It’s true that Old Glory is a bit tattered and faded. Granted, Uncle Sam’s lost his Edge. Those worry lines, permanently etched over his brows. And, isn’t Lady Liberty getting a little fleshy? Like me, she should never go sleeveless. That American dream – “a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage”? Good Luck with That!
But, here’s the Question.
“For what other country would you forfeit your American citizenship?”
On our upcoming 235th Birthday, lift up Yourself by lifting up America.
Fueled by the social media and popularized by Food Network’s The Great Food Truck Race, these roving eateries are motoring marvels.
Trendy? You bet.
Delicious? Count on it.
Cheap? Absolutely.
Mixing it Up with the Masses? What could be Better?
Last night, at my local wine & spirits hang-out, I got a beer and then ordered chicken tacos (recommended by a Truckee-Groupie) from Sloppi Jo’s, parked, for the evening, nearby. Tonight, same location, it will be Haulin Ball’s (Don’t Ask).
Mount Elden, Flagstaff, Arizona, Photo by Steven Cross
Seven-time Tour de France cycling champion Lance Armstrong and I have three things in common:
We both own dwellings in Aspen, Colorado. We are not neighbors and his house is far bigger than my condo. But, hey, who’s counting square footage?
Our favorite Aspen restaurant is Cache Cache. I had dinner there, with friends, two nights prior to Armstrong’s Saturday night, June 11, visit. My dinner was delicious, conversation delightful, and, evening quite peaceful. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a dust-up on Saturday night when Armstrong found himself dining in the same restaurant as former teammate Tyler Hamilton. You might recall that Hamilton had recently appeared on CBS‘ Sixty Minutes and accused Armstrong of using banned performance-enhancing substances during cycling competitions. Ouch. Cache Cache is small, no major potted plants to hide behind, and Lance was probably still a bit miffed. There were words.
Lance Armstrong and I are arguably the only two people on this planet who still believe he “didn’t dope”! I’m a leap-of-faith woman and I still trust the guy. Everyone who knows this also has a few things to say to me about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Little credit, please.
Tour de France Champion, 1999-2005, Lance Armstrong
Americans need to have heroes, both real and fictional, in our lives, and Armstrong has been one of mine. He won the Tour de France, a three-week cycling event typically covering 2,000 miles, seven times. Toss some serious health issues with the pressures of international competition into the mix and, in my book, he’s in “What–a-Guy” territory.
I just finished a fascinating book by University of Richmond professors Scott Allison and George Goethals, entitled “Heroes: What They Do and Why We Need Them”. The conversation in this book not only focuses on the heroes themselves but, more importantly, on those of us who need to have them. Generally, that’s Everyone. The truth is, it’s more important to me that Armstrong wear a White Hat than a Yellow Jersey. At my age, I’m afraid my Fallen Idols List is overwhelming my Heroes one.
According to the authors, the “Great Eight Traits of Heroes” are:
1.Intelligence
2.Strength
3. Selflessness
4. Caring
5. Resilience
6. Charismatic
7.Reliability
8.Inspiration
Honestly, Readers, who could possibly measure up? Lassie? The Lone Ranger and Tonto? Secretariat? No one human, for sure.
Based on my opinion and absolutely no science, I see this hero-business as very American. And, I am growing wary of it. Sometimes, it almost smells sinister as we hold these Heroes to impossibly-elevated standards only to gleam some satisfaction when they fail or fall. Whether a hero through activism, celebrity, politics, spiritualism, business, sports, the arts or war, there is a line every hero may not cross over. What’s so difficult about realizing that if you cheat, lie, dope, fake it, misappropriate, rig, steal, double-deal, deceive, pretend, or plagiarize, you are going to eventually, without a doubt, no question about it, get caught.
We may never be willing to expect less of our would-be heroes. After all, they are still enjoying the largesse, notoriety, rewards, and bounty of their lifestyles and talents. But, perhaps it’s time to expect less of ourselves, release the impossible, covet less, grow contentment, and savor the moment.
For the past two years I’ve adopted the “Good E’Nuf Doctrine”, giving my Type A/Peddle-to-Perfection behavioral pattern a much-needed furlough.
This all began on a gorgeous Arizona day when I planned to hike up Mount Elden, a 2395’ climb in elevation to its peak, 9299′ above sea level. Armed with food, water, sunscreen, good weather, and time, I was a happy woman. Until, I wasn’t. A few hours into the hike, having reached the tree line, I could go no farther. I was done. By the time I hiked down to the car, I’d morphed into a funk, carrying all the accompanying emotions of, what I perceived, a failure.
Some days later, a colleague who had witnessed the scene and its aftermath, said, as an afterthought and very calmly, “You know, Mary, sometimes things are “Good E’nuf”. And, that’s okay. You didn’t reach your goal. You didn’t accomplish your task. You didn’t get all you wanted out of it. But, it was “Good E’nuf.”
“Good E’nuf’s” have never been part of my vocabulary!
He’s right, however. Although there are some Peaks I’ll never ascend to again, wherever I can hike will be “Good E’Nuf”.
Americans have often found it difficult to be satisfied, always wanting more, bigger and better. But “less” is what lies ahead and the reality is that “Good E’Nuf’s” may become the norm. I have a plaque that says, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; But remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”
It took some time for me to realize the power of those words.
As for Armstrong, there may be some road hazards ahead. In fact, this week-end singer Sheryl Crowe, Lance’s former girlfriend who dumped him when he wandered elsewhere, will be in Aspen to perform at the Jazz Festival. Perhaps Lance should play it safe, remain at home, and order a Brunelleschi’s Dome Pizza, (970-544-4644). It’s not a gourmet meal but it will be “Good E’Nuf”.
Sometimes, when traveling, you meet people who are memorable, who you want to hold close always. Such was the case, in April 2007, when I met Vivianne and David Bissix.
I was in France, for a month, to study at that country’s best immersion language school, the Institut de Français. Located in the South of France, each month, 80 “victims” from around the world, gather to toil 8-hours a day on a language that has 17 different verb tenses. Sweat and tears are daily occurrences.(http://www.institutdefrancais.com/)
Viv and David, an accountant, had just retired and moved from England, their home country, to France, their new one. He was living his dream. His wife was at the Institut to learn the language! Vivianne and I bonded “in our fright.”
During the past four years those of us in the Intermédiaire 2, 3, and 4, class levels have stayed in touch. In April 2009, we gathered together for a week-end in Paris. Two months ago, my colleagues, sans moi, again congregated in Paris. It’s my understanding that Vivianne, now jabbering fluently in French, had happily bought into her husband’s dream also.
After returning to Cahors from the recent Paris party, Vivianne developed some stomach pains that resulted in two operations, followed by a slow, continuing recuperation.
Please know, Vivianne, that your many friends, scattered across the globe, are sending you good wishes (in French, of course), positive energy, and love in every language. If you can conquer French, mon amie, you can conquer this!
Pick up this book. Snap to it. Trust me here. Written by Pulitzer Prize winner Gail Caldwell, this short (188 pages) memoir about a friendship between two women, is read-a-licious.
My friend, Ardyth, absorbed it in one sitting as an E-book. My paperback copy is dog-eared and tattered with a rippled-page affect that suggests “moisture”. On the inside cover is handwritten its own friendship journey:
This Book orginated in New York with Terry.
Then, Jane of Aspen, who read it at the Pool (thus the wrinkled pages).
On to Gretchen and Mary R. and Linda in Aspen.
Now, in my hands, in Nevada.
I hope to pass it on to my neighbor, Michelle.
The beauty of this book is that we all read it so quickly, it can travel rapidly!
(My first Guest Blogger, Michelle Morgando, is a lawyer, judge, and professionally-trained Chef, who lives in Henderson, Nevada. She has just returned from a one-week travel and food writing trip to Italy and has agreed to share her fabulous story with us.)
A recipe should be simple, right? No guesswork, just follow the instructions. Of course you can improvise but when you do, be prepared for a result you may not expect. I dreamed of a trip to Italy, Tuscany in particular, for many years. The views, food, wine and culture fascinate me. I planned a trip to Tuscany for a travel writing course and two months later, my travel “recipe” that seemed so exciting at the time, felt meaningless. I lost my Mother, after several years of health issues, at a time and in a manner that was unexpected. Do I go, do I stay? If I go, will I live the experience as I once hoped? I decide to go. thewritersworkshop.net
My mother and I had a particulary strong bond where food was involved. We may disagree on politics or my choice in a spouse, but food connected us without conflict (except when I did not do things her way). She encouraged me to explore my fascination with food and my decision to attend culinary school at the age of 42. After she died, I wondered if I would enjoy cooking again. Perhaps my trip to Italy might hold some answers.
I arrive in Montalcino, Italy on a Sunday and have some time before I meet the instructor and fellow students. I do something I have always wanted to do. I take a walk through town to look, listen and imagine what it would be like to live in such a place. I feel unsettled. Is it jet lag or the sudden realization that I can’t call my mother and tell her all the sights and sounds of Montalcino? I keep telling myself to snap out of this mood. I wish there was someone who would reassure me that I was going to be fine.
The next several days are filled with writing classes on the beautiful patio of the hotel, lunches, dinners, wine tastings and exploring. The food is both exceptional and simple. Baked Pecorino cheese drizzled with local honey, earthy and pungent tagliarini with porcini mushrooms and black truffles, and the enormous and truly satisfying Bistecca alla Fiorentina, a regional t-bone steak finished with coarse salt. The people of Montalcino are gracious and interesting. I visited a wine shop during my first day and attempted to speak to the owner in my limited Italian. He spoke very little English but said “speak slowly.” After 15 minutes and and education about Brunello, I left with a great bottle of wine and a few new Italian phrases. My fellow students are diverse, talented and adventurous. Some are professional writers, many are not, but we were all in Tuscany to learn and enjoy the the experience. I still wonder, when will I feel that pure, unmitigated joy that I am in a place I have always wanted to be?
On our third day, we take a day trip to Pienza. One of our stops is the Palazzo Picollomini, commissioned by Pope Pius II as a residence for his papal court. It is breathtaking but I am drawn to the Cathedral Cattedrale dell’Assunta next to the papal residence. I think about my first trip to Europe with my mother and remember how we visited so many churches in London. I enter the church with Jenny, a fellow student, who lost her mother some months before me. We wander the cathedral, admiring its beauty and Jenny stops to light two devotional candles, one for her mother, and one for herself, her husband and son to help them with their grief. I was struck by the reverence with which she placed the candles and without any conscious thought, found myself reaching for a candle. Jenny had left a space between her two candles for reasons we can’t explain. I light my candle and pray for my mother and for my family as I place it between Jenny’s candles. Another student, Heather, follows me and lights a candle for the son she lost. I then realize that this is the moment , this is the reason why I decided to take this trip. In this cathedral in Italy, where for centuries so many have grieved or joyfully worshiped, I realize that I am not alone in sadness. At that moment, I know that I will always love my mother and that she will always love me, but I would need to learn to experience happiness again.
Michelle, Jenny and Heather
As Jenny, Heather and I leave the church, we are crying but realize through the loss we share we have found each other. As we stood outside the church, I tried to memorize the way the sunlight reflected off the centuries-old stonework and the sound of the church bells as they rang at noon. The picture I have of the three of us on the cathedral steps will always remind me that grief and joy are universal emotions.
As I continue with my trip, I begin to appreciate all that Tuscany offers. Dinner with new friends, a truly exceptional glass of Brunello, eating gelato as I walk through Montalcino, a rainstorm in the middle of the night. One of our last events is a cooking class with a resident who travels the world, but seems to be happiest in Montalcino. I then realize that I am excited to cook for the sheer pleasure of cooking, and to be cooking in Tuscany.
We make our way one evening to the home of Teresa Galli, former resident of Rome and world traveler. She welcomes us into her home and kitchen and begins our cooking class. We are all assigned tasks for our dinner. I am given the job of making one of the doughs for our pasta. As I am forming the dough, I listen to Teresa and my classmates talk, laugh and yell at each other and I feel something light up in me. This is healing, joyful and at times, truly hilarious. Permanently stamped in my memory is the assembly line of my friends trying to feed strips of fresh pasta through the pasta machine as the handle of the machine keeps falling on the floor. This is what I want my life to be about, this feeling is what makes the difficult times bearable. We sit down to dinner and I sit with Teresa and listen to stories of, as she describes, her first six lives and what she plans to do with her seventh. Her description of her early years in Rome, her bicoastal existence between Rome and New York and her travels to all the amazing countries I have never visited feed my soul as much as the food that we made that evening. We walk back to the hotel in the rain with full stomachs and hearts and an evening full of memories.
As we were leaving Teresa’s, she kissed my cheeks, took both of my hands in hers and said “Cara, you must cook for yourself every day, this will make you happy.”
I have my recipe for happiness. I will cook for myself and the people I love, and I will go back to Italy. I will cook with the memory of my mother as the best part of the recipe.
Michelle’s Welcome Home to the USA Party (note the “Aspen” caps as party favors)
