Yes, I made my first Youtube video while I am sick and looked terrible, but this is who I am today.
Today, I made my first video for a Youtube channel I am starting to create. My blog has been the same since I started because Word Press is difficult to navigate, and I never found someone to help me. I am not a techie person and do not enjoy trying to figure shit out.
I used to feel comfortable with social media sites like Facebook and Instagram for our business. I say used to because they change stuff all the time.
What I knew how to do was nothing since TikTok, reels, filters, and more shit came around during the pandemic. I guess that is what all the young people were doing while we were all on lockdown. I am slowly figuring it out, but it’s a chore.
As a ham with a big personality, I like making videos. Going live, not so much since I don’t want to look dumb and say stupid things. Marty is great at going live.
Like I wanted to start a blog for a while, I’ve wanted to jump on the content-creating bandwagon. Today, out of complete boredom, I made a video. I haven’t done editing because I still have to learn how to do it.
I created my Youtube channel named what else? Julzie Style. It’s my brand, so I’m sticking with it. I haven’t published the video to the public yet. I wanted to give you guys a sneak peek.
I realize many of you have never met me or seen me in person since we graduated from high school in ’84. So now is your chance to hear my voice and see me as I am today.
For now, only you guys can see this on my blog. I am learning to edit, change the resolution, and do other fancy things to make it my own. Of course, I will be more upbeat when I am better, but blogs and vlogs tell a story, so in my case, today, I am sick.
The first mistake I made was how I held the camera! Dammit! I’ve got a lot to learn. đ¤Śđťââď¸
I am experiencing a setback in my pneumonia recovery. I started getting sick again yesterday, sliding backward quickly by the evening.
Without getting into it, the dosage was wrong for one of my medications. It took all day today to get more of the medication since all the pharmacies didnât have it in stock.
Finally, The Pharmacy, a small town, privately owned business, had it in stock. This is why it is essential to support local small businesses.
Marty is on his way home with the antibiotic as I type at 7:15 pm. He’s such a good friend, not just a husband. I am very lucky indeed.
On Saturday, at The Troy Farmers Market, one of our weekly customers gave Marty a carved wooden healing bird to help with my recovery. This touched my heart so deeply that I wept when I held it.
This customer is an older gentleman and a retired chef. I feel so humble and honored by how many people love our spätzle. We are currently on the menu in most high-end restaurants in Manchester and Dorset.
The interesting thing about the carved healing bird is its shape. It is shaped like a sparrow. The direct translation of the German word spätzle is sparrow. The shape of the noodles resembles little sparrows. Is that cool or what? I’ll have to ask him when I thank him if he knows that.
We have the kindest, most wonderful customers who truly care about us. The feeling is mutual as we get worried when we donât see someone for a long time or hear someone is ill.
Our customers are from all walks of life, not only from our country but also people who are visiting from other countries. Our spätzle has even traveled on airplanes as far away as India!
We have met thousands of wonderfully interesting people. We love hearing their stories and memories of their grandmothers, making them spätzle as children.Â
Spätzle is also made in many Eastern European countries with different names and served with things like Chicken Paprikash or Goulash.
In the six years weâve had our business, only a tiny handful of assholes have existed. I’m good with faces and names, so I remember them. I can also remember people’s names. Everyone loves when someone remembers their name. Like on Cheers.
I can recall what the asshole people looked like and why they were jerks. One extremely rude couple dared to come back and complain about their spätzle the following Sunday.
This was after tricking us, paying for their bag of spätzle with expired food stamps. They wanted another bag to make up for our lousy spätzle.
Before you assume, we love that many customers use their food stamp money at the market. After all, that is what it is for.
The market gives those customers twice the amount in market tokens to shop with. Even if a customer doesnât have enough tokens or money, we still provide them with spätzle. We have given away a lot of spätzle to those in need.
Healthy food has always been our priority in feeding people, especially when we were both school lunch food service directors and cooks. Poverty is a real problem. Unfortunately, being dishonest is another one.
So back to the scammers that stole from us on purpose and then demanded more. Their rudeness and lying ignited my âJersey,â and I lost my shit.
I told them I remembered them and the expired coupons they gave us. The spätzle they got for free couldnât be what they claimed because it was made the day before and has a 16-day shelf life.
I said if they needed food, they should have been honest with us and not treated us like we were idiots. Then I told them to get the fuck out and never come back.
The surrounding vendors almost applauded me because this often happens at the Schenectady Farmers Market. We loved doing that market but stopped because we couldn’t keep working 7 days a week, and it’s the furthest away from home.
Schenectady, NY, has a wonderful farmers market on Sundays and is the home of Proctors Theater; the city is up and coming. However, most of Schenectady is a rough shady place with lots of crime.
The look of shock and how red the couple’s faces got spoke volumes. That, my dear readers, is what happens when you piss off a Jersey girl.
Marty just got home, and I started taking the correct antibiotic for seven more days. I will be better about resting and not overdoing it. I was shocked at how quickly I relapsed after returning to my old self.
Like our spätzle customers, you guys are also kind and wonderful people. I am honored and grateful to have all of you in my life.
Thank you for taking the time to read my posts and, better yet, commenting on them. Have a great week. âĽď¸
This is a post about coffee. Being Irish, it always takes a backstory or two before you get to the main point. Thatâs how this post starts.
I havenât checked in for a few days. I got really sick, so sick Marty took me to the ER in the middle of the night. I didnât object, so that tells you something.
Sam no longer works in the ER, but everyone knew I was Samâs mom. At first glance and exam, the provider was sure it was only bronchitis. Marty and I knew it was more than that.
It turns out the chest x-ray showed I had pneumonia. I got a breathing treatment and two antibiotics to start as soon as possible.Â
Poor Marty was dicked around getting my two prescriptions, which was a total shit show in itself. The pharmacy finally figured out everything, and I started taking them when he returned.
Within six hours, I was feeling better. The next day was nothing short of a miracle. We made product to fill orders which went smoothly. I got tired in the afternoon, so I napped and rested for the rest of the day.
Ditto for today, same as the day before. I wasnât nearly as tired and felt 90% better. Yay!
When I was lying around feeling miserable and coughing my fucking head off for a week, I started thinking about dumb things. Things would probably become blog posts down the road.Â
I havenât had a cup of coffee for ten days. Iâve been guzzling down herbal tea and honey. In the last couple of days, I switched to caffeinated tea in the morning, but I still don’t feel like having coffee.
Ok, so here comes the story! Finally. âď¸đŽđŞ
Weâve been in coffee pot hell for more than a year. Weâve had a Keurig maker for years but got tired of the cost and waste of the pods, plus the coffee wasnât hot enough.
We went back to a regular 8-cup maker. We wasted so much coffee! It made me mad. So we got a 4-cup maker. We loved it for a while, then I broke it, and it isnât made anymore. Damn.
Next, we got a single-brew coffee maker. I canât tell you how bad it sucked. Marty boxed it up and shipped it back to Amazon for a refund.Â
Now what? I only drink one cup of coffee in the morning. Marty has one regular, then switches to decaf. I left it up to him to decide.
He chose the pour-over-a-cup filter. We have an electric teapot that heats up in seconds. You slowly pour the hot water over the grounds in the filter, and drips into your cup. Brilliant!
The coffee is delicious and hot. Bravo! We finally found our perfect coffee solution, which is better than anything weâve tried.
Here is where the dumb thinking comes in. If the coffee filters and drips into the cup, why arenât coffee bags like tea bags? When I thought of this, I couldnât believe this wasnât a thing. Is it?
I asked Marty, and he said thatâs what instant coffee is. No, no, no I tell him. The coffee would brew in your cup like a tea bag.
Speaking of instant coffee, my Uncle Steve, Aunt Claireâs husband, drank thousands of cups of Taster’s Choice. He loved it.
When I was little, like 7 or 8, Uncle Steve used to tell everyone that I made the best cup of coffee. I spent a lot of time with them and made him at least 100 cups. I would smile from ear to ear when he told people about my coffee.
I remember I would put on the tea kettle. Stand on a chair and get out a coffee cup. I would open the instant coffee and smell it. I put what I thought was the exact amount of coffee on the teaspoon and put it into the cup.
When the kettle went off, I carefully poured the hot water into the cup, leaving enough room for the milk.
I knew exactly how much milk and sugar he liked. A foam formed on top of the coffee, which I would stir until it was gone, then add the milk and sugar.
Finally, I would take a sip to make sure it tasted right. I would always say, âYup, thatâs how he likes it.â Heâs the only one I ever made coffee for. He would thank me and tell me I made the best coffee every time.
This is a sweet memory from my childhood. Aunt Claire told me I was going to put her out of business. I was very close to them; Aunt Claire was my mother’s sister and my Godmother. Gosh, I miss them terribly.
Back to coffee bags. Am I the only person who thinks this? Think how convenient this would be. You could take your favorite coffee and have it anytime you can get hot water. Why isnât this a thing? So I did some research.
It is a thing! Ha! I knew I wasnât the first person to think of this. This woman apparently did:
How nice they give you a warning. đ¤Ł
When I get up in the morning, the last thing I want to do is futz with coffee. I saw fillable tea bags for coffee. Noooo! I am not awake enough to curse that much when I make a mess in my kitchen.
There are wide different varieties and price levels of coffee bags. Some are stupid money. You could go to a coffee shop, which would be cheaper, gas included.
I went on Amazon and picked a middle-of-the-road, medium-roast coffee from Ecuador. Itâs reasonably priced and as easy as making a cup of tea. I read the reviews, so I ordered a box to try it.Â
55 cents a cup. Not bad. Why isn’t the cent sign on keyboards anymore? WTF?
This would be perfect on the road or at the farmers market where we can have boiled water. I havenât figured out the creamer on the road thing yet, but one step at a time.
Marty will see that I ordered these coffee bags and have something to say. Like, thatâs ridiculous; I make you good coffee already. He does, but this is to satisfy my curiosity.
My package is scheduled for delivery on Sunday, so Iâll let you know the outcome. I still think itâs a brilliant concept.
By the way, this is the dumbest thing I saw while researching. I’ll leave you with this. You’re welcome! đ
Banana bread muffin. I want to frost them with chocolate frosting. Mmmm!
I wonder if everyone gets specific food cravings when they are sick. I do, and they are different with each sickness.
When I had the flu a few years ago, I only wanted baked Brie cheese topped with strawberry preserves. I would spread it on toast or crackers.
When I had covid last April, I wanted Hunts Snack-pack chocolate pudding. Badly! When I finally got my pudding, Marty and I had covid simultaneously, the packaging is always a major disappointment. When I was a kid, it came in a tin can with a ring-pull top to open it.Â
Anyone who was lucky enough to have one of these babies in their lunchbox ate it just like I did.
You would carefully lift the ring-pull and pull slowly. If you went too quickly, the worse thing would happen, the ring pull broke off, and you couldnât open your pudding! Yikes! This only happened once to me, and I was heartbroken. Lol.
Marty made me perfect grits.
Next, you would lick the sharp metal top to get every speck of pudding. Then you ate it. I ate my slow and savored it. I also loved when my mother would make boxed pudding for my dad and me and spoon them into little glass custard cups. Yum! I licked the saran wrap that covered it, of course. it wasn’t as fun as a sharp metal lid, but still good.
Plain and simple white rice.
This time while I have bronchitis, I want creamy, buttery, salty foods. Iâve had buttered rice, buttered potatoes, buttered grits, and today pasta carbonara. I’ve been craving sweet things too, but we don’t have anything in the house.
I’m Irish and love potatoes!
Marty just headed out to Bennington to pick up a prescription for a cough suppressant since nothing is working. Express care was a useless trip over the weekend. They told me I was Covid negative and had bronchitis. No shit Sherlock!
Spaghetti Carbonara
Express Care prescribed me nose spray that did nothing except give me horrendous headaches and nothing for the cough. A hacking, painful cough that never goes away, making me have to sleep upright in a chair.Â
Marty suggested we eat outside in the fresh air, which felt great after being cooped up inside for almost a week. I could barely keep my eyes open from the bright sunshine. This is sick me 100%, and I look like shit. đ¤Śđťââď¸
My primary doctor was not in today, but luckily another provider looked at my âchartâ and gave me a cough suppressant! Hallelujah!
Marty asked me earlier if there was anything I wanted when he went out. I sat down and made a list. Keep in mind, my list of items is nothing I would ever think of buying, let alone crave.
Ice Cream
Chocolate frosting in a can
Popsicles
Ginger-ale
I know that when Sam had covid last May, he only wanted brown sugar and maple oatmeal. Lol.
I sincerely hope this new prescription works because no matter what, I have to go back to work tomorrow. I havenât worked since Thursday.
I don’t have to worry about a coughing fit in the kitchen since I wear an industrial mask all the time to keep the fine flour particles out of my sinuses and lungs,
Yes, itâs a thing that happens to people who work with flour a lot. It took me a year to figure this out for myself. Itâs called Bakers Lung. If you didnât know, well, now you know.
That’s it for now; hopefully, in my next blog post, I’ll be on the other side of this bronchitis. Happy Valentines Day tomorrow! â¤ď¸
*** What a guy; Marty is the best and got me everything on my list. He’s my Valentine every day!
Thursday morning, I woke up without a voice. Laryngitis is nothing new for me; I used to have it weekly after a game on Saturdays; I was a cheerleader from grades 3-12. I’ve always had a distinctive, deep voice, and when I lose it, it’s frustrating, to say the least. By Thursday night, I knew I was sick. Dammit!
Turns out I have bronchitis, something I got 100 times growing up. I never got normal colds like other kids; mine always settled in my chest. When I would cough, my father would always say, “Jesus Christ, she sounds like she has TB, for Christs’ sake!”
When I had a respiratory thing going on as a teenager, I would run up to my room and cough into a pillow. I didn’t want my parents to hear me cough, or I couldn’t go out on the weekend. I was smart too, or so I thought at the time; I switched my cigarettes to Newport Menthol. I figured if I put menthol on my chest with Vicks, I would inhale it too. Yeah, I know you don’t have to tell me.
When the boys were small, Noah had croup every winter until he was 10. It scared the hell out of us every time it happened. He couldn’t breathe, so we would stand in the bathroom with the hot water running to produce steam or wrap him in a blanket and take him outside. He went to the hospital a couple of times for his breathing issues. Sam had it only once, thank goodness.
To this day, whenever Noah and I get sick, it always ends up in our chests. Ironically, when I met my birth Mom, the same thing happens to her, and she has asthma. Sam and Marty have always been pukers when they were young, and both have motion sickness, something Noah, me, and my mom don’t get.
Since Thursday, I’ve been in bed most of the time, not to spread what I have. I’ve taken up base camp in the guest room, which is comfortable. Marty can still hear me hacking away all night and started becoming concerned.
He has administered breathing treatments when things have gotten serious, which greatly helps. When he got home from the market this afternoon, he gave me one immediately, which helped a little.
I am drinking plenty of fluids; I don’t think I’ve drunk this much tea ever. I am not a tea drinker, but maybe I will be since I like the herbal ones we have on hand. I haven’t had a cup of coffee since I was fit as a fiddle on Wednesday morning.
Being sick in February has happened to Marty and me since we were young. We both have birthdays in February, and one of us gets sick. I stopped planning birthday parties after my 9th birthday when I was sick again and had to cancel another party. We never rescheduled any of my parties, which I am sure my mother was thrilled about.
Those are the most important things I can do rest, drink fluids, and isolate myself. Besides drinking tea and water, I haven’t eaten much, I ate two boiled potatoes all-day and yesterday I had some rice for dinner. Marty has been fending for himself since I have no desire to eat or cook. Holy shit! I am sick! đ
Sunday night, I went out with the Martins: my Marty and friend Martin, the chef across the street. We had three tickets to see the Broadway hit “The Book of Mormon” at Proctors Theater. The third ticket was for Sam, but we had an extra since he is in Burlington.Â
I never thought Sam would agree to dinner and a show with us since Broadway musicals arenât his thing. He wanted to go because he loved the show South Park.
Sam and I have been watching South Park together for years. The two guys who are the co-creators of South Park, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, also wrote the funniest musical ever written or performed, The Book of Mormon.
Now if you havenât seen South Park, I must tell you it isnât for lightweights. This comedy sitcom isnât for everyone since they make inappropriate episodes, always making fun of someone famous or current events and offending groups of people.
The show is a cartoon, and no one is safe from becoming “an episode.” Cartoon children are the main characters with filthy little mouths talking about things no child should know about.
Why do we like it? I donât know because we do and find the show hysterical. Some people don’t like it, and some love it. Itâs a do or doesnât kind of thing.
Martin 1.
We asked Martin if he wanted to come with us, and fortunately for us, he did. We went to Maxonâs American Grill and ate dinner before the show.
Martin 2.
Instead of me trying to explain the show if you are interested in what the hell Iâm talking about, hereâs the link. The Book of Mormons.
Now that you have an idea of what the show is about, I must tell you Marty laughed hysterically throughout the entire show. So did Martin and me.
The musical has clever and quick set changes, and the actors are brilliant and can sing and dance with the best of them. The lighting sets the mood of each scene wonderfully. The scenery makes you feel like the characters are there, especially in the Hell dream number.
I donât think we have ever laughed that much for over two hours. I loved when the elders broke into a full-on tap number complete with 5,6.7,8.
If you look at reviews, many people loved it, while conservatives and religious groups hated it; no surprise.
The Book of Mormon won 9 Tony awards for Best Musical, Best Score, Best Book, Best Direction, Best Featured Actress, Best Scenic Design, Best Lighting, Best Sound Design, and Best Orchestra.
This morning when I did some research on the show, I was impressed to see I was right about the observations I made about the show last night.
The audience was a completely different crowd than the other shows we have seen over the last couple of years. The audience ranged in ages from 20-60+. It was a hip crowd with very few older senior citizens like usual.
The audience members had more relaxed outfits, and most wore black, like us. We were totally in our element, including Martin.Â
The audience laughed through the show and applauded like crazy. This was the first show people stayed until the end. No one rushed out before the show was over to get to their car first, like usual.
The people who leave early are the same type who used to leave after communion and not return to their pews because they also wanted to get to their cars first.
Why? Why are people always so eager to run out of churches, movies, shows, concerts, and sporting events? Wasnât the point of going in the first place was to see something you wanted to see or do?Â
In the case of leaving before the end of mass, in my opinion, itâs a bit hypocritical to show everyone you are a good Catholic by going to church out of obligation but canât wait to get the hell out of there.
These are the same people who shook my hands and my children’s hands and wished us peace, then refused to let us cross the parking lot to get to our car. Or honk at people to drive, for fucks sake! đ¤Śđťââď¸
My dad was no hypocrite, he didn’t like going to church. Period. When I was in Catholic school, I was supposed to attend church every week. To ensure families went, they put all the essential school information in the bulletin.
Instead of taking me to church, my dad would pull up in the front of the church and hand me the envelope that contained the required amount of money we needed to donate each week. Donate?
This was on top of my tuition, and it was mandatory for school parents to work the church fair, held in July, for 3 nights. This was right after working all day, where my father sweated his ass off in a machine shop..đ¤
Anyway, my dad would tell me to smile at the usher, hand him the donation basket envelope, and ask him for a bulletin. I went to the same guy weekly, and he winked at me. Easy as pie.
Then my dad would take me to the donut shop or out to breakfast. I loved our breakfasts together. He told me never to tell my mother our little Sunday morning trick. I would never want to ruin spending time with my dad, he was fun, and he loved to eat. I never told her, even when I was an adult. It was our little secret.
Where was my mother when we were supposed to be at church? She said she didn’t have the patience to take a baby, the other child they adopted, to mass. She would be sitting in her robe when we got home, smoking cigarettes, and talking on the phone while their other child was in front of the tv.
The funny thing was, I took both my “babies” to mass by myself since Marty isn’t Catholic. It wasn’t easy some weeks, some weeks they got yelled at on the way home for their behavior, but they did learn things and later became alter servers.
After the boys made their sacraments, I stopped attending church for several reasons. Since then, I have a very close and intimate relationship with God and love Him with all of my heart. I donât pray; I talk to Him. I trust Him with everything and give my worries over to Him.
Ok, enough church talk. Honestly, good for the people who go because they actually want to go and find comfort in praying with their families and community.
People may not believe how spiritual I am because of the way I am. Guess what? Spiritual people say fuck and curse like sailors. They also love shows like The Book of Mormon and can see the show’s true meaning when others see only raunchiness and swearing.
To me, the show was about love, friendship, questioning faith, trusting each other, and standing up for yourself and others. To work together as a village and not against each other.
The show proved good always wins over evil. It showed you can still do a world of good but go about it differently than the traditional way. It was about trying to spread faith, ringing one doorbell at a time.Â
To think, the musical and the message were co-created by two guys who are funnier than shit and arenât afraid to offend people. The bottom line, they got their point across.
I read somewhere the Mormons took out an ad in the playbill when the show first opened on Broadway in 2011, saying something like: while the show may be entertaining to tonight’s audience, if they read the book, it would change their life, just like in the opening song.
I spotted the post above this week when browsing through my Facebook newsfeed. It immediately made me smile, breathe a huge sigh of relief and think of Barry Manilow’s 1977 hit song, “Looks like we made it.”
I was 11 years old when this song was on the charts, and I loved Barry’s whole album. At some point, loving Barry Manilow was a dorky thing. It wasn’t so much dorky, but my taste in music changed as I discovered new music on my own and not only the stuff I heard from the backseat of my parent’s smoke-filled car.
I jumped in and started liking all kinds of music my parents called awful; it was like when people shook their fingers cursing Elvis and the Beetles during their era. Unlike our parents. Marty and I keep up with the newest hard rock, metal, pop, Latino, hip-hop, and dance club music.
We are both musical people since we were young. We appreciate old, new, cultural, light, or hardcore music. We listen to music for hours, usually loudly, in our production kitchen, which is different every day. Lately, we’ve also been listening to music videos on the TV at work.
I remember when I was 11 years old, downstairs in our basement, pretending to be a nightclub singer. My parents had a bar in their basement; almost everyone I knew parent’s had one too.
Not ours, but I found one similar.
There was a couch and two end tables, and armchairs. The furniture was that horrible wooden 70’s looking shit everyone had back in the day. I set up pretend cocktail tables from random shit I found on the “work” side of the basement.
I had an invisible microphone, which I remember always taking my hand and moving the invisible cord out of my way as I sashayed in between all the tables of people. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I want to sing you one of my favorite songs to start off our night with.” Then I’d belt out, “Looks like we made it.” Always a crowd pleaser.
When I discovered my biological history on my father’s side, I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a nightclub singer, bartender, and performer in the Catskills and later moved to California. He took off on his family with three children when my youngest brother Dan was not even a year old.
He turned out to be a deadbeat dad, sadly enough. He only saw his children once while they were growing up, taking them out for the day and promising to see them again. He died in California on his 50th birthday when my youngest brother was 12.
Ugh, what a shame. I have his performing gene and love of cooking to thank, and most importantly, three awesome siblings. I share so many things in common with them that it’s always mind-blowing when we discover more things.đ¤
Back to Barry. It wasn’t until my adult years while listening to “Looks like we made it” in the supermarket that I really understood the words I belted out as a kid. It was a sad song. It was about two people making it alone and not together anymore. I muttered, “What the fuck?”
I thought of that song when I saw that post because we made it out of the darkest part of the year. Marty and I both suffer from seasonal depression, which worsens as the years fly by. I’ll bet it affects almost everyone else too.
The song is fitting for today, waking up to -20 degrees which felt like -36 degrees this morning at 5:45 am, which was the coldest period of this artic weather we are experiencing.
Marty went to the farmer’s market alone today; I stayed home and held down the fort with Klaus, who hadn’t left my side on the couch. The weather is warming up today, and it will be a balmy 41 degrees tomorrow. Thank goodness!
The artic freeze didn’t affect me as much, knowing there was a light at the end of the tunnel. We haven’t had a bad winter this season and have been expecting Mother Nature to say, “Take this, suckers.”
Royalty-free image.
While I love warm weather and look forward to summer, I realize daylight is what I love and need; even though we don’t get that much sunshine here in Vermont, we all need daylight.
I’ve felt like a tiny seed planted in the soil all week, and every day I am getting closer and closer to the warmth and light. Look’s like we made it!
***By the way, when we were in Vegas a year and a half ago, Marty asked me when we saw a billboard of Barry Manilow if I wanted to go see him. I giggled, said no, and thought I’d leave that memory alone and not ruin it.
The cast of characters at our dinner party; Marty, David, Arthur, Buzz, Tabetha, Martin, Alexandra, and yours, wearing my cooking glasses and hair done in my food service and dancing teacher bun.
Last night we hosted our first official dinner party since covid. We had our almost full-time neighbors Arthur and David, Buzz and Tabetha, new neighbors and owners of The Arlington Inn we met this past summer when they purchased the Inn. Finally, our buddy across the street, Chef Martin, and his friend Alexandra.Â
Usually, when I do extensive cooking as I did, I take food photos, but I didn’t this time. I only took an âusie,â the plural of a selfie.
We decided at dinner, while everyone loved the meal, it wasn’t about the food; it was about friends around the table telling stories and making each other laugh.Â
However, It was also about the crazy good homemade cannoli and Nutella gelatos I made to go with the other Italian dishes. It was my first time making gelato with our gelato machine, which had been in storage for ten years.
I made a bunch of favorite recipes I can do with my eyes closed. A big pot of soft and fluffy meatballs and sausage, homemade pasta, stuffed clams, caesar salad, and eggplant stackers. I’ve made each dish at least 100 times and can count on them. One of the celebrity chefs says never to use your friends as culinary guinea pigs.
The other great thing about this menu was that it was not only simple, but I could make all the dishes ahead and bake or reheat them before we ate.
It’s the most important thing to remember when planning a dinner party, don’t make fussy things like soufflĂŠ or dishes with multiple preparations and steps unless these dishes are comfortable for you or in your wheelhouse of recipes.
I wish I had taken a photo of the bar I set up. It was brilliant, if I do say myself. I know what my friends drink for the most part, so I set up the bar according to their preferences.
On one side of the bar, I placed an “Old Fashioned” cocktail ingredient tray with the proper glassware. I made an orange simple syrup along with orange wedges, bitters, and maraschino cherries, all in size-appropriate bowls. I also had other dark liquors and red wine with glasses on that side.
On the other side, I had a “Straight-up Martini” tray again with proper glasses, vermouth, and bleu cheese-stuffed olives on sticks. White wine, rum, tequila, vodka, and gin with small cans of tonic water, seltzer, and cola. A bowl of lime and lemon rounds was included to make mixed drinks. Martin was the bartender, which he could do as well as being a fantastic chef.
Even though we have a cozy home, ok, call it small, we all fit in the dining room without a problem. Everyone stood talking in the living room and bar area during cocktail hour. I enjoyed time with my guests, then headed into the kitchen to bake and reheat the food.
The night went off without a hitch. The two gelatos were the stars of the show! So was that simple orange syrup I made. While I had never made any of these items before, I was confident they would be good; actually, they were fucking awesome!
Our home was filled with friends, talking, and laughter. Our neighborhood had a similar thing but with a group of neighbors who either moved away, died, or were too old or sick to participate. We were the group’s youngsters in our 40s, while almost everyone else was in their 60s. We were so sad when our friends faded fast, and most of all, we missed our “Tavern Night” group, as we called it.
Things have come full circle. We are empty nesters and a few years older this time. Our home has been updated since covid, painting every room, purchasing new furniture, both new and used, and giving the once dark and worn living space a more light and modern feel.
Our hosting is over, for now, and it’s up to the next couple, sometime in March. I can’t wait! It’s so wonderful having our social lives back again right here in Arlington!
My friend and belly dance student Maria, who also has a blog, sometimes wants to write about the same things I do about what happens on Wednesday nights at dance class. She was going to take a photo of the mysterious shoe, then saw I already wrote about it.
Last Wednesday, we had such an incredible, spontaneous moment just before our zilling drill practice that left everyone like, âwow, where did that come from?â Maria beat me to writing about that moment, so rather than rewrite the event; she tells the story brilliantly.
You must read her post before you continue reading mine. The link to her blog post, âHe had it coming.â
While discussing positive self-image, I thought about how much âhate talkingâ I do to myself about not having a size six body anymore. Itâs still a hurdle to overcome and a big one for me, but I accept it more each day.
When Maria spoke up and told everyone about her father calling her mother every day and asking if she did her sit-ups, I stopped looking for a zilling song and said with lots of drama, âsome guys just canât hold their arsenic!â
Thatâs when Kathleen and I started singing the song âHe had it comingâ from the Broadway show Chicago. While driving home that night, I was smiling because it was such a great moment and interaction between Kathleen and me.Â
Many years ago, before my mother had her stroke, my belly dance group was having our annual fundraiser, a belly dance show with not only all of us but many other dancers from VT and other nearby states.
I asked my mother if she was coming to the show, I knew the answer would be no, but I always invited her anyway.
The few times she did come to gigs in Bennington over the years, she came and slept through one set and left. She never came to watch me cheer at games and only came to the first night of our senior play, while almost everyone else’s parents came all three nights. It was as if she had lost all interest in me and the things I was good at.
When I was little, before she started treating me like Cinderella when I was nine, she would be excited to get me into my two costumes and do my hair and makeup for my dance recitals.
I took solo dance lessons and performed solo as well. She strutted around like a proud peacock after the recitals and always had a bouquet of flowers for me.
Back to that belly dance show, my mother walked in ten minutes before the show started. She walked up to the circle of dancers I was chatting with.
I said, âOh good, you changed your mind!â She replied, âNo, Iâm going to bingo next door and wanted to see what you looked like.â Disappointed, I said, âOh, okay.â
Before she left, she told me, âBy the way, you should wear that color lipstick more often; it doesnât make your teeth look so yellow.â I thought,” lady, you are such a bitch! Are you even fucking kidding me right now?”
She said goodbye, turned on her heel and walked next door to bingo. I was furious and embarrassed she said this in front of my fellow dancers.
I said something like, âI canât fucking believe she just said that! Oh, wait, yea, I can.â It was perfect timing for her to get a jab in since the show started in five minutes.
I had five minutes to get my shit together before turning into a Sahidi Sister and dancing, the show’s opening. Then I had to turn into DJ Julz since I ran the music for the show and kept everything on schedule.
Thatâs my relationship in a nutshell with my mother. The moment was so awkward for everyone in the circle, and it affected my dance sisters about to perform with me. It is a painful memory for me and still makes me enraged.
When I thought about how angry my mother made me that night after reading Maria’s blog, I sang the Cell Block Tango song again but dedicated it to my mother.
“Some women just can’t hold their arsenic! She had it coming; she had it coming, she only had herself to blame. If you’d a been there, if you’d have seen it, I’m sure you would have done the same.”
When I read Maria’s blog post, when I got to the part about Kathleen and me standing next to a cauldron, I instantly had a soul memory from a past life with Kathleen; when we were, are you ready for it? Witches.
I mentioned in my series, “My gifts,” I was a witch in many lifetimes and promised I wouldn’t be in this lifetime. I also knew Kathleen and I had been together before in other lifetimes; I just didn’t know when, where, or what. Now I know one time, at least.
Because of Maria’s blog post, I immediately knew she was with Kathleen and me in that lifetime since what she saw was a soul memory watching us. Interestingly, all the people we have meaningful relationships with, good or bad, are part of our soul cluster.
We keep coming back with our soul cluster members lifetime after lifetime, helping each other learn our soul’s lessons. Some people are there to test us and try to make us fail, some hurt us because we deserve it from a lesson we didn’t learn, some push us along, and others help us succeed with our lesson.
A few weeks ago, during a journey, a beautiful female spirit guide told me I was here to help my mother succeed in a lesson, but we all know how that ended. I told her, “that’s too bad since I was hurt and abused for nothing then.” She immediately told me, “it was a business contract and not to take it personally.” Easier said than done, beautiful spirit guide.
I sent Maria’s blog post to Kathleen, and when we spoke on the phone, she thanked me for sending it. After I told her about being witches together a very long time ago, she laughed. We kidded that the next time someone asks us how long we know each other, we can legitimately say for centuries! Lol.
Thanks, Maria, for your blog post; it had a much more significant impact on me than I thought when I first started reading it. I told Maria a while back I want to dance with her around a bonfire, which she and Jon always have during the full moon; now I know we probably have before!
I wanted to start a blog for a long time, and itâs hard to believe itâs been up and running for two years. I have to admit I donât write every day like I used to because none of the pieces I did for the sake of writing were blog-worthy.Â
My friend Jon Katz always says to himself in his reader’s shoes, âWhy should I give a shit?â When I started asking myself that question, I deleted posts before publishing them.
I used to be hard on myself that I didn’t publish a story every day, but I had to be honest with myself that I am a spätzle maker, delivery person, market vendor, and business owner, not a full-time writer. Itâs not a cop-out; itâs reality.
All that aside, I love writing posts for my blog. Some posts are funny, while others are informative, sad, or outright bonkers. Some were creepy and some inspired people to try new recipes, which I love!
Many people loved the series I did on âMy gifts,â and some did not, and I lost them as readers. You canât make everyone love what you write all the time. I also gained a few new readers. If you like my blog, tell a friend or send them my link. I do a happy dance every time I pick up a new reader.
Everyone likes that I am so honest and authentic. They think I am brave. When I think of some of the things I’ve worked through by writing about them, it is brave sharing my innermost thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I also lost readers when I wrote emotional and sad pieces, but that’s okay, I am a lot some days.
This is how I am, honest and authentic, so itâs no different in print. Friends who know me will always tell me they can hear my voice when reading my blog and how my writing sounds exactly like I speak. They say it’s like I am talking directly to them.
Thank you, John Katz and Maria Wulf, who are my friends, bloggers, writers, photographers, and artists who inspire me to become a better writer and storyteller.
Thank you to my family, who have permitted me to be family members and characters in my stories. Thanks, Marty, for supporting me and my writing. It means the world to me when you tell me it was a good piece I wrote.
Finally, thanks to you guys reading this, I wouldnât have a blog if no one had read it, and I love when people comment on different subjects; it gives me the confidence to keep going.Â
Iâve published 473 posts in two short years, with plenty more to come. I’ve written over a million words in that period as well.
Thanks again; itâs humbling that anyone âgives a shitâ about what I have to say. âĽď¸
