Unfunded mandates – that’s who I’ve gone out with most of my life. Or if my mandates got funded, it was about twenty minutes after we split up. Now I’m not one of those wives who put hubby through law school and got left in the lurch when he made partner. I should live so long as to fight over who gets the weekend cottage. I’m just one of those ordinary women in a series of long-term relationships where sometimes I paid the rent, sometimes he did. No problem, no complaint. No money.
At this point in my life, however, I’d like to find a funded mandate. I’m not talking diamond earrings and private jets. I mean someone who could buy me what I want most after decades of hard work: a little free time. Someone who’d say, “That’s okay, honey. You stay home and lie on the couch reading back issues of The New Yorker. I’ll take care of everything.” That kind of mandate.
But funded mandates are hard to find, even if you are as ravishing and witty as I. Funded mandates my age are drawn to womendates who were born sometime during the Reagan administration and who are fierce advocates of trickle-down economics. I’m more of the property-is-theft school of thought, which helps explain my series of unfunded mandates.
My therapist says “Fund your own mandate.” I tell her, that’s what I’ve been doing all this time. It’s not working.
Maybe what I really need is an unmanned fundate, a nice eunuch with a good sense of humor and a healthy bank account. The two of us can lie on the couch reading old magazines and eating chocolate chip cookies, and never go looking for mandates, funded or otherwise, again.
Cookbook Review
What Fresh Hell: Quick ‘n’ Easy Dinners for Unexpected Guests. Bootsy Barnes Boxwood. 112 pages. Homemaker Press. $19.95.
Break out the cooking sherry! That’s the first piece of advice we get from Bootsy Barnes Boxwood, author of Drinking Alone While Cooking for Two, in her new book, What Fresh Hell: Quick ‘n’ Easy Dinners for Unexpected Guests. A self-described “cordon blah chef,” Boxwood now gives us her guide to fine dining at the last minute – after hubby’s called to say he’s bringing the boss home for supper, the Eagle Scouts have just camped in your living room, and the mother-in-law who said she’d never darken your door again shows up.
Ever since the days of Mrs. Beeton, women have looked for time and labor saving ways to run their kitchens. As that eminent Victorian advised in her Book of Household Management (1861), when it comes to cooking, “all terms of indecision should be banished.” Boxwood is the modern Beeton, minus the scullery maid – a woman who is not afraid to wield a can opener and a bottle of ketchup. Let others embrace their James Beard and Julia Child; my choice is Boxwood’s back-to-basics approach to getting dinner over with. It’s not rocket science – but a little fuel sure helps!
Boxwood’s recipes call for an uncommon amount of brandy and vermouth, but that just adds to the warmth around the dinner table as guests enjoy her Casserole à la Colonel and Chili con Corn Flakes. Tuna and minute rice are mainstays, and if you have canned peas, you are ready to entertain. But don’t think this is just another add-mushroom-soup-and-stir cookbook. Boxwood combines convenience with elegance to serve up tasty meals with a truly eclectic range of ingredients -- in fact, whatever’s in the house when the panic sets in. One might quibble with her approach to writing recipes; for those of us who are not natural cooks, a “dash” of this and a “slosh” of that will not be sufficient guidance, but Boxwood allays our anxiety, and hers, with frequent reminders to “sip” -- surely the best way to face down dinner.
No cookbook author can afford to ignore the interest in healthy eating that has swept the nation in recent years. Boxwood avoids artery-clogging corn oil, recommending extra virgin (“at least it was when I bought it!” she quips) olive oil for her Titanic Salad, a clever combination of iceberg lettuce and blue cheese (“at least it was when I bought it!” – Boxwood knows just how far to stretch a joke). She thoughtfully provides the calorie count for the most popular before, during, and after dinner drinks, but her bottom line is this: never mix the grape and the grain. That’s good advice, although a little hard to follow in a book so filled with “good cheer.”
A creative dessert will crown any meal, and here Boxwood excels. Did you know that leftover candy corn makes a great ice cream topping, with or without the ice cream? Boxwood also provides simple centerpiece ideas to suit the season: a pine cone in an ashtray for the winter holidays, a bunny slipper filled with dried-up marshmallow chicks for a festive Easter look; the list goes on.
We look forward to Boxwood’s upcoming Dining after Divorce, a cookbook for women facing re-entry into the job market and a vicious custody battle. In the meantime, have a friend drive you to the bookstore to pick up a copy of What Fresh Hell and then toast yourself for being smart – and “loaded” with great new ideas!
Margaret Burnside
Food Editor
Break out the cooking sherry! That’s the first piece of advice we get from Bootsy Barnes Boxwood, author of Drinking Alone While Cooking for Two, in her new book, What Fresh Hell: Quick ‘n’ Easy Dinners for Unexpected Guests. A self-described “cordon blah chef,” Boxwood now gives us her guide to fine dining at the last minute – after hubby’s called to say he’s bringing the boss home for supper, the Eagle Scouts have just camped in your living room, and the mother-in-law who said she’d never darken your door again shows up.
Ever since the days of Mrs. Beeton, women have looked for time and labor saving ways to run their kitchens. As that eminent Victorian advised in her Book of Household Management (1861), when it comes to cooking, “all terms of indecision should be banished.” Boxwood is the modern Beeton, minus the scullery maid – a woman who is not afraid to wield a can opener and a bottle of ketchup. Let others embrace their James Beard and Julia Child; my choice is Boxwood’s back-to-basics approach to getting dinner over with. It’s not rocket science – but a little fuel sure helps!
Boxwood’s recipes call for an uncommon amount of brandy and vermouth, but that just adds to the warmth around the dinner table as guests enjoy her Casserole à la Colonel and Chili con Corn Flakes. Tuna and minute rice are mainstays, and if you have canned peas, you are ready to entertain. But don’t think this is just another add-mushroom-soup-and-stir cookbook. Boxwood combines convenience with elegance to serve up tasty meals with a truly eclectic range of ingredients -- in fact, whatever’s in the house when the panic sets in. One might quibble with her approach to writing recipes; for those of us who are not natural cooks, a “dash” of this and a “slosh” of that will not be sufficient guidance, but Boxwood allays our anxiety, and hers, with frequent reminders to “sip” -- surely the best way to face down dinner.
No cookbook author can afford to ignore the interest in healthy eating that has swept the nation in recent years. Boxwood avoids artery-clogging corn oil, recommending extra virgin (“at least it was when I bought it!” she quips) olive oil for her Titanic Salad, a clever combination of iceberg lettuce and blue cheese (“at least it was when I bought it!” – Boxwood knows just how far to stretch a joke). She thoughtfully provides the calorie count for the most popular before, during, and after dinner drinks, but her bottom line is this: never mix the grape and the grain. That’s good advice, although a little hard to follow in a book so filled with “good cheer.”
A creative dessert will crown any meal, and here Boxwood excels. Did you know that leftover candy corn makes a great ice cream topping, with or without the ice cream? Boxwood also provides simple centerpiece ideas to suit the season: a pine cone in an ashtray for the winter holidays, a bunny slipper filled with dried-up marshmallow chicks for a festive Easter look; the list goes on.
We look forward to Boxwood’s upcoming Dining after Divorce, a cookbook for women facing re-entry into the job market and a vicious custody battle. In the meantime, have a friend drive you to the bookstore to pick up a copy of What Fresh Hell and then toast yourself for being smart – and “loaded” with great new ideas!
Margaret Burnside
Food Editor
Manhattan, Fall
Dear Dad,
Do you miss the city?
You walked it all your life, and took me with you
through catacombs of schist and gneiss.
You showed me where the dead lie.
For what is this island
but the grave of those who came before
and lay down to make room for the new,
Lenape and Dutchman, free man and slave,
the immigrant and arriviste?
Like a coffin, lined by rivers.
I read about a woman who stood and
felt her husband’s body press against hers
in a rain of ash as the towers fell.
He was a fireman, a hero.
This was after you. You did not see this.
The dust settles, forms a new layer
on city fathers in famous churchyards and
long-lost slaves buried with their cowrie shells,
their babies tucked aside them.
I know there will be others.
A backhoe will find them and work will stop
for a day, a month. The potters field, the family plot –
it makes no difference.
The gap will close. New ghosts will join us.
Dear Dad, are you a ghost?
Do you walk the streets at night,
and scare late travelers and drunks against the wall?
Do you look for me?
Do you miss the city?
You walked it all your life, and took me with you
through catacombs of schist and gneiss.
You showed me where the dead lie.
For what is this island
but the grave of those who came before
and lay down to make room for the new,
Lenape and Dutchman, free man and slave,
the immigrant and arriviste?
Like a coffin, lined by rivers.
I read about a woman who stood and
felt her husband’s body press against hers
in a rain of ash as the towers fell.
He was a fireman, a hero.
This was after you. You did not see this.
The dust settles, forms a new layer
on city fathers in famous churchyards and
long-lost slaves buried with their cowrie shells,
their babies tucked aside them.
I know there will be others.
A backhoe will find them and work will stop
for a day, a month. The potters field, the family plot –
it makes no difference.
The gap will close. New ghosts will join us.
Dear Dad, are you a ghost?
Do you walk the streets at night,
and scare late travelers and drunks against the wall?
Do you look for me?
Perfume
I have worn five perfumes in my life, or rather, “scents,” the preferred industry term. The first was My Sin, by Lanvin, which someone gave me a tiny bottle of when I was nineteen. I loved it: My Sin. It smelled of dried roses rising from ancient velvet. I carried the bottle around with me long after it was empty, like a Victorian lady’s smelling salts.
Then a friend introduced me to Anaïs Anaïs, by Cacharel, one of the signature scents of the seventies. (Another was Brut, but let’s not go there.) AA was the tempermental opposite of My Sin – powdery, girlish, spring-like. I wore it for many years and still love it, but my body chemistry changed, or Cacharel changed the formula, and now it does not last on me more than a few minutes.
One of those irritating scented ads led me to Truth, by Calvin Klein. You must always say it that way: Truth, by Calvin Klein, lowering your voice on the “Calvin Klein” part. I wore it for about four years, until Calvin Klein stopped making it. For a while I could find end-of-stock bottles on random websites – I once ordered it from Wal-Mart – but eventually even those sources dried up. Betrayal, by Calvin Klein.
Unfortunately, the end of the Truth era coincided with the beginning of my Self-Loathing era, and I could not bring myself to go hunting in department stores for another perfume. I was not worthy. I could drag myself into the local Rite-Aid, but the featured perfumes there were inspired by celebrities like Christina, Jessica, and Sarah Jessica. I was too low for J-Lo. I did consider buying one of the Olsen twins’ perfumes, but decided Mary-Kate’s bag lady persona was too close to home while Ashley’s All-American classic was too much of a stretch.
Close to desperation, I started using a perfume sample that a friend had given me -- J’Adore, by Dior. When I had first tried it, I disliked it. It was dark and lugubrious. I still disliked it, but anything was better than the stink of failure and you couldn’t say it was cheap. I was also kind of fascinated by the fact that Charlize Theron was the perfume’s celebrity rep. I had last seen her as an overweight prostitute serial killer, and that did kind of fit my mood, so I sucked up the smell for Aileen’s sake. Wuornos, by Christian Dior.
Don’t worry. I’m in therapy.
Which is how I finally gathered the courage to take a shower and head out to Macy’s to buy my next “real” scent, one that might bear some relation to who I am and might yet be. I knew what I wanted and would not be deterred. I looked like hell and I think the saleswoman felt sorry for me. It did not help that my debit card didn’t go through and my first credit card was turned down. Christ, I thought, it just gets better and better. The second card worked, and I was able to slink out of the store only mildly abashed by the clerk’s solicitous comment: “We all need a little something special sometimes, don’t we?”
Yes we do. And I have gone back to the source, the ur-scent of the modern era, to nurse my battered ego: Chanel No. 5, my parfum nombre cinq.
Then a friend introduced me to Anaïs Anaïs, by Cacharel, one of the signature scents of the seventies. (Another was Brut, but let’s not go there.) AA was the tempermental opposite of My Sin – powdery, girlish, spring-like. I wore it for many years and still love it, but my body chemistry changed, or Cacharel changed the formula, and now it does not last on me more than a few minutes.
One of those irritating scented ads led me to Truth, by Calvin Klein. You must always say it that way: Truth, by Calvin Klein, lowering your voice on the “Calvin Klein” part. I wore it for about four years, until Calvin Klein stopped making it. For a while I could find end-of-stock bottles on random websites – I once ordered it from Wal-Mart – but eventually even those sources dried up. Betrayal, by Calvin Klein.
Unfortunately, the end of the Truth era coincided with the beginning of my Self-Loathing era, and I could not bring myself to go hunting in department stores for another perfume. I was not worthy. I could drag myself into the local Rite-Aid, but the featured perfumes there were inspired by celebrities like Christina, Jessica, and Sarah Jessica. I was too low for J-Lo. I did consider buying one of the Olsen twins’ perfumes, but decided Mary-Kate’s bag lady persona was too close to home while Ashley’s All-American classic was too much of a stretch.
Close to desperation, I started using a perfume sample that a friend had given me -- J’Adore, by Dior. When I had first tried it, I disliked it. It was dark and lugubrious. I still disliked it, but anything was better than the stink of failure and you couldn’t say it was cheap. I was also kind of fascinated by the fact that Charlize Theron was the perfume’s celebrity rep. I had last seen her as an overweight prostitute serial killer, and that did kind of fit my mood, so I sucked up the smell for Aileen’s sake. Wuornos, by Christian Dior.
Don’t worry. I’m in therapy.
Which is how I finally gathered the courage to take a shower and head out to Macy’s to buy my next “real” scent, one that might bear some relation to who I am and might yet be. I knew what I wanted and would not be deterred. I looked like hell and I think the saleswoman felt sorry for me. It did not help that my debit card didn’t go through and my first credit card was turned down. Christ, I thought, it just gets better and better. The second card worked, and I was able to slink out of the store only mildly abashed by the clerk’s solicitous comment: “We all need a little something special sometimes, don’t we?”
Yes we do. And I have gone back to the source, the ur-scent of the modern era, to nurse my battered ego: Chanel No. 5, my parfum nombre cinq.
Junior
When Arthur Schlesinger Jr. died a while back, I found out from his obit (a full page in the New York Times) that he wasn’t a "junior" at all. He had changed his middle name as a young man to that of his father, a distinguished historian. Pursuing the history racket himself, young Arthur made sure he had a leg up, which he needed, because he had quite short legs.
I know this because I used to share an elevator with Junior from time to time, since he taught at the graduate school I attended. Although "taught" might be too strong a word. I was never aware of any course he actually offered. I imagined the school paid him a six-figure salary just to pad around, greet visiting dignitaries, and wander out in the afternoon for a few drinks at the Century Club, one block away. I could be wrong.
I did have one more intimate encounter with Junior, in the drug store right next to the school. It was a wonderfully cheesy place, more like a dollar store, although you could, if you were foolhardy, have a prescription filled there.
It was a few days before Christmas and Art was in the store buying gifts. Yes, at the drug store where the cat food tins were dented and the pharmacist actually smoked at the counter. Art was loading up on cheap perfume and body wash combos, on Old Spice and three bars of lavender soap for two bucks. And he was having them gift wrapped, in a sad drugstore paper with silver diagonal stripes.
You should know that my graduate school was located right off Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan. Lord and Taylor’s was nearby, as were any number of fine stores. I went back upstairs to my friends, starving doctoral students all, and said you won’t believe the shit I just saw Arthur Schlesinger buying. It must be Christmas gifts for the help at Hyannis Port. How pathetic.
And I was right. I left the building a few hours later, and there was Arthur, sitting out front like an elderly child in his topcoat, muffler and gloves, with a drugstore shopping bag of cheap gifts at his side. Waiting for the limo. And then it arrived.
I know this because I used to share an elevator with Junior from time to time, since he taught at the graduate school I attended. Although "taught" might be too strong a word. I was never aware of any course he actually offered. I imagined the school paid him a six-figure salary just to pad around, greet visiting dignitaries, and wander out in the afternoon for a few drinks at the Century Club, one block away. I could be wrong.
I did have one more intimate encounter with Junior, in the drug store right next to the school. It was a wonderfully cheesy place, more like a dollar store, although you could, if you were foolhardy, have a prescription filled there.
It was a few days before Christmas and Art was in the store buying gifts. Yes, at the drug store where the cat food tins were dented and the pharmacist actually smoked at the counter. Art was loading up on cheap perfume and body wash combos, on Old Spice and three bars of lavender soap for two bucks. And he was having them gift wrapped, in a sad drugstore paper with silver diagonal stripes.
You should know that my graduate school was located right off Fifth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan. Lord and Taylor’s was nearby, as were any number of fine stores. I went back upstairs to my friends, starving doctoral students all, and said you won’t believe the shit I just saw Arthur Schlesinger buying. It must be Christmas gifts for the help at Hyannis Port. How pathetic.
And I was right. I left the building a few hours later, and there was Arthur, sitting out front like an elderly child in his topcoat, muffler and gloves, with a drugstore shopping bag of cheap gifts at his side. Waiting for the limo. And then it arrived.
Missing
I won’t hold a grudge – it was over so quickly. One minute I was at the wheel, making a turn; the next, I was dead. I went missing. The guy who hit me is fine. Hung over, of course, and waiting to see if the charge will be murder or manslaughter.
The thing is, the space, the place where it happened, couldn’t stop being itself simply because I died there. It was hard enough diverting traffic just to get the ambulance and cops to the site. Then the guys taking pictures of the skid marks and my brains splashed across the windshield. The city tapped its foot, trying to give me a decent amount of time, but it's Broad and Belvidere, for God’s sake. They can’t close the lane forever.
Forever. I died about 16 hours ago, and I have a long road ahead. Do I stay here and watch folks pass over that spot? It’s not the kind of place you leave a wreath. Just a few twisted pieces of metal.
The thing is, the space, the place where it happened, couldn’t stop being itself simply because I died there. It was hard enough diverting traffic just to get the ambulance and cops to the site. Then the guys taking pictures of the skid marks and my brains splashed across the windshield. The city tapped its foot, trying to give me a decent amount of time, but it's Broad and Belvidere, for God’s sake. They can’t close the lane forever.
Forever. I died about 16 hours ago, and I have a long road ahead. Do I stay here and watch folks pass over that spot? It’s not the kind of place you leave a wreath. Just a few twisted pieces of metal.
The Slashes
Slash Church – not as in community center-slash-church, but Slash Church as the name of the place. On Mount Hermon Road, in Hanover. It is the oldest wood frame church in Virginia, where Patrick Henry once worshipped.
“Slash” because that is an old word for marshes. This part of Hanover County was half under water half of the year, a network of rivers and creeks and sinking land. Yesterday, as it turns out, was the anniversary of the Battle of Slash Church, as Confederates unsuccessfully fought back the Federals in 1862. I drove over to the church, which I had never seen. There is little evidence of historic significance, just a white wooden building with a newer brick building nearby.
Mount Hermon becomes Sliding Hill, my road, which ends at an excavated pet cemetery on Route 1. They’ve been removing the remains for the past few months; a restaurant will be built there. A lawyer for the restaurant company says the land is too marshy anyway for a cemetery – it is better to remove these beloved pets.
So they will build a fast-food restaurant on the site, and it will sink and settle like everything before it has, and the slashes will take back what it wants.
“Slash” because that is an old word for marshes. This part of Hanover County was half under water half of the year, a network of rivers and creeks and sinking land. Yesterday, as it turns out, was the anniversary of the Battle of Slash Church, as Confederates unsuccessfully fought back the Federals in 1862. I drove over to the church, which I had never seen. There is little evidence of historic significance, just a white wooden building with a newer brick building nearby.
Mount Hermon becomes Sliding Hill, my road, which ends at an excavated pet cemetery on Route 1. They’ve been removing the remains for the past few months; a restaurant will be built there. A lawyer for the restaurant company says the land is too marshy anyway for a cemetery – it is better to remove these beloved pets.
So they will build a fast-food restaurant on the site, and it will sink and settle like everything before it has, and the slashes will take back what it wants.
Ex Cathedra
My former husband knew I was obsessed with popes, among other scoundrels, so he bought me a book he found on a street vendor’s table called “The Bad Popes,” or as we preferred to call it, “The Very Bad Popes.”
And they were very bad indeed. When not fornicating with their sisters, they were beheading various Muhammedans and plundering the world’s art and gold.
They were fun to read about. I’d do a few each night before I fell asleep, nudging Patrick to read him passages about exceptionally bad papal acts just as he was finally drifting off. Listen to this, I’d say, they actually called this guy “The Butcher of Belgium.”
They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Or maybe they do. The jury’s still out on Pius XII’s collaboration with Mussolini, his suspected deal-making to keep the fascists out of Vatican City. (Note to Pius: they were in there already.)
One thing about divorce: assuming that you went so far as to actually marry someone, it was because you were bound by a common culture, one that you elaborated upon as you went along and that irritated the shit out of your friends. I don’t miss marriage so much as having someone to tell very bad pope stories to. Innocent the Third, Leo the Tenth – they were all bad, but they were ours.
And they were very bad indeed. When not fornicating with their sisters, they were beheading various Muhammedans and plundering the world’s art and gold.
They were fun to read about. I’d do a few each night before I fell asleep, nudging Patrick to read him passages about exceptionally bad papal acts just as he was finally drifting off. Listen to this, I’d say, they actually called this guy “The Butcher of Belgium.”
They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Or maybe they do. The jury’s still out on Pius XII’s collaboration with Mussolini, his suspected deal-making to keep the fascists out of Vatican City. (Note to Pius: they were in there already.)
One thing about divorce: assuming that you went so far as to actually marry someone, it was because you were bound by a common culture, one that you elaborated upon as you went along and that irritated the shit out of your friends. I don’t miss marriage so much as having someone to tell very bad pope stories to. Innocent the Third, Leo the Tenth – they were all bad, but they were ours.
Two worlds: one above, one below.
No one imagines the 9/11 dead walking around under the wreckage or the pit that replaced it. Most of them were pulverized before the towers hit the ground. These men and women do not walk. They went into the air and across the harbor, lodged on windowsills and in the cracks between bricks. We breathed them in.
But the firemen who died a few weeks ago right next to them -- where did they go? They climbed a ghost tower and died in smoke and fumes, not from fire. They burned inside out.
The miners may still be walking, dead but walking, as well as those who tried to rescue them. But they walk on different paths, and may walk for a thousand years, tapping the wall, trying to make contact.
No one imagines the 9/11 dead walking around under the wreckage or the pit that replaced it. Most of them were pulverized before the towers hit the ground. These men and women do not walk. They went into the air and across the harbor, lodged on windowsills and in the cracks between bricks. We breathed them in.
But the firemen who died a few weeks ago right next to them -- where did they go? They climbed a ghost tower and died in smoke and fumes, not from fire. They burned inside out.
The miners may still be walking, dead but walking, as well as those who tried to rescue them. But they walk on different paths, and may walk for a thousand years, tapping the wall, trying to make contact.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)