… So four years ago, I was a member of a class action suit. Publishers Hachette, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, Macmillan and Penguin had settled several antitrust lawsuits about ebook prices that had been deemed too high. Because I had bought many books on Kindle, I was entitled to a credit.
I had been awarded about $300 as my share in the settlement.
Sweet.
A nice little windfall.
But I had a question. Could I spend it on any ebook my little heart desired or did I have to buy ebooks published only by these errant publishing houses?
The official communication from Amazon did not address this issue. And I could find no further clarification anywhere on the internet.
I had to go Old School.
I called Amazon.
My call to the Help Line was answered promptly and in a pleasant Anglo-Indian accent. I was pretty sure that I had reached a call center in India.
“Amit” was terrific. He answered my question immediately. (Don’t ask what he said, however. The next bit drove all the other recollections of this call clean out of my mind.)
And then he said, “I see by your information that you live in Chicago, Illinois. Is that correct, Mrs. Ross?”
“I do, ” I assented. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Mumbai, India,” Amir confirmed my educated guess.
“And I have to ask you a question, if you don’t mind,” he continued. “Would you happen to be related to a gentleman named Bill Ross? He, too, lives in Chicago.”
“Well,” I started- as my head began swimming. “Ross is a pretty common name here. I’m not really sure…”
“He belongs to BLANK BLANK Country Club,” Amit added helpfully.
I was flabbergasted. Mumbai has a population of 18.41 million people.
The Earth has a population of 7,632,819,325 at the latest count.
My luck. I had to call Amazon and get the one guy in India who knows my ex.
“Yeah, you could say I’m related to him. How do you know him?”
“I worked at the club last summer and I met him there. He was a very pleasant gentleman. Be sure and send him my regards when next you speak with him.”
“Will do,” I promised.
And I will.
The next time I speak with him.
And I won’t be in touch with you, Dear Readers, until Sunday, July 1. I’ve got friends coming in from out of town and I can not be a good hostess and a good blogger at the same time. Please forgive me and hang in there.
This is a portrait of our dad, Ben Roffe. It was drawn in 1940 by his bosom buddy, Bay Kaufman and he would have been twenty-one years old.
Before Pearl Harbor.
Before he met our mother.
Before he dreamt of me or my brother, Kenny.
He was quite a guy, and today on Father’s Day, Dear Readers, I wanted to share a fond memory with you.
Do you know the AA parable about the Eskimo?
It seems that a man was trapped in a blinding snow storm in the Arctic. He had to abandon his vehicle and start to make an impossible trek in the frigid temperatures and thick snow to find shelter.
As he fought his way through the terrible blizzard he called upon the Lord to save him.
He recounted this tale to his spell-bound audience.
“I called out to the Lord to rescue me and I got no answer,” he said. “I prayed and prayed as hard as I could but the snow never stopped and my path wasn’t miraculously cleared. I promised that I would never again doubt the existence of the Lord if He would just save me.”
“But no matter how hard I prayed, nothing happened. And that’s why I don’t believe in the Almighty.”
“Well, what finally saved you?” asked one of his audience.
“Aw, all of a sudden, some Eskimo showed up and dog-sledded me to camp.”
I’ve always love this story and it struck home one day about six years ago.
Not in the Arctic, though.
In Highland Park.
You see at the end of his life, my dad was confined to a bed and a wheelchair. Four years of dialysis had beaten the crap out of him and he was too weak to walk any more.
Even though he has a weird look on his face in this photo, my dad never complained. He accepted his lot with grace and humor and always felt that he was the luckiest guy on earth.
He never asked for anything- except hot sauce. He didn’t like the bland nursing home food and thus Kenny and I had to make sure his supply never ran out.
And we never did.
But Kenny and I also had to take him to his dentist in Highland Park.
Trust me. This was a two person job.
One to drive and park. One to get the patient to the dentist office.
Kenny was the designated driver. I was charged with getting Dad up to the dentist’s office where we could them somehow maneuver him out of the wheel chair and into the dental chair.
His dentist was located here. Port Clinton in downtown Highland Park.
And as you can see, the little mall has many levels.
But we had taken him there before and Kenny wasn’t worried by the logistics.
“I’ll drop you off and you get him up to the office. I’ll park and meet you up there,” he directed.
“Roger, will do,” I replied as we both struggled to help him out of Kenny’s SUV and into the chair.
And then Kenny took off.
Except that he somehow had dropped me at the wrong end of the mall and there were NO ELEVATORS.
Just steps. Like five of them
It might as well have been K2.
For the life of me, I could not figure out how to get Dad and his chair up the steps that led to the landing. But as I was reaching for my phone to S.O.S. Kenny, a man appeared.
He looked just like this.
“Can I be of help?” he asked politely.
“I can’t get my dad up these steps,” I said tearfully. “And I don’t want him to miss his appointment.”
“No problem,” he said with a smile.
And he effortlessly lifted my dad- and the wheelchair – up the steps.
I was grateful. And my dad enjoyed the ride.
So on this Father’s Day, Dear Readers, I wish you all a very joyous holiday.
And blessings from the Almighty who sends you just the right Eskimo when you need him the most.
And now a clip of one of the best daddy/daughter movies of all time…
This post is dedicated to the memory of Anthony Bourdain. A fellow writer and one cool cat. He always knew how- and when- to swear. RIP, man. We will miss your honesty.
When I was a kid, I never swore. I was blessed with a father who abhorred foul language. He was such a puritan that he even detested the phrase “Shut Up!” and forbade us from ever using it.
His strongest curse words were “son of a buck” or “son of a beehive.” I can never remember him using “damn” or “hell,” either.
He influenced by example- and I wanted his approbation, as well. Throw in the fact that I was a conscientious little prig of a bluestocking who honestly believed that she would go to H-E-Double Hockey Sticks if she ever uttered a “swear” and you’ve got a picture of my convent-approved vocabulary all the way through my college years.
Back in the day, I wouldn’t have dreamed of cursing.
But somewhere along the line, as an adult, the prude in me faded away.
And suddenly, my vocabulary got saltier, richer and much more descriptive with the addition of profanity.
I downright LOVE to curse. It just feels so exactly right. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t swear indiscriminately. I’m careful- most of the time.
But sometimes the only right word is the F word and I’ve just got to use it.
WTF, NO F#$%ing Way, That’s So F@#*ed Up.
All terrfic expressions.
And remember the old canard about swear words being the sign of a poor vocabulary?
Sorry, but I’ve just got to call B.S. on that, man.
I have an enormous vocabulary. I am never at a loss for le mot juste.
But sometimes, merde is juste the right mot.
Quelle shocking, n’est-ce pas?
Nothing makes the point better than some of the choice words I was forbidden to say.
I do have some foul mouth ground rules.
No swearing in front of the kiddies.
No cursing in front of the elderly.
No bad language in front of strangers.
Two-Faced Sidebar: I have to say that, sometimes, the people who act the most shocked at bad language usually have the most unseemly skeletons in their own closets. I know a few people who recoil in horror at the “F” word and yet have no trouble with sketchy behavior. Not using “bad language” is no guarantee of a Good Samaritan, trust me.
So here’s to using every word- be it blue, bad or salty- if it suits the ocassion.
And Dear Readers, please don’t be offended when I say that I f&%*ing love you guys.
Now here’s another G.D. genius.
(You may want to cover your ears- but not your mind.)
…So the other night TBF was reminiscing about a day he spent playing hookey when he was about sixteen.
His story reminded me of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off– if Ferris had grown up in Pittsburgh and had been more of a bad ass.
As TBF recounted the tale of that long ago skipped day of high school- and back stories of his teenage co-conspirators- a grin as big as the Ritz spread across his face.
“That was a great day,” he concluded.
“It sure sounded like it was. Maybe the best day ever,” I agreed.
And that got me thinking.
What was my best day ever?
And that got me thinking about that wonderful 1991 buddy movie, City Slickers.
Remember that famous scene where Daniel Stern, Billy Crystal and Bruno Kirby talk about their “best” and “worst” days?
Paging Dr. Freud Sidebar: When I watched it again, I noticed that each “best” day somehow revolved around each guy’s father. It was written by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel and I’m willing to take their word that fathers play the most vital role in most boys’ psychological narratives.
But that inside info didn’t help me much. My dad was a great guy and all but as I ran through my memory bank of most memorable days, he just didn’t figure in my “best” and “worst” scenarios at all.
Maybe it is just a “guy” thing.
Anyway back to the main event….
There certainly were a lot of great days in my life. (Not counting the days my children were born. “Too easy”- as Phil in City Slickers ruled.)
There was the day that the Chicago Tribune called and told me that they were going to run a piece I had sent them in their “Style” section.
There was the day that I opened the Tribune at breakfast table and read me.
There was the day that the Pioneer Press called and said that I had beaten out all the other applicants and that the new column was mine.
There was the day that I found our house in Winnetka. Love at first sight.
There was the day I smuggled a black standard poodle puppy home while the kids were at school. The looks of their faces when they discovered the new arrival? Classic.
The day Nick and I adopted Andy, our Scottish Terrier rescue.
These were happy days. Red letter days. Important days. Remarkable days.
But were any of them the BEST day?
I thought harder. And harder. An hour later I was still trying to come up with the best day of my life.
And then I got it.
Eureka!
The best day of my life was January 20, 1976.
That was the day that I got divorced in Chicago from the Brat from Baltimore. Whew. What a relief not to be married to that lying, cheating, two-timing crook anymore.
And that was also the day that I married Bill Ross in Las Vegas.
Yep. Divorced and married again on the same day.
You have to understand what a godsend he seemed. My parents were ecstatic. They admired Bill and his business acumen and they had given me a big thumbs up to go ahead.
They knew that Bill would love and protect and shelter me from harm. I had been saved by a white knight in a little green Mercedes and of course, I was going to live happily ever after.
Does this sign make your mouth start to water? Does it make you want to rev up your Bel Air Chevy and head on over?
If so, make room on the bench seat for me.
The warm weather is finally upon us and with it brings an uncontrollable longing for…
The Drive In.
For me it all started with Richard’s Car-Feteria. There were several outposts of this small chain, but the one my Wilmette parents always took seven year old me was on Lincoln Avenue in Lincolnwood.
I was gaga for their California Twinburger. Kind of like a Bob’s Big Boy or a Big Mac. But much, much tastier.
Check out their menu- and their prices.
(I LOVED that paper bag they served it in, too.)
Boston Burger Sidebar: I’m still a sucker for a burger gift-wrapped in paper. Although NOT a drive in, I recently dined at Tasty Burger in Cambridge, Mass. Check out the wrapper on this beauty. It’s got a little elastic “skirt” on the top and it was so cute. And the burger was old school drive in scrumptious.
But Richard’s was always a car ride away. Closer to home- and thus far more frequented- was this gem on Skokie Boulevard.
Henry’s.
This was my go-to spot whenever I could get my dad to indulge my cravings.
I loved their hamburger deluxe- complete with four strands of shredded lettuce, some faint remnants of tomato and onion and a hint of secret sauce- mayo and catsup? I also liked their cheeseburgers.
And check out their prices.
Nice!
But by junior year in high school, I was dating Jimmy and Jimmy had this.
In case you aren’t familiar with this baby, it’s a 426 Dodge Coronet- courtesy of Mr. Norm’s Grand Spaulding Dodge.
And back in 1965, if you had a muscle car, there was only one drive in for you.
Skip’s Fiesta Drive In on North Avenue in Melrose Park.
I can’t tell you anything about the food there. I don’t ever remember ordering one thing.
All we did on Friday nights was circle the parking lot – along with hundreds of others showing off their Mustangs and Corvettes and GTOs.
After high school, I headed up to Madison – and the University of Wisconsin.
And A & W.
Forget the burgers. At A&W it was all about the frosty mug of ice cold root beer.
Or the root beer float.
In 1975, my fiancé took me here.
And changed my drive in life.
I’ve already written reams of praise on the blog extolling the virtues of Superdawg. There’s only one more thing that has to be said.
But it’s not all nostalgia with me. I’m nothing if not aspirational. I always dream of visiting new and wonderful local drive ins. And I’ve got two on my bucket list right now.
JICYMI: That’s DJT and his one-time paramour- and now big headache- Stormy Daniels. Taken in happier (for him) days.
JICYHBLUAR: (Translation: Just In Case You Have Been Living Under A Rock) DJT did-or did not- give Stormy $130,000 in consideration for signing a non-disclosure agreement about their consensual (and yet still sickening) affair.
Things Change Sidebar: I’m sure at that time, $130,000 seemed like BIG bucks to the porn actress. After all, DJT wasn’t president back then and who in their right mind could see into that in the very near future he would be?
Ick. Ugh. Gross.
And up to that point, Stormy was just another bad actress who needed money so badly that she had sex with many, many men on camera.
Ick. Ugh. Gross.
But add this guy into the mix…
Ick. Ugh. Gross.
And you get a non-disclosure agreement banning Stormy from yapping about what went on beneath the sheets with DJT.
The terms “Non-disclosure Agreement” and “NDA” (which btw, I keep mixing up with “NWA”) have been screamed from every tv news portal.
Which got me thinking…
Sure, TBF and I are tight now. We like each other and respect each other and what happens between us stays between us.
For now.
But what happens to privacy and confidentiality if the relationship should end?
I have thought of a remedy.
Basic Nondisclosure Agreement
This Nondisclosure Agreement (the “Agreement”) is entered into by and between _______________ with its principal offices at _______________ (“Disclosing Party”) and _______________, located at _______________ (“Receiving Party”) for the purpose of preventing the unauthorized disclosure of Confidential Information as defined below. The parties agree to enter into a confidential relationship with respect to the disclosure of certain proprietary and confidential information (“Confidential Information”).
1. Definition of Confidential Information. For purposes of this Agreement, “Confidential Information” shall include all information or material that has or could have commercial value or other utility in the business in which Disclosing Party is engaged. If Confidential Information is in written form, the Disclosing Party shall label or stamp the materials with the word “Confidential” or some similar warning. If Confidential Information is transmitted orally, the Disclosing Party shall promptly provide a writing indicating that such oral communication constituted Confidential Information.
2. Exclusions from Confidential Information. Receiving Party’s obligations under this Agreement do not extend to information that is: (a) publicly known at the time of disclosure or subsequently becomes publicly known through no fault of the Receiving Party; (b) discovered or created by the Receiving Party before disclosure by Disclosing Party; (c) learned by the Receiving Party through legitimate means other than from the Disclosing Party or Disclosing Party’s representatives; or (d) is disclosed by Receiving Party with Disclosing Party’s prior written approval.
3. Obligations of Receiving Party. Receiving Party shall hold and maintain the Confidential Information in strictest confidence for the sole and exclusive benefit of the Disclosing Party. Receiving Party shall carefully restrict access to Confidential Information to employees, contractors, and third parties as is reasonably required and shall require those persons to sign nondisclosure restrictions at least as protective as those in this Agreement. Receiving Party shall not, without prior written approval of Disclosing Party, use for Receiving Party’s own benefit, publish, copy, or otherwise disclose to others, or permit the use by others for their benefit or to the detriment of Disclosing Party, any Confidential Information. Receiving Party shall return to Disclosing Party any and all records, notes, and other written, printed, or tangible materials in its possession pertaining to Confidential Information immediately if Disclosing Party requests it in writing.
4. Time Periods. The nondisclosure provisions of this Agreement shall survive the termination of this Agreement and Receiving Party’s duty to hold Confidential Information in confidence shall remain in effect until the Confidential Information no longer qualifies as a trade secret or until Disclosing Party sends Receiving Party written notice releasing Receiving Party from this Agreement, whichever occurs first.
5. Relationships. Nothing contained in this Agreement shall be deemed to constitute either party a partner, joint venturer or employee of the other party for any purpose.
6. Severability. If a court finds any provision of this Agreement invalid or unenforceable, the remainder of this Agreement shall be interpreted so as best to effect the intent of the parties.
7. Integration. This Agreement expresses the complete understanding of the parties with respect to the subject matter and supersedes all prior proposals, agreements, representations, and understandings. This Agreement may not be amended except in a writing signed by both parties.
8. Waiver. The failure to exercise any right provided in this Agreement shall not be a waiver of prior or subsequent rights.
This Agreement and each party’s obligations shall be binding on the representatives, assigns, and successors of such party. Each party has signed this Agreement through its authorized representative.
Disclosing Party
By: ____________________
Printed Name: ___________
Title: __________________
Dated: _________________
Receiving Party
By: ___________________
Printed Name: __________
Title: __________________
Dated: _________________
Completing the Confidentiality Agreement
In the sample agreement, the “Disclosing Party” is the person disclosing secrets, and the “Receiving Party” is the person who receives the confidential information and is obligated to keep it secret. The terms are capitalized to indicate that they should be interpreted as defined within the agreement. The sample agreement is a “one-way” (or, in legalese, “unilateral”) agreement — that is, only one party is disclosing secrets. If each side is disclosing secrets to the other, you should modify the agreement to make it a mutual (or “bilateral”) nondisclosure agreement. To do that, substitute the following paragraph for the first paragraph in the agreement.
This Nondisclosure agreement (the “Agreement”) is entered into by and between ____ [insert your name, business form, and address] and ____ [insert name, business form, and address of other person or company with whom you are exchanging information] collectively referred to as the “parties” for the purpose of preventing the unauthorized disclosure of Confidential Information as defined below. The parties agree to enter into a confidential relationship with respect to the disclosure by one or each (the “Disclosing Party”) to the other (the “Receiving Party”) of certain proprietary and confidential information (the “Confidential Information”).
Seems clear enough.
Now all I have to do is to get him to sign it.
But where can I get that $130,000?
So, Dear Readers, in the name of good cause, I’m going to start this.
I know you’ll be on board.
Thanks in advance for all your understanding and generosity.
In case you don’t recognize her, that’s the Wicked Stepmother from Walt Disney’s Cinderella.
When I saw the movie, Lady Tremaine’s cruel and unjust behavior toward poor Cinderella upset me terribly. And naturally, the word “step-mother” became a hated and feared one.
Little did I ever imagine that I would become one.
At the age of twenty-four, no less.
When Bill and I got married, I inherited his three girls.
Julie was fifteen, Patti eleven and Amy nine. And for the next twenty years, we learned how to become a new kind of family.
Patti and Amy both lived with us when they went to high school. My two kids were two years old and four months old when Patti moved in.
We went through everything together- from diaper rash and toilet-training to prom and college visits.
And I was there when the three girls- my mother used to jokingly call them “The Andrews Sisters”- got married and had their own children.
Julie had two, Patti had four and Amy had two.
This is the point where I have to mention that the girls had a mother.
A very nice mother.
Who was never out of the picture and whom the girls love with all their hearts.
I was only the step-mother, but contrary to my childhood notion of the role, I was never evil or vindictive. My step-daughters didn’t hate or fear me.
They were- and are- lovely women and they adored their little half-sister and brother right off the bat. They didn’t have to feel that way but luckily, they did.
And the five kids are close to this day.
But my relationship with them changed when Bill and I were divorced.
Sad- but to be expected.
And then, when all his five kids were adults, Bill remarried.
The less said about that the better.
But for the purposes of this post, let me state that she was married to him when Natasha had Sam and Carly and when Nick had Hendrix.
Whew.
Which brings me to this article.
Did you see it?
Ask Amy: Stepmother claims biological relationship to stepchildren
By Amy Dickinson
April 24, 2018 at 12:00 AM
Dear Amy: I have two adult sons. Their father (my ex) remarried (to “Barbara”) several years ago.
Our family has now grown to include wonderful daughters-in-laws and grandchildren.
My boys’ dad and I get along well. We celebrate holidays, events and family milestones together.
What is baffling is that, increasingly, I run into people who have been told (or led to believe) by Barbara, that our sons and grandchildren are strictly her (biological) kin.
I’ve tried handling this in various ways with the astonished people who look at me like I am crazy.
And, frankly, it feels crazy, politely explaining that these beautiful men I raised and children who I’ve rocked and loved are indeed MY children and grandchildren.
My sons and their wives correct this on their own when they are confronted with comments from people who have said they’ve “run into your mother,” or how enjoyable it was “meeting your mother” and such — when people are actually referring to their stepmother.
Barbara never had children in her previous marriages, so I assume she is unaware of the deep personal bond between mother and child. It is not for the taking.
I’ve never discussed this directly with her, but this is getting harder to take. It’s like she tries to pretend that I do not exist.
How should I handle this?
Loving and Blessed
Check out Amy’s answer:
Loving and Blessed: If “Barbara” has been on the scene since the birth of these grandchildren, then, in my opinion, she should be granted full grandmother status. There is no rule that children must have only four DNA grandparents. In my mind, the more grandmothers, the better. Bring on the Grannies!
However, I can well imagine how the denial of your role as your sons’ mother rankles — both you and them.
Your sons could handle this effectively (and kindly) by saying to their stepmother, “’Barbara,’ ” we treasure you, but we keep hearing from people you’ve met that you have introduced yourself as our mother. It would be best if you made it clear that you are our stepmother. The reason is because we have a mom who raised us — and things get really confusing later if people don’t understand that she is our mother.”
Barbara might then come to you and ask if this is a problem for you — and you should be honest and say that it is.
WHAT!!!???
I understand this woman’s frustration. After all, it’s just not TRUE. This is fake family news.
“Barbara” is not these boys’ mother nor is she their children’s grandmother.
Again, let me reiterate.
There is nothing shameful or second-rate about being a “Step.” Millions of families have them.
And what exactly does “being on the scene” have to do with anything? Grandmotherhood IS a matter of DNA- not wishful thinking.
I was “on the scene” when Julie, Patti and Amy’s kids were born. Was I ever these kids grandmother? Did the relationship end with the divorce? If I follow Amy Dickinson’s non-logic, I guess not.
It all boils down to this for me. Bill’s latest spouse has her own grandchild. She is NOT- I repeat NOT- Hendrix and Sam and Carly’s grandmother.
I’ve looked at life from both sides now and I say “Barbara”- as well-intentioned and loving to those kids she may be- still is not their grandmother.
She can love them and babysit them and attend all their sporting events and dance recitals as she and her husband desire. Kids can’t have too many interested parties in their lives.
BUT she can not pass herself off on unwary acquaintances as “Grandma.” That’s hurtful and disrespectful to the real grandparents.
What do you think, Dear Readers?
(Only step-parents and former step-parents need answer.)
Happy Memorial Day Sunday, Dear Readers! It’s great to be back from Boston to share this long holiday weekend with you.
I had a wonderful time. TBF accompanied me and together we explored Beantown from the North End to the South.
It was Graduation Weekend and Harvard and B.C. and M.I.T had all sprouted tents- and proud parents and grandparents- every place we looked.
And speaking of proud grandparents…
Sam and Carly were adorable. Happy to see us and delightfully behaved.
(They especially like TBF. He has two terrific grandkids of his own and he has put in lots of hands-on time with them. He’s a pro. So Carly and Sam both clamor for his attention. They insisted that he do everything with them- from the swing to buckling their carseats. I would have been insulted but it was too cute.)
It was great fun and over way too soon. A very nice visit. Just like the ones that I know you guys have with your children and grandchildren.
The kids were happy, Natasha was a gracious hostess and tour planner, the food was great, and despite a rainy day that prevented us from visiting Fenway and seeing a Red Sox game, I’d rate the visit a ten.
As usual.
To tell the truth, I kind of took it all for granted.
Until this item in The Boston Globe caught my eye.
So today, as we celebrate this holiday weekend with our beautiful families, let’s take a moment to count our blessings.
There are plenty of kids in America who will never know the simple pleasure of just doing this.
As you may know, Dear Readers, I love Seattle. It’s one of my favorite cities. My son and his family live there and I was just back in that neck of the Pacific North Woods to pay an early Mother’s Day visit to my eight month old grandson, Hendrix.
(Since I have been enjoined by my son from putting up any of Hendrix’s photographs, I thought you might as well enjoy an historic glimpse of the guy who inspired his name.)
And since I can’t show how adorable Hendrix was (his doctor says he has an unusual number of teeth!) I thought I’d share another highlight of my journey.
The food.
OMG.
This town is a foodie’s delight.
So loosen your belts and get ready to pull up a chair to the dining table.
This place is a veritable Aladdin’s cave disguised as a supermarket.
They have EVERYTHING a gourmand’s heart could desire. And it’s open 24/7.
They have gourmet cheese and charcuterie, olive and pickle bars, a fabulous wine shop, poke bars, soup bars, noodle bars, an unbelievable assortment of prepared hot foods, cold salads, candy and pastries to tempt the most discerning of sweet teeth.
The choices are limitless and the quality of the comestibles superb. My gang and I hit it up for lunch practically every day we were in Seattle.
We had:
Chicken salad
Cold Peanut Noodles
Soba noodles
Thai Chicken Wrap
Nasi Goreng
Cold snap Pea vinaigrette salad
Sushi
Assorted peppadew peppers, cornichons and olives
Parmesan Cheese Toast
Chocolate-covered caramel and chocolate-covered almonds
Lunch was easy. There never had to be a consensus. Everybody wanted something different and they made for their choices like homing pigeons. We would then convene on the outside deck and enjoy our picnic under azure blue Seattle skies.
Bliss.
You notice I left out the baked goods.
That’s because we’d have our just desserts at two places.
Let’s start with the fabulous- and famous- Bakery Nouveau.
Their sweets are delish…
But their savories are too die for!
They make a ham and cheese croissant that’s unbelieavble. Ditto their quiches.
And take it from this Chicago girl.
Let ’em eat pizza!
But we play fair and alternate our precious dessert time with Pike Place Bakery at Pike Place Market.
If you want apple fritters and caramel rolls and cinnamon rolls stuffed with cream cheese and chocolate chips and cookie of every description and all the size of your head- brother, this is your place.
Spoiler Alert: I just gained three pounds merely inserting these photos into this post. Proceed there the next time you’re in Seattle at your own diet’s peril.
But speaking of Pike Place Market, here’s a stand that I always try to hit up at least once during my Seattle sojourn.
This is the dive bar to end all dive bars and kind of off the beaten path in an industrial-sort of neighborhood but the food is in the same league as Beinlich’s.
My companions and I devoured:
Tavern Burger Single
A Double Cheeseburger
Pork Tenderloin Sandwich
Fish and Chips
Salmon Salad
Loaded Baked Potato
Fries
To die for.
Now you’ll have to excuse me. It’s time for me to get back on the treadmill. I’ve got one more fried prawn to work off before I head to Boston.
See you all here back on Sunday, May 27.
Now here’s some Seattle soft food porn to enjoy while I’m away.
Happy Mother’s Day, Dear Readers. It’s great to be back from Seattle to celebrate this happy occasion with you all.
In case you don’t recognize them, that’s Natasha and Nick (and a sculpture by Margot McMahon) in our back yard in 1988. Natasha was ten and Nick was eight.
That was a very happy time in my life- the golden age of motherhood for me.
The photograph put me in a nostalgic mood and so I thought I’d summon up a memory from that happy time when my kids were young and I was a full-time mom.
So now let’s all climb in the Time Machine…
My son Nick had come home from boarding school with a problem. His computer had had a bad case of conflicting extensions- causing the mouse and the keyboard to malfunction.
His CD-ROM had flatlined as well.
I was on a deadline for the Pioneer Press but I hated to see a computer suffer. So I dug out my car keys for a quick trip to the emergency room.
“I can only spare one hour, Nick!” I yelled. “Throw the computer in my trunk and let’s go!”
Nick grabbed the box- it had been packed up and shipped from his school in Rhode Island- and we made a mad dash for Computer Discount Warehouse in Buffalo Grove.
My time frame and I were both in for a shock.
I had been out of town for awhile and I had no idea that a huge summer construction project was taking place on Lake-Cook Road west of the highway exit.
It took me almost an hour to creep up the street.
Finally, CDW’s huge building loomed into sight.
I commandeered the nearest parking space, Nick grabbed the box and we tore in.
We were stopped by a polite security guard.
“Sign here, please,” he said proffering a clipboard. “And I’m going to have to open that box to verify its contents.”
“No problem,” said Nick as he signed away. “It’s my computer and I’m bringing it in for repairs.”
“It’s packed really nicely,” the guard commented casually as he slit the tape with a razor. “But what’s this?” he puzzled.
Nick and I peered in to the box.
All I could see was a cashmere shawl and some picture frames belonging to his sister, Natasha.
“There had better be a computer in there somewhere,” I said darkly.
“That’s just what I was thinking, Dude,” my son replied casually.
We both poked around in the box for a few seconds and then I had a horrible thought.
“Did you bring the wrong box?” I asked my son. The steam was beginning to rise from my head.
“Oops. Yeah, I guess I did, man. But they all looked alike. How was I supposed to know?”
I know that I gave birth to him. I know that I love him. I know that I would never let any harm befall him. I know that I had never laid a hand on him.
But when I heard ‘How was I supposed to know?’ I went berserk.
“‘How were you to know?’ You could have opened the box!” I shrieked, foaming at the mouth like a mad dog.
“Uh, I thought it was my computer. It looked like the box I packed it in and it weighs about the same. How was I supposed to know, man?”
There it was again.
I made a grab for the security guard’s gun but he was quicker than me.
I didn’t need it anyway. I could do the deed with my bare hands.
“I’m going to kill you!” I screamed.
Nick took off with me in hot pursuit. The security guard called for backup.
“I’ve got a real little lady here chasing a real big kid and the kid’s running. But I think she might catch him and I need assistance.”
Another guard answered the call and together they subdued me.
It took a couple of minutes for me to stop shaking.
It took a couple of minutes for the security guards to stop laughing.
And then they released me back into Nick’s custody.
During the ride home, Nick tried to apologize but I would have none of it. I was hot, tired and worried about my deadline and nothing he could say could restore my good humor.
Until John Harvard popped into my mind.
Yep, John Harvard. You know, the guy who founded Harvard University with a bequest of some money and his books.
The books were the foundation of the famous Widener Library which today has over thirteen million volumes.
Naturally, John Harvard’s original small library was an historical treasure.
However, one night in the late 1800’s, a fire broke out and ALL the original Harvard bequest books went up in smoke.
The loss was irreplaceable.
But a few days later, a student appeared with one book and this sole survivor of the John Harvard Library is still treasured at the university.
How did this miracle happen?
Easy. The student in question had simply neglected to return the book to library on time. It was overdue.
I smiled at my son.
Maybe the afternoon hadn’t been completely wasted.
In fact, he’s showing a real aptitude for carelessness.
I think that Nick might have a great future as a Harvard man.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Wishing you all a wonderful day- and a host of happy memories of your own.
