Years ago, before my second child was born and I traded in my paycheck as a freelance fashion stylist to change diapers, drive carpool and be the soccer snack provider, I used to joke that the only way I got to hang out with my friends was to work with them. So I hired my friends as assistants when I could. On a more serious note, I also said, back then, that the best way to find out who someone is, is to work with them. I'm now adding to that: Want to know who someone is behind the dinner party chatter, or as an English friend used to say, "What's that when it's at home?" Share a garden.
Last fall, at a lunch for my best friend Glynis, in town from her home in London with her husband Michael, the girl talk went from comfy Prada platform shoes to bumper crops. Glynis, obviously in love with the expression, which did indeed sound fabulous and a bit mysterious in her proper English accent, took delight in repeating the words bumper crop as she shared a picture on her iPhone of the largest tomatoes I have ever seen.
"Mark has had bumper crop, here look, isn't it fantastic," so taken was she about our mutual friend Laura Geller's husband, Mark's, tomato growing talent. Mark is known to us all as an entrepreneur, a rakish risk taker, a stylish man about town, a typical A type-er on the go. He has opened restaurants, managed his wife Laura's jewelry empire and invested in copper mines.
Mr. Greenjeans? Not in the profile at all. "Look, he's a bloody farmer" Glynis added with unabashed respect... and total surprise in our friend Mark and the tricks he has up his sleeve! "Hmmmm, let me look at that," said I, reaching for the iPhone with the picture of what looked to me to be a small red pumpkin.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I decided to go on a liquid fast to lose weight. Needless to say, living on 400 calories a day of fake “milk shakes” is hell, but one strategy, which may sound counter-intuitive, was particularly helpful in getting me through 14 weeks of deprivation: I kept a stack of cookbooks next to the couch and another one by my bed. Reading recipes replaced eating recipes, and I lost a lot of weight. By the time I was ready to eat again, it turned out that I had replaced one addiction for another. My craving for cookbooks filled five shelves and then spilled onto the counters in my den.
My mother had a lot of them. If a knife drops, it means trouble’s coming. If a spoon drops, it means company’s coming... Lila’s mother, by contrast, believed if a knife dropped it meant a man was coming. If a spoon dropped, it meant a woman was coming... Double egg yolks were good luck. And never pass a salt shaker to anyone without setting it down on the table in front of them and having them pick it up from the table – don’t ask me why.
The only one I ever heard was that if someone gave you knives as a gift you had to pay them a dollar. Apparently that was supposed to protect you from cutting yourself. I never did find out why, but "the charm" worked for at least five years. My husband's co-workers were horrified he gave me the knives, but I am pretty sure it wasn't my safety they were concerned about…
I’m not quite sure when it happened, but somewhere between my childhood and early teenage years I stopped believing that I was capable of doing anything. We all did. Knowing better overruled my sense of creativity and ability to imagine any possible combination of outcomes.
I am not now nor have I ever been a Girl Scout...mostly for the simple reason that I grew up on the upper west side of Manhattan and it just wasn’t a thing that we did. It wasn’t ever a viable option. I also felt that there would be only one reason to join and that that reason would designate me a traitor. I would not have joined to perform tasks to learn life skills or help humanity, I would have joined to have access to the greatest cookie in the world: The Thin Mint.