while the cat's away...(m)

Remember the trip to Maine a week or so ago?  Before I left, I shopped and put all the food away.  The boys had plenty of options.  Fruit, vegetables, meat, chicken, turkey slices, peanut butter, bread, etc, etc.

So, imagine my surprise when I pick up a copy of the town newspaper and see my two sons' photos in there...with the manager of a local eatery. 

The caption reads: Theo's Pizzeria store manager Dante Georgio makes subs for Harrison (on the right) and Sam (on the left) to take home to their father for supper while their mother is away.

Note the wording.  While their mother is away. Is it me or does the headline imply that the mother abandoned her family to fend for themselves?  And, by the way, where is the mother?  Betty Ford? 

disappointing clams (lyn)

So tonight is the night I have planned to eat fried clams.  It’ll be my second time this year (the other time was when I was here in June) and my last until next summer.  We are going to Bobby Burns (that’s a restaurant) in Mashpee because we have first-hand experience that the clams are good there.

“Dress warmly,” my mother tells us, “you know it’s always cold in there.”  I wear a hooded sweater and jeans.

We convince my mother to leave on the late side, 6:45.  My father has become agreeable to anything we want to do.  Tonight it’s just my parents, Alexander and me. 

We arrive at Bobby Burns and there are people, lots of them, mulling around outside.  Not a good sign.  We go in and are told that the wait is about an hour.  I think my parents would be okay eating at 8, but the long wait is not okay.  We go through the short list of other options.  First, it must be a restaurant that is not very popular (i.e. not that good) or it would be crowded too.  Next, it can’t be too far away (which isn’t really a problem since there are many restaurants in the area, just not a lot of good ones).  And finally, it has to appeal to two senior citizens, a teen-ager, and a person on a quest for good fried clams.  We settle on The Parrot, described on their website as a “restaurant where everyone feels welcome and the staff is smiling.”  Nothing about their food.

We get to the restaurant and it’s filled with a handful of people.  Good sign for us.  But bad sign in general, since every other place else in town appears to be mobbed with the leftover people from the road race.  We are seated immediately, but not in a preferred booth as those are taken. 

It’s a small family-owned restaurant with a bar.  Every so often the quiet of the restaurant is interrupted with a loud cheer from the bar area over some sports event on TV.  It unnerves my dad, as does the single older women who is eating alone with a book and taking up a whole booth.  The special of the day is fried clams.  We interrogate the poor young and attentive waitress on their quality.  “How’s the batter?”  “Do they have bellies?”  “Have you tried them?”  “Are they fresh?”  All our questions are answered in the affirmative, and so my parents and I order them; Alexander goes with a burger.

The clams arrive on top of a large plate of fries (I give the fries to Alexander,  my cole slaw to my dad, and eat all the clams).   I think they are over-cooked.  My mom “likes them that way.  I don’t like them squishy.”  My dad is easy to please.  “They’re fine.” 

Next year I’ll stick with the clams at Bobby Burns; I just won’t go on the Sunday of the Falmouth Road Race.

family wedding (m)

Wake up on Saturday.  The day of my cousin's daughter's wedding is finally here.  I have obsessed over what to wear for weeks.  Should I go with the Kleins outfit (Ann Klein skirt, Calvin Klein beaded top) or the blue Donna Karan that I've had significantly altered (taken in, shortened, shoulder pads removed, new navy beaded top underneath)? I opt for the latter as I'm not yet ready to "branch out" and this outfit makes me feel safe.  The wedding is black tie optional and my husband wears a tux.

I have been assigned pick-up for The Golden Girls...my mother and Aunts X and Y.  My husband will breeze in on his own in his Lexus convertible.  I get the Lexus SUV (151,000 miles) cleaned since that will fit all of them and their gear (canes, walkers, step stool, cooler for water "just in case").  Got my hair cut, colored and baliaged. I get a manicure and pedicure at 11 a.m. so it will be fresh for the 4 p.m. nuptials.  But first, I stop at a jewelry store and buy myself a pair of earrings that I have been thinking about for two years.  I'm almost halfway to my weight loss goal and this is my interim reward. I would wait a little longer until I actually hit the mid-way point except it's tax-free weekend and I plan to wear them to the wedding.

I'm all showered, dressed, made up, and bejeweled (just the earrings and my wedding ring) by 2 p.m. and head to my mother's house.  She's half-dressed by the time I get there.  Why aren't you ready? I ask.  "I can't decide what to wear," she says.  It's 2:30 p.m.....the wedding is at 4 p.m. in Boston and we have to load up the aunts at 3 p.m.  I'm a little stressed.  I comb out her hair (I set it the night before) and "paint" her face (as she calls it).  I've brought pearls for her to wear, choose an outfit, find some pearl clip ons and stick them on her ears.  She looks in the mirror.  "I look like Rose Kennedy," she says.  I tell her to get in the car.

Next stop, the aunts' house.  They are ready and waiting; the sun reflecting off their sequined outfits almost blinds me.  Aunt Y is wearing black earrings that look like a stripper's tassels.

My oldest brother calls me on my cell phone.  He's waiting at the church to "help unload them."  I pull up curbside and drop them off.  I park two blocks away and enter the church...sweaty, knees creaking.

The ceremony was beautiful.  The bride was stunning.  Petite, tight, fitted gown, simple tulle veil.  Understated and elegant.

The reception was at The Taj in Boston, formerly the Ritz Carlton.  No handicap access.  Getting the elders up to the second floor did me in.  Got to the top of the stairs, sat them at a table, got them some food and drink and gulped a glass of champagne in one sip.  Then another.  Now, I'm ready to party.  Had Greek yogurt and blueberries for breakfast and a Vitamuffin for lunch.  Had selected the Chilean Sea Bass, so I thought I was in good shape, points-wise for the day.

Then came the appetizers.

First...a spring roll.  Greasy, just okay, not worth the points (whatever they may be).
Then...lamb on a stick.  Passed on this.  Looked Medieval.
Then...scallops wrapped in bacon.  Easy decision to say "no" as I'm allergic to scallops.

So far, I've got two glasses of champagne and a spring roll to worry about.

Then I ran into Cousin Patty.  "Have you tried that Beef Wellington??? Oh, my God.  It's Unreal!"

I turn around and there's a server with a tray of them.  I try one.  It's incredible.  Everyone was talking about them.  Seriously.  They were that good.  Little puff pastries with a hot, flaky crust and tender beef inside.  Could be the most perfect food I've had in a while. I'm consumed with regret.

They announce dinner at 7 p.m.  A 15-piece orchestra is playing in the reception room. Three singers.  They are outstanding but deafeningly loud. 

Sit down next to Cousin Patty.  My brother Phil is there and had a little too much to drink.  My mother is glaring at him.  I'm stressed and immediately grab a dinner roll.  A voice in my head tells me to stop but I tell the voice to shut up.  I eat the bread.  Now I have to count that stupid roll.

The band is playing great dance songs.  Phil gets up to dance with his wife.  Does three dances.  She's whipped by the time she comes back to the table.  He turns to me.  Oh, Chr-st.  I get up and dance with him.  He's like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and keeps traveling towards the front of the stage like a moth to a flame. After 3 songs, dinner is served.  Thankfully.

The sea bass was exquisite.  Really, the best fish I've ever had.  People are raving about the tenderloin, too. 

The music starts again.  I dance with my husband.  In the middle of the dance floor are all my cousins and I have a flashback to the late 1960s/early 1970s when we used to go to dances together down the Cape.  People are changing partners, women are dancing with women.  Men are dancing by themselves, Phil is still heading towards the front of the stage, arms flailing.  I couldn't stop laughing.  Cousin Ree is dancing, all 300 pounds of her, in a black chiffon sleeveless dress.  She looked like some goddess...empowered and radiant.  We ended up in a group hug.  I look over at my table...even my mother is laughing...forgetting the open heart surgery that may be ahead of her.  Cousin Patty is entertaining the entire table. 

It's a beautiful thing.

The cake didn't get served until almost 11 p.m., one hour after the coffee.  I took a bite of the frosting and pushed the plate aside.

Who wants to eat when they are having this much fun?

ellie (lyn)

My parent’s cat, Gracie, died last February.  While no one else was a big fan of this aloof Abyssinia, my parents adored her.  They were particularly in awe of her intelligence, beauty, and agility, and missed her terribly.

A few months ago, my sister Jean found them a replacement.  A six-month old grey cat, with the markings of a Russian Blue.  She arrived with the name Ellie, and it stuck.

Jim, Jean’s husband, nicknamed her Knock-Off, because she looks like a Russian Blue but isn’t.  And while Ellie is very pretty, she does not share Gracie’s gracefulness, or for that matter, her intelligence.  On the positive side, Ellie is much friendlier than Gracie ever was.  She doesn’t run away when approached, and even likes to be held.  But she has a dark side.

Sally is sitting on the sofa with Ellie nestled up against her.  Sally is petting her; the cat seems happy.  Her purring confirms this.  Suddenly, Ellie rears up on her back legs, and scratches Sally.   Cuts through the skin, even.  Last time I was here Ellie did something similar to me.  But she didn’t scratch me.  No, this sweet cat instead bit my face.  Totally unprovoked.

If Gracie’s mantra was, “She’s so smart,” Ellie’s has become, “She’s only playing.”  My parents must know that Ellie’s behavior is a little strange, but they excuse it by suggesting she likes to play.

Aside from her episodes of surprise biting and scratching, Ellie is a docile cat.  She will flop in your arms.  She will nestle beside you.  She will sleep in your bed. But she is a little crazy.

Around 9:30 every night Ellie will take off.  For no apparent reason, she’ll zoom from room to room on a wild chase to nowhere.  She will leap from sofa to chair to fireplace mantle (sometimes falling in the process).  The other night she knocked over a lamp, breaking the bulb, while trying to catch a fly.  Alexander warns, “don’t look into her eyes.”  Normally this is not a problem, but when she’s in her crazy state, you don’t want to be caught  staring at her.

Tonight Sally, Alexander and I are having dinner at Cynthia and Elizabeth’s house.  Before leaving, Alexander wants to move Ellie from the sunroom to the inside house so she lifts her up.  Normally Ellie wouldn’t care.  Tonight she does.  She growls in a loud, menacing voice we’ve not heard before.   She can be scary.

But my parents love this playful cat.  So we will accept her crazy, manic ways.

knowing math (lyn)

I haven’t been to a WeightWatchers meeting since I was in Chicago.  Since then, I’ve been on vacation from tracking.  I’ve not even thought of going to a meeting.  In fact, my plan was to return to New York on the 22nd, track for a week, and then go.

I wake up this morning around 8 and surprise myself by deciding to run over to the local Saturday meeting, just for weigh-in.  It may ruin the rest of my vacation, but I want to know.  I've gone from weighing myself every morning to not weighing myself now for two weeks.


I forget my socks, can’t find my ww book, and don’t have my lifetime membership card with me.  I get to the meeting and tell the grim faced weigh-in person  that I’ve forgotten my socks.  In New York, they wouldn’t care, but here, in North Falmouth, they do.  You can’t step on the scale without them.   “You have two choices,” the weigh-in person named Kathy says.  “You can take off your shoes and I’ll weigh them separately first.”  Okay, I think, and wait for Option Two to be described, except that Kathy has stopped talking and is awaiting my decision.    So I assume that my other choice is to weigh-in without shoes.  So I say, “Okay, I don’t care.  I’ll just weigh-in with my shoes off.”  “You can’t do that,” she admonishes me.  Maybe option two is to skip weigh-in entirely, but since this is the only reason I’ve come, I go with the first option.

Kathy weighs my sandals.  “Three-quarters of a pound,” she says aloud.  Then she asks me what my goal weight is, as I cannot exceed it by more than two pounds in order to maintain my lifetime status.

Now I’m getting nervous.  I think my goal weight was 124.  Or maybe it was 126.  Is it possible that I’ve gained that much since the 118.2 I weighed on August 1 in Chicago?

Still unsmiling, Kathy hands me a piece of paper and says, “We are not allowed to say anyone’s weight out loud.”  This place really follows the rules.

I look at the paper.  It says 118.8.  I’m shocked and happy, say thank you and leave.

But now I wonder if she subtracted the shoe-weight correctly, or did she deduct the .75 for the shoe weight as 7.5 pounds?  I can only hope that Kathy’s good in math.

after-dinner drama (lyn)

My mother invites Cynthia and her 17-year old daughter (Elizabeth) for dinner.  They arrive with  a plate of chocolate-layered cake surrounded by mini éclairs.  Dinner is chicken, mixed vegetables, cranberry sauce, and orzo.  I eat everything, but skip Cynthia’s dessert in favor of cut-up watermelon. 

After dinner, the 3 teen-aged kids (Alexander, Sally and Elizabeth) want to drive over to Woods Hole.  The parents don’t want them too.  It’s dark.  The Cape roads are unlit.  It’s a Friday night.  Lots of traffic.  And it’s the weekend of the Falmouth Road Race.  An extra 12,000 people are here just to run the race.  That means more drunk drivers  than usual.   The kids don’t understand why the parents don’t want them going.  But being the parents, the kids have to concede, though not without a valiant fight.

I wish they were still young enough to be appeased with a trip out for ice-cream.  Unfortunately, moose tracks in a large cone is no longer good enough!

not like me (lyn)

The day starts like many here. 

Around noon, I pack my lunch.  Usually a half sub from Dean’s, 15 Pringle-light chips, some grapes, and ice tea.  I check to see that there are enough chairs and beach towels in the golf cart, assure my mother that Alexander knows what he’s having for lunch and that she needn’t worry about his food, promise that I'll wear a hat, put on suntan lotion, get in the golf cart and go.

Today is hot and sunny.  I arrive at the beach and even before I have a chance to eat my lunch, my friend Barbara beckons me over and says, “I have something for you to do.  See that guy over there, go tell him there’s no smoking on the beach.”  I ask her why I’ve been elected for this job and she tells me that I’m more gutsy than she is.  I decline (I mean really, I don’t even live here).  But the guy is bothersome.  He’s a guest too (no one recognizes him). He’s sprawled spread-eagle-like, listening to his iPhone, and smoking a cigar.  The slight wind is enough to transport his smoke up the small beach. 

Barbara decides to tell him.  But instead of being diplomatic, she charges over to him and yells, “Hey.  There’s no smoking on the beach.”  He unplugs his earbuds, looks at her, puts the earbuds back on, and continues to smoke. An argument ensues.  A rather loud argument.  His attempt at an insult is, “I bet you’re from Massachusetts.”  Another woman nearby joins in.  Also without diplomacy.  “Why are you being such an a-hole?  There are young kids on this beach.  You shouldn’t smoke.”  I decide to join in as well, but with a new tact.  One uncharacteristic of me.   I walk over and in my sweetest voice say, “You know sir, we really can smell the smoke from your cigar halfway up the beach.  I know we’d all really appreciate it if you could put it out.”  He looks at me and says, quite nicely, ”For you, I will.  For them (meaning Barbara and the woman who called him an a-hole), I’d light another one.”

I’m usually the one who needs a mediator.  Just not today.