Finding Blanche

Nothing stays the same.

Do you remember your first?

I love creamsicles.

And not because I think they are so scrumptious. No.

I love them because of the memories they evoke.

When I was little – from age 5 to 7 – I went to day camp at Camp Milldale.

Aside from the big hills and the extreme heat, my strongest memory is of Friday afternoon snack.

And my friend Risa. Risa is second from left. Kim is farthest left. Her mother taught swimming. To the right I’m not sure, but think it’s Donna? Farthest right, I can’t conjure up a name. It’s been a while :) I think that was Summer ’67.

But back to the afternoon snacks. A major highlight at Camp Milldale. On Fridays, we had the choice of a Fudgesicle or a Creamsicle. On a hot day, doesn’t that sound great? And they’re not sticky like the twin pops we had on other days. Remember those? You’d put it on the edge of the table and break it into two popsicles. By the time you’d get to the second half, it was a drippy, sticky mess! I hated that!

But I loved Creamsicle/Fudgesicle day. Love. Love. Love.

My mom never bought Creamsicles and the first time I ever had one was right there at camp. It was so cool and orange and creamy and… seriously special.

Sure, I’d had Fudgesicles before. But I admit I chose one on some Fridays. And I still choose them sometimes. I especially like these.

This year, Davis is going to be a C.I.T. (counselor in training) at Milldale. Driving onto camp grounds was so odd. Last time I was here, I didn’t drive anything but a 2-wheeler with training wheels.

It looked very much the same. Perfectly cared for, but still rustic. It seemed a little smaller, but the hill still seemed huge to me.

I tracked down the director (who is quite a bit younger than me, I must add) and asked her if they still serve Creamsicles and Fudgesicles on Fridays.

No.

And she had no knowledge that they ever had.

Imagine that something so important to me is all but forgotten. Well, totally forgotten, I’d say, except I bet someone remembers. If you remember, please comment!

Oh, and one more thing. National Creamsicle Day is celebrated on August 14. I can hardly wait.

Spicy!

This is an adaptation of several recipes I found online. It was fantastic!

Spice Cake Recipe

Ingredients:

  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 1/3 cups sugar
  • 1 tablespoon plus 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
  • 1/2 teaspoon ginger
  • 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
  • 1/3 cup shortening
  • 1 cup milk
  • 1 teaspoon vanilla
  • 2 large eggs

Preparation:

Sift together flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg, ginger and cloves. Add shortening, milk, and vanilla; beat on slow  speed of electric mixer for 2 minutes. Scrape sides and bottom of mixing bowl several times. Beat in eggs and continue to beat for 2 minutes more. Spoon batter into 2 generously greased and floured 8″inch round cake pans. Bake at 350° for 28-30 minutes. Cool and frost with caramel icing (below).

Caramel Icing

    3 cups brown sugar, packed
    1/2 cup milk
    4 tablespoons butter
    1 teaspoon vanilla

In a saucepan, combine brown sugar, milk, and butter. Stirring constantly; bring to a boil and boil for 3 minutes or longer until it ‘sticks’ to the spoon. Remove from heat and add vanilla. Let cool to lukewarm. Beat until creamy and thick enough to spread.

I used to wish.

I used to wish I had more time with my husband and kids. Now, I’m just making more time.

I used to wish I could just finish this one thing before shutting down for the day. Now, I (sometimes) just shut down and make notes for the morning. (Very early morning, to be honest, but still, worth it.)

I used to wish I had time to make my kid a cake instead of buying one. Today, I did.

I used to wish.

Now, I do.

Note: Clearly this is more poetic than 100% true. I’m trying, I swear! It’s a process. If you ask my kids if I’m more ‘present’ lately, they’ll say yes. Well, at least I hope they will.

It’s a forgery!

Are you familiar with the artist, Maurice Utrillo? I wasn’t but read with great interest about him. He was French, with an artist father but there are debates as to which painter might be his father. From the New York Times article quoting the collector, Ruth Bakwin about Utrillo’s paternity:

“After Maurice was born to Suzanne Valadon, she went to Renoir, for whom she had modeled nine months previously. Renoir looked at the baby and said, ‘He can’t be mine, the color is terrible!’ Next she went to Degas, for whom she had also modeled. He said, ‘He can’t be mine, the form is terrible!’ At a cafe, Valadon saw an artist she knew named Miguel Utrillo, to whom she spilled her woes. The man told her to call the baby Utrillo: ‘I would be glad to put my name to the work of either Renoir or Degas!’”

But I digress.

I recently moved into a new home. What that means is that I over the past couple weeks and months, I’ve seen

every

single

thing

that I own. I can’t help it. I read every letter, looked at every photo.

It’s just who I am.

When Andrew and I combined households 18+ years ago, we both brought a lot of art and decor. If I was forced to guess, I’d say we each liked about 2.7% of what the other brought in.

We hung up what we both liked. We bought a couple things together. But mostly, we have kept a lot of it in the basement.

Forced to see it all again, we decided to re-evaluate. Turns out, we had (from Andrew’s pile, I admit) a lovely, small painting by William Tolliver which has grown on me and which, incidentally, has increased in value nicely since Andrew bought it in the early 1980′s. We’d never had it hanging in our home before. Now we do.

In fact, I gave it quite the honor spot.

What makes me smile is that that larger frame was in the garage rafters when we bought the house. It was filthy and gross, but sure cleaned up pretty!

So back to Utrillo.

So there’s this painting. It’s the one at the top of this post. It’s signed: “W. Sheck After Maurice, Utrillo V. 1931″ and on the back, hidden a bit by the materials that hold the frame together, it says ” To Arthur and Betsy . Happy New Year 9-20-52, Bill & Gert Sheck.”

So here’s why I love this.

  • Arthur and Betsy were my grandparents. I never met Arthur, but I was crazy about Betsy. She died in 1985. I miss her.
  • So really? People copied paintings and overtly gave credit in the signature that they copied it? Does that seem as odd to you as it does to me?
  • The Shecks gave my grandparents a Rosh Hashanah gift of a painting? How lovely!
  • This is 58 years old. Wow.
  • I imagine The Shecks are no longer with us. But a I wonder if someone who knows me might know who they were? This had to be Baltimore.

So I hung the Sheck painting of the Utrillo painting in my office. I really like it. I know my grandmother liked it too, because seriously, she would not have kept it if she didn’t. You’d have had to know her. I am speaking the truth.

Moms and boxes.

I’m writing down my mother’s day resolutions.

Wait, you don’t do that? I’ve decided that January 1 is just too damn early in the year to know what is reasonable to promise. And by the end of June, the year is halfway over so it seems a little lame. So May. May works.

While I try not to be overly ambitious, I do want to challenge myself a little.

So here goes:

Finish unpacking. 3 boxes plus some personal organization left. Not bad.
Make more time for hiking, playing, goofing off with the kids.
Ride my bike.
Keep up with the laundry. (Okay, this is ridiculous, but a girl can dream.)
Play with my iPhone less.
Learn something new. Maybe Norwegian? Still thinking. Suggestions?

And of course, there are other things that now that I’m writing it all down I realize that some of it is just not for public consumption.

But I’m going to do my best.

At least until Father’s Day.

Does size matter?

Our week in Italy has been a lot of things.

Enlightening.

Tasty.

Rewarding.

Educational.

Fun.

I’m having trouble uploading pix from here, so I’ll share them when I get back. But meantime, there is one thing I feel I can’t ignore.

Size.

Everything here is smaller.

What does that say about us Americans?

I’ll try not to put too much judgement into this, but it’s hard to ignore.

In our apartment in Florence and now in Rome, everything is compact.

The refrigerators are small.

The drinking glasses – the largest ones are the size of our juice glasses at home. The smallest ones are the size of shot glasses.

You can’t get a ‘large’ coffee anywhere. Trust me, I tried. True, the espresso was divine, but I really crave a grande.

The cars are little – smart cars, Fiats…. and lots of motorcycles and scooters. We saw only one Hummer, 2 minivans, and 1 Jeep. Everything else was small.

The buses are little. And electric.

Portions are smaller. (Good thing, too. Trust me, I had plenty to eat!)

The Coke cans are smaller.

The people are smaller. Well, thinner, anyway.

The washing machine here at the Rome apartment is tiny. VERY cute, too. It’s a Candy.

We found kitchen cabinet hardware that we love, love, love while we were here. When the salesperson asked how many we needed, she almost fell over when I told her how many cabinets we will have.

What does this say about American lifestyles?

As we get ready to move into our new home – our larger home – I have to ask myself these things. I think I have fairly straight priorities.

But, I can’t ignore the question.

Does size matter?

Thought for the day.

It’s a good thing Andrew’s such a good cook. I really don’t have it in me.

I did, however, make some butt-kicking desserts for seder tomorrow night.

Baking, I can do. Maybe it’s just because it’s more structured. More mathematical.

And maybe it’s just because I love bread and sweets so much.

Just sayin’

Play me some country music.

Say hi to Troy.

Born the oldest of 5 outrageous brothers, and 1 great sister, Troy started admiring music at an early age. People would come over to his house and play guitar and sing, and they were having fun, fully living life and experiencing the moment through music. It’s been his motto his whole life … fun, fun, fun. Troy followed acts from Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention to Willie Nelson and Family, as he worked as a full time sound man in Baltimore under the watchful eye of ‘Billy Kemp and his band’ until the early 80’s. Then Troy headed west at 23 & ended up working for a tour catering company. The first band Troy officially worked directly for was ‘Willie, Waylon and Jessi Colter’ starting on Willie’s birthday April 30, 1984.

So he was a cook for Willie. Plays music with some pretty amazing guys including Billy Kemp and a bunch of guys from Willie Nelson’s band. You can buy Troy’s new CD here. (hint, hint.)

Okay…that is the end of this commercial message. I was not paid nor enticed to post this, by the way. I just like the guy. And the fact that he’s the project manager on our construction/renovation is not – I repeat – not why I’m hawking his CD. He’s already the most attentive, detail-oriented guy. I’m trying not to drive him crazy. At the very least, I’m trying not to become the subject of a song. In a bad way, that is.

I’m counting the minutes.

I have so much to look forward to. (Okay,I guess I should have written, “I have so much to which to look forward,” but that doesn’t that make me sound like a pretentious jerk? My dad always said, “Never use a preposition to end a sentence with,” and (giggle, giggle) it stuck.)

But I digress.

My life is a bowl of cherries.

Really stressed out, mashed, cherries but cherries, just the same.

Work is exciting.

The house we’re preparing to live in is coming along beautifully.

The house we currently live in has a 3rd showing tomorrow.

It’s times like this that being an optimist feels justified.

I just wish it’d all come together quicker. Because being an impatient optimist is a challenge.

Seeing NY through an iPhone

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