The Snowy Day

Perhaps it goes back to my love of the Ezra Jack Keats classic, which I read over and over as a child, and then as an adult reading to my children. I have always loved snow. I moved back from L.A. to New York in my 30s because I grew weary of getting depressed watching east coast blizzards on the west coast evening news. In fact, I keep my emotional barometer calibrated to three constants that have persisted all my life. Airplanes. Spaghetti. And snow! Update:  I'm feeling pretty darned toasty, today. 

Berkeley Place. Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Berkeley Place. Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn.

Seventh Avenue, Brooklyn.

Q train to Manhattan.

Q train to Manhattan.

Shake Shack open for business. 

Shake Shack open for business. 

Broadway and 25th.

Broadway and 25th.

Madison Square Park.

Madison Square Park.

And then of course, after all the talk and build-up and excitement that comprises a New York "snow event," the sky lifts, nightfall comes, the temperature drops, and it's over. By the next morning, New Yorkers will be going about their business. "Cyclonic bomb?" What bomb? It was just...a snowy day.

Why not an artsy foreign film?

Why not an artsy foreign film?

Back home in Brooklyn.

Back home in Brooklyn.

Vichy at Daybreak

Hard to imagine the last time I tended to this was in a snowstorm in Nebraska. Fast forward to a beautiful morning in July. My wife is sound asleep at dawn. I stroll out on the skinny verandah of our hotel, five floors above the city of Vichy. A smeared line of sunrise paints itself across the morning clouds. I stare for the longest moment, throw on my jeans and climb into the tiny lift that cranks itself down to floor zed. It seems like so many years ago I used to take to the street with two cameras strung around my neck (one for black and white film, one for color). It's easier to capture images today. So why does it sometimes feel so hard. 


A week ago Saturday I marched with 400,000 people down Fifth Avenue in New York. Sunday morning, while enjoying a stroll through, I saw a nice storm system brewing out over the Rockies and picking up speed heading east. Thanks to a large number of frequent flyer miles and a twelve-dollar-a-day rental car, I was able to get to Denver to go experience a two-lane highway I had traveled once before, and promised myself I'd re-visit someday in a blizzard.

The images below are as surreal and otherworldly as they seem. I returned to New York to learn that we were closing our door to strangers. Over the course of my journey, I experienced nothing but kindness. We pushed one another's cars out of snow banks, made buckets of chicken noodle soup in the Quality Inn when all the restaurants closed, and shared whisky, stories and laughter as the storm blew through. No one closed any doors. There didn't seem to be much need to "make America great, again." We were doing just fine.

Two Philosophies

"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more."
–Howard Beale, from Network

"Can't we all just get along."
–Rodney King

So much came out of Saturday, I'm surprised we didn't break the Internet. (Can you do that?) I decided to post just a few pictures because we were there – my wife and younger son and I – and I loved that Matty felt like he was a part of history. I think everyone did. But even more hopeful, so many issues got voiced that it felt like we were witnessing a beginning, not just a moment in time. Now I find myself wondering where we go next. I am glad I am not alone.  

Two Weeks, 11,000 miles

It is by pure happenstance that so much has happened since the boys and I moved out of our apartment (which in answer to the question many have asked – yes! – we are staying in Brooklyn. Just looking for a smaller place since Ben is off to college.)

I have driven 2,000 miles around America and then, on the eve of the election, jumped on a plane and flew about as far as you can fly. Sitting here on my last day in Capetown, I decided the juxtaposition of a few images might be in order.

Read into these images what you may. I am chockful of opinions. It seems plenty of folks these days are. So in the spirit of peace, love & understanding, I figured I'd close with one lasting shot that I suspect will leave everyone with at least a smile from a very tempestuous fall. (Mea culpa Cleveland fans.) I'm heading home.

Taking Stock

It's been a good run!

I've swum with the fishes and shared the stage with the guys from Hamilton. I've met athletes and sportscasters, presidents and prime ministers, and managed to feed the boys this winter. Eight nonstop months of corporate work has kept me busy beyond belief. So what have I learned from this cavalcade of rich experience? What's keeping me up at night, as I draw my first unencumbered breaths of freedom?

Still a writer. 

In between the work and my never-dull commuter marriage and 100,000 real miles flown, above, I found time to do a book group in Evanston for FOOD FOR MARRIAGE. (And let me tell you, these guys were tough!) Every once in a while I take a peek at my Amazon account and I was shocked the other day to find a sparkling review from a woman in Indiana who had somehow found my novel and made it HER book club choice. A complete stranger! Guess that's where the 12 sales in March came from.

Make no mistake. We writer-types like attention. We crave it. Need it! Sure we'd like to be the author who lands that crazy elusive six-figure deal, but those are about as rare as affordable rent in Brooklyn. I am part of a sizable writing community and to a letter we all do it for the same reason. Because we have to! That 3 a.m. treadmill of pillow clutching ideas needs a home. And for the diehards, no matter how many pundits predict the death of print, we still see the novel in all its dog-eared glory, as salvation realized from the pulp of trees.

So, with a little room to breathe, I took a week off (oh, except to co-produce and write a documentary film, because masochist/artists need more than one way to not make a living). I stared at the stacks on my desk. Three novels complete, vetted, beloved, and ready for sale. Two nonfiction proposals done, awaiting agency gold. And two new works in progress – one fiction, one nonfiction. 

Monday to-do list? Return to literature. I ran into a friend and fellow creative  I'd not seen in ages, at a party last night. He commented that I seemed happy. "New gig?" he asked. "You bet!" I replied. We clinked glasses. Time to return to self. 

An Incredibly Rare Occurrence

70 degrees in Chicago in December? Yep, rare indeed. My wife and I in the same town with no deadlines, no airport to run to, and absolutely nothing to do on a Sunday afternoon? Well? In fact, unheard of. And precious. We have none of our four children, today. We have read the Times. Finished a novel, each. And I cannot promise that a rainy Sunday afternoon movie is not in store. But first, may I wax poetic about...

Fishball soup!

This recipe was inspired by a walk past a new Asian market on East 32nd Street between Fifth and Broadway, where in the frozen section I stumbled upon a small plastic bag with a dozen of aforementioned balls. I have flown 12,000 miles and walked a dusty road in Mae Hong Son just to find this delicacy, sold from a street cart where all you could do was point at the ingredients and pray. 

Part two – the piece de resistance for this weekend chef – a bag of bones. Yes, fish bones. Behold.

Disgusting? Oui. Being handed out for free by the Montauk fishmonger at the Grand Army Plaza farmer's market on a late autumn weekend. How could I say no?!

Hence the pieces came together. It's Saturday night. Your wife's in Rwanda. The kids are out. The sauvignon blanc has a nice crisp chill. Got your balls in the freezer and your bones in a bag? What else to do but try something new.

The recipe is so simple it is scary. Add water and a little white wine to cover the bones. Toss in chopped celery, onions, clams, mussels, aromatics, a bay leaf, peppercorns: basically the kitchen sink will do. Simmer for 45 minutes. Not more, not less. Every web recipe (for where else would you look when saddled with a bag of bones?) warned that fish stock will turn bitter if cooked too long. I measured nothing but tasted often. Out went the bones at precisely the right moment.

The rest was easy. Strain the broth. Add a couple of packets of chewy fresh udon noodles, also from the Asian market. Toss in the balls and simmer for 10 minutes. Dump on the chopped green onion and cilantro. Add sriracha or fish sauce to taste. The end result? Pure bliss!

In Memory of The Original Blogger

A lot has happened in a few short weeks. Our world has changed. Or it has not. That just depends on how one chooses to view the events. New and calamitous, or more of the same and we are just beefing up our coping strategies. Again.

Here is one tiny blip in my universe. My father, who died a year and a half ago, wrote a blog called VIEWPOINT for the latter dozen years or so of his life. I still can't figure out 95% of the features on my cell phone and when I hear the word "app," I think of oysters or a plate of cheese. My dad managed his own website and was still posting in his 95th year.

I mention this in passing because my sister shared an email he received the other day from his web server. "Your domain expired on November 07, 2015."  I have no doubt my dad would have been pleased that his domain lived on long after the desk lamp went out.

When I started The Ramen Blog, I made myself a promise not to compete with my father's Viewpoint. It was strong, believe me. And I have always wanted The Ramen Blog to leave politics aside and stay focused on food, art, music, design, and the relationship of all things creative to the things that move us in life. However, I am going to stray this once and opine. 

My wife and I got hooked into a re-watch of Aaron Sorkin's brilliant "The American President" on some cable channel well north of the 100s, last night. Michael Douglas played POTUS and his ax to grind was legislation that would eliminate guns and reduce crime. He falls in love with a lobbyist played by Annette Benning who was hellbent on jamming home a bill that would reduce  global warming. And Richard Dreyfuss played the extremist Republican opponent Bob Rumson, who besmirched the character of anyone who crossed his path and vowed to make America "a winner" again. Great movie. Amazing acting, tremendous direction.

In today's New York Times, Frank Bruni writes: "We lose the war against ISIS if we don't get serious about our presidential candidates."

Here is Michael Douglas's response to the Richard Dreyfuss attacks on his presidency. "We've got serious problems, and we need serious people." 

The release date of "The American President"? 1995! Twenty years ago!! Hmmmm.

If my father was still around, I knew the irony would have sent him running to his computer. So I dedicate this column to him. Go Daddy! Your domain may have expired but your views live on.