The Scripted Goodbye

As my father gently fades out in his 96th year, the friends who have known me forever are all poised for the inevitable announcement. A week ago I flew to California to steal a visit as word had filtered back east that his lucidity was wavering. For the umpteenth time this winter, I waited as a plane was de-iced. 8 hours later I climbed out of my car in the Palm Desert  warmth. When I unlatched the wooden gate and walked onto the patio, my dad, nattily dressed in a sweater and slacks, looked up at me. 

"That's my boy, Kenny!" he announced to no one in particular with this great craggy smile.

We had Mexican that night at an old favorite spot and my father paid lip service to his enchilada and beer. From there it was all down hill. By the time I left two days later, he had stopped eating and was barely getting out of bed. I waited as long as I could to leave, then gingerly entered his bedroom. He lay in a fetal position, in slacks and a velour pullover, curled up in sleep. I listened to his breathing for a long while, searching for what to say, before I came up with some uninspired words. He startled me when he awoke.

"You're going back to New York?" 

Out of his wavering blue, such a pristine recognition. It left me speechless. I sputtered for a moment and then finally said, "Seeya later old man." Not in an un-gentle way. It's just what came out. Real this time, and unscripted. Because he was...an old man.

Raw

The restaurant I will never open, with the ill-advised above name, serving foods no one will ever eat, probably should be filed away for a later (much!) day. That said, fresh Montauk tuna, a dollop of Fleischer's upstate beef, a smear of wasabi, a pinch of Il de Re salt, and a little fresh-ground? What I live for at the end of the day. Just add a wee dram, jazz on BGO, and perhaps a short CNN chaser?

Spaghetti, Airplanes & Snow

As long back as I can recall, I have always gauged my mental health by a barometer comprised of the 3 categories above. In the past month I have flown 27,000 real miles. My comfort meal every time I return home from a trip remains a bowl of spaghetti (or macaroni if you prefer) and a can of store-bought tomato sauce. And based on the pictures below, snapped in three states over the past ten days, 2014 is looking bright. Happy, Happy New Year everyone!! Wishing each and every one of you a steaming bowl of noodles on a crisp winter's day!

Tribute to Madiba

There was an urgent wind tugging off of Table Mountain. We'd just had some of the best and hottest dried chili beef I've ever had, at a restaurant called Saigon. Mouthwatering. Eyes, too. We closed the place and hiked back up the steep hill to our guest house. In our room we popped on the TV. We were barely paying attention when I looked up from my New Yorker, drawn by the silence of the screen. An urgent message scrolled at the bottom, but Geri had already cried out. "Mandela!"

Capetown is what Madiba stared out at for 27 years, a mere few kilometers across the bay from his prison cell on Robben Island. By remarkable coincidence, I had booked two tickets for the ferry over, scant hours before Mandela passed away. We were the first people on the island on the day South Africa lowered its flags to half mast. Here are some memories from that week.

The news was as jolting as the stark compound we wandered. Unlike most US tourist sites, I had little problem lingering behind and finding myself alone in the prison courtyard. The feeling was palpable.

We ended our trip at Camp's Bay, a spot blessed by nature and embraced by many. The main drag celebrated Capetown's version of cafe life, but the real action was down by the shore. Kids played a long jump game on the grassy hillside while others took to the pounding surf. There's plenty of concern about post-Mandela South Africa, but at least on this pretty Saturday, it was just another day at the beach.

A New York City Education

This week has been somewhat of The Perfect Storm if you happen to be the parent of two New York City public school kids: one, a 10th grader in an urban high school and the other, an 8th grader staring down the face of auditions for New York's elite performing arts campuses (if you're not from the city, think FAME).  

In between my normal work week and daily commute on various subways between Park Slope and Manhattan, I have been to three high schools spread out from Queens to the far reaches of Brooklyn, watching young Matthew test the waters of where he will spend his next four years. On top of his AP homework load, we have been out past 10 o'clock every night going through the tour and audition process. Add on Ben's parent-teacher meetings and getting the full scoop on learning Latin, Chem and Trig in classes of 34 people in a school of 4,000 and you get a good flavor of why so many friends outside of NY are daunted by our choice to put kids through this. The results are not always easily quantified. 

 Last night, both my guys were out with friends in the city. Geri and I enjoyed dinner at a superb neighborhood Japanese restaurant (Yamoto on 7th), and testimony to Brooklyn parenting, truly did not worry a lick about subways, our kids, or their whereabouts in Manhattan on a Friday night. They are street smart and they've earned our trust. That's part of living here, too.

When Ben got home around 10:30, he was starving (probably because he is a teenager and had only eaten 14 times so far yesterday!). I handed him a twenty and shooed him out to score some Chinese. He came back 10 minutes later with a sack of food and no change. I gave him the "huhhh?" look and here is what he said.

"Jake looked hungry and cold, so I bought him a big thing of eggdrop wonton soup." 

Jake is our local -- what is the politically correct word for this? -- homeless guy. We have known him for years. He is a friendly smile, a craggy-toothed hello, sometimes a thousand-mile stare, but never a threat. Not even close. He's been telling my boys to "read a good book" since we moved here. In a way, he is nearly family. None of us has a clue where he goes at nights. Maybe we should, but you can't fix everything. Not in New York. 

Words cannot convey what I felt as a parent, hearing that my son, of his own accord, bought a guy on a cold street corner a hot container of soup. There is no grade for that. It doesn't add points to his PSAT. It doesn't go on the high school transcript. But it is a beautiful example of street education. Life lessons learned outside of the classroom. And a reminder of why, as a parent, even on the hardest of weeks, I am so darned proud watching my kids grow up in NYC. 

The Casting List: Round One

Thank you, all, for your many suggestions, ideas, and directions that helped create this initial list. It is a template and a great start for the ongoing collaborative process that will help us spark the next steps in taking FOOD FOR MARRIAGE from book to screenplay to the screen! The list is both aspirational and inspirational. Please, please keep sharing your ideas. It is fun, inspiring, and hugely appreciated.

Food for Marriage: Casting Call

When Lucy awakens one New York morn and hits the Greenmarket...

She decides with her conductor husband, Lionel, to throw a party. 

The occasion is the arrival of Lucy's best friend, Nicole - the first of the group to divorce - and now appearing with a new beau in tow. 

In honor of Nicole's debut, the whole gang is invited. Dan the aspiring actor is just one scene away from his big break.

And his wife Nora, the writer, is awaiting that first book deal.  

Paula and Chuck fight their way in from the 'burbs.

While epicurean extraordinaire Lucy throws herself into prep for the grand affair.

4 couples, eight friends, one day... 

And an evening no one will soon forget. 

Food for Marriage. A Novel by Ken Carlton. Soon to be a film that asks all the important questions about, well, you know... 

Veil of tears

Walk down Garfield to 7th Avenue and look past Old First Church towards the city. The air is thick with humidity and visibility is damp -- if that is possible. You can just make out one of the beams from the Twin Lights Memorial. It is easy to spot. The streets are so quiet tonight, but the few people who are out at 10:30 p.m. are all looking up. That's what we do on 9/11 here in New York. You look up and remember -- where you were that day, who you knew, what you were doing. If you have kids maybe you watch a little trauma TV and relive those awful moments. I've been wondering for this whole first week of school what it was going to take to get mine to put their cell phones down for a moment. The site of those planes, and the cascading towers sure worked. 

The intensity of the beam is forming what looks like a well -- a directionless cannon of light -- seemingly moving both up and down against the backdrop of thick cloud. I swear it looks like some weird Twilight Zone scene, a waterfall of tears stretching from above the trees of Park Slope into the night sky. I'm not an insanely spiritual kind of guy, at least not in that way. But it is really hard not to gaze into that pulsating beam and imagine all the lost souls being remembered tonight. Thoughtful day. Sad evening. 

Sunday Morning Sunshine

Morning coffee and a spin into Manhattan. 

A Visit Down Under (Brooklyn Smorgasbord)

Fear of Hip can be daunting. I have heard and read so much about some of the groovy Bklyn food scene that there are experiences perhaps I have missed. My trucker's beard is graying writer's grizzle. My single gear bike is actually a 1984 Raleigh 10-speed. And my kids are so much infinitely cooler than me that I worry anywhere I take them mgmt will demand ID, and I'll be the one left out in the rain. So I was pleasantly surprised when Matty & I -- solo with the older bro off at sleepaway -- ventured down to Dumbo in the shimmering midday heat. The food was good. The people, excessively normal. The views, well. Yeah. But the discovery of the day? The plum blueberry People's extremely frozen, fruity, and zestfully tangy pop may well have been the best piece of food product I have ever tasted in my life. At least yesterday. I am definitely going back for more.

Matthew! Passages.

He arrived in Rockport, MA without a lot of fuss, his mother all but certain we were having a girl. But our "Phoebe" was a Matty and the year after 9/11 we decided Brooklyn was our home. Not all the transitions were easy, but through it all, Garfield Temple was always there: pre-school, summer camp, Hebrew School, and finally, this. We live 8 brownstones down the hill from Congregation Beth Elohim. It was all so seamless that sometimes it felt like home. Even on the days I did not notice, Matty made it so. Bar mitzvah is the missing thread in my convoluted fabric. Watching Matthew accept his Tallis from Grandma and Grandpa completed me. And began a new journey for him -- my Matty, my guy -- artist, singer, poet, thinker. Parents always say they couldn't be prouder. I know exactly what that means.

The Dangling Conversation

Last night I attended my first book club, hosted by a dear old friend, Jenny, whom I probably learned to read with in 2nd grade in Ardsley, New York. I didn't really know what to expect, riding out to Astoria, Queens on the N train, a tad nervous as I enjoyed the muted sun hanging over the NYC skyline on a humid summer's night. When I buzzed Jenny's apartment, I overheard her saying, "The author is here!" Somehow, those words put this whole experience into a new perspective for me. I felt like Bobby DeNiro in Taxi Driver. "You talking to me?"

 Nearly a dozen women and men greeted me. The food spread was divine, the bar well-stocked. I have only heard about book groups for the past countless years. I have never actually attended one. Even trying to write about it brings out a fairly serious bout of shyness in me. I will say but a few things. Yes, it was thrilling to be in the catbird seat as this very well-read group spent well over an hour analyzing my novel. Yes, my jitters vanished almost instantly, because the material is so near and dear to my heart that it was a joy to hear what others had to say. And most of all, I am recharged and enthusiastic about the future of books. I know all the headlines are ringing the death knell of print, and B & N is on the ropes, and Amazon is going to take over the planet. That is what you read. But one need only sit with this group and revel in their enthusiasm for books -- not just mine -- books in general. These folks like to read! And long after we had finished our discussion of Food for Marriage, the talk continued long into the night, about the pleasures of the written word and the cathartic release that reading brings for all of us. 

It was a wonderful experience and a beautiful group of people. I was grinning all the way back to Brooklyn. And on those low days when the words just won't come, or I wonder why bother at all? I will remember an evening in Queens. My first book group. Like all firsts, it is a night that will linger sweetly.

Clams!

Can't sell them to my kids. Wife won't bite. But they are so darned fun to make. Perfect Saturday night single Dad/commuter marriage recipe. (When the wife's away, the bivalves will play?)  So easy to make, you don't even need instructions. Here you go. Oil. garlic. Pepper flakes. NZ Cockles. Shake. Open. Pasta. Parsley. Done!

The Prince Shall Have No Soup

On the morning before the opening gala of the Arab Youth Leadership Summit in Dubai, I sat in the villa of a Saudi prince on the Arabian Sea. I was surrounded by his entourage as we spread out our work on a long glass table filled with fruits, yogurts and breads ordered from the 5-star hotel. For the next four hours the Prince and I forged his opening remarks. He shared his views. I scribbled notes and read aloud from sections that I had turned into scripting on the spot. Then the Prince’s people would argue interminably in Arabic as I sat alone staring out beyond the infinity pool at the flat, calm sea. The Burj Al Arab sparkled in the near distance.

The next morning the Prince delivered his opening remarks to His Highness Sheikh Mohammed and a thousand guests. Over 100 members of the media covered the event. My speech seemed to go over well, though since it was delivered in Arabic, I have no idea whether he spoke a word I had written.

That afternoon I was called into a meeting with the Prince’s attaché, a large, serious man in a robe that could barely contain his belly. The only other person at the meeting was the event producer – Della – a force from California who I have traveled the world with. The three of us sat alone at an enormous dining table in one of the hotel’s ornate banquet rooms.

As we chatted about the day’s crammed schedule, a tureen of soup was delivered from the industrial kitchen which I could just make out through the swinging doors. I was starving. I took one spoonful. It tasted of lentils and cumin, and was delicious. Before I could dip my spoon in again, a team of waiters marched out and removed our bowls. Della, the attaché, and I continued our meandering dialogue. My stomach began to rumble. A half-hour later the waiters returned. Another steaming soup was set before us in a gold and blue inlaid bowl. The aroma of mulligatawny intoxicated me. I managed one taste before the bowl was whisked away.

By the time the fifth offering arrived, we had been in the meeting for nearly three hours and accomplished nothing that I could surmise. Our Arab friend with the expansive belly unwrapped his large silver spoon from a linen napkin. Della and I watched. He took one tiny, well-mannered sip and snapped his fingers. The waiters stood aside, forming a line, and out of nowhere, the chef appeared. The room hung in silence. The attaché addressed the chef in a quiet but firm voice.

“The Prince shall have no soup.”

In a flash of dark hands through flowing white sleeves, the table was cleared.  The attaché rose and bowed slightly. The meeting was adjourned.

I returned to the Villa where the sun was starting its slow descent to the sea, and began to work on the Prince’s next speech

Brooklyn-Queens Day In New York.

Kids out of school. Office is quiet. Trop Storm Andrea moving up the coast tomorrow. Light the grill tonight? Hmmm.....

How to get to Chicago

The Lakeshore Limited pulls out of Penn Station right on time at 3:40 p.m. To most, my delight at resorting to this mode of transportation between New York and Chicago is somewhere between a chuckle and a horror. Admittedly it is not for everybody. Anyone in a hurry, for example. Or not at one with a wide and eclectic mix of travelers. You meet precious few Quakers on American Airlines between LGA and ORD. Or ex-cons. Or foamers.

Amtrak Train #49 hugs the Hudson River for the first two hours of the journey. The left side of the coach car is paramount. Bring food. The snack lounge does not open until six.

In Albany/Rensselaer there is an hour-long stop where the Boston leg of the train meets up with the New York faction. This is where the smokers smoke and the foamers (rail fans who purportedly drool at the sight of a locomotive or similar) foam. It is a good time to stretch your legs. The night on The Lakeshore Limited is long. It is where the action is.

Outside of Utica we come to a halt. On an airport tarmac, this is known as a problem. On Amtrak, it barely registers. By now I have retired to the Café. If one is desirous of Amtrak pizza, or perhaps an Angus beef burger, this is the place to be. It is not as dire as it sounds. There is also a faux-elegant dining car attached, where I always go with the kids when we do this trip together. It is a cherished highlight. The pasta isn’t bad.

A tree has come down on the tracks somewhere up by Syracuse. We pace the night platform, strangers puffing away like old friends. We have nothing but time on our hands. Where else in the world will you ever hear the words: “All aboard!”

We are three hours late into Erie. I only notice because my whisky is running low and the sky edges are growing crinkly blue and pink. I find two empty seats in coach. The legs extend like business class on an airplane. I can curl up just enough to simulate bedtime. I awake to “Indiana’s early morning dew”  (thank you Billy Joel). Two hours later we are coming out into a chilly drizzle by the Chicago River. Over the course of 800 miles I’ve snacked and napped and plowed through half a pint of Clan MacGregor (Johnnie W. would be an awkward stranger on this run). I've also written 14 pages of a chapter of a new book. It feels like trains were made for this. I am rested and energized and ready to meet my wife for lunch.

Sunday Night. Who's Up For Chinese?

If you build it, they will come. Madison Square Eats, NYC

​Morning commute. An empty space. Blacktop desert. A stack of chairs. Workers with smokes. Curious onlookers strolling by.  End of day? The place is four-deep at every stand, throngs streaming in from all directions. Tables jammed with happy, chomping people. 31 days in May. Madison Square.  Good eats!

The Woman In Seat 9B

Subject: Grandma from the Plane.

Message: Ken, This is Grace. I sat next to you on the plane a couple of weeks ago and downloaded your book. I wanted to touch base and let you know I finished Food For Marriage and really enjoyed it. I was disappointed at the end, because it ended. From the very beginning I felt like I was reading about old friends and catching up with their lives and thoughts. I can see a series here where readers will want to catch up on the lives of each of your characters. Best of luck to you and maybe I will see you on a plane again one day soon. Grace

Memories That Last A Lifetime

When I think back to my camp days, I can remember the names of the counselors who led the Color War teams. I can still hum the words that we made up to their college fight songs, and smell the toasted coconut marshmallows from "trunk" - that treasure trove of candy & junk our parents sent by the pound - back when we were campers.  We watched man walk on the moon, learned how to undo a flannel shirt that was not our own, and linked arms and sang "Friends, Friends, Friends" at the end of every evening activity. 

My son Ben and two of his best pals have been making those same memories for the past several years at a small camp by a pretty lake that I shall leave nameless. We heard last week that one of their beloved counselors was killed in Afghanistan. Word was passed by email. We shared the news with our boys, held them close, made our deposits, and planned for another upcoming summer. A summer dedicated, the camp has announced, to the memory of a soldier who made our kids smile - and I'm sure most of us didn't even know - tried to make the world a little bit better place through his service, in a place that is anything but camp.​

​These don't feel like very easy days to grow up in at all. My memories of camp are from the tumultuous '60s. And yet I remember it as a time of laughter, friendship and amazing love. I wonder how my boys will remember their summer camp days...