Originally published on May 1, 2011.
A little sage advice: Be careful what you say about yourself, because yesterday’s jest could be tomorrow’s character-defining statement.
Let me explain. Seventeen years ago, The One and I were invited for a wintry weekend in Washington, CT, long before we ever bought a home there. We were guests of our then brand-spanking-new friends, Matty and Janet R. Janet had worked with The One in real estate for a few years, but this was only the second time we were in Matty’s company.
How to describe Matty R? Born and raised in the Bronx, he could have walked onto the set of the “The Sopranos,” sat down alongside Sal “Big Pussy” Bonpensiero, Paulie Gualtieri, and Silvio Dante, and no one, not even the director, would have been the wiser. He says bootifull when he means beautiful. He’s all diamond pinkie rings, sharp suits, and combed-back hair. He hits the racetracks in Saratoga Springs, NY, and Baden Baden, Germany, in equal measure, and usually wins. Bottom line, had it not been for Janet, our worlds never would’ve collided. Read more “If I Were a Mother”
As part of his wooing ritual way back in 1994, The One lured me up to his country house, in Barryville, New York, one weekend. The blush was very much on the rose back then. It was a time when I learned something new about my inamorato almost daily—such as how, on Saturdays, he would sun himself until he was the color of a number-two eraser (a practice cut short by skin cancer); how he’s constitutionally unable to lie; and how he simply must drive whenever he’s in a car, no matter whose it is. (Control issues, anyone?)
One Sunday morning, as I sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, all moony-eyed as he prepared breakfast, The One rifled through the cupboard and pulled out a can. He cranked open the lid, wrapped both hands around the inverted can, and pumped it up and down over the skillet as if he were pile driving a wooden post into the ground. On the third try, it happened—the long, slow can fart as the contents loosened and plopped into the pan. There it sat, a giant plug of gelatinous substance, the tin can’s bands embossed around its middle. Read more “Corned Beef Hash”
Video: Valentine’s Day Menu 2019
Well, it’s that time again to celebrate that most romantic of holidays, VD. And if your Valentine’s Day is anything like ours (“ours” meaning mine and The One Who Brings Me Love, Joy, and Happiness), it usually involves smooching, exchanging of cards and gifts, an argument (or three), and dinner of some sort.
But we rarely go to restaurants these days. The sight of cooing and billing couples is the ultimate anti-aphrodisiac. (That’s why God created bedrooms, people!) On top of that, unless we remortgage the apartment to pay for dinner at a chichi, Michelin-starred, lock-jawed restro where I actually have to wear a jacket AND a tie, we end up someplace having a meal we could’ve made (better) ourselves. And that usually ignites a huge argument. So, to avoid ending up on someone’s YouTube feed having a fabulous gay catfight, and considering that we like cooking and spending time alone, we now opt to cook at home. Read more “Valentine’s Day Menu 2019”