A long time ago a man called Harry, with arms like bourbon barrels and a laugh imported straight from an Irish pub, motored up in his putt-putt outboard to the rocks on a spit of land in northern Massachusetts and dug into his cooler. He offered up to my friends, Andrew and Mary, and myself,
On a Saturday night in early March my wife and I had dinner out in Evanston, Illinois. We dined with good friends – an artist and his wife, an emergency room M.D. We asked our doctor friend, should we stay in because of this coronavirus? She made a reservation at a local Japanese place. I
I first viewed this extraordinary photo of the Golden Gate Bridge taken by an old friend of mine about a week ago on Facebook. Here in New York we are cloistered in our sad and stricken little bubble. Since we can’t leave, I was having a hard time imagining what the rest of the country
It is well documented that my wife and I live 773 air miles apart and have so for the entire 14 years of our relationship. Some ask what is the longest you have ever been apart? Wrong question. More apt? What is the longest you have ever been together? The other morning I found myself
It’s a cottage. Or a cabin. Lakeside through the pines by a worn wooden dock, or the waterfront white-washed cape, ocean sparkling in the distance. One week. Seven days in summer. You gather. You cook and dine. You tan and play and close your eyes in the hot August sun. With friends and family, big
Dear Fred…Geri has been in Capetown for 3 of the past 5 weekends and when we are together in Chicago now, we are five (Emilia and two attention hound schnauzers). Upon Geri’s latest return from S. Africa she had one day back and then left immediately for a 3-day conference – the one you always
On a bright spring day 15 years ago I walked up a tree-lined block to a vacant garden apartment in the bottom of a Brooklyn brownstone. I held the hands of my two children, aged 4 and 6. We pushed open the door and a shaft of sunlight cut across the polished wood floor. “Okay
Becca Goldberg has never been keen on the word “No.” Not in college, where she invented her own major. Not in romance, where she handed her phone number to a guy she met at summer camp, who now plays the role of husband, top chef and Dad to their two young children. And not in
Life has softened Chef John DeLucie like buttah! Twenty years ago, he was a single man and journeyman chef, riding his bike through Greenwich Village on a spring afternoon. He stumbled upon a vacant restaurant property that captured his fancy. What has transpired since has seen the city, his place in it, and the way
I was sitting at a bar in central South Dakota the other night chatting with the barkeep – an amiable half Jewish, half native American, sports loving ex-convict from St. Louis, via Missoula, Richmond, VA and the Bronx – when the conversation shifted, naturally, to our partners. I am in a commuter marriage between Chicago
