The Daily Cure

I suppose you noticed that 2016 was weird. And perhaps, like me, you’re thinking that 2017 might be, um, weirder. So when I was walking down the street several weeks ago and saw this miniature marquee in homage to Bowie in the window of a chic-y chic-y clothing store, I thought:

Ah, yes, it no longer is life on Earth. It is life on Mars.

Because I mean, really—doesn’t it seem like we’ve been transposed to a different planet? It looks like ours, but it sure doesn’t feel like ours. When I’m not downright horrified, I’m curious. How will this play out? Matt Damon, in a recent address to the graduates of MIT, asked if perhaps we weren’t in someone else’s simulated game, as has been suggested by some very learned types. I suspect we aren’t. It’s just that things are so weird, one does grasp for an explanation. He sort of lamely tied things up by saying that whether we’re pawns in someone else’s game or not, it matters what we do, and he sure hoped those geniuses at MIT would sort everything out. Well done! Pat on the back! Ciao!

It’s odd too, to be exactly middle-aged when all this is going on. As if that particular passage weren’t jarring enough on its own, now the whole world is conspiring to make you aware that you are truly in the middle. 1. What was, is gone. 2. What lies ahead is a mystery. And  3. You are somewhere between 1 and 2, and by the way, your hair is doing that funny thing again.

The saving grace, once more, is that I’m curious about what will happen. In the world. In my life. Etc. Almost every day. And as unsettling as it is, it is also invigorating. A wake-up. A call to be alert, to be smart, to use all your tools, to NOT lose your head in the swamp of loudmouthed opinion and speculation, and, maybe most of all, to nurture those good loving relationships.

The other aspect of life that contributes to my feelings of being an alien are my two teenage daughters. Nothing like having youth erupting under your very eyes every day to remind you that you are not exactly young (at least not in that sense) any more. And the differences between our brains and how they approach life are sort of astonishing and comical. And yet, it is these two funny, irritating, brilliant, observant, quirky young ladies who are at the top of my list of people to love and nurture going forward. This is their world, by God, and I intend to make the most of it for all of us! And as horrific as so many things are, they are also golden opportunities to teach these two something about humans’ need to behave. Even to them, the need for civility and “how it’s done” are glaringly obvious.

The images in this post all relate to my daughters in some way. They see the world with clarity. They see beauty and curiosity where I often miss it. They remember to have fun. They are fascinated by themselves and what’s going on “in there.” They look out when I look in, and vice versa. No matter how weird 2017 gets, I’m sticking with them. We’re family. We’re in this together. We’re gonna get through it. No matter what planet we’re on.

When I was young, my Mom used to take my brother and me to the public pool when it opened around 10 in morning, then pick us up when it closed around 6. They had a loud boomy speaker, and as our parents arrived at closing time, our names would be yelled out one by one. We would dawdle our way to the car, preferring to stay in the water as long as possible. I can’t tell you how many times I got burned, peeled, then burned again. We didn’t give a damn about sun screen, SPF’s, or what if. We just played.

Those were long days, broken up only by the occasional errand-day or car-trip to my grandparents’ in Virginia. There, summer felt like something else. The smell of chlorine was replaced with the smell of ivy on old brick walls or the odor of freshly caught fish, slung into the boat from the waters of the Rappahannock River. The energy spent flinging myself from the high dive or cartwheeling off the low one, was spent running around with my brother, pulling our wagon over the bumps in the sidewalk where the tree roots pushed it up. Packed sandwiches and Icees gave way to my grandmothers’ amazing cooking. One, classic Southern with Smithfield Hams and homemade pickles. The other, continental or Creole. She was from New Orleans. But even with the change of location, there was a certain beautiful monotony to it. That was, after all, what summer was for.

These are memories I can smell and taste and hear. I wonder, often, what memories my children will have of their summers. We have spent many summers in France, but what is beautiful for one person, isn’t always for another. One man’s relaxing is another man’s boring. I love the long walks and bike rides, the working in the garden, the observing the tiny changes that appear in the landscape and the village from year to year. It’s like a meditation. But that is me.

My Mom was a big believer in boredom. She didn’t go out of her way to keep me busy. She figured it was my job to figure out how to fill my time with my head and my imagination. I remember being so bored it hurt. So listless I wanted to hurt her. (How could she let the precious minutes of my life go by like that?) I am grateful to her now.

And yet, sometimes, it is still hard to be still. Difficult not to pick up the phone or the computer to check the latest polling results. Challenging to take a deep breath and say, It’s OK to be bored. It’s OK to relax. It’s OK not to accomplish anything right this minute.

Is this hard for you? What do you remember of your childhood summers? What did you do to fill your boredom? I wish all of you the summeriest of summers.

Can’t tell you all what a sad, sad day it is over here. I think that over the years, so many of us have begun to feel part of this giant, messy, but courageous and, in my mind, necessary European project. To have Britain walk out, abandon the younger generations who already feel part of a larger world, to give into fear instead of the desire to be part of a community designed to nurture the well-being and the security of all concerned (remember WW2 anyone?)…well, I just feel sad, angry and, weirdly, personally hurt, because this will affect all of us.

I’ve had it with politicians taking people’s understandable fears and using those fears to further their own power and agenda. And I’m afraid I’ve had it too with people not being educated and aware and plugged-in enough to know how their collective decisions are going to effect those far outside their own neighborhoods and countries or how it is they are being manipulated by politicians who peddle in anxiety instead of humanity.

I hope the US doesn’t follow suit.

Like a broken record, I’m repeating myself. It’s the tomato/onion thing again. Forgive me. I think it’s worth it. This time I’m singing the praises of a recipe that also features day-old bread, and I am always on the search for ways to deliciously use those left over bits.

I’m talking about Panzanella. Have you ever had it? It’s an exquisitely satisfying, embarrassingly simple-to-make bread salad. Serve it up together with some of your favorite cheese and a glass of wine, and your summer lunch just might be done.

After eating it once in a Tuscan restaurant, I felt fairly sure I could reproduce it with no help, but I happened to find a recipe in my own kitchen which made the experience foolproof. It was in the cookbook, Polpo, a collection of recipes from a Venetian restaurant in the United States, where they seem to have held tight to Italian tradition.  (It’s such a beautiful book, I’d probably have bought it even if they hadn’t.)

The ingredients are as follows: Left over bread (the recipe calls for 120g which is about enough bread for 4 people), extra virgin olive oil, 1 large red onion, flaky sea salt and black pepper, About 20 tomatoes of various sizes (and I would add types), red win vinegar and a handful of fresh basil.

A couple notes. First, while it is fine for your bread to be stale, it shouldn’t be rock hard. The fresh breads we buy in France and Italy, unless the weather is quite humid, become extremely hard within 24 hours. You be the judge. Feel free to use a mixture of breads. Sourdough, whole wheat, ciabatta, what have you (quite literally). Second, a variety of tomatoes such as those I showed last week, or whatever you have at hand, will work well. In fact, I think this recipe is enhanced by a mix. And those tomatoes that are just about to be too ripe? This is a good home for them.

You’ll want to proceed in a certain order. Preheat your oven to 140 degrees C (285 F). Tear or cut your bread into chunks about 2 cm cubed. Massage a generous glug of olive oil into your bread pieces, then chuck them into the oven to crisp around the edges. Do not let them get too hard. Meanwhile, finely slice your red onion and sprinkle with sea salt. I like to massage it quickly so that the salt begins its magic and the onion slices break into the delicate arcs that will wind their way through the final salad.  Allow the onion to sit for about 10 minutes, curing, while you complete the rest of the preparation. The onions will become just slightly limp and more sweet than challenging.

Meanwhile, chop your tomatoes. I had only pomodori pachino, sort of like a large flavor-rich cherry variety, which I chopped into four pieces each. Gently tear your basil leaves and toss them into the tomato along with olive oil, red wine vinegar, salt and freshly ground pepper to taste. If ten minutes has elapsed, add this to your onions and mix lovingly. The last step is to toss in your crostini (toasted bread pieces). They will absorb the bright acidity of the vinegar and the warmth of the olive oil,  but maintain their resistance thanks to the time they’ve spent in the oven. Allow to sit for ten minutes before serving. (Or not, if you can’t wait. I never can.) Glorious!

If you enjoyed this post, you might also enjoy reading Salt or Ritual of Return.