Letter From Elba

Young in Heart

Posted on March 29, 2015 by Ellen Ross

I was driving southbound down Green Bay Road in Hubbard Woods the other day. On my left I saw a large picture window in a building that looked like a charming, life-size doll house.

Out of habit, I expected to see mannequins wearing the latest in cool teen-aged girl fashions. But as the window whizzed by, I caught a glimpse of bicycles instead.

Much to my chagrin.

When I got home, I double checked on the Internet.

Alas, it was too true. The store Young in Heart had been replaced by a bike shop.

Another piece of my childhood iconography gone.

But not forgotten.

I had started shopping there when I was twelve. Back then it was on the west side of Green Bay Road.

And I remember the very first things I bought. A turquoise blue, sleeveless dressy dress and a navy and white tweed, box-pleated suit with a red sleeveless turtle neck to go underneath.

Both outfits were for Teddy Marcus’s bar mitzvah. (Memorable indeed because our school only had two of these events. Forrest Tatel had the other one.)

Memorable, too, because my mother had correctly bought the suit for me to wear to the temple service in the morning and the dressy dress to wear to the party that night.

But came the day and my arms looked so pitifully skinny in that sleeveless dress and the red turtleneck seemed so flattering, that much to her annoyance, I wore the outfits the other way around.

(With a white cardigan to cover that awful bare arms thing.)

Only the beginning of my relationship with Young in Heart- and clothing arguments with my mother.

I intended to make this post a glowing tribute to that store and the beautiful, stylish woman who owned it- Essie Novick. But because she ran a store that specialized in clothing for teenaged girls, it’s hard to leave to leave the mother-daughter dynamic at the dressing room door.

As a regulation North Shore teenager, I loved all the preppy clothing- Villager, John Meyer of Norwich, Lanz.

I loved smock dresses, kilts, round collar blouses and madras bermuda shorts and knee socks.

And I would shop at stores like Betty’s of Winnetka and Trooping The Colour to get them.

But for special occasions like prom, we’d always go to Young in Heart.

And that prom dress shopping could lead to some very serious warfare. The darling little shop became the scene of many a mother-daughter fight-to-the-death clothing cage match.

That’s because the would-be prom dress was always:

1. Too short

2. Too long

3. Too high

4. Too low

5. Too young

6. Too old

7. Too cheap

8. Too expensive

9. Too babyish

10. Too sophisticated

11. Not black

12. Black

And later, when I was a step-mother of teenaged girls myself, I saw that very same cycle continue.

If I loved the dress, my step-daughter Patti would HATE it.

But we were not alone in this eternal struggle. Patti actually went to to work at Young in Heart while she was in high school, and she assured me that this battle of color, hem and neck lines was par for the generational course.

Essie and her stable of patient, motherly saleswomen would be close at hand to tactfully advise, bring kleenex when sobbing broke out, (“I’m so fat. I hate the way I look in this!” was a common wail.) and to gently head Mom off when they felt she was on the wrong “no sale” track.

This took great diplomatic skill, an enormous wellspring of common sense, and a killer “closer” instinct.

For the record, here is what a typical prom dress looked like back in my day.

I think I had something pretty darn close to that my junior year.

And here’s what they’re showing for Prom 2015.

I don’t see those doing too well in my old neighborhood, but times have certainly changed since I didn’t want to show my skinny bare arms.

And when I became the mother of a teenaged girl myself, Young in Heart was still there for us.

Natasha went to St. George’s School in Newport, Rhode Island, and although they didn’t have a prom, they did have a dance. She came home from school her third form year excited to be asked.

And in need of a formal dress.

Off to YIH we went.

The old pros steered her to the dressy dress section and skillfully helped her choose five or six numbers. I sat in the “mom’s” chair outside the dressing room and tried not to be too judgmental.

She would try on a dress, sail out of the dressing room and give me a look.

See the list above numbers 1-12 for most of the objections.

Finally we narrowed it down to two contenders- a beautiful burnished copper-colored panne velvet one.

And some black thing.

Natasha looked charming in the copper one. It went with her skin tone and fit her to a teenaged tee. Perfect.

But it wasn’t black.

And she was afraid that she wouldn’t look sophisticated enough in any other color.

(Yes, at fourteen this was a big concern of hers.)

We argued- albeit politely- but to no avail.

I was sure of my taste and choice.

Natasha would not be moved. It was the black dress or nothing.

I knew my daughter. She meant it.

With a sigh, I told her she could buy the black one. But then an inspiration hit me.

“Look, Natasha, I won’t see you in the dress on the night of the dance in any case. Just put on the bronze one again and waltz around in it for a minute. That way I will picture you wearing it the night of the dance.”

She was happy to comply, and wearing the bronze velvet dress, she whirled and smiled and gave me a picture of teenaged bliss and beauty that I still carry to this day.

It might not have been reality but it sure was lovely.

Thanks, Young in Heart.

And next time I drive past that bike shop on Green Bay Road, I’m going to look a little harder and see Villager in the window instead.

Posted in Fashion, Memoir, pop culture, Winnetka | 19 Comments

Bafflegate

Posted on March 26, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Definition of baffle gate: A gate that permits passage in one direction only.

I must confess that since I moved back to Chicago, I don’t ride the subway/El very much. I find it claustrophobic. And I’m not all that keen on getting better acquainted with some of its more colorful clientele, either.

On the other hand, my brother Kenny feels that it has its place in city life. He frequently uses it and he has talked me into riding it on occasion.

Every once in a very blue moon, I can be coaxed on it. For an outing to Wrigley Field, for instance. But in the main, I am allergic to the El and I leave it strictly alone.

That’s because these Kenny-inspired trips are inevitably nightmares of waiting, slow progress and often no progress.

One afternoon last summer, Kenny coerced me into take a trip on the Purple Line. I had to get to Evanston, and he talked me into going to the Wellington Street station.

(I had wanted to Uber to the Ravenswood train stop, and from there, take the Northwestern train to Evanston. But Kenny was obdurate when he heard this plan.)

“Take the El, Ellen. It’s so much faster than your way. And you won’t have to wait as long.”

Wrong.

I was forced to wait for the next train- alongside an impatient CTA official- for nearly an hour and a half. And when the El did finally show up, it kept stopping. And when the train was actually moving, it was doing less than two miles an hour.

It reminded me of this.

This was so frustrating that I was sorely temped to jump out and just walk to my stop.

But my tale of mass transit woe didn’t deter Kenny. And when the right opportunity presents itself, he jumps on without a moment’s hesitation.

At least he tries to…

Notes From The Underground

A few weeks ago, Kenny went to his dentist in downtown Chicago. When his appointment was finished, he went to Uber home.

But Uber was having a surge.

Uber Sidebar: If you’re not familiar with the joys of Uber, read this. But as reasonable as their regular pricing is, a surge can make your trip double or triple the cost.

Forget that.

So Kenny ducked into the subway.

Since he didn’t have his Ventra card with him, he needed to buy a one way ticket.

As he approached the ticket vending machine, he was hailed by- in Kenny’s words- a bum who was hanging around the machine.

“Hey, man, how ya doing? Can I help you with that?” said the bum helpfully.

“No, that’s ok. I don’t have my card so I’m going to have to buy a one way ride.”

“I can help you out with that, man. Follow me,” said the bum waving Kenny away from the ticket machine.

WTF (?!?!)

Stranger Danger Sidebar: Would you follow this guy to a second location? Kenny did.

(Luckily for me or I wouldn’t have a post today.)

The bum led Kenny to the turnstile where he brandished a CTA Ventra pass. As he gallantly charged Kenny’s ride on what was undoubtedly a fake or stolen card, Kenny tossed him two bucks.

“Thanks. Go buy yourself a cup of coffee,” said Kenny as he passed through the iron arms.

Kenny saved a quarter and the bum got some spending cash.

So I guess it was a win win.

(Except if you’re Metra.)

Now let’s just hope Kenny’s life of petty crime doesn’t end him up here.

Bummer.

Posted in Chicago, Movies, pop culture | 12 Comments

The Casting Couch

Posted on March 22, 2015 by Ellen Ross

I was watching The Forsyte Saga on Netflix the other night. Not the original with Eric Porter and Kenneth More. The newer one with Damian Lewis as Soames and Gina McKee as Irene.

I was struck by the fact that the casting director for that version had obviously never read John Galsworthy. Much is made in the books about the dark hair of Soames and the golden, color of “feuille morte” of Irene’s locks.

And yet in this remake, the two leads have switched hair colors.

This is a travesty, and it was only the beginning of the license the screenwriters took with this venerable property. I found it unwatchable.

Which is the long way around to today’s topic.

Perfect movie casting.

Every once in a blue moon, Hollywood (or the BBC) gets it just right and the actors who portray iconic roles look exactly how I have always pictured them. It’s so wonderful when a movie character looks just they way I thought they should. Let’s salute some of the great pair-ups, shall we?

Any talk about movie casting has to begin with the greatest publicity stunt in all of Hollywood’s fabled history.

The search for Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with The Wind.

Every actress from Katherine Hepburn to Paulette Goddard wanted the plum role of Margaret Mitchell’s spirited heroine. And producer David O. Selznick duly tested them all.

But luckily for us he held out for an “unknown.” And as the famous story would have it, at the eleventh hour, against the backdrop of the back lot “burning of Atlanta” scene, his brother Myron appeared out of nowhere with the most beautiful woman in the world at his side.

Her gorgeous face profiled against the flames, Myron triumphantly announced to his brother, “Hello, genius. Meet your Scarlett.”

A pretty story. But true or Hollywood-hype nonsense, Vivien Leigh was born to play her. A perfect casting match.

Can you imagine anyone else in the role?

Fiddle dee dee. Of course not.

Clark Gable as Rhett Butler? Perfect- but the public cast him. The casting of Vivien Leigh made that movie for me. She looked exactly the way I had pictured her- only much more beautiful. No one could have imagined her perfection of face.

Another beloved childhood book of mine that also did a great job in the casting department?

To Kill A Mockingbird.

Again, Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch and Mary Badham as Scout matched the characters in my imagination to a tee. Btw, Mary was a real example of an “unknown” getting a plum leading role. Prior to Mockingbird, she had never acted before.

(To Kill A Mockingbird also marked the screen debut of illustrious actor Robert Duvall as Boo Radley. A great example of using an unknown actor to bring that factor of “otherness” to a role.)

Peck and Badham both got well-deserved Academy Award nominations. Greg won for “Best Actor.” Mary didn’t.

But who cares? Her enchanting little face has been indelibly grafted onto Scout’s whenever I re-read the book. And that’s immortality to me.

Now let’s take the case of a not-so-perfect father figure. Humbert Humbert in Lolita. Nabokov’s genius, and his way with a word, pun and puzzle can not brought out on screen. But Stanley Kubrick and his casting director James Liggat did me a very great service when they hired on James Mason as Hum and Shelley Winters as blowsy, brainless Charlotte Haze.

This was a stroke of casting genius. And a very brave performance on the part of Miss Winters, I may add. Her character is ridiculed so mercilessly in both the book and the movie that only a terrific actress without the usual preening ego would have dared played her.

Staying on the other side of the pond, leave it to the Brits to come up with the perfect casting in EVERY role for my beloved Brideshead Revisited.

This series that first ran in 1981 was more or less written by the brilliant John Mortimer (who had the good sense to let Evelyn Waugh’s haunting prose strictly alone) directed by Charles Sturridge, and cast to perfection by clever Doreen Jones.

She started out with a bang by casting Anthony Andrews (with whom I had been smitten ever since seeing him on Upstairs, Downstairs) as Lord Sebastian Flyte.

But then she outdid herself and gave me the perfect Charles Ryder- Jeremy Irons. His world-weary thrilling voice lent the perfect element to his role as narrator, too.

But every role was cast to perfection in this saga. Clare Bloom as Lady Marchmain, Laurence Olivier (!) as Lord Marchmain, the elegant Stéphane Audran as Cara, Phoebe Nichols as Lady Cordelia and the beauteous Diana Quick as Lady Julia Marchmain.

This to me will be the zenith of fleshing out the literary roles with great, great actors.

Oxford played Oxford. Castle Howard did a noble job of standing in for Brideshead Castle, and Aloysius the teddy bear adorably played himself.

(Here’s my Aloysius, btw. I told you I love this book.)

Another BBC import that did right by me? Their two outstanding re-tellings of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and Smiley’s People.

As a rabid John Le Carré fan, I had worshipped the character of cuckolded spy chaser and saviour of the Circus, George Smiley. He’s portrayed vividly as harried, donnish, put upon, forever polishing his spectacles with the end of a nondescript tie. The most unlikely spy in Christendom. The very un-James Bond.

Portly, rotund, out-of-shape- these are descriptors Le Carré uses over and over again in his books.

And yet when I saw Alec Guinness in the part, I was caught hook, line and sinker.

Somehow, without being overweight at all, Guinness perfectly captures the essence of the man. A mild, clerk-like manner that hides a whip-smart intellect, and all the while balancing a sense of duty and honor with the heartbreaking realization of betrayal and loss of innocence.

Bless you, casting director. You also were wise enough to throw in the likes of Ian Richardson, Patrick Stewart, Beryl Reid, Michael Jayston, Ian Bannen and Siân Phillips as the chronically-unfaithful Ann Smiley into the cloak and dagger mix.

Let’s end on an American note, shall we?

Very American.

As in Larry McMurtry’s The Last Picture Show. I loved this book. (Ok, not not as much as Lonesome Dove, but there are few books I love as much as Lonesome Dove. That’s a whole other post, pardner.)

Casting Director Ross Brown did a stellar job when he filled small town Texas with the likes of Timothy Bottoms, Jeff Bridges, Cloris Leachman, Eileen Brennan, Ellen Burstyn and Ben Johnson.

But it was director Peter Bogdanovich who found his Jacy- Cybill Shepherd- on the cover of a magazine.

A beauty contest winner from Memphis, Cybill had never acted before. Yet by luck, design or clever direction, she perfectly embodied heartless teenage vamp, Jacy Farrow

Even Larry McMurtry himself fell under her spell. He declared her the perfect blonde siren of his teenaged dreams.

Now my time on the casting couch is up but Aloyisus is telling me to let him show off a bit.

Naughty bear.

Posted in books, Movies, pop culture, Television | 14 Comments

Mensch

Posted on March 19, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Are you lucky enough to know Lou Magor? Superb musician, Northwestern graduate, Camp Ojibwa counselor and music director, music teacher, organist, twenty-five year Seattle transplant and co-choir director for the Wilson Sisters of Heart.

And guiding light and compère at Kenyon Hall– a vintage music hall located in West Seattle.

By age six, Lou’s piano-playing prowess had made him the toast of Auburn, Nebraska. And he’s been capturing people’s ears and affections ever since.

I “inherited” him from my brother Kenny. Their paths had crossed in Eagle River, Wisconsin. Lou had been the music director at beloved Camp Ojibwa.

And although Lou’s travels took him far from the Midwest- first to San Francisco and then on to Seattle- he and Kenny had kept in touch over these many years.

Kenny saw Lou out there. Lou saw Kenny when he was here. And they both spent time together up at camp last summer.

Back Story Sidebar: If you missed last Sunday’s post, Sleepless in Seattle, I have just returned from a flying visit to the Emerald City. Home of Amazon, Microsoft, Starbucks, and now my son Nick.

When Kenny heard that Nick was moving to Seattle, the first thing he said to me was, “He’s got to meet Lou. He’s the greatest guy and he will be a nice resource if Nick has any questions. And he’s wired into the art scene there. I know Missy should meet him, too.”

“Do you think he would bother with Nick? He sounds busy,” I said.

“I’ll shoot him an email.”

Within ten minutes Kenny had forwarded on Lou’s (very) kind email graciously offering help to in any way he could.

And when Lou found out that I was going to be there for a quick visit, he extended a wonderful invitation for us to be his guests at Kenyon Hall’s Saturday night show.

With dinner thrown in afterward.

How nice was that?

I emailed our eager acceptance right away.

Just for the heck of it, I checked the website to see what band would headline that night. Some very big names play that venue, and I was excited to tell Nick who we would be seeing on his very first Saturday night in Seattle.

Heart? Alice in Chains? Death Cab For Cutie? The Foo Fighters? Eddie Vedder? Kenny Loggins? Macklemore? Mudhoney?

Not exactly.

The music we were going to hear was Klezmer.

And the band that was scheduled to appear that night?

The Klezmer Balabustas.***

Oy.

***For the Yiddish-impaired amongst you (which includes Nick) the word “Klezmer” means “musician.” And “balabusta” is kind of an untranslatable word that means “busy, bustling, very competent hausfrau.”

This genre of music- mostly handed down aurally from generation to generation- was almost wiped out by the Holocaust. It usually features a clarinet, an accordion, maybe a violin or two.

It always drives me crazy.

I think of it as Jewish Hillbilly music and it drives me right up the Wailing Wall.

Sorry, Klezmer lovers. I try hard to positive about most things but Klezmer affects me like chalk on a blackboard. It sets my teeth on edge.

I did not tell Nick. He was happy to check out the venue. He’s a bass guitarist in his (non-existent) spare time and he’s always up for a jam.

I did not want to prejudice him.

Now, have I mentioned that I had never actually met Lou in the flesh? I had heard about him for years from Kenny but we had never been in the same city at the same time. Saturday night would be our first-ever face time.

Per his emailed instructions, promptly at 7:20 Nick and I presented ourselves at Kenyon Hall.

“There are tickets waiting for us,” I told the lovely lady ticket-taker at the front of the house. “The name is Ross.”

She scanned a list and handed us

“Just give these to the gentleman. He’ll show you to your table,” she said helpfully.

Further up the aisle, a man was waiting with programs.

I duly forked over the comps and said, “The table is under the name of Ross.”

“Would it be this Ellen Ross?” asked the usher as he handed me a photograph.

I was shocked into speechlessness for a nano-second by Kenny’s covert black photo op. But I recovered quickly.

“Yes, that would be me. I was twelve and that blouse was green,” I added for extra verisimilitude. “Hi, Lou.”

“Kenny said you could take it,” he grinned.

“Yep, I definitely can take it,” I agreed.

“Yes, she can take it,” Nick concurred. “I’m Nick,” he added, as he thrust out his hand.

“Welcome to Seattle, Nick. You just got here, I’m told,” Lou said.

“Yes, this is my first Saturday night in Seattle. I’m happy to be here,” said Nick.

Lou showed us to the best table in the house, handed us our programs, and said,”I’m going to have to get back to my emcee duties. I’ll see you after. Enjoy the show.”

And he took off.

As Nick scoped out the cute quaint music hall, I thought now might be a good time to go over what Klezmer music was- and wasn’t.

I gave him the broad strokes but then the Balabustas launched into their program and I didn’t have say too much more.

An hour later, they were taking their bows and we started looking for Lou.

Little did we know there was more to come.

The Balabustas were just the opening act. Now came the intermission.

And Lou was the star of that show.

First he played a ditty or two at the beautiful pipe organ. I particularly enjoyed “Tea For Two” à la Spike Jones- complete with catcalls, wolf whistles, cymbals crashing- all the zany noises that versatile instrument could make.

Then he did schtick as the boss of the raffle.

“As he just moved to Seattle, I’d like to ask Nick Ross to come up here and play. Come sit at the organ,” Lou commanded.

There was a stunned silence as Nick smiled sheepishly, looked around desperately for another Nick Ross to stand up, realized that Lou was drafting him into the show, and then with no way out, he stood up and manfully mounted the stage and took his place on the organ bench.

All to the the wild applause of the Kenyon Hall Regulars to whom this was a time-honored- and amusing- tradition.

Then Lou took center stage and asked for a young volunteer from the audience to pull the winning raffle ticket from the hat.

“Nick, when I give you the signal, you hit the ‘drumroll’ button,” Lou instructed his new assistant. “And when I give you the second signal, go into the ‘cymbal crash.'”

Nick nodded gamely but he looked a tad lost. The audience was eating it up, but I knew that the musician in my son didn’t want to goof it up- even if it was all in fun.

The first young volunteer who came up- a little girl about six- started to cry under the glare of the spotlight. Lou chivalrously sent her back to her mother and called for a braver volunteer.

A young boy now took her place. His mother explained that he’d been coming to Kenyon Hall since he was one.

He gamely stood on a chair, stuck his hand in the hat, Lou gave Nick the signal, Nick the hit the button, Lou gave the “kill” gesture…

And Nick missed it.

He was so intent on hitting the right button that he wasn’t watching Lou.

Big mistake.

One should always watch the music director.

Lou was not pleased.

The audience roared.

“We’re just going to have to try it again, Nick,” said Leonard Bernstein Magor.

This time he had Nick’s undivided attention, and when Lou’s choir director hand motioned the cut-off, Nick was ready for him with a triumphant cymbal crash.

Ta da!

Intermission ended with a bang, Nick gratefully returned to his seat, and Kesselgarden Klezmer Band took over.

They were terrific. Carl on clarinet and Laurie on the accordion. And could they wail.

They were a mitzvah to my ears. They almost made me a convert to the gospel according to Klezmer.

They ended the evening on a genuinely high minor note, and then per Lou’s request, Nick and I made our way to Endolyne Joe’s and reserved a table in the bar for four- Lou, his aide-de-camp, the lovely ticket-taker Geri Cooper, and us.

We had a ball, but as it neared midnight Lou suddenly called a halt to the festivities.

“I have to get up for choir practice in a few hours,” he remembered.

The four of us said our goodbyes. As she hugged me, Geri graciously offered her assistance if ever we needed anything in Seattle.

A memorable first Saturday night for the new kid in town, I’d say.

Thanks, Lou.

And in the words of Cole Porter,

You’re The Top.

Now check out the maestro at work in rehearsal.

And here’s the performance that inspired the tour. Note Yo Yo Ma rocking to Heart. He’s into them.

You will be, too.

Hit it.

Posted in Music, pop culture, Seattle, Travel | 14 Comments

Sleepless in Seattle

Posted on March 15, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Photograph by Kevin Gibson)

I’m back, Dear Readers. And this post marks a milestone.

It’s my 250th.

First, I’d like to thank all of you. Some of you have been here from Day One. And some of you have just joined the party. Either way, I couldn’t have written Letter From Elba without you.

And now I want to draw your attention to a new feature of the blog. I have added a search box to the homepage. This was mostly to help me locate “classic” posts when I need to rerun one, but it’s for you, too. You can type in your name, a post title, or a keyword, and up will pop the appropriate post.

So thank you from the bottom of my blogger’s heart- and on with Post 250.

My son Nick makes apps for mobile devices. His company is headquartered in Chicago, and as long as he comes in for meetings one week every month, he can work remote.

Which means that he can live anywhere that has a good airport.

Neat, huh?

So he and his wife, Missy- a ballerina turned personal trainer- put their cute heads together and went on a nationwide search for a home town that would make them both happy.

Long story short, Nick moved to Seattle.

He flew there March 1 to take possession of their house. Missy was to follow a week later with her father Danny driving Nick’s car, her grandfather piloting Missy’s car on a more leisurely course, and Lucy, the Blue Tick Coonhound, supervising the ride.

The moving van with all their earthly possessions was due anytime between March 3-13.

Got all that? Good.

Now it’s not my usual m.o. to pay a visit to anyone who’s just moved. But I had never been to Seattle and I was anxious to see where Nick would be billeted. All I knew about the town was that Frasier lived there.

“Are you sure you want to come out now, Dude?” Nick asked worriedly. “The house is empty. I’m sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag.”

“Yep, I’m sure. It sounds like fun. And this way we can explore Seattle together. And if your stuff gets there when I’m there, I’ll help you unpack.”

“Ok, but you’d better bring a suitcase. You’re going to have to sleep on an air bed, so you’ll need a pillow, sheets, a blanket, bubble bath, I don’t know, um, everything,” Nick instructed.

“No problemo, honey.”

So I grabbed the biggest suitcase I had and packed my bedroom.

And off to Seattle I flew.

It wasn’t at all what I had expected.

To begin with, I kept picturing a cold, gloomy, gray wasteland.

Wrong.

My first reality check came when I checked my weather app. Seattle weather during my visit? 60 and sunny.

Huh?

Then, as my plane was coming in for the landing, I caught a glimpse of gorgeous blue water, lush green land and gleaming white mountains.

Hmmm. This looked promising.

Sea-Tac Airport was a breeze to get through, some nice guy helped me wrestle that giant suitcase off the luggage belt and, faster than you could say “Seahawks,” I was in Nick’s (rental) Jeep.

“This place looks awesome,” I beamed.

And so did he.

Our first stop was Nick’s (very empty) house. I got the grand tour- adorable neighborhood with the ferry to Vachon Island at the end of his street. Then Nick pumped up my air bed as I unpacked my gear and oohed and aahed at my view out of my/his bedroom window.

(Those are the Cascades in the distance.)

“I just need a few minutes to do some work and then we can go out, ok?” Nick asked.

Ok.

And with that we embarked on a three day, non-stop, marathon tour of Seattle and its environs.

We never stayed home. (You’d be surprised how weak the home fires burn when you don’t have a chair in the place. Well, I stand/sit corrected. Nick had one chair at his makeshift kitchen desk, but that was it.)

Nick threw me in the car and headed north. I think. (On my best day, I’m not great at orienteering, and given that this day had started at three a.m. and then throw in a four hour and forty minute plane ride, and top it all off with Dramamine, I have actually NO clue where the hell we went.)

I remember picturesque freighters in the Sound, a quick glimpse of majestic Mt. Rainier, a flying view of the Space Needle, a moment of Pike Place Market, (“That place is awesome, Dude. We’ll go back tomorrow.”) and a blurry drive-by of snazzy, downtown Seattle.

(Photograph by Fred Nachman)

And then I was snapped out of my semi-buzzed state by the sight of this.

WTF? I knew that Seattle was populated by foodies, and Microsoft guys, and coffee aficionados, but when did they attract enough Communists to erect a monument to that guy?

A quick trip to Wikipedia told all. This statue, located in the artsy Fremont neighborhood, has a fittingly-quirky back story. (BTW, Lenin is currently for sale. Asking price? $250,00. If you’re interested, read this.)

By now my stomach was experiencing a revolution of its own. Dinner seemed imperative.

And my first stop in any new city has got to be THE great hamburger.

I had gotten some very good tips from a foodie whom I had sat next to on the flight out. Nick, too, knew my bent. We compared notes, parsed Yelp carefully, weighed our burger options and ended up here.

OMG! The Red Mill. The hamburger was out of this world, the tartar sauce was so delectable I slathered it on everything, and the cornmeal-encrusted onion rings made me want to move to Seattle.

It was getting too dark to sightsee and I was losing turns. My air bed beckoned.

Air Bed Safety Tip: Brrr. It’s COLD on the floor. I awoke in the middle of the night freezing. I donned a fleece, socks, grabbed my parka to throw over my lower extremities and vowed that in the morning, I would borrow a pair of Nick’s sweat pants for Night Two.

Day Two started off here.

(Photograph by Kevin Gibson. No, he did not come on the trip. These are some of his great shots taken in July, 2013. Thank you, Kev.)

This Seattle landmark market is four floors of goodies. There’s a little bit of compulsory schlock, but for the most part, it’s filled to bursting with glorious flowers, fruits, seafood, bakeries, butcher shops, doughnut-making emporiums, Italian groceries, the works.

(Photo by KG)

(Photo by Nick Ross)

(Photo by KG)

(Photo by Nick Ross)

I exercised massive restraint and took a pass on an apple fritter the size of a frisbee. Next stop- Discovery Park.

This park was as big as Illinois and we hiked for two hours. Then we made a quick pit stop for a late lunch, changed for the evening program- more about that next Thursday- ate dinner at 11:30 and so to (air) bed.

(With Nick’s pajama bottoms on. Better, but still cold.)

On Sunday morning, the Pastry Gods took us to Bakery Nouveau. Winner of every prize in the cookbook for best bakery in the Northwest, the mere memory of their insane focaccia pizza and the sick apple tart is making me folle.

Then it was tally ho to Mercer Island and Bellevue. Both gorgeous bedroom communities. The ferry was going to be our next stop, but then Nick got a text from Missy. She, Danny and Lucy would be pulling in around four, and naturally, we wanted to be home to greet them.

It was time to wind it up, but I think you get the idea.

Seattle?

I came.

I saw.

I ate.

I loved it.

And did I tell you Nick’s house has a mother-in-law apartment?

Posted in food, Restaurants, Seattle, Travel | 19 Comments

Just My Type

Posted on March 1, 2015 by Ellen Ross

HERE I GO AGAIN. Dear Loyal Readers and New Subscribers, Forgive me. I’ll soon be off on another trip, and the exigencies of the blog can not be optimally-managed long distance. Letter From Elba will be back in your email box on Sunday, March 15. I will have much on which to report.

And if you’re lonesome- or just want to get better acquainted- there are always the archived posts. Just help yourself to an old- or shall I say “classic?”- post from the column on your right.

Thank you for your indulgence. Now back to the business at hand…

Just the other day my brother Kenny was saying he had one regret.

This was huge news to me. I seriously have never heard him regret anything before. He’s a happy-go-lucky guy.

“I wish that I had learned to be a better typist when I was in school. You know. Learned how to keyboard,” he sighed.

“Did you take typing?”

“Yeah, out in California when Mom and Dad moved there.”

The memory started to make him laugh.

“I was terrible. When I took those typing tests, I would look the teacher straight in the eye and pretend that I was really going for it. But what came out on the paper was just a bunch of meaningless letters. Garbage. Trust me. Benedict Cumberbatch couldn’t have broken the code. ”

Now I was laughing- and remembering, too.

Manual typewriters. The ding of the bell at the end of the row. Typing tests. Carbon paper. Corrasable Bond paper.

Wite-out.

It all started in summer school. New Trier High School, Winnetka, Illinois.

Before New Trier officially began in September, everyone I knew in the Avoca School eighth grade had decided to take typing. So I did, too.

It was a way to learn the layout of the school and to meet new kids from all the different feeder junior highs. Socially, a summer school typing class was de rigeur.

Uh, learning how to type was actually not all that important to me. I wasn’t going to be a secretary, after all. Why did I need to learn how to type, for pete’s sakes? When would I ever need to use it?

Ahem.

Je Ne Regrette Rien Sidebar: If I could have talked to that thirteen year old girl that was me, I would have given her two pieces of advice. One would have been to pay more attention to the typing teacher. The other…well, let’s just say it involved my very-involved love life. It’s really a moot point, though. I never would have listened to me, anyway.

But here’s that typing teacher to whom I should have lent a more attentive ear.

Mrs. Bishop. Humorless and completely uninspiring. Trying to pound the touch typing system into goofy, attention-challenged, whirling adolescent brains. What a thankless tqsk. I mean task.

I remember some of the boys in my class. I do not remember anything about typing. (But hey, between typing and Summer Chorus, I had a great pre-New Trier time.)

Tabbing back to Kenny…

“Yeah, I can only type with two fingers. And kids today learn to keyboard in kindergarten.” He sounded almost rueful.

“It’s never too late. You could take a keyboarding class now if you really wanted to,” I encouraged.

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just do what I do. It’s no big deal. I’m pretty good with my method.”

Okay, I’ll buy that. But Kenny, you’re a competitor. You always like a challenge, right?

I hereby declare a speed typing championship. The sentence:

THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG.

And here’s your competition.

(I think you’ve really got your work cut out for you, bro.)

Ready, set, type!

And no peeling. I mean peeking.

Mrs. Bishop will be watching you.

Posted in Memoir, New Trier High School, Nostalgia, pop culture | 27 Comments

Hair

Posted on February 26, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Quick Quiz:

Have you ever logged any time under the apparatus pictured above?

Have you ever used any of these?

Are empty frozen orange juice cans merely containers for the beverage from Florida to you? Or when you see them, do you automatically think “rollers?”

Does the word “spoolie” mean anything to do?

Does the phrase “hot rollers” ring a bell? Are you on speaking terms with Lady Ellen?

Do you know what these are?

If you said “yes” to any one of these questions, you must be familiar with the words “bouffant, page boy and flip.”

I’m talking about hair here.

Plenty of us gals bitterly remember the dark days of setting our hair, and sitting for hours*** under iron monsters at the beauty shop. Or just as bad, cooking under those plastic bonnet-and-hose deals of the portable, at-home models.

***I had long, thick hair. Hence, that middle roller on top would NEVER dry. When I was a pre-teen, I would have to come into the salon at eight in the morning if I wanted my hair set.

And I would still be there at six at night, as the owner/operator restlessly checked that roller all day. At the end of the day, my hair was still not dry. It was pure torture. For the hairdresser and for me.

I was doomed- and domed – to go through this hair drill for years. And there was never any time off for sloppy behavior.

Even when I was at sleep away camp, I remember setting my hair. (And there used to be a godawful photograph of me on the front of the camp brochure to prove it.)

In the Fifties, girls looked like this.

Or this.

And then one day in 1963, EVERYTHING changed for me.

In England, a genius named Vidal Sassoon had invented a haircut.

And ended a bad way of hairdressing life.

With a snip of his scissors, Mr. Sassoon cut off the need for imprisonment under the hair dryer once and for all. Suddenly there was the blow dryer, and life would be never be the same for me again.

I was free.

It was a revolution. (Like the Beatles’ mop tops- except for us girls.)

This is what he did.

That’s the glorious Nancy Kwan. And that haircut changed my universe.

It was all about the cut now.

Bye Bye, Bouffant.

Hello, 1969!

And here’s me today. I’m still all about the cut. Thank you, Jenny. You’re brill.

(No cracks about how I really look these days. Trust me. I know. And it ain’t about the hair cut.)

So bless you, Vidal. You liberated me- and every other woman of my generation.

Unless you were a “greaser’ chick. But that’s a whole other story…

See you at the beauty shop.

But not under the dryer.

Now while you’re waiting for your appointment, sit back and watch this.

Posted in Fashion, Memoir, Nostalgia, pop culture | 10 Comments

Hollywood Hunger

Posted on February 22, 2015 by Ellen Ross

It’s Oscar Night. And in honor of the Academy Awards, I thought I’d pay tribute to two things I love.

Movies, natch.

And food.

To be specific, fab foodie moments in cinematic history.

Is there anything more mouth-watering than watching a great meal lovingly prepared on film?

Maybe it’s just me, but I like these scenes much better than loves scenes.

Give me a closeup shot of a great bowl of pasta over a two shot of kissing any day.

So get out your knives and forks and let’s dig in.

Because it’s the newest on my list of great film food moments, we will prep with Chef.

Written, directed and starring Jon Favreau, it’s a fairly formulaic modern fairy tale of the rise and fall- and rise again- of a LA star chef.

Spoiler Alert: This film really pushes the envelope of credulity if you buy the premise that hot tamale Sofia Vergara would ever have married such a sad sack in the first place. Let alone take up with him again.

Nonetheless, Chef is a feel-good bagatelle. But boy, does it have a great opening scene.

Check it out.

Wow! I am as turned on as that cook top. All that sexy chopping and garlic-crushing. And later in the film, there is a scene where the chef makes a bowl of pasta for Scarlett Johansson.

That’s food porn, brother.

Spanglish, another minor movie, has a major meal moment.

Yet another superstar LA chef- this time tocqued by Adam Sandler- makes dinner for his former maid and would-be inamorata, Paz Vega.

Let’s peek in, shall we?

Look at the rapture on Paz’s beautiful face. Food is better than sex in this movie.

It’s the same in Taipei, too.

Eat, Drink, Man, Woman is a great film written and directed by the greater Ang Lee.

The food shots are so remarkable that they make me want to order a Peking Duck to fly in to my house right now.

A banquet of a movie. Heartwarming, nourishing and beautiful.

But Italian-Americans have made their bones in movie food moments, too.

The photo that heads this post is that of Brooklyn’s Grand Ticino restaurant. The restaurant no longer exists, but it starred in Norman Jewison’s bella opera della famiglia, Moonstruck. Some of the film’s most important action takes place over the minestrone here.

And Moonstruck’s food can be delizioso when it’s alla casalinga too.

Then there’s Big Night. Two brothers- Stanley Tucci and Tony Shaloub- are expecting Louis Prima to grace (and save) their failing restaurant. There is only one dish to set before this cool jazz king.

Ecco! Il Timpano!

And in Dinner Rush, Louis Cropa is the talented chef who is a not-so-talented bookie. The mob wants a piece of him- and his family’s restaurant. Although he’s on the lam, he still has the chops to wow a food critic.

Cancel the Peking Duck. I want that lobster.

And now it’s Bonjour, Paris.

Paris. The Mecca of food- and food movies.

Allons y to the Cordon Bleu, n’est-ce pas?

Let’s take another class there, d’accord?

In Haute Cuisine, Hortense Laborie is a talented cook. Much to her surprise, she is appointed personal chef to the President of the Republic.

This film is in French with subtitles. But the cooking scenes are are universally fantastique.

Voilà!

And right now on Netflix you can order in Le Chef.

This is a bijou of a film. The recipe? An old chef at war with his philistine of a boss. (See Chef for the same plot.) Mix in a new eager sous chef who wants a chance to shine. (See 42nd Street and every other “You’re just a young kid. But after tonight, you’ll be a star!” movie.) But still it’s très adorable. And the cooking scenes are only matched by the clothes.

Mon Dieu. Those Frenchwomen know how to eat and wear great clothes.

Regardez!

And then, enfin, there is the pièce de resistance. The food movie to end All food movies.

Babette’s Feast.

Stephane Audran is magnifique as a brilliant artist exiled on a bitterly-cold, barren Danish village. She works for two spinster sisters who have devoted their lives to the memory of their father- a minister to the very small flock of hardy old souls.

Babette has left everything she loves behind in France- food, wine, her fame. But one day…

Sacre Bleu! Cailles aux sarcophages! Take me out of the oven, brother. I’m done.

Ok, I’ve got to end this foodie orgy. Back to the festivities at hand.

I hereby make my Academy Award predictions.

Best Movie: Birdman

Best Director: I want to give it to Iñárritu for Birdman but I’ll award it to Boyhood’s Richard Linklater as a consolation prize.

Best Actor: Eddie Redmayne. I want so badly to see Michael Keaton win for his brave, no holds barred performance but…

Best Actress: Julianne Moore

Best Supporting Actor: J. K. Simmons

Best Supporting Actress: Patricia Arquette

Hope you like these dishes.

Now one more food clip for carryout.

You wouldn’t want to eat here, but the food looks delicious.

Ciao!

Posted in food, Movies | 26 Comments

The Kindness of Strangers

Posted on February 19, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Today’s post is dedicated to George Barany. A stranger once. Now a friend and co-conspirator in crossword puzzle crime. Happy Birthday, Doctor. CONGRATULATIONS. 15

Recently in “The Getaway” column of the Sunday New York Times, writer Stephanie Rosenbloom discussed the joys- and potential pitfalls- of traveling as a woman alone.

“When you are traveling solo, it’s not always a breeze to strike up a conversation with a stranger,” she wrote.

“It’s easy to imagine all they ways things will go badly or believe that this person doesn’t want to connect,” added Nicholas Epley, a professor of behavioral sciences at the University of Chicago.

“But if you reach out, he continued, “almost everybody reaches back.”

Here’s my story…

Getting from Point A to Point B alone these days is complicated.

Baggage can be a real drag.

I now know where the word “lug” in “luggage” comes from. OOOF. Now that I have no husband to do the heavy lifting, it’s all on me.

And I’m not a big one for checking bags.

Especially in wintertime- when last minute cancellations and equipment changes can lead to chaos at the baggage claim. All my years commuting back and forth from Aspen taught me to travel light. (And if the item is irreplaceable, wear it, carry it on or leave it at home.)

But being bag-savvy doesn’t always ward off trouble.

My last fracas with carry-on luggage did not go well.

I was booked on an United flight and had brought my Swiss Army carry-on friendly wheelie bag. This bag easily fits in the overhead compartment.

See? And so, thus equipped, I breezily wended my way through ORD.

But then came the on-boarding process.

Uh oh.

No one, let me repeat that, NO ONE helped me heft that thing into the overhead bin. And I was too short and/or the bag was too heavy for me to shove it up into the overhead by myself.

Yeah, yeah, I know I was blocking the aisle. And never mind that both Nick and Kenny had pooh poohed my earlier fears that I would have trouble getting it into the bin.

“Someone will help you, Dude/Ellen,” they had reassured me. “What are you so worried about?”

Plenty- as it turns out.

Because I struggled in vain- for what seemed liked hours- before a thoroughly-annoyed man, disgustedly shoved the bag in for me.

The memory of that contretemps has haunted my travel dreams ever since. So on my latest trip to Boston, I resolved to bring something that I could maneuver myself.

Ta da!

This attaché-sized thing was going to have to serve as my be-all end-all carry-all for five days of New England Snow-Zilla winter weather.

A challenge. But I was up for it.

As I painstakingly considered and weighed each item I wanted to pack, I knew just how Lindbergh must have felt. These shoes? Nope. Too heavy. This make up bag? No, a smaller one would do.

Sweaters. One. Turtlenecks? Wear one- and roll one. Jolly Ranchers? (A low cal oral gratification habit) A full bag of JR’s was too heavy. Half would see me through.

And a mini bag of pretzels.

Gifts for Sam and his folks? Nope. I’d Amazon them something later.

Okay. I crammed everything in. But there was one fly in the ointment.

It was HEAVY. And it had no wheels.

Well, you can’t have everything, I temporized. And I probably wouldn’t have to schlep it too far through Midway Airport.

(I hoped.)

Besides, my new Single Woman Mantra these days is “Don’t be helpless, Ellen.”

(I chant it a lot.)

Travel Day I was up, Uberred and checked in at Midway by six a.m. Boarding was a snap. The plane wasn’t too full because the horrific weather had scared off the timid and/or the smart.

I found a great up-front window seat, easily stowed my little carry-all in front of me, and prayed that the middle seat would not be taken by A. Someone with a screaming toddler. B. ANYONE.

I got my wish. I was left blissfully alone. I had the whole row to myself.

And then…

A very large shadow loomed and revealed a handsome, strapping thirty-something man. He looked like he played a lot of rugby.

“May I take this seat?” he asked politely, indicating the aisle.

“Of course. And maybe you’ll block someone else from taking the middle one,” I instantly strategized.

He laughed. “I know I’m kind of big,” he noted. “But the last time I flew, I had to sit next to a guy twice my size. He didn’t fit in the seat. It was terrible. I couldn’t move an inch.”

“I don’t think you’ll have that same problem on this flight,” I said as I reached down and pulled out the Friday Times crossword puzzle. I had my in-flight entertainment, and now I was all set for a fast, quiet ride.

But my seat mate had other ideas.

I Swear On My Kids’ Lives Sidebar: I do NOT go out of my way to make conversation with people on planes. I don’t want to bother anyone. They might want to work, or read, or relax, or just not deal with a chatty seat mate. I had my puzzle and my protocol.

But Mr. Aisle Seat had other plans. Even though I could see he had a book, he struck up a conversation.

I was more than happy to hold up my end.

He was thoughtful, funny, very congenial- the proud father of a five year daughter named Natalie and four month old twin boys. And before you start thinking “Cougar Alert!,” his wife – whom he clearly adored- was named Jess.

He lived in the Boston area and been in Chicago on business. And over the course of the flight, we talked about everything from child-rearing, to moving to a new community, to having twins snowbound by the awful Boston weather, to the latest mocha chocolate chip cake recipe (Jess is an avid baker) that I had found in the NYT.

I told him that I was going to visit my daughter Natasha (a nickname for “Natalie,” btw) and Sam- my seven month old grandson.

This led to a new conversation about baby swim class (we’re both for it) and how to ingrain good eating habits into your kids early. (Again, we’re both for it.)

Time flew by as we flew. And as we were getting ready to make our descent, he said to me,”How are you getting to where ever you’re going?”

“Sam has his first-ever swim class right now. So Natasha asked me if I would mind waiting an hour and then taking the Framingham Airport shuttle. By then, they’ll both be dry and she’ll pick me up and drive me to the hotel.”

(Honesty compels me to report that by this time, I very much wanted something from my colleague in the air. I wanted him to show me which door to use in Logan Airport to wait for that shuttle. I can get lost in my bathroom, and I’m so blind I can’t read faraway, overhead airport signs. So a nudge in the right direction would be just what the (eye) doctor ordered.)

We were landing now. This was my last chance to get the info I needed.

“I’ll tell you what. Why wait the hour? I’m going right by there. I’ll take you,” he smiled.

OMG.

“You will? Are you sure? You don’t have to do that. That’s awesome. That’s unbelievable. Okay. Let me text my daughter and tell her she doesn’t have to worry about picking me up. She can meet me at the hotel.”

I reached for my phone. There was just one thing…

“What’s your name?”

“Eric Curtis.” And he gave me his card.

I texted Natasha. “Just landed. Do not pick me up. I got a ride to the hotel. I’ll meet you there.”

I got a very quick text back: “WHO IS HE??!! HOW DO YOU KNOW HIM???!!”

(How did she know it was a “him?” Hmm.)

“My daughter is a little concerned,” I told him.

“Take a picture of my license plate and text it to her with my name,” Eric laughed.

And off we strolled. Eric had snagged a terrific parking space right across from Logan’s entrance (of paramount importance in that frigid clime) and then he reached down and carried my carry-on.

“Just like a limo,” he noted.

“Better.”

And it was.

He drove me to my hotel and Natasha pulled in right behind us.

Perfect.

Sometimes the universe throws you an unexpected bouquet.

Thanks, Eric.

And next time you’re in Chicago, the town’s on me.

By the way, did you just hear a bell?”

Posted in pop culture, Travel | 7 Comments

Granny Redux by Sam Tofias

Posted on February 15, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Good morning Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea. Let’s go to press. This is Sam Tofias, cub reporter age seven months, reporting in from Boston. And I want to tell you all about my granny’s latest visit here.

ICYMI: Boston has been slammed with snow. My very first winter here, and it’s like Syracuse or Rochester. I’ve been up to my neck in the white stuff.

See what I mean? Our weather has been a disaster. But my granny was intrepid- just like Admiral Byrd. She flew straight into the blizzard just to see me.

And did we have fun. Did you know that my granny wears sunglasses indoors and red paint on her fingernails? I thought this last was pretty cool. I couldn’t stop staring at them. And, boy is she funny! I laughed at everything she said.***

(***Don’t tell my gran- I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings- but this isn’t exactly true. I chuckle and giggle at just about everything these days. Teething issues aside, that’s just how I roll. I’m a pretty happy-go-lucky fella.)

Mom and Dad put me in charge of the itinerary. Every day, I got to decide -weather permitting- what we did.

What I wanted to do : Eat, sightsee, play, take baths, listen to stories, use my Jungle Jumparoo and cruise around in the car.

What I didn’t want to do: Nap.

Granny was game for anything, btw. (And I give her an “A” for story-reading, and she’s a great audience for my jumping in the Jumparoo. However she got kind of a fail when it came to carrying me around. But since I weigh almost the same as she does, I’ll give her a pass.)

Oh, I forgot. Some of you might not know what a Jumparoo is. It’s awesome.

It makes cool animal sounds- lions roaring and elephants trumpeting- and I bounce and bounce. It never gets old. Granny says it’s good for my legs, too. She knows a future snowboarder when she sees one.

Anyway, when I deigned to stop jumping, I decided it was time for a little culture. So I bundled everyone into the car and we headed to the Museum of Fine Arts.

The MFA was swell. Lots of great old stuff here. Gran loved all the chinoiserie furniture.

And I thought I saw her trying to pry a very small Mondrian off the wall to take home with her.

Here we are at Gainsborough’s famous portrait of Mrs. Sarah Siddons. She was world-renowned actress, and every year, Granny’s home town of Chicago gives out an award named after her. I explained all of this to Gran- as you can see below.

Fashion Note: You will notice that Granny is wearing a Bogner parka and faux fur hat indoors. She never took them off. Not even in my house. Granny has the metabolism and heating system of a lizard and she is always cold.

After a great lunch in the MFA’s New American Café, I was getting a tad restless. Time for a car ride so Granny could admire the snowy New England scenery and Mom could get a milk shake for dessert. We made a quick pit stop at Shack Shake. (I know Mom loves them, but $5 for a shake? Come on. I thought I was in Pulp Fiction.)

Then it was time for home, another Jumparoo session, a bath with all my attendants and three of my favorite story books before bedtime.

(Where The Wild Things Are was too scary for Gran, so she read Llama, Llama instead.)

The rest of the visit was pretty much more of the same. Eating, driving, jumping, laughing. It’s a tough agenda, but somebody has to do it.

But before you could say “snow melt,” my gran had to go. Flights were being cancelled right and left, and the governor was calling for a ban on any non-essential workers coming into Boston. We heard that the T and the buses were going to stop running, too. So I made an executive decision and Granny’s trip was cut short.

Off to the airport we went- with a stop at Flour first, of course. Mom loves their pecan rolls.

My granny’s visit was short but sweet. Btw, she’s getting pretty good at this grandmother gig. She laughs at all my jokes, and even kissed me once or twice- when she thought no one was looking. It’s sappy but I’m used to it. My mom never stops kissing me!

That’s it from your roving reporter. I feel a Jumparoo session coming on.

And so with baby lotions of love, this is your Boston correspondent, Sam Tofias, who knows that all the lights on Commonwealth Avenue are never as bright as the candle in the window when you come home.

Posted in Art, Boston, Grandparents, Memoir, pop culture, Restaurants, Travel | 20 Comments