MUSINGS BY JOAN #12

I loved Michelle Obama’s description of strange noises late at night in the White House.
The ruckus turned out be Bo, the new First Dog, playing with his ball. Obviously, he couldn’t care less whose sleep he was disturbing. Pets are the great equalizers in life, even for the President of the United States. I’m not sure about dogs these days, but I do know that with cats, no one is more important in the scheme of things than the “human can opener” .

With that in mind, I believe my cats, Ginger and Wasabi, can tell time. They live on a tight, action packed schedule that brooks no interference from little niceties like Daylight Savings They spring into action every morning at precisely 6am and they have distinctly individual roles to play.

Regardless of whether it is still pitch black outside or the sun is about to rise, morning is heralded by an intense relay race back and forth across my bed, that could literally wake the dead. This feline version of the Kentucky Derby is then followed by Ginger’s role as “official waker upper”, if I am still not showing sufficient signs of leaping up and getting into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast. She never varies from this performance, walking delicately from the foot of the bed, up the length of my body, coming to rest on my chest with her whiskers practically in my mouth. OK, Ginger, I get it. You’re hungry.

Now Wasabi takes over, leading the way into the kitchen, in case I’ve forgotten the route. It’s a family joke that I have an Oriental carpet on my kitchen floor, a sure sign of the amount of cooking I do in that room. Wasabi adores the carpet, throwing himself down and rolling around on his back, waiting for me to perform the morning ritual of standing on one leg and scratching his waiting back with my bare foot. Ginger understands completely that this must be done before I get to the all-important ceremonial opening of the Fancy Feast can..

This is accomplished on the kitchen counter with Ginger hovering over the operation. She is obviously in charge of announcing to Wasabi what’s on the day’s menu, and also to check that I divide the can exactly in half. She really has nothing to worry about since most mornings she eats both halves while he lolls around on the carpet and noshes from the dry food bowl. I can’t understand why he weighs twice as much as she, when she eats twice as much as he.

Breakfast over, it’s time for the entire family to exercise. I get ready to go out to walk as they put in their morning mileage on the free standing carpeted walls at the entrance to the kitchen. The idea is to run up the wall to the ceiling, than leap across to the kitchen counter. Two out of three times they make it across the abyss. It’s a fascinating display of acrobatic skill. Sometimes they hit the counter off kilter and knock everything in the immediate area to the floor. I should buy stock in Crazy Glue. I am forever gluing back together the results of their efforts.

My significant other’s cat, J.W., also tells time, but unfortunately his alarm clock is set for 5am. J.W., like my guys, is a rescue cat that once upon a time fit into the palm of your hand. Did I mention that he weighs in at a mere 25 pounds these days? He has his own unique method of waking his devoted owner (read slave). If nudges of increasing intensity don’t bring the desired results quickly enough, he is wont to take a not-so-gentle nip from his owner’s cheek, followed by a fast leap off the bed, to avoid the whack that he knows is coming. It’s apparently worth the risk, because his “human can opener” is now fully awake and breakfast is forthcoming shortly.

Well trained? Absolutely. They’ve got us right where they want us. Gotta go, now. It’s time for Ginger and Wasabi’s afternoon snack.

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Caption: J.W. in the arms of his favorite human can opener.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #11

My name is Joan and I am an adventure travel addict. There, I admit it, and I feel much better, although I don’t think there is actually an AA group for this problem. It’s something I have dealt with for more than 50 years, although my opportunities to indulge in this obsession have narrowed a bit in the last few years.

My addiction has taken me hot air ballooning over the Masai Mara in Africa and the Burgundy wine country in France; rafting for eight days down the Colorado River; sleeping in tent camps out in the bush while on safari; hiking trips up a volcano in Hawaii, a mountain trail in Alaska, and a dirt path to the top of Masada in Israel. I’ve also hung on for dear life on a donkey’s back as we climbed a sheer cliff to the top of Santorini in Greece and skied in awe down the slopes of the French, Italian and Swiss Alps.

My “to do” list is still pretty voluminous, although I’m afraid some of my plans may be a trifle out of reach, both financially and physically. But they include climbing Machu Pichu, communing with the polar bears in Antarctica, chasing tortoises in the Galapagos, and snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef in Australia.. I also have a yen to see Viet Nam and Dubai. I love anything to do with animals and almost took off for Puerto Vallarta last year with my friend Pamela when their local zoo offered the opportunity to feed two new baby tiger cubs. Unfortunately, the cubs had outgrown human mothering by the time we were able to make proper arrangements.

My skiing adventures began at the advanced age of 50 when I decided I wanted to learn the sport. Although I spent my college years at Syracuse University in upstate New York, where skiing opportunities were readily available, no one I knew indulged in those days. It took membership in the local Miami Ski Club to show me the slopes of the world, allowing me to ski unforgettable mountains such as St Moritz, Zermatt, Val d’Isere, the Eiger and the Jungfrau, not to mention Aspen, Snowmass, Vail, Breckenridge, Park City and Sun Valley.

Admittedly, travel today is not as easy or as much fun as it used to be. I have always hopped on and off planes with ease, considering them the fastest way to get where I wanted to go. Only rarely have I had a bad experience on a flight, although I do remember a long ago flight into Portugal when it was evident that the pilot was having problems with the landing gear. As we came in for our final approach we could see fire engines following us down the runway. Not a good feeling. When the plane finally came to a safe stop the entire passenger list, including the pilots, retired to the airport bar for a stiff drink.

I did learn a hard lesson two years ago about the perils of today’s air travel. Here’s my new commandment on the subject: “Thou shalt not fly to your port of departure on the same day that your cruise is set to sail.” I say that from experience, folks. My saga of missed flights began in Miami with engine trouble. When I finally arrived in Atlanta to meet up with my daughter, my grandson and his fiancé, for our direct flight to Rome, they were already on the plane and ready for take-off, without Grandma, the master trip planner, on board.

I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say that the closest I could get to Rome in time to make the ship’s departure, was Paris, and from there on, I was on my own. It is amazing what you can accomplish when you are desperate. As my grandson said when I breathlessly boarded the ship, approximately two minutes before they pulled up the gangplank, and sans all luggage, “If it had to happen to one of us, it was probably good it was you, Jo.” I know he meant it as a compliment, but I could have lived without the experience.

Although I understand there are great travel bargains to Europe these days, I think I will stick to seeing the USA for a while. Actually, my favorite places to visit recently are Jacksonville, FL and Charlotte, NC. No big secret why, that’s where my favorite people live. I can get my animal “fix” with Jake and Zoey, Andrea’s two cats, and delicious Layla, Adam & Amy’s beautiful boxer dog. I still yearn for faraway places and memorable adventures. But in truth, I’ve already had more than my share.

Then again, if you’re considering zip-lining over the rain forest in Costa Rica in the near future, give me a call. I just might be interested.

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Photo caption: White water rafting on the Chatooga. That's me, trying to stay alive, in the blue helmet on the right.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #10


My grand-niece, Laura, will graduate this June from the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University in Chicago. Laura is the latest beneficiary of Nonny’s famous “writing gene”. . .my Mother’s gift that keeps on giving.

When Laura started college four years ago, I was sure that she was headed straight for the news desk at the New York Times, although she also had a yen to be a sports writer. But times have changed. While she is talented enough to be assured of a job with a major newspaper, she no longer aspires to work for one because she feels it will be a dead end. Today it is all about on-line news, and Laura’s decision to point her career in a different direction echoes this generation’s attitude about print news.

Which brings me to the direction my grand-niece does plan to take: public relations and marketing. Gee, that sounds familiar. I think I know someone who spent the last half century in that arena, and, with a few exceptions, enjoyed every minute of it.

My ex-husband used to say my business dealt in “bull shit”, and at times that was probably true, because I come from the era when the newspapers and TV loved crazy pr promotions and were willing to go along with the game. And what a game it was!

Like the time when I represented the Miami Serpentarium and we discovered that the markings on the hood of the very dangerous King Cobra looked exactly like the “eye” of the CBS logo. My colleague Marilyn and I decided to dub it the “Cronkite Cobra” after the venerable CBS newscaster, Walter Cronkite. A quick call to the news department at the local CBS TV station and we were off and running. One small problem. The cobra only flared his hood when he was angry or when Bill Haast, the famed snake man and owner of the Serp, was attempting to extract venom from the deadly creature. Actually, that made the creature pretty angry also.

When the TV cameraman sent by the station realized he would have to lie on his stomach to get a good view of the cobra as he reared up towards Haast’s outstretched hand, he panicked and admitted he was deathly afraid of snakes. We assured him that so were we, but that Haast had it totally under control. Then we stepped back. . far back. . and prayed that things would go well. Fortunately, the snake obliged and we got national coverage, including an on-air comment from Cronkite himself. That was a real winner and the client loved us..

Today, Laura will find that the public relations and marketing business is very corporate and much more serious. And probably not half as much fun. My business took me to many interesting places. . . pre-Castro Cuba where I handled US publicity for the Tropicana Night Club. . .: numerous times to Spain and Italy for the ceramic tile and stone industry:. . and to major cities around the country for a whole variety of client promotions. I escorted Linda Evans during the height of her “Dynasty” fame to the Phil Donahue Show in Chicago; had to baby sit a dejected Brooke Shields in the sauna of the Bonaventure Spa when Prince Albert of Monaco refused to show interest in her; spent more evenings than I can count bringing clients to be interviewed by Larry King on his late night radio show when he was still here in Miami, and actually got to drive Mario Andretti from his hotel in Coconut Grove to the Miami Herald for an interview when I was representing the International Auto Show. I think I made him nervous, possibly because the hotel driveway was very steep and I literally bounced off the end of it.

Of course it wasn’t all fun and games. A lot of it was long hours and plain hard work. In the public relations business you learn to accept rejection. We used to say that those who can’t accept rejection, work for newspapers. That’s an industry joke, folks..

I know Laura will be very successful. She’s smart as a whip and very much of today’s savvy computer generation. I will enjoy watching her climb the pr/marketing ladder. She knows she can always call Auntie Joan if she has a problem. I just hope she manages to have as much fun as I have had along the way.

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Photo caption: The PR Girl at work in the 70's. ., phone to ear, cigarette in hand. (I gave up smoking in the early '80s.)

MUSINGS BY JOAN #9


Those who know me well, know that cooking is not my strong suit. Actually, that’s the understatement of the year. During my second marriage I managed to burn down two kitchens. For sheer survival, we hired a series of cooks, but I’ll save that story for another blog.

My sister called me today, laughing hysterically. It seems that my daughter, who lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, is responsible for bringing chopped liver and charoseth* to her friend Linda Joy’s Passover Seder. She was calling on her cell phone from the meat department of her local grocery store. Without bothering to identify herself and sounding decidedly worried, my sister heard the following: “Fina, are gizzards the same thing as liver?? I can’t ask my Mother, I’m sure she won’t know the answer.”

Fina, (the name all the kids call my sister Frances), assured her they were very definitely not the same. Actually, even I knew that. But my daughter learned a long time ago that when it comes to recipes and cooking tips, Mom is not the best one to call. Not unless you are looking to poison someone, that is.

I am famous for having nothing edible in my refrigerator. I have been known to have eggs in those cute little egg trays in the fridge door that have long since dried up and died, sort of my version of the Chinese 100 year old egg. When my grandson was still in college he would bunk at my condo when he was visiting in Miami. A bunch of his friends were at the house one time when someone got hungry and raided the fridge. From my bedroom I heard the following conversation:

Friend: “Adam, can I eat this?’
Adam: “Check to see if it’s green before you do. “
Friend: “Adam, this is a convection oven. Ask your grandmother how it works.”
Adam: “You gotta be kidding. I think she stores stuff in there.”.

What can I tell you. The kid knew me well.

So by now you are wondering, how does she survive if she’s such a terrible cook? Enter, 13 ½ years ago, the “significant other”, and welcome to Chez Benardo, the best restaurant in town. Talk about good karma! How’s this for the perfect couple. . .a man whose hobby is gourmet cooking and a woman who brilliantly fills the role of “designated eater”.

It is my firm belief that every great chef needs a “designated eater”. . .someone who truly appreciates his culinary efforts and stays out of the way while he’s whipping up a delicious dinner for two. This is a man who has mastered Osso Bucco and makes a killer chicken soup complete with matzoh balls that are so fluffy they almost fly off the plate.

My job is to set the table, and if I say so myself, I do it with style, alternating place mats and folding the napkins just so. I also pour the wine and make terrific dinner conversation. My friends are all green with envy.

Well, that’s about it, folks. It’s 6:30 and time for dinner, so I better get started. Can’t wait to see what Chef Benardo has on the menu this evening. Bon appétit!

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*Charoseth – (spelling courtesy of Andrea via Linda Joy Weinstein) A mixture of chopped apples, chopped walnuts, cinnamon and red wine used in the Passover Seder ceremony to symbolize the mortar used by Jewish slaves while laying bricks for their Egyptian masters. Happens to taste delicious when slathered on a piece of matzoh.

Photo caption: The Master Chef at work.

MUSINGS FROM JOAN #8

I am fascinated by the women in my painting class. I am the rank amateur in the class, not by choice, but by dint of the fact that I am attending the “advance” class that meets on Thursday mornings, rather than the “beginner’s” class that meets on Monday mornings.

Why, you ask, don’t I go on Mondays? Because, in my new semi-retired life, I am committed to volunteering at Fairchild Tropical Gardens on Mondays. And besides, I really prefer being with these amazingly talented women, instead of a bunch of klutzes like myself. Although we are all designated as “seniors” in order to attend any OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) classes at the University of Miami, my painting mates range from a 50 year old French woman with a marvelous accent who loves to paint horses, to a truly elderly white haired woman who is accompanied by her aide, a lovely black woman, who also spends the morning painting. This frail little lady is an incredible portrait artist, and obviously has been painting for many years. I would say she is in her late 80’s, but if it turns out I am actually older than her, I may have to kill her.

Because it is an advanced class, everyone does their own thing, under the watchful eye of our instructor, Daphne Baruch. Daphne is an award-winning artist in her own right. She can look at your painting, pick up your brush, make a few quick strokes, and suddenly everything comes into perspective. Amazing!

When I say I am a rank amateur, I’m not being self effacing. The last time I attended an art class was in 1951. I was pregnant with my daughter Andrea and the smell of the oil paints made me nauseous so I had to quit. It was no great loss because I don’t remember being terribly talented at the time. The only other time I can remember taking brush in hand was when my ex-husband and I painted the walls of our little rental house in North Miami, shortly after coming to South Florida in 1957. That time it wasn’t because we were so artistic, but rather because we were very short of cash.

Anyway, back to my classmates. I have decided that much can be learned about people’s personalities by the way they paint and what subject they choose to paint. My friend Jackie does beautiful flowers and can spend the whole morning working painstakingly on the color values of a few petals. The woman who sits across the table from us is painting a picture of a very elegant gate. Actually, she hasn’t started painting it yet, she is still making a very detailed sketch from which, I gather, she will eventually work.

I, on the other hand, have come to realize that I paint like I live my life. . . .fast. I have a tendency to do everything in a hurry, and that includes painting. I walk fast. I write fast. I sketch fast. I love blending colors and making broad strokes, and I end up with paint all over my clothes, My Mother painted exquisitely detailed, Grandma Moses-style primitive paintings. I have new admiration for her skill. I know I will never have the patience to work with such intensity, but I sure am having fun.

I don’t think the galleries will be vying for my paintings in the near future, but since I get to say what photo goes on my blog, I have taken the liberty of posting my latest artistic effort. It has no name and is “my version” of a picture that Daphne gave me to work from. It’s a landscape of sorts, but it’s really all about color. I can't decide whether I did a great job or it looks like it was done by a five year old. Your call.

The bidding starts at fifty cents. Do I hear seventy five?????