My brother-in-law Paul (PJ) has his own blog (homegrowncooking) and just posted a kick-ass Thai-inspired noodle dish, which got me to thinking about something I normally whip up with leftover store-bought roasted chicken and lower-sodium chicken broth. Since everything except for the vegetables is already cooked, it's actually a pretty quick hot meal.
The recipe below was adapted from one I found in Food & Wine magazine. Theirs was a simplified version of a chef-conceived Vietnamese chicken-rice soup, which was just that--chicken and rice. I wanted to make it more nutritious and interesting, so this is what I came up with.
Happy Chinese New Year, folks!
2 Tb olive or grapeseed oil
1-2 Tb each of finely chopped garlic and ginger
up to 1 Tb of Urban Accents Thai Garden spice mix (if you can get it, they don't make it anymore)--feel free to use any Asian seasoning you like
2 Tb fish sauce (or more to taste)
1 Tb sesame oil
1 c shredded, grated or julienned carrots
2 c fresh spinach leaves, washed
1/2 c chopped fresh cilantro leaves
2 c thinly sliced cooked chicken meat
6-8 c lower-sodium chicken broth
lime wedges
white or brown rice for serving
Optional:
1 small chili, finely minced
red pepper flakes
1/2 c shiitake mushrooms, reconstituted if dried, thinly sliced
2-3 finely chopped green onions
1 c snow peas, sliced thin diagonally, steamed
Heat oil in a large pot (at least 4 qt). Gently brown garlic and ginger, plus chili if using. Sprinkle Thai seasoning into pan and allow to cook for about one more minute. Add chicken broth, fish sauce, sesame oil and carrots, and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer for about ten minutes. At that time, add chicken meat and spinach; simmer until spinach is wilted, about 5-7 minutes. Take off heat and ladle into bowls over rice. Add mushrooms and snow peas, if desired; garnish with cilantro leaves and juice from lime wedges.
Note: If you're not serving this to a picky eater, you can feel free to add the mushrooms and snow peas right into the soup. If you are serving it to picky eaters, have those items in separate bowls so everyone can add them--or not. Your favorite Asian-style noodles would also make a good substitute for the rice. Those who like a richer broth can feel free to add some dry white wine, or the juices from the roasted chicken if you use a store-bought one.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Friday, December 2, 2011
I enjoy being a girl...NOT. (rant alert)
You know, in all fairness, being female isn't too bad. I mean, people don't always expect you to be the strongest or fastest, and sometimes they might think you're dumb because you're of the fair persuasion. Of course, we wily women can sometimes use those assumptions to our advantage.
I'm just one sentence in, and already, I digress. Sorry.
I'm just gonna say it: It's fun being a girl. No kidding. I mean, yeah, when I was a kid, it's true that I wanted my male cousin's toys, but maybe that was because we were so close in age, it was like being twins. I'm sure we played together on many occasions due to that fact. But overall, especially now, girls have the best and brightest toys: Barbie! Build-A-Bear Workshop! all that Disney Princess shit!
Other things in a girl's life can be pretty sweet too. We get to dress up almost as much as we want. In fact, our moms generally encourage it. They want us to be pretty, femmy, frilly. Nobody pressures us to do anything but draw, color, paint, chase butterflies, and act goofy. It's a pretty good existence for those first ten years or so.
And then comes...womanhood. (And as Greta Garbo once said in Ninotchka, "Don't make an issue of my womanhood." I frankly don't know how you can't, but whatever.)
It starts off innocuously enough. Incredible as it may seem, after all I'd been taught in health class in grade school, I was looking forward to "becoming a woman," as they liked to term it when I was a kid. Oh my God, the innocence of those days! And to think I was jealous of my younger sister, who started her period at nine (mine didn't come till I was eleven and a half). Yeah, I got over that real quick, after a couple of monthly cycles introduced me to the concept of cramps. I didn't remember any of the literature explaining about them. Lovely.
Thereafter--sparing you, my gentle readers, from the gross details--I spent at least one day every month writhing in pain in bed; on the couch; on a cot in the school nurse's office. I'm sure I was as surly as the next female teenager, but I'm equally sure that much of it had to do with monthly symptoms such as mood swings and pain, pain, pain. This pattern continued, without a break, ruining countless school days, holidays, parties, ad nauseam.
Many years later, in my 20s, I lived in a house with three other ladies. One of them was about thirty, and she complained of her PMS by telling us, "I think my body is just saying, 'Oh my God, have a baby already!' " I'm inclined to agree with her on that. I was in such intense pain one month, that, as I told my OB/GYN, it felt like someone broke my spine and put it back together in the wrong order. He just shook his head at me, not knowing what to say. I don't blame him.
Men, as sympathetic as they may be (my own wonderful husband included), just don't get it. Bless them, they can't. It's beyond them to imagine being in pain on a regular basis, on a schedule in most cases, unless it involves strenuous physical activity. But we women struggle on every month, trying our best to ignore or overcome the pain. By the time I was in college, I'd been all the way up the pain med ladder, starting with Midol (aspirin--killed my stomach), to Tylenol (kinder to my poor stomach, but ineffective), and on to prescription Anaprox (now an OTC medication known as Aleve). Where the hell was the ibuprofen when I was sixteen and missing a day of school almost every month?
I did speak to my mom's OB/GYN, who of course suggested birth-control pills. The idea was that regulating my period might bring relief from the pain. (Yet another way in which male doctors are sympathetic, but still clueless.) I balked at the time--I couldn't see the point, since I barely had boyfriends then, let alone sex--and I'm still convinced that I must be the only woman my age who's never gone on the Pill. I must admit, there were probably a few months back then when even pregnancy seemed like a better alternative than what one of my aunts used to call "crampoons"--the kind of cramps that seem larger than your own body.
Fast-forward to me now: married twenty-plus years, with two daughters (one gets the crampoons; the other, not so much). Having had my kids so late, I'm now approaching menopause while they're still relatively young. It's not pretty for anybody at my house for many days in the month. Lately, my PMS has expanded itself to almost two weeks. Two weeks of bloat, stomach upset, mood swings, oops-did-I-just-say-that? moments; two weeks of insomnia, weird dreams, fatigue, hot flashes and lack of focus. Awesome.
I have Ambien to help me sleep, but I can only take it so often. I have Prozac to help improve my mood, but since anti-depressants could kill my liver, I try to use them only as a last resort.
It's not hard to be at the end of my rope when I'm on edge almost constantly. I sure won't miss my period when it's gone (she claims before her boobs fall), nor will I miss the goddamn PMS. But this transitional time makes me feel like my hormones are killing me--or will eventually kill someone in my house, anyway. And yet I love being a woman, being a mom, being a wife. I like my job; and I don't strictly mind the laundry, driving kids around, cooking, shopping, and all the million-and-one other things I do for everyone else on a daily basis. I'd just like to be able to do them without feeling like my hair is standing on end all the time. And I know everyone around me would appreciate it too.
I'm just one sentence in, and already, I digress. Sorry.
I'm just gonna say it: It's fun being a girl. No kidding. I mean, yeah, when I was a kid, it's true that I wanted my male cousin's toys, but maybe that was because we were so close in age, it was like being twins. I'm sure we played together on many occasions due to that fact. But overall, especially now, girls have the best and brightest toys: Barbie! Build-A-Bear Workshop! all that Disney Princess shit!
Other things in a girl's life can be pretty sweet too. We get to dress up almost as much as we want. In fact, our moms generally encourage it. They want us to be pretty, femmy, frilly. Nobody pressures us to do anything but draw, color, paint, chase butterflies, and act goofy. It's a pretty good existence for those first ten years or so.
And then comes...womanhood. (And as Greta Garbo once said in Ninotchka, "Don't make an issue of my womanhood." I frankly don't know how you can't, but whatever.)
It starts off innocuously enough. Incredible as it may seem, after all I'd been taught in health class in grade school, I was looking forward to "becoming a woman," as they liked to term it when I was a kid. Oh my God, the innocence of those days! And to think I was jealous of my younger sister, who started her period at nine (mine didn't come till I was eleven and a half). Yeah, I got over that real quick, after a couple of monthly cycles introduced me to the concept of cramps. I didn't remember any of the literature explaining about them. Lovely.
Thereafter--sparing you, my gentle readers, from the gross details--I spent at least one day every month writhing in pain in bed; on the couch; on a cot in the school nurse's office. I'm sure I was as surly as the next female teenager, but I'm equally sure that much of it had to do with monthly symptoms such as mood swings and pain, pain, pain. This pattern continued, without a break, ruining countless school days, holidays, parties, ad nauseam.
Many years later, in my 20s, I lived in a house with three other ladies. One of them was about thirty, and she complained of her PMS by telling us, "I think my body is just saying, 'Oh my God, have a baby already!' " I'm inclined to agree with her on that. I was in such intense pain one month, that, as I told my OB/GYN, it felt like someone broke my spine and put it back together in the wrong order. He just shook his head at me, not knowing what to say. I don't blame him.
Men, as sympathetic as they may be (my own wonderful husband included), just don't get it. Bless them, they can't. It's beyond them to imagine being in pain on a regular basis, on a schedule in most cases, unless it involves strenuous physical activity. But we women struggle on every month, trying our best to ignore or overcome the pain. By the time I was in college, I'd been all the way up the pain med ladder, starting with Midol (aspirin--killed my stomach), to Tylenol (kinder to my poor stomach, but ineffective), and on to prescription Anaprox (now an OTC medication known as Aleve). Where the hell was the ibuprofen when I was sixteen and missing a day of school almost every month?
I did speak to my mom's OB/GYN, who of course suggested birth-control pills. The idea was that regulating my period might bring relief from the pain. (Yet another way in which male doctors are sympathetic, but still clueless.) I balked at the time--I couldn't see the point, since I barely had boyfriends then, let alone sex--and I'm still convinced that I must be the only woman my age who's never gone on the Pill. I must admit, there were probably a few months back then when even pregnancy seemed like a better alternative than what one of my aunts used to call "crampoons"--the kind of cramps that seem larger than your own body.
Fast-forward to me now: married twenty-plus years, with two daughters (one gets the crampoons; the other, not so much). Having had my kids so late, I'm now approaching menopause while they're still relatively young. It's not pretty for anybody at my house for many days in the month. Lately, my PMS has expanded itself to almost two weeks. Two weeks of bloat, stomach upset, mood swings, oops-did-I-just-say-that? moments; two weeks of insomnia, weird dreams, fatigue, hot flashes and lack of focus. Awesome.
I have Ambien to help me sleep, but I can only take it so often. I have Prozac to help improve my mood, but since anti-depressants could kill my liver, I try to use them only as a last resort.
It's not hard to be at the end of my rope when I'm on edge almost constantly. I sure won't miss my period when it's gone (she claims before her boobs fall), nor will I miss the goddamn PMS. But this transitional time makes me feel like my hormones are killing me--or will eventually kill someone in my house, anyway. And yet I love being a woman, being a mom, being a wife. I like my job; and I don't strictly mind the laundry, driving kids around, cooking, shopping, and all the million-and-one other things I do for everyone else on a daily basis. I'd just like to be able to do them without feeling like my hair is standing on end all the time. And I know everyone around me would appreciate it too.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Thankfulness-ness
Yeah, I know, the title doesn't even make any sense. But bear with me.
I was just reading the post of a fellow blogger. She's the wife of a co-worker of mine, and she and her husband just brought home their 3-yr-old adopted son from the Ukraine. Overall, it was an 11-month process, filled with mountains of paperwork and the terrible wait and uncertainty that must accompany any adoption. In the end, they only wound up having to make two trips in order to "bust him out of the orphanage" as she puts it; he's healthy and they adore him. And yet with all those blessings, she was having trouble putting into words a piece for her local paper about being thankful.
Gratitude, I've found, isn't an instinctive reaction to something given, or even earned: how many of you constantly have to remind your kids to say thanks after they receive something, anything, from a friend, grandparent, etc? It can also be hard to say thank you and mean it. Just as most of us murmur "fine" when people ask how we are, regardless of how we're really doing at that point in time, we tend to say "thanks" almost as a reflex (after we finally learn to say it in the first place).
The Thanksgiving holiday in America has become an excuse for gluttony, a day to celebrate football (Packers fans, you know who you are), the final deep breath before plunging into that ocean known as the Christmas (shopping) season. It can be stressful, fun, crazy, or all (or none) of the above. I love it, yes, mostly because we have a great dinner that can only be matched at Christmas (my husband's aunt makes a pumpkin pie that puts all other pies to shame), but also because it's one of the few times a year that everyone gets together.
As our lives have gotten busier and more involved with other pursuits, even my husband's close-knit-but-not-in-your-face relatives don't get the chance to see each other as much as we might like. We all bring something to save work for the person hosting the dinner, who gets the dubious honor of making the turkey(s), which is really the biggest job, but at least the host doesn't get stuck with making everything else too.
One memorable year at my brother-in-law's house, he'd made two turkeys and had brined one. It was so delicious that John didn't get any of it. And I still recall that in my own family, Thanksgiving was pretty much the ONLY time of the year when we'd have mashed potatoes, my mother having deemed them "too much work" to eat on a regular basis. (Nowadays, I cheat and don't peel them, so that never gets in my way.) A few times we had those nasty fake mashed potatoes from a box, which are maybe the foulest thing you can put on any table. In fact, when I was in college, I warned my mother that I'd sooner stay there for the holiday than endure that crap.
However, apart from all the goodies, and without getting too sentimental, I would like to offer a list of the things I am currently thankful for:
1. I'm thankful that I have a job. It may not always be the ideal situation--my company decided that this Black Friday, all of us must assemble and work, so there went everyone's four-day weekend--but I have a great boss, fun co-workers, decent pay and good benefits. Things could be worse.
2. I'm thankful to have a house. Sure, it's a mess, but people live there. Our rooms are too small, and it always looks like it's in a state of renovation/repair (okay, I made up that last bit about repair). We have too much shit. But at least it's a place for our shit, and it belongs to us (and the bank). My kids have a place to come home to, and so do their friends; and that's worth so much more than what we paid for it.
3. I'm glad to have a wonderful partner. Without bragging, please let me state that my husband is a great guy. Yes, he drives me nuts with things that he does sometimes, but I'm sure I return the favor many times over. I deal with his love of the Packers, and he deals with my love of fan fiction. (Well, maybe not so much deal as not quite know for sure what I'm reading.) In that spirit, we try our best to tolerate each others' quirks and not fight about them; if we do, we try to forgive and move on.
Nobody's perfect, but his mom sure did a good job with him.
4. I'm thankful for both my families. My own family, nutty as they can be, are a loud, affectionate bunch. Till about a year ago, we were privileged to have my Nana at the helm. We're very lucky to have known her for so many years. My husband's family are equally nutty--and I say this with love in my heart. Each of them is different from the others in their choice of spouse and raising of kids, but nobody, including my in-laws, judges anyone else. Plus most of them, including my brother-in-law, are excellent cooks.
And my kids blame me for making them insane...if only they knew.
5. I'm grateful for music. What would my life be without music? You may as well damn me to a lifetime without love of any kind. The silence might be nice for awhile, but I think that it would wind up killing me ever so slowly. How would I ever get along without that songs that have come to mean so much to me? What would I do without the wonderful feeling that wells up in my chest whenever a current (or old) favorite starts up on my music player/radio/phone? I don't even want to think about it.
6. Last but not least, I'm grateful for my friends. The combination of busy lives and being so far from where I was raised means that I don't always get to see the other people I love: my friends, the family I've chosen to surround myself with. I recall that back in sophomore year of college, I was so very grateful to my friends for helping me through a tough year that I bought them gifts, and pretty much shut my actual family out of the gift-giving. (As you might guess, they were none too pleased.)
Nowadays, many of my friendships were either born or nurtured on the internet. Some of those friends have become close; I see them even less often than I do my own families, but their place in my heart is still secure. It amazes me when I can tell someone I've never met that I love them, and mean it completely. The level of support I've received has been amazing in many cases. It's also good to know that I can keep in touch with those I've known for many years on the internet too...when we both have time.
So, thanks to all, including but not limited to: Shari, Deb, SanDee, Dannika and Colleen. You make the adventure even more interesting.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I was just reading the post of a fellow blogger. She's the wife of a co-worker of mine, and she and her husband just brought home their 3-yr-old adopted son from the Ukraine. Overall, it was an 11-month process, filled with mountains of paperwork and the terrible wait and uncertainty that must accompany any adoption. In the end, they only wound up having to make two trips in order to "bust him out of the orphanage" as she puts it; he's healthy and they adore him. And yet with all those blessings, she was having trouble putting into words a piece for her local paper about being thankful.
Gratitude, I've found, isn't an instinctive reaction to something given, or even earned: how many of you constantly have to remind your kids to say thanks after they receive something, anything, from a friend, grandparent, etc? It can also be hard to say thank you and mean it. Just as most of us murmur "fine" when people ask how we are, regardless of how we're really doing at that point in time, we tend to say "thanks" almost as a reflex (after we finally learn to say it in the first place).
The Thanksgiving holiday in America has become an excuse for gluttony, a day to celebrate football (Packers fans, you know who you are), the final deep breath before plunging into that ocean known as the Christmas (shopping) season. It can be stressful, fun, crazy, or all (or none) of the above. I love it, yes, mostly because we have a great dinner that can only be matched at Christmas (my husband's aunt makes a pumpkin pie that puts all other pies to shame), but also because it's one of the few times a year that everyone gets together.
As our lives have gotten busier and more involved with other pursuits, even my husband's close-knit-but-not-in-your-face relatives don't get the chance to see each other as much as we might like. We all bring something to save work for the person hosting the dinner, who gets the dubious honor of making the turkey(s), which is really the biggest job, but at least the host doesn't get stuck with making everything else too.
One memorable year at my brother-in-law's house, he'd made two turkeys and had brined one. It was so delicious that John didn't get any of it. And I still recall that in my own family, Thanksgiving was pretty much the ONLY time of the year when we'd have mashed potatoes, my mother having deemed them "too much work" to eat on a regular basis. (Nowadays, I cheat and don't peel them, so that never gets in my way.) A few times we had those nasty fake mashed potatoes from a box, which are maybe the foulest thing you can put on any table. In fact, when I was in college, I warned my mother that I'd sooner stay there for the holiday than endure that crap.
However, apart from all the goodies, and without getting too sentimental, I would like to offer a list of the things I am currently thankful for:
1. I'm thankful that I have a job. It may not always be the ideal situation--my company decided that this Black Friday, all of us must assemble and work, so there went everyone's four-day weekend--but I have a great boss, fun co-workers, decent pay and good benefits. Things could be worse.
2. I'm thankful to have a house. Sure, it's a mess, but people live there. Our rooms are too small, and it always looks like it's in a state of renovation/repair (okay, I made up that last bit about repair). We have too much shit. But at least it's a place for our shit, and it belongs to us (and the bank). My kids have a place to come home to, and so do their friends; and that's worth so much more than what we paid for it.
3. I'm glad to have a wonderful partner. Without bragging, please let me state that my husband is a great guy. Yes, he drives me nuts with things that he does sometimes, but I'm sure I return the favor many times over. I deal with his love of the Packers, and he deals with my love of fan fiction. (Well, maybe not so much deal as not quite know for sure what I'm reading.) In that spirit, we try our best to tolerate each others' quirks and not fight about them; if we do, we try to forgive and move on.
Nobody's perfect, but his mom sure did a good job with him.
4. I'm thankful for both my families. My own family, nutty as they can be, are a loud, affectionate bunch. Till about a year ago, we were privileged to have my Nana at the helm. We're very lucky to have known her for so many years. My husband's family are equally nutty--and I say this with love in my heart. Each of them is different from the others in their choice of spouse and raising of kids, but nobody, including my in-laws, judges anyone else. Plus most of them, including my brother-in-law, are excellent cooks.
And my kids blame me for making them insane...if only they knew.
5. I'm grateful for music. What would my life be without music? You may as well damn me to a lifetime without love of any kind. The silence might be nice for awhile, but I think that it would wind up killing me ever so slowly. How would I ever get along without that songs that have come to mean so much to me? What would I do without the wonderful feeling that wells up in my chest whenever a current (or old) favorite starts up on my music player/radio/phone? I don't even want to think about it.
6. Last but not least, I'm grateful for my friends. The combination of busy lives and being so far from where I was raised means that I don't always get to see the other people I love: my friends, the family I've chosen to surround myself with. I recall that back in sophomore year of college, I was so very grateful to my friends for helping me through a tough year that I bought them gifts, and pretty much shut my actual family out of the gift-giving. (As you might guess, they were none too pleased.)
Nowadays, many of my friendships were either born or nurtured on the internet. Some of those friends have become close; I see them even less often than I do my own families, but their place in my heart is still secure. It amazes me when I can tell someone I've never met that I love them, and mean it completely. The level of support I've received has been amazing in many cases. It's also good to know that I can keep in touch with those I've known for many years on the internet too...when we both have time.
So, thanks to all, including but not limited to: Shari, Deb, SanDee, Dannika and Colleen. You make the adventure even more interesting.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Ten Perfect Albums, Part One
Yeah, yeah, I stole the concept from the "Ten Things, Motherfucker" blog. Sue me. It's brilliant.
But in all seriousness, it got me thinking. I was driving round with my 17-yr-old a few days ago, telling her in my oh-so-authoritative way that some song or other was "perfect"--that nothing could ever be done to a particular record to improve it or re-make it. I'm sure she was rolling her eyes at me, thinking I had no fucking idea what I was talking about...but I do, kids, I do!
Think about it: could you really and truly improve "In Between Days" by the Cure? How about "Hang On, Sloopy" by the McCoys? "Do You Know What I Mean" by Lee Michaels? Or many records by the Ramones? I mean, you could re-record them, but you could never truly surpass the original versions. You get the drift.
So how about all that 12" vinyl I cherish so much? Sure, there's perfection at every turn. I bet about 10% of my current collection would qualify as such. I have compiled this list on the basis of quality of songs and production, overall unity of sound and/or concept, as well as sequencing. So let's examine the evidence, kids...in no particular order:
1. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles (1967): When Rolling Stone, that former bastion of coolness (they lost me at the Justin Bieber cover), took a huge poll and listed the 100 best albums between 1967 and 1987, this one was at the top. Why? Oh, let me count the reasons, dear readers.
Number one, it's recognized as the first "concept" album, meaning of course that it had a sort of story to tell. Those that followed in its wake were similar masterpieces like The Who's Tommy and the Moody Blues's Days of Future Past (more on this one later). Now, in this case, it's not truly a linear story with a beginning, middle and end (MCR pals, see The Black Parade for comparison), but the songs hang together loosely. The beginning and end of the album are bracketed by the Sgt Pepper theme; but really the "concept" part of it is the unifying sound of the songs, and how they all seem to be part of the whole.
Number two, the songs are fucking brilliant. Here are the Beatles at the peak of their creativity, and that's putting it mildly. The songs are among their best, with everyone getting a vocal turn, and even prominently feature the wonderful, long-suffering Ringo Starr. I bet most people alive today can sing at least one of the songs from Sgt Pepper, even those who weren't even a twinkle in their parents' eyes when the album came out, proving their pervasiveness in modern culture. As amazing as all the songs are, the album ends with perhaps the Beatles' greatest achievment, "A Day in the Life."
And lastly, the production is flawless. Helmed by the amazing George Martin, aided and abetted by strings, brass and (probably) a boatload of psychedlics, the band went wild with experimentation: adding sounds that nobody'd ever heard before; slowing their vocals or layering them; and showing just about every musical influence all four of them had had up until that point. I of course own the American version in stereo instead of mono, but still the whole thing makes me sit up and listen. Anyone who might think Sir George isn't the greatest producer ever is off his fucking rocker. He took four greasy rocker boys and helped make them into the icons they are today.
Nobody but nobody would have dared before the Fab Four did, and aren't we glad they made the effort?
See also: Rubber Soul, Revolver.
But in all seriousness, it got me thinking. I was driving round with my 17-yr-old a few days ago, telling her in my oh-so-authoritative way that some song or other was "perfect"--that nothing could ever be done to a particular record to improve it or re-make it. I'm sure she was rolling her eyes at me, thinking I had no fucking idea what I was talking about...but I do, kids, I do!
Think about it: could you really and truly improve "In Between Days" by the Cure? How about "Hang On, Sloopy" by the McCoys? "Do You Know What I Mean" by Lee Michaels? Or many records by the Ramones? I mean, you could re-record them, but you could never truly surpass the original versions. You get the drift.
So how about all that 12" vinyl I cherish so much? Sure, there's perfection at every turn. I bet about 10% of my current collection would qualify as such. I have compiled this list on the basis of quality of songs and production, overall unity of sound and/or concept, as well as sequencing. So let's examine the evidence, kids...in no particular order:
1. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles (1967): When Rolling Stone, that former bastion of coolness (they lost me at the Justin Bieber cover), took a huge poll and listed the 100 best albums between 1967 and 1987, this one was at the top. Why? Oh, let me count the reasons, dear readers.
Number one, it's recognized as the first "concept" album, meaning of course that it had a sort of story to tell. Those that followed in its wake were similar masterpieces like The Who's Tommy and the Moody Blues's Days of Future Past (more on this one later). Now, in this case, it's not truly a linear story with a beginning, middle and end (MCR pals, see The Black Parade for comparison), but the songs hang together loosely. The beginning and end of the album are bracketed by the Sgt Pepper theme; but really the "concept" part of it is the unifying sound of the songs, and how they all seem to be part of the whole.
Number two, the songs are fucking brilliant. Here are the Beatles at the peak of their creativity, and that's putting it mildly. The songs are among their best, with everyone getting a vocal turn, and even prominently feature the wonderful, long-suffering Ringo Starr. I bet most people alive today can sing at least one of the songs from Sgt Pepper, even those who weren't even a twinkle in their parents' eyes when the album came out, proving their pervasiveness in modern culture. As amazing as all the songs are, the album ends with perhaps the Beatles' greatest achievment, "A Day in the Life."
And lastly, the production is flawless. Helmed by the amazing George Martin, aided and abetted by strings, brass and (probably) a boatload of psychedlics, the band went wild with experimentation: adding sounds that nobody'd ever heard before; slowing their vocals or layering them; and showing just about every musical influence all four of them had had up until that point. I of course own the American version in stereo instead of mono, but still the whole thing makes me sit up and listen. Anyone who might think Sir George isn't the greatest producer ever is off his fucking rocker. He took four greasy rocker boys and helped make them into the icons they are today.
Nobody but nobody would have dared before the Fab Four did, and aren't we glad they made the effort?
See also: Rubber Soul, Revolver.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
My Chemical Romance--in gratitude
In light of all that's happened today, July 23, 2011:
This has been a terrible day for the people of Norway, with a mass killing in a place not especially known for violence. It's also been a sad day for the music industry and those who loved Amy Winehouse, personally and professionally, as she was found dead in her London home at age 27.
But it's also a day when people who love My Chemical Romance celebrate the release of their first album (or it is their first show? I can never remember).
I have to admit, I probably don't fit the profile of a "typical" My Chemical Romance fan. For one thing, I'm quite a lot older (fifty) than most other fans of theirs that I know--my 17-yr-old daughter, my 16-yr-old niece, and some of their friends. You get my drift. But I am first and foremost a music fan, and while I certainly don't love all forms of music, rock-n-roll has been a fortifying presence in my life since I was eleven. It's amazing to me that I was about sixteen myself the year that the two oldest members of MCR were born, and in college when the two youngest came into the world.
But as I'm finding more and more in my life, age isn't always the most important consideration.
My older daughter turned twelve in 2006. It was, to put it mildly, a difficult year for all in our house. She was going through the usual changes: starting middle school, finding new friends, altering her hair, her clothes, and just generally remaking the girl that my husband and I had raised.
I didn't understand much of what she was going through at that time. Sometimes she would be angry or impatient with me, for no good reason I could fathom; sometimes she wouldn't talk to me, no matter how much I asked her to. For someone who wanted my children to rely on me, and feel they could tell me anything, that was almost the hardest part of it all.
Relief for her came in the form of a copied CD of an album called You Brought Me Your Bullets, I Brought You My Love, by a group whose name I'd only heard a few times: My Chemical Romance. I'd hear bits of the CD played in her room at all hours. When she would show me pictures of the band at that time, I had no idea how old they were. (At my advanced age, they might as well have been teenagers themselves.) Since she seemed so into them, I got her a copy of the Life on the Murder Scene DVD, which then seemed to be on the TV screen almost anytime she was nearby.
I didn't totally understand it at first, her love of these young men whose music seemed so sad, so desperate. When I'd hear random bits of that first CD, none of it made sense. It just sounded like raw emotion over a background of shredding guitars, songs that had little structure, but which seemed to mean so much to her. Somewhere in there I'd catch snippets of the interviews on the DVD, and maybe a minute or two of the songs from Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, but I never gave much thought to any of what I'd seen or heard.
My husband and I didn't know what was going on, and I know we over-reacted in several ways. I was afraid I was turning into the kind of parent for whom music would form walls instead of bridges.
Finally, late one night, my daughter and I were both watching the DVD when Gerard Way and Brian Schecter were reflecting on the role of the 9/11 attacks in the formation of the band. Suddenly, inexplicably, I understood. I said to my daughter, "I get why you like them now." She beamed, which was a welcome sight to me after all we'd been through.
In September of that same year, I listened with a mixture of pride and excitement as we heard "Welcome to the Black Parade" for the first time. Not long afterwards, I purchased the tickets for our first MCR show, in March 2007. That event was something else again. My daughter and I, famous for annoying each other in various ways, spent several days alone together, and didn't have a single argument. We listened to Shiny Toy Guns and Regina Spektor while driving to and around the Chicago area; for months afterward, their songs evoked a powerful response in me, of an amazing trip to see an amazing band.
And it was a terrific show. I'd grown up in the 70s in the New York City area, but because I was so young, I never really saw many of the great shows that took place at Madison Square Garden. I missed Yes and Pink Floyd and Springsteen; Kiss, Alice Cooper and Paul McCartney and Wings. The only real theatrical production I ever saw in a rock-n-roll arena was Elton John, and even he had toned things down by 1976. But MCR delivered a classic rock show, starting with Gerard Way being wheeled out on a gurney to sing "The End", and playing the whole of The Black Parade, front to back, the way it was intended to be. I have to admit, I didn't brave the pit during the album set, but I left the safe seat I'd requested at the Rosemont Arena and stayed out on the floor for the Revenge songs. For months, I kept a bag of black and silver confetti that I'd collected off the venue floor, and proudly wore my tour shirt.
Just over a year later, we drove to Chicago again to see another show, and to meet up with a few online friends. We all had a blast, with the exception of my younger daughter, who isn't crazy about loud noise. She also used to get tired and bored after a certain time, so let's just say I don't remember too much about the last couple of songs that night. But we were thrilled to meet our friends in person and to see the band we all loved so much. I particularly remember one of the first songs that night was "Kill All Your Friends," where I stood beside my very good friend and sang along to "You'll never take me alive/you'll never take me alive/Do what you need to survive/And I'm still here."
Fast-foward four years to today. We got to see MCR earlier this year, almost three years to the day after our last show in 2008. We'll be traveling to Milwaukee to see them once more next month, and soon we'll be meeting up in Chicago again, just for fun, with our beloved friend from the 2008 show and her younger daughter.
Due to my fangirl-ish love of MCR, I know others my age may think I'm crazy, but I know my 40-something pal in New York doesn't think so; nor does the stranger I recently stood near at the Aragon Ballroom. Whoever she is, she knows, as I do, that the love of MCR has nothing to do with what they look like (though it never hurts to be easy on the eyes); it has to do with how their music makes us feel.
I know that MCR has always felt that "this band can save lives." After hearing stories from many younger fans, I believe it's true. I can tell you my own story, too: that they provided an important bridge between myself and my older daughter, one that endures till this day. Their music was once a way for some young men to try and make some sense of, and even defy, a tragic event that touched so many lives. It's become something that helped others make sense of their own lives, and carry on when they thought they had no reserves of hope or energy.
Those young men are nearly ten years older now, and their lives, like those of their earliest fans, are totally different now. But they, like all of us, need something to hold on to. Their music has evolved too, into something that they perhaps couldn't have imagined in the face of a terrible tragedy: an anchor for not only themselves, but for all of us who love what they bring into our lives. And in the face of today's awful events, we can certainly use it.
This has been a terrible day for the people of Norway, with a mass killing in a place not especially known for violence. It's also been a sad day for the music industry and those who loved Amy Winehouse, personally and professionally, as she was found dead in her London home at age 27.
But it's also a day when people who love My Chemical Romance celebrate the release of their first album (or it is their first show? I can never remember).
I have to admit, I probably don't fit the profile of a "typical" My Chemical Romance fan. For one thing, I'm quite a lot older (fifty) than most other fans of theirs that I know--my 17-yr-old daughter, my 16-yr-old niece, and some of their friends. You get my drift. But I am first and foremost a music fan, and while I certainly don't love all forms of music, rock-n-roll has been a fortifying presence in my life since I was eleven. It's amazing to me that I was about sixteen myself the year that the two oldest members of MCR were born, and in college when the two youngest came into the world.
But as I'm finding more and more in my life, age isn't always the most important consideration.
My older daughter turned twelve in 2006. It was, to put it mildly, a difficult year for all in our house. She was going through the usual changes: starting middle school, finding new friends, altering her hair, her clothes, and just generally remaking the girl that my husband and I had raised.
I didn't understand much of what she was going through at that time. Sometimes she would be angry or impatient with me, for no good reason I could fathom; sometimes she wouldn't talk to me, no matter how much I asked her to. For someone who wanted my children to rely on me, and feel they could tell me anything, that was almost the hardest part of it all.
Relief for her came in the form of a copied CD of an album called You Brought Me Your Bullets, I Brought You My Love, by a group whose name I'd only heard a few times: My Chemical Romance. I'd hear bits of the CD played in her room at all hours. When she would show me pictures of the band at that time, I had no idea how old they were. (At my advanced age, they might as well have been teenagers themselves.) Since she seemed so into them, I got her a copy of the Life on the Murder Scene DVD, which then seemed to be on the TV screen almost anytime she was nearby.
I didn't totally understand it at first, her love of these young men whose music seemed so sad, so desperate. When I'd hear random bits of that first CD, none of it made sense. It just sounded like raw emotion over a background of shredding guitars, songs that had little structure, but which seemed to mean so much to her. Somewhere in there I'd catch snippets of the interviews on the DVD, and maybe a minute or two of the songs from Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, but I never gave much thought to any of what I'd seen or heard.
My husband and I didn't know what was going on, and I know we over-reacted in several ways. I was afraid I was turning into the kind of parent for whom music would form walls instead of bridges.
Finally, late one night, my daughter and I were both watching the DVD when Gerard Way and Brian Schecter were reflecting on the role of the 9/11 attacks in the formation of the band. Suddenly, inexplicably, I understood. I said to my daughter, "I get why you like them now." She beamed, which was a welcome sight to me after all we'd been through.
In September of that same year, I listened with a mixture of pride and excitement as we heard "Welcome to the Black Parade" for the first time. Not long afterwards, I purchased the tickets for our first MCR show, in March 2007. That event was something else again. My daughter and I, famous for annoying each other in various ways, spent several days alone together, and didn't have a single argument. We listened to Shiny Toy Guns and Regina Spektor while driving to and around the Chicago area; for months afterward, their songs evoked a powerful response in me, of an amazing trip to see an amazing band.
And it was a terrific show. I'd grown up in the 70s in the New York City area, but because I was so young, I never really saw many of the great shows that took place at Madison Square Garden. I missed Yes and Pink Floyd and Springsteen; Kiss, Alice Cooper and Paul McCartney and Wings. The only real theatrical production I ever saw in a rock-n-roll arena was Elton John, and even he had toned things down by 1976. But MCR delivered a classic rock show, starting with Gerard Way being wheeled out on a gurney to sing "The End", and playing the whole of The Black Parade, front to back, the way it was intended to be. I have to admit, I didn't brave the pit during the album set, but I left the safe seat I'd requested at the Rosemont Arena and stayed out on the floor for the Revenge songs. For months, I kept a bag of black and silver confetti that I'd collected off the venue floor, and proudly wore my tour shirt.
Just over a year later, we drove to Chicago again to see another show, and to meet up with a few online friends. We all had a blast, with the exception of my younger daughter, who isn't crazy about loud noise. She also used to get tired and bored after a certain time, so let's just say I don't remember too much about the last couple of songs that night. But we were thrilled to meet our friends in person and to see the band we all loved so much. I particularly remember one of the first songs that night was "Kill All Your Friends," where I stood beside my very good friend and sang along to "You'll never take me alive/you'll never take me alive/Do what you need to survive/And I'm still here."
Fast-foward four years to today. We got to see MCR earlier this year, almost three years to the day after our last show in 2008. We'll be traveling to Milwaukee to see them once more next month, and soon we'll be meeting up in Chicago again, just for fun, with our beloved friend from the 2008 show and her younger daughter.
Due to my fangirl-ish love of MCR, I know others my age may think I'm crazy, but I know my 40-something pal in New York doesn't think so; nor does the stranger I recently stood near at the Aragon Ballroom. Whoever she is, she knows, as I do, that the love of MCR has nothing to do with what they look like (though it never hurts to be easy on the eyes); it has to do with how their music makes us feel.
I know that MCR has always felt that "this band can save lives." After hearing stories from many younger fans, I believe it's true. I can tell you my own story, too: that they provided an important bridge between myself and my older daughter, one that endures till this day. Their music was once a way for some young men to try and make some sense of, and even defy, a tragic event that touched so many lives. It's become something that helped others make sense of their own lives, and carry on when they thought they had no reserves of hope or energy.
Those young men are nearly ten years older now, and their lives, like those of their earliest fans, are totally different now. But they, like all of us, need something to hold on to. Their music has evolved too, into something that they perhaps couldn't have imagined in the face of a terrible tragedy: an anchor for not only themselves, but for all of us who love what they bring into our lives. And in the face of today's awful events, we can certainly use it.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Mini-blog #1: New Music
Anyway, my point here is that I got two exclusive 45s, from Wisconsin-via-Brooklyn rock quartet Locksley and from Danish garage band The Breakers, both with--wait for it!--non-album B-sides, the singular joy of my early record-collecting days. Thanks to the satellite station Underground Garage, I've heard these and many more, and now they're mine...all mine! *rubs hands together gleefully*
The other objective of this blog is to let you know that the service was crazy fast. I emailed them to let them know that their delivery was faster than Jimmy John's, and I'm not kidding. I ordered my goodies online on June 30, and they were waiting in my office mail yesterday, July 5. Wow!
And as if all that weren't enough, they sent me a Wicked Cool sampler of bands I've already been infected by...uh, I mean, amazed by, through listening to the station and the recorded radio show! Thirteen artists, fourteen songs, all at no extra charge. It was almost worth the $7.90 shipping (only $2.90 of which was the actual postage), but hey, people did their job and did it fast.
The only quicker way to get these would have been to steal them. Just kidding.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Nana (started October 2010)
Note: my wonderful Nana, Florence, passed away October 2010, at the age of 98. She was too amazing, as you'll see. I wanted to write something and read it at her funeral, but my sister convinced me that it'd be too long and nobody would want to sit through it.
I'm not sure I could've gotten through it myself. But here it is, in the extended version.
A few years ago I wrote a story in which the beloved Nana of a main character died. My character was a journalist, and so her Nana wisely chose her to deliver the eulogy. What I wrote was simple and, I thought, moving. In fact, a writer friend of mine asked for permission to use parts of it when she killed off her main character in an epic story she was doing. Of course, it's a different business when it's your loved one who's passing or passed away.
These last few months, my Nana’s been on my mind almost constantly. I’ve been trying to think of a single word that would characterize her. And I finally came up with one. I know maybe the great-grandchildren won’t agree with me on this one, but the word is ENERGY.
I'm not sure I could've gotten through it myself. But here it is, in the extended version.
A few years ago I wrote a story in which the beloved Nana of a main character died. My character was a journalist, and so her Nana wisely chose her to deliver the eulogy. What I wrote was simple and, I thought, moving. In fact, a writer friend of mine asked for permission to use parts of it when she killed off her main character in an epic story she was doing. Of course, it's a different business when it's your loved one who's passing or passed away.
These last few months, my Nana’s been on my mind almost constantly. I’ve been trying to think of a single word that would characterize her. And I finally came up with one. I know maybe the great-grandchildren won’t agree with me on this one, but the word is ENERGY.
How else can you describe a woman who gave so much to her family for so very long? She got married in her mid-20s and was a mom within two years. Then her two oldest daughters got married in their mid-20s, and became moms within a year. So, by the time she was fifty, she was a grandma four times over, that fourth time on her own 50th birthday. By contrast, I’m forty-nine now, and my girls are just 16 and 10. Imagine how much energy you’d have if you were a grandparent at just fifty, knowing that your kids had grown up, married, and settled down; and you could enjoy that next generation…then send them home when they got to be too much for you. I can't do that.
When the four of us, my sister and I, and my cousins Scott and Cheryl, were born, it was the 1960’s. The 60's were maybe the last decade when women either wanted to, or were expected to, or could afford to, stay home with their kids. My dad worked, and so my own mom was what used to be called a housewife, and my sister and I did our best to drive her nuts. I’m sure we succeeded on more than one occasion. But I’m sure mom also knew that help wasn’t too far away; once we moved from my folks’ original apartment in north Jersey, we got a house within walking distance from where Nana and Pappa lived. Even when we moved to Howell Court, we were still just a five-minute drive away.
My Aunt Mar and Uncle Dave, on the other hand, both had jobs that meant they were out of their home all day. In those pre-daycare days, what would you do? I mean, nobody would turn their kids over to strangers to be fed, burped and cleaned, right? Even leaving out the potential cost, who could do such a thing? It was almost unheard of. Our family had a secret weapon: Nana. She practically raised Scott and Cheryl, and later, our younger cousin, Nick. I recall spending many a preschool weekday at her house myself.
I have to tell you, I was jealous of Cheryl and Scott, because even though we saw Nana often, they got to be with her ALL THE TIME when they were little, and beyond—even when they started school, they often spent afternoons there too. (No after-school programs that I knew of, back then.) They were SO lucky! But I knew by then that I was fortunate too. Not only did I have a full set of grandparents in those early years, but mine lived just down the road, not in another state, or even another city. Why would your grandparents live somewhere else where you couldn’t see them all the time? What was that about?
When I was little, Nana constantly amazed me. Unlike my own mom’s, and, I admit, my own, her handbag was a marvel of organization. She always knew where everything was, and if a child needed a tissue or a stick of gum while in church, or anywhere else, she could find it immediately, with no digging. Nana was a buffer between siblings while in quieter places, making sure we failed yet again to fight and/or kill each other.
She was a wonderful caregiver, and an excellent cook. She may not have taught me to cook, but I still use some of her recipes, which she was kind enough to give me some years ago, after I got married.
I always tell my kids about her potato and tomato salad, the taste which I’ve never been able to duplicate. I console myself with the thought that it must be the lack of Jersey tomatoes where I live that causes this issue. She used to fry us hamburgers in her little skillet, and serve them to us on Wonder Bread with the crusts cut off—a messy dish, sure, on that very soft bread, but one we loved. Her white metal pantry cabinets always held candy for us kids, usually Baby Ruths or whatever our Pappa liked. For him, when he was home for lunch or dinner, she used to make a dish that still grosses me out—a mixture of meat, eggs and escarole she called giumbaut (not sure about the spelling). And, of course, all the other wonderful Italian dishes in her repertoire.
I always tell my kids about her potato and tomato salad, the taste which I’ve never been able to duplicate. I console myself with the thought that it must be the lack of Jersey tomatoes where I live that causes this issue. She used to fry us hamburgers in her little skillet, and serve them to us on Wonder Bread with the crusts cut off—a messy dish, sure, on that very soft bread, but one we loved. Her white metal pantry cabinets always held candy for us kids, usually Baby Ruths or whatever our Pappa liked. For him, when he was home for lunch or dinner, she used to make a dish that still grosses me out—a mixture of meat, eggs and escarole she called giumbaut (not sure about the spelling). And, of course, all the other wonderful Italian dishes in her repertoire.
Family holiday dinners at her little house were absolutely crazy. The adults ate in the living room. I always seem to remember that we’d bring in the picnic table from outside for that purpose. Us kids, just the four oldest cousins at the time, got to eat at the little kitchen table, closest to where the food was prepared. It was loud to all of us, but for Nana, who was raised with I-still-can’t-remember-how-many siblings, it probably seemed a lot quieter. She’d grown up surrounded by family; we were lucky enough to carry on that tradition for her and with her. I remember her telling me that in the early 1930s, in the depths of the Great Depression, that all of her siblings of working age had jobs, so money was never a difficulty at that time. She told me she wasn’t even AWARE of the Depression till she got married and it was just the two of them, with one income.
Nana had originally planned to be trained as a dietician, but those plans were abandoned in favor of her husband and kids. I loved hearing her stories about her family, especially her oldest brother Jim, who at a certain point was estranged from the family and was never really seen by them after that. I wish I could remember if she told me why that happened. She told me about her mom and dad and how they met; the mysterious origins of her father and how the woman who raised him wasn’t a blood relation, but who had given him her last name, De Marco.
She told us about the scandal in her family when her oldest sister, Mary, and another sister, Anna, both married men literally old enough to be their father; and how, in the 1940s, an oppressively Catholic time, one of her sisters wasn’t even allowed to have a non-Catholic in her bridal party. Many of these things were shocking to me at the time she told me, but what I didn’t understand at first was that she was from a different time, and even a much different world, where things that seem small now could tear a family apart. I know she never wanted that for us.
She met our Pappa, Nick, when she was 19, married him 5 years later, and lost him 35 years after that, when the four oldest cousins were in grade school, and when his namesake, Nicky, was a toddler. We were heartbroken, all of us, but none of us the way Nana surely was. I didn't go to the funeral, since I was just 11, but I'll never forget my big, strong Uncle Dave coming back to the house in tears afterwards. That, more than anything, was a sign of how final that event was. I didn't even see my Nana cry until several days later.
I've forgotten to mention her sense of humor, which could be a little bawdy at times. She referred to her lady parts as her "cookie," and once actually I saw her hold a platter near her lower abdomen, stating she was "putting her cookie on a plate." (Yeah, and I'm really not kidding. I almost wish I was.) Anytime we received a money gift in her presence, she'd claim that the recipient owed her those funds. And let's not forget what she tried to pull over on her married granddaughters: patting her lap and beckoning our husbands to her, insisting she loved them more than their wives did. Sometimes they took the bait and pretended to be tempted. She was hilarious; we all loved it.
Nana was amazing in a different way, too. She was what I liked to call the psychic in our family (I maintain that each Italian family has just one at a time). She told me about the various superstitions she'd grown up with as the child of two immigrants, and the ways they might affect your life. Also, she was able to predict the gender of all six grandchildren, and about half her great-granchildren as well. The exception was my cousin Scott, who'd moved out-of-state, and whose wife was unavailable for Nana's personal service.
Her method was simple: when I was pregnant with my first child, I stood near her, and she put one hand on my belly, and the other on my butt. In short order, she proclaimed I was having a girl. My doctor was amazed by this non-invasive procedure when I told him about it, and said he "could sure use someone like that here." After my daughter was born, Nana looked at the way her hair grew on top of her head, and told me the next time, I would again have a girl. My sister, on the other hand, has two sons; she consulted Nana when they were considering baby #3. Nana told her she could hope for a girl, but she would undoubtedly have another boy. So this is why I have two nephews on that side instead of three.
Even though she never really asked us for anything in celebration of her birthdays, or Christmas, we tried over the years to get her great gifts, ones that we hoped would be able to convey how much we loved and appreciated her. At first, the grandchildren gave her little knickknacks, like tiny ceramic figurines that bore legends like "I Love You This Much". I do seem to recall one memorable Christmas when my aunt, uncle and cousins bought her a padded toliet seat. As silly as that sounds, she loved it. It was crazy. We'd send her flowers, but she told us she didn't like them because "flowers die." One of my cousins then had the bright idea of replacing flowers with balloons; that too was a big hit. Most recently, I'd send her a mini Christmas tree, with its own set of ornaments and lights, to commemorate all the Christmases I'd spent at her house, in her fortunate company.
She really didn't like the idea of us having parties for her; yet, under the guise of a graduation party for me, we managed to fool her into attending her own 70th birthday party at my folks' house. In fact, her younger sister Margie even stayed at her house, cooking for days the food meant to be served at "my" party. Many years later, after I was married and living a thousand miles away, the rest of the family lured her to another celebration: her 90th. She may not have been thrilled about the whole idea at first, but she was by all accounts delighted with that surprise. I was sorry my husband, kids and I had to miss it. Lucky for me, both those occasions were documented and turned into photo albums, which were always kept out for anyone to peruse and smile over.
Her house wasn't the largest or the fanciest. Good Lord, she had furniture that was probably thirty years old when she passed away; the paintings on the walls never changed: and the carpet, if I recall correctly, was still orange. She refused to have anyone come in to replace it and make it less ugly. But the smallish entertainment center held many pictures of us, so many that new ones had to be placed in the front of each frame, covering up the older photos. There was even one of all the grandchildren with our respective spouses or fiances, taken a month or two before my wedding specially for Nana. And I haven't even mentioned the photo collages in the hall, all of which assured Nana of familiar, beloved faces within her sight almost all the time.
This last bears out the one really true thing I wrote in my fictional eulogy: that all Nana ever wanted was to be surrounded by those she loved. On Christmas Eve, just before the traditional fish dinner, we'd all get up and walk around, hugging and kissing and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. All except Nana, that is; as the matriarch of our little clan, she simply sat in the dining room in sort of a place of honor. She accepted our wishes and returned them to us, along with the kisses and love we always knew we could count on from her. We may have tried to protect her feelings over the years, glossing over or omitting things that we felt could hurt her, but she was always most concerned about how we felt. She accepted all from those she loved, without judging harshly, always loving us back.
We were fortunate to have known her, to have had her love for so many years. And so we gather one last time around her, so that she might feel our love again, and remember it always, as will we.
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