…

The blurry photograph that graces (?) today’s post was probably taken circa 1962. From left to right that’s Judy K., Ellen W. and yours truly, Ellen R.

AKA “The Girls in the ‘Hood.

Author’s Note: Ouch, right? That middy blouse! The babushka (very Queen Elizabeth II, I must say.) Those bobby sox. Not our finest hour. I think Judy and Ellen would agree with me here.

We all grew up on the same block on the North Shore. Ellen W. lived at 814. Ellen R. lived right next door at 810, Judy K. lived a few houses to the left of Ellen W at 824.

We were all the same age and we all went to the Avoca School.

We had started there in first grade and we finished – along with a class of 80 other kids- in eighth grade in 1963.

Then we three went on to New Trier- along with 1198 other freshmen. And Judy and Ellen were no longer in my immediate social sphere. I had made new friends from faraway places like Glencoe and Kenilworth and I didn’t hang out with the girls on the block any more.

They did the same.

Four years flew by, and in 1967, I graduated and Life took me down a road that wound from Madison, Wisconsin to New Orleans to Baltimore to Florence, Italy to Winnetka to Aspen and back to Chicago.

Ellen stayed mostly local and suburban.

Judy divides her time between Albany, the Boston area and Naples, Florida.

My path had crossed with Ellen’s in a chance meeting at Northbrook Court a couple of years ago. Read all about it- and her- in the post entitled “MTM.”

Ellen and Judy had stayed in touch over the years and had seen each other. But I hadn’t seen Judy since 1963.

Until last Sunday.

Judy was coming in for a great-aunt’s 100th birthday celebration. I was scheduled to be in Boston meeting my new granddaughter over Memorial Day and wasn’t going to be able to catch up with the other two. I was disappointed. So were Ellen and Judy.

Then Fate contrived to bring us together.

Judy’s great aunt had a health scare that almost cancelled the party and her reason to come to Chicago.

Then Natasha had Caroline a week earlier than she had let on (she knew she was having a Caesarian section but she had cagily led me to believe that it was going to be the week after she actually was scheduled. She didn’t want me worrying and on a “countdown” subconsciously. This was a merciful move on her part.)

Then, happily, Judy’s great aunt recovered, I went to Boston the weekend before Memorial Day and thus it was that last Sunday, we three found ourselves at a Hampton Inn in Skokie laughing, crying a little and hugging a lot.

What can three former neighbors have to talk about after fifty-three years?

Everything.

We covered every topic from granddaughters- we each have one- to the time we caught Geoff Davenport alone on the Avoca playground and beat him up.

We discussed Girl Scouts Troop 110 and jump rope and bullying and Ernie Palmer’s Private Movie Row and who had the best collection of board games and, sadly, who from our little class had passed away.

We also discussed our mothers (who we all now physically resemble, heaven help us) and our brothers and sisters.

We laughed about all the awful amateur theatricals we put on for the neighborhood. These little plays were terrible but that didn’t stop us from shamelessly charging admission to the poor locals whom we had press-ganged into coming to watch us.

(My mother would later mercifully go around and return everyone’s dime or quarter after she witnessed our utter chutzpah- and compete lack of talent.)

Judy only had an hour and a half to spare us before she had to leave for the birthday party. Before we could touch on the joys and pitfalls of Red Rover, Dodgeball and Tetherball, it was time to go.

More hugging ensued- along with sworn promises to stay in touch and do it all over again.

ATTENTION AVOCA KIDS CLASS OF 1963: Judy, Ellen and I are thinking an Avoca Reunion tied in next year’s New Trier Class of ’67 fiftieth Reunion. If we can get thirty old grads to show up at Hackney’s, we think it will be super fun. Please contact me here.

Recipe: Take childhood friends, add old memories, mix in a ton of laughter, add a pinch of tears. Let simmer fifty-three years and this is what you get…

Hope to see you at Hackneys in 2017, gang.

With love from 824, 814 and 810.

PS. I’ll bring the jacks.

Posted in Avoca School, Childhood, Nostalgia, The 60's, Wilmette | 12 Comments

Pop!

Posted on May 19, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Cheers, Dear Readers! I’m off to Boston to celebrate the birth of my new granddaughter, Caroline Blair. I know you’ll understand when I tell you that this is my last post until Sunday, June 5. See you all after Memorial Day. Have a wonderful holiday.

And now to the business at hand…

By now, I’m sure that most of you are aware that I don’t drink. My favorite tipple is Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale- when I can get it.

And Diet Coke when I can’t.

I’ve always been a teetotaler. Just never liked the taste of alcohol.

(Or water for that matter. In fact, I feel exactly the same way about water that W.C. Fields did. Watch this to see why.)

But there is one exception to my “No Booze” rule. And what a magnificent exception it is, n’est-ce pas?

Voilà!

Champagne.

From Dom Pérignon- le père of all bubbles- to Moët and Chandon, Pommery, Heidsieck, Perrier-Jouet, Pol Roger, Tattinger, Roederer or Krug, I’ll gladly lift up a flute any time, any place, one is offered.

I can’t remember exactly where and when I first had the bubbles tickle my nose. But I do remember exactly where and when I became a fan.

It was in Aspen in 1996 at the private dining room of the Little Nell Hotel.

Caroline Krug- of the famous Krug Champagne family- was hosting an elegant dinner. With a different vintage Krug Champagne accompanying every course.

From the hors d’oeuvres to le dessert, each plat was enhanced by a fabulous Champagne chosen by Mlle. Krug elle-même.

Each time I sampled a new offering, I’d swoon and exclaim “That’s my favorite one!”

Until we got to the pink Champagne.

Ooh la la!

It tasted exactly like this. (And it made me feel just like her.)

I’ve been a devotee ever since.

So when I moved into this apartment in September of 2013, the very first thing I did was hie myself to Binny’s and buy a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

I looked forward to the day when I could celebrate and share that bottle with a very special someone.

Malheureusement, I never found him.

That gorgeous bottle languished in my fridge until December of 2014.

And then I gave it to my emergency dentist.

(To see why, read all about it here.)

Follow Up Appointment Sidebar: Chris had been darling and subsequently made house calls gluing in the temporary that had fallen out.

Twice.

And after the last session when he had brought the cotton and glue and floss and instruments from his office in Glenview to my apartment in Lakeview, I wanted to thank him.

“Do you like Champagne?” I asked.

“Not really,” he admitted. “But my wife sure does.”

I gave him the Veuve.

“Happy New Year,” I said.

I never replaced that bottle.

And then, someone brought me something.

Things are looking rosy, mes amis.

À bientôt.

Posted in Aspen, Champagne, Dating, Restaurants, Uncategorized | 6 Comments

Check It Out!

Posted on May 15, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Wow! A LOT has happened since my last post, Dear Readers. On Monday, May 9, as my plane from Seattle was pushing back from the gate, my phone started ringing. I looked around for an angry stewardess and when I didn’t spot one, I grabbed it.

It was my son-in-law, Zach, in Boston. And he announced the birth of my granddaughter, Caroline Blair Tofias at 8:26 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.

I’m over the moon and thrilled to report that all 7 pounds and 2 ounces and 19 inches of sweet Caroline- and her mother Natasha Leigh- are doing just swell.

What a great way to end a fabulous Mother’s Day trip.

Now help me celebrate by singing along in her honor.

Very thrilling. But let’s go back a couple of weeks……

I fainted in the Jewel check out line.

Yep. Passed out cold- propped up by the bottom of the shopping cart in front of me and the shopping cart directly behind me and a wall of some kind behind me.

Here’s how I got there…

I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies.

This, in itself, is a milestone of sorts. I haven’t baked anything since I left Colorado.

I checked out my pantry but I already knew what I would find.

Nada.

When you don’t have a sweet tooth and care more about the Chanel suit than the brownie, trust me. You’re not going to have cookie fixin’s in the larder. I haven’t had sugar in this house…um… ever. And I’ve lived here almost three years.

I also didn’t have flour, eggs, baking soda, chocolate chips, a sifter, cookie sheets or cooling racks.

(I did have brown sugar left over from a bar-be-cue sauce I had made last summer.)

I made a quick phone call to a neighbor.

“Can I borrow cookie sheets and cooling racks? I have to bake cookies and I don’t have any equipment.”

“Sure,” she said willingly. “I’ll drop them off with your doorman. Let me try one when you’re done.’

Check.

Then, with a list on my phone, a spring in my step and a song in my heart (“Tell Mama” by Etta James) I set off for the Jewel.

As I walked, I thought.

About the Good. (The reason I was baking cookies in the first place.)

The Bad. (The Hawks had just lost to St. Louis and were out of the Stanley Cup hunt.)

And the Ugly. (My mother’s latest cage match with the people at Rehab. Don’t ask.)

And before you could say, “Semi-sweet,” I was in the store.

I grabbed a cart and leisurely made my way up and down the aisles.

In no time, I had everything on my list and I proceeded to the check out lane.

That’s when the trouble started.

In front of me was a little old lady in her 80’s who really was having problems checking her groceries out.

“Oh, dear. Where did I put my checkbook? How much is it? Oh, no, I left my checks at home. I’ve never done that before. Where’s my credit card? How do you put it in? What’s that beeping? I want $50. Wait, do I pull it out?”

And the check out gal wasn’t having the best day, either.

“This is the first day we’re using the chip reader, Ma’am.” she said. “I’ll get that for you.”

Over and over again the clerk tried to punch in numbers but she was having as much trouble as the befuddled little old lady.

At first, I was exasperated. I had $30 clutched in my hand and I was ready to go.

But this transaction was taking FOREVER and there was no end in sight.

I turned to the little old lady behind me and said sotto voce, ” I think this is going to be awhile.”

She nodded in sympathetic agreement.

But suddenly my exasperation disappeared. I still wished they would hurry up but for an entirely different reason.

The room was spinning, I was getting hot, my head was swirling, it was getting dark…

“I don’t feel so good,” I announced to no one in particular.

And boom.

I woke up to two Jewel employees saying, “Are you alright? What’s your name, Ma’am? We need to call an ambulance,”

That did it.

I sure didn’t want to end up in some Chicago hospital emergency room all day.

“No ambulance. Don’t call an ambulance. I’m okay.”

“We’ve got to call, Ma’am. It’s the law. You’re on the floor,” explained the sweet Jewel lady manager.

“Get me up,” I commanded.

And so the two of them lifted me off the floor and carried me to a nearby bench.

I still had my money clutched in my hand.

“Here’s thirty dollars,” I weakly whispered to the kind lady manager. “Check me out.”

She took the money and brought me back a bottle of water.

“Drink this,” she said. “You’ll feel better.”

Then she went away again and came back with my change.

“Here’s your receipt,” she said. “You’re all checked out. And your groceries are sitting there until you feel better. Don’t worry. We’ll bring them to you when you ready.”

And she handed me thirty-two cents and two Monopoly cards.

Wow! How’s the for “The Price is Right?” I nailed it with my $30.

(This was pure fluke. I never know what anything costs in a supermarket. I just got lucky.)

At long last, I left the Jewel and started to walk back home. But the bags weighed a zillion pounds and I felt like I had been run over by a Sherman tank. I barely had enough energy to cross the street and hail a cab.

The cab driver was sweet and solicitous when I told him what had happened.

He carefully drove me. And offered to carry my groceries to the the front door. Luckily, our door man came rushing out when he saw the cab and I shoved the bags at him as I dragged my weak ass to the elevator.

I was feeling so crummy that I spent the next two days sleeping it off.

Wow. That was NOT fun.

But don’t feel sorry for me.

Feel sorry for the old lady in line behind me.

BTW, The cookies turned out great. And Caroline, I’m baking you and your mom another batch today.

See you soon.

Love, Gran

Posted in Cooking, food, pop culture | 10 Comments