Roman Bath

In the bath (March 2015).

Being multi-ethnic (and -racial as well as -lingual, but those are stories for another day) has its' distinct advantages. When in Rome, I was mistaken for a homegrown paisana taking her new "Americano" boyfriend for a ride in a pricey tourist joint by the Romano waiter, when in actuality I was on vacation with my soon-to-be annulled husband who was really just an old friend of mine from college. More on that some other time, too. True story! See it here! Click on link below! (http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/10/boneyard.html)

Roman bath (March, 2015).

 
So when I see myself in pictures, I see different aspects of my ancient histories co-mingling in sometimes the most delightful ways. Angles, lighting, seasons: they all change the way I see myself and it what comes through in the photos.

On one particular morning this week, I caught sight of myself in some large mirrors mounted opposite to me on the bathroom wall while I dried off. I didn't know what I had yet, but afterwards I saw on this day in March that the "Italiana" in me came shining through, perfectly intact throughout the ages, as if I was still cloaked in a toga that was a la moda way back when. 

"Ala Mercadante", still intact (March 2015).

What do you see when you look in the mirror? 
Be honest with yourself, and you may be surprised (like I was) with what you see, particularly about what has come down through the ages intact within your genetic material that's still very much a part of who you are today. I can't think of a more solid case for genetics than the art I see around me that's also a part of who I am, too.

http://www.compassrose.com/static/PompeiiFresco.jpg

Cybercrime

Much hype and paranoid thought is devoted to "Cybercrime", a word right out of bad sci-fi, if ever there was. Truth be told, shoplifting (http://wordhistories.com/2014/08/16/shoplifting/) is as old as the hills, as any ole descendant of a penal colony will tell you....or maybe not. Crime is crime, and criminals exist within any strata of society because evil, pathology, and bad DNA (much like cancer) does not discriminate.

I do have discriminating tastes however, and the two incidences of theft against me that occurred in my life were way before the common usage of computers. The one happened while I was in school and working solo (One of three part-time jobs I had while enrolled at the Rhode Island School of Design. Yes, one of the hardest schools on the planet, I know.) at a pizza joint in Providence, Rhode Island, and the second involved a shopping spree in Virginia (caught by the card's red flag system for atypical purchases) because the thief dumpster-dived for old credit card receipts in Brooklyn which led me (through the credit card rep's sage advice to me over an old-fashioned land line rotary phone) to a lifelong habit of shredding old mail that has personal information printed on it.

In other words, crime exists everywhere people are, and some places where they are not. You can hedge your bets by being smart, careful, and level-headed as I am, by using common sense. Here's a quick primer: #1) DO NOT go jogging in Central Park after dark and/or at night, (no matter what century it is), #2) always have your back against a brace when the train comes into the station, as a guard against psychos who push people onto tracks and #3) dancers on the subway are cool to give money to but #4 (and this is an add-on bonus) buying candy in a subway car is a front for drugs because junkies use their kids to collect change by ripping off bodegas on the street for the candy, and then forcing their homeless kid to shake down white tourists on the train for some change. You're welcome!

Same thing with the Internet. No, you are not interesting (nor is your email, or Facebook page, or etc...) but you do want to keep your wits about you. Treat online content and engagements like you are meeting someone for the first time at a cocktail party. Do you tell them about all your surgeries or the nasty details of your perhaps fictional sex life? Hell, no...unless you're as crazy as the person talking to you.

Be careful out there, kids. Life can be one heck of a dangerous wild ride, so wash your hands often (but don't become OCD about microscopic germs), change your underwear, too (but don't get hooked on laundry as a cure-all for anxiety like some desperate suburban housewife), and most importantly, be kind (if you can) to those around you who deserve it the most.

And register with credit agencies like the ones pictured below that I am holding. Add on a security level or two (called "security freezes" and "fraud alerts") et voila! You may now buy from an online retailer, which is safer than talking to a human over the phone who might write down your information, because (and this is very important) a computer is a machine with no agenda that is only as good (or as bad) as the human who programmed it. Now get back out there and live!

Register with one, you register with all. Safety should always be this easy!

http://www.equifax.com/home/en_us 
http://www.experian.com
http://www.transunion.com/

P.S. - Recent emigres please note: the IRS does not, repeat DOES NOT collect taxes over the phone. They use our federal agency for mail called the "United States Postal Service" for official business (unless you're a criminal), because post offices use legal things like dates and time-stamps for verification purposes. Postal workers are also agents for the government. You should be able to trust them (unless they're having a really bad day, and look like they may go "postal". See link here for our lingo: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=go+postal.) Then, call 911 for help.

Foogy Day

Seasons change, time moves on, and large fog banks descend upon us for a few days like a bad horror movie in which those poorly hidden (and scantily clad) teenagers will die for having sex. It's kind of atmospheric. 

I caught a flock of seagulls (I know! I know!) resting in the park yesterday, and it was awesome. Maritime birds typically move inland during storms, but this flock seems to have taken year-round to our clime. Yes! The animals are back, and today is a good day.  
Have a great weekend.

I get to write this caption today: it's "A Flock of Seagulls"!

Whoa! Those clouds have come way down off the hills since midday.

Is that...is that fog coming closer to me?! Cool!

Getting thicker by the minute...

...and now it's covering up buildings and building up speed like it's alive. Good thing I took out that horror movie from the library! Oh....

Acts of Creation

When I was in 7th grade biology lab at Felix V. Festa Junior High in West Nyack, New York (and, yes, I really DID walk 2.6 miles as a child uphill, every day for two years in the rain, sleet, or snow, like an unpaid postal worker carrying a load of heavy school books: https://www.google.com/maps/dir/3+Stegmeyer+Ln,+New+City,+NY+10956/Felix+Festa+Middle+School+Campus,+Parrott+Road,+West+Nyack,+NY/@41.1217371,-74.0001876,3203m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m13!4m12!1m5!1m1!1s0x89c2c29992dab085:0xbcdd2ab48bbf66e3!2m2!1d-74.0015367!2d41.1213911!1m5!1m1!1s0x89c2c288479eb5b9:0xfe59e4b7c9903e94!2m2!1d-73.982099!2d41.123044), my excellent science teacher instructed us to debate Creationism vs. Evolution.

I chose to debate the scientific principle that we know to be true. So, as we sat down on opposing sides, I knew I had it in the bag, but I was shocked to see kids who were considered rather good students choosing the other side, like the head cheerleader and the teacher's pet with the really good grades. What the....wait a minute....I know this kind of situation. It's called being a "Show Pony", and it's how ass-kissing students work the academic system instead of learning from it, for grades and appearances. Good! It means I can outthink the opposition.

And I did, but thinking wasn't really the challenge for me. My main obstacle was keeping myself cool in the the heat of battle. When the spoiled, self-obsessed cheerleader, formerly of the big metal braces, thick glasses, and quick Spring Break nose job (Hi, Lauren!) shouted back to my carbon-dating rebuttal that "Scientists can do anything!", I knew it was a setup. There are days when my microbiologist mom can barely drag herself out of bed (then and now), let alone remake the world on a totally cellular level to be whatever she wants it to be like a magician pulling a hat trick, but this kid didn't seem to understand that. She didn't seem to actually KNOW anything. She was just yelling words back at me without any evidence to support her wild claims about the world we live in. A willfully protected ignorance like hers had eluded me. What was I supposed to do now?!

I colored, shocked and adrift for a moment in her fiercely childish anger at being outsmarted by me so easily, as I looked to my science teacher for help in controlling her student's temper tantrum. She stood behind the row of chairs on the Creationist side and nodded slowly at me, then gave me a silent, "cool it down" gesture. That was it. I took a deep breath, in reply: "But, why? Why would someone do that?" She sputtered, stalled, then failed the debate entirely. "Well, www-welll....I don't know!" You don't know. And she knew it, too. It was a profound victory for me that I never forgot, or that class. Thank you, "Mrs. Science Teacher", from the bottom of my heart, because this Rockland County girl was at least 2-4 years younger than all of her classmates in junior high school, as it was for me throughout my early academic life. I was only 12 years old the first time I tackled that particular fear. You'd be wise to remember that about me, readers. It will serve you well.

“I would say that all our sciences are the material that has to be mythologized. A mythology gives spiritual import - what one might call rather the psychological, inward import, of the world of nature round about us, as understood today. There's no real conflict between science and religion ... What is in conflict is the science of 2000 BC ... and the science of the 20th century AD.”
― Joseph Campbell

Chops

Extra cabbage my mom gave me from her Corned Beef dish will do nicely!

Years ago my boyfriend's sister (then live-in boyfriend I didn't want, then fiancé, and also including soon-to-be annulled tricky disaster of a faux first marriage) went to Le Cordon Bleu in Ottawa, financed yet again by his desperate parents looking for a rock star in their two kid rubble of a messy family. Never happened, but I learned a thing or two, just like I honed my innate business acumen and musicianship on the side: I don't have time for more art forms than the many ones that I already practice at an expert level daily, but I do love to dabble, with the understanding that my dabbling is also at the maestro level. 
It doesn't go away simply because my brain is solving other types of problems, even when I may want amateur status. I like the newness of anonymity, like any other careful observer does.

Voilà! My homemade cole slaw.

And so it is with cooking, too. I cook almost every single day of my life, out of habit and enjoyment, or from necessity and want, so now I cook at the master level. I don't ever want to be a professional chef who runs a kitchen (Oh, good! Another job for me that's hard, low-paying and takes years to pay out), but I like listening. My brief "sister-in-law" did the wacky school stuff like deboning quail and many mindless hours of repetitive chopping, but she did tell me some useful stuff from her classes like: 1) pairing wines with food is a matter of preference that serves the customer well above any other snobby food rule, because a pro kitchen exists to show people a good time, not embarrass them with their ignorance. Want a nice red with chicken or fish? Have it! The "correct" choice is whatever you want and/or what beverage you think tastes good, not what anyone else says about it, unless you specifically ask a Sommelier for advice sur la table. Nothing blows the deal of a deep-pocketed repeat customer than humiliating some bourgeois "Nouveau-Riche" type looking to impress people with their freely thrown cash, so don't do it. Skills!

At the stove every damn day, people!

Same with cookbooks: 2) they can't teach you how to cook because it's about flawless timing, countless hours of practice, and the spills and mistakes that come with real trial and error mixed with ingenuity and bravery, the hard-won experience of a daily habit. That's what I have, whether I wanted it or not, because if I want to eat really good food, I often have to make it myself. And so it was with cookbooks, too. I asked her what her best recommendation was, and she told me the truth, as told to her by one of her professors: 3) it's "The Joy of Cooking", any edition and any version, from any year. The author doesn't tell you how to do it; she gives you a basic template to follow, with versions and iterations based on your choices, preferences, budget, and/or or pantry ingredients on hand. She can't think for you. You have to do that. So that's what I do, in a nutshell, every single day of my life, and maybe some day you can, too, because I don't want to be single forever, people!

Enjoy the fresh new Springtime produce that's hitting our shelves soon. We've earned it.

Perfectly cooked medium/medium-rare lamb chop, a total Spring dish.

Another perfect chop: this one a pork "Scallopine" cut in brown butter.

Perfect sticky rice with sprig of fresh thyme.

One perfect (and tiny) leaf of thyme on a bed of fluffy white rice.

Flew the Coop

Yep, you read it right: "Backyard Chickens for Beginners" bitches!

I believe in the great educational institutions and huge agriculture of New York state like its' yesterday's news, and it totally is. We've been doin' this a very long time. Every once in awhile, I get a whiff of "Big Agra" out west trying to co-opt our rep as the so-called American Heartland, and here's the problem with that kind of thinking: a semi-arid desert does not a fertile river valley make. It really just doesn't make it. Oh sure, you can artificially prop it up as a competition with the use of freely given government hand-outs, but the thing is, we have all of human history on our side, like the way water flows downhill. It's a part of our nature, and I'd love to have you on board with me.

Special thanks to my peeps at Cornell (my oldest bro's Alma Mater for grad school) for keeping our history alive through these small, local satellite programs that serve as outreach to the community. We need you! And I will be in touch with you in the future about growing chickens for their fresh eggs in my backyard. Can't get more organic than that! Future neighbors, please take note now: hens do not "cock-a-doodle-do" at dawn like a male rooster, so know your stuff beforehand. Thanks friends, and please keep reading.  
You are my audience.

http://rocklandcce.org/ 

http://rocklandcce.org/events/2015/04/07/-backyard-chickens-for-beginners

I love a parade

The problem with typical Irish-American culture are all the nasty stereotypes that go along with it, the biggest of which includes the open and sometimes vast consumption of alcohol. It allows people 
not affiliated with our culture a cloud cover to hide behind, and that's getting wildly drunk and/or obnoxious in public without censure, but that's only part of it for us. 

The "pub" is an institution: part community center ("pub", as in a public house that's serves the community), part stage for the art of storytelling that's enhanced with a pint or two, part musician's venue, part restaurant, part psychiatrist's office, part meeting room, part boarding house, part illicit den...in short, it's woven into our culture in many, many different ways, and there's alcohol served as well. 

But, outsiders don't always get those parts, so we tend to stay away from rank amateur hours like the big city parade (that's for tourists!), as we steer our kiddies towards safer havens, like a small town parade. Ours is a bit repetitive and boring, and it sure brings out the loud, nasty drunk who's brazen enough to do it in public for the whole town to see, around children, and under a noonday sun, but that's part of who we are, too. I don't turn away from the bad stuff, and neither should you. We're adults. We can handle it.

Party skills are essential, especially when open container laws are in effect.

Someone's getting the parade "feel"! That's me in the hat and sunglasses.

My café table and aggressor: kids bumped into it and it fell onto my foot.

Tutus from the toy store proprietress in town are always a favorite.

"Hey, I want some popcorn, too!" said the St. Bernard to his new friend.

The Polar Bear Princess wore a tiara over her hat!

Honoring our vets, one pin at a time.

Lots of other geegaws on sale, too.

Nice coat! I love the "Dogs on Parade" part the best.

Our parade always begins with New York's Finest at the lead.

It's not all good looks and glamour: sometimes ya gotta shovel it.

Pomp and circumstance, with music and color. Alright!

Hey, man! Whassup?! Is he walking on stilts?

You know you're good when you can play without hands.

These horses are huge! The sorrel-colored horse is spectacular.

Cute, but the bands' awful. Oh well. Pearl River Pirates are great wrestlers!

North Rockland had the best school band, I thought. Great outfits, too.

No way?! "G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu Grip" is here! Awesome!

Representing Boston. They took  the "Most Snowfall" category this year.

Big crowd this year, and getting bigger every year.

Soccer kids! They were fun and energetic, also starting a tradition young.

Kids love the parade. They wear costumes and special Irish outfits!

Lots of flash and razzle-dazzle. It's a show, after all!

Adults watching in the shadows, taking it all in.

The party ends with a big dump truck for all the garbage. Reality sets in.

A Gladiator, or two, or three hundred or more, thrown into the mix.

Real heroes with red fire trucks are always welcome at the house on the hill.

Make Your Voice Heard

Today's "Mission Impossible": get involved. Whew! Wow, so hard...

Hey, friends! Over the next few years, I'm going to talk and write about hearing loss (which is congenital in my family) in a way that's constructive and helpful, because I've found that the current dialogue (when it is present) is wayyy crazy (read: typically human). I tested the waters recently with a group of my senior friends, a really well-educated and hip crowd, and they had stunned, scared looks on their faces. Oh. Not a good sign. It's a contentious topic, mostly because it's been co-opted artificially by health insurance companies that do not work for you. They work for money and profit. I think it's self-explanatory, but you'd be surprised by the level of ignorance people have when they are resistant to adult subject matter, ie: "not fun" stuff, like a Florida vacation. Oy. New Yorkers!

Anywho, let's get on with it. I'll go first: I started losing volume in one ear around age 30-32, a time typical for great bodily change in mature women, and so it was with me, too. My live-in boyfriend noticed it first, and then I noticed it at work. Aha! My dad is deaf, and so was his sister, my late aunt; actually, they're much more impaired than I am, but that's also an outcome of their generation's neglect. Well, I got diagnosed early on (wrongly at first, but that's a story for another day), learned all about it, became an expert so as to self-advocate for me and my health, and now I can share it with you all.

It's kind of a scary process: you get locked into a sound-proof booth, and it feels like you're taking a test that you know you're going to fail. Uh oh. Yeah, I know, but do it anyway. Just like any subject, a big "Fear of the Unknown" factor compounds and effects wrongly our attitudes about health care. I had my teeth cleaned by my dentist yesterday, and there's some pain and discomfort involved. I know that from years of experience, so I practiced deep breathing exercises while watching Will Farrell on t.v. dressed up like a green pilgrim for St. Pat's Day, knowing I was being tended to and cared for by a real Rockland County kid (my new dentist: such a nice boy!), whose parents own the jewelry store across the street. In other words, I'm home!

But first, we need to address the inequity that exists in health care and within their corporate culture. I was told by a rep at a well-known health insurance company back in the day that my hearing loss was "cosmetic" (and that it would "NEVER", an actual direct quote: "Never be covered by health insurance") because I am relatively young and no one can see it on my face, like seeing a squinting blind person with thick glasses. Can you imagine a rep saying that to someone born near-sighted? Insane! So, first, let's get it straight: as complex as hearing is compared to vision (thus making it more expensive, naturally), you must first accept the concept that hearing devices are like glasses for the ears.

That's it, folks. It's simply this: giving assistance where it's needed, and as it's needed. Get involved in the conversation by talking about it with someone today. Start there, and then let's build on top of that. Let's do this thing! Thanks to Tracey in town for supplying me with the handy dandy hand-out you see pictured below. More to follow on this topic in the future. Be sure of that.  Good day to you all!

http://www.hearingaidtaxcredit.org/

Classic Movie type

The Quiet Man.***

Since my introduction to the entrepreneurial world (which involves some hunger, a lot of anxiety, and much freedom), I've been cutting costs like a store having a fire sale the day after Christmas. All items must be sold! Bargain prices! SELL SELL SELL! 

I solved my "watching t.v. on a budget" dilemma through the acquisition of a cheap digital antenna and converter hooked into the back of my flat screen and...voila! There it was; the moving images we've come to know as modern t.v. The baddest part was the first channel it tuned in: a bitchin' classic movie channel aptly named "Movies!" with a capital "M" for a logo (which suits me just fine), airing a "Sinbad" movie with original Ray Harryhausen* stop-motion animation. WOW!

It's given me access to a host of golden oldies I wouldn't have found before, enhancing my education through the knowledge that humans really haven't changed all that much since the invention of modern cinema, because we really haven't. Families still struggle with dysfunction, powerful addictions, cycles of poverty, illness, and other dastardly things, albeit played by handsomer folk than that girl next door, but that's not very different than any other type of storytelling. 
If you're going to see a show, why not look at some pretty people? 
It'll make the time go faster.

The artist in me especially loves the opening credits, like a beautifully illustrated book with a gorgeously set title page. I've always preferred trailers over a full-length feature (for obvious reasons, like my time), and classics are no different. Check out some typesetting from back in the day, and bask in the knowledge that artists have always lead the way, whether you've realized it or not. You're welcome!

From the original 1943 version of "Heaven Can Wait".**

*     http://www.rayharryhausen.com/
**   http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0523932/bio?ref_=nm_ov_bio_sm
*** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Quiet_Man

Mrs. Reilly's Soda Bread

Katie Reilly is in the house!

You know me; I'm always looking for really good food, and traditional Irish fare is no different. I look for excellent, fresh ingredients that are written in a language that's easily understood. You know, "real food" 
as my Mom would say. So a recent grocery store trip was no different than other day except for one special person: Mrs. Katie Reilly, and her infamous Irish Soda Bread. 

The label on the back was my first tip off that I had indeed found something very special. There are no artificial ingredients added. 
Like, none. Don't believe me? OK. See here for yourself:

Real ingredients, with no crap added into the mix. Wow!

And so I put it in my basket, and went on my way...or so I thought. 
At home, I found another surprise underneath the store's adhesive label that I carefully pulled off, so as to not tear the bag. It was the real story of an actual woman named Katie, her clan, and how much her food and her kitchen meant to them as a group.

Buried treasure! "Arrrhh!"

It was an unbelievably good find, what with the plethora of fake brand names that flood store shelves nowadays; the openly desperate manifestation of many a rich corporation, in an industry that seeks legitimacy and the money that goes along with having the real thing. 

But if living in an actual Irish/American town like Pearl River that also has strong Dutch, Huguenot, and Native American roots has reaffirmed anything for me, it's that you can't steal someone else's history for very long. You either have it or you don't, just like Mrs. Reilly.

Behold: the best soda bread I've ever had.

If you still doubt the power of authenticity in a world chock full of posers, let me close it down for you, finally. It was so good that I bought one for my exceptionally finicky Mom. She ate three pieces of it in a row, and she usually has a cup of yogurt for her afternoon tea. That's right, my dear readers, it passed "The Mom Test". Put that in your pipe and smoke it, "Irishers". Enjoy!

Happy St. Patrick's Day 2015, to you and yours.

http://www.myveronanj.com/tag/atie-reillys-original-irish-soda-bread/ 

http://www.celticpassions.com/about_katie_reilly.html