Let There Be Pears

Once there were white flowers.


Now there are teeny tiny baby pears.

I see pear sauce in our future. Lots of it.

Peach Tarts, Again

I've posted about these tarts before, I just can't remember when.

But peach tarts are so good, they're worth an encore post.

I found this recipe while reading Under the Tuscan Sun.

Worn out?

Tired?

Ready for a vacation but cant afford it?

Buy this book.

It's my go-to insta-vacation on paper. It's nothing like the movie, and I've read it four times. Going on five.

Cut up five or six peaches. I like to leave some of the peach skin.

Add a cup of marscipone cheese.

Add 1/4 cup sugar ( I add more depending on how ripe the peaches are).

Mix thoroughly.

Divide the mixture in two, placing equally in the centers of two pre-made pie crusts. Fold crusts over. Brush on egg whites to the crust. Bake at 375 for 20 to 40 minutes depending on how crispy you like it. I baked mine almost 45 minutes.

Let cool at least 30 minutes.

It's now officially the start of a very good weekend.

New Project, Need Ideas

Ok guys. I bought this shiny gold planter for a STEAL at a flea market. What should I do with it? Let me preface this by saying... the gold is gone. I'm painting it no matter what, but other than that I have no ideas. Should I use it outside? Inside? Candles? Plants? Ideas?

Amazing Race Contestants... Look Out

When she was little, my middle sister Rebecca wasn't scared of anything. She also had a penchant for, how shall I put this, gross things. Like what? Once she collected a cup full of craw dads at the creek, brought them home and left them in the bathtub.





Of course they died, stinking up the place like a rotten egg in a hot car. And as Rachel and I shrieked in protest, her excuse was, "But look... their shells are so colorful and pretty."







So it's not surprising that Rebecca, the fearless crawdad corpse collector, took me seriously when I said, "Hey, I dare you to eat one of those."

And eat she did. Chomp, chomp on a gross, jiggly, baby octopus. Head and all. I'm still gagging.

On the other hand, I'm starting a betting pool if she enters The Amazing Race.

Ava & Charlie, Part V

To read the other chapters of the Ava & Charlie short story, click here.


(My grandparents, Liz & Forrest, along with their chaperon Gertrude. Yep, they had a chaperon on dates. 1942)


Charlie picked me up and we took a cab to La Mela, a tiny Italian restaurant tucked into the corner of an ancient brick building. He opened the stained glass door as we entered a room bathed in flickering yellow candlelight. The patrons sat in cozy booths and tables while speaking in soft, hushed whispers. The stucco walls were stained an aged tobacco brown and the wooden floor creaked beneath my heels.

Fantastic smells wafted past me; tomatoes, fresh basil, chicken. My stomach growled and I glanced quickly at Charlie, horrified that he might have heard.

If he heard, he never let on, “Table for two please.”

A waiter with black hair smiled at me, led us to a small table and then whispered as he walked away, “Bella, senora, bella.”

I frowned.

The restaurant couldn’t be any more romantic.

And I couldn’t be any crankier.

(My grandparents, Liz & Forrest, 1942)

Charlie pulled my chair out and we busied ourselves inspecting the menus.

It became apparent after a few short moments our dinner was not to be an uninterrupted one.

A cook in a white apron marched by and kissed his fingers at me, “Bellissimo!”

I gave him my darkest scowl and gritted my teeth. I've never appreciated it when anyone, let alone men, make uninvited personal comments. Even if said comments are murmured in a romance language.

Charlie never looked up from the menu, a smile lurking in the dimple on his cheek.

I took a deep, annoyed breath and returned my concentration to the menu when another waiter swished past with glittering brown eyes and stated in loud vibrato, “Bella senora!”

I slammed the menu down, “Is this not bothering you?”

Charlie reached out, pulled a piece of bread off the loaf in the center of the table, and eyed it calmly, “Nope.”

Another waiter waved at me from the back of the room, “Bella!”

“Well, this is ridiculous,” I huffed, “What’s wrong with these men?”

Charlie chewed a big piece of bread thoughtfully before swallowing, “Italians like pretty women.”

“And I suppose you’re not going to do anything about it?” I snapped.

“Nah,” he grinned, “They’re just paying you compliments. Something tells me all pretty women get special attention in here.”

“Listen carefully,” I pointed my fork, “None of this was my idea. Not the lunch with Mother. Not this dinner date. None of it. And I’ll be hanged if I sit here and get leered at by an entire wait staff.”

“They’re not leering, they’re calling you beautiful,” Charlie stated genially.

“Most men would be jealous,” I muttered.

(My grandfather, Forrest, 1941)

“Sure,” Charlie broke off another piece of bread, handing it to me, “Most men would feel threatened and try to fight six waiters at one time. Most men are dumb.”

“But not you,” I snapped sarcastically, snatching the bread from his hand.

“Nope,” Charlie took another bite and smiled calmly, “When someone insults you, then I’ll do something about it.”

The ‘bella’s’ and ‘bellisimo’s dwindled as a tall blond woman sashayed through the front door and thankfully redirected the waiters’ attention. Our waiter brought our food without looking at me, his head craned to watch the blond woman walk through the room.

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried not to wolf down the bowl of gnocchi with pesto in front of me.

“So how do you like being in the army?”

It was a half-hearted attempt at making conversation, but it was all I could muster.

Charlie shook his head, amused, “I’m not in the Army; I’m in the Air Corp.”

“So you fly planes?”

He grinned, “Something like that.”

“And you like it?”

“I wouldn’t say I like it,” his smile faded a little, “but I’m good at it.”

He began to talk freely about how his family immigrated from Ireland and settled in the south. He talked about his younger sisters, their grumpy father and his beloved hunting dogs, Butch and Ralph.

I smiled, trying to disguise the fact that I had no clue what hunting dogs were.

“So what about you? What’s your hobby?” he slurped some spaghetti sauce on his face.

Without thinking about it, I reached out with my napkin and efficiently dabbed his chin.

He stared at me intently.

“Well,” I started abruptly, embarrassed, “I like to make money.”

Charlie belly laughed loudly, unconcerned that he’d broached a decibel level unsuitable for the quiet restaurant, “That’s not a hobby!”

I looked at the tin ceiling above us, thinking.

“I like to take things apart.”

“What do you mean?” he leaned forward, interested.

I flushed, slightly embarrassed to reveal my most unfeminine trait, “Well, lots of things. I fixed our landlady’s washing machine last month and she took half off our rent.”

“I’m shocked,” he grinned, but it was an appreciative grin.

Encouraged, I babbled on, “I helped our neighbor rework some old wiring in his kitchen.”

“And how did you learn all this?”

A waiter could have dropped a tray full of dishes behind Charlie’s head and he wouldn’t have noticed.

I shrugged, “If I look at the parts long enough, it usually makes sense. I also have my dad’s old plumbing and electrical manuals.”

Charlie pushed his plate back, “I gotta tell you, you couldn’t have shocked me more if you’d told me you were a trapeze girl in the circus."

I shifted sideways in my chair, simultaneously pleased with his approval and disgusted at myself for caring. A sudden noise across the room caught my attention and I glanced away from Charlie’s smiling face just in time to see a man in the center of the room jump to his feet.

(My grandmother, Mary Elizabeth)

The man was a marine, tall and thin, with a shock of red hair. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I knew because of the look that passed over Charlie’s face. His smile disappeared, instantly replaced with caution as he turned to watch the marine.

“Eat your food,” the marine leaned over his seated date, growling.

His date drew back, afraid.

The entire room fell silent as all eyes turned to watch.

One of his friends at the table, a fellow marine, glanced around nervously, “Come on Kilpatrick, just sit down.”

Kilpatrick’s face turned a sickened white as he swayed a little, the pulse beating visibly in his neck. He turned from his cowering date and surveyed the room, “Go ahead, everybody EAT YOUR FOOD!”

Charlie scooted his chair back slightly, his knuckles white as he gripped the side of the table.

“Eat your food. Drink your wine,” his voice began to rise, “None of this is real. Want to know what’s real?”

I swallowed nervously, glancing at Charlie. He cut his eyes, giving me a quick, reassuring glance.

“Wanna know?” he backed away from the table, leaning over a nearby woman in a mink stole, “Bloody snow banks!”

The woman flinched and looked away from him.

Kilpatrick moved closer to us, pointing at a man in a pin striped suit, “Wanna know what else is real? Trenches and men with frozen stumps for feet!” He reached out and knocked the man’s plate of food onto the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a waiter at the back of the room pick up the telephone, cupping his hand as he whispered into the receiver.

“Come on Kilpatrick,” the other marine stood up slowly, carefully, “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

Kilpatrick began to laugh manically, “Remember Kirby? Huh?”

“Just calm down,” the marine bargained.

“Kirby was my cousin,” he whirled and looked toward me, his eyes dead and unblinking, “But none of you care.”

(My great-uncle Elden)

Charlie muttered, “Don’t make any sudden moves.”

“Kirby got his forehead blown off while we were smoking cigarettes!” he was moving closer now, shrieking at me, “That’s what’s real! So go ahead and eat your food, you stupid dame!”

In a flash, before I knew what was happening, Charlie was out of his seat.

I sat frozen as Charlie tackled Kilpatrick. My head began to spin, trying to decide what to do. I pondered jumping on Kilpatrick’s back and poking him in the eye with my fork, because at that moment, helping Charlie was the only thought pounding in my brain.

But it became quickly evident that Charlie did not need any help, let alone mine.

He grabbed Kilpatrick by his arm and whirled him around, grabbing his other wrist and holding both arms behind his back. The other marine dashed forward as they forced Kilpatrick down on the ground.

“Get off me,” he screamed, his face pressed against the wooden floor plank, “Get off me you Nazis!”

A waiter shouted from the back, “The police… they’re coming.”

Kilpatrick screamed and wailed like a cat, but the horror in his voice and the anger in his grimace never made it into his eyes. His eyes were pale blue marbles, blank slates, no expression, no life left. I'd heard about the thousand yard stare, and apparently, this was it.

(My grandfather, Robert, New Guinea, 1943)

The front door burst open as four policemen raced through the crowd and relieved Charlie and the marine. But Kilpatrick was finished with his struggle. He quietly stood up and let the police handcuff him.

Charlie strode across the room and held out his hand.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he tossed some money on the table.

I looked up at him blankly, stunned.

“Ava,” he leaned down and spoke gently, “give me your hand.”

I cleared my throat, picked up my clutch and took his hand. There was a buzz around the room as other couples took our cue, standing and exiting the restaurant as the police led Kilpatrick outside.

Charlie patted my hand, “I told you when someone insulted you I’d do something about it.”

I stared at him, undecided whether I should slap his face or hug his massive shoulders.

“You like ice cream?” he asked.

I drew a ragged breath, wiping my forehead, “What?”

“There’s a little ice cream place over by Central Park. What do you say let’s go?”

I eyed him for a moment, pondering his instant metamorphosis from battle hardened soldier to cheerful ice-cream fetching date, “Ok, why not.”

“And I promise,” He held up a hand solemnly, “we won’t ride in any of those cheesy horse and buggy get-ups. I get the feeling you wouldn’t like that.”

I smiled genuinely for the first time all night, taking his arm, “Well in that case…”

Goodbye Jon & Kate Plus 8

I usually avoid blog ranting. I steer clear of politics and social commentary because for the most part, it’s not the main focus of my life. But not today. Today, as I watered my herbs and watched the morning sunlight illuminate the bright green of early summer, I decided I would let this rant fly.

I have watched Jon & Kate Plus 8 from its inception. I’ve watched since the first TLC/Discovery Health specials, right down to the season opener last night. I’m a fan. I know the kids’ names, their favorite stuffed animals, and their teachers’ names.

But last night, during the season premier, I felt sick.

I felt sick that TLC is willing to bask in the media limelight and make a profit off an imploding marriage and family.

I felt sick that Kate & Jon spent time talking to a camera, vaguely hinting at their failed marriage, instead of stepping out of the spotlight and going to a marriage counselor.

I felt sick that I was watching it.

But most of all, I feel sick for the children.

There was a reference at one point in the show (can’t remember where) that the ‘children weren’t really aware’ of what was happening. That was where I got off the boat. That was the point where I thought, “I’m done with this show.” Because Jon & Kate… those kids are aware.

How do I know? Because I was aware at the age of three when my mother miscarried. I was aware as she sat on the kitchen floor and cried and our dog Gus tried to lick her in the face. I was three. And I was aware.

I was aware at age five when my parents went through the adoption process. I was aware of how much money it was costing, that it meant buying a four door car and being interviewed by child psychologists so they could decide whether mom and dad were fit parents. I was aware.

I was aware of the wall-shaking joy the day mom found out she was pregnant with Rebecca. I was five. I was aware that my father didn’t like his job. I was six. I was aware of how sad my Meme was when her mother died (my Granny). I was seven.

And I’m here to tell you… children are aware. They are intelligent and they are constantly listening. And the Gosselin kids are aware that the paparazzi stalk them. They are aware that their parents don’t like each other. And they are aware that every moment of it is on camera.

I love this show, so when I say that I’m boycotting it; it’s not an easy decision. But I personally refuse to be part of the media hype leading to this disaster. And I certainly hope Jon & Kate have put together some healthy trust funds for the kids. Those poor little guys are going to need it to pay for their future therapy sessions.

Cedar Planks & Evening S'mores

While purchasing camping supplies last week, Matt noticed cedar planks for sale. Cedar planks especially for cooking fish on a grill or over an open fire. Heaven bless that creative brain of his, because those cedar planks made some of the best grilled salmon we've ever had.




And while we marinated the salmon in a fresh lime juice/teriaki sauce, I played around in the backyard with the camera. The hour before dinner, when the light is soft and children ride bicycles in the street, is a magical time. It's my favorite time to take pictures.

Here's the cedar plank...

... and you just cook the salmon right on top.

While we were out there, I noticed that the garden is making progress. If you call yellow flowers progress. But still.

And after we devoured the salmon, we headed back outside for s'mores.

They were gooood.

Here's proof.

Last Eureka Post, I Promise

I wish I had a cottage here.

Just a tiny, out of the way gingerbread cottage with a bedroom and a claw foot tub. And a porch with geraniums. Somewhere I can hang my hat on the weekend, walk around in flip flops and take pictures to my heart's content.

I find myself pulling up these picture files while I'm at work, clicking through them and wishing with all my heart that I owned a shop here. A little coffee/sandwhich place I could run with my college-graduate-job-hunting sister. Between the two of us, we could figure it out.

We would wear jeans and listen to Rosemary Clooney and serve coffee and cookies.

And then walk home after work surrounded by stained glass, old bricks...

... aged plaster, patio lights, and sidewalk grates encrusted with purple glass.

And then I blink back to reality and answer the phone while shuffling through a pile of paperwork. It's good to have dreams. It's even better to have pictures that remind you of them.

Greek Food, and a Little Dancing

The local Greek Food Festival featured an International Dance & Music series.

And while I snapped pictures and admired the colorful costumes, I also had to ask myself a silent mental question, "So Liz.... could you get down on the ground and stick your leg out backwards like that?"

To which I answered out loud in my most annoyed voice, "No."

And the people beside me looked uncomfortable and moved farther away.

It was a beautiful night, with crisp early-summer breezes ruffling the trees overhead.

Fantastic aromas filled the night air; tatziki, pastitsio, baklavas.

But the best part, better than the flashy costumes, beautiful dancers and mouthwatering food, was little Noah and his hat.

Sorry Greek Food Festival, Noah totally stole your thunder.

Waiting For Matt

Before Matt gets home, Mabel droops on the floor. She wilts like a delicate flower next to the front door, rolling her eyes and perking her ears at the sound of every car.








But as soon as Matt walks through the door, she squiggles and figure-8's all over the floor. Note the blurry entire-behind-wagging. We refer to this as 'helicopter tail.'

But just as soon as he is revered, he is forgotten. Mabels spots a squirrel on the tree outside and errupts into the loudest, shrillest, screamiest schnauzer barking. Ever.

At which time Matt looks at her, exclaiming loudly, "NOOOOOO."

And I catch it on film.

"You're going to put that on your blog, arent you?"

"Not if you don't want me to," I mutter.

He shrugs his shoulders.

I consider shrugged shoulders code for, "That's fine with me darling, do whatever you want."

House Flattery

Apartment Therapy featured my office! Excuse me while I fight off the vapors.

http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/la/inspiration/inspiration-metro-shelving-085390

Anthropologie Thank You & Rosemary

My friend Deanna went on vacation this past week, and upon her return, she stealthily delivered a small white bag on my doorstep. I’ll confess, when I pulled into the drive and spied the package, along with the familiar Anthropologie logo, I screamed. Inside my car, drowning out the radio. Flat out screamed.



You see, we have no Anthropologie store in our fair city. Not that I haven’t petitioned their website repeatedly about it. So my obsessive love for this store has to be contained within the confines of cyber shopping, which just isn’t the same. Thus the screaming.





She gave me the most marvelous dish towel, which I’m here to tell you will NEVER actually be used to wipe down greasy skillets. This is deserving of something better, a pillow perhaps. Heck, I might even frame it. But no grease wiping.

I’ve also started picking long strands of rosemary when in need of fresh flowers. Nothing, I repeat, nothing smells better in a kitchen than a vase full of this stuff. Plus, it's free.

And since Yankee candle has YET to create a jar candle that smells like rosemary, I’m toying with the idea of buying a scentless candle and sprinkling some fresh rosemary in the hot wax, just to see if it would smell. Has anyone ever done that? Thoughts?

So thank you Deanna!

And now I'm off to create my very own rosemary candle. Or burn the house down, whichever comes first.

Forcing the Issue...

Sometimes I can force myself to write. It starts with a big cup of coffee, a clean desk and me, chatting to myself like the crazy woman who stands on the corner of Capitol St. and tries to hit the passing cars with a long cane.

My speech (to myself) usually goes something like this, "Listen... you. I know you'd much rather watch HGTV for five hours and file your nails. I know you'd rather call Rebecca and talk about American Idol. But this is how it's going to go... you're going to write. At least five pages. And until you write five pages, you're going to sit in this chair."

And sometimes that works. And sometimes Matt overhears it, bugs his eyes and slinks off to the man room to avoid the seemingly multiple-personality ridden wife he married in youthful, blind devotion.

But sometimes forcing the issue doesn't work. Like today. Like this picture, where my Aunt Beverly tried her best to give her little sister, my mother, a sweet sisterly kiss. Only to be rebuffed. And that's where I'm at folks. Rebuffed. The Ava & Charlie saga has grinded to a halt, momentarily of course.

I'm taking a deep breath and will try again tomorrow.

PS... dont you just love the vintage wallpaper in the background of this picture? It was taken in my great-grandparent's Tennessee farmhouse, which was sold long before I was born. Sigh.

Here Comes the Sun, and the A.D.D.

As I stare at the peaceful morning sunlight streaming through the windows and listen to the doves cooing outside in the thick green bushes, it would appear that the rain has finally left us. For now.

The sun energizes me. It makes me disgustingly cheerful. Define disgustingly cheerful? I chirp Pollyanna'esque phrases like, "Doesn't this morning light make beautiful, mottled patterns across our living room?" To which a sleepy Matt mutters "Hmmm" and wishes I would be quiet. Heck, I wish I would be quiet. But vitamin D is apparently a giant mood lifter.


It makes me happy. It makes me hum and arrange tomatoes in a bowl for no apparent reason when I should be sweeping the floor or doing something about the water rings on this table.

But instead of balancing the checkbook or unloading the dishwasher or doing anything useful, I rearrange said bowl and tomatoes on a tablecloth.

And take close up pictures of the glaze, which happens to be my favorite color in the whole wide world.

The sun puts a spring in my step, and I find myself painting my toenails and writing out a big list of household items on the chalkboard when what I really should be doing is paying the bills and packing a lunch. But I draw a little chalk art around the list instead.

It's official: the sun gives me A.D.D.

And instead of driving straight to my destination, the sun made me pull over beside the lake. I turned off the car engine and took a deep breath of fresh air.

I walked under the giant trees, watched the ducks skim the surface as their wings flapped loudly, and sat on these massive roots while fish flopped to the surface of the calm, early morning lake.

Thank goodness it's sunny. But if I'm ever going to be productive again, I'm gonna need a few more clouds.

8 Years Later

"I haven't spoken to my wife in years. I didn't want to interrupt her."
-Rodney Dangerfield

Since I've started blogging, there is a portion of this blog's audience that refers to my husband as "Poor Matt." And I cant say that's unfounded. Here's a man who drags home dilapidated furniture off curbs at my request, and smiles patiently when I have hissy fits over writing gone wrong. He's been nagged, scared out of his wits, and never even yelled when I rammed a car into our house (a story for another time). He does most of the cooking, for crying out loud.

So today, on our 8th anniversary, I'd like to officially declare this "Poor Matt" day. Thank you, Matt, for being the eternally patient man that you are. I love you!

A Little Stressed

Who needs Valium when I have blueberry muffins?

And a super sweet sister who bought me this cute salt shaker?

Ok fine. A little Valium would be nice. But carbs and presents sure do help.

Somebody Build Me An Ark

Rain rain go away.

Sure it's good for the grass.

But you know what it's not good for? Grilling.

And eating outside on the patio.

I keep pouring water out of the planters. The first set of bulbs I planted drowned. No kidding. Apparently that's what happens after eight days of constant rain.

And Matt looks pretty pitiful standing out there with no umbrella.

Seriously rain. Go away. We want to play outside again.

Rainy Daydreams

What kind of home stood in this old house place?

Does anyone remember the family that lived there?

Probably not.

Who planted these purple iris bulbs? They're still emerging from the ground years later, in a square pattern around the old foundation.

Where does this stream travel?

Under the mountain? Into a cave?

Would people stare if I rolled up my jeans and waded in it?

Who built this white cottage, carefully tucked into the side of a mountain?

Did they know a hundred years later I would stroll past and declare it my dream home?

Have I mentioned I love this town? A couple hundred times? Oops. Sorry.

Bundt Cake Gone Bad

I decided to make a carrot cake, but was unable to find my cake pans.


So I shrugged, chalking it up to those pesky kitchen fairies who often steal my things, and decided to make a Bundt cake instead.

It did not go well. It fell out in chunks. So like any self respecting sugar-craving woman, I slathered some icing on the various 'pieces' and ate it anyway.

This is not one of my proudest moments.

Ava & Charlie, Part IV

If you're late to the party, you can catch up here:
click here for Part I
click here for Part II
click here for Part III
And after speaking with a friend of mine (who is an agent), I feel better about posting this short story here. She assured me I was in no way compromising it's chances of being published later. But thank you for all your advice!




(my grandparents, Liz & Forrest, June 1942)

“How old are you Charles?” Mother’s smile faded back into oblivion, replaced with a look of pure business-like concentration.

“29.”

“You're quite a bit older than most soldiers.”

“Yes ma’am, I enlisted after Pearl Harbor.”

“And despite your advanced age, you’ve never been married?”

“No ma’am.”

“And why not?”

I pulled at the buttoned collar around my neck, fanning myself with a menu. This conversation was an out of control express train, and I was riding on top of it with only my fingernails clutching at the metal roof.

“Seemed like a waste of time.”

Mother’s mouth twitched again, but quickly smoothed into seriousness, “And why, may I ask, is Ava not a waste of time?”

“I’ve got a gut feeling. Besides, she reminds me of my mother.”

My eyes bugged so large I could have been mistaken for Peter Lorre, “Do you have any idea how creepy that is?”

Mother rapped the table with her bony knuckles, “Ava be silent, I’m seeing to your future welfare. And for your information, that’s the highest compliment a man can pay a woman.”

I stifled a snort, slumping in my chair. Compliment my eye. Being compared to Betty Grable was something to get excited about. Being compared to some frumpy southern ‘mama’ was not. I glared at the side of his square jaw, trying my best not to notice the hint of a dimple appearing whenever he smiled.


(my grandfather, Robert, kneeling in front, Army Air Corp, South Pacific)

Mother proceeded with her rapid fire questions, “How will you propose to support a wife?”

“My father and I run a farm in Alabama. We’re not rich, but we make a good living.”

“Excuse me,” I sat up straight and leaned on the table with both elbows, an extreme violation of Mother’s table manner rules, “isn’t it time you stopped this charade Mr. Fitzgerald? I think this has gone far enough.”

“Who said this was a charade? For your information, I have every intention of marrying you,” he stated plainly, calmly, the same way one might casually mention going on vacation.

Mother, who was examining us like a Rockefeller examines a contract, nodded brusquely, “Charles, listen carefully to what I’m about to say. There are three things in this world that make me angrier than a hornet trapped in a jar. One: my mailman. He mistakenly delivers Dolores Milazzo’s mail to my mailbox everyday. If he does it one more time I’m going to light him on fire with some Pine-Sol and a pack of matches.”

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling with relief. This was the dragon-like Mother I knew and loved. Charlie’s seemingly easy ride through lunch was about to come to a tear filled close.

She continued, “Two: my mother’s poodle Walter who repeatedly urinates on the Persian carpet that I’m supposed to inherit. And three: my late husband Arthur. He died and left me alone. And that still makes me angry,” Mother leaned forward, staring intently at Charlie, “Don’t get killed and leave my daughter alone.”

Charlie's face momentarily hardened as he glanced out the window, “I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Mother nodded briefly, “Then I give my approval.”

I blinked a few times, struggling to close my mouth. I am suddenly 10 years old again, at the table, being told how to hold a fork and use a napkin correctly. Except this involves my lifelong enslavement to a man I’ve known less than 24 hours. I peered closely into Mother’s face.

“Have you lost your mind?”




(my grandparents, Forrest & Liz, and my great uncle Clinton, June 1942)


She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, “Certainly not. He seems like a reasonably good match for you.”

“Mother, listen to me carefully. I would rather jump in the Hudson in the middle of winter than marry this, this, idiot.”

Charlie nodded pleasantly at the waiter who brought our food and then winked at me, “I can’t be too much of an idiot, I did finish college.”

Mother cut her ham sandwich in half, “Don’t be overly dramatic, Ava. Charles seems like a very upstanding young man.”

I pursed my lips, trying to mimic the special breathing women use when in labor. But it didn’t work. I began to yell instead.

“HE LICKED MY NECK!”

The air grew still and silent. Bacon fried and sizzled on the grill as people stopped talking and turned to stare.

Mother glanced around the café and whispered in my direction, “Men do strange things when they’re in love. I’ll explain it to you later.”

I began to swallow furiously as a wave of nausea swept over me.

“So Charles, when will the wedding take place?"

Charlie shook his head, unfazed by the silence that hung around us as onlookers peered to see whose neck was getting licked by whom.

“She hasn’t said yes.”

I took a giant swig of milk, wishing for the first time in my life that I drank something stronger than Shirley Temples.

“Ava, it’s proper to respond to a proposal of marriage in a timely manner.”

I fanned myself furiously with a menu, stress hives inching their way up my neck and onto my face, “I have no intention of marrying anyone, let alone a perfect stranger.”

She glanced back and forth between us shrewdly and shrugged, “It’s time to be practical, Ava. You’re 27 years old with no prospects for a husband. I’m not sure how that happened, because you’ve always been pleasant to look at. Perhaps it’s your spiny disposition. Whatever the reason, we’re at war with half of the world and the shortage of men in this country is appalling. Now here you have one. Tall, handsome, gainfully employed. It’s time to quit playing at Woolworth’s and see to your adult responsibilities.”

I slumped in the booth, not sure whether to cry or wrap my hands around her little throat. “You think that supporting myself, working five days a week is playing?” I paused wracking my brain for an eloquent yet cutting insult, but all I could sputter was, “You’re small and mean and insane.”

Charlie glanced back and forth between us like an observer at a football game, his brow smooth and unwrinkled. My brow, on the other hand, looked like a pug dog.



(my grandmother, Liz, while Forrest served in the Navy, 1944)

“I did not raise you to speak to me this way. I want to see you married with children before I die. The ladies’ Wednesday night bible class is already praying for you.”

Charlie pretended to cough as he smothered a snicker into his hand.

I stood up swiftly, my chair rocking backwards, and marched toward the door.

“Come back here immediately,” Mother’s sharp voice cut across the restaurant.

I bumped past the coat rack and yanked open the door to the street.

“Ava, wait a sec,” Charlie ran through the doors after me, grabbing my arm softly.

I shook myself loose, fighting a rabid urge to bite him, “What! What do you want? Would you like me to introduce you to my boss? Maybe you could get me fired today! Or I could introduce you to my grandmother and you could find a way to get me cut out of her will! How else would you like to plague my life?”

“Come on, I didn’t intend to make you fight with your mama.”

“And I suppose you never fight with your ‘mama,'" I snapped.

Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, his smile carrying no hint of teasing, “Mama died. But I do remember that she cut the crust off my sandwiches and made a special costume just for me every Halloween.”

“Well now I just feel, bad…” I muttered ungraciously.

He patted my arm, “Don’t. You do remind me of her. She was full of piss and vinegar too.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“In the south that’s really a good thing, to be compared to a man’s mama."

I shook my head, “Well, not in the north. Don’t say that to girls here, it just makes you seem really odd. Especially that whole thing about vinegar.”

“It’s going to hurt my conscience if you two have a falling out.”

“I’m not going back in there,” I crossed my arms stubbornly.

“You could call her,” he suggested.

I curled my lip, “I suppose.”

“Good. You can let me know how it goes when I pick you up tonight.”



(my grandfather, Forrest, New York City, 1944)


I charged down the sidewalk, all preconceived ideas of being polite to him leaping from my head, “I’m busy tonight.”

He kept pace easily, “Let’s say, 7:00. Do you like Italian food?”

“Of course I do, every girl likes Italian food. But that's not the point. I have plans,” I turned quickly, crossing the street.

“Good, Italian it is then.”

It was at that exact moment the left heel of my shoe snapped in half with the decisive ring of a gunshot. I fell. I went down like a sack of potatoes directly in the middle of the crosswalk. In front of cabs, in front of oncoming pedestrians, in front of a police officer. In front of Charlie.

Some women can still be beautiful and fall. I saw Myrna Loy do it in a movie. She tripped and fell in slow, graceful motion, dark hair beautifully in place, legs dainty. She exuded loveliness, helplessness, even as she plummeted toward the ground. Any man on earth would have been honored to have helped her to her feet.

I am not Myrna Loy.

I hit the ground with a thud and rolled sideways, grime and grit from the street embedding into my arm. Hair pins flew from my hair and the cab driver in front of us caught a two second glimpse of my underwear.

I tried to get up quickly, but managed to bumble around on the ground like a flopping manatee in the middle of 14th and Irving, until Charlie pulled me onto my feet. I kept trying to push my hat back on top of my head as he guided me across the street.

I huffily repositioned my skirt and blouse, loathed to look at Charlie’s ever smiling face and the goofy grin that must be plastered across it. But as I glared upwards, I saw no such grin. No smile. No teasing expression of any kind. His concerned blue eyes looked almost purple as he brushed dirt off my shoulder.

I had to give him credit for his poker face, because if the tables were turned, I would most assuredly have laughed at Charlie had he sprawled in the middle of a crosswalk with flopping legs and flashing undergarments.

“You ok?”

Disarmed, my crusty shell wavered and I gave him a half smile, “Yes.”

“Nothing broken?”

I flexed my ankle back and forth, “Uh-uh,”

“Can you get home on that broken shoe?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” he nodded genially, walking away, “Then I’ll see you at 7:00.”

Morning Coffee, Rainy Walk

I figured since I've been gone for a bajillion days, I'd try and make up for it with two posts in one day. So here goes.

On the second day of the trip, I woke up early. My head pops right off the pillow at 6 every morning, vacation or no vacation. So while everyone else did the normal, sensible thing and took their time waking up, I got a cup of coffee in the hotel lobby and went for an early morning stroll in the nearby Spring Park.






Eureka Springs, a normally bustling Victorian village, was oddly quiet that morning. There were no crowds. No shoppers. Just me and a few doves, cooing despite the cold rain falling from an overcast sky.

It's an odd thing that happens in the Ozarks from time to time, brief snaps of cold rainy days in a normally warm, sunny May. It always takes me by surprise, especially on mornings like this when I was wearing a t-shirt, jeans and a pair of flip flops.

But the coffee and my polk-a-dot umbrella kept me warm as I enjoyed having the little park all to myself.

I'm not sure if it was the rain, lush trees or clouds overhead...

... but everything took on a lovely greenish blue glow.

I sat on the sidewalk out front beneath the lanterns swinging in the misty breeze.

And admired the hotel front door handle. It's the little things in this town, like aged starry door handles, that give Eureka a special kind of magic.

And the coffee was good.

But the scenery was better.

* FYI, there's another chapter of Charlie & Ava coming tomorrow.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

My vacation was fantastic. But out of the entire span of 10 days of bliss, this particular night had to be my favorite. I went to Eureka Springs with a group of girls from church. We checked into The Basin Hotel (shown at the top of this staircase) and then went to eat at one of the best Italian restaurants in the south, Ermilio's.


Ermilio's is a little Victorian house, converted to a restaurant, sitting up on top of the mountain above the winding streets of Eureka. We waited an hour for a table, but time flew as we chatted and talked and the rain came down.

We felt very European, dining for over three hours while a storm moved in, the twinkle lights sparkled and the evening turned a dark purple.

I love all the black and white photos from the 'old country' that pepper the stucco walls. Instead of the random anonymous photos, these pictures are of the owner's actual Italian family. I believe Ermilio was his grandfather. Or something like that. It's hard to get details straight when stuffing my face with bread, butter, and roasted garlic.

Afterward, we hopped over to the Crescent Hotel to take some pictures and prowl the halls for ghosts. The entire mountain top was enveloped in swirling mists and distant lightening and I must admit, as many times as I've stayed here and felt completely at ease, this particular night was the definition of spooky.

Once, a few years ago, my sisters and I were here visiting when Ghost Hunters filmed an episode at the Crescent. This giant crescent moon that sits out front once graced the very top of the hotel. Cant you just see carriages and 1920's style cars pulling up under this portico?

On this night, the hotel lobby had a very quiet and empty feel as the thunder rumbled outside the thick limestone walls.

We climbed upstairs, exploring the halls. It was once a girl's school, and later a cancer hospital with a very ghoulish reputation. Think: bodies sealed off in the walls. Yeah, I'm not kidding.

But luckily we had our very own ghost hunter in the group, Claire, who briefed us on all the erie facets of this 123 year old building. I've vowed to one day spend Halloween in this hotel. One year I tried to book a room two months in advance and couldn't get in because of a... convention. Draw your own conclusions. Anyone else thinking of The Witches? Yeah. Me too.

It was a beautiful, spooky, dark and stormy night.

Vacation

"I'm going on vacation to Lake Winnipesaukee. Please contact my associates. I'll be back in a month."

Did you like my Richard Dryfuss impression? I've always, always, always thought the idea of going to Lake Winnipesaukee for a month sounded like heaven, even back when I was ten years old and watched What About Bob in the theatre.

But the truth is, I don't have the kind of job where I can run off for a month. I don't live anywhere near Lake Winnipesaukee. But I am going to run away for a little bit. I've got a few days of vacation to burn, I do live near a lake (albeit a small one), and it's time for an escape. It's time to wake up to the sound of mockingbirds before dawn with nothing on my plate. It's time to sit in Starbucks while other people go to work and write more about Ava & Charlie. It's time for, as Bob would say, a vacation from my problems (AKA: rush hour traffic).

I'll be back in a few days. In the mean time, repeat after me, "I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful..."

Ava & Charlie: Part III

*I'll be honest here. My loved ones are afraid I'm 'wasting' this story. They worry that I should be holding it back and writing a book instead of serializing a short story. And I may still do it. But I have to thank everyone who's reading this, everyone who leaves a comment. This is by far the most writing motivation I've had in a long, long time. Thank you.

So here's part III. Hope you enjoy.

You can find Part I here.

And Part II here.



* my maternal grandmother (Meme), Margaret Elizabeth, New York City, 1944

Once, when I was a little girl, Mother took me to the Bronx zoo. We were standing in an underground cave, a sheet of glass in front of us. Behind the glass was an aquarium with exotic fish, turtles and a small shark making laps back and forth. Above the aquarium was a beautiful jungle setting, where observers from the sidewalks above could see swinging monkeys and look down into the beautiful pool of fish.

I remember standing happily, underground, in front of this aquarium, mesmerized by the light of the water shining down on my face as fish flashed their green, orange, and blue fins. All at once a small, dark figure splashed into the pool, eye level with me.

I shrieked and jumped backwards into Mother. It was a small spider monkey. Mother explained later that he had fallen from the trees above, accidentally plunging into the deep pool. His fur flattened in the aqua blue and he looked tiny and pitiful, his little hands paddling, struggling to swim to the surface.

I began to shriek, “SWIM MONKEY! SWIM AWAY FROM THE SHARK!”

And he did. He paddled and disappeared into the surface above, into the oxygen and away from danger.

And right now, at this exact moment, as Charlie is holding open the door to The Mermaid Café, I feel like that spider monkey. My ears feel like they’re filled with water. The sounds of the cooks frying bacon and The Andrews Sisters singing on a radio behind the counter are muffled, faraway. And I know that no matter how much I want to swim away from this, I have to stay. Unlike the spider monkey, I can’t flee the shark. I have to sit down at a table with her.

I have two choices.

One: I can introduce Charlie as my friend and pray that he won’t drink a lunch martini and try to lick Mother on the neck.

Or two: I can walk in and say, “Mother, this strange soldier followed me and I didn’t invite him.” But then she’ll pull the small hammer she carries in her purse for protection and hit him squarely in the head. Then again, if he tries to lick her neck, he’ll get hit with the hammer all the same.

I’m not afraid of very much in this life. I’ve had an emergency gallbladder surgery that left me with a scar bigger than some men’s war wounds. I’ve been chased by a purse snatcher. When there are creaks in the night, I’m the one creeping along in my nightgown with a baseball bat while Betsy locks herself in the bathroom. But even now, as a 27 year old woman, I’m still mortally terrified of my mother.

Don’t get me wrong. She loves me. I love her. But her personality is cut from some sort of indestructible steel wool cloth. She never hugs. She never coddles. She is efficient, small, angular and wired for battle.

I spotted Mother at a small table by the window, her starched white collar shirt buttoned all the way up, her graying hair swept into a neat bun, and a pair of blue earrings clipped on each ear. I didn’t even have to be close to her to know she smelled of soap and lemon nail balm.

We walked over slowly, and before I could say anything, Charlie spoke up.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mrs. Smith,” he stuck an arm past me in an attempt to shake her hand.

“Mother, um…” I tried to form a sentence but found that my Adam's apple had turned to a small cinder block.

“Move out the way Ava, let me have a look at your friend,” Mother’s bony little hands pushed me aside as she peered around me, glaring up at Charlie.

At 5’4, I tower over my tiny mother. Somehow, I always felt that should give me an advantage. But it doesn’t. Apparently, Charlie’s massive height doesnt give him one either.

“Charlie Fitzgerald ma’am,” he continued to hold his hand out naively.

I glanced up at him quickly, my eyes bugging in Morse code, “Death and destruction await you, leave now.”

She eyed his hand like a slab of beefsteak, critical and slightly suspicious, not touching it.

Charlie slipped his outstretched, un-shook hand into his pocket with ease, without a hint of discomfort on his face, “I can see that Ava’s beauty is hereditary.”

Still no word from Mother. Only the death glare I’d seen at certain important moments in life. When I lied to her about my math grade. When the mail man tripped and fell on her package of mail-order china. When my aunt used the common vernacular term for a female dog to describe Mother during one of their many fights.

They should have sent Mother to Europe long ago. She would have made eye contact with Hitler, glared, and he would have instantly curled up and died.

“Nice to meet you Charles,” she squinted her eyes at him, “Wont you join us?”

“I’d love to,” Charlie grinned and pulled Mother’s chair out.

But I wasn’t fooled for one second.

Little did Charlie know that Mother was inviting him to join us for lunch so she could place him beneath a magnifying glass like a science experiment. If he was lucky, she would just glare down on him with a giant eye and inspect him. If he was unlucky, she would tilt the magnifying glass ever so slightly beneath a ray of sun and fry him like a chicken leg in hot oil.

The waiter came and Mother placed a small pair of spectacles on the end of her nose, “We’ll have three ham sandwiches, coffee, and key lime pie.”

And so it begins. Mother’s test. Ordering for the table. Hazing. Intimidation. Emasculating. These were the things I’d learned from Mother. She might bake a dry cake and burn muffins, but she could bring a man to tears in less than an hour.

“Mother, Charlie might have wanted to order for himself,” I fought a small smile. After all, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t warned him.

“Nonsense,” she snapped her glasses back into the case and returned her target-like stare to Charlie’s face.

Charlie, however, seemed completely contented and leaned back comfortably in his small café chair, “Ham sandwiches are my favorite.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed into two small slits.

I held my breath.

“What are you intentions with my daughter?” Mother leaned forward, clasping her hands seriously. This was another strategy I was familiar with. Firing the biggest gun first. Weeding out the weak.

“Well ma’am,” he leaned forward as well, impervious, the hint of a smile on his face, “I proposed to her last night.”

“What are you talking about?” I muttered, reaching out and pinching his arm through his thick green uniform.

“Ava… keep your hands to yourself,” Mother didn’t look at me either as she met Charlie’s smile with a piercing gaze.

“That’s alright Mrs. Smith,” Charlie winked sideways at me, “Getting pinched by Ava is as good as getting kissed by any other girl.”

I leaned back, waiting for the white heat of Mother’s explosion to rock the entire café off its foundation.

But it didn’t happen.

The unthinkable happened.

Mother’s sharp, brittle glass-like face did something unthinkable. The side of her lips began to twitch.

I frowned and leaned closer, peering at her face. Her lips twitched again. It was the beginnings of a smile. The only other time I’d seen Mother come close to smiling was eight years ago when the neighbor’s dog (the small one that always urinated on our paper) got run over.

And at that exact moment, as mom’s brittle little lips tried to form an unnatural, slightly frightening smile, I remembered my one and only memory of my father.

Dad died when I was five. But the week before his death, our little family of three sat on a picnic blanket in central park as Mother complained about her sister.

“She’s just the most unsettling, infuriating, irrational woman I’ve ever known!”

Dad tossed a sandwich my way and winked at me. Nothing ever made him nervous.

“Can you believe her decision making process? Absurd!”

Dad tossed another sandwich at Mother, who caught it and glared at him.

“Doris…” his voice was kind but firm.

Mother took a big bite of her sandwich, still angry.

“We’re here to have fun with Ava. I love you. But if you don’t calm down and enjoy this beautiful day, I’m going to sit on you.”

I glanced nervously between the two of them.

Mother’s glare faded. Her youthful lips turned up into a beautiful smile, and she laughed at him. We had fun that day.

And now, as Mother’s pinched, road-worn face struggled to make its first legitimate smile in 22 years, I realized Charlie wasn’t just any normal, troublesome soldier. He was a magician.

Another (Small) Liz Quiz

"Do you not get embarrassed posting less-than-flattering pictures of yourself?"

Obviously, no.

"Did you find both pieces (of your flea market project) together?"

No. A long time ago I spotted the base of it on the curb (someone on our street threw it out). Poor Matt hauled it home for me, I painted it and used it as an entry table for a long time.

The hutch,which I just found last week for $20, looked like this. I used leftover paint to match it to the base.

"Are you writing about your grandparents?" (in reference to the Ava & Charlie story)

No. Although both sets of my grandfathers served in WWII, and my paternal grandmother worked in the Navy shipyards of San Francisco. Luckily for me, they've passed down a lot of WWII era knowledge (and great pictures of that time period). But the story does not reflect their lives in any way. It's just fun fiction.

"Are your parents upset that you and your sisters don't have children?"

Nope. My parents were married over ten years before having their first child, me. Mom and Dad weren't in any hurry. They don't expect us to be either. And fyi... my sisters are unmarried and in college. Let's not rush things, shall we?

"What's your greatest pet peeve."

I have three.

1. People that sprinkle on toilet seats.

2. People that use the phrase (when asked what they think about something), "I'm not sure, I'll need to marinate on it for a while." What are they? A slab of chicken?

3. Disney Princesses. Ick.