Sunday Sweetness is all about the quiet moments, the gentle times, that make life sweeter. Today, click on this teapot to read a sweet story about a kind man who used a teapot in an act of kindness. Enjoy!
Yep.
You should.
And you CAN!
What’s the number one thing on your bucket list? Mine used to be “Be someone’s mother.” Check! “Go skydiving.” Check. “Sail the Greek Islands.” Kinda Check (it wasn’t a sail boat!). Right now, my number one adventure dream is to see the Northern Lights, preferably from one of those glass igloos in Finland.
I’ve learned four essential principles for crafting a bucket list over the last 13 years. Click on this sweet kitten in a bucket to go over to my post at Work It, Mom! and get to the bottom of the bucket!
Another word for “clean” is “sterile.”
I’ve got a bonus column over at Work It, Mom! today. This one is about taking a trip by yourself, for yourself. Here’s a sample:
Whether you’re going on a big trip or a little jaunt, the important thing to remember is that you have the right to step out into the world and explore. I’ve traveled on my own for years and I still get the jitters sometimes, but I get over it. It’s worth it. I repeat to myself, “Be not afraid. Be not afraid.” Then I go.
Click on this vintage travel poster from my favorite destination to read more about it!
I blame Jay-Z and my childhood friend Mollie Battenhouse for this story…
This afternoon, I stood in a daze before the fancy champagne case at Kroger. The wine guy walked past me and asked, “Are you finding what you’re looking for?” I, pushing a cart filled with sugar cookie mix, green sprinkles, macaroni, ground beef and–gasp–watermelon flavored toothpaste, felt like a total fraud.
“Oh,” I giggled, “I’m just daydreaming.” He must have been bored because he came over to stand beside me even though I couldn’t have been putting out the “I’m looking for a $300 bottle of champagne” vibe. He nodded toward the carefully locked case and asked, “Which one are you thinking about?”
I pointed to the bright gold label on the Veuve-Clicquot. “My sister and I drank several bottles of that in Chicago a few years back. I didn’t know I was pregnant with my daughter.” He laughed. “When she was born, I bought that one–I pointed to the Billecart-Salmon rose with the subtle pink label–to celebrate the day we brought her home from the hospital.” Next I waved to the elegant dark blue Pommery. “I drank a bottle of that one year on New Year’s Eve, in Paris–all by myself.” His eyebrows climbed higher and he laughed, “That sounds like a good night!” It wasn’t, but that had nothing to do with the champagne. I didn’t tell him how sad I had been that night, how I had cried at a table for one. Instead, I asked–
“Do you carry Krug?”
He started with a little flutter, “A vintage? I, uh, I can get that for you.”
It was my turn to flutter. “Oh, I probably won’t do it, but having a bottle of champagne like that is on my bucket list.” And thanks to Mollie and Jay-Z, I had woken up that Saturday dreaming about fine champagne. Mollie is a wine expert in New York and her birthday was this week. She mentioned on Facebook that she enjoyed Krug champagne with her birthday lunch. Ahhhhhh. And my friend, Saralyn has tickets to see Jay-Z coming up. All that–plus the Nyquil and humidifier–cooked in my brain last night and morphed into a dream.
In the dream I was at a small venue Jay-Z concert, like a hotel ballroom. I was wandering around before the show started when Jay-Z pulled up his gunmetal gray pickup truck right in front of me and parked it by the stage. Pickup truck, you ask? Well, OF COURSE–he had amps and stuff in the back. I helped him tote a couple of cables and told him that I was looking forward to the show. He said, “Hey, thanks for helping–drink 
some of this with me.” He took out a giant bottle of Krug and poured me a plastic cup full to the rim. Delightful! I remember looking down at the golden glow and watching the small bubbles dance. I remember the cool feel of the cup in my hand, just the right temperature. I took a sip and it was the best thing I had ever tasted. I thanked Jay and made my way back to my seat. I remember thinking in the dream how lucky I was to have something so rare, right there in my hand. Just another Friday night in my head.
So….what WAS I doing looking for Krug in Kroger?
I really do want to plop down hard-earned money on a world class bottle of champagne one day. It won’t become a habit, but it’s just something I’d like to experience. Some people dream of blowing money on a Chanel bag or taking a cruise–I’d rather sit down in a pleasant spot with a pleasant friend and treat ourselves to a bottle of something magical. Like a 1928 Krug.
In the year between Richard’s passing and when I started to date again, I discovered the mystery of fine wine. My sister took me to dinner at Gramercy Tavern in New York about a month after Richard died. The restaurant and the people in it were all so beautiful that I fought feelings of guilt when we were first seated. It felt odd to be so carefree, on a lark. I’ll never forget the first dish–pate de foie gras on toast points with a side of ramps soaked in vinegar, paired with a chilly Sauternes. I didn’t even know what a ramp was then, and I thought Sauternes was supposed to be for dessert, but I dove in. The combination proved sublime. I almost cried at the table because I felt such sudden joy–that some chef decided to make this, that my sister had brought me here, that I was alive to enjoy it. Goose liver and bread and tiny spring onions, vinegar and sugar twirled together on my palate to remind me just how much fun it is to experience the world through my senses.
Inspired by that meal, I spent a few Tuesday nights at the local wine shop for tastings. Wine excited me because there was so much to know about it that I could never learn it all and it was a relief to me–at that late sad point in my life–to discover that there was something so new out there to explore.
I once invested in a half case of Pedro Ximenes Alvear Solera 1927 because I was so intrigued by the vintage. This dessert wine is created by blending a little bit of each vintage–all the way back to 1927. The blending gives the wine a richness and depth that you can’t get from just one year. When the first grapes for that Solera were picked, my grandfather was 25 years old. No one knew about World War II.
My grandfather died that spring, a year after Richard did. He lived to be 103. Richard made it to 38. When I sipped that sweet wine in 2006, I was tasting the sunlight and the rain from all those years, all swirling together into this moment, this day. The beauty of wine for me is that every bottle captures a moment and in that moment, a world.
I guess that’s what I was daydreaming about, there in the Kroger wine aisle. I haven’t had much time or money to explore wine since the kids came along, but I still like the idea of it. Those days will come again and one day, maybe Gay and I will take Vivi to France. It’s all one life. The macaroni days and the champagne days.
Sunday brunch at Norma’s in Le Parker Meridien. It’s become a tradition for my sister and me when we go to New York.
The waiter brings us a little amuse bouche of fruit smoothie in adorable tall shot glasses. Highly collectible glasses…if you know what I mean. (If you don’t, read my story A Red Marble Sink and you’ll understand why my sister gets nervous around me and labeled glasses.) In a place that charges $15 for a glass of orange juice, the glass should come with it…right?
So I’m eyeing the cute glass when Gay gives me a blistering stink eye. I jokingly slide it across the table towards my lap.
“Don’t. You. DARE.”
As we’re giggling about it, the waiter flits by and whisks the glasses off the table.
Gay snorts and says, “Ha Ha! You’re too late!”
Aw, man.
My sister said that yesterday’s story about San Francisco reminded her that business trips can be fun. And since she happens to be on one right now, I thought I would entertain her with another story about a time when I tagged along with her and we had us a fine time in the great big city.
The first time Gay invited me along on a business trip was right after Fartbuster and I divorced. After 10 boring years, I yearned for some adventure. The American College of Surgeons held their conference in New Orleans that year…boy, did I luck out! We stayed at the Fairmont Hotel–which is sadly no more. They chose not to reopen after Katrina. I’m lucky to have walked this Moorish style hallway for those few days back in 2001.
My sister is a world-class foodie. Girl love to EAT. We travel well together because she books the hotel and makes the dinner reservations and I research the fun little activities to do. We also both believe in the sanctity of naps.
The first night we were at the Fairmont, I told her we had to go down to the lobby bar and try the namesake drink, the Sazerac. Never heard of a Sazerac? Me either, apart from in the guidebook. It predates the Civil War and is arguably the first American cocktail: “The defining feature of the 
Sazerac is the preparation using Peychaud’s Bitters and two chilled old-fashioned glasses, one swirled with a light wash of absinthe for the slight taste and strong scent. The second chilled glass is used to mix the other ingredients, then the contents of that are poured or strained into the first. Various anisettes such as Pastis, Pernod, Ricard, and Herbsaint are common substitutes for absinthe when it is not available; in New Orleans Herbsaint is most commonly used.” Well, there you go.
I’ll be honest…a Sazerac is more distinctive than it is delicious. I’m glad I tried it. So glad, in fact, that after I gagged down the last drop of the concoction, I wiped out the glass with a cocktail napkin and slipped it into my purse. Then I left a $20 tip to assuage my guilt. My sister was MORTIFIED. She hissed, “What are you DOING? Put that back! What if we get caught?” I rolled my eyes and said, “This is New Orleans. Do you really think this crime wave is going to make the news?” She giggled but gave me The Look. The big sister look, like she was going to tell on me. I clutched my purse tighter. Ten years of boredom and now I was on the loose in New Orleans.
The night got even sillier after that when we asked the doorman to get us a taxi. We clambered in the back seat and Gay said, “Take us to the French Quarter, please.” The driver turned his head and said, “You IN the French Quarter.” We started giggling harder and I said, “Well, take us to the nasty part.” He drove two blocks to Bourbon Street and let us out on the curb. Five bucks to go 2 blocks. At least it was sprinkling so we could pretend that was why we got a cab.
Like I said, I love traveling with my sister.
The next night, she got us a table at Broussard’s. While we were getting ready, the two of us ended up in the bathroom at the same time, brushing our teeth. Probably to get rid of the taste of Sazerac. I spat. She spat. I looked her in the eye and said, “When we were growing up in that trailer, did you ever in your life think that one day we’d be spitting toothpaste into a red marble sink at the Fairmont Hotel in New Orleans?”
She spat again and considered for a second.
“Yes.”
And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.
That’s the thing about my sister. She works HARD for the privileges that she enjoys in life (and shares so generously). If you asked her what she wanted to be when she was in second grade, she said, “A doctor.” By about fourth grade, she had settled on being a surgeon. She never lost focus. She watched Daddy operate on cats and dogs, and sometimes scrubbed in to assist. She sailed through college with a double major in Chemistry and Biology. Finished Vanderbilt Medical School with zero loan debt. Worked her internship and residency as an Army surgeon. She scaled every rung on the ladder to get to spit into that red marble sink.
When Gay was still in high school, she met with the guidance counselor about applying for colleges. She told the counselor that she planned to go to medical school. That dingbat said, “Oh, being a doctor is hard. Why don’t you be a nurse and marry a doctor?”
Oh. Hell. No.
You better believe that lady got a talking to. I guess my sister did take a little bit of the counselor’s advice–she did marry a doctor. Eventually.