Off The Chain Valentine's Day

Ever since I've either been listening to or singing love songs, it always comes down to the lyrics and finding your own truth in them. If you're just listening, perhaps on the way to work while you're thinking of the day's agenda, or picking up your daughter from softball, chances are your mind is elsewhere. If you're a singer, you strive to find the emotion that best tells your own story in those finely crafted words.

Recently, I have turned my attention to the song, "Unchain My Heart," written by Bobby Sharp and you'll no doubt remember Ray Charles singing the hell out of this in 1961. Some have heard that it was written by Teddy Powell. Well, let's just say that Sharp, was using drugs at the time, and for a mere fifty bucks sold it to him. Powell bought it on the condition that he get half the songwriting credit. I mention this because I'm sure that before researching the song, I never heard the lyrics as those from the heart of an addict. Never.

This year, I had wanted to produce an un-Valentine's Day show called Unchained Hearts, aimed at celebrating we women who aren't married or otherwise "engaged" in a relationship with a man, or a woman for that matter. I had talked to the folks at a specialty tea room in Pasadena, and they were on board. Well, with conditions. It couldn't actually be on Valentine's Day because that was reserved for "the real Valentine's Day dinner crowd;" so it would be two days early, and they wanted to "upgrade" the menu. This had been done once before at one of my dinner show's there and I was mortified to find what they could actually charge for a veggie burger. How could I ask my friends or fans to pay a cover charge and then buy a veggie burger the equivalent in cost to a half a tank of gas in my VW?  With a sigh, I declined.

I know I could have looked at other places to do this show, but this was the perfect venue that would have wrapped my women friends in shades of red and gold, showed them their reflections in beveled glass mirrors and warmed them with hot teas, red roses, sweet desserts and their house champagne. There, they would have heard every woman's stories in song and the spoken word, culminating in a ceremony of self-love.

Though the tea room would have proven to be a smash hit with every chair filled, I'm sure of it, I passed. I just couldn't bring myself to encourage an over-priced meal two nights before Valentines Day. In other words, while they feel sorry you won't be with the love of your life on Valentine's Day, they just couldn't wrap their minds around a matinee/lunch/tea of your own on this day and keep the fully loaded dinner in place for the "couples." It saddened me, so I relinquished the thought. Maybe next year.

I've decided instead to focus on five women specifically. First, I have a girl friend who just confided that her still fresh marriage is on the rocks, and upon further exploration that there was a pattern - a history, if you will, of regretful choices. We dug deep in the conversation and she revealed that when she was a little girl, her mother committed suicide on Valentine's Day.  My second friend-girl also lost her mother at the age of three to the murdering hands of her father in plain sight. Woman friend number three lost her husband of almost 50 years not so long ago. And the fourth gal lives faraway, and lost her daughter in a tragic accident soon after I lost my husband, her uncle. Number five is me. I have had my own share of grief and loss of love, both in losing Rob and the grief I feel in my daughter's self-imposed exile.

My daughter's dad. Now, he was something! Every year on Valentine's Day, Rob would "kidnap" me for what he coined an "Urban Adventure." It was the one time of the year he pulled out all the stops. He never told me where we were going, only to pack for three days and the anticiapted weather. There was a surprise trip to New York City, one to Manhattan Beach to a Victorian hotel where all the help knew I was coming and pampered me all the way. God only knowS how much he had pre-tipped everyone to be so gracious. One year, Valentine's found us at a posh Arizona resort, and "I Love You" spelled out in chocolates on the bedspread, a bubbling hot tub, warm fireplace and icy champagne.

Sometimes the ties that bind are ephemeral. My first marriage only lasted until he raised his hand to me; and then while I was at work, he emptied the house and my jewelry box - including my grandmothers plain gold band. Other times, we are bound for what seems like until the end of time, only to find that the expectations and the realities are two different things.

We women roll with the punches and instead of red silk lingerie with our guys, we channel the love to our kids and add red food coloring to make milk pink, cook strawberry pancakes in the shapes of hearts and make an all-pink or red meal for their lunchboxes. And if you asked my daughter, she most assuredly remembers begging me to show up at her school in an over-sized red satin heart costume - a relic from my singing telegram days. Fast forward: Gone is the little girl who marveled at pink milk and swore it tasted sweeter, and in her place stands a woman of 19 years, married and expecting. She unchained a chunk of her family's heart by discarding the gold heart-shaped locket sent to her to wear at her wedding reception; a tiny necklace with a picture of her father. Truly, an unchained heart. Maybe there will be a red satin heart costume in her future. I wonder would she wear it for her child in years to come.

And now that I think of it, I remember Rob begging me to bring that red heart costume on board the cruise ship to Mexico. I protested, "It's so bulky. It's too much. Honey, it would take another suitcase."  He insisted, "Then I'll carry it. Please."  I did, of course, and he in his dark pinstripe suit and red silk tie, accompanied me down to the dining room where he had tipped the maitre'd to set up a tiny table for two. This was right after HE set it up for us to re-take our wedding vows onboard with a beautiful Mexican sunset as our backdrop. 

I haven't asked my gal pals yet if they will join me. I'm just thinking out the details now. But I'm pretty sure it will be passionate in a whole other way. I want to celebrate love where it finds me, not necessarily where it has always been before. But maybe that red heart costume has one last apperance in it...maybe. And maybe the unchained love will find a new way to define itself as off the chain.

Just in case you're still wondering, for the record, Buddy Sharp cleaned himself up and  fought successfully to retain the rights to his song. His song had been chained to someone for fifty dollars and in 1987, Sharp was miraculously able to through his own publishing company renew the copyright. The company's name was B. Sharp Music. 

I wish anyone and everyone who comes across this post to find a way to celebrate the day of romance with a day of love in service to someone else. Pay it forward, model love, do a kind deed. Buy a rose bush and plant it for someone or in someone's memory. And maybe, just maybe a 19 year old young woman will read this one day and ask if that ol' red heart costume is still around because one day her five year old daughter would love seeing her mommy in it. And if that day comes, I'll unhook it from the closet pole and send it away.  Love is never wasted. Never.

Albondigas Soup - A Recipe for Love

When my daughter was little, and came to us at the age of four, she was obsessed with food, and yet couldn't identify more than two fruits or one vegetable. And though we didn't go out often to eat, all the way home this kid would open and close the white to-go container, making sure the food was still there as we listened with disbelief to that unique crunchy sound that only styrofoam containers can make. Having lived with cocaine addicted parents, food wasn't a priority they shared and as told to me, it was mostly purchased from the driver-through of the golden arches.


Children teach you many things, and foster children in particular teach you lessons you might never have learned from your natural born. I'll never forget one of our little girls who was astonished to learn that the food hydrator section of the refrigerator was not a toolbox, or the other who found it almost impossible to beleive that she didn't have to steal food and hide it, because there would be more, really.


I quickly learned that what we smell is critical to how we feel. Can you imagine being sent to a new home to live - one in which you were not a part of the decision making? Each house has its own smells, and as its owners and tenants, we can no longer smell it, but a stranger can tell if you cooked cabbage last week, have two too many cats, or cook with garlic on a regular basis.


Yet these children came bravely to the front door. My kitchen, and more importantly, my oven  is located directly next to my front door;  and these children taught me the power of chocolate chip cookies slipped into the oven when the social worker was ten minutes out from arriving. It's a little more difficult to think about all the scary unknowns when a warm kitchen promises plates of security, comfort and love. And that is exactly what a warm chocolate chip cookie is. It mattered not if the cookies were cut from a store-bought log, or mixed in the bowl and scooped onto the cookie sheets. A warm chocolate chip cookie melting in your mouth is love.


In fact, food is love. When my teenaged daughter ran away for about the fifth time (I lost track after she ran away from the runway shelter), she landed with a family who apparently didn't share our particular love for all things culinary. Finally, she couldn't take it and asked if one day I would share my recipe for homemade albondigas soup so that she could make it for the "...family who treats me better than you ever did." Is it just me gagging on this memory, or are you finding it a little distatsteful too?


Nonetheless, I sat down to the computer and typed out the recipe, remembering all the times I made it and how that simple bowl of meatball soup could encourage conversations about her day at school, my husband's stressful day at work or my own interpretation of the events as mother and wife, caretaker, ... and, well, you get it. So, here's that recipe:

Mom's Easy Homemade Albondigas Soup

Turkey Meatballs: Mix in a bowl:
1 pound package of ground turkey (the pre-seasoned kind works great too,
 1/4 cup long grain uncooked rice
 1/4 cup chopped cilantro
 1 tsp. Mrs. Dash (spicy)
 1 beaten egg
 1/2 tsp. dried oregano- crushed
 1/8 tsp. pepper

The Other Good Stuff
1 fresh, medium onion chopped (about 1/2 cup)
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs. cooking oil
4 cups water
2 10-1/2 ounce cans chicken broth
1 6 ounce can of tomate paste
2 medium potatoes cubed OR 2 zucchinis chopped
2 medium carrots, sliced (1 cup)
1 can refried beans (great thickener)

In a big saucepan, heat the oil and toss in the onion, garlic and carrots. Cook until the onion turns golden and add the zukes.
Cook for another five minutes or so, until the vegetables are tender.

Stir in the water, broth and tomato paste and bring to boil. (IF you're using the potatoes, add them now and simmer for five minutes.)

While this is happening, mix the meat ingredients all together. I use a small ice cream scoop to divide the meat and make the meatballs uniform in size. Roll them in your hand if necessary and drop them into the simmering soup. Return to boiling: reduce heat and simmer about 30 minutes or until meatballs float to the top and potatoes are cooked through.

I like to add fresh lime for garnish, or squeezed individually into the bowls of soup. On the table I add red pepper flakes, dried oregano and a stack of hot corn tortillas with pats of butter available. 

Makes 8-10 servings.

Well, there you have it. It's my recipe for a big ol' bowl of love. After you've made it once, you'll realize just how easy this is, and what a crowd pleaser it always turns out to be. And just so ya know, it's heart-healthy in all ways, shapes and forms.


Follow this later with a hot chocolate chip cookie and see if your family doesn't look like all the cares in the world have fallen away. That's what love does - heats you from the inside, brings a rosy glow to your face and makes you always remember it fondly.  Ya gotta love LOVE.




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My New Year's Resolution - Make a Joi Filled Noise

Winter finally came to southern California, in the form of rain washed streets, trees blown over and the ever-present ringing of the Salvation Army bell outside the local post office. It's always an interesting time of the year for me, flooded with memories of living in upstate New York where you will learn the true meaning of cold, and literally turning another year older on New Year's Eve.


I have perfected a recipe for dark gingerbread with chunks of dark chocolate, crystallized ginger and dried fruits of apricot, mango, date, pineapple, pears, apple, plum, and even papaya, just meant to be eaten slowly with a cup of hot cocoa or a glass of cold eggnog. It is a “wow” dessert for those who enjoy the bite of ginger paired with the sweet of dark chocolate. I love the way my whole house is perfumed with the scent of comfort and a sense of happiness comes over me and all who enter.

To make this recipe, I always need a trip to Trader Joes to do some dried-fruit wrangling. Don't you just adore Trader Joe's? I do. I love that I can count on Hawaiian shirts in December, cool reusable shopping bags, pine wreaths out front, and things like their own gingerbread coffee which always sells out way before Christmas. One of the things I especially like about Trader Joe's is the folks who work there. In all the years I've gone for my Akmak crackers and peanut butter flavored dog bones, I don't recall ever seeing anything but a joyous countenance. Everyone wants to be of service, wants to know if they can help you find what you need and even offer up a taste of their French onion and gruyere pizza, a sip of their sparkling blueberry juice or a soupcon of coffee, while you fill your basket with whole wheat bread, flax seeded chips and lemon curd.

That's where I met Joi, who was slicing tidbits of something or other and placing them on napkins or scooping spoonfuls into a paper cup for customers to try. Somehow we hit it off, and always got into conversations that kept me there way too long. My daughter did some fine growing up in front of Joi's eyes, and Joi could tell you all about my love life - or lack there of, and what she thought of the current guy in my life.

Joi and I knew how to laugh at life and shake our heads while murmuring, "Mmmm, mmm, mmm!" Conversations always wound back around to our bodies and whether we loved them that day. You can't help but engage in those talks what with the contents of your cart on display. Inevitably, we were never happy with our female forms. Show me a woman who is.

A couple of years ago, my friend Al hosted a huge Christmas soiree at his home, and hired me to do the catering. This was a job for more than one woman, and my daughter had long ago left the house to pursue her teenage dreams of freedom. I called Joi, who even though she showed up more than an hour late, was happy to be well paid and in her groove helping me wrap cantaloupe with prosciutto, make an antipasta tray the size of Chicago, and enough Pannetone bread pudding to make all the revelers smile hugely. You can always tell the hard core cooks at a party - for they have forsaken any political debates, discourse of the weather or talk of New Year's resolutions in order to watch you create some kitchen magic. And Joi and I could entertain while dishing it up. We worked side by side with great grace and efficiency - a well-rehearsed ballet as it were, costumed in our black slacks and white shirts.

The last few times I went to Trader Joe's, Joi was no where to be found. And I reminded myself that in an attempt to cut back unnecessary expenditures, I had cut back the journeys to Trader Joe's. I had to admit, I missed our conversations about Match.com, eHarmony and whatever news I had about the "latest internet date." You should have seen her shake her head over the Mormon wrestler guy (my first blog here). Nonetheless, Joi would start in, while readjusting the white straw cowgirl hat she wore, "I need to get me on Match.com and find me a guy, but I wouldn't know where to start. First I got to lose some weight and you know I can't lose any of this big, black..." and she would lean in to me and finish the sentence with a whisper, "ass of mine!" It was true. Joi had a tiny waist which magically met with a very..."developed" derriere. She continued, "Now it's one thing to find someone who wants a gal THIS black, but girl, with this here butt, too...I dunno." I laughed. Joi's complexion was indeed the color of 85% cocoa dark chocolate, complete with a tempered shine. In my eyes, Joi was beautiful. No, not the Tyra Banks or the Queen Latifah beauty. It was Joi's approach to life that was so lovely.

So, like I said, I was shopping for ingredients to make my Christmas gingerbread treats, and couldn't stand that once again, Joi was not in her place. Maybe she had the day off again and Matt, the happy-go-lucky guy with a grey goatee, who was busy serving up triangles of ham, could tell me when she would be in next. I would have to come by and see her and just catch up. I wheeled my cart over, and while "White Christmas" played over the loudspeaker, I asked. "Hey, Matt! Where in the world is Joi? I haven't seen her in forever!" He gave me a weak smile and seemed to wait for the mother with the grabby-handed child to leave the sample table. "How well do you know Joi?" he questioned with his head tilted to one side.

How well do I know Joi? Internally I was saying, "Are you kidding? We've talked about security leaks and bladder leaks, children who back-talk their mothers and appear ungrateful and in her opinion need a good whooping with a switch. We talked about the world needing a little peace and a little piece of mind that a garage sale could bring. How well do I know Joi?" Iindeed.

"Well," I thought, “Enough that she's in my cell phone directory. Why?"

Matt hung his head, took a breath and then looked up to me. "I hate to be the one to tell you, but Joi is gone."

"Gone? You mean gone as in retired? Or gone as in moved to another store closer to her home?"

My heart sunk. I knew which "gone" he meant before he could utter it.

"Nah." his breath escaped like a whoosh from a hot oven. "Joi passed away almost six months ago. I'm so sorry...."

I was dumbfounded. Joi? There was only one Joi, so there was no need to clarify if we were talking about the same woman. I listened from inside my own head like a mayonnaise jar with the sounds kind of making a weird echo. "She hadn't come to work for three days in a row and so we called the police..." Matt's hand mindlessly obeyed him, doing his job while going on, "They did a welfare check and found her in her bathroom. She died of a heart attack. You know, she lived alone. She was there on that floor for three days, all alone."

My own heart sank. I could see her there; hear her last thoughts, "Lord, like this?" Her hand to her chest, not even able to get to the phone before falling. I could feel her eyes roll back, the pain of an elephant sitting on her chest and her acquiescing, making her peace, saying her prayer, asking for forgiveness, reliving her life and then it was over.

Matt broke my trance, "I'm so sorry. But a part of her will always be here." He looked upwards and pointed to the wall where Joi's hat was placed over her sample station."

I mumbled something, thanked him, mumbled something else and pushed my cart along. It all hit me when I got to the car. I wept all the way home. Joi was gone. She did not leave an inheritance, I was sure of that. She did not write any famous books or record a standard to be played over and over on the airwaves. Joi's legacy was her warmth, her desire to serve the public with a smile and a heart full of gratitude, motherly and sisterly wisdom and a genuine love for people. Her legacy to me was a roll of her eyes, the sistah-to-sistah talks, the hugs and laughter and her live-and-let-live take on life. I loved her.

For a couple of days, I thought of little else except for Joi's demise. How could she have been gone for six whole months and I didn't know or think to ask? Had I taken Joi for granted or expected Joi to always be in my life, but not IN my life? I had lots to think about as I whirred up my batches of dark gingerbread and realizing I needed to return to Trader Joe's for more crystallized ginger.

Matt was there again, and we nodded, and had our own little moment of acknowledgement. And then he remembered something. "Hey, look, she really is all around us. Look what someone brought in today."  From beneath the counter he lifted a tall white glass votive candle with a single feather tied to it. "And the lady who brought it didn't know Joi was gone either. She just brought it because it's Christmas."

“Yeah. Wow.” I said beneath my breath. I wished Matt a Merry Christmas, and once again left Trader Joe’s with my reusable bags and once again thinking about my friend. Here’s my take on it all: You see, when you're as authentic and as approachable as Joi, it's only natural that you should have a little Joi in your own heart and want to share it.

So, as 2009 comes to an end and 2010 is here in a matter of hours, I do believe that if asked what my New Year's resolution is, it will be to live with a little more Joi in my heart. No matter if your work is mighty or humble; be kind to others, smile a little and always be reminded that you're just fine the way you are right now, and your butt...is never too big. Everything is exactly how it's supposed to be right now. I wish you Joi.

Autumn Leaves Me Great Full

It's hard to be thankful for autumn when it's in the high 80's and the only crunch beneath your feet is not that of burnt orange and pale yellow leaves the color of the moon, but rather the strewn twigs left from a huge wind storm and brought in the house by a visiting spaniel and discovered by the instep of a bare foot.

There is no crisp air to invite a deep breath and a feeling of excitement for the holidays which will surely roll around sooner than I can imagine.  No need for a muffler tucked around the neck, or that coziness felt from nesting inside while falling leaves drift by your window, or the first fire inside to cast a glow of romance in your lover's eyes.

Instead of leaves tinted that of a first summer sunburn, I have noticed that the lacey, May-blooming jacaranda tree I planted in the front yard as a memorial to my late husband, has surprised me with a sprig of its lavender flowers - like a single wave to me from heaven.

Traditionally we see the loss of foilage as the benchmark of winter with spring waiting in the wings like an eager ingenue desperate to take center stage. Some will say that California has no seasons - or worse, that we do, but it is marked by heat, fires and then floods of mud when the rain does hit. I tend to think that it's all perspective. We will still have our bell-ringing Salvation Army soldiers of mercy posted outside the grocery store where we buy our holiday turkeys and pumpkin pies, and there will be the over-priced bundled firewood for sale in front near the un-manned customer service counter, and in my cart a big bag of cranberries to mix with wine, cinnamon, orange and sugar.

When I hear disparaging comments about climate, I always wonder if our perspective is skewed towards attitude instead of gratitude. Recently I was lamenting that I had to take a pair of my favorite high heels to the shoe repair man, as the sole was wearing thin and the heels soon to lose that little rubber tip that keeps us from rat-a-tat-tatting into a room, a friend reminded me of something too beautiful not to recall here. She told me that my shoes could not have been run down if I had not been wearing them. Lori claims it was a typo that made her refer to them as fun-down instead of run-down. Of course I had to wear them out in order to wear them down. That's a no-brainer at first blush, but I pondered that for a bit. Where had those shoes been worn to in order to wear the leather so bare? I seem to wear them infrequently. Then I remembered that I love wearing them at night when I go out to sing, to restaurants to dine with a dear friend, and even a wedding or two. Ah, yes! They were not run-down, they were fun-down.

I'm of course looking forward to trading in my bare feet or my Birkenstock sandals for the long black patent leather boots that I was lucky to score because they actually fit my calves. And won't it be nice to wear the red hand crocheted scarf that Mom made me for a birthday one year! How lucky I am that Mom, at 89 is still alive and in relative good health. How lucky I am, though thousands of miles apart, to be able to pick up the phone and hear her tell me the same stories as the last time we spoke, or remind me that my sister and her husband who live next door to her, bring her dinner every night. In the next breath, Mom will tell me like she has for the last ten years, that she doesn't eat much. The irony is not lost on me and neither is the subtext. Though she may not have the appetite she did in years gone by, is not the point. Someone cares enough to cook, bundle up in a jacket and rainboots and walk next door in the 30 degree weather with a Tupperware in hand. She may not eat as much with her mouth, but her eyes are still hungry to see her daughter at the door. My sister Diane will sit and listen to Mom as if it is the first time she has heard Mom say the same thing for the thousandth time; that it always rains in southern Illinois. I am so blessed to have her taking such good care of Mom.

I am so grateful for family, though it seems they have scattered like whirling leaves from our family tree. My daughter is now 19 and married, living hundreds of miles away with her new family and starting her own traditions. Dad is gone, my eldest sister Judy passed just after him, and like I said, my husband Rob is no longer here - all gone the same year. My youngest sister Barbara moved to Texas and has ex-communicated me from her life for what she obviously feels is a wrong-doing, though it defies definition to me. You can reach out to people, but you can't open their hands if instead of a extended palm you received a fist, the same they profess to use in prayer. Yet, I am thankful for her anger - because it means she is feeling. Of course I'd rather know her love, but I see blessings in the oddest of places now. Before our sister Judy died from a complication of strokes and a heart valve infection, other than pain, it was difficult to ascertain if she was cognizant at all. I'll take Barbara's discord as a sign that she is in the moment, and that, dear friends is kind of like winter. Even a bare, twisted and gnarled tree appearing dead in winter, will again sprout green come spring.

In the past, this time of the year found me planning a holiday menu for as many family members as I could fit around the table adorned with Mom's hand-embroidered tablecloth made to complement my Country Roses patterened china that Rob bought in 1981 as our first gift together. Now, not so much. My brother Paul called me yesterday. Paul, now in his 60's is finding his stride of soul. For whatever reason, and there are a few, I remain the only one to invite him to the holiday dinners. And this year would not have been any different. The table has shrunk in size from that laden with enough for an army to that more appropriate of an old couple with a friend or two to share a much smaller turkey. Imagine my surprise when Paul asked me for the pleasure of my company this Thanksgiving. Yup. He asked me. "I've been thinking," he started, "you know, you always work so hard and do all the shopping and the cooking...so I was thinking I should take you out this year.  And invite Al. He's awfully good to you. Whaddya think?" Before I could say too much, he blurted out, "Of course I'll miss your cranberries..." I smiled. "I'll still make you cranberries and..." I was cut off in his excitement, "And I could bring one of those Honeybaked hams so we have something to pick on, whaddya think?"  I think my heart is filled with love and that what could be despair at the loss of what was, is filled with the joy of what is.

Maybe the collective symphony of my twenty-something year old wedding gift Waterford crystal goblets will not be so resounding as yesteryears, but three glasses will still ring out, and a smile will still cross my face as we raise them in a toast of a mutual blessing - "Happy Thanksgiving." and when all is said and done, and we return from a restuarant Thanksgiving dinner, before calling it a night, we'll enjoy a tad of my cranberries and a slice of that ham on a small china plate, use one of Mom's napkins, and  my heart and soul will have been nourished and my high heels fun-downed a little more.

Happy Thanksgiving.
Love
Mary
http://www.marybogue.com/

I Can See Hell From My Kitchen

If Sarah Palin can see Alaska from her kitchen, I can see hell. No, really. I have seen hell more than once from my view over the sink garden window filled with stained glass items and pictures of time spent in both a front yard of sunflowers and also the streets of Montmarte, Paris.

My first recollection of hell outside my window was when I realized that the foster child I had been planning on arriving would not be the little blond with spools of ringlets and bright blue eyes, clutching a teddy bear. No, my first foster child was 15 years old, had dirty hair streaming down her face, was wearing thick Doc Marten style boots, torn and faded once-black jeans, a chain holding an empty wallet to her body and a shirt with the welcoming message every foster parent wants to see, "Death and Anthrax." What else says "Look, Honey," to the reluctant foster dad, "our first kid is walking up the path to the front door, we did the rght thing," than a scruffy teen with a cigarette package in her hand. I sighed and prayed, concurrently.

Kathleen turned out to be just fine - especially since I gave her permission to smoke her cigarettes. Those of you who know me, are thinking, "WTF?" Ah, think again. You know me. Wait for it...wait for it. Here it comes: "No problem," I answered the question mark on her brow. " Nah, I'm good with that if you just follow my rules you can smoke as much as you want." The social worker looked horrified at me. Her mouth opened and before drool could form, I went on,"just walk out to the back of the property (a mere couple hundred of yards) and smoke behind the wall where the pool filter is..." She interrupted me, "Okay." Without missing a beat, I offered, "use the ashtray only, and when you're done empty the cigarette into the black trash bin, bring the ashtray in and wash it with hot water and soap," she started to speak again. I cut her off, "then walk out back and replace it, come back inside and take off all your clothes, do a load of laundry and take a shower and wash your hair, put on clean clothes and then do as you like. Her eyes were saucer-big. "And really," I finished, "I don't care how much you smoke as long as you do that and buy your own cigarettes. Go for it." Kathleen's eyes closed as she dropped her head to her chest, "I always wanted to quit," she mumbled. That was it, Kathleen never smoked again.

Hell came once or twice more down my front door path. It came one June afternoon when a tall stranger in a dark suit hand-delivered the box of cremated remains of my late husband Robbie to me. I looked down at the box and smiled. You see, I had already given them Rob's favorite hand carved stone box depicting a golden retriever, but the crematorium informed me that not all of Rob would fit. Dazed, I told them to just put the rest in a Ziploc. I think they were ready to faint on the the other end. But certainly Rob would have appreciated it. Good God, he used to joke that he should be stuffed, so he could sit upright in his favorite chair with a remote control in his hand. I thanked the stranger and sent him on his way. In my hands rested the "leftovers" of a man who had been bigger than life, reduced to ashes. There is no going back. You might think you can rebuild a similar man or life, but you can't. Here I am, eight years down the road, and I'm here to tell you it is ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. You can put a pretty bow on the cardboard box, but it still holds yesterday's happiness and tomorrow's uncertainty.

Once, hell came in the form of a "friend" of my late husband. I remember hearing the asshole quite clearly. He pulled up on his motorcycle disturbing the flittering buzz of a hummingbird which darted away. Mr. A-hole sauntered up the sidewalk, leather pants making a susshing sound which grew louder with his approach. He considered himself to be a great friend to my husband, and yet, I had to inform him that Rob had died two years previously. A-hole took it all in, and then, moments later said to me - the still grieving widow, "Ya know, I really didn't like him the last time I saw him..." A-hole left my house with my definition of what a real friendship is. Oh, there were other lessons to be learned that day, for sure. But I was happy to see Hell's personal "Mr. Outreach" leave my my kitchen sink window perch-like view and straddle his "hog," leaving a horrid screech behind.

Hell has also taken a more literal turn as well. We have been under attack by monster fires this last week. California is burning and surely some red-necked (so sue me, come on, really) illiterate is blaming the fires upon our gay population, the rights of same to get married if they should so choose, and let's not forget the right to choose abortion if necessary. Imagine the hell that is for any woman - what kind of a choice is that? But I digress.

I came in late last night from a night of singing torch songs on the other side of town, where the air wasn't heavy with particulates. Upon opening the door to my car, I stepped out and realized that the "snow" on the ground was the charred remains of people's lives, swirling around my lace high heels. It was furniture, jewelry boxes, teddy bears, abandoned shoes, walls, forests, creatures unable to out-run the blistering inferno, wedding memories and family photographs of happier times when children are frozen in time at the age of five wearing their take on a gypsy- princess Halloween costume. It was dreams up in smoke. It was the devil. It was breath-taking, and try as I might, I could not breathe a bit of fresh air. Looking up, the moon hung orange in a smokey black curtain. I tasted the air and as it settled into my hair and clothes in just seconds, it tasted like charcoal briquettes waiting to explode. It tasted like death.

So what's my point? I mean, I must have one, right? Good God, let's hope so! Here it is; we only have this moment which if we're lucky keeps regenerating. Take the time to create a breath of heaven today or tonight. Tell someone something to make their day. Today, I had a business meeting with a young man and I encouraged him to take the phone call which seemed to interrupt the flow of things betwen us. At the end of his phone conversaion he said to the person on the other end, " I love you, Sweetie." I promise, you can be standing in a mound of rubble and broken dreams, but when someone acknowledges or professes their love for you - you are lifted higher and your soul soars beyond the orange moon.

I love you.
Mary

Lemonade Stands, Hot Cocoa and Flaming Hot Cheetos

When I last blogged, I was in the midst of the ultimate Christmas joy, having heard from Charity. I was so completely wrapped up in the experience that I failed to return to the computer to share the greatness of what transpired. So, here we go.

I couldn't contain myself any longer (big surprise for those of you who know me) and ended up flying Charity out here. She told me that she was so excited that she was making arrangements to come for two weeks. Two weeks? I mean, I love her to pieces, but I hadn't seen her in more than a decade, and here she was, all grown up at 26. Who knows what could have changed in all those years? Look how much already had! Charity was so very excited that she put her own Christmas tree up, celebrated Christmas with her family and on the 26th the tree was down, decorations put away, and her suitcase packed for her departure from Denver on the 27th. Holy crap, talk about efficient.

What was to be a few short hours to get here, turned out to be an all day event with plane delay after plane delay, and our novice traveler knew not of her rights to book on another plane immediately because the delays were due to actual airplane malfunction and not an "Act of God," (which by the way, don't you just love that whole concept. I could go off on that right now with the Octuplet Mom's bullshit, but I'll spare you for the sake of this story). Anyway, by the time I arrived at LAX that evening, the airlines had of course lost her bag. Remember I said she was a novice traveler? Yeah. All of her meds and important belongings were in the big luggage and the carry on piece held junky incidentals. Let's just say that her first big lesson was learned through actual hands-on or hands-off experience.

I found her in the baggage claim area, wrestling with her jacket and carry on piece, whilst trying to fill out information should her bag be found. There she was! A woman now, with the same shock of blonde hair that she had as a girl. Okay, yeah, yeah, yeah, it's not an Act of God anymore, but having said that, she looked pretty angelic to me. We flew into each other's arms and it was apparent that we needed each other to fill that long-emptied void. Family. Connectivity. Assuredness. Security. Safety. Unconditional love unlimited. We could hardly wait to get out to the car and get on the road.

The mind is a funny thing, you'd agree, right? And this is the good part. Somehow, in Charity's mind, I was still Grandma, but because of her own coming of age and now having four kids of her own, she had imagined for herself that I was, shall we say, no doubt a little more dowdily and age-appropriate for a "grandma." Read that, granny-ish. In her mind's eye, I was on a pedastle, the all-loving and all-knowing mother she never really had growing up and the only thing that could have changed was no doubt a dowager's hump, orthopedic shoes and tightly curled grey hair. Buzz. Wrong answer. Ah, not gonna happen as long as I can draw a breath and have my Amex card handy with a decent line of credit on it. As I told her, "Honey, I'm not going down without a fight.

Like tweens on a sleep-over, we stayed up, talking and laughing. There were memories of her high-tech lemonade stand built from fruit crates replete with wheels on casters, silver dollar sized pancakes just for her, and her favorite childhood memory of what we used to call "Hot Cocoa Baths." Basically, this was my attempt to drug an overly amped up kid with tryptophan to help them sleep. I would bring homemade hot cocoa to the bathtub and offer it butler-style to the non-suspecting child. See, ya gotta love that grandma wisdom stuff. Anyway, all the conversations began with, "Oh my God, do you remember..." and ended with tears, some from laughter and some from remembering her grandpa and missing him with all our hearts. She could not imagine that I have moved on, and coming home without him here to welcome her was incredibly hard. "Charity, we'll never get over losing him, but we just manage to get through it, and when you look up, eventualy enough time will have passed that you can breathe without choking on the memories and the dreams unfullfilled." I've found that when we dream for ourselves, we never interrupt it with the great "what if'" of life. What if that person I love so much becomes incapcitated, or what if something happens that I never realize just how much they mean to me and I never get to tell them. What if this photograph I'm snapping is the last one of them I'll ever have? Damn those what ifs.

In all of the times we had with Charity as a little girl, we had not taken her up the coast. The thing about California is, once you live here, it lives in you forever. It does. Where else can you sit on your patio with a cup of coffee, orange trees and birds of paradise in bloom all around you and a dusting of snow on the local mountains within your eyesight? Charity was jones-ing for California big time, so I made reservations at my favorite dog-fiendly hotel in Cambria, The Fog Catcher Inn. We rented a mini-van that could be accessed by Stallone, my aging golden retriever who had some serious mobility issues going on, and made our journey, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at Half Moon Bay, the vineyards and clean gas stations along the way. Gas stations can be a God send, and those with convenience store attached - even better. There, Charity was suddenly opting for water instead of her announced addiction to soda, but could not and would not give up the salty snacks of Flaming Hot, Limon Flavored, CHEETOHS. No. Orange fingered, I drove up the coast and our homemade sandwiches and cut veggies supplemented the "This has got to be made with crap" snack. Yum.

Cambria lived up to my expectations, as it always does. Garbo and Stallone loved the comfort of laying next to the fireplace at the foot of our king-sized beds, and seemed absolutely in bliss when Chari-boo (my nickname for the kid) would return from the dining room with left over chunks of fresh waffles, sausage and eggs. You have to admit, your eyes grow big with full expectations of being able to consume all you have managed to put on your plate, seeing as how someone else has made it for you. But that's another story. I digress.

For two nights we made Cambria our home, walked beach side, cozy in our jackets and mufflers and the new Uggs I gave her as a Christmas present. It was hard to believe, but we never even made it into town. Books lay with pages unturned and unlimited miles on the rental car were used instead to see everything on the way to Big Sur. Redwood needles crunched beneath our boots, rain washed away the miles of crust on the windshield and everywhere we went, we nested. It was sheer heaven- all of it - the way she gently helped Stallone in and out of the car, stopped to make sure both dogs were properly watered and of course, helped them find their perfect square of grass when necessary. I watched with the eyes of a proud parent, satisfied that if I died that same day, I would know that the world was a better place for having this woman in it. She is remarkable.

Back home, we moved through the house as we always had, but now grown up. It was a dance in the kitchen, the choreography in place of washing and drying dishes, preparing our next meals, feeding the dogs, and reaching for pots and pans to make new meals of homemade ablondigas and the favorties she remembered. I gave her my last copy of the cookbook I wrote and dedicated to her, so that she could continue making things like Firecracker Corn and her great grandma's Award Winning Chili. The recipes for life, she had apprently commited to memory. Charity knows that love isn't conditional upon ones gender or love for each other no matter if it is same sexed, that the meaning of Carpe Diem has greater weight now than before, and that old dogs need a little more love and time to get around. Yeah, she's cooking with gas, as my mother would say.

Come New Year's Eve and she accompanied me to Colombo's for my New Year's Eve show, helping the entire time, savoring the magic of it all. We are two old souls and the rhythm of our souls expression is like dessert - sweet, unexpected and satisfying. She seemed to love the standards we all sang, the people in my life who have become so important to me in the recent years and, of course, the scampi, calamari, steaks, eggplant, salmon and chocolate-chocolate desserts didn't hurt either.

To her husband back home, Charity couldn't get back soon enough - for several reasons, a few of them - well, I love Charity too much to talk about here - but for Charity and me, the time was evaporating quickly. Tears splashed against sunglasses, rolled down our cheeks and fell to our necklines. A cardboard box or two had to be sent home ahead of her because we knew her luggage would now be over by at least 30 pounds. There were clothes for the kids, souvenirs from our trip, new sweaters for Charity from my sister and Mom and a new 16 hour red lipstick in her carry on. Thankfully, we didn't have to pack the memory of procuring it. That went something like this:

"Hey Chari-boo, have you ever thought of wearing a red lipstick? I think it would be so pretty with your skin tone and blonde hair." Her eyes danced.
"Red lipstick. Oh my God, I'm so embarrassed."
"What? Over what?" I asked incredulously.
"Grandma, I feel so stupid. I don't even know how to wear blush. Here I am, going to be 27 in a couple of days and no one ever showed me how to wear it, so I don't."
Proudly, yes proudly, like a long ago programmed tribal dance between women, I showed her the apples of her cheeks, and also found the perfect orange-red, not blue-red color for her lips and helped her apply both.
"How do I look?" she asked, so jubilant in her reflection.
"Like you, all grown up. Beautiful, honey, just beautiful."
And I thought to myself, on the outside she is a flaming hot Cheeto, and inside, pure, sweet and yummy hot cocoa. She had learned everything she needed to from that Lemonade Stand - that when you smile at people and offer them a cup of love, they'll even pay for it when it tastes like a cup of lemonade.

Can you tell, how much I love that kid. And in the words of my late husband, "Did I tell you today how much I love you?" Well, I just did.

If you decorate a tree, will Christmas come?

Christmas has been my defining holiday all my life. As an adult, there wasn't a room untouched with a sprinkle of Christmas cheer for my family. The tree went up early so that we could enjoy it longer, presents were bought in September and tucked away, and our Christmas cards were actually mailed the day before Thanksgiving so that ours would be the first heartbeat of the Season.

Yet this year, I barely brought the tree from the garage. No cards have hit the mail. I never even bought any! Was it the winter cold that caught me and robbed me of enough umph, or had the meaning of Christmas lost its charm without a man next to me in bed to snuggle-in with, children to surprise with a little Santa magic or the thought that ham for one is just wrong?

Torn between putting it up or forgetting it altogether, I actually thought, maybe this is the first year I don't put up a tree and settle for a decorated mantel. Who will possibly notice or care if the tree stays in the box in the corner of the garage? And as far as that goes, I never even heard back from my over-the-top Christian sister and her family about the gifts bought in their name last year - shoes and a uniform for a little girl in Africa so that she could go to school, a goat for a widow with kids in Rwanda to start her own business and a well for a village to have water. You would think charity would be a cool gift.

Screw it, I thought. I had the Christmas blues. And then the realization hit that maybe I could be on my way to "old ladydom?" What's the point of hoisting your cleavage into a steel foundation, red 16 hour lipstick, or leopard high heels, if you start acting your age? No, I could at least put up a tree and best to do it before the anticipated rain storm hit. I ventured in the cold air to the garage, and there it stood on its end like a toy soldier next to the fortress of red and green tubs. I brought it in the house, plopped the three pieces together and plugged it in. Magic. Part of me was content to keep it just like that. It would be so much less work; just one, two, three and it would be back in the garage in a couple of weeks. Who cared in the end if my prized collection of Christopher Radko ornaments each took their designated place on the tree?

You see, over the last 25 years, this house has held 16 foster children, a husband and wife, father and mother, children, step-mother, step-children, adopted mother and father, and even a 'grand daughter." But times have changed. Life is like a Christmas box of ornaments, marked FRAGILE on the outside, and inside - breathtaking contents to be admired, but very breakable if dropped - even shattered.

The kids grew up and even grew away. My husband Rob passed away from a stunning accident doing what he loved, and even the family pets came and went. The number of presents under the tree dwindled, more Christmas storage boxes stayed in the garage than came out and even more left in garage sales. Away went the animated black angel doll, the moving Dicken's character of Tiny Tim on his dad's shoulders, and all the Santas and Mrs. Santas with their metronome-like rhythm of moving candles held in their hands. I slept on it overnight. Not the tree, the idea of keeping it as is. Screw the ornaments. The house was freezing, and I went to bed, bringing the covers up under my chin and falling asleep.

Somehow, I woke feeling better and with reluctance, dodged the raindrops and opened the garage again. Methodically, I brought in each box of ornaments and then I discovered something. It wasn't just decorating a tree with expensive blown glass figures meticulously painted over a weeks time in an Italian factory. My hands held the tattered brown construction paper bear made in my daughter's kindergarten class, and a picture of her five year old face smiled back at me in place of the bear's. I found the "Our First Christmas Together" plastic ornament with two swans engraved and remembered the joy of buying it for our tree. Our tree. There was Rob's white moose ornament with "Studmuffin" in calligraphy on it, and the one he bought me with "Sugar Britches," emblazoned (my God, Rob was irreverent) and there was a little cat ornament made of flour and baking soda and salt. It was the very first ornament in the collection, made by hand because it was all I could afford. I placed it next to the Radko cat honoring breast cancer survivors - my way of acknowledging my grandmother and mother.

My collection of ornaments, it turned out, is more than that. It is a time capsule. A little gold castle from San Simeon reminded me of our family trip there, a cable car from San Francisco, an Eiffel tower for our Parisian vacation, and Tinkerbell from a trip to Disneyland. The family of elephants circle the tree because Rob so loved them that each year I would buy a special decoration for him. The year he died, I "accidentally" found a little tin elephant with a halo. There were angels and mermaids from my sisters, a glass bee and honey comb for my brother the beekeeper, a clown with an AIDS ribbon reminding me of friends long gone, and at the top of the tree the religious ornaments and the star. Jesus and the gang looked down at me, and my hand-made stained glass window of Mary and the Baby Jesus - too heavy for the tree - stands on a easel next to the computer monitor.

Now, maybe this trip down Christmas Tree Lane would be enough to suffice, but truthfully, it wasn't yet, and there was no way of knowing if Christmas would show up. That is, until yesterday. Christmas came on December 15 in the way of a phone call. Out of nowhere a voice announced itself after a little more than ten years. "It's me, Charity."

You see, about 25 years ago a little two year old girl showed up in our lives. Rob's son Jeffrey (now estranged) came through the door holding in his arms a tiny bit of a toddler with platinum blond hair. Turns out his girlfriend was doing drugs and busted, was now in jail. Jeff couldn't keep care of her and rather than see her go into foster care, Charity came here to live for a while. Rob became "Grandpa" and though 32 years old, I became "Grandma." You should have seen the scrunched up faces of women in the supermarket trying to do the slut-math when they heard her call me Grandma. Off and on for many years, Charity would call this home until her mother would get out of jail - again - and whisk her home with her. Then those teen years came and Charity moved on. Life goes on.

"How are you guys doing?"she asked. I had to tell her that while I was fine, her grandfather had passed away seven years ago. Both of our voices were filled with that gasping for air thing and punctuated with sobs. I could hear in her voice the invisible sound of remorse for time gone by and the chance for reconciliation and renewal gone. "Charity," I told her, "You were the reason your grandpa said yes to foster kids. Because of you and the love you brought into our home, we had 16 foster kids. You did good, kid. You did good."

There's no fooling ourselves that Rob would have loved to have seen the emails that followed our conversation, and the attached family pictures of her four children. There, right in the midst of those three young dark-haired boys was a little blond creature looking just like her mommy did all those years ago. The kids stand in front of their respective Christmas stockings, names emblazoned in silver glitter and in their eyes is the sparkle of Christmas hope.

So, if you're a quart low on faith this year, let me be the first to wish you a little Charity in your life. And with a pint of hope, perhaps our new year will measure up to what we create it to be. Find your own charity, make some calls, reconcile while you can and let's measure up to our potential.

Yes Virginia, if you decorate a tree, Christmas will come. And by the way, that Tinkerbell ornament - Charity bought it at the age of five with her little fistful of allowance and gave it to me to hang on the tree so I could always have a little magic. You did good, Sweetheart. Real good. By the way, if you're wondering, a little Charity is a cool gift.