Music has always been in this family. My great-grandfather established the family business in Bayham Street, Camden Town in 1883. Piano parts. The bits that go inside, wood, steel, strings, felt etc. Sadly, my association with the piano was not a happy one. We just didn’t seem to get on. And the piano isn’t portable.

flute

My parents talked about it. To this day I do not have the slightest  idea how they arrived at the flute, but there you go. The flute it was. I had a few lessons, and then my parents decided that I needed a flute of my own. Thus was born yet another eccentric partnership in my life. My mother found a flute for a cheap price, and I became the proud, if mildly bemused, owner of a Parrot flute.
When I became further acquainted with my new friend, I discovered a few things. This was way back before the Internet was widely available, so my research into my new treasure involved going into music shops and asking questions. My first question was, is it valuable? Answer NO. It’s very shiny, I grant you, but that’s the patina of chrome… valuable instruments are made of silver plate, silver and in the odd very rare case… Gold! I also discovered that the factory in China which turned them out, Parrot flutes had serial numbers in the high 70,000s new. My serial number is 2360. So my darling was old. Very old.

Our association was a trifle rocky at times. There were frustrations; the moment that I unwisely left it on the sofa and the family dalmation savaged it. The dents are still there.

Fangs for the memory

I managed to wade through grades 3 to 6, scraping passes here and there (my scales and arpeggios were always dicey at best). But then I was 18, interested in other things and the flute started to get pushed more to the background. I went off to university (briefly) and poor old Parrot got sidelined.

I still played once in a while. But mostly not.

Then came the fateful day. I should give you a little background here. My mother is a hoarder. If she was allowed to get away with it she would never EVER throw anything out. I could wax long and lyrical about the oil drum in the garage which she brought from Old Bury Hill House when my parents moved in here, even though this place was brand new and didn’t have oil fired central heating; or the old broken TV set that was a fire hazard which she insisted on keeping despite me shelling out £500 on a new one. Just in case. I had considered putting Just In Case on her tombstone…. But. I digress.

She was also very, very good at hiding things for no especial reason. We went on holiday, and my mother hid my flute, through some seriously misguided need to conceal the valuables. That was in 1990.

Despite many attempts to ferret it out, it remained hidden until 1997. It was only my documenting the many rolls of wallpaper that had appeared (more hoarding) in the loft that discovered my poor old Parrot buried beneath them. Heaven alone knows why. But then heaven alone knows why 187 rolls of wallpaper in a particularly nauseating Sanderson print.

If ever you need to know why I am the way I am… I will point you to my parents and say “y’hafta ask?”

After its triumphant unearthing, Parrot and I formed a loose alliance, in which I would play it from time to time, and generally things were very low key for a long, long time. But recently, I started thinking more about my love for music, which has never really gone away. I am more of a doer than a bystander, so I dug old Parrot out and dusted it off.

Age has wearied the case, and the flute itself is a bit battered and bent. Realistically old Parrot is now very tired, and expending the money on having the keys re-padded when I can buy a second-hand, much newer flute for that kind of money seems silly. But I will never part with old Parrot. It’s been part of my life for FORTY years.

Old Parrot

I live in a very friendly town called Glen Rock, New Jersey. It is much like many small towns in America, with tree lined streets, manicured lawns, and plenty of parks. One of my favorite places is the Glen Rock Arboretum, a sanctuary of trees and plants, and a frequent stopping place for me during my long fitness walks.

Today was warm and sunny, so I put on my sweats and walkers, and hauled myself out the door to get back in shape after a very long winter of inactivity. It took a while for my muscles to warm up, but once I approached the park, seeing this flag near the entrance made me pick up my pace and rush to see how things looked since the big clean-up from Superstorm Sandy took place.

Since I had walked two miles to get to the Arboretum (I took an extended trip in the opposite direction to get there), I decided to take a rest on one of the wooden park benches at the southwestern end of the lake.

Strange Ripples

As I was enjoying the view, an odd variation in the water began, and sent waves of small ripples in my direction. I watched the phenomenon in amazement, and thought it was just the wind playing tricks on me.

Suddenly, the sky changed color! I sat back on the bench and looked up at the yellow vision above my head. What was going on? The sky was just blue, with a few billowy clouds floating by every now and then. I got up to get a better view, but felt heavy and dizzy. What was going on here? Was I about to die? I hadn’t even enjoyed any Easter leftovers yet. That was just unfair!

Yellow Vortex

What happened next was just plain crazy, and I couldn’t believe that nobody else was witnessing this. Where did the man walking his dog disappear to? I could have sworn he was just over on the other end of the lake waiting for his dog to do its “business.” I shook my head and stood up again, but found myself falling down onto the gravel path and must have lost consciousness. When I awake, I felt very light and a bit confused.

Heaven?

Why was everything SO big? I brushed myself off and walked towards the lake, which now resembled a rocky ocean coast. How had I gotten here? Was this heaven?  I’m not sure why I decided to take off my sneakers and socks, and walk into the water, but before I knew it, I was under the sea, swimming through the clear water towards a beautiful area of green, blue, and yellow vegetation. I happened upon a hidden underwater forest, and a garden of the most beautiful white and pale blue lichen I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but wonder how I was breathing under the water, but then again, I wasn’t sure if I was still of the planet Earth. I pushed this out of my mind and swam on. Who cared that I was not a “Water Person?” Yes, I was born under the sign of Aquarius, but all I ever really got out of Astrology was my weak ankles and my vivid imagination. So, I swam on.

Under The Sea

Lichen

HIdden Forest

As I swam on, the colors changed to reds and purples, and I swam past what resembled a coral reef. I reached out to touch it, but heard a voice say, “You must not touch me. Move on. You must go to see the Madonna in the cave and receive directions from her.”

Coral Reef?

When I went to say something, I got a mouth full of water, and a reminder to, “Move on!” How was I going to find the Madonna in “the” cave? There were caves all over the place down here. The water began to fade a bit, and one area appeared to have a white halo around it. This must be where one would find a “Madonna.” The thought that Heaven may be under the sea flashed through my head, along with an old Disney song that my daughter Nola loved as a young child. I approached the area and saw a deep cave. Far in the distance, the Madonna materialized. She looked busy preparing a meal as her child looked on in anticipation.

Madonna & Child

They both turned , looked at me, and smiled. “We’ve been expecting you. You’re late and must hurry to catch the next vine to the Lost City,” she said to me in a odd Irish Brogue. “Swim towards the orange waters and grab onto the first vine you see. Now, go!”

I took off as fast as I could, perfecting my dolphin kick as I looked for the orange-hued waters to appear. As I swam, I thought back to the year that I decided to re-teach myself all of the swimming strokes. I bought a book on stroke technique, and a membership to my local Illinois YMCA. They had late evening adult lap swim most nights, which fit in with my crazy work schedule. For one full year, I practiced all of the strokes, and got pretty good at all but the Butterfly, which my back doctor suggested I forgo learning. I moved from the slow lanes, shared with other slow-pokes, and progressed into the center lanes, where I eventually swam my first continuous mile. It was also my last, as I ended up having back surgery shortly after my big accomplishment.

Next Vine Out

This trip down Memory Lane was interrupted by a significant change in the water temperature. Thoughts of Hell entered my mind and I swam into the murkiness of the world of vines. I grabbed onto this huge slimy vine and was pulled out of the depths of the colorful ocean. The phrase “Tattoos on My soul.” ran through my head. Wasn’t writing about that topic the my reason for starting My Ink Project with Sj back in 2011? Wow, I hadn’t written anything for our blog in ages. Why was that? I had forgotten.

City in Ruins

I gasped as oxygen entered my lungs again. But, something was very wrong. Nothing had any color, and it appeared that I had come up out of Paradise and landed in the waters of a Lost City. Was I in Atlantis? No, that was under water now. Where had I emerged to? I was tired of this adventure and just wanted to go home again.

I dragged myself out of the water and walked through the decaying streets. The monotone of the landscape was bleak, and I felt very alone and sad. I walked and walked, but the maze of pillars seemed to go on forever.

Maze of Grey

Maybe I was in Purgatory?

Eventually, I saw light shining through the darkness, and came upon the outside. It was no better than the tunnels. Everything was in shades of grey, and the further I walked, the more depressed I became. I must have gone on for several miles until I found a huge fence. As I peered through the chain-link, I noticed a splotch of color on the other side. It looked like a freshly cut

No Escape

tree stump, and offered a touch of texture and brown and tan hues to my field of vision. Things looked a bit brighter on the other side. I needed to escape. I followed the fence until it ended. There was nothing blocking my path, and up ahead, I thought I noticed a glimmer of gold shining off the asphalt. I continued to walk, albeit a bit tentatively, and couldn’t help but feel watched, even though I had not seen another human being, or animal for that matter, for several hours now. Even under the waters of the Tattoo Sea, I had seen no fish or other ocean life. Before fear could creep in, I sat down and prayed for a bit. I asked God for guidance and help, and found myself in tears. Was I really dead? Is this what the after-life was like?

I decided to move on, and found myself faced with a very large directive, and a very different sort of “watch dog.” This is what I saw.

STOP!

Petrified Gator

The “Gator” was sitting on a pile of leaves, just past the “STOP” sign. I wasn’t sure if he still had any teeth, but didn’t want to find out either. I asked him if I could pass and try to find my way back home. He smiled and said, “Sure! You’ve come this far. I haven’t seen a soul get this far in centuries. If you can find your way back home, remember me in your writings.” Of course, I quickly agreed and stepped across the white line.

At first, things were muted in tone and difficult to understand, but gradually, color returned to the landscape, and along with it, my hope.

Glimmer of Hope

I saw several signs along the way, which made me realize I was heading in the right direction.

Iron Horse

Alien Sign?

I stopped and asked the stoic Iron Horse which way I should go. I had come to a “Y” in the road, and there were no signs directing me on where they led to. He was stubborn at first, and a bit rusty from years of being tied up and not speaking to anyone, but he eventually managed to squeak out, “Why, you must follow the yellow brick road.” I started to laugh, and asked, “Who are you, the Horse of a Different Color from the Wizard of Oz?” He grew very terse and snorted his nose towards the right. When I looked in that direction, this appeared before me.

Follow Me

I must admit that I was skeptical, but went ahead and did as he said. I followed the VERY yellow brick road, and of course, it led me directly into a creepy forest. I did not complain, as this forest was green and lush, and the delicate smell of some unknown flowers tickled my nose with splendor. I realized I had not smelled anything since I first entered the Arboretum. I strolled down the golden path without looking around much. After all, Dorothy met up with a lot of weird creatures on her trip down LSD Lane, and I was getting hungry. As I walked past a small structure, I heard a woman crying.

Friend or Foe?

I followed the sound and met up with what I thought was a witch. She had a really big nose and very rosy cheeks. Her makeup reminded me of a woman who once stayed at my mom’s house and used my new “blush” in a similar fashion. In fact, her Mona Lisa smile and fluffy white hair reminded me of Aunt Fran. I shuddered at the memory, but asked her why she was weeping. She looked up at me and said, “I’ve lost my husband and don’t know where he is.”

Her voice was hoarse from calling out for him. When I asked how long she had been looking for him, she replied, “Oh, it’s been at least five or ten years now.” I gave her my finest Mona Lisa smile back and nodded my head. “That’s a long time. Shall I help you find him?” She thought about it for a while, then said, “He was to meet me at our special place, but I forgot where it was. We hadn’t been there in many years. It was a pretty place, with lovely purple light and many trees and flowers.”

Full Circle

She described her husband to me, and a light suddenly went off in my brain. I knew just where to find her long lost spouse!

An odd feeling came over me, and my body started to change! Things began to grow smaller and my new friend no longer looked like a witch. I picked her up and walked out of the woods. Imagine my surprise when I found myself back right where I had started my adventure. I was back in the Arboretum! I took Mona Lisa, as I had started calling her, and showed her the rock that was near the supply cottage. She just continued to grin. That’s when I realized that she was really a ceramic doll, who was missing her body! I had been talking to an elf head!  I took a deep breath and marched over to the lost and found “mailbox.”  Just as I was about to put her into the metal abyss of forgotten items, I noticed a sparkle coming from the glass encased information center. I walked over and saw “who” we had been searching for. Her husband! He was very happy to see her. I placed her in the cabinet and snapped this photo. I closed the glass lid, certain that the folks at the Arboretum would be thrilled to have Santa and Mrs. Claus back together again.

Reunited

I looked around the Arboretum and saw the colors of Spring attempting to show themselves. Trees budding, tiny flowers blooming, and tall chives poking through the pale grass, made me feel a bit better about my journey into The Twilight Zone. The sound of someone walking on gravel caught my ear, and as I turned to walk down the road and out of the park, an old woman came towards me, walking her little dog. I smiled at her as we passed one another, and she nodded at me in response. The dog barked and looked at me with impatience. He did not want his normally chatty mama to stop and chew my ear off. There were trees to pee on and plants to sniff.

I walked back home and realized that I had locked myself out of the house. The spare key was not in its usual spot, and I went around back to see if the patio door was unlocked. That turned out to be a bust, and nobody was in the kitchen or TV room. I was tired, sore, and thirsty, and about to sit and wait for someone to turn down the music and hear me knocking and calling out, when I heard someone humming. I thought my daughter was in the upstairs bathroom, but when I listened carefully, realized that the sound was coming from the basement.

I peered over the deck railing and checked. Yes, she was in the basement. Hooray! I ran down the stairs to the yard, and knocked on the door. “Hey Nola! Let me in. I’m locked out.” She unlocked the metal door and opened it slowly. As I walked down the three wooden steps, I noticed that she was wearing an orange-checked bandana and looked out of sorts. I turned and locked the door and turned back to see this dangling in my face!

Seeing Blue

I let out a gasp and she just laughed. “Haha! I ran out of vinyl gloves and dyed some things without them! Pretty creepy, right?”  I laughed back and made some comment about needing to eat something as I dashed up the stairs and into the kitchen. Everything appeared normal. The dishes were still in the sink and my cat Oliver was asleep on the sofa. He looked up at me and meowed, then went back to sleep.

As I walked towards the refrigerator, I noticed the date on the calendar was wrong. I flipped over the month and stared. Maybe my adventure was just Spring Fever or an April Fool’s Day spoof…or maybe not. You tell me.

The Basement Door

Dad circa 1938

I’ve been fascinated by all matters military since I was a fairly small child. My father was a Normandy Veteran, a sergeant in the Royal Corps of Signals. Something he generally kept to himself.

The war, World War II, was something that he found difficult to talk about. My father was Jewish, his father was born in Hamburg, Germany, and his mother in Poland. What little I have been able to piece together of my family’s past is limited to the family tree, written on cash analysis paper, which goes back to 1513, and bits and pieces that have been dropped from time to time.

My main problem with going back through the records for evidence of my family is that a lot of stuff begins and ends with the Second World War, and there’s no one left alive to talk about it. There’s a fracture there which will never be papered over.

I suppose that’s where my fascination begins. A point in time where my family history goes murky and gets lost. So instead of concentrating my efforts chasing leads that have no ends, I lose myself in the leads that I have ends for.

World War II.

Here in the UK we have something called the Public Records Office based at Kew (West London). With a little jiggery pokery I managed to get a reading ticket. I spent a lot of time reading through records trying to piece together the bits of my father’s service. I knew he was Royal Corps of Signals, knew that he was a Sergeant and that he was one of the advance guard into Brussels in 1944. Other than that, I knew nothing.

It turned out that Dad landed on Sword Beach, D-Day +8 (that’s the 14th June 1944). He was part of Field Marshal Montgomery’s force. My father, and many of the men who followed Montgomery, admired the man enormously. The first Biography I ever read was Field Marshal Montgomery.

The thing that Dad did share with me about the war was a passion for War Movies. I have lost track of the number of times that I’ve seen The Battle Of The River Plate. So when Christmas comes around, it’s only fitting that I settle in for a small marathon of the films that bring Dad back. Sink The Bismark, The Guns of Navarone, The Battle Of The River Plate, Bridge On the River Kwai, Battle of Britain, Tora Tora Tora, I grew up with those films. Shared them with my Dad.

I was born twenty years after my father stepped out of a landing craft onto a sandy beach in Normandy. I’ve been to those beaches many, many times, but somehow it’s the films that give me a closer feeling. Perhaps because the picture in my head of Dad and Me, Saturday afternoons on the sofa are real, where the images of Dad in Normandy in 1944 are only in my head.

Of course back then, fur-children were not called fur-children.

Pepper was Dad’s dog. Had been so since my mother bought him home, he battled his way up the stairs into the flat my parents were living in at the time and plonked himself at Dad’s feet. Dad peered over his newspaper at this spotty apparition and said “I had better take him for a walk.”

At some point in the three years following my birth, my parents decided that the dalmation was too big to be a playmate for me, so I could do with something smaller.

My father did his best, but allowing my mother loose with cash was always a bad idea. One afternoon she arrived home with this white, fluffy puppy under one arm and several apologetic excuses for Dad. Not the least the enormous vet bill which was about to arrive due to the fact that ‘Rudi’ had something wrong with his leg. “But he’ll be a wonderful pet for Sarah.”

Rudolf. Sealyham terrier. Sex-crazed, nextdoor’s-dustbins-violating, fang monster. A wonderful pet.

Fighter, thief, adventurer, romancer of other breeds (regardless of size), escapologist and (in many ways) the other half of myself.

When friends wonder why I am the way I am, I should also point to the little devil that for 19 years was the personification of trouble, but with the huge personality that belied his size.

Terriers are temperamental, they can be very aggressive, and size does not enter into it. If it was bigger than him, Rudi wanted to fight with it. He picked fights with boxers, labradors, alsations, a myriad of bitsers and despite barely reaching their stomachs, he usually won.

Pepper was poop-scared of him. If Rudi wanted to be in a room, and Pepper was already in it, Rudi would menace him until he left in a hurry. The evil fang-monster would circle, growling, his little stump of a tail bent over stiff and vibrating with fury.

When I was very young, the most tiresome aspect of his character passed me by, but by the time I hit double figures I was well aware of the adventurous side of his nature. Rudi was a smallish dog, but he could squeeze through a knothole in the fence, and he would be off. Wenching and dustbinning were his stock in trade. I lost count of the number of times I would get up in the middle of the night because mother would let him out for his last constitutional and he would use the opportunity for a rapid flight after the ladies or visiting the neighbours’ dustbins.

His sins were many and lengthy, he stole from the table. Yes, he was too small to reach, but he could jump, and if you were foolish enough to leave wiggle room, he would get up on a chair and thence the table. He once devoured an entire Dundee cake (heavy fruit cake) because I forgot to shut the dining room door.

He loved to sleep on my grandmother’s bed. And woe betide if you tried to get him off. Although it had to be said that Gran didn’t mind, although he would start at the foot, and by morning he would be on the pillow next to her.

All things considered Rudi was not what one would normally describe as a resounding success. He was sex-crazed, dustbin-violating, fang-monster and he lived every inch of that title to its fullest extent. But he had heart and personality.

Being an only child, I invested a lot of myself into my pets. When I started to write, my early male characters were based on my dog. In many ways, this is still true. There’s a little of Rudi in all my male characters.

It’s kind of poignant this memory. It was this week, back in 1985, when after nineteen years of appalling behaviour, he finally hung up his spurs. For a dog who lived life to the full, and explored every possibility, no matter how vile, he simply went to sleep in his basket and didn’t wake up.

I buried him in the back garden. Near the fence. Scene of many of his breakouts. No doubt, if there is such a thing as doggy heaven, he’s working his way through eternity a little like one of the characters in The Great Escape. Rest easy little monster.

The past several weeks have been tumultuous, at best. I have debated back and forth about whether or not to write about the experience, but in the end, my virtuous side won. Why shouldn’t I tell my story? It’s fascinating, as well as scandalous.

At the end of January, I joined a private Facebook group with several other women, and helped save the life of an old friend. None of us were close in High School, and I still have to pinch myself to realize that we actually brought our friend to safety from across the Pacific Ocean. It was a happy ending, or so I thought.

I am a writer/producer/director, have worked on many television and film projects, and recently completed my first novel. When I received a message from an old friend, asking if I would help, I agreed. I had some free time, and felt that helping someone was better than sitting around feeling sorry for myself for not having the energy to start rewriting/editing my book. (A late bloomer in the writing profession, I tend to put a lot of pressure on myself.)

At one point, in late March, I thought that it would be a great idea for our group to tell our story on film. The conception of a documentary was born. I had a vision of a seamless narrative stream, with my friends discussing their experience. My hope was to show how each woman came to the decision to participate in the task at hand, how our life stories  influenced our decisions, and what effect the event had on each of our lives.

Did I mention the person we saved? No. That is because she did not want to be included. I respected her decision, and made a conscious effort to leave her out. The details of her life – her name, profession, location, living conditions, and other very personal things – were never of interest to the story telling. Unfortunately, other people stepped in and started to create doubt, questioning integrity and intention.

I had no problem dealing with questions, but when the online attacks came, I got angry. Documentarians have a code of ethics they follow, and I was well within that code. They also have rights. My rights were being violated. I was harassed, donors to our indiegogo campaign were sent threatening messages, my team of women were told they would be sued, and our fiscal sponsor was verbally attacked. When my blog partner, Sj, was sent a horrible message that scared her, I drew the line.

The police were called, the FBI contacted, and our entire film team was forced into damage control and trying to explain the inexplicable actions of others. Guess what happened? Arrests? No. We opted to protect certain individuals from that, as they were only “indirectly” involved. I took the high road.

Did I do something wrong? No. I may have decided to make a film about a topic that may have caused discomfort for some, but documentaries do not make money as a rule, and I am NOT an opportunist. (I am not Michael Moore. Darn.) I am a storyteller, and have a very inspiring story to tell. It’s a story that will help bring hope to others who have friends or family in trouble. It’s about not giving up hope, putting differences aside, and working with one another to help someone in distress. That’s it, folks.

I have been accused of profiting from someone else’s pain – exploitation. Really? I have been told that I am acting on “creative whimsy.” No. My favorite has been that “You are professionally insecure.” Okay, what does that mean? Really? I’m a creative person. I am not insecure. I love what I do. When it was suggested that I change professions if having people bombard my project with “criticism” was too much for me, I must say, “Huh?” One person said that, “your story doesn’t have to be told.” In my humble opinion, I have to say that I only meant to encourage others to love one another, the story is important, and films cost money to make. I will not apologize for that.

This entire attack on a very socially conscious and relevant subject is unjust, and I have to say that supporters of “We Are Sisters,” are fantastic people, who believe in the creative process, and know that a documentary film is made for a purpose. In this case, the purpose is to show how groups of women have come together on Facebook (of all things), and done some inspiring feats. No lives ruined, no jobs lost. Beautiful stories of love and selfless deeds.

The decision to include several stories of faith, hope and perseverance, was done out of respect for the many groups of women who help one another, without bias to affliction, race, creed, age, or sexual preference. Our original story was not unique, and allowing others to share our film is only right.

People should not be intimidated to contribute to helping tell our stories. It’s okay.

After all, “We Are All Sisters,” aren’t we?

Care to donate to our film? It’s tax deductible.  Donate here:  http://www.indiegogo.com/ohk-thedocumentary?a=907982

Thank you!

Deep fried turkey

I have a confession to make. I love American people.

I have never met an American who isn’t a thoroughly decent, charming and wonderful person. So they are not very good at picking politicians, but neither are we. The ordinary people are just lovely.

I knew I was going to love Kentucky long before I got there. Jase (Jason Horger), business partner, writing partner, and keeper of my horrendous comma splices (Mel, hunny, prepare to be drowned in commas)… Well Jase is the little brother my parents never got around to giving me.

I love him unconditionally, and his lovely, wonderful, loving wife, Angela… and their adorably naughty, and clever little girl, Kate.

Even the annoying debacle in Chicago could not dampen my enthusiasm.

Coming in to land, as the plane banked you get this vista of beautiful rolling green fields, and white fences. Everything you ever imagined the horse capital of the US would be is right there in front of you.

The place is just beautiful. Even the airport is small, quiet, dignified and beautiful in its own way.

Stepping out into the warm spring air, the surprise is the lack of pollution. This is the nation of the gas guzzler, or so we are led to believe in the UK media. Not so. Well not in Kentucky anyway.

Jase and Angela had quite a programme planned, first of all, the tastes of Kentucky. The first night was Tex-Mex, and I was really introduced to the concept of the take home box. I had burritos with two different kinds of sauce… delicious.

That’s the other big thing in the US. Service is service, with a side order of warmth and friendly charm.

Never more apparent than at Cracker Barrel, the old-fashioned country store where we had breakfast in the morning (more take home boxes, does anyone ever clear their plates?). I had the sampler breakfast. Oh my… a breakfast for champions… I failed dismally. Mind you, I now know for certain that grits without copious amounts of garlic and cheese (exactly as Angela makes them) are a travesty of a dish, and that sawmill gravy looks sorta weird (and gravy isn’t the most breakfasty of substances) but tastes great, especially on nice crispy bacon. Eggs sunny side up (thank you, Tom).

Clydesdale

Breakfast over, we headed to the Horse Park.

I came home.

I haven’t ridden for almost twenty years. Horses were my anchor to sanity growing up. Especially after my father passed away when I was 12. Up close and personal with them again, my soul knew it before my brain caught up. I miss everything about horses and riding.

People will think I’m crazy if I say this. Just the feel of that coat beneath my fingers, the smell, the strength, I’ve always loved big horses the same way I love big cars. All that power beneath you. It’s magic. And I’m just me, not Sj, or the happy face that I put on to a world that doesn’t care, just the basic essence of  me and the horse. I have no need to be anything other than me. Believe me there is no better feeling.

So wave of nostalgia carried me over. I floated out of the park on a euphoric high. Which was neatly followed by Windy Corner, and the BEST BURGER  I have ever eaten. Wow. Burger, medium rare… that was actually MEDIUM RARE. Soft, juicy, yummy and completely wonderful. All washed done with the local special Ale-8-one… known as Ale-8. This beverage was so delicious and an utterly refreshing change from Coke. I fell in love  with it. I have since discovered that, for a smallish consideration, 24 cans of it can be mine, delivered to my door. I am saving for that right now.

This leads me to alcohol. To those who know me well, I am a beer girl, and I can be a serious wild party animal when I don’t fear driving home. Kentucky is also famous for bourbon. So we had to do a distillery tour. Fascinating stuff. Especially when we got to barrel storage and this scruffy, tatty old ginger cat wandered by. Turns out he’s the most photographed thing in the distillery. Ooohs and aaahs, and much snapping of pictures, and he wandered on his way, utterly unconcerned by the attention he received, in the way of most cats.

So having experienced the wonders of Woodford Reserve, Jase’s step-dad Rick (who is an aficionado of Bourbon) held a tasting at his house. I can say with confidence that the powerful 140 proof nearly blew the top of my skull off. Holy moly! The others were more to my taste, and apparently I have got something of a palate for this, because I correctly selected the second one as the best one of the bourbons on offer. Jase’s mother, Helene treated us to a wonderful dinner for a second night.

The trip to Ashland, Kentucky was tremendous. A special deep-fried turkey event was laid on specifically for my benefit. It is an event. A gas ring, open flame, and a dirty great cook pot with four gallons of boiling oil hovering just above it. Like opera it hovers gloriously on the edge of catastrophe, and like barbecues, this is an event that requires a team. One man to cook, and two men to hang around, hand the beer out and move cars about.

Beer and barbecue

And beer. Beer. You will have to forgive me if some of my memories of this incredible experience are a tad hazy, because I was a long way past plastered. I know that I had 8 beers. That was a definite. I may have had a glass of wine, I’m none too sure of that. But I partied like I had not partied since…. well since about 1999. All I can say with any degree of certainty is that Angela’s parents, Katie and John are lovely, delightful, warm, welcoming people who also made me feel part of the family, that Angela’s brother Zeke made me laugh, and his wife Lori is a beautiful, sweet person.

That summed up my trip in a nutshell, having a wonderful party time amongst good people with love in their hearts.

I loved every single moment of my trip. And I came away feeling more loved and cherished than I have for a very, very long time. In the simple things I found some peace, and that in my life is greater than gold.

To Rick and Helene (Jase’s parents), Katie and John (Angela’s parents), Zeke and Lori (Angela’s brother and his wife), Jeff (Jase’s brother), guys you just made my trip perfect and I love you.

Jase and Angela, I miss you guys so much, thank you for giving me the best time of my life.

Turkish Coffee

I fell in love with Black Coffee when I was fourteen years old.

Up until then, my forays into the taste of coffee had always been accompanied by milk and sugar. Trust me, this is a mistake.

I have never been overly fond of the taste of cow, when I was a child it came as something of a shocky horror that French Milk tasted completely, and weirdly, different from English Milk. I did not want to pour that over my cereal. This was an ongoing battle that lasted through my youth, teens and into my twenties when I guess my tastebuds finally kicked over the bucket of surrender and I started using Foreign Milk when I went abroad.

But, this story is about coffee. The black nectar that has fuelled me personally for almost three and a half decades. I have had my ups and downs, but as far as the demon tastebuds are concerned, Coffee is my one true love.

I drink gallons of the stuff. And pretty much always the same. Black without sugar.

Back in the days when I drank it with added cow, I used to add sugar to mask the taste of cow. No wonder I was not overly fond of coffee, with added cow and added sugar you couldn’t actually taste the coffee.

What can I say? I love the stuff. So many things have come to me whilst consuming coffee. The solution to a variety of plot problems, the answer to various questions concerning how I was going to manage to get away on holiday and come back to this highly idiosyncratic household without there being a meltdown or three on the way, the garden question. Incomplete garden issues haunt me so.

It has to be a good roast, preferably not instant, and certainly never the hoover dust collected from the factory floor and packaged as dirty, dirty, cheap, cheap.

The precise nature of the roast matters less than the quality of the filter you put it through. Bad filter equals bad coffee experience. And it should smell GOOOOOOD. Mmmmmmmmm coffee….! There should be a burnished aroma. Roasted beans. The flavour should be smooth with no aftertaste. Aftertaste, especially a synthetic aftertaste, now that some cheap, nasty coffee you got there, maestro.

If I’m drinking it, it should be black, smooth, strong and have the consistency of good gravy. Watery coffee is like watery gravy… disgusting.

A mug, not a cup. Cups are insufficient to capture the flavour and the experience. Flash, bang, wallop… it’s all gone.

No, forget the cup. A good size mug.

There is no need to go raving mad. A Starbucks tall is plenty. Grande if you really must, but Venti. That’s kidneys you have there, not the Aswan Dam.

Coffee when first poured should always give off steam. No steam, and the cup is not hot enough to make you let go if you clutch it too tightly… your coffee has been served cold and should be returned.

Having got your perfect, steaming, mug of black nectar, clasp it in both hands (careful not to clutch too tight and burn yourself), lean forward and have a thoroughly good sniff. Allow the aromas time and space to dance across your senses before you take a careful slurp.

Test the waters thoroughly. If you trounce your tastebuds in the first pass, you will not experience coffee. You will be experiencing burning hot liquid that tastes of nothing very much. Shame to waste it. Please do not assault the black nectar with either moo juice or sugar, neither actually do much for the taste other than mask it.

Coffee in a mug, if consumed correctly, goes through several stages. A bit like Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Man. There are many subtle levels as it cools. And coffee that has reached the stage of cold all by itself takes on its own unique stage and change in flavour. I love all of them with equal fervour. Do not be tempted to throw the cooled coffee away, it has its own unique thirst quenching value, every bit as much as the first hot slurps.

I should also like to state that my habit of consuming coffee at bedtime has nothing to do with my inability to get my beauty sleep. That comes from long experience, and I am perfectly capable of falling asleep absolutely anywhere.

Happy Coffee.

Tell me what you eat, I’ll tell you what you are. Yes, you are what you eat. Or are you? It’s hard to believe that such a simple saying conjures up so many different opinions from people. In fact, the saying probably has its origins in Christianity and  Holy Communion, but gained modern popularity when Adelle Davis, author of “Let’s Eat Right To Keep Fit,” came along in the 1960′s and blamed her cancer on the “junk food” she ate in college back in 1923.

What Adelle didn’t know was that Multiple Myeloma is probably caused by a defect from birth in chromosome 13 and/or 14, and exposure to certain chemicals. Considering that she received her MS in biochemistry back in 1938, it makes more sense that she was exposed to carcinogens years before proper care was taken regarding exposure to chemicals in college labs.

In a way, we really aren’t just what we eat, but what we touch and breath, and how and where we live. Humans are amazing creatures, but we all have tiny flaws in our personal chemistry that can catch up with us if we do not use moderation in our daily lives.

I was thinking about moderation the other day as I melted a stick of better in the Dutch oven that I inherited from my mom, via my sister. The smell of the melted butter wafted through the air, drawing family members into the kitchen.

“Are you making pilaf?” my daughter questioned. “I hope it doesn’t come out watery like it did last time you made it.”

Ahh…the over-moist pilaf disaster of March, 2012. I cringed a bit, smiled, and replied, “No. It won’t. I’m using specific amounts for Linda’s food blog. It has to be perfect.”

Armenian Rice Pilaf

My daughter smiled, said, “Good,” and took one last whiff of the foaming butter as I began to stir in the 2 cups of fine egg noodles. I was sinning a bit, using salted butter, but knew in my heart that pilaf always tastes best when the butter is salted. The butter heats differently, and the foaminess coats the thin noodles better, resulting in uniformly brown wonders nesting in the fragrant Jasmine rice. Yes, I have broken from tradition, not using Uncle Ben’s Converted, or Carolina Long Grain rice. It’s good to change things up a bit.

Earlier in the day, I had used 8 oz. of organic Pasture Butter in my recipe for Armenian Choereg, a nigella seed studded coffee roll that I only make once a year at Easter. I grew up having these tasty wonders on a regular basis, but find that keeping them special endears their presence more, and keeps our waistlines slim.

Armenian Choereg

Moderation. 3/4 of a pound of butter later and I’m thinking moderation? Well, yes I am, as I could have easily used another stick making Baklava, but substituted my favorite butter-flavored spray in its place. I stopped using butter in this dessert 15 years ago, and only recently divulged the secret to making this healthier version of a Greek/Armenian delicacy.

Did my parents use moderation in cooking? Most likely. I know that my mother used olive oil in cooking, many years before it became popular. She was an advocate of healthy eating, as she had grown up on a farm, and rarely ate processed foods. She even made her own yogurt, which I refused to consume. Disgusted with me, she insisted that I purchase my own Dannon yogurts.

My mom blamed my father’s diet as a child for his heart problems. “Too much lamb fat,” she would say. My dad’s family struggled when he was very young. His father had been killed in the Armenian Genocide, and his mom had escaped to America with her two young sons. She worked in a shoe factory for many years, and depended on her extended family for financial help. A large portion of my relatives settled in the same neighborhood in Binghamton, New York, and I remember always being around family as a youngster.

Armenian Baklava

My grandparents were all deceased by the time I was 6 weeks old, and my only remembrance of my paternal grandmother is in the photos that I have of her holding me as a baby. For me, the closest person I ever had to a grandma was an elderly woman named Mrs. Boghoshian. She was the mother of my dad’s secretary, and lived in one of the few houses in a very run down neighborhood of Depression Era apartments.

My memories of going to her home are some of the fondest I possess, and tears of joy threaten to explode from my eyes whenever I think of that glorious woman. She was all of 4 feet 10 inches tall, and reminded me of the gypsy woman from the original Lon Chaney “Wolfman” movie, complete with her babushka. Mrs. B adored me, and was thrilled to show me how to make many of the wonderful Armenian foods that escaped my mother’s limited repertoire.

Mrs. B was the most wonderful cook that I have ever had the pleasure of dining with. She grew her own grapes, the leaves of which she would stuff and steam into the best “Sarma” I’ve ever tasted. Because my parents often helped her family out financially, she repaid us with food. My mother would usually take one or more of us kids with her to have lunch at their home on a Saturday.

A typical lunch would include some incredible black olives, oil-cured, and full of wrinkles and saltiness. I remember having mild basket cheese and crunchy dried chick peas along with her famous olive oil bread. This bread is something that I never learned how to make, and countless searches on the Internet, and through piles of Armenian cookbooks, has failed to produce a recipe for this yeasty wonder. Some days, she would make a beautiful tossed salad instead.

Tossed Salad

If the weather was nice, we would sit outside under the grape arbor on a well-weathered picnic table. We may have either a spicy vegetable soup, or if it was a special occasion, Mrs. B might make a yogurt soup with whole wheat, mint, and tiny lamb meatballs. She made the best Armenian porridge from hurled wheat, and chicken, which was served with melted butter and toasted cumin. Called “Herissah,” this is still one of my favorite comfort foods, and extremely cheap to make.

Of course, her Keuftah, ground lamb and bulgur patties stuffed with either cumin and mint-laced potatoes or a cumin spiced ground lamb and parsley mixture, was a huge treat, as was the occasional splurge of Chee Keuftah, the Armenian equivalent of Steak Tartare. On occasion, we would have homemade Sou Boereg, which is a cheese stuffed dish, made with a special pastry dough that one boils in water before baking. It isn’t at all similar to lasagna, but made with the same amount of painstaking effort.

Lunch was always finished with dessert, and whether it was her homemade fruit leather with huge chunks of walnuts, or her famous apple pie, I always left there with a full belly and a smile on my face. I was scared to death of her husband, Abe, because he only spoke Armenian, and I had no way of communicating with him. Over the years, I grew to adore him, and was devastated when he left his beloved wife a widow after 60 years of marriage.

We would always leave with food, and my mom left her money and bought her bags of groceries. Mrs. B grew the most beautiful tomatoes, and her Armenian flat bread, or “Lavash”, was straight out of the Old Country, and baked on the hearth of her gas oven. Sprinkled with a bit of water, dotted with butter, and heated up in the oven, one would experience what Manna from Heaven must taste like. This was seriously incredible snack food.

Armenian Flat Bread

Recently, an old friend asked me to contribute some Armenian recipes to her food blog, cookingskewl.com. Of course, I agreed, and before I knew it, she was asking for more! It seems as if many people are fascinated by Armenian food, which is similar, yet different from its Greek, Turkish, and Lebanese counterparts. Because Easter approaches, we decided that I would create an Armenian Easter Feast as an alternative to ham or turkey.

The result includes Lamb Shish Kebab, along with Rice Pilaf and Baklava. You can read all about it and get the recipes at the following link. Please scroll to article entitled : Changing Tradition: An Armenian Easter Feast

http://www.cookingskewl.com/new.php

Mrs. Boghosian lived to be 102 years old and passed away

Mrs. Boghosian, Age 95

when I was 30 years old. She attended my wedding when I was 23, and met many of my dearest friends on that day. I did not have had the opportunity to say goodbye to her, but dedicate this blog to her as my tribute to her legacy, with much love and thanks for allowing me to share her incredible food, and for teaching me to appreciate my heritage as a first generation Armenian/American.

At first, I was reluctant to write about food for My Ink Project, but once I smelled the melted butter, I realized that not only did the smell make me happy, it brought forward one of the best tattoos on my soul. The memory of a miniature old woman who cooked magical food, and filled my heart with her love.

Wishing you all the best Spring season of your lives! May you enjoy the rebirth of the earth, and find joy and happiness in who you are, and in what you eat. Much love, Mel…aka…lovechild

Full of Love and Shish Kebab

Richard and his new book "Dead Men"

Today was truly amazing.

Richard Pierce had his book launch at the Natural History Museum.

I knew it was going to be amazing, because Richard is one of those rare authors who have actually been involved with the places that they are talking about, not just passing through.

I first encountered Richard on Harper Collins website, Authomony, in 2008. I posted the very rough chapters of my novel Custard, Cats and Consequences and went looking to see what else was out there. I came across Richard’s novel Bee Bones, and realised then that I was in the presence of a Novelist. He is on a completely different plane of existence to most writers.

I fell in love with Dead Men when Richard posted a few rough draft chapters of his new novel on Authonomy.

You know how sometimes things are just meant to be, Dead Men was a stand out even in rough draft. I remember thinking that if this did not get picked up by an agent and a publisher there was definitely something wrong with the world. A long time later, Mel (my blog partner here on MIP) and I were talking about Richard’s Radio Stradbroke show, and she tuned in (despite the five hour time difference). She was so taken with the readings that Richard gave, that she decided that she would do a piece on Richard for this blog.

Richard tells the story rather better than I can: from his wonderful blog tettig.com

For some odd reason, the lovely people at Radio Stradbroke had given me my own shows by now, which seemed to be quite popular around the world (Italy, Germany, Hong Kong, the US, even England), and, on Good Friday this year, I decided I’d read live from Dead Men as part of my show (podcast to be up later this month – late, I know, but real life … – refer to openening paragraph). This is where SJ comes in, the wonderful SJ Heckscher-Marquis, one of the best friends I made on authonomy. SJ listens to me regularly (again, I don’t know why – I do, because you always have something to say and it is always informative and entertaining), and donates money to the charities Radio Stradbroke raises money for. On Good Friday, she decides to call Mel Hagopian, and asks her to listen to me reading. Well, Mel does, and an hour after I finish my broadcast, there’s an email in my inbox asking for an interview to be turned into a blogpost. Me, gobsmacked and flattered. 

One week’s emails later, and Mel has completed a blogpost that still makes me come out in goosebumps – because it makes me sound like a writer, makes me look at myself from the outside and reckon this bloke knows what he’s talking about, what he’s writing about, and he writes good words, all in the right order, with proper commas in the right place, and all that. She posted the article on 10th May. On 12th May, I got an email from my agent telling me that Duckworth had picked up the book, and would be publishing it in 2012. 

I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in serendipitous circumstance, series of fortuitous events, brought about by decisions we make of our own free will, and I believe in the power of friends’ prayers and faith. So, thank you, SJ and Mel, for believing in me. 

This has been one of the most exciting journeys that I have vicariously taken. Watching hugely talented people make incredible literature, and seeing the culmination of those efforts today. Serendipity may have played a part, but I believe that talent played a much bigger role.

Richard’s talent was immediately obvious to me. Just as Mel’s talent is. I feel very proud and very humble to be in the presence of such modest, gifted people. The launch setting was equally perfect, one of my favourite museums, the Natural History museum is one of London’s most beautiful buildings, and with the 100th Anniversary of Scott’s Antarctic Expedition, Dead Men was perfectly placed.

Birdie Bowers is a woman with a dead man’s name. Her parents had been fascinated by Henry Birdie Bowers, one of Captain Scott’s companions on his ill-fated polar expedition. A hundred years after the death of Bowers and Scott, she sets out to discover what really happened to them… The discovery of Captain Scott’s body in the Antarctic in November 1912 started a global obsession with him as a man and an explorer. But one mystery remains why did he and his companions spend their last ten days in a tent only 11 miles from the safety of a depot that promised food and shelter? Dead Men tells the story of two paths. One is a tragic journey of exploration on the world’s coldest continent, the other charts a present-day relationship and the redemptive power of love.

If you read only one book this year, make it this one. If you love it, as I hope you will, tell your friends, I promise you will not be disappointed. Richard is a serious talent, with his finger on the pulse of the human condition. I am very proud to call him friend.

For a flavour of today’s launch, see Richard’s charming and funny self-introduction:

I began with the usual children’s books, Little Grey Rabbit, the Beatrix Potter collection, but it didn’t take long for me to branch out. I read voraciously. Even in class at school, I used to have a paperback concealed within the pages of my Physics text book (mind you, if I had known then what I know now, I would have paid more attention in Physics).

It was inevitable that I would do English Literature for one of my A Level subjects, however the unexpected side effect was that I fell in love with Chaucer.

I should at this point admit that the love of Chaucer probably had more to do with the bawdiness of some of his tales, than the high pure emotions of The Knight’s Tale.

But Chaucer has a very powerful place in the history of the printed book. Prior to Chaucer, books were for the elite few, mostly religious in nature and were hand written by monks, in the dark.

Chaucer was the first author to make his stories for the people.

Six centuries later, I decided to buy into that idea. That is exactly what I trying to do with my writing, make it accessible.

But it’s more than that. I loved Chaucer from the first moment I started to learn his work. An antique language, recognisably English, but varied, the pronunciation is melodic, it lends itself to verse. I began with The Wife of Bath’s Tale, her prologue is one of those bawdy stories I mentioned earlier, but her tale conjures up a wistful vision of a time of courtly knights and fairytale ladies. Not that it is not tinged with a gentle humour, particularly against the church. I was always something of a sucker for Arthurian Legend, and The Wife of Bath taps into that.

By the time I had expanded my reading, The Knight’s Tale, The Miller’s Tale, The Reeve’s Tale (very bawdy that one), you could say I was hooked.

Over the years I have read and re-read the stories. I can even quote you large tracts of some of them.

In tholde days of the King Arthour

Of which that Bretons speken greet honour

All was this land fulfild of Fayerye.

The elf queene, with hir joly compaignye,

Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede;

This was the olde opinion, as I rede.

I still love them as much today as I did when I first encountered them. But it is the language that really does it.

So I had the craziest idea the other day. I was watching Adele’s video for Rolling in the Deep, and I had Went The Day Well on the tv behind it. The two images combined in my brain. Suddenly I had a feel for a short film. The dialogue, in Middle English.

But Middle English hasn’t been a spoken, living language since roughly 1500, so how could this possibly work? There are guides to pronunciation, and once you get into it, it isn’t that hard. So it could work.

Watch this space.