He kissed me, not a soft kiss, but a forced, hurried one, right between Period 4 and Period 5, we stood there in a secret rushed moment of youth, I, at the ripened age of eleven and him, a much wiser and older twelve, he kissed me.

And it was disgusting.

Utterly disgusting.

Not what little girls tucked comfortably away in their pink canopy beds dream about or are read to in tales of princes and peas where the kiss is The Event of Grandeur, ever so tender and complete and enveloping. The girl loses senses. Knees buckle. Long perfect blonde hair cascades between them. A tiny sigh is heard. And life as we know it is renewed.

This is what I had expected, what I’d been promised, in countless years of fairy tale ...Read on]]>

He kissed me, not a soft kiss, but a forced, hurried one, right between Period 4 and Period 5, we stood there in a secret rushed moment of youth, I, at the ripened age of eleven and him, a much wiser and older twelve, he kissed me.

And it was disgusting.

Utterly disgusting.

Not what little girls tucked comfortably away in their pink canopy beds dream about or are read to in tales of princes and peas where the kiss is The Event of Grandeur, ever so tender and complete and enveloping. The girl loses senses. Knees buckle. Long perfect blonde hair cascades between them. A tiny sigh is heard. And life as we know it is renewed.

This is what I had expected, what I’d been promised, in countless years of fairy tale grooming. And even though it was the seventies, an era where women proudly burned bras and demanded from men things that had never been demanded before, this little girl expected to swoon, blush, and feel whole and refreshed by her first kiss.

Instead, oceans of bubble gum grape saliva had infested my mouth. I’d always been a big fan of Hubba Bubba, heck, my sister and I nurtured our reputations based on the proud acknowledgement that we knew the guy who’d invented its unforgettable flavor, but, the critical difference was that I chose when to taste it and between Period 4 and Period 5 in the stairwell that day was not one of those moments.

My kissing mate misread my initial hesitation as a moment of shyness (one of many poor calls in judgement) and proceeded to plunge further into my mouth; his thirsty, clumsy tongue digging deeper and deeper in feign attempts of pleasure he swept my throat for tonsils, it seemed. And I fought this alien creature slivering inside me, eyes watering, mind spinning, I wondered why I’d been fooled into believing this would be the luckiest moment of my life (and with a sixth grader no less!) But instincts are uncontrollable things and mine kicked in after the initial moment of horror wore off. I ripped myself away from my self-appointed courter and, right there, between Period 4 and Period 5, on his Nike-clad feet (coveted shoes hard to secure in Venezuela back then) I spat, spat, spat that Hubba Bubba flavor in desperate efforts to remove the memory from mind.

I looked up to find a small ego staring back at me (for no one had used his toes as a spittoon before) and my eyes winced as my body moved away (wishing now I’d taken the main stairs and gotten a good seat at World Geography instead) and not a word transpired between us, two fallen lovebirds, both equally shocked by the action of the other, we drifted away leaving the stairwell with its memory and puddle of grape saliva.

The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects ...Read on]]>

The first time I saw my rabbi dressed up as Buzz Lightyear I knew I was in the right place.  Most adults stared uneasily, not sure what to make of this grown man bounding happily in a bright green and white suit, but I felt right at home.  My children were with me at the time and quite naturally declared:  ”Look, there is rabbi Andrew!” just as they would if they’d seen him at Publix, the park, or up on the Bima.  There was no mention of the outfit, I assume because he wore it quite well, quite naturally.  I’d step out on a limb and confess he even seemed more comfortable in it than the stiff grown-up jackets he’d have to, on many occasions, wear.  This was, after all, Purim, the Jewish holiday that, not only allows, but expects silliness to reign. So it seemed fitting that Ramat Shalom would have a real life Buzz Lightyear headed your way.

Sure, there’s the whole logical story behind it:  Purim commemorates how Queen Esther and Mordechai saved the Jews from Haman, the evil minister of the Persian king.  On this holiday, costumes are worn and the Megillah (the Book of Esther) is read to recount this tale of survival.  Hamantaschen, (also called “Oznei Haman”, or Haman Ears in Hebrew) are the treat of choice.  I nibble on my husband’s ear on ocassion, but it pales in comparison to this: tiny triangles of tender, buttery pastry curled up against a dollop of tangy apricot, hearty prunes, or, for the lucky ones, rich melted chocolate.

For my kids Purim is equally important in their repertoire of holidays.  I assume they’d have to agree with Rabbi Andrew and say it’s because of the costumes- the opportunity to relive the splendor of Halloween, without having an ominous light to it.  Catalogues of costumes are meticulously scanned by my daughter and of course, there will be the mandatory visit or two to the party store to scour through their costume section.  It is much leaner than the selection they carry in October, but then again, so are the crowds of shoppers, so I don’t mind going several times to appease my kids.

They look at pictures of witches and fairies and superheroes and eagerly discuss amongst themselves what they are going to be.  Then, they both turn to me and their eyes light up, two sets of beautiful almond eyes flanked by swooping long lashes lock on me and I know I am in trouble.  Their eyes are pools of irresistible power and when they shine in the light just so, swirling in a sea of butterscotch and they blink blink blink those eyes are powerful weapons and I know, whatever it is they want, I know they will get.  They know they’ve got me by the way my body just slows to a stop and I wait.  Wait for it. Whatever it is.  They smell victory.  They are good at this, they know.  Years of practice pays off.  So they ask me, not if, but what I am going to dress up as?  If I weren’t under their spell I’d try to tell them Purim is just for the kids to dress up, but I can’t say that, I won’t.  After all, their rabbi knows it’s all about goofy fun and is headed to infinity and beyond, so why shouldn’t I?

Cheating comes in many shapes and sizes, and in this case, flavors.  Sitting at the dinner table, next to The Professor and The Investor a tiny bead of sweat may begin to form on your brow, not because you can’t keep up with the talk, you are eloquent and intelligent and sophisticated, but because something much worse is about to happen, something that can shatter you but instead fuels you on, something you know no one will notice but you wonder what if they will? (Remember the time you hired the Personal Chef and you could tell right away, yes, you could, she had cheated on her cake.)  You are about to cheat on your gourmand title and are feeling a tad guilty because you know that the Investment Banker and the Professor are both wondering what delicious dessert The ...Read on]]>

Cheating comes in many shapes and sizes, and in this case, flavors.  Sitting at the dinner table, next to The Professor and The Investor a tiny bead of sweat may begin to form on your brow, not because you can’t keep up with the talk, you are eloquent and intelligent and sophisticated, but because something much worse is about to happen, something that can shatter you but instead fuels you on, something you know no one will notice but you wonder what if they will? (Remember the time you hired the Personal Chef and you could tell right away, yes, you could, she had cheated on her cake.)  You are about to cheat on your gourmand title and are feeling a tad guilty because you know that the Investment Banker and the Professor are both wondering what delicious dessert The Famous Baker they are seated next to has brought for this intimate dinner party.

It will be good, it must be good, they acknowledge amongst themselves with self-assured stares.  You feel the tension rising; stakes are high. The asparagus soup was a delightful ice breaker from your host as was the equally tasty pot roast (albeit a tad simple, you would have added a pomegranate glaze with a hint of balsamic, because you are The Gourmand, the one with a drawer bursting with dried herbs and a garden exploding with fresh ones. They look up to and enjoy inviting you for obvious reasons.)

You love them all for it.  Each and every one is endeared to your heart in one fashion or another and you have volunteered dessert as a sign of this love. You have brought this cake, this magnificently simple cake, and like a true cheater you do feel that pang of guilt, an edge of betrayal, but you smile and bring forth your goods without revealing that inside the moist texture and chestnut top glistening with confectioner’s sugar lies a secret, a deep, dark secret you will never confess; must never confess.  You will only smile and say “thank you” as “oohs” and “ahhs” purr around you, deliciousness halts all conversation as forks greedily work cake into bellies that have anticipated but never realized such wonderful moist delights existed.

Of course, all cheaters need an outlet.  They need to get caught one way or another, and so, even if you are not willing to confess it in an intimate setting of twelve, you do so here, in this world wide platform of food lovers with the hope there will be some level of understanding.  Perhaps another occasional culinarian cheater will be reading this, one who will understand that a cake so delicious and easy and such an instant success originates not from the sweat of hours of kneading or mixing or even sifting, but right out of one of those cake boxes, no, strike that, two boxes, a horrible powdered pack of Betty Crocker Super Moist yellow cake mix and an equally horrible smaller box of pudding mix:  two things sacriligious to your identity, items your children gasp upon seeing (for they have been trained, well trained, to retract at the sight of preservatives.) And yet, here is this one tiny exception, when you allow it, better yet, celebrate it, quietly going against all beliefs and scruples, even trying to look the other way as you pour these tiny toxic boxes with way too many ingredients into your bowl and then redeeming your conscience by adding the rightful stuff:  organic eggs, sour cream, cherry liquor- all to create a celebrated smooth cake that eminates only compliments, lots and lots of compliments, reconfirming and elevating your status as The Best Baker All Around. Almost enough to make you not feel like a cheat in the kitchen, but like the tell tale heart that beats loudly under the wooden planks, you too can hear these ingredients shouting out their identity to your guests:

She didn’t do it all alone!  She used Betty Crocker!  And pudding mix!  She’s a cheater, a cheater, a cheater!

You manage to subside that voice and listen to the other dinner guests: they loved it and wonder what is that secret ingredient that makes it so good?

Of course, you know what to say.  It is not Niacin or dye #3, no no no, it is cherry liquor.

“Cherry liquor?” they ask, utterly impressed.

“Ah, yes, cherry liquor!” you reply with a casual air of sophistication.

And you laugh freely with them, the sweat dries, and you continue celebrating this intimate moment alongside The Professor and The Investor, both, asking for seconds, making your host beam as well.  Her dinner party is a success.  You have come through, you always come through, you are The Gourmand,  and although you rarely cheat, you realize this cheat is worth all the love and all the compliments, making it the perfect Valentine’s day dessert.

It’s Mark’s eyes that draw you in. I first came across them at a food conference in an expansive dining hall in Denver filled with big round tables and mounds of mini croissants. They were clear and blue and electric, like the calm before a storm or a lazy careless morning on the shores of St. Barts, but when they are engaged in a conversation with you, a conversation inevitably and rightfully about, what else, salt, the entire room gets filled with an intoxicating culinary energy that is simply contagious.

Mark Bitterman, owner and self-proclaimed selmelier of The Meadow shop in Portland, Oregon first told me about his store  specializing in salts, flowers, drinks and chocolates when we first met in Denver. It sounded lovely to own a quaint shop in the even quainter town of Portland ...Read on]]>

It’s Mark’s eyes that draw you in. I first came across them at a food conference in an expansive dining hall in Denver filled with big round tables and mounds of mini croissants. They were clear and blue and electric, like the calm before a storm or a lazy careless morning on the shores of St. Barts, but when they are engaged in a conversation with you, a conversation inevitably and rightfully about, what else, salt, the entire room gets filled with an intoxicating culinary energy that is simply contagious.

Mark Bitterman, owner and self-proclaimed selmelier of The Meadow shop in Portland, Oregon first told me about his store  specializing in salts, flowers, drinks and chocolates when we first met in Denver. It sounded lovely to own a quaint shop in the even quainter town of Portland and I imagined it overflowing with roses and pinot noir and an old-time world charm non-existent to my South Florida neighborhood whose foundations seem built on an abhorred obsession with strip malls and Applebees restaurants.

Then I attended his salt tasting at the Greenbrier and I was a changed woman. It was the nightcap to an evening filled with good wine and food. No doubt the wrong time for this, I thought to myself as my belly sat complacent and my body ached for my warm bed. I’m too full, and, it’s just salt, right? But I went anyway, because, quite frankly, how often can one say they’ve attended a salt tasting?

The room was cramped with other equally intoxicated foodies from the conference and Mark and a colleague were feverishly slicing cucumbers and buttering breads (I learned this was the way to sample salts, both a wet tasting and a dry one, respectively). And once that was all set, that is when those electric eyes kicked in as Mark pulled tiny glass bottles of multi-colored salt crystals, describing their characteristics, origins and tastes with the care, attention and passion a father does of his own children (this one has a mischievous streak, this one is faithful and delicious, this one will capture your heart.) I basked in an impassioned survey of the world of salt from colors to crystal formations to textures and realized it was a world  I knew nothing about, one where I learned I’d been, not only neglecting but abusing my taste buds with Kosher salt (tsk tsk), an item too sharp and unpolished to warrant the tongue.

It sounded crazy unless you were in that room, with that man and his cucumber and bread slices, and then it was just right because not only did he teach you, but he showed you as well, with bite after bite of salts, I learned to understand the nuances and beauty of the world of salt. And just like that, I was forever infected.

The night ended with a big show-off item: a huge beautiful block of Himalayan salt. Mark explained the many usages for such a block: from frying up the best egg ever, to sizzling pomme frites  (use the duck fat from that is cooking on your block as well), to curing sashimi and I knew that, alongside all the new salts I had to purchase to feel complete I must also have one of these.

As folks prepare to dish out the pizza, chicken wings and nachos for this weekend’s Superbowl, I will be fetching my beautiful block of salt for the simplest and tastiest of snacks: ensalata caprese. Thin slices of fresh mozzarella and plump tomato hugged by my garden basil and cured by my Himalayan beauty swim wonders on my tastebuds, making that, the best touchdown ever!

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. ...Read on]]>

It recently became fashionable to celebrate our obsession with list taking. You know the books: 1000 Places to Visit Before You Die, 1000 Things To Do and even the movie, The Bucket List, a melodramatic journey of Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two old men revisiting dreams and rekindling failed relationships. Even Oprah Winfrey’s O List has a way of magically transforming the item mentioned into an instant best seller, whether it is a book, a product, or a personality like Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz. We are a culture obsessed with lists: little items, thoughts, or deeds we must write down to check off and feel a sense of accomplishment. I’m not knocking it; I am a list queen myself. If I don’t write it down (to then check it off), it doesn’t get done. And then, sometimes it still doesn’t get done! I have pads of paper at my nearest reach: lost in the scary place that is my purse, scattered about my vehicle, fighting for space amongst half forgotten water bottles (baking for hours in the hot Florida sun), and then there is the grocery pad list on the fridge AND the iPhone application lists, iGrocery and To Do’s, respectively. Lists are a necessity. A requirement. So, why don’t I have one for food, I wondered out loud the other day while tackling the careful balance of tastes in my refrigerator (breathe the wrong way and my leaning towers of food will collapse)?

The answer for this one is a no-brainer for me: my tastes are too erratic, too temperamental, too unconfined to confine them to a list. That is the answer I want to give: it sounds cosmopolitan and articulate, the only snag is that it is, well…wrong.

Whereas I pride myself in being a culinary adventurer (I’ve yet to turn anything down, although I may take pause with the live cockroaches in China), I find myself headed down the road of comfort time and time again, back to meals that intrinsically make me feel better because of the emotional connection I have to them. Meals with a childhood story woven into them have me hooked, regardless if they are far from Michelin stars, and the older I get the more I seem to crave them.

So, while, yes, I do enjoy greatly a reduction of lamb with truffle foam and a sprinkling of fresh dandelion (it’s good, trust me) I am proud to say I happily gobble up a bowl of Spanish rice, not only because it is hot and filling and good, but also because each bite is brimming with stories my mother told me as a youth: stories about her adventures as a young adult in New York City, where money didn’t go far and to splurge on a meal meant to buy ground beef for a fancy dish of, you guessed it, Spanish Rice (always made to impress boyfriends, no less.) These were tales of adventure, resilience, and determination, not cuisine.

My mother, allegedly could not boil a pot of water before she got married, a detail I always questioned and deemed as wildly exaggerated for my mom was not only a cook, but a chef, creating delightful surprises meal after meal after meal. Yet I felt hugged and loved and nourished by the simplicity of her big bowl of Spanish rice which she’d happily plop in front of me, year after year and I’d ask, each time it seemed, I’d ask, for those stories of her in New York with her best friend Virginia and the endless amounts of Spanish rice. And so in my safe, comfortable home in Venezuela, where I would want for nothing and, quite frankly, was spoiled rotten as the youngest of three girls, I envisioned my tall and beautiful mother in her dank apartment on the Upper West Side (and not the chic part) scraping up enough to splurge on this delightful feast of Spanish rice, the same I would be spooning up happily in her company all those years later.

Spanish rice is not fancy. It’s not emulsified. It’s not even on a restaurant menu. But that doesn’t stop it from being top on my list, especially when paired with a nice green salad, a glass of hearty red, and the memory of a great story.

What’s top on your food list?  Let me hear from you!

My daughter balances me out. Oh don’t tell her I said so, and on my blog no less, but she does. Many times I forget this myself. I am too busy in mother mode, which, as any parent will contest, requires a tight leash at times. She can be a handful because she is so damn smart (and now you nod and you say, ‘here goes another mother about to bore me to death with her daughter’s attributes, if she could she’d pull out the video, no wait, she’s going to attach a YouTube link of The Daughter performing “You Light Up My Life” on the piano. Just wait. I know it is coming.) I mean, yes, she whips out a mean version of her own music on our dusty keyboard (inventing music is always more intriguing than ...Read on]]>

My daughter balances me out. Oh don’t tell her I said so, and on my blog no less, but she does. Many times I forget this myself. I am too busy in mother mode, which, as any parent will contest, requires a tight leash at times. She can be a handful because she is so damn smart (and now you nod and you say, ‘here goes another mother about to bore me to death with her daughter’s attributes, if she could she’d pull out the video, no wait, she’s going to attach a YouTube link of The Daughter performing “You Light Up My Life” on the piano. Just wait. I know it is coming.) I mean, yes, she whips out a mean version of her own music on our dusty keyboard (inventing music is always more intriguing than following sheet music to her), but I won’t subject you to that. I was an aunt for many more years before I was a mom, so I know about endless VHS performances. (Note: apologies to all my wonderful nieces and nephews, whom I adore and am endlessly proud of.)

It’s this kindness in Dani that both balances me out and unsettles me. Yes. You read right. Unsettles me. Most likely because it is so foreign to me. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a total bitch. Just partial. And more so if I haven’t had coffee. Or my morning orange juice. Or my eight hours of sleep. And then of course if I am interrupted. At any time. In the middle of anything. And endless coughing. Don’t get me started on how I respond to that.

But Daniela, she’s a whole other story. It starts in those eyes. They are huge and soft almonds lined with incredibly thick eyelashes. And when you look inside them, you aren’t quite sure what color they are- a mixture of honeycomb and caramel on sunny days, sometimes a temperamental green, other times they are pools of rich dark chocolate. They seem to have a mind of their own.

Which leads me back to the difficult part and the unsettling part because if you saw them in action you’d never forget them. They’d enchant you as they have me, and I am not saying this as her mother but as her prey, because alongside the eyes comes that old soul that is Daniela and when that soul and those eyes get together you are inevitably sucked into a whirlpool of goodness, no matter what. This child, at two, insisted with the librarian at storybook time that she give her two cookies, no not two for her, but one for her and an extra for her aunt who was sitting way in the back and most definitely wanted a cookie. The librarian didn’t understand this feisty little girl and kept repeating to her that every child gets one cookie, but she hadn’t contended with Dani’s strong will until that point and that tiny toddler stood firm on her ground and insisted for two two two until she made it clear that she needed the extra one for someone else. And, yes, she got it.

Three years later these same eyes softened and changed as they absorbed horrible scenes on the evening news of schoolchildren stranded because of a devastating tsunami many many worlds away from her safe, manicured suburb in the United States. The empathy that filled her eyes compelled her to do something and that steadfast stubborn will sprout itself anew and she insisted insisted insisted she needed to raise money for the Tsunami victims and she did, by golly she did, selling cupcakes she had made on the streets of Plantation, a determined five-year old stopping cars and stating her case. That kind, stubborn creature made all vehicles stop and give, much more than she even cared ask for people gave and gave and gave and she turned around and gave it all to the Red Cross without a doubt in the world that things were better now.

When the earthquake struck Haiti I knew my bitchiness was doomed. Images flooded the news and personal stories trickled into our lives: there was Clarice, the girl in her class who couldn’t find her grandmother, Charles our Handyman who’d lost track of his brother and all his family, orphans being flown into Jackson Memorial Hospital, right here in Miami. It was too horrible, too real, and too close and Daniela’s eyes began to grow restless. I knew something was coming and I welcomed it. She insisted on baking, because this is how we heal in our house: a pot roast for a family reunion, chicken soup for a sick friend; so she would bake carrot muffins to raise money for the victims in Haiti. She did it all, stirring, measuring, sifting, her eyes narrowed into a deep focus and that stubborn will propelled forward. Amongst clouds of flour and cinnamon she moved and I was proud and honored to be beside her, a willing audience and participant of this amazing deed and inspiring human being, all of age ten. I wondered what was in store for her. What the world was in store for with her in it. And by being around her, being connected to this, a part of it rubs off me and I am in a better place now too, even without the morning coffee and the extra hours of sleep, I am in a better place, piggybacking my way to heaven on Daniela’s good will because that kindness that is so her calms me, settles me, shows me that in all this tragedy there are good people and the world can be a better place. With Dani, it’s a start.

Come out and support Dani as she sells her carrot muffins, this Saturday, January 23, at Central Park’s Aquatic Center from 9:00-11:00. All proceeds go to The American Red Cross!

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out ...Read on]]>

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out loud I knew it to be a mistake. A mistake reconfirmed by my husband’s wiser shaking of the head.

How awful would it be? This child does, after all, fret over the fate of ants left to contend with water-spraying sprinklers, spiders cast away from their webs by menacing gusts of wind, and baby lizards separated from their mommies, (all these get “adopted” by him and named and he is always so sad and hurt when they ‘run away’.) No doubt this child’s fixation with all living creatures deems him a Buddhist, in his past, present, or future. Keeping that in mind, a dead iguana would deliver quick and irreparable trauma.

With that clarified, my husband did the kind and fatherly thing (bag it up and taking it to a trash far, far away) and I did the sensible and motherly thing (re-enter house with the New York Times, a smile, and act as if nothing happened.) And the day went on just like that. One little boy saved from sadness.

The only problem is that I had seen the iguana. And it was beautiful and bright green and glorious. And it was also dead. Frozen on my front lawn, you’ll remember. I’ve never really wondered about spiders or ants, or even those tiny lizards. There are so many of them sprawled outside (and inside) my house. But I couldn’t help think of the iguana. I know they run amock here and aren’t popular with Floridians. People take them in as pets then set them free in the Everglades and now they are all over the place, affecting the delicate eco-system there., But there was this frozen one, and, like I said: beautiful, bright green, and glorious and I couldn’t help but wonder what had been her last thoughts before the great freeze. There she’d be, Guani (yes, I’ve named her) snoozing on a tree, trying to survive the chill, wondering where she took the wrong left turn that led her north and not south and then, thump, dead on the ground the next morning. Was she wondering what bug she’d have for breakfast? Where to get the next sip of water? When Mr. Iguana was coming home so they could snuggle and keep warm? Would I?

Images of a rich vanilla milkshake filled me now. It made no sense really. Milkshakes are cold and if I was to slurp one up as an iguana I’d sooner freeze and drop from the branch. But milkshakes are also decadent and delightful and for that reason saved for only the most special occasions when they always make me feel better, no matter what. Even if what follows is a long, hard fall.

Just when you think your blood will freeze over, your nose will crack off, your lips have reached ungodly limits of chapness, you see another poor lad pass you by in the same predicament and you both turn to each other for that split second and nod in communal misery. You may even smile, risking further injury to your taut lips. You don’t know him. He does not know you. But for that instant in the universe, you both share the same moment of cold.

I am a South Florida transplant originally raised in the humid tropics of Venezuela, so, believe me, when I placed myself in frigid weather for a ski holiday in Beaver Creek, Colorado last month, I was more than aware of the shock my mind and body lived minute by minute.

Just when you think your blood will freeze over, your nose will crack off, your lips have reached ungodly limits of chapness, you see another poor lad pass you by in the same predicament and you both turn to each other for that split second and nod in communal misery. You may even smile, risking further injury to your taut lips. You don’t know him. He does not know you. But for that instant in the universe, you both share the same moment of cold.

I am a South Florida transplant originally raised in the humid tropics of Venezuela, so, believe me, when I placed myself in frigid weather for a ski holiday in Beaver Creek, Colorado last month, I was more than aware of the shock my mind and body lived minute by minute.

Sure I had the layers. Lots of layers. Some looked like glorified skin gauzes (this is the undergarment for the seasoned skier), other items where more chic, with slick zippers and snazzy tags, all intended to create aesthetically appropriate barriers against the arctic air creeping in from the north.

And for the most part it worked. Until the sun set and you were basically on your own- the layers seemed to melt away into thin cotton, the bitter cold too much for them to bear. And just when you thought you could no longer stand it, just when the snowy slopes lost all romance and the snowman kids had built in childhood play lost all cuteness, I saw the Smores Lady emerge from the cozy and toasty lobby of the Park Hyatt hotel way on the other side of where I was freezing. She carried with her trays and trays of goodies and sliced through the unforgiving wind with a bright and cheery smile.

Sue, the Smores Lady, was headed towards one of the numerous blazing fire pits strategically placed throughout Beaver Creek Village. This one was in front of the Hyatt, so it was particularly glorious- loaded up with a ravenous fire and plenty of spark. Its bright light and unflinching warmth invited me closer, bringing some of the circulation back to my cheeks and fingertips.

Then Sue spoke in a chipper voice I thought not possible under such climate circumstances:

“Come join us for Smores Night” she gleamed.

I looked at her apprehensively. Surely there was a catch here. She was showing off plates upon plates of, what she declared to be, homemade marshmallows: vanilla bean, M&M, Grand Marnier, Mint. Alongside those sat mountains of slabs of Hershey’s chocolate, dark and milk, and alongside that, an endless supply of graham crackers.

Smores night in the bitter cold of Beaver Creek is to an oasis in the scorching heat of the desert.

Where was the credit card swiper to charge you for this delight? Or was this all-inclusive for Hyatt guests only?

The honest Abe in me wanted to clarify that, even though I approached her with the utmost confidence and assuredness (that is just me walking cold, by the way), I was indeed NOT a guest at this incredible and incredibly expensive hotel. In fact, I was staying at a small venue across the road, modern and lovely, but across the road. However, the marshmallows begged me to be silent. They knew I was a foodie. They knew I needed to sample their delights. They needed me to look the other way.

“Do it for us” they implored, Grand Marnier having a bit of a feisty tone to its plea. Mint wanted me to go for it first:

“Betcha never had a smore like me,” it argued. (It was right).

But even Vanilla and M&M put up a good fight- knowing in all due right, that they offered a classic and memorable experience I just couldn’t let my conscience pull me away from.

Sue’s smile had either frozen or she was truly, truly nice. She had finished setting up and now handed me a long iron stick for me to begin creating childhood fantasies. There was no charge. There was no room check. There was just the stick.

What could I do? Raised to be polite, I grabbed it. And then, I went insane. Madly insane. Smored out, I lost myself in a flurry of sticky sweet flavors: mint with dark, vanilla bean with light, slightly toasted, fully toasted, orange Grand Marnier with double graham crunch, and on and on it went, until my belly was full of sweetness, my heart warmed up and my mind swirled with memories of youth and carefree fun. I looked up, liking my sticky fingers to catch the gaze of a fellow stranger enjoying the same sugar high. It didn’t matter where we came from or where we went. What mattered was that we found ourselves side-by-side, warming by the fire on this unforgiving cold night, enjoying a moment of sugar and kindness. We nodded, gave each other a sticky thumbs up and managed to crack a sweet Smores smile.

Twenty years ago I was a daredevil. Today I am chic. I am poised upon the fresh powder (that’s Colorado snow, for those of you not in the know), garbed up in my razor sharp ski outfit (Spyder jacket ice white with aqua and midnight trim, white gloves, sexy black pants) helmet, goggles, boots, skis. Ready for the slopes. On top of the world.

I had made it on the lifts, a contraption I gave no thought to mount from age 6 to 19, but now, at 39, approached apprehensively. All right, approached in a panic. I haven’t lived in Manhattan in over 14 years but it’s as if Woody Allen and all his neurosis had infiltrated me steadily through the years:

“Get on this thing? It’s not safe? A dangling chair in subzero weather climbing precariously ...Read on]]>

Twenty years ago I was a daredevil. Today I am chic. I am poised upon the fresh powder (that’s Colorado snow, for those of you not in the know), garbed up in my razor sharp ski outfit (Spyder jacket ice white with aqua and midnight trim, white gloves, sexy black pants) helmet, goggles, boots, skis. Ready for the slopes. On top of the world.

I had made it on the lifts, a contraption I gave no thought to mount from age 6 to 19, but now, at 39, approached apprehensively. All right, approached in a panic. I haven’t lived in Manhattan in over 14 years but it’s as if Woody Allen and all his neurosis had infiltrated me steadily through the years:

“Get on this thing? It’s not safe? A dangling chair in subzero weather climbing precariously up a cliff with lunatics zooming down (hey wait a second, am I going to have to go down THAT?)

My husband was faithfully at my side, coaxing the daredevil back. Or at least trying.

“You’re fine. You’ve done this a thousand times, remember? Scoot up. Sit. Bar down. Enjoy the ride. Simple. Follow my lead.”

We crept up in the crowded line, closer and closer to the ominous ride. I recounted the zillions of times I’ve turned down rides of any kind, roller coasters, Ferris wheels, spinning teacups. Something about my feet not being on the ground and in control just doesn’t jive with this control freak. Yet here I was, my feet already not in control, straddled in clunky alien boots and slippery skis, trying to keep up with Yeshua (outfitted in an even jazzier outfit given to him by the number one Slovenian ski champion, Jure Kosir). In my moment of panic I could at least appreciate how good we look.

I heard a tiny sigh and turned around. The six-year old behind me was getting frustrated with my hesitation. No doubt this little bugger would zoom down the mountain without a thought. What was it about aging that makes some of us more precarious? Why couldn’t I just have fun?

The lift came and, indeed, as riding a bicycle, every movement clicked and I sat down without a thought. As we swung through the frigid air I begged Yeshua to talk to me, distract me from the perilous death I was envisioning. I clung to the thin bar for life and cursed myself for agreeing to ride this endless and steep ride. But as the ride continued my grip eased and I actually began enjoying myself. It was hard not to. The trees looked so beautiful and pristine, their evergreen branches comfortably hugged by mounds of fresh snow. Agile skiers flew through them with natural precision (I learned with relief that was the black diamond slope, not the beginner’s green allotted for me). So, you see, the slopes looked fabulous and chic again.

‘Hey, maybe I can do this,’ I thought to myself. ‘Maybe those years and years and years of zooming down the benign Vermont bunny slope on Pico Peak with my family back in the seventies would kick in and I’d be able to pull this off as a middle-aged precarious nut.’

I turned to my Slovenian ski champion and smiled. I could definitely pull this off. I looked at him, after all: tall, dark and handsome, but nevertheless a tropical Venezuelan who had never set foot on skis until his mid-thirties. Yesh had come a long way, now hitting the black diamonds and coming out alive. If I could only smile at him long enough, maybe his fearlessness would infect me. I thought of our two young children, off with some ski pro in their class at this moment. No doubt our wild seven-year old son, who already sported a black eye that would make Rocky Balboa jealous, would find the thrill of this sport intoxicating. If he would zoom, then so would I, damnit.

So there I am, poised atop of the main summit, 11 thousand and plus feet altitude. The air is thin and icy and lovely. I am surrounded by skiers and snowboarders and mountains. I am in the moment and take it all in. And then, I see the photographers. Yes! There are photographers. I snag one immediately. Yeshua scoffs. He thinks I am absurd. Why are we taking a picture now? Let’s ski, he urges. But I know why. I must capture this moment. This moment now. When I am full of the mountain, when I don’t fear it because I haven’t quite met it. Where I feel free and possibilities are endless and I don’t live the pain my quads will feel as they burn their way down Jack Rabbit Hole or Red Bull Run in a stubborn snowplow that will not relent to the ease of a parallel ski because I must slow down, slow down, slow down and not hit that tree or that one or that one.  Yesh will patiently ski behind me shouting out all sorts of Zen commands: feel the mountain, you control it, don’t let it control you, put your weight into it, you know how to do this, you’ve DONE this before, enjoy the moment, look forward, don’t look down, be one with nature.” It is all going to get shot at me and I will grow more and more impatient with him as my legs beg for a break and my mind fills with anxiety, I will manage to turn around (and ski) and shout that he please shut up and question over and over and over again, “Is this really a green slope? Is this a green?!” because there is ice (I thought it was illegal for ice to exist on a Colorado slope) and skiers and snowboarders, the same ones that added to the ambience of excellence I needed photographed up on the summit but now just felt like intrusions on my moment of panic and safety as they all zoom past me without a care in this world:

“On your left”

“On your right”

They’d shout on the way down, throwing me further and further off balance and spiraling into blackness.

And then, there we were. We’d somehow made it to the bottom and good God my two legs where shaking but they were intact, and, even though I felt like sending Yeshua to an ashram in India for all his philosophical spewing, he had guided me patiently down the mountain, gently prodding my sense of adventure back to life, which, was slow to wake but definitely stirring, buried under years of motherhood vigilance, weighed down by moments of ‘eat your peas, tie your shoelaces, look both ways before you cross the road, don’t talk to strangers, hold my hand, no come back here and hold my hand.’

How could this persona be expected to fly down a mountain without a thought in this world? But somehow I had. Okay, not fly, but crawl. Snowplow, zigzag. Stopped. Reassessed, and continued. Slowly sawing my way down Beaver Creek but here I was, still chic, victorious, and still married. Maybe I’ll go up the mountain again. Tomorrow. First, I need a glass of wine and a good hearty mountain meal.

More food and stories upon my return, promise!