A friend once commented to me, during a discussion of homes, square footage and rising construction costs, “I just admire and respect what people do with small spaces.”
That friend is definitely going to ratchet up her respect and admiration for me. Last week I finally came to terms with 940 square feet.
The Gant, a condominium complex in Aspen, where I own a tiny condo. Summer. (photo: condorentals.com)
The Gant, a condominium complex in Aspen. where I own a tiny condo. Winter (photo: orbitz.com)
Here’s the back story. For the past twelve months I have had to face the reality of my future lifestyle. Moving from our Colorado home of 20 years to the Las Vegas area in 2004 was definitely a good idea. I intended to oversee the recovery of my husband, Michael, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I needed and would have the support of my kids who lived nearby. Granted, at that time, reality was not yet my sidekick. Fast forward to 2012. While life in a warmer climate at a friendlier altitude has been kinder, it, of course, was not a cure-all for Michael. Yet the professional care he would eventually require and currently needs has been available and is excellent.
Anthem Country Club, Henderson, Nevada
Anthem Country Club, Henderson, Nevada
I have often written about the small gated-community where I live and the wonderful friends I have met. Anthem Country Club was a lucky discovery and I am grateful. For a woman who’s totally country, Las Vegas has been a hoot-and-holler love affair. Having never lived in a large city before, this has been one heck of an introduction to life-in-the-fast lane. There’s the rub. Living in Las Vegas is fast lane and I’m not. My life in Nevada has primarily revolved around an increasingly debilitating illness and one that now requires professional caregivers. This past year I’ve been forced by everyone to look forward. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have a plan. At my age, that’s scary.
A welcoming flower arrangement from The Gant Staff
According to Thomas Exter, writing in American Demographic, more and more, middle-aged adults are finding themselves living alone. The most dramatic growth in single-person households will occur among those aged 45 to 64. Boom! Boom! Single households are expected to increase by a whopping 42 percent, a number that is staggering and unprecedented.
Here’s what I began to realize. Baby Boomers, be damned. I am a single, sixties-something woman and, in a flash, will become a seventies-something woman. Las Vegas and I cannot live together forever. To navigate around this large, sprawling city of 3 million people, I average 2-3 hours every day in my car. Notorious for bad drivers, with insurance rates to take your breath away, getting behind the wheel in Vegas is a gamble. NIght driving? Forget it. I no longer want to be my car’s best friend and my unwillingness to drive in Vegas at night has always been lifestyle limiting.
My condo kitchen is small and compact – HELP!!!
There are more closets, but, not many. Probably need to cut the clothing budget.
In addition, may I remind you about Nevada summers? For the past seven years, I’ve tolerated summertime with good cheer and a “It’s not so bad”. I lie. One-hundred degrees and higher. For months and months. This is no lie: I have no more sweat to donate to the cause.
Finally, what last Winter’s hiatus on California’s Central Coast, as the guest of a good friend, highlighted, was the fun of companionship. Never eating a meal alone. The daily repartée. Sharing chores and responsibilities. Unfortunately, this only exacerbated the loneliness of the past few years.
My Colorado Backyard
My Colorado Sideyard
Author J. Kerby Anderson, in his book “Signs of Warning, Signs of Hope, Seven Coming Crisis That Will Change Your Life,” discusses the baby boom generation’s crisis of loneliness. The reasons are simple, he says, demographics and social isolation.“In previous centuries where extended families dominated the social landscape” he writes, “a sizable proportion of adults living alone was unthinkable. And even in this century, adults living alone have usually been found near the beginning (singles) and end (widows) of adult life. But these periods of living alone are now longer due to lifestyle choices on the front end and advances in modern medicine on the back end.”
My first night in Colorado – dinner with good friends.
Hosts Donna and Bernie Grauer, welcoming me home
These facts have kept my mind preoccupied and whirling the past year as I’ve explored my options. Moving to the same California community as my daughter and her family? Although I’d be welcome, my son-in-law turns pale, paler and palest, at the thought. And I agree. Last December, I thought I had put together a blueprint for moving forward that would make me happy, secure, and content. Unfortunately, a few weeks ago, that plan fell apart and I found myself back at “Go.” Then, on April 22, the headlines:
“It reached 99 degrees Sunday in Las Vegas, a record high for April, according to the National Weather Service.”
I needed a plan. Fast. That’s when Serendipity called in the form of our long-time Colorado tax accountant, Mark Kavasch. Usually these calls cost me money. This, however, was merely a ‘check-in, taxes were filed, let’s talk about the upcoming year’ call. Mark, ever the professional, discussed the future and then, uncharacteristically, finished his call with these words, “You know, Mary, Michael wouldn’t like this. He wouldn’t like it at all. You need to get back here [Colorado] to your friends and the mountains. You really do.”
My Colorado home may be tiny but the dining room table has plenty of room for family, loved ones and good friends.
Mark’s advice became my permission and my plan. Last Wednesday I made the ten-hour drive to Colorado, returning to a community that has changed dramatically in the past eight years. But so have I. My condominium is tiny but that makes it manageable. I can walk or bike everywhere, safely. Although the mountains seem steeper and the bears are still lurking, the trails are nearby, at my back door. My friends of the past 25 years saved me a place at their tables. Of course there’s sadness and memories that bring some tears. That’s natural and healthy, I’m told. But, at long last, life seems good again.
With apologies for paraphrasing someone wiser than I,“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.”
A Tart as Cake to Celebrate? She’s Nine. That’s Fine!!! Let’s Party.
This week’s French Friday’s with Dorie recipe coincided with my granddaughter’s ninth birthday. This tart originated with chocolatier Christian Constant who created it for world famous designer Sonia Rykiel, a founding member of Le Club des Croqueurs Chocolat. Now, there is nothing about Clara that doesn’t like chocolate. In addition, she’s a banana-a-day kid. What Christian did for Sonia, Grandma could do for Clara. Pourquoi pas?
Although my daughter (Clara’s mother) holds her tongue over sugar-overload at Grandmother’s house, I do, at times, exert glucose-restraint. I thought the “double” in chocolate might send Melissa over the top, so I used Dorie’s all-purpose tart dough (page 498) for the crust. “It produces,” Dorie says, “a not-too-rich, slightly crisp crust that is as happy holding pastry cream as it is encasing a creamy cheese filling for a quiche.”
Doppio zero flour from Italy’s oldest producer
What took One Him to load into the car took Two Her’s to unload from the car. Ahhhhh, Youth..
To make that crust, I used the “00” Italian flour our baking group (Michelle, Amalia, Adriana, Pina & me ) just purchased from Naples via Settebello’s in Henderson (Nevada). Now Settebello’s is a pizza place not a grocery store but we’d been eyeing those sacks of stacked flour for years. Adriana, our pseudo-business manager, volunteered to negotiate the sale for the doppio zero flour (which she did successfully).
Settebello’s is not your average joint. It’s already taped a Food Network segment to be shown in July and has another TV crew on the books. Settebello’s earned a 91% rating from Zagat and, according to roadfood.com, “the mozzarella is fresh; the flour, San Marzano tomatoes, Parmesan, and prosciutto come from Italy and the other cured meats are hand-crafted by Mario Batali’s dad’s artisan salumi shop in Seattle. The pizzas are cooked directly on the brick floor of the bell-shaped oven, next to a pile of burning wood.”
We wanted that flour.
A warm Nevada day so Adriana can divide the “white treasure” outside, under the pergola.
Probably not the best photo op but that’s some fine lookin’ flour. Honestly, it’s flour.
In their catalogue, King Arthur Flour, which also markets an Italian style-flour, writes, “American flour has a type A personality. It’s full of gluten, ready for action, go go GO! Italian 00 flour, on the other hand, mirrors the warm, laid-back climate of its native land. Its protein is not only lower, but much more mellow. Make pizza or flatbread with this flour; you’ve never worked with such friendly dough! It’s incredibly extensible, practically flowing under your hands as you pat it into shape. And the resulting bread or crust? Light as air, tender, snapping crisp or soft as a cloud… this flour is definitely personality type B.”
I found the dough to be easy to work, really, a pleasure (King Arthur has it right.). The crust baked beautifully, remained filling-firm and was delicious.
After making the crust, I caramelized the bananas. Dorie suggested 1/8-inch-thick-slices but I found them too thin for this process. Next time I make the tart, I will slice to 1/4” or 1/2” thickness.
My favorite tart dough from “Around My French Table”, chilling in the fridge.
Caramelizing the banana pieces which, when I make again, will be 1/4″ to 1/2″ slices rather than the suggested 1/8″.
While the caramelized bananas were cooling, I made the bittersweet ganache using Ghirardelli’s 60% Cacao Bittersweet Chocolate Chips. (This is probably not the time to go with Nestle’s.) I arranged the caramelized bananas in an even layer over the bottom of the crust and then carefully poured the ganache over them. Simple.
Just cooling off, waiting for the topping-off party.
During the hour required for refrigeration, I made an apricot jam glaze and cut 1/4” banana slices for the topping. Remember to toss all the cut bananas in a slight bit of lemon juice to prevent blackening. To finish off the tart, I placed the cut bananas in a spiral and then gently spread the light apricot glaze over the top. Since I wanted the tart to be firm and cooled, I popped it back into the fridge.
This tart is rich. Serve slender slices. Although it’s best to enjoy immediately, we found the tart to be delicious on Day 2 and Day 3.
In a word, sublime.
A delicious Single Chocolate & Banana Tart
Although we don’t provide this recipe, we’d love you to buy Dorie’s “Around My French Table,” you might try here. If you’re curious about the double chocolate creations of other FFWD cooks, go to http://www.frenchfridayswithdorie.com/.
For those of you unfamiliar with author Suzanne Collins’ widely popular fictional trilogy, they tell a story of a post-apocalyptic North America. In short, an oppressive government forces teenagers to battle one another to the death in a nationally broadcast ritual known as the Hunger Games (now a film playing at your local theatre). Katniss Everdeen, the protagonist and narrator, describes the arena (battlefield) environment for the Hunger Games as primarily scrub terrain, laden with boulders, scruffy bushes and hidden caves. She mentions that most tributes died from bites from venomous snakes, eating poisonous plants/berries or going insane from thirst.
Rhyolite, an historical townsite located in Nevada’s Silver Trails Territory
The Four-Seasons Hotel, perhaps, in Rhyolite, early-1900s
This past week-end I visited an area that could have been the film’s movie set. Desolate territory. Yes, rhyolite is a mineral. Rhyolite is also a ghost haunt hidden in Nevada’s Amargosa Desert. Having just finished reading these books, visiting Rhyolite was a snapshot into North America gone awry. An eerie Dora-the-Explorer Moment, perhaps, but one worth taking.
The Last Supper by Belgium artist Albert Szukalski, 1984
I’d been in Bishop, California, observing a young lady’s ninth birthday as well as Mother’s Day. The lack of spring snow cover combined with sunny temps permitted celebratory hikes and picnics in the Sierra Nevada Mountains with the ever present family festivities and gifts. Driving home on Sunday, having wound my way through Death Valley, I decided to detour to Rhyolite. Although I was aware of this little-known community, Rhyolite’s Goldwell Open Air Museum has just been selected as a Nevada “Natural Treasure.” Say, what???
Ghost Rider by Albert Szukalski
Lady Desert: The Venus of Nevada by Hugo Heyrman
Rhyolite is located about 120 miles northwest of Las Vegas near the eastern edge of Death Valley. The town sprang to life in early 1905 as one of several mining camps hobbled together after precious ore was discovered in the region. According to government statistics, by 1907 the camp had “electric lights, water mains, telephones, newspapers, a hospital, a school, an opera house, and a stock exchange.” Add to that,“fifty saloons, thirty-five gambling tables, cribs for prostitution, nineteen lodging houses, sixteen restaurants, six barber shops, a public bath, weekly newspaper and stage coach transportation.” At its peak the town’s population varied between 3,500 and 5,000.
Sit Here! by Sofie Siegmann, 2000
Tribute to Prospector Shorty Harris by Fred Bervoets
Easy come. Easy go. The Montgomery Shoshone Mine, the region’s largest producer, closed in 1911. The population took a nosedive, falling below 1,000. By 1920, almost zero. That’s when the town turned into a genuine ghost town, little noticed tourist attraction, and occasional motion picture set. It was a group of well-respected Belgian artists led by Albert Szukaslski who invigorated this beleaguered area. In 1984, the artists began creating large scale, on-site sculptures which still exist today. That the “on-site” was the Mojave desert, making that vast and challenging wasteland integral to their work, is what makes this outdoor museum both spectacular and profound.
Icara by Dre Peters
Saloon Owner Tom Kelly’s Bottle House, made of beer and liquor bottles he collected from local saloons
Rhyolite may not be a destination of choice for the American tourist but artists from all over the world know of and visit this place. The Red Barn Art Center, located nearby, offers artist residency and workspace programs.
Rhyolite, early 1900s
Business as Usual, Downtown Rhyolite, early 1900s
Ghost town. Open air sculpture museum. Artist colony.
“STOP! DON’T TAKE ANOTHER BITE.” ( I guess the bread was soooo tempting “we” could not even wait for Mary’s photo op. Yeah, they look contrite!
Let’s see if I have this straight. In Italy, it’s focaccia. In France, fougasse. The names of both breads are derived from focus, theLatin word for “fireplace”. These flatbreads were originally cooked on a hot hearthstone or in ashes rather than an oven. Not often seen in a Parisian boulangerie, fougasse is “rooted in Provence,” as Dorie explains, “where olive oil trumps butter and rusticity reigns over prim, precise, and formal.”
The finished product. Think of this as a leaf from the Tree of Life.
In a word, fougasse may not be très chic or Parisian-sophistiqué but it sure is délicieux. Now, leave it to the French to get fancy. Fougasse is often cut in a leaf shape to suggest the Tree of Life. To make the traditional pattern, you slash 2-inch slits in the dough and then nudge and tug the slits open. Honestly, that “technique” caused me the most stress. To check that the holes remained holes, I opened the oven five times to monitor the nine openings and managed to burn my right thumb twice!
Fougasse is a yeast-raised bread seasoned with olive oil, fresh rosemary and studded with oil-cured black olives. There is nothing difficult about mixing the dough and shaping it into flatbread ( the recipe makes two). I did let the dough rise for two hours before stirring it down to chill overnight and shaping and baking it.
The dough, after rising two hours, before stirring it down to chill in the fridge.
After deflating the dough,I placed it safely in the fridge for an overnight slumber . Note the soldiers on guard.
Dorie gives explicit and excellent directions as to shaping fougasse. It’s amazing how nicely a 12” X 9 “ rectangle can be transformed into a leaf. Here, a slash. There, a slash. Everywhere a slash, slash. Viola. Done. It is important, however, for tasty results that the bread be at least one-inch thick.
Please note that fougasse will not bake too dark. Its brown will be a golden hue. The salt on top? I used Diamond Crystal Kosher Salt, author Michael Ruhlman’s salt-of-choice.
The rectangle prior to surgery.
Slash, Pull, Tug, Pray.
The definition of chutzpah may be sharing your first attempt at fougasse with my five-star neighbors, Ray Dillion and Dominick Prudenti, former East Coast delicatessen owners. As well as, Sicilian-born-and-bred, Adriana Scrima and her family. Relying on Dorie’s every word and explicit directions, I baked pretty darn good fougasse. Pat Mary on the back. Although my neighbors all lean Italian focaccia, my French fougasse earned some respect.
Oven-ready.
I would suggest the fougasse ultimate Provençal eating experience is with savory bites and a glass of Sancerre while dreaming of the Côte d’Azur. That’s, of course, reality. Far better is to just BE there.
Although we cook from the book and urge you to purchase Dorie’s “Around My French Table”, go here for this recipe. To see how my baking buddies did this week, go here.
Demolished before the pasta dinner. No contrition. Note the basalmic – a good companion.
Sometimes when you shout, “Enough,” no one hears you. I turned the other cheek, two, maybe, three times, counted to ten, took deep breaths and meditated, all before last Friday evening. That’s when it happened.
Repeat after Me: Computers do NOT like liquids of any kind.
After finishing some work on my laptop computer, I grabbed my coffee cup to carry it to the kitchen. You know the end of this story, don’t you? The cup wobbled in my grasp, tilted and cold coffee spilled on my laptop. I grabbed some paper towels, wiped it dry (I thought) and then turned it upside down, shaking the hell out of it. I did not turn it off. My laptop immediately started behaving erratically and, after finally shutting it down, would not restart.
“Uh-oh.” (That’s not what I really said.)
The next morning (No, I did not sleep well.) I was at the Genius Bar at my local Apple Store. I explained my dilemma to three of the employees as I worked my way to the “right” fix-it specialist. The conversations went like this:
Me: “My computer doesn’t work and I need someone to look at it.”
Employee: “No problem. We’ll have someone take a look and get that fixed for you.”
Me: “I spilled coffee on it.”
Employee: Pain. Grimace. Frown. “Oh, that’s not good.”
Three times. Same conversation. I became more alarmed.
By noon I was sitting on a stool at the Genius Bar counter facing Jay, my specialist. There were seven other customers, all on stools with computer problems of their own, working with their specialists. Jay looked kind. I explained the problem.
“My first two words to you,” he said, “Sippy Cup.”
Everyone at the Genius Bar laughed. It’s an intimate area, conversations are not private, and everyone is curious to know your computer dilemma.
“I’m going to take it in the back and have a look,” he told me, “but I think it’s toast.”
In ten minutes he was back. “Yes, I was right. Look at this.”
Jay pointed to pictures on his iPhone which showed my laptop’s innards with puddles of coffee and moisture still present. “It must have been good coffee,” he joked. “Your computer smells good.”
Ha. Ha.
How his iPhone x-rayed my laptop, I will never know, but his evidence was damaging to my case. The good news, my hard drive was salvageable.
“You have two options,” he continued. “Fix this laptop. The cost for that is $1275 or buy a new laptop.”
It got very quiet at the Genius Bar as everyone waited for my decision. I had already turned a pale white. Would I go ballistic? Would I cry? What was going to happen?Ballistic’s not my style. Although I am a crier, this was not a crying opportunity. I raised my hands and said, very sarcastically, “Well, since money’s no object…..” and did a face plant on the counter.”
Jay laughed, “She’s going to buy a new computer.”
Now these antics of mine always embarrass my kids, and I feel their pain. On the contrary, at the Genius Bar, everyone breathed a sign of relief, was amused, and got back to their rather minor, compared to mine, problems.
Jay handed me off to David to sell me a computer? Since my coffee-stained MacBook Pro was only 2 1/2 years old, the question was whether to just buy another MacBook Pro or go with the newer MacBook Air. I always lean towards newer, bigger, better, but I had loved my MacBook Pro.
What to do? It became a group decision. On Saturday, there were more than 35 employees on the floor, many whom had given me computer lessons. Troy, Jon, Alphonso, Mariano, and Jay huddled, ask questions and weighed in with advice. The overwhelming consensus? MacBook Air.
Fast forward to Sunday afternoon. I am sitting in my office writing this Post on my new 13” MacBook Air. The turnaround time from caputz computer to replacement, albeit expensive, was less than 24-hours. I’ve already re-worked my May/June budget, dipped into my stormy day pot, and filed this under Lessons Learned.
As I was leaving the Apple store, needing just one more shot to my stupidity, Jay cautioned, “Mary, I want you to understand that your new computer is not going to smell as aromatic as your old one.”
Free Advice: If you spill liquid on your computer, immediately turn it off. Just as immediately, wipe it off. Then turn it over. Probably, shaking violently is not a good idea but try to get all the liquid to drip out. Once this is done, blast it with a computer air duster. DO NOT use a hair dryer. Then, pray.
More Free Advice: If you drop your cell phone in water (like, for instance, the toilet), immediately turn it off. Take the battery out. Plunge the phone into rice. Keep it immerged in the rice for two or three days. Then, Pray.
