Stories

I'll never forget my first trip to Maine. My husband (then boyfriend) spent his boyhood summer's at his family's camp on a lake. Driving from Chicago to Bangor every August with his dad, they'd meet up with his older brothers along the way to this sweet spot right at the water's edge. It's nothing fancy. Hasn't been updated or changed in any major way since they bought it over 35 years ago, but it satisfies my basic requirements for "camping." It has real beds (no sleeping bag on an air mattress or cot for me) and indoor plumbing (you can't drink the water but that's a small price to pay for being able to pee inside). Electricity is also key, but up until a few years ago and the invention of wireless HD receivers there was no phone service or television. This was and is a place to get away from it all and reconnect with nature 24/7…whether you want to or not. We spent our first few days hanging about on the dock, reading and listening to the baseball game, occasionally taking a dip in the clear, shallow water. Nothing too strenuous. We were here to relax.

That he was bringing me to this place 6 months into our relationship was important. He had family who lived up there I was meeting for the first time. His Aunt Dot and Uncle George also had a house on the lake, about a 1/2 mile down the dirt road. Their place is much larger than ours and is more house than camp. It's two stories with several bathrooms, laundry facilities and cable TV. So when they asked us to dinner, after a few days of "roughing it", we were thrilled, though I was a bit nervous. He'd never brought a girl to the lake before. I wanted to seem cool and interesting and fun. So I suggested we take the canoe over to their place instead of walking. I thought it would be nice to get a little exercise and a funny story to tell our friends back home that we canoed to dinner. Fueled by a few beers, the lovely view and gross naivety, we got a better story than we bargained for.

I was ecstatic to be reminded of an old tradition by Martha Stewart in her magazine this month.  

I remember doing this on New Year's Eve with some foreign friends many, many years ago and everyone had a lot of fun partaking in the simple ritual.

According to Martha, it's a Spanish tradition (my friends were French) to quickly eat a dozen grapes at midnight. 

The fruit being a predictor of the year ahead:  Each sweet grape representing a good month, each sour grape a less-than-lucky one.

So join the fun, thread a bunch of grapes onto skewers and serve each in a glass of Champagne right before the countdown. 

This is great because children and non-drinkers can also participate.  Just put the skewer in Sparkling Apple Cider or whatever beverage you are serving for the toast.

As we all know, one interesting by-product of the so-called 'economic crisis' is that many of us have become re-acquainted with the things that really matter in life i.e. love, comfort, safety, security, unlimited-ride Metrocards, and food.

I've actually been having a bit of fun learning more and more ways to economize in the Food department, much of which involves, well, cooking. Something I never did in my before-crash life.  I'm one of those people who simply cannot be trusted in the kitchen. I burn – no, scorch – expensive pots, set fire to spatulas (once because I left it in the oven) and have ruined more electric tea kettles than I care to count. How, you ask? I put them on the stove.

I have an excellent excuse which is that I am recovering from a mild traumatic brain injury – but that is another story, not to be belabored here.

The point of this tangent is: I should not, not, not cook. Thus, raw. Thus we come to the point of this particular piece: Why you should crack your own nuts.

When I have a party, I try to invite everyone. I really do. And if my best friend has another best friend, I invite the other best friend. I include the world. If I happen to run in to you (random person reading this) a week before said party, I will invite you even if we’re not the best of friends. I even like it when people crash my parties or when someone calls me and says boldly “Do you mind? I hear you’re having a party and I’d really like to go.” What I LOVE about that is that the person who makes that kind of call, does know me. They know, I’m so happy to include everyone.

I believe I got this from my mother who would say, “You have to invite the whole class, not just some.” Or my dad, who carried his entourage around with him, leaving no one out. Both my parents never let anyone’s feelings get hurt.

One day, in maybe the 5th or 6th grade, a girl named Debby had a party and it seemed like she invited just about everyone. Except me. And maybe the worst part was that she included my best friend Susie. It felt like a real slight. On that particular weekend of Debby’s party, I remember feeling very alone on Saturday night. Susie and I were pretty inseparable.