Thirteen years ago my wife and I were together in Rockport, MA raising two boys, aged 1 and 3. Today, we're apart, raising two teenagers in Brooklyn, NY. The photographs below were captured and posted coincidentally within minutes of one another, just before midnight on 9/11. Different lives, similar sentiment.
I have mercilessly teased a dear friend of mine for always insisting on grilling the waiter about the provenance of her salmon. I am a huge consumer of raw fish (I eat so much raw tuna it is quite possible that I glow in the dark), and I am not picky. If it looks and smells fresh, game on. Farmed. Organic. Line caught on a cloudy day. Whatever.
That was until last month when my friends brought home local Atlantic salmon from the fishmongress at the Intermarche in La Jarrie. I was skeptical, but assigned the task of chef I did my thing (despite being relegated to a gas grill. Mon dieu!)
The result? I am nearly at a loss of words. This fish -- with nothing more than a little oil, herb de provence and sea salt -- was beyond belief! The flavor, the texture. Mouthwatering is the best word I can come up with. If Scotland secedes from the UK in 2 weeks, my grill dollars are on their second best-known export. Goes well with rice pilaf and a wee dram.
I've been coming here since my early twenties: love at first sight. To this day, like New York, I feel at home the minute my feet hit the pavement. So what an incredible surprise it was to find myself a newcomer to Pere Lachaise. First stop, its most iconic American resident.
Next up, a visit with the Republic's most famous chanteuse.
It was heartening to see reverent crowds at the stone of one of the world's great bards. His grave has been updated and glass surrounds it for protection. Still, the tributes are dropped over the side by fans of a writer who has not written in a very long time.
The park where all these amazing spirits reside is huge and the kids were completely taken.
You'd have to be a scholar of French history, or spend many days burning out your Google to even touch the number of famous people laid to rest here, but some of the monuments were especially sobering.
Then others offered a lighter perspective on lasting passage.
There was no lack of literary greatness.
But what I found most special of all were the incredible images that captured the eye and imagination at every turn of the path.
Odds are when we NY types think of Wisconsin the word "Madison" comes to mind. Or perhaps the Brewers. Milwaukee. Green Bay! But even when you think of the Packers, who has ever referred to them as Wisconsin's team? So when my wife proposed a summer's week in Door County, my first question was, 'Where the heck is that?'
This is what happens when you marry into the Midwest.
There is a county called Door that looks a lot like Cape Cod.
But as close as you are to the water - Green Bay and Lake Michigan are just a few miles apart - you're never far from the American heartland.
There's plenty of good food to eat.
But most of all, no matter what direction you aim your bicycle or car, you find this incredible rich patchwork of images, all scattered and hidden at the very top of the Great Lakes.
First: On the front page of the New York Times, a picture of children killed by bombs on a beach, taken by a long-ago photographer acquaintance of mine. All I could think of was my step-nephew and other friends and relatives currently scattered across various locations in the umbrella of Middle East war.
When I got to work and logged in, I was greeted by a plane that had fallen from the sky over Europe. Within minutes, we knew it had been shot down and my wife and I were thinking about whether she would feel safe flying from her upcoming business in Malaysia to Paris in a few weeks to join me and the boys for holiday. The thoughts felt small in light of such tragic loss. The fear was real. I abandoned my office at midday to escape the news vortex and suck up a little comfort from the street. NYC rarely disappoints.
You try to move on. But with lunch not long over, I snuck a glance. Microsoft had edged into the headlines with news of a five-figure layoff. Nick Bilton of the Times wrote today about trying to wean ourselves from social media addiction. Good luck with that! Now we were wondering if a good friend was about to join the ranks of the unemployed.
Day over. I find myself glued to CNN. Lives lost on MH 17 were enroute to the AIDS Conference in Sydney. We had talked about going just weeks ago. We have friends there now. The distribution of pain. So much to go around in just a few short hours. Six degrees of separation? I wonder how many others were palpably touched by the events of the day.
My favorite Simon and Garfunkel song.
You know you're really home when you can derive such joy from your old Schwinn 10-speed, a summer's afternoon, and a ride through your town with no destination. Been to Ikea. Been to Fairway. But never really explored Red Hook. Here is what I found.
What can I say about Matty? My sister said someone should follow that kid around with a pad of paper, when he was four! No surprise he's turned out a bit on the artsy side like, say, his Dad? First stop? Village Cinema for subtitled Swedish film about rebellious punk youth in 80s Stockholm.
Next, a stroll through the East Village, where we opted for spicy Ramen, gyoza, and delicious yakitori skewers at Japanese hole-in-the-wall Oh Taisho.
Crosstown to Soho and the place is jumping.
Then, to complete the cultural journey, on Matty's cue a visit to Israeli-based Aroma for his beverage of choice, a sweet reminder of his trip to Israel this winter.
I couldn't have asked for a better pre-Father's Day date!
Food season has finally arrived in NY! Lunchtime and a book at Madison Square Park. The Mister Softee trucks have re-appeared. Wonderful smells are on the march at every smoky turn. Below: Madison Square Eats. A dense, packed triangle of pure joy.
Richard in the middle. Love those ties!
Some of my earliest memories of my father were the stories he'd tell about his job, in particular the three-martini luncheons he'd share with his fellow TV executives in the 1960s when he worked on Madison Avenue for Trans Lux Television. Dad smoked Newports. He dressed sharply, smelled of Mennen aftershave, and he'd come home in the evening and talk about what he ate for lunch at those meetings. I'm not sure my sibs cared, but I specifically recall something called "The King Henry Cut," which was a slab of beef, apparently of gargantuan proportions. I'm guessing his colleagues have passed on too, perhaps a long time ago, considering the health benefits of 22 ounces of marbled prime washed down with vodka and maybe a Napoleon chaser. I thought Dad was cool. I could not get enough of those stories.
The early days of film. Truly.
We were decidedly middle class, living literally on the downside of the busy road that separated Scarsdale from Ardsley. There was never a Cadillac or Mercedes in our garage. But I was definitely the only kid on the block with a screening room in his basement. For our earliest birthday parties my Dad would bring home 16 mm film reels from work. He would carefully ratchet them up on our Bell & Howell projector and then show home movies before cake: Felix the Cat, Speed Racer, Gigantor, and a show I suspect no living person remembers called Mack & Meyer for Hire. We were five. It was the bomb!
Proud Felix.
Later, when he took a job with the AFI, we transplanted to the Maryland suburbs for my high school years. He cut a hole in the family room wall, installed soundproof glass, and set up the movie projector in the laundry room behind the wall. A Marimekko print hung over the glass, only removed for screenings, now in the comfort of our overwrought black and white furnished "den." About once a month he brought home short films made by the AFI directing students. I'm sure that one of those early works he screened called "The Lost Phoebe" is why I went on to study film and begin my professional life as a screenwriter.
My father was marvelously proud of his career and not long before his death he assigned me the task of writing his obituary. Frankly, this was an assignment I would have rather turned down, and I did ultimately put it off until he could not have a say in rewrites. I knocked off an okay first draft, but one line landed on the cutting room floor.
I wouldn't say I've followed in his footsteps. He was a businessman. I am a writer. But there isn't a doubt in my mind that his business -- and the creative vision that it planted in my head -- fueled the passion that drives me to the keys every single day. Thanks Dad. I often dreamed I'd be saying that from a much larger stage, but this will have to do. So it didn't make the Times obit pages. It still counts just fine.
Richard, during his Executive Director days of the International Council of NATAS, with the head writer of the broadcast, chatting with his mom.
Early on, during this revelatory process of "self publishing," a writer friend told me she spends 2-4 hours a day on "social media." At the time I thought she was nuts. Now, I understand. She is just hungry, like every writer I know who has written and has one goal: to be read. I'm pretty sure most people who enjoy reading understand that writers do not get rich off of books. We have other jobs. We write other things. That pay the bills. So we can write. More books.
I have been so honored, thrilled and plain ol' pleased to grow a readership with FOOD FOR MARRIAGE -- a book that does not exist in a bookstore (yet!) -- by simply reaching out in every conceivable way I know, to attract people to the pages and give it a look-see. In return I get emails from strangers on planes. I sometimes get to read in public places. And I have been fortunate enough to attract the interest of friends' book groups. Several of these friends have asked if I would come join them for an evening. So last week I decided to stage my own mini-version of a Book Tour. Arlington Heights, IL and Longwood, FL. Back-to-back evenings as it turned out. I confess: I was a little nervous. What if they hated my novel? What if they hated me???
My fears, of course, were unfounded. In reality, I just was lucky to be admitted to two really cool clubs. Sure, we talked about FOOD FOR MARRIAGE and I learned plenty -- about marriage, relationships, parenting, romance, intimacy and friendship. I was thrilled to experience the sparks that my words ignited, as these women who love books launched incredible conversations off the backs of characters I invented. I got to encourage a 14-year old daughter to fight back her fear of failing and pursue her own writing craft. And long after we'd retired the dog-eared pages of my novel, I got to sit up late with really interesting women, drink a little wine (well, a lot of wine), tell some stories, laugh, and also, celebrate books.
Maybe the best part of all was watching each group make their next selection. For those who read the writing on the wall and think books are dead, they need merely join a book club to learn otherwise. And for all my writer friends who paper their garrets with the heartbreaking string of knowing rejection letters (and believe me, I have plenty of wallpaper!), take hope. Two dozen women in two different states, far from the cubicles of NYC, convinced me. Real readers are hungry for great characters, great stories and a great time.
My new novel is complete and making the rounds. To the passionate readers -- my newfound friends -- who ALL asked, when's your next book coming out? Save my seat at the table. The answer is soon, and I can't wait to see you again.
Accent on the second syllable. Is there anything better than wandering through the bookstore and finding exactly what you are in the mood for and getting psyched for a good weekend read???
I did nothing today. So I did something, tonight.
Not exactly true. I worked hard. I wrote. About international shipping, and data; sales numbers, nanotechnology, and the environment.
My day job. I created all day. I earned. I put food on the table. A little something to show.
My friend Roy has a day job, too. He teaches music at a New York City high school. No easy feat, for sure. Roy also writes. And plays. And creates. We used to coach Little League together. Our kids still hang. The grownups occasionally get together. Tequila is sometimes involved.
We all went to see Roy gig tonight. Roy Nathanson & Sotto Voce premiering their new work at The Public in NYC.
I don't know many people who give more to their art than Roy. When he first stepped on stage, he sipped some coffee and thumbed through the pages on his music stand. He looked like it had been a long day at work. By the time his set was complete, the place was exuberant. Roy peered out through the stage lights. He seemed happy. A few moments later he was sitting cross-legged on the stage packing up his horns. I saw his guitarist out on the street, hauling his gear to the subway. Art is sacrifice. And hard work. The reward is mostly in the appreciation. Tonight I hope Roy and Sotto Voce went home wealthy. I know we sure did.
A long time ago in a place known as my burgeoning field of dreams, I had an idea for a screenplay about a young Jewish banker-type from New York who gets sent to Montana on a land deal that he cannot close and, instead, falls in love with the farmer's daughter. Back then I had a day job in the city that I could not quit, but I needed to write this screenplay. Enter The Barn!
Larry was busy building his sandwich empire at Jerry's, based out of his first shop in Wheaton. Barn and I were close -- high school was still near enough in our rearview mirrors that the words 'best friends' still rang with meaning. I Amtrak-ed down to Maryland for the weekend and shared my dilemma with a true entrepreneur, this being back when startups involved hard work and someone actually making something: in Larry's case, heroes with special sauce (schmo as he called it). I spent the afternoon on "the line" with The Barn, making sandwiches, helping out in the shop, watching his staff who simply loved him work their butts off, and having the time of my life.
At the end of the weekend, as I was dejectedly getting ready to return to the dreary reality of my day job in NYC, Larry pulled out a thick envelope. I asked, "What's this?"
"Just stick it in your bag, fill out everything, and pay me back someday. There's a check inside."
No haggling. No negotiations. No worries. Larry made me an employee of his company and advanced me enough seed money to quit my day job. I vanished to the windswept winter coast of Rockport, MA to write the screenplay MONTANA. Six months later I optioned the rights to an Oscar-winning production company in L.A. and my creative writing career began in earnest. I paid Larry back every penny. I have been a professional writer ever since. MONTANA made me several years worth of income and it even had Kevin Kline attached at one point. Sadly, it never made it to the big screen. And I never got to make my Oscar acceptance speech, thanking The Barn for making one very special dream of mine come true.
My high school friends who are reading this will know why I called this piece "Everyone's Best Friend." And even those who didn't know The Barn, surely will remember someone from their teenaged past who was, well, everyone's best friend.
A lot of us lost touch with The Barn over the years. He lived his own life: rich, colorful, successful at times, hard as hell at times. But he lived. Oh my god, Barn lived. For all the tears shed at his loss, Barn leaves every last person who ever met him with a smile. He was larger than life. He was...The Barn. And if you ever were graced by that smile of his, or felt his strong hand on your back, you will never forget him. He was a force we will carry forever.
Two recent visits to the venerable Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown inspired me to take to the knife and attempt a dish by tastebud, sight and invention. A new friend asked a great question: Where did my obsession with cooking come from? I think the answer is closely related to this blog, my books and my chosen profession. I love writing, but at the end of the day, when you have written, most often what you are left with are...words. Tasty, but not always filling. So going back as long as I can recall, preparing food late at night was the reward at the end of a good day. (When we lived in Rockport, splitting wood worked, too.)
As to this curious new medium of which I am always trying to decipher and define, the below culinary excursion defines The Ramen Blog for me, perfectly. Fun fixin's, a little creativity, and super low cost (read: writers & artists are far more often found in the 6-soup-packets-for-$1.99-aisle than in the $15/cocktail speakeasies of NY!)
So...
--Couple of cleaned hunks of squid
--Scallions
--Garlic
--Oil
--Flour
--One packet of Ramen
Total cost, under five bucks. The experience of gettting it right on the first try? Priceless!
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.
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?
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!
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.
