the blue cornflower corningware baked ziti casserole in the middle of the table, a tall yago sangria bottle perched next to it, blue cornflower plated place settings, a loaf of italian bread – it’s 1977.
tiny cut-up bites of grilled cheese sandwiches – the crust cut-off – it’s 1992, it’s 1994.
chicken-cutlet-on-a-roll-with-gravy from the hewitt square deli…or even suzy q’s and michelob – it’s 1977 again.
heaping bowls of coffee ice cream – it’s 1974 and my big brother is there.
kraft macaroni and cheese – it’s 1996.
burgers and fries and champagne – it’s 2013.
baked clams and lobster bisque – back at 1977.
it’s uncanny and an immense joy to time-travel through taste. we have spent hours laughing with our dearest friends talking about the candies and snacks of way-back, the adult beverages along the way, the meals and desserts of growing-up.
and in those moments of reminiscing, we are powerfully struck by the ability to taste-it, to remember, to hold onto something really precious for a few moments again.
towering cloud. monochromatic tones. i took this photograph. i may not have taken a second look but for the wire cutting diagonally across it. it was the interruption that made it – a gorgeous cloud – even more interesting.
i’m not from here.
i am proudly from new york and sunday night out on our deck i reveled in feeling new york. i haven’t felt as new york as i felt that evening in a long time. we were playing records outside and painting rocks. i had selected a few albums – dan fogelberg, john denver, michael murphey, survivor, fleetwood mac – and i was playing dj, picking and choosing the songs to play. we sang along, somehow remembering lyrics of songs we hadn’t heard in ages, a mondegreen or two slipping in.
then i went inside to find a certain album, leaving david to pour a little wine and wonder what i was searching for.
i came back out with the double-album-set of saturday night fever. there is nothing that quite defines 1977 like that album and the bee gees. instantly transported back to the discos and beach bars of long island, i got up and, in the new privacy of our backyard, danced. the more i danced, the more i danced.
i texted a few friends, asking them if they remembered the steps to the hustle. crunch wrote back that he didn’t remember all the steps, but he remembered the spins and sent a picture from a beach bar on the island he was at as he typed his message. marc reminded me he didn’t dance – which i, of course, remembered – and told me – if i was indeed sending him snippets of “stayin’ alive” simply to annoy him – not to be such an “assassination” (which, back in the day, i would say for the word “ass” so as not to cuss. friends would tell you i have come around from those days.)
interrupting our 70s mostly-mellow flow, saturday night fever disco drew a line through the soft wash of memory in which we sat. it invigorated us. it made us dance and it made us laugh. it made a perfect night even more perfect. and it woke up the new york in me, never too far away but always a little at-bay, a little tempered.
new york is a little noisy for wisconsin. new york is a little demonstrative for wisconsin. new york is a little talkative for wisconsin. new york is a little emotional, a little animated for wisconsin. new york is a little exuberant for wisconsin. new york is a little brash for wisconsin. it’s a little center-stage, a little aggressive, a little assertive, a little interruptive.
reverse threading 