Nooks and Crannies

Movin' on up: from Downtown to the Bronx

2009-08-06T21:05:00.005-04:00

This morning we shipped out early to Liberty and Ellis Islands. Neither of us had ever been, so our expectations weren't too high--a good thing when you don't want to be disappointed. We walked from our hotel to Battery Park, which, over the years, has become a rather beautiful place. We were then subjected to airport-riddled security. The removal of belts and watches, the opening of bags, and the like. We have become experts in traveling light and practical for this very reason. Once through various stages of checkpoints, we boarded the ferry. The 15-minute ferry ride from Battery Park to Liberty Island was rather peaceful at 9:00 on a Friday morning. The boat wasn't too crowded, and the view of lower Manhattan was somewhat comforting in a way I never thought possible.

As we got closer to the Statue of Liberty, I noticed that she was much smaller than I had anticipated. This did not disappoint me, as I knew I felt this way only because I had recently been palace and castle hopping in the French countryside, and I had climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tour (most notably the tallest structure I have ever encountered thus far). Though are Lady of Liberty was smaller in stature, I felt the immense power of her symbolism. A gift from the French in 1886, this statue not only represents a friendship between the two nations that was established after the American Revolution (France boasts their own smaller Lady Liberty at the base of one of the bridges crossing the Seine River, but she pales in comparison to ours), but it has come to stand for freedom as it was the first glimpse of just that as immigrants poured into the United States looking for change--for freedom.

She's made from a sheathing of copper that is hung on a framework of steel, and she has been closed to visitors since 2001. Lucky for us, she has recently been reopened, and we secured tickets to the top of the Crown. Just to note, climbing up to the torch has ceased since 1918. The climb is 354 steps, and it is a small, cramped hull up a double spiral staircase (da Vinci, anyone?) that barely fits an average-sized person. I like to think this makes the experience unique and exciting. Once in the Crown, there is about 10 feet of space, and a very low ceiling. Nonetheless, I'd climb up again. Climbing down was the interesting part--the steps are fairly steep and it seemed to work better if we climbed down backwards.

Our next stop was Ellis Island to look in the immigration records for our family members. For just $5, we gained access to a computer for 30 minutes in the immigration museum, where we could research our family history. I found information on my great grandfather who came over from Italy, but Josh had less luck. We were unable to find the records of his great grandparents who came over from Russia.

We spent the rest of the day milling about downtown Manhattan. We strolled over to Wall Street, went to the New York City Police Museum, and South Street Seaport. At the seaport, we discovered Bodies...the Exhibition. So, I'm not quite sure what I thought this was going to be like, but it was oddly fascinating, and a little bit scary. The exhibit consisted of well-preserved human bodies and body parts, carefully dissected and labeled. There were skeletal bodies, muscular bodies, bodies consisting of nerves, and some even of veins and arteries. Diseased or failing organs were encased in glass cases: a cancerous lung, a colitis-damaged colon, an infected thyroid, and so much more. Science meets reality at this exhibit in a frightening way.

Our last stop for the day was the Bronx. After our excursions downtown, we headed back to the room for our baseball gear. We took the number 4 up to Yankee Stadium--I in my Posada shirt, and Josh in his Pedroia. The new stadium, on a plot of land right across the street from the old, sparkled and gleamed from the subway platform. It was so clean, so new. As we settled into our seats, I glanced around at all the high-tech additions, and couldn't help but feel as if this stadium were a fraud. It has no history. The old Yankee stadium may be dingier, but it holds decades and decades of baseball history within its walls. The new stadium is in desperate need for iconic baseball moments, then, maybe, it will feel right.

As the game started, we realized we were in for a star-studded night: Muhammad Ali was there to receive a special award, and we caught glimpses of Bruce Willis, Rudy Giuliani, and Paul Simon. The game was a massacre (I won't highlight the score, for the sake of my husband), but boy was I glad the boys from the Bronx won.

Inspiration, by way of Brooklyn

2009-08-06T21:04:00.008-04:00

Upon our arrival in NYC last night, we checked in to our hotel in downtown Manhattan, only to realize that we were right next to the WTC site. We quickly unpacked, washed up, and headed out to explore the city.

It didn't surprise me that as we passed the WTC construction site the events of 9/11 came rushing back into my mind. It's a day no American will ever forget; a day that is still remembered on a daily basis, not only by New Yorkers, but by all that pay tribute to the fallen heroes and those who survived. As we headed toward Wall Street, we noticed a touching bronze memorial intricately created onto the side of the local firehouse. I couldn't get it out of my mind that those men must have been the first to reach the site that fateful day. Many people, natives and foreigners, were there. They were praying. They were paying tribute. They were leaving gifts, flowers, for those who made the ultimate sacrifice: life.

At first, upon close inspection of the memorial, which is artistically divided into three sections, it bothered me that the middle section depicted the burning towers. This was, perhaps, due to the fact that on September 11, 2001, I was still so foolishly naive to think that such an atrocity could ever occur on American soil. To say the least, I was deeply affected the day those towers came down; in a way, it was the first loss of my childhood innocence--my first brush with adult bitterness and inexplicable heartache.

Initially we had headed out for the Brooklyn Bridge, and though that was still our primary destination, I felt as though I was weighted down. As we crossed through City Park and passed Pace University, I caught my first glimpse of the old bridge. A marvel in its time, it gave me a sense of hope, reinstilled my pride and faith in our great nation (it's no wonder I want my Ph.D. in American Studies). Seeing the American flag flying high above the two architecturally articulate support beams made me feel better. I thought about all the immigrants who walked across this very bridge I was crossing; how this bridge not only represented their freedom, but how it represented the creativity and ingenious of the American mindset.

We arrived in Brooklyn just as the sun was setting, and we realized that we were somewhat ravenous. We headed down to Grimaldi's, waited in what I consider a short line (all the way down the block) for an hour, and then feasted on the most perfect pizza. The meal was quick, but thoroughly appreciated. The old man, overly tan and perfectly Italian, who was in charge of seating parties asked us if we enjoyed ourselves, and I was quick to admit that we did not have pizza like this where we're from. He was kind enough not to give us too much heat for quietly admitting we're from Boston.

By the time we left it was dark. The walk back over the bridge was just amazing. The moon was full, the city lights bright. The weight I had felt earlier in the evening had lifted. This is a city full of life; a city with pride; a city that will never forget, but that will never fall. I am New York.

Niagara-on-the-Lake

2009-07-05T22:35:00.007-04:00

So, I read the New York Times every day of my life, and I definitely am in the habit of scouting out articles written about travel. That is how I stumbled upon the sweet town of Niagara-on-the-Lake. The name itself seemed to beckon me (it reminded me of Fond-du-Lac, Wisconsin; setting for Seventeenth Summer and hometown to author Maureen Daly), so I convinced Josh to explore the area with me.

Well, that was a good decision on my part.

I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, or what, but I somehow missed the information in my 27-plus years of living: Niagara-on-the-Lake strikingly resembles Napa Valley (in my mind, that is, as I have not been to Napa Valley--wait for blogs from that trip to appear approximately one year from now). Two main roads, Niagara Stone and Niagara Parkway, are home to miles upon miles of vineyards and wineries. The product: icewine.

One of the most beautiful areas I have seen in quite some time (not including the South of France) is home to the mass production of icewine. We toured a few wineries, took pictures, tasted the harvests, and moseyed around.

A few things we learned:
• Canada produces approximately 85%-90% of the world's icewine
• icewine has a much more syrupy texture than any red or white
• it is also a dessert wine (drizzle on pound cake or ice cream)
• grapes must be frozen solid before picking in order to make icewine
• the amount of sugar in icewine gives it a longer shelf life (it naturally preserves!)
• one winery we went to, Pillitteri, produces (alone) 20% of said 85%-90% of icewine coming from this region in Canada
• Dan Akroyd is a wino (!)
• he partnered up with 20 Bees (a fantastic little winery), using the grapes they harvest and selling his wine (and using his name) for good, honest business
• the fine people of Ontario can only purchase alcohol through two government-regulated warehouses
• going through customs here, as opposed to Niagara Falls, is much less of a hassle; especially when trying to bring alcohol back into the United States

Gimme a gimmick, eh?

2009-07-05T22:31:00.017-04:00

Though the view of the Falls (especially the Horseshoe Falls) is worth the frustrating wait through customs to get out of Ontario, and back to the States, we couldn't believe the amount of gimmicky tourist traps that lay waiting for us on Clifton Hill in Canada.

Parents beware: this is a teenage haven.

Here are some of my favorite pics; branded, gimmicky conglomerates.

Niagara Falls by day, part 2

2009-07-05T22:18:00.015-04:00

It's impossible to fully understand the capacity and magnificence of the Falls if you don't take the time to view them from both of the countries they straddle. So, we made the journey over to Canada. We cleared customs rather quickly, parked the car, and took the tram down to the Horseshoe Falls. The tram, a $2 investment (Canadian), is amazing; it seems silly, but it really provides a great view of the Falls. After disembarking, we headed over to the Horseshoe, and all I can say is that this is exactly what the journey to the Falls is all about. Whether or not it's American or Canadian, this natural structure is beyond comparison. You have to see it to fully understand. I'm not even sure I can do this phenomenon justice with any words. Just take a look at some of Josh's photographs (seen here). We were lucky and had glorious sun this particular day, and, apparently, it is quite usual for sunny days to result in a fully arched rainbow from the middle of Niagara River, right to the base of Horseshoe Falls. What a gorgeous sight!

Side note: 17 people have willingly gone over the Horseshoe Falls; 10 have lived to talk about it.

Niagara Falls by day, part 1

2009-07-05T22:05:00.012-04:00

Walking along the Niagara River in Niagara Falls State Park, I wasn't sure quite what to expect. I'd always wanted to go to the Falls, but my visual had been somewhat skewed for years. I do this, sometimes; I conjure up an image in my mind that is undoubtedly inaccurate, and not necessarily for better or worse, just different. Josh had been years ago, but was having a difficult time actually remembering what they looked like. This is what happens. The mind, whether it knows something or not, has a silly little way of playing tricks on you.

We had arrived to the American state park around 10:30 in the morning, still nervous that there might be a potential thunderstorm brewing, but nonetheless, we forged ahead.

A brief history: The falls are divided into two sections that straddle the American/Canadian border. They were formed at the tail end of the last ice age, Wisconsin glaciation, when glaciers receded, forming the gorge. Water from the newly-fashioned Great Lakes (i.e., Erie and Ontario) carved a path through an area known as the Niagara Escarpment on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. Though the falls are not the highest in the world, they are exceptionally wide. The American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls (separated only by Luna Island) face Canada from New York's international border. The Canadian Falls, or Horseshoe Falls (appropriately named), are separated from American territory by Goat Island. It is reported that nearly six million cubic feet of water comes crashing down from the crest of the falls every minute. But I digress.

We wandered down the promenade, and to our left the American Falls suddenly appeared. The American Falls are intimidating in an unusual way; they aren't that impressive as far as the beauty of waterfalls goes, but the monstrous rocks that are strewn about at the base of the falls leaves you with a mildly uneasy feeling--like it would be a bad situation to go over that particular set of falls. Not to mention that the intensity of a landslide, or erosion, occurring on a yearly basis is somewhat astronomical in its own right. I was intrigued to say the least. Josh already had his tripod set up and was instructing me how and where to pose. The spray tickled our noses, and we saw the impressive Canadian side from the walkway. We walked around for an hour or so, enjoyed the major attractions (Maid of the Mist and Cave of the Wind, where, I withstood the power of the waterfall from Hurricane Deck), and were mostly thankful that it hadn't rained.

It was a pretty magnificent site. I could only hope that once we got to Canada to see the full horseshoe, that we would be even more impressed; speechless, or at the very least, in awe of Mother Nature.

KOA is A-OK

2009-07-05T21:20:00.008-04:00

(The title of my post will most likely amuse only those in the profession of words, i.e., editors, linguists, and English teachers/professors.)

We stayed at the Niagara Falls KOA for our pseudo-camping trip and fell in love with our cozy little cabin. A good friend of mine introduced me to the organization of campgrounds, and I couldn't wait to secure my own little cabin. Not to mention, I now have my very own KOA Rewards Card, which I plan to reap the benefits of on many more camping trips.

By the time we reached our local KOA, it was almost 7 o'clock at night, and it had been pouring rain for too many hours. We were tired, hungry, beat up, and wanted nothing more than to sit down and relax. Odd, I know, that we would want to sit after being cooped up in an SUV for nearly 10 hours, but that's a different kind of sitting--really.

As Josh drove over to 798, I instantly fell in love. Not only was our cabin simple and sweet, but it had its very own porch swing. Josh and I quickly unloaded the car, placing our belongings carefully in the tidy little abode, and retired to the porch for the evening. We sat, sheltered from the rain and thunder, not doing much of anything.

We ended up looking forward to returning to the cabin each night. It was just so peaceful, and perfect.

Cobleskill's secret

2009-07-03T20:03:00.007-04:00

If roadside America weren't enough to quench my thirst for good old-fashioned fun, I was surely content when we found a natural wonder slightly off the beaten path. Not too far from Route 20 we ventured into the small town of Cobleskill. Above ground, it fits the stereotyped rural town, lacking evidence of any booming industry.

Below ground, however, is where the fun begins. Josh and I found ourselves descending 103 steps into a natural cave 115 feet below the Earth's surface. Wow! As we strolled along the 1/4-mile pathway through the cave, we were able to see fossils of marine life from a lake that existed once upon a time, the natural erosion of classified rocks (including limestone, some of which, due to water seeping in from the Earth's surface above, formed a convincingly slimy but honestly smooth surface of calcite), and plenty of stalagmites and stalactites.

Squeezing through narrow passageways and hovering low for a few suspended ceilings, we became instant fans of spelunking (exploring a cave with only a flashlight). The real treat came at the end of our hike when we found ourselves standing, mouths agape at a 100-foot waterfall plummeting down from the Earth's surface into this cave, and meeting up with an underground river that led to yet another cave down the road, with more force than a speedboat with unrelenting horsepower.

I was so excited about this secret find; imagine my reaction once we reached Niagara Falls.

Roadside treasures

2009-07-03T19:54:00.011-04:00

Though we did experience extreme precipitation, I wanted to take a minute to describe the beauty of upstate New York; unlike its counterpart to the south, upstate New York is filled with vast fields and amazingly well-kept farms. I'm sure I have never seen so many silos in a 100-meter radius. Even in the fog, pouring rain, and menacing clouds, the rolling hills and grassy meadows were a refreshing sight. I was thrilled at the amount of cows, horses, sheep, and buffalo we saw as we trolled along the Oregon Trail--I felt a very mild kinship to Lewis and Clark.

Other than natural beauty, the roadside offered a glimpse of old small-town America--something I find myself increasingly attracted to--and its many treasures. We stumbled upon The TePee in Cherry Valley, which has been attracting travelers since the early 1950s. In it: amazing Indian crafts, quirky gadgets, and delicious Indian taffy.

If you ever find yourself in the area and want to take a look around the family-run TePee, make sure you try the "hot shot." It's a real zinger!

Rainy roadtrip

2009-07-02T22:29:00.007-04:00

After trekking around France for two weeks this past spring without a notebook or a laptop, I have come to realize that I must document any and all excursions that I embark on. So, since we planned a trip for this holiday weekend, I figured it'd be a great place to start.

We left for Niagara Falls around 8 o'clock this morning, spending most of our journey below pelting raindrops (note the photo over the Hudson River bridge) and the darkest storm clouds I have ever seen. Now, I know the Hudson Valley and Adirondacks are well known for their impeccable sunsets, and gorgeously pink and purple skies, but I'd like it known that they, too, have black skies, and they are not cool.

We did manage, however, to get a bit off the beaten path (I-90); we explored a 3-hour section of the Oregon Trail (Rte. 20 in upstate New York, if you're interested). My next post will highlight my two favorite stops. For now, just know that we arrived safely to Grand Island.

Drink, Drank, Drunk: The Melting Pot is Sober

2008-12-16T18:09:00.004-05:00

Hmm. Here's something that is now passé in the Big Apple--drinking to the point of obliteration. Who knew? Perhaps this trend will spill over into other communities, as an intoxicating way to live life and keep the party scene clean.

[Pun intended.]

William Shakespeare? Will S.? or Billy Shakes?

2008-12-11T08:51:00.008-05:00

It is arguably uncommon for members of American Society (and probably others around the world) to contemplate the crazy chiasmus of the well-oiled-cyclical machine that is our culture on a somewhat daily basis, but there is a handful of us who do. The process of synthesis allows us to bring the old and new together, understanding that somehow, not only do we perpetuate going 'round and 'round, but that perhaps some of the products and byproducts of our society's elements (i.e., literature, history, media, and such) affect us to greater extents than we wish to cogently concur with one another. And of course, WE (via society) continue to affect said products and byproducts--rendering speculation, conjecture, supposition, premise, actuality, certainty, and at times, reality in as many ingenious and original means as humanly (?) possible.

This morning, I stumbled upon Shakespeare and his chiasmus, thanks to Marjorie Garber, and the NYT. A man and his writings undeniabley aged manage to demand paramount bearing in modern and contemporary times. And somehow, it works. Read it. Ponder it. Accept it.

Oh, and for those curious minds who are left wondering why my sudden peak in interest for a man I spent my college career loathing: well, a favorite author of mine constructed this book, and it has (re)ignited the flame that never was--to say the least.

good idea(?): manipulating time

2008-11-01T20:27:00.010-04:00

Well, it's that time again.

Daylight Savings Time (DST), practiced around the world (in most countries, at least)--though, within the U.S., Arizona and Hawaii do not participate--happens twice a year. The proverbial "fall back" elates our inner child's yearning for that superfluous hour of sleep on Sunday morning while the "spring ahead" diminishes our youth by way of a brisk reminder that our jobs, and school, commence promptly one hour premature.

In Nevada, two Decembers ere, I took a spur-of-the-moment bus ride with a cluster of aged folk to the Hoover Dam, an amazing sight--get there if you haven't already--where I first pondered the somewhat tangible concept of DST.

"What's the connection between the Hoover Dam and DST?" you ask.

It's quite simple, really. If you've ever seen this movie, you'll understand the notion of natural curiosity. So, exerting usual behavior, I found myself walking toward the halfway point of the Dam. What drove me there? Well, the state line dividing Nevada and Arizona, of course. And since Arizona is a nonparticipant in DST, I just so happened to not only be standing in two places at once (my personal goal for the day), but in fact, I was in two entirely different locations at the same time, but in fact an hour apart! To this day I am utterly amused by my adventure.

By the way, the time of my visit just so happened to correspond with the beginnings of the Hoover Dam Bypass. Checkout the development and reason for this impressive infrastructure here.

Needless to say, the time differential between Nevada and Arizona caught me relatively off guard, and that is when I inquired about the controversy that is Daylight Savings. So, to my surprise, I found that the manipulation of time is not just a way for the government, or Mother Nature, to stick it to us, if you will, but it does, in fact, have some economic, health, and energy conservation benefits.

good idea: ode to a poet

2008-10-31T08:47:00.001-04:00

Naturally, many of us celebrate the universal holiday known as Halloween (All Hallow’s Eve to those of us who know a thing or two about etymologies), and some of you may join in the celebrations dedicated to the lesser evil, known as Harvest Fest (prior to the growth of the Catholic Church), lasting the duration of the autumnal season.

Whether it’s ghoulish costumes and frightful accents you crave, combined with bonbons galore (that are to be dropped into a pillow sack upon mentioning your ceremonial “Trick-or-treat”) and candy apples (a delectable treat for all ages; though, I prefer caramel), or a more Puritanical approach to appreciating the generosity of Mother Nature in the forms of maize, potatoes, gourds, and other such crops, it is with a humble disposition that I enlighten you with regard to October 31st's celebratory matters.

Halloween, in fact, though its history runs deep, shares its day with the birth date of one of the foremost poets of England’s Romantic era, beginning in the mid-1800s. The inspiration leading to Romant ic ism (and I’m not referring to the dreamy, impractical, passionate, tender, amorous, adoring, tender, starry-eyed love you have for another being that forces you to trip over raised portions of the sidewalk, harbor butterflies in your stomach, have a smile wider than that of the Cheshire Cat , and utter the most disjointed ramblings ever concocted, rather I impart unto you the complexity of an impressive movement within the realm of artistic and literary intelligence that took flight with the onset of England’s Industrial Revolution), in itself, promoted a surge of grand poets—one of whom, is the honorable John Keats (b. 31 Oct. 1795; canonized poet, and beholder of an apothecary license), the man who taught us that Beauty is Truth, and Truth is Beauty (see Letters, To Benjamin Bailey).

I shall permit you to formulate your own opinions regarding Keats, by going here to take a gander at some of his works, and a by leaving you with a few parting thoughts: though Keats’ prominence came posthumously, he influenced other such great poets as Alfred Lord Tennyson, befriended the likes of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mastered the unmistakable ode, had a knack for undeniable imagery and sensibly exquisite word choice, and managed to make his way into the novels of many at-the-time-contemporary American authors and other such pop culture entities of the 20th and 21st centuries.

So, whether it's the Harvest or the Ghastliness you celebrate this cool, crisp day, perhaps you might embrace poetic license and craft an ode or jingle on behalf of Keats. Even a 'raise the roof' or a 'woot woot' would suffice--I'm sure the man would get the gist, and perhaps even 'holler' back.

Here are some of my favorite lines:

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

from La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad

The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

from Ode to a Nightingale

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;

from Ode on a Grecian Urn

good thought: let's talk politics

2008-10-10T18:28:00.007-04:00

In light of the current presidential and vice-presidential debates (and town meeting), some of my finest scholars offered up commentary from the peanut gallery, known as our classroom--not bad for a Friday:

This brings me to Palin who is apparently against abortion in all cases even in those of rape, and incest. Why is this? Her religious convictions are that strong? Is it an overall lack of logic and intellect on her part? Mrs. I'm-not-so-sure-what-a-VP-does who really has taken this circus act out of the carnivals and into the big tent.

The reason we went from a surplus under Clinton to a deficit under Bush is that Bush is horribly retarded.

We don't need terrorists to take down the country; it's self-imploding just fine on its own.

North Stonington: B.F. Clyde's

2008-10-03T21:32:00.016-04:00

And with the first days of October comes along my jovial acceptance of autumnal bliss. Still mingling my flip-flops with khakis and Eddie Bauer knit cardigans; I find a more contented stride in my saunter as I parade around my selected oversized coffee mug for the day on my not-so-urban inner-city campus. I do not reside in conurbation, yet the metropolis is rather sprawling and eco-friendly.

With the changes in climate, ensues a transformation of the self. As the chlorophyllic leaves of summer proliferate into gatherings of vibrant burgundy and cherry reds, gold and rustic yellows, and carroty and ginger oranges, the soul cannot help but to crave the mild sense of urgency the blustering wind begets. Ah, fall.

Our senses turn keen:

We smell the autumn woods, the pumpkin spice or sprig of cinnamon in our coffee.

We see the effervescent foliage as it slowly emerges and lines each and every road.

We feel the brisk wind and the gentle chill that will soon immobilize us come winter.

We hear the jubilant shouts of children and the rustle of leaves during afternoon recess.

We taste the harvest and the apples…mmm, apples.

I don’t know about you, but I find apples and their byproducts to satiate just about any craving possible. Not only are apples a delicious commodity naked, oh no friends, that’s just the very beginning, but think of candy apples, and caramel apples. How the sweetly hardened sugars form like molten lava over the curved body of the apple. Imagine apple butter spread, apple crisp, apple pie, apple cider doughnuts, and, yes, apple cider—hot or cold. Perhaps my nostalgic fondness for industrious machinery increases my desire for these tasty delights. I mean, have you ever seen a traditional cider press at work? I have.

Sigh.

I think I have been misplaced; I am designed to have lived during the ’20s, ‘30s, and ‘40s. Craftsmanship. Good, honest work. Literary explosion. Expatriates. Whiskey. Speakeasies. The Charleston. War. Economic Boom. The Great Depression. Fedoras. The perfect balance of the great American paradox.

And, it’s all based on apples. Yeah. How do you like them apples?

good thought: how much do we really see?

2008-09-28T12:51:00.007-04:00

The newest installment of my everyday life.

As a being who is forever questioning life, and my pupils, through methods perfected by Socrates, I often stumble upon the pensive learner’s observations and perceptions; notions I support, generally, but more importantly, slices of wisdom that remind me why my job is worth every single moment. I cherish the moments, even when fleeting, when students of mine render me speechless. I grin, gleefully. It’s a feeling that, no matter how often it occurs, paralyzes me with intense joy.

Then, without further ado, here is the first of many wonderfully inspiring, thoughtful, humorous, pragmatic, and surprising morsels of everyday American life. And, for the copyright owners, well, you know who you are, thank you for continuing to inspire me.

Here goes:

You drive your car down the same roads every day, but if you were to walk those roads you would realize that you've never actually been there before.

good eat: banana whoopie pies

2008-09-26T15:11:00.009-04:00

Generally speaking, I am far from embracing the junk food-junkie lifestyle, nor do I migrate toward the sweetness of cookie or candy aisles in the supermarket; rather, I am most likely to be found licking salt off the side of a building. Okay. That’s somewhat of an inadequate exaggeration (is that even possible?). However, I tend to embrace treats of the saltier genre, occasionally finding delicious concoctions of salty-sweet goodies. Pickles, along with honey wheat pretzels dunked in raspberry yogurt, are a weakness, although pickles certainly deserve their own host of ramblings, so without further ado I must retrieve my digression.

Onward!

It was ere that I committed to the familial duties required as the eldest sibling, stopping by to offer brief guidance, more laughter and name calling, and the fundamental discourse that would ensue betwixt the professorial type in her mid twenties and two of her adolescent siblings. As the lad retreated to the garage to perfect his tricked-out skateboarding dexterities, the young lady, the sort that (at an early age) is quite maternal, empathetic, yet oddly embraces an air of warranted highfalutin antics, led me to the kitchen where she was experimenting with this lady’s newest delectable formula.

Intrigued, I inquired if I might help—wrecking havoc in another’s kitchen or infringing on one’s personal bake time unannounced or uninvited is a grandly erroneous act. Obliging my request, my kin permitted me to take charge with a pastry bag (these are so cool, by the way) and extrude the batter onto parchment.

A mere twenty minutes later, perfecting the assembling process, we had a platter occupied with delicate, sweet indulgences.

A gentle sprinkle of 10x on top. Say no more. I was a goner.

Four banana whoopie pies later, I journeyed across the city to my home a gleeful twenty-something-year-old foodie, who, for the time being, had overlooked her aforementioned lack of interest of all entities sweet.

good idea: celebrating punctuation.

2008-09-24T16:44:00.009-04:00

To all grammarians, and editorial pirates and misfits alike, today is a day to rejoice! “Why?” you ask: because one brilliant lone man braved humiliation from the masses of the illiterate and the ungrammarfied—yes, I made that word up—on behalf of all punctuation marks, sophisticated and primitive, underused and overused, dominant on the keyboard and secondary on the keyboard (requiring the use of the shift key to unlock its rule), to proclaim today National Punctuation Day.

Hallelujah!

At last, a day—no, a holiday—honoring the diligent and absolute attributes to some of the most underrated finites. Go ahead, go out and tell your friends, your colleagues, your students, your boss, your parents, and your next-door neighbor; hell, go out and tell your enemies (it’ll make you look smarter than them . . . again). And if that isn’t enough [for you], well, go get yourself a copy of the ever-essential, pocket-sized, classically written, how-to paperback. And who said Charlotte’s Web was his finest work? (I do admit, I certainly maintain a veiled affection for Fern and Wilbur).

Alas, for those who simply can’t, won’t, or don’t give a damn, well, here are my parting thoughts: Wherever there’s a comma splice, a gorge of semi-colons, a misplaced colon, a perfunctory exclamation, a ridiculous question, a misrepresentation of hyphens as em dashes, an unwarranted bracket, quotation mark, or parentheses, there is an army of angry red-penned editors, proofreaders, copy editors, and grammar fanatics waiting for your very next move. Edit your act, damn it!

P.S. If you’re a glutton for punishment, want to sharpen your skills, or might like to try something for kicks, put yourself to the test, and enjoy. I certainly did.

good eat: rice balls

2008-09-16T21:57:00.003-04:00

Buon giorno, amici! Now is one of those times where I long to embrace the qualities of my Italian heritage. Why? Well, just like everyone else, I find myself slipping into mini-bouts of nostalgia based on my seasonal likes and dislikes, and something—perhaps the faint crispness that takes over the soft summer haze—about the embark of Autumn releases my strong desire to be one with the rolling hills and vineyards of Tuscany. In reality, the longing for my native land is only partially what brings me to such conclusions—the other, simply put, is food.

Now, ever since I was a young bambina I have dreamed of whisking away to Tuscany, where I would live in a clay house adorned with flowers, artwork, and other such wonderful embellishments and ornaments. I imagine two floors, very spacious and inviting, with guest bedrooms and amenities. I wish for a medium-sized backyard where I can scrub the laundry clean, in an old washbasin, using a handcrafted washboard, and then drape the newly fresh adornments and linens on clotheslines to dry. In the meantime, supper would be cooking—for I will have guests at my house ogni notte. And, without a doubt, each and every meal will be homemade, from scratch—I buy only what I couldn’t grow myself at the local mercato. This dream continues as I slosh around my personal vineyard in an oversized pair of yellow rubber boots. I harvest grapes of deep violets and crimson for delicious reds and whites, looking for new creations to please my guests.

Once dinner settles, guests saunter around my dimly lit house, chatting and sipping wine, or they might be found lolling on the back portico, gazing up at the star-studded sky. In the background, faint sounds of old famous Italian opera singers are heard—Cuzzoni and Pavarotti. Me, well, I’m likely to be discovered coiled up in a little ball on the strato quietly digesting a new novel. Sigh. One day.

You’ve probably decided that now you need to understand how food gets me on a rant about my intense desire to escape to a foreign country in hopes of one day calling it my home. Well, food, by nature, has the potential to be nostalgic. My obsession with Tuscany is somewhat unaccounted for since my heritage proves I am a well-balanced combination of Neapolitan and Sicilian. (I wouldn’t worry too much about the latter, since I am clearly a romantic at heart). Food. Inspiring. My favorite little Sicilian treat is a delicious and hearty nibble classified as arancine con ragù, more commonly known as rice balls. Arancine is from the Sicilian word meaning “little orange.” And, I understand this to be a relative term, since the rice balls do in fact resemble a perfectly round orange. A delicious combination of rice (or leftover risotto), peas, and mozzarella are rolled into a sphere that is then turned over in a bath of breadcrumbs. After a quick dip into a hot well of oil, smash in the center with a fork and top it off with a scrumptious homemade meat sauce (you know, what us Italians call gravy) and a sprinkle (or smatter) of fresh parmigiana reggiano.

Okay, so where can you find one of these amazing snacks? Well, the best locale to grab one is in Boston’s North End on the last weekend in August, when fellow WOPs celebrate the Feast of Saint Anthony. If you suffer from social anxiety, and aren’t really a people-person, well, I know a hole-in-the-wall establishment that is nothing less than utterly satisfying. Dom’s is the place to go, if you have the time, and while you’re there pick up a cannoli or two. On the other hand, if you dare attempt a homemade version of this tasty bite, experiment and make it your own. If you need guidance, well, just follow Giada’s recipe. Mangi!

good read: The Book of Joe

2008-08-31T21:57:00.005-04:00

I preface this post by confessing my desperate need to fill my life with a profusion of books. I worship the power of books, and how they transport the reader into another world. I tend to read books for many different reasons: a good plot, incredible characters, remarkable writing, or sometimes just as a means of escape. Also, I value books for scores of reasons, thus not being able to define what makes a “good book” by means of one or two defining characteristics; though, if I had to, I guess a “good book” to me is one that sticks with me for an extended period of time—whether it be a moment, or a lifetime.

I recently read Jonathan Tropper’s The Book of Joe, and though I wouldn’t consider it delicious writing, I would argue that it is real writing. Not very often—and I think this is due to the complexity of the task—does a writer craft a novel with a style that employs the habits of everyday life. The casual manner in which Tropper tells his story allows readers to feel a certain closeness to his characters—not necessarily because they are tremendously developed, nor are they underdeveloped—through the fierceness of truth that lies behind each and every one of them.

Tropper sets his narrative in a fictional Connecticut town (much to my gleeful surprise), a town that could potentially exist anywhere, and probably does. His main character deals with the all-to familiar circumstances that force some of us to go back to the town we grew up in and face the warped memories we have shaped, abandoned, reshaped, and forgotten. The clumsiness in which Tropper’s character does this, reminds us all of the difficulties of growing up, and of the ease with which we tend to bury our past. Only when we return to our childhood can we justly grow as adults.

All in all, I struggled with the idea of this book as a whole, yet when I finished reading the very last page, and took my customary moment of literary digestion, did I finally feel the ambiance of Tropper’s novel. It stuck with me for about two days, leaving me wondering what elements of my past and childhood I may have forced to lay dormant all these years; it also comforted me in knowing that the lapses in memory that suddenly become vividly alive in mere seconds once the mind gives in happen to everyone.

Litchfield County, wine and chocolate

2008-08-30T22:28:00.013-04:00

So, it’s not surprising that one of my favorite corners of the earth lies in northwestern Connecticut. A place quite contrary to the big-city lights of Boston or Manhattan, and even Chicago and Atlanta for that matter, Litchfield County offers a quiet solitude, cozy atmosphere, and some of the greatest hidden treasures in New England. The scenic drive to Litchfield County limits the time one has to travel on the infamous I-84, and truly shows off some of Connecticut’s green landscape, winding roads, and glorious hills and valleys. Though this slice of heaven is celebrated for it’s historic districts, town commons and greens, local growers, and natural beauty (including covered bridges: one in West Cornwall and two in Kent; a topic for an entirely different post), here are some of my favorite places:

Haight-Brown Winery is located just beyond junction 118 and 202 in Litchfield. This gorgeous winery and vineyard, constructed from a hollowed out barn offers eleven wines ranging from chardonnay to merlot to delicious dessert wines, including their decadent Apricot Moon. The atmosphere is unbeatable: upon entering, you are immediately shuffled upstairs to the loft where you can browse around, sit at the farmhouse style wine-tasting bar, or relax on the heated deck that overlooks acres of well-developed grapes for harvest. Delicious assortments of cheeses are offered for devouring whilst sampling wine in this blissful haven.

Not too far down the road, in neighboring Goshen, is another highly desirable, yet strangely familiar winery, Sunset Meadow Vineyards. Located just ten minutes from Haight-Brown, Sunset Meadow offers a homey place to sample more locally fashioned wines, ranging from the ever-popular whites, to the local favorite reds, developed by the St. Croix grape, born in the Midwest, and growing well in New England’s rough rocky soil. In addition to the delightful offering s of reds and whites, I left Sunset with an amazing rosé, Sunset Blush (reminding me of my most favorite song). If you’re ever looking for something to do, and you enjoying cruising in your car listening to Billy Joel and Carole King as you coast the scenic roads less traveled in Connecticut, and if you are a fan of wine, then I highly recommend investing the time and mileage into the Connecticut Wine Trail.

And of course, after the consumption of countless samples of taste bud-tingling swills, it’s an agreeable recommendation that you make your way to this miniature paradise overflowing with mouth-watering truffles, and various and sundry candies reminiscent of days gone by. The Litchfield Candy Company is an endearing little shoppe, jam-packed with flavor after flavor of chocolate truffles, ranging from dark chocolate to amaretto. Conveniently located alongside Rte. 202, it’s easy to miss as it holds all this marvelous wonder in a small, one room red shack. If you drive by, make sure you stop in—you won’t regret it.

good idea: yellow chalk

2008-08-30T21:55:00.001-04:00

It was this past Monday that I quietly tip-toed around the campus of a rather rural Catholic college, in search of the classroom that would become a cozy learning vestibule for young eager minds this fall semester, when I stumbled upon a dimly lit room, instantly noticing that two of the four walls were draped with blackboards (ironically, green in color). Almost instantly, I rocketed back in time to the second grade: my first memorable encounter with chalkboards--that soft green surface covered with the dust of chalk. The silver tray holding stray pieces of white and colored chalk and two standard erasers--you know, the kind you begged to be allowed to clap during recess for extra credit or bonus points. Ah yes, chalk: I would have to secure some in order to utilize this fine commodity of the past. And not just any chalk, no, I want--need--yellow chalk; the same chalk my elementary and middle school teachers nonchalantly carried around. The yellow chalk that dusted the blackboard, and the backs of female teachers' dresses and male teachers' trousers; that yellow chalk with the perfect contrasting hue on its green backdrop. That yellow chalk that, though it doesn't erase as well as white chalk, commands attention from all learners in the classroom. The coveted yellow chalk that educates students. Nostalgia? You bet. And yes, I know that the chalkboard chalk business is no longer as lucrative as the whiteboard and dry erase marker industries, but still, I prefer to be launched back into the peaceful world (so I assume) of the 1950s--you know, where families ate dinner together, and soda jerks handed you that classic 1957 manufactured Coca-Cola bottle--any day than continue this spiral into a land of pushing buttons, text messaging, and voice commanding gadgets. In fact, I relish it, embrace it, and realize that I must locate a chalk holder.