Wine & writing. . .a great combination

My friend Sheila and I spent an unusual evening last night.  We both received an e-mail that the Miami Book Fair was holding something called First Draft: A Literary Social, described as "a monthly series of informal writing events that turn happy hours into great stories".   If that didn't inspire us enough, the fact that it also mentioned that drinks were on the house, had us up and moving.

We arrived at the Langford Hotel in Downtown Miami at 6:30 sharp to find a roomful of interesting looking people, mostly women but quite a few men.  With glasses filled  and bowls of pretzels on every table,  host Julie Anne Howe, explained that the evening's theme was "All The Rage", and that we would have ten minutes to write on one of three subjects:  "What I Won't Wear."  "What I Will Wear."  and finally "My Personal Style Monologue".

When the 10 minutes were up, the first 5 or 6 of the 10 or 15 people in the room would come up to the microphone and read what they wrote.  One girl wrote "I Won't Wear a Frown".  Very deep.  Sheila wrote "I Won't Wear Turquoise."  I had no idea she felt so strongly about the color.  Here's what I wrote. . you kinda had to hear it out loud to understand the deep emotion it conveyed.

"WHAT I WON'T WEAR" by Joan Spector

Who decided that women's pants had to be skinny?  A 20 year old, no doubt.  One of those Millenials we're always hearing about lately.

Skinny pants are for kids, or at least girls with Kardashian butts, not elegant adults.  We wear boot cut trousers, or flowing slacks that provide a little defense for those of us who still remember Gloria Vanderbilt's famous comfortable jeans.

No, I won't wear those skinny minnies.  So what if that's all I can find in my local department store.  I prefer to stand up for my rights, not to mention my octogenarian legs.

So I say, senior ladies, unite!  We have nothing to lose but our former good bodies.

#    #    #

Not one of my finer pieces of writing but I actually got quite a round of applause from the audience.  It was truly a fun evening and the wine was fabulous.  Can't wait to go again next month.

My phone keeps ringing. . . .

I received an urgent phone call this morning informing me that I am in deep trouble.  My student loan has been flagged by the government, and if I click on the #1 button, I will be informed of a special plan to help me pay it off.  I can just imagine.

Since my last day as a "student:" of any kind came in early June of 1949, (I remember the date well, because I got married on June 12th of that year), I didn't bother clicking.  Actually, I wasn't aware that I still had a student loan. As a matter of fact, I never had one.

From my high school year book, ready to go to
college without a student loan!

In my day, your parents started putting away money for your college enrollment from the day you were born, and there were no such things as student loans.  Then again, unlike today's astronomical college prices, if I remember correctly, Syracuse University cost my parents about $250 a semester, plus the cost of my dorm room and food in the school cafeteria.

By the way, I've been on the "Do not call" list for ages, but apparently that's not stopping anyone calling from India or the Mid East.  Yesterday, the call was from the IRS, warning me, in a heavy accent, that I was again in serious trouble and had better call a certain number with all my information ASAP.  I guess that hefty check I sent back in April just wasn't good enough.

One of my favorite Miami Herald columnists, Fred Grimm, wrote recently about his annoyance with unsolicited phone calls at all hours of the day and night. He is on both the Federal and State "Do not call" lists, and what doubly annoys him is that the calls are all "robo calls", so there's no one on the other end of the line to hiss at or complain to.

That's my problem as well.  With the IRS call, I found myself shrieking obscenities into the phone although I knew full well there was no one actually there.  Obviously the scammers have long since done away with the "Do not call" lists, and somewhere I've landed on a lot of "Do call" lists.  Nice to know I'm so popular.

Just for the hell of it, I tried calling back one of the robo-call phone numbers.  According to a robo-call operator, "That number is no longer in service."  Gee whiz, what a surprise. I guess my student loan will just have to go unpaid for another 67 years!

#    #    #

No expense spared. . .

Wasabi and Ginger are rescue cats, but they have long since turned into spoiled pets who run my household with iron paws.  The one thing they both insist on is availability of their favorite toys.  I'm not sure my bank account can keep up with their pressing needs.

Wasabi not only plays incessantly with his favorite "toy", but God help Ginger if she tries to even touch it.  Ginger, on the other hand, never heard the word "No!". . .not from Wasabi or me, her Mother.  Much hissing and snarling goes on over any attempt to as much as sniff his prized possession.  I admit to a little snarling of my own over the results of Ginger's favorite obsession.

I couldn't resist taking photos of each of them with their expensive playthings.  Thank you, Charmin, Cottonelle and Costco. What would the three of us do without you???.

Wasabi, on guard.  Don't dare touch!

Ginger, The Destroyer, at work.

#   #   #




It's mango chutney time! Chop. Chop.

I've been a walking guide at The Kampong, the former home of renowned horticulturist Dr. David Fairchild, for several years now, but the weather has gotten so hot that tours have been suspended for the summer.  The Kampong, located in Coconut Grove, has been a well kept secret, but with the advent of Groupon, it's becoming a very popular tourist spot.

Dr. Fairchild was responsible for introducing the mango into the United States, bringing back various species of the fruit from his many worldwide expeditions during his time as Chief of the Plant Introduction Department of the U.S. Department of Agriculture.  He used a good portion of his Miami home's 7 1/2 acre property as a "laboratory" for his various finds, and as a result, The Kampong has an extraordinary collection of very fruitful mango trees.  Thus, the need to do something with each year's huge crop.

The answer?  Mango chutney, of course .  Unbelievably delicious .  If you're not familiar with it, you don't know what you are missing.

That's me cutting away.

I got the call to please come by this Friday and help with the chutney production.  Just the chopping, not the actual cooking.  (They know better than to ask me to do that.)  At the end of two hours, I was chopped out, or rather my hands were screaming "No mas!  No mas!" 

I promised I'd return to help with the labeling of the jars, once the cooking was completed.  And to collect my payment for all the heavy chopping. . .my own jar of the best chutney you ever tasted.

On my way out, I soothed my aching hands by stopping at the Lotus Pool for a second and photographing this gorgeous lily in full bloom. 
#   #   #



Just a small sample.

Cooking time.



Soothing the senses.

90 is the new 70. . . .

My regular Wednesday afternoon mah jong game is off for the summer as three of our five players are on summer vacation trips.  So I've been filling in on Tuesday afternoons at the request of my neighbor Elaine, in a game where they are missing one of their regular players.

I'm still pretty new to mah jong and this game "goes by the rules", or so they tell me.  That means they play significantly differently than my group and to tell you the truth, I find it a bit daunting at times.  That's why, during a recent game, I requested the elegant lady on my left. . .her name is Thelma and she is always perfectly coiffed and made up. . . to please go a little slower.  I was having a little trouble keeping up.

Thelma was very nice about my request, and assured me she would make every effort to slow down a little.

Game over, on the way up to my apartment in the elevator, Elaine asked me if I had any idea how old Thelma was.  Nonplussed at the question, I said why???  "Because she's 92," was the reply.

And I just asked her to go slower.

Amazing, yes.  Even more so because we've become good friends.  Thelma is a hoot, funny and full of life.  Yesterday she invited me to lunch as her guest because I had given her two passes to Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden when her daughter came to visit.

We were going to a restaurant she wanted to try in Coconut Grove along with another friend of hers. Friend Joyce turned out to be much younger. . only 90.  Jeez, I was the baby of the group!

 We had an absolutely lovely lunch.  Thelma drove.

#    #    #



Thelma

Thinking back. . .

I never got around to writing a blog about our trip to Paris in April, mostly because so much happened that I ended up not writing anything.  It was a blast, and Paul and I had a great time aboard our Viking River Cruise from Paris to the Normandy Coast.  I highly recommend it.  It was a wonderful trip.

Oddly enough, two different events that stand out in my mind took place in Paris during the three days we spent there before embarking on the ship.

First, was the day we decided to visit the Eiffel Tower and had bought tickets ahead of time for a 1pm entry so we wouldn't have to wait on a long line.  Viking's itinerary took us to the Marais in the morning, and after leaving the group, the two of us headed for the Metro to take to the Tower stop.

 Except it turned out our directions were wrong and we shortly found ourselves totally lost.  In desperation, we stopped a group of young English speaking men to ask directions.  Turned out, that's where they were going as well, and invited us to join them.  They were Brits from Leicester, who looked like a 60's rock group, with lots of spikes in their ears and noses, but friendly as could be. Unfortunately, we soon discovered they were as lost as we were.

We apparently wanted the train, not the subway, and after tramping up and down endless flights of stairs and through various train platforms, our "leader" ascertained we were at the right place.  By this time we had added a young Australian couple to our group who were also lost.

Heaving a great sigh of relief, we watched as the train pulled into the station.  The door opened, and the polite Brits motioned to me and the Australian girl to get on, followed by four of the guys and a rush of strangers who were also waiting for the train.  And then the door closed.

Paul told me later that he wished he had a camera to freeze the look of sheer horror on my face as the train pulled out of the station and he was still standing on the platform.

The good news was that the Brits who were on the train were now my new best friends, staying with me and the Australian girl at the station where we got off until the rest of the pack, including Paul, arrived some ten minute later on the next train.

One last memory from that wild day.  When we all went to leave the station, the turnstile at the exit suddenly decided not to work.  This did not deter the Brits who simply climbed and jumped over the apparatus.  It also didn't deter Paul, who is over 6 ft.  You might remember that I am not exactly towering in height and the turnstiles were quite high.  Climbing was just not an option.  Another photo, thank goodness, he didn't get:  Joan, elegantly crawling her way under the turnstile on all fours.  Paul didn't dare laugh.

The second event I remember with less fondness was the night we ate at a very lovely seafood restaurant near our Paris hotel.  I love fish, and since the menu was all in French, I asked the waiter for his suggestion.  He was exuberant about the "fish of the night" and I said fine.

My dinner arrived and it looked very delicious.  Except, when I went to take my first bite, I hit a solid sheet of bone.  Calling over the waiter, he explained to me that "You must flip it over, Madame".  Flip I did, and began eating.  It was quite interesting, different than any fish I had ever tasted, and I was curious.  Already half way through the serving, I called over the waiter and asked what kind of fish it was.  He answered by telling me he would bring me a picture.

He did.  I was eating a Manta Ray.  Needless to say, that was the end of that dinner.  Paul, who rarely eats fish, couldn't stop laughing.

#    #    #


Marching through the Metro

My new best friends!

OMG!  My poisonous dinner!

Remembering "The Great One". .

It was February of 1964 and I was at my desk at the Barcelona Hotel where I was hired to handle public relations and edit a daily newsletter that was distributed to hotel guests. One of our regular guests approached me and asked if I would like two tickets to "the fight" that evening.

I had never been to a boxing match in my life, but I thought, "what the hell, they're free!" so I said yes and thanked him for his generosity.  Little did I know what an earth-shaking event I had just signed on for.

Next, I called my husband at his office and asked him if by any chance he wanted to go.  His response?  "Are you kidding, Joan?  That's the championship bout between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston!  Of course I want to go. I'll pick you up at the hotel. For god's sake, don't lose the tickets!"  All of a sudden, I was a hero to my husband.

I was aware that Clay was training at the 5th Street Gym because every morning during the past few weeks, as I drove from my home in North Miami to my office on Miami Beach, I would see this young black guy, in shorts and a tank top, running down Alton Road on his way to the gym.  These were times when blacks were still not allowed to stay overnight on Miami Beach, and Clay would actually run all the way from his hotel in Overtown to his morning workout. (It wasn't until Frank Sinatra made a stand about allowing Sammy Davis Jr. to stay at the Fontainebleau, when they were both appearing there, that the restriction was finally lifted.)

Our seats that evening at the Miami Beach Convention Center were fabulous.  Everybody who was anybody was there in the arena to watch hulking and silent Liston, the undefeated world champion,  make mincemeat of this young, big-mouthed upstart.  For the very first time, the crowd saw what it meant  to "float like a butterfly. . sting like a bee".  Liston looked more and more confused, right from the opening round, and when he finally refused to come out for the 7th round bell, the place went wild!

It was a night to remember and I relived it this morning when I heard about Mohammed Ali's passing.  He was truly a remarkable man and I followed his career with great interest after that very memorable night.  We were very lucky to have had the opportunity to be there on that very special evening..
#   #   #