The Ridiculousness Of It All

 Thursday morning and it’s cold. I was cold in the nighttime, adding blanket upon blanket in order to make it through. When I got up it was 68 degrees in my condo and I debated, momentarily, before I thought, what the hell, and turned on the heat. Just to take the chill off, I decided.

When I had showered, dressed and had breakfast, I knew it was time to face re-installing the duvet on my bed. I say installing because the duvet itself has been cleaned and spent the summer folded and zipped into a plastic case and the pale blue, flowered duvet cover, also cleaned, has spent the summer draped over a hanger in my coat closet. Fine. So what’s the problem? They are both there and ready to go.

It’s me. Armed with some “green” window cleaner, I’ll drag out the small stepladder and step right up to clean the chandelier hanging in the foyer. I’ll take books off shelves, dust and line them up, even clean out my desk with more enthusiasm and confidence than I can re install that darned duvet each fall. It’s queen sized. Shouldn’t be a problem, but it is. If there is a secret to this household task—and there must be—I don’t know it.

I decide to time myself.

 And my first attempt at stuffing the sparkling white duvet into the linen coverlet fails utterly. I simply do not have the sides lined up correctly. Perhaps if I turn the duvet around? I try again. I have already spent seven minutes just trying to figure out which is the length and which is the width of both pieces involved. They seem so much the same.

I try stuffing the duvet in a second time only to discover that somehow the duvet cover has become twisted, obliterating any hope of success on this round.

Finally I lay the duvet cover on the bed, nice and smooth, the end with the closure buttons hanging over the foot of the bed. Next I lay the duvet over it.

I stand back and stare at the layers on the bed thinking, now what? You can do this, Cecily. Anyone can do this. You just have to breathe and think about it.

I grab the duvet and, gripping the top edge I throw the rest of its pristine whiteness onto the floor. I then proceed to stuff the “lead” end of the duvet into the coverlet, pushing it and dragging it through, shaking the cover as I go.

Enough. I get the whole thing jammed in there in great lumps and then, grabbing both corner ends of the cover at the foot of the bed, I shake it as high and as hard as I can, over and over, trying to get the duvet to fill out its linen envelope. And by now I am laughing. Laughing and shaking that darned thing up and down.  Gradually the duvet begins to inhabit most of the cover.

 Somehow I fail to match up the closing buttons with the correct holes and I end up at the corner with more holes than buttons. So I need to begin again. On the second try, I do better. The duvet, if still somewhat askew, is finally secured within the cover.

The entire process has taken about twenty minutes.

No need to say this, I’m certain, but I must. This is not a world peace issue. This is just me bumbling through a silly household chore much in the way I bumble through so many things in my life: part determination, part, a pretty steady sense of the ridiculousness of it all. My own, especially.

Sent By A Friend Too funny!

***

We mourn the deaths of the ten students in Oregon. Many of us wring our hands in despair. President Obama is angry and so are we. What is it with America that we cannot legislate gun control? These horrific mass shootings are our national shame.

One Wildly Successful Friend

I have one wildly successful friend. I was living in Bridgehampton when we met. She owned a gourmet food store in East Hampton called Barefoot Contessa and Ina Garten, in her hands-on style, worked hard at that store. No food was produced that didn’t pass the fresh, delicious, presentation-perfect, Ina Garten test. She still works hard. Being a celebrity hasn’t changed that one iota.

When my youngest son was getting married and wanted the wedding to be in the Hamptons, Ina and Jeffrey generously offered their garden as the wedding venue. It was exquisite: the pear trees were in bloom, and long, rectangular beds of blossoming white and purple flowers formed the aisle for the wedding party. No bride and groom ever had a more gorgeous setting.

The year after I moved to Connecticut, I spent New Year’s weekend visiting Ina and Jeffrey. Things at the store were madly busy so Ina and I spent New Year’s Eve day making five hundred smoked salmon tea sandwiches to fill an order for some posh party. We talked and laughed and got the job done. 

That evening the three of us went to a gathering and as we came through the door, a waiter approached us with a tray of—you guessed it—smoked salmon sandwiches. Ina and I simultaneously rolled our eyes and almost fell over laughing. Couldn’t he have passed the stuffed mushrooms? I didn’t think I could ever face smoked salmon again.

We had many conversations when Ina decided to sell the store and do “something else.” She had no plan for her future, but she took the risk and let the store go. Then came the really difficult part of the process: allowing for the right new idea to gestate. Learning to trust that it would. Many anxious months later, as we were taking a walk, she told me, “I’m going to write a cookbook.” Ina’s “something else” turned out to be an extraordinary, creative, life’s work.

When Ina asked if we—my children, their spouses and six grandchildren--would be the “demonstration” family for her Family Style cookbook, we all readily agreed. If you have that cookbook, you will see my brood—except for my youngest son who had to be away on business. Those little boys in the pictures have all graduated from college now and have jobs in New York. Looking at that book reminds me of how long we have been friends.

It’s not all that easy to maintain a friendship with a dedicated, much-in-demand person. We have to make a plan months ahead. But when we met last week in New York for lunch, once again, it was as if we had seen each other just the week before. We reconnected immediately, laughing and sharing our news.

By the way, there is no dieting when you have lunch with Ina because unrequested plates of delicious things keep appearing on the table. It’s both fun and fattening! The restaurant wants her to taste all sorts of their delicacies.

If you are a Barefoot Contessa fan: if you think Ina Garten is warm, funny and someone you would like to know, you are right. She is also one of the most interesting and dynamic women I have known in my lifetime—and yes, she is a really good cook as well.

Best of all, celebrity or not, she is my friend. For every one of us, no matter who we are or what we do, it’s the quality of our friendships that makes a difference in our lives.

A Slice Of Mother's Day

On the gorgeous Mother’s Day Sunday I headed for North Salem, NY, to the Old Salem Farm Spring Horse Show. My fifteen year-old grand daughters (cousins) were both competing. My son and daughter would be there. This was going to be a good day!

 The only kicker in the deal was that I was driving myself to N. Salem. Knowing me, and my hopeless direction impairment, my daughter had emailed me detailed directions to the show grounds: “Turn left at the farm stand that has a large pink ice cream cone sign in front of it.” etc.

I can do this, I thought, as I printed out her directions. Motivation is everything and I wanted to be there.

And I did fine until, whoops! I came to the end of a road and faced a yellow sign with a glaring black arrow pointing both right and left. I hadn’t a clue. I searched my paper. No such sign was mentioned.

 Steering the car off the tarmac onto a roughly graveled patch, I stopped--so annoyed with myself. Stuck again for the millionth time in my life. Breathe in and out, I muttered, as I rummaged through my pocketbook for my cell phone and dialed my daughter.

Forgive yourself: forgive yourself, I thought, as Taylor’s phone rang.

Such relief when she answered!

“There’s this big yellow sign and I don’t know which way to turn.” I said, trying to keep my dismay out of my voice.

“You are almost here, Mom. Take the left and follow the road. You will see the show, but you will have to go past the grounds to the parking lot on the left. A policeman will be there and he’ll show you where to park.”

She was right. I passed the grounds teeming with spectators and girls astride gleaming horses in fenced, circular rings scattered with flower-decorated jumps. The hilly acreage of Old Salem Farm was green and lush, landscaped with lovely trees, many now in bloom.

A large, paunchy policeman waved me into the uphill parking field. Stopping the car in front of him, I rolled down the window and asked him where he wanted me to go.

“I don’t want you to have to walk too far,” he said, taking in my grey hair. “So why don’t you turn right here and back up this hill?”

I couldn’t believe my luck. I looked at the short, but steep hill I would have to back up and then, gauging the turn forward that I would need to make, I slowly moved ahead.

My careful calculations elicited a friendly, “Can you reverse?” He was clearly prepared to jump in and do it for me.

“Yes!” I called out the window, as I did just that. I can’t find any place, ever, but I can reverse. Done! I was perfectly parked right at the entrance to the lot already packed tightly with cars. What luck! What kindness.

 “I’m here!” I told Taylor on the phone. “Right in front by the road.”

“I’ll send Hannah to get you. Just wait for her.”

“Great!”

I got out of the car and walked to the edge of the road to watch for my grand daughter.

The policeman approached me. “You can take the shuttle into the grounds,” he offered, pointing at a black van behind us.

“Thanks—and thanks for the wonderful parking place—but my grand daughter is coming to get me.”

We both stood, looking down the road.

“And there she is!”

“That’s your grand daughter?” I could see him taking in her fifteen year-old slender form, the smiling pretty face, her long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, the tight tan jodhpurs and riding boots.

“Yup!” I took off across the street, waving both my arms triumphantly in the air. "I made it!" I yelled. 

Hannah returned my waves and we sped along the grassy edge to meet each other. We hugged, laughing together, and with our arms around each other, walked back toward the show.

I was sure that the paunchy policeman was watching us and smiling.

***

Thoughts and Prayers

We continue to pray for the more than 200 girls kidnapped by the Muslim militants, Boko Haram, that are they are found and safely returned to their families.

We hold in our hearts the families of the hundreds of coal miners who have died or are still missing in the disastrous explosion in Soma, Turkey.