FEATURING
Stories
Conversations on the Front Porch
- Details
- Written by George L. Nitti George L. Nitti
- Category: Education Education
This is the last opportunity the public will have to view, "Summer on the Porch," a charming collection of clothing and hospitality hosted by the Warwick Historical Society. An evening of informal conversation will center on the recent exhibit, "Summer on the Porch" and pre-war Warwick, 1930-1940.
Highlighting the collection of period clothing will be pictures of various local "cottages," featuring local front porches. Also, on display will be beautiful crystal and silver serving pieces. Additionally, the Lewis Woodland's Fowler Estate will be featured through photos and stories. This was a moment in time that drew people closer by intentionally developing relationships with family and friends. The front porch lent itself well to bringing a breezy ease to those summertime connections.
Come and experience the lively conversational presentation of Michael, Jean and Hopie as they invite those in attendance to journey with them to another time, but the same wonderful place - Warwick, New York.
Photo: The porch at Belair was built by Thomas Powell Fowler in 1885.
Event Information: Conversation on the Front Porch with Michael Bertolini, Jean Beattie May, Mary Hope Lewis Hosted by The Warwick Historical Society A.W. Buckbee Center Tuesday, August 18th at 7:00PM No charge for members/$20 per person Please call to hold your place - 845/986-3236
Why We Love Deb’s Pots
- Details
- Written by George L. Nitti George L. Nitti
- Category: Food & Wine Food & Wine
It’s a grand thing to find a blog that you instantly fall in love with, where the writer has such a resonant voice, soaring with authenticity, passion, positivity and humanity - all wrapped in each and every recipe.
This week’s story features Deb’s Pots, a blog that contains unique recipes from the hearth of Deborah Bernstein. Each recipe is a story unto itself and are a delight to feast upon, along with her irresistibly honest self-revelations, photography, and pottery - all making for a most engaging read, whether you actually make the recipes or not.
I met Deb several years ago when I owned a bookstore in Warwick, NY. Our conversations back then hinged on her love of food, her work as a psychologist, her commitment to pottery, and above all, her love of family and the supreme role her two children and husband play in her life. I’ll never forget her advice on bananas. “They are filled with pesticides. So make sure you buy organic.”
I was fortunate to have met her daughter, Megan, before she went off to college and out into the larger world. I found her to be irresistibly charming, smart, witty, inquisitive…feeling that Deb was a very lucky woman to have such an impressive daughter. I know she feels the same way about her son and husband.
In Deb’s Pots you will find all those central pieces of her life woven intricately into her recipes. You will get to know Deb like I got to know Deb, a little upon each return. When Deb visited the bookstore, I knew I was in for a treat with her bubbling personality that could quickly devolve into a deeper conversation or into gushing emotion and gratitude for her love of family. And, of course, life.
Her recipes provide us a window into that world, connecting us to her spirit and shedding light into her creative gifts that include food, pottery, writing, photography, psychology, family and all the other things Deb loves to make. She is a creative force, a work in progress.
I have chosen 3 recipes from her blog – a sauce/dip, a dessert, and a main entree - to help illustrate her brilliance. I know however that once you start reading, you may forget to turn back to see what our next recommended recipe is. That’s ok. We won’t mind. Just keep reading and enjoy her recipes, the photos, the pottery....
The first one we chose is called the “Goddess of Green,” basically a very unique avocado dipping sauce, one of several fabulous accompaniments you will find in her blog that include tzatziki, hummole, siracha lime sauce, tahini and a peanut sauce. I’ve chosen this recipe because this year I’ve personally enjoyed buying and eating avocadoes (yes, in advance, patiently waiting for them to ripen), dicing them up in my salads or for making guacamole as a mid-afternoon snack. I’ve discovered they are delicious not only when ripened to perfection, but are filled with those essential oils that promote health and well being. To me they are just the perfect food and I believe Deb shares my love affair with this vegetable, providing some mouthwatering insights on them.
In this recipe, Deb takes guacamole to the next level, using it as a creamy dipping sauce for other mouth watering delectables. The recipe includes a couple of lushly ripe avocadoes that are blended with some other fitting ingredients, including sour cream, and provides a wonderfully photographed spread of roasted vegetables on one of her gorgeous pots that will inspire you to get grilling, as it did me. This recipe includes a little personal history on her Goddess days and distant memories of a once upon a time food fad inspiring the title of this recipe. Here we also get a glimpse of the bond that she has with her son, Brian, and the beautiful fired pots upon which her food rests. You’ll find much more if you pick at this recipe, much more than I could put into words.
The next recipe we chose is called “When Life Gives You Lemons,” a lemon curd recipe that Deb prefaces with: “I want to make you something a little more fun with my lemons today. How about some lemon curd? I adore lemon curd! I like everything about it except the name. Curd. Just doesn’t sound appealing, right? But let’s make some anyway; there are so many wonderful things you can do with it!”
What I enjoyed most about this recipe is Deb’s honest self revelation, acknowledging that she has had her fair share of lemons (haven’t we all) and that’s precisely why I’m drawn to this one, if for anything, her deep empathies with the reader.
On the day she is making lemon curd, she is experiencing some trials with a construction project going on in her home. Making this lemon recipe, in part, serves as metaphor to help smooth over some of the frustrating edges (and adversity) she is feeling from the project.
She states: “This blog is my way of “making lemonade” out of the “lemons” inherent in our construction process. While the inconveniences and hassles of demolition and building are in a different category from the tragedies I have faced in my life, they are tricky in their own way and certainly test my good cheer on a regular basis.
By recipes end, she is smathering the curd on all kinds of goodies and then intends on making it a mother’s day special event for her daughter and mother– other women in her life who too have overcome adversity. This is one of several recipes that take on symbolic significance, such as her Chinese Sweet and Sour soup, becoming a cathartic experience for her to heal all kinds of psychological wounds.
The last recipe we’ve chosen is a main entrée called "Deb’s Chicken Parmesan." Trust me, I love her Honey Sesame Glazed Salmon recipe too, but was particularly drawn to the why of this recipe more than the food of it. It’s at this time that Spring has now arrived in its starts and stops and that darn construction project continues to impose setbacks.
Deb lets loose and says, “Progress is an odd concept, isn’t it? We all tend to think that we are moving forward when we can measure our successes in clearly defined steps. In fact, rather than in a straight line, progress tends to happen in fits and starts. This happens frequently in the dr deb office and I often warn my clients that when they begin to feel better, they need to expect and to integrate the inevitable setbacks. In reality, progress is rarely linear.”
And for me that is the rub of this recipe. In spite of what’s happening, Deb advises to stay in the moment and go with your cravings, like she does on this day, whipping up her chicken parm specialty.
She states, “I really wanted Chicken Parm, could practically taste the crispy coating, the sweet/savory tomato sauce and the ooey gooey melty cheese. The meaning of the craving became clear to me: I need to practice what I preach: Live in the moment.”
Just as much as you are what you eat, you are what you think and do. Deb’s recipes are a distillation of leading such a balanced life, of a person who has strove to match her love of food with her love for self-actualization. It’s all here, in a mix of very neat, descriptive, inspiring, artistic and delectable recipes that won’t disappoint you.
What Ben Franklin Inspired in Me
- Details
- Written by George L. Nitti George L. Nitti
- Category: Books and Writing Books and Writing
“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of.”
I’ve been meaning to write these days, form regular habits and follow through more consistently on telling stories that lie embedded somewhere between my conscious and unconscious mind. It is getting it out that I am having problems. Not from writer’s block, but from a bad case of procrastination.
Summer's Inspirations
- Details
- Written by George L. Nitti with Kerryl Ann Ebneter George L. Nitti with Kerryl Ann Ebneter
- Category: Health & Spirit Health & Spirit
Among my favorite words is "inspiration." It’s probably the most overused. It seems to be one of those words that flows out of me freely. I was reminded of this when I picked up a couple of my books of poetry published sometime back and found that word dotting the landscape of my writing.
Writing poetry is but inspiration in some moment of time, capturing feelings, emotions, images, thoughts and putting them into words. There are no limits to its scope except the constraints of the imagination, which we can overcome with use, time, risk...
Anne of the Fens - Chapter 1
- Details
- Written by Gretchen Gibbs Gretchen Gibbs
- Category: Books and Writing Books and Writing
May 1627 ‒ Lincolnshire, England, town of Boston
I looked around and saw a splash of green disappearing around the dark corner of the church, in the direction of the market square.
“I’ll catch her,” I shouted to the rest of my family as they filed into St. Botolph’s.
Confound my little sister! I ran after her, wishing I were not dressed for Sunday services in a skirt that stood out to make me twice my usual width. I was nearing the corner of our huge church when I stubbed my toe on the cobblestones. I swore under my breath then hurried on, Sarah lost to sight.
Last night, Father had carried on at dinner, calling the May Fair a sinful nest of rogues and scalliwags who dishonored the holy day, stuffed their faces with roasted meats and sweets, listened to lewd plays, picked pockets, and assaulted young women.
I knew that Sarah had heard nothing about the dangers, only the sweets. I would find her at the booths that sold anything sugared. How did I know her so well? Mother had chosen the right person to mind her—I cared nothing about the confections, but I wanted to see the dancing and the plays. I wanted to see the young men. How would they look at me in my beautiful blue Sunday gown? The only men I got to see were in church, dressed in black and thinking holy thoughts. I wished I could keep my own thoughts more holy.
I rounded the corner and stopped in horror, choking from the smell of people, sheep, horses, goats, pigs, cattle, and chickens. The square was packed so full that nothing could move. I could not see Sarah nor push into the fair at all. There were hundreds of sheep in front of me, and I kicked one in frustration. It bleated, moving only a little. Sarah, smaller than I, would be trampled if she tried to move among them.
I would have to force my way through the flock and hope I would not encounter their owner. It was at least safer than trying to get through crowds of men who might attack me.
As I neared the last of the sheep, a whirl of greasy smoke signaled the meat vendors. Perhaps the sweet stands were nearby. It was the barley sugar drops that would call to Sarah. I found the meat vendor, where men stood about gnawing on huge ribs of beef or turkey drumsticks. I could spy barley sugar in the next stand, and swarms of people, but no Sarah. Had she made her purchase and gone? I pushed to the front of the line, in spite of the curses thrown at me, and shouted at the vendor, had he seen a young girl in a green dress? He acted as though he hadn’t heard me. His face was covered with horrid pock marks, and I shuddered as I turned away.
Had someone picked up Sarah for a ransom? Her clothes would show that her family had a little money. I was out of breath from the pushing and pummeling of the crowd, but at the thought that she was gone I felt weak, and my breath came truly fast.
Which way to go?
I heard music and found myself moving toward it with the crowd. Several couples danced wildly. As I stood there, a young man grabbed me by the waist, pulling me toward him. He was handsome, with blond curly hair and a bold eye. I could smell beer on his breath and the perspiration that stained his red tunic.
“Dance with me, wench,” he said.
My skin tingled where he touched me. I shut my eyes as we twirled, and blood rushed to my head. It was what I had imagined. What I had wanted. But it was happening so fast. I felt a pang of fear when he pulled me closer, his body warm against me, and I kicked him, aiming for his shins.
He yelled in pain and let me go. “You common-kissing harpy!”
Shaking, I forced myself into the crowd again, looking wildly about. It was then I heard a woman’s voice raised in anguish.
“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
I turned to see a young woman upon a stage, hands clasped to her heart. I stopped, knowing I must hear more. She called for her lover, and he answered.
People shoved at me and stepped on my feet, but I did not feel it. I forgot about Sarah, I forgot about my family in the church, I watched on. The lovers’ families despised one another, but Romeo and Juliet intended to overcome their hatred. They might be forced to say good night, but they were determined to marry.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Romeo’s voice was loving as he reached up to the balcony for her hand.
A sharp jab in my side brought me out of my spell. There was Sarah, icing dripping down her chin. I wanted to hug her and shake her at the same time.
“Ha, ha, found you out! Wait till I tell Father you watched the heathen play!” she said.
“Saucy urchin! Where have you been?” But it was obvious from the icing where she had been. After the sweet stall she had found the cake stall, and I had missed her.
I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the gate. I led her back through the sheep fold, in spite of her protests that she was stepping in so many droppings that her shoes were in ruins. When I looked down I saw that my lovely blue skirt was covered with dust and grime.
At the edge of the sheepfold, a group of beggars stood. One, a large man in a rat-brown cloak, barred our way as we tried to pass out of the fair. Thin white hair fell over his forehead. He held his hand out toward us, as beggars do, and the open sore in his palm, crusted with pus, made me recoil.
“Do I offend you, Puritan gyle?” He had a Scottish accent.
I was both frightened at his blocking us and annoyed that he could tell so easily that I was a Puritan. I was not dowdy. My lace collar had eight inch points and my flaxen blue dress, however soiled, was in the latest fashion.
“Let us pass.” I tried to sound firmer than I felt.
“A penny,” he said with a leer.
“For what?”
“For my good will. For your good luck in coming out unhurt, two girls alone.” He barred the way, and his body seemed menacing.
It was true that I had not seen other unescorted females in the fair. I reached into my pocket, found a couple of farthings, and put them into his disgusting palm. He looked at the tiny sum with contempt, but he gave way.
“I may see you again, Puritans,” he shouted, as we ran on toward the church.
Sarah scolded me for giving him money. “I could have stomped on his foot, and we could have run past him.”
“There were other beggars there, probably his friends.”
She continued to cross me. “You didn’t find me, you know, I found you. I was going back when I saw a gaping buffoon watching the play.”
In the market we passed the notice board and we both stopped to look, though Sarah was not a good reader. The board was an important source of information about what was happening, and everybody read it regularly. I recognized a notice urging people not to pay the King’s tax, a notice I had seen before. Sarah asked what it said, and when I told her, she asked why someone would have posted it.
“To get more people to know that he thinks the King is a bad man,” I said, trying to explain it in terms she would understand.
Satisfied, she looked up at me with a crafty smile. “I won’t tell about the fair if you don’t.”
I was torn. I should not let her get the better of me. However, if I told, Father would be so angry, both at Sarah and me. Father had a temper, and with all the conflict going on now in England, he seemed to explode even more than usual. The whole family would suffer for days.
No real harm had come to either of us, although Mother would despair over our clothing. In the end, I wiped Sarah’s chin with my handkerchief and told her I would not tell if she promised never to do such a thing again.
She swore by all that is holy, but there was a smile on her face, and I did not believe her.
Copyright © 2015 by Gretchen Gibbs
Excerpt courtesy of www.glenmerepress.com
Couples that Train Together, Stay Together
- Details
- Written by Deborah Szajngarten, Chosun Taekwondo Academy student Deborah Szajngarten, Chosun Taekwondo Academy student
- Category: Health & Spirit Health & Spirit
We all lead busy lives. Creating time to take care of ourselves, both physically and spiritually often comes last, after ensuring that the needs of our jobs, our partner and children are met. How many times have you said, “I’ll take that class tomorrow,” only to find the life gets in the way?