Apologies to Susan Stamberg - My Cranberry Sauce is Simpler

I wonder if Susan Stamberg's colleagues at National Public Radio ever get tired of hearing about her mother-in-law's cranberry relish every Thanksgiving. I guess it's a charming annual tradition: "Here comes dear old Aunt Susan again, insisting that everyone try her cranberry relish ..." It's probably pretty good, but even if it's not, you say it is because you don't want to hurt her feelings.

I have my own traditional way of serving cranberries at Thanksgiving.

Cranberry sauce. Chilled, right out of the can. No fuss, no muss. No pickled anything. If you want to put some effort into it, you can cut the perfect can shaped masterpiece into ready-to-serve slices.

People like it. I've never had any complaints.

Martha Stewart would not enjoy Thanksgiving at our house. If the table is set ahead of time, chances are a cat will lounge among the plates and flatware before the guests arrive. The hosts are generally dressed casually, in shorts if the weather is nice. The paper napkins are not folded into the shape of anything. The tablecloth is usually a little wrinkled, unless Clyde is inspired to iron it, which I don't encourage. The plates don't all match. The food is served in kind of a free-for-all, a combination of pass around and buffet, depending on the crowd, the food, and the space. Sometimes, guests have to get up to refill their own beverages. In terms of formal manners, it's pretty ugly. The pies, which come from Village Inn (they are not made at home), are topped with Cool Whip instead of whipped cream. Dessert is a strictly serve yourself affair.

We do have some standards. Football is not allowed on the television in the main room. Guests are encouraged to go to another room if they must watch.

It sounds like Thanksgiving at our house is kind of a bummer. It's not. Most of the guests enjoy coming back year after year. It's laid back. The conversation is good. We laugh a lot. Usually, we agree politically, which will come in especially handy this year. No one expects a formal black tie affair.

Years ago, I tried hard to impress when I hosted Thanksgiving. In particular, I tried to make fancy stuffing. One year I made special apple stuffing which didn't go over very well. Another time, I got a fairly ok cornbread stuffing recipe off the Internet. One year I made one with wine that smelled up the house for days. Then, for a few years, my sister-in-law tried. She got stuffing recipes out of Bon Appetite magazine. One made with rosemary was pretty good.

Until one year after dinner, someone yawned, "You know, I like Stove Top just as well as any stuffing I've ever had." Around the room, sleepily digesting, everyone agreed.

Years of research and anxiety over recipes went out the window. Why had I bothered?

The next Thanksgiving, in addition to my special way of preparing the cranberry portion of the meal, I began a whole new tradition of making stuffing for the family: several boxes of Stove Top. Just add water and a little butter, right at the last minute. They gobble it up.

Thanksgiving is not about fancy recipes. It's not about impressing guests or good china or which fork you're supposed to use. It's about having a good time and enjoying food with people you love. Even if it comes from a box or a can.

The Four Other Stages of Grief

I, like many of you, am grieving about the shocking and horrifying election of Donald Trump to the U.S. Presidency on a wave of populism fueled in large part by racism, sexism, and anti-immigration.

I believe it is necessary to grieve now in order to properly respond to the challenges of the next few years.

What is often not understood about the five stages of grief, first written about by Elizabeth Kubler Ross, is that they don't always occur one at a time or in linear fashion. Often, they overlap or occur intermittently. I've already covered denial in a previous BillsWeek entry. Now, I thought I'd hammer out some thoughts about the other stages. Sharing in this way helps me cope with my own grieving. Plus, I'm not sleeping and I have nothing better to do right now.

For the record, what I say here reflects either my own thinking or something I've overheard from others. These reflections don't necessarily reflect my exact point of view. Or maybe they do.

Bargaining

• The people who elected him aren't really racist (sexist, etc.). They were voting for Trump for some other reason.
• He was polite to President Obama when he visited the White House. Maybe he's not so bad after all. Let's give him a chance.
• He did hold up that rainbow flag that one time (even though it was upside down).
• Maybe his stupidity (and/or other shortcomings) will render his presidency ineffective. Perhaps if we give him enough rope, he'll hang himself. 
• Since he was so slippery and flip floppy on issues during the campaign, perhaps he isn't as conservative as we fear. Maybe he only acted that way to get elected.
• He was once a Democrat and a friend of the Clintons. Maybe he's a liberal in disguise. 
• Let's just be really nice to our racist neighbors and try to get along with everyone. 
• Ok, we don't have to be anti-gun. Let's just be "pro-gun safety."

Hmmm. I see why this one usually comes right after denial.

Anger

• If you voted for Trump, explain to your Black/ Muslim/ Immigrant/ LGBT neighbor/ coworker/ friend/ family member why they don't matter to you.
• Since our citizenship and civil rights are under fire, can you be surprised that we are questioning our patriotism?
• How can you come to my home, have friendly conversation with my boyfriend, attend my wedding, and still vote for Donald Trump? Don't you know what I have to lose? Don't you know what the stakes are? Don't you really care about me at all?
• Be alert for that "Kristallnacht" event to happen when the KKK and other thugs start destroying the property and lives of minorities, first without consequences, and then with the endorsement and support of the government. Think it can't happen? It was less than a century ago in a first world country called Germany...

 When you think about it, anger is really just fear turned inside out. It's what has motivated the other side to become so hateful. Fear is what fuels bigotry. It's why a great Presbyterian minister, Jane Spahr, once said, we must love them through their fear. Easier said than done.

Depression

• Can we just go to bed and wait until this is all over?
• Isolation: no talking to friends, no allowing for the comfort of company. Being alone seems less painful, somehow, even though it probably isn't.
• Music might help. Where are those old Peter, Paul, and Mary recordings?
• Depression is the scary one for some of us who have suffered from the chronic, clinical disease of the same name. We fear that if we give into this one, we'll be stuck in it and unable to get out. To us, depression looks like a long, dark, sucking tunnel that pulls you in when you haven't the strength to fight it. It gets all mixed up with the normal, circumstantial depression that happens to everyone when some terrible, external event happens.

Acceptance

• I don't accept this. Racism, sexism, and homophobia are not acceptable norms.
• I don't accept that the U.S.A. is over.
• We can only clearly see what's behind us. What is in front of us can only be estimated at best, and that is often informed by fear. Think of how frightened people were at other times in history when our national life felt threatened and the future was seriously in question: the Cuban missile crisis, Watergate, the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, and 9/11, just to name a few. Remember how frightened we were, and how shocked. At times we were despondent and hopeless. We always came through it. We always had a response, sometimes a questionable and debatable response, but we did respond. We never just rolled over and let it get to us. We're Americans, goddamnit!
• I do accept Elizabeth Warren's challenge to get involved; to volunteer, to connect with others, to add my voice to others' voices so that we are heard.
• I accept that every couple of years we get to elect new representatives. Look out bitches, mid-terms are only two years away.

Denial is a Good Stage

Crawling out of bed this morning felt like climbing out of ashen ruins after the apocalypse. The extra dose of Seroquel I took helped me sleep after the nightmarish election returns, but didn't make getting up in a strange new world any easier.

The world initially didn't look any different. The cats needed feeding. The coffee needed making. The dishwasher, having been run overnight, needed emptying. I didn't want to shave, but I did. Clyde woke up by himself today so I didn't have to wake him.

We eventually got around to turning on the TV just to make sure it wasn't all a bad dream. It wasn't. Trump was elected, oh my god, I can't even say it.

The world was looking a little different after all.

Like many others, I live in a bubble of like-minded people. Almost everyone I know - friends and family, people I like and hang out with, have the same political views. I read and listen to news that reinforces what I already think and believe. So it's not a surprise when I say that I really don't know very many people that voted for Donald Trump; just a few people at work and on Facebook. In fact, the state I live in (Colorado) didn't go to him in the electoral collage. I have that thread to hold on to. So I simply can't wrap my head around how this disaster happened.

And I'm not even close to ready to contemplate the implications of a republican house and senate (no, I don't intend to capitalize those words for the next four years at least).

I'm still stunned and in shock. I haven't yet declared myself "no longer American," like some others I'm reading about. My extended family is hatching a pretty serious sounding plan to move to Canada. Even though it's guaranteed to be warmer up there in the future (thanks to runaway climate change), I'm not quite yet ready to go. I'm still waiting for it all to sink in.

I'm sure that later I'll be enraged. I'm sure that I'll be terrified. Later. I'm sure I'll be sad. Hopefully at some point in the future I'll be motivated towards activism, but that's not happening yet.

I think this is the denial stage. It's a good stage. This is the stage where you go on doing things which keep you going. So I eat, I work, I feed the cats. If not for denial, I couldn't function at all. I'd just curl up in a ball and not move. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

A New Prairie Home Companion: Big Shoes to Fill

If you think Saturday Night Live hasn't been funny since the 70's, you probably won't listen to A Prairie Home Companion this year.

For the first time in 40 years, Garrison Keillor is not hosting the popular public radio show. In his place is mandolin player, Chris Thile. Can you imagine how difficult it must be to replace Garrison Keillor? Mr. Thile must have been a nervous wreck as he hosted his first show on October 15.

I've listened to PHC for many years. I've enjoyed the understated sense of humor. I relate to the midwestern sensibility of Lake Wobegon. I love the public service messages about ketchup. I laugh out loud at the Professional Organization of English Majors.

Most of this, I've heard in the car. I don't think I've ever heard the full two hours all the way through. I listen to most of it in bits and pieces on my way to dinner on a Saturday evening or to the store during the replay on Sunday.

To be honest, I haven't always been in the mood for the musical performances. They have tended to be overly folksy and too sentimental. It's not that I haven't liked the style of music, it's just that a little goes a very long way. In fact, over the years, if I've turned on the car radio and PHC has been in the middle of a twangy number, I'd usually switch to the other public radio channel to see if Wait Wait Don't Tell Me was on.

If, on the other hand, if it was Guy Noir solving a case, or Dusty and Lefty out on the range, I'd listen with rapt attention.

So, like everyone else, I was curious about Chris Thile and how he'll do at the helm of the show which has been, for all these years, Garrison's heart and soul. It's kind of like getting a new minister at church. Or a new teacher. Will we like him? Will he be as nice as the old one? Will he be funny? Will he measure up?

He probably won't.

Face it. Public radio listeners, particularly those who listen to PHC, are old and we old people don't like change. We always think it was better with the original cast - like with Saturday Night Live. Chris Thile doesn't stand a chance, no matter how good he is.

So on my way home from church the other day, the Sunday morning replay of the previous night's Companion came on, featuring the young new host. Much to my delight, it was the beginning of a comedy sketch. The captain of a sinking ship was radioing in for help and an English major was receiving the call, correcting the grammar of the captain's pleas. Hilarious!

Then, as Chris Thile began to introduce a musical number, I reached for the button to change the channel. But instead of a folksy, sentimental twang, I heard a sort of rocky, jazzy tune by Lake Street Dive. I listened to the whole song, and the next. And then I arrived at home.

Maybe the new Prairie Home Companion won't be so bad after all.

Reflections on a French Honeymoon

"Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer."

As we get back into our normal lives of work and piles of laundry, the past month recedes into a happy memory. We loved our wedding. The best part was having our loved ones all together as we celebrated. Clyde and I followed that with some honeymooning in France, seeing the sights of Paris, lounging poolside on the Riviera, kicking back beach side, and napping in comfortable hotel rooms. The latter we were able to do without the feline company we have at home, what we've come to call "catus interruptus," the sudden need for attention cats have whenever humans lie down together. But that's a subject for another time.

France is just as great as they say it is. It's beautiful and romantic. It's dripping with history. There is much to see. Naturally I came away with some observations and generalizations:

• You really can just sit and relax over food and coffee at an outdoor cafe, taking in the sights as well as second hand smoke from others' cigarettes. People smoke a lot more over there.
• Is there any place more appropriate for a romance than the French Riviera? It felt like James Bond or Brigitte Bardot might walk by at any moment, having just stepped off one of the giant yachts anchored nearby. 
• The French are very stylish and beautiful. They dress well. The only people wearing shorts out on the street are tourists. Upon coming home, I'm very aware of what slobs Americans are. I include myself in that observation.
• Many French have cute little dogs, at least in the urban places we visited. I swear, they seem to yap with a French accent and a bit of stylish attitude.
• France is a capitalist western country where bejeweled shoppers rush by homeless people outside the high-end shops of the Champs Elysee, just like you'd see on Fifth Avenue in New York or 16th Street in Denver.   
• Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer.
• Subways. I love subways.
• Of course, some things are universal. People everywhere have their noses pointed at smart phones, only glancing up enough to see where they should be going.
• Remember that old Marianne Faithfull song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan? "She realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." Well suck it Lucy. I got to do it. Ok, it was on top of a big double deck tourist bus instead of a sports car, but still ... And please, no comments about the amount of hair the wind may or may not have blown through on my particular head. 

I miss eating in France. Not just the food, but the act of eating. You don't just fill the hole in your face in France. You sit, you converse, you savor. You don't eat out before an evening out. Eating out is the evening out. The waiter doesn't rush you out the door by bringing you the check before you are finished. You are expected to linger as long as you need to before asking the waiter to bring you the check. It's a whole different outlook.

But the food itself - it's so much better over there.

The pastry is flakier. The fruit is sweeter. The cream is somehow creamier. The butter is butterier. The cheese is cheesier. The coffee richer, without a hint of bitterness. Even the pre-prepared sandwiches in the convenience stores are made with fresher ingredients, as if just in from the farm. Even the cheap roadside frozen soft serve is better than what we have here.

And don't get me started on the bread. Before going to France, I used to look forward to scones in my office building cafeteria. Now, I can barely look at them. American bread is crap. I don't know why the French make it so much better. Maybe they just demand it fresher and don't tolerate it after it's a day old. I don't know. But seeing overcooked, plastic wrapped cinnamon rolls baked Godonlyknowswhen, made my stomach lurch this morning. And the coffee at work? Forget it.

Travel normally makes me appreciate home. Well, in spite of the lower quality of naps, it's good to see the cats. And it feels great to be married on any continent.

As for the rest, I guess I'll just have to power down the car window and stick my head out to feel the wind blow through my hair.

PostBlog from Paris: This City is Kicking My Ass, but the People Are Not

When I lived in New York City I made fun of the tourists who went on the Circle Line Tours. I could never so obviously be a tourist, If I ever had any pride, I'd have to blend in.

I've changed my tune.

First of all, we don't blend in here in France. We must smell American. The minute we walk into a restaurant, before we open our mouths or do anything at all, they take one look and hand us the English version of the menu. I don't know why. (Point of accuracy - Clyde says it doesn't happen everywhere, and it's usually because we're wearing backpacks. Fine, if you want accuracy, read the New York Times ...)

So you can read about Paris dozens of other places. I'll just tell you that the first day, we walked and walked and walked and walked and walked. The metro (subway) sped things up a little, but we really put some miles on the old dogs. The second day, we bought some shoe insert thingies to soften our instep because our feet were so sore, I personally thought I couldn't go on. The pain was nearly unbearable. I also needed to buy band-aids for my toes which were blistering, Hey, I understand that people in Paris have suffered through some tough times (I've learned at various historical sites). But did they ever have to stand in line on sore feet to get into Notre Dame, only to stand and walk, stand and walk, stand some more and walk slowly around from Saint to Saint once they got inside?

Long story short (too late, I know), Clyde and I and spent 37 Euros apiece for a two day pass on the L'Open Tours bus which drives around the city to all the major tourist sites. You can jump off the bus whenever you want and get back on when you're done seeing the sight you wanted to see. Or, if your feet are killing you, you can just stay on the bus and ride around, listening on the headphones which plug into a jack located by each seat which, depending on the channel you select, tells you about whatever you are driving by in whatever language you speak.

Sometimes it's hard to make up your mind. True conversation: "Here's the stop for the Eiffel Tower. Should we get off?" "I don't know. Look. They have ice cream." "Ok."

I hope I never meet Rick Steves and have to confess I did such a thing, but there you are. I saw more in one day on that bus than I otherwise would have seen in a week, including the outside of the Moulin Rouge, crowds lining up at Sacre Coeur, Napoleon's Tomb, and the art deco cinema with the largest screen in Europe. At €37, that's a bargain.

A Note About the French

Clyde and I feel strongly that Americans are stupid. Ok. Not all Americans. Just the ones that complain about how rude the French are. We have seen absolutely no evidence, whatsoever, to support that stereotype. The people we have met, including and especially waiters, have been courteous, helpful, and tolerant as we struggle to communicate and deal with unfamiliar currency. The advice has been that if you make an effort with them by trying a few French words, minding your own manners, and smiling graciously, they will return the favor with kindness and helpfulness, even speaking English if the can. On the other hand, if you act like a boorish, entitled asshole American, then why shouldn't they be rude back to you?

My favorite experience with this so far has been the server who struggled with her English but tried very hard to use it with us. Clyde gave her our order in French, asking questions and getting clarification on a few of the menu items. Throughout the meal, she returned to us a few times, each time attempting to speak English to us before remembering that she could speak French to Clyde. Her impulse was to make us more comfortable before remembering that she didn't need to struggle to speak.

End of sermon.

So Paris has kicked my ass but the Parisians have not. The people here have made the exhausting, painful experience of walking all over the city easier by their friendliness and good manners.

Postblog from the French Riviera: In Search of White Ladies

Rick Steves would be so proud. Ok, no he probably wouldn't. We haven't done much of anything on the first part of our honeymoon in France except eat, sleep, lounge on the private beach and the pool of our hotel, and other honeymoon things.

We have ventured out a little on foot into a couple of the neighboring villages near Nice, including a beautiful walking trail along the Mediterranean Sea encompassing views of nearby cliffs, colorful villas, enormous yachts,  and of course the blue-green water that once stirred the imaginations of the ancient Greeks and Romans. But European cliches aside, I have been anxious to delve into the real France and observe what really makes this place tick, just as Rick Steves inspires us.

My first observation upon arriving in France was that at first, I saw very few French people. That was at the airport. Once we got to Nice and the Hotel Riviera in Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, there were French, British, and American people all mixed together. This is a pretty touristy area.

Some other observations:

• All those French words I learned in high school really work! People understand me when I use them here! They aren't fake, just like the Euros that come out of the ATM work like real money!
• It's true: if you try to politely speak French first, the French will politely try to help and even speak English back to you if they can. They are very nice people and only hate Americans when we are rude and entitled, like the guy who snapped his fingers at breakfast this morning and shouted to the waiter, "COFFEE!"
• This part of France has very wealthy people in it. They are mostly Arab and Russian. I know this because when you walk by a real estate office, the listings are mostly in  Russian. Also, the taxi driver told us. He told us a lot of stuff on the drive from the airport.
• My nutritionist, the one who is helping me lose weight, says she doesn't know anyone who has gained weight in France because the food is more natural and the portions more sensible. I am out to prove her wrong. The food may be less processed, but the portions have been generous and I have been eating like a pig. The croissants have been especially good. And the yogurt. And the bread. And the cheese. We'll see what happens when I weigh in once I'm home.

But the biggest surprise so far: an illusive and mysterious phenomenon, so compelling that we have walked miles, day and night to find it. I'm talking about the Dame Blanche, or White Lady. No, I haven't become a racist heterosexual. It is an ice cream sundae made with the finest coffee flavored ice cream (subtle, not overpowering coffee flavor), the highest quality chocolate sauce, topped with a huge pile of delightful chantilly whipped cream. I don't know, maybe it's just because I'm in France, but it seems so much better than the same thing at home. The ice cream is creamier. The chocolate is not that cheap syrupy stuff we are used to. 

We were seduced by the white lady our first dinner out. The next evening, we walked along the seaside walkway into a neighboring village and stumbled onto a sidewalk establishment with a neon sign that said, "Bar" and "Glace" (which means ice cream). We looked on the menu and sure enough, there she was: Dame Blanche. We sat at a table, mouths watering in anticipation. But we were too late. The water explained that no more ice cream would be served that late at night. 

Crushed, we vowed to return the next day. After a morning of reading and napping at the hotel pool, we motivated ourselves to hike back to that village where we triumphantly had a token sandwich for lunch, followed by a main course of the seductive white lady. 

You know, it was pretty good, but not as good as the first one.