Boy is it hard to find a silver lining, but the novel coronavirus has had one unintended consequence that dared to fill my heart. Both my college sons got blown off course and ended up back at home –– my home! –– which means I have been cooking for more than one, for nearly the
There has been no dearth of literature on the situation we all find ourselves in. No one is unaffected. Wherever you are reading this, you are trying to figure out what next? Who should you believe? What’s your personal plan of action? How are you going to stay sane? Fellow scribes of mine, blessed (or
If the road is in your soul, is it possible to pass it down through your DNA? Perhaps that’s a question best left to the nature versus nurture debate, because I’ve raised my boys on a steady diet of beef jerky, chips and thousand-mile drives, and they are still coming along for the ride. I
My apartment is really small. It’s four floors up. It has been known to house unexpected wildlife. The rent is more than most people’s mortgage. And still, my boys come home. Young Matthew was first back to the city this year, down from UVM while his brother was toiling with finals at Ithaca. Matty’s only
My son was a lousy batter. There. I said it. The kid was sports-addled from the age of 3 when he was a pumpkin head on a chubby body swatting wiffle balls with a fat red bat. In the heyday of his Little League years he was a great team leader and solid fielder, but
My stepdaughter left Philly under a cloak of darkness. A year + change of her college experience had rendered her lost and confused. Is that why grown-ups are going to prison on behalf of their kids? Have we lost sight of what education is really all about? My siblings and the lion’s share of my
My boys are gone! Shipped off to Ithaca and University of Vermont, leaving me alone in my Brooklyn apartment on a late-August night, with my thoughts, a whisky and a plate of steak tartare. I dropped Ben yesterday for his senior year – a fact that I am yet to fathom. He was a camp
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
Brian Williams of The 11th Hour on MSNBC closed out his newscast the other evening like this. “Now we begin five weekends of August and then it’s time to start thinking about Thanksgiving!” That seemed a uniquely NY take, not unlike the iconic New Yorker’s View of the World cartoon of yore. What up, August?
‘Tis the season of whine. It’s too hot. The subway is a sauna. The streets are melting. I wish I were at the beach. I wish we were in the country. Our air conditioning barely cools. I’ll take hostages before I use my oven again. We spend all winter awaiting the dog days and then
