Author: Gail

Manhattan by Candlelight 

The waiter could have been a Generation Y distant cousin to the actor, Bill Murray. His slightly disheveled appearance enhanced the charm of his dimpled smile.  Pointing to the menu at Le Yaca French Restaurant, I artfully directed his gaze to the Chef’s Special:  Seafood Trio.  “Would you mind saying this ‘en Français?'”, I appealed.  Nodding his head in approval, the impeccable foreign accent rolled off his tongue with savior-faire.  I smiled in open delight.  The slight blush of flattery rushing across his face into his freshly starched shirt unveiled the frequency of such a request.  


Classical French music filled the formal dining room creating subtle ambience for a romantic dinner with my husband.  Over his shoulder, beyond the foyer, hypnotic flames danced across fragrant firewood logs nestled on the glowing hearth.  We clinked our glasses together and dubbed the evening “Manhattan by Candlelight”.  I sipped on a classic Southern cocktail garnished with a maraschino cherry, straight-up.  The graceful curve of the martini glass offered an invitation to taste the amber blend of smooth-bodied bourbon kissed with a dash of sweet vermouth.  Gerald quenched his thirst with one of the greatest mixed drinks ever created by a seasoned bartender, the Long Island Iced Tea.  A stouthearted choice, my dear.  The savory dinner was served divine.  We lingered over dessert, relishing every bite of the lightly sweetened soufflé. 
Ultimately, the pleasant experience was truly unforgettable.  Lovely. 

Add a Pat of Butter

Everyone knows gastronomy and the culinary art of French cuisine is based on the dining experience, whether it relates to a five-star restaurant or your own gourmet kitchen.  The bottom line is eating well using the best ingredients prepared in a way that creates the marriage of Taste and Smell.  The French seem to have it all figured out.  If you don’t believe me, step into a French bistro sometime. Upon entering you may be greeted with a “Bonjour” followed by the most eye-popping showcase of decadent pastries you have ever imagined.  Don’t be surprised if you find your eyes darting from side to side visually teased by each culinary delight.  The aroma of dark chocolate is a temptation that seduces your mouth into a half smile already yearning for its first morsel.  Alors!  Let this journey of discovery begin!  


In essence, gastronomic dining is an experience to embrace.  Julia Child understood.  She once proclaimed, “With enough butter, anything is good.”  She’s right, you know.  Ever since my husband and I visited the south of France four years ago, we discovered Sel de Mer Beurre (Butter with Sea Salt) at the local market.  We slathered it on artisan-style baguette loaves baked fresh daily in rustic pâtisseries.  Their crunchy crust and creamy centers begged for a swipe of sea salt butter.  Without mercy, we were more than happy to oblige.  Upon returning to the States, we had become so addicted to the provincial delicacy that Sel de Mer Buerre turned into an essential ingredient in our own Indiana kitchen.  Its creaminess is unsurpassed.  Baking for friends has confirmed it.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to tear off the end of a baguette, lavish it with butter, and in true Julia Child-style exclaim, “Bon Appétit!”

Riding on the Heels of Fashion Week

“Sparta dumped enough snow  on us a couple days ago to carpet brick walkways and cobblestone paths. Y’all can keep that hammer of Thor.”  It was the talk everywhere in Colonial Williamsburg.  “People come here to experience walking tours, soak up the atmosphere, relax at an outdoor bistro table, and shop at the fabulous boutiques in Merchants Square.”  This quaint Virginia town, wrapped in a world of Revolutionary War history, is a step into the past coupled with time-honored traditions.  Aromas of freshly brewed cappuccinos and mouth-watering pastries awaken the senses wherever you go. And the samplings of hand-dipped chocolate temptations tease the sweet tooth without mercy.  Oh, my!  


Around the corner, on our way to the French bakery, we discovered the perfect distraction from taste-testing our way through the afternoon.  Shopping!  We entered a stylish little specialty boutique featuring high fashion ensembles and designer accessories for women. Closet Envy boasts “Fashion to die for!”.  If curiosity reigns, explore Southern Living magazine’s recently published article, “Where to Shop in Colonial Williamsburg”.  My personal fashion consultant was a true Southern belle.  Brigette’s expert advice, along with my husband’s attention to detail, produced stunning results!  An hour and a half later, in a state of euphoria, I floated away on a cloud of heavenly bliss. My exquisite collection was a refreshing breath of Springtime riding on the heels of Fashion Week. 

In Pursuit of Southern Hospitality 

“We removed the closet door until you check out. Please let us know it there’s anything you need. Thank you and Enjoy your stay!!”  Charles, from hotel maintenance, left this cordial message taped on the door to our newly carpeted king suite while we were out grabbing our first meal in over twenty-two hours.  It had been a long day of travel challenges between flight cancellations due to crew rest, jumping airlines, maintenance issues, alternate routing, and de-icing procedures. By the time we rented a car and drove another 45 miles to our destination, we were a little frazzled and mildly exhausted. You can only operate so long on a Starbucks White Chocolate Mocha from the terminal kiosk and a bag of complementary airline pretzels. Once we wheeled our luggage through the hotel lobby and up to the fourth floor, it took only a few minutes to unpack the belongings and settle in.  Upon closing the closet door, it popped off the upper track and leaned dangerously close to the bed.  Now let me explain something. I am married to the most amazing man who is an engineering marvel. And I adore him for his problem-solving skills. However, after a day of testing my patience level by racing through airport terminals, I was more than eager to “Call the Guy!”  Still ignoring his exhaustion, he gave it a valiant effort before succumbing to the alternative.  Minutes later, we headed out the door and left our worries behind in pursuit of Southern Hospitality. 

You’re Never Alone

“What’s going to happen to me?”, asked the 84 year-old woman upon hearing sad news. Her oldest child, who had been a pillar of strength since her stroke five years ago, was moving away.  “Who’s going to take care of me?”, she worried.  Marian was living in a nursing home ever since she survived a debilitating stroke to her entire left side during the holiday season of 2009.  Because she was living alone at the time and had just hung up the phone from a conversation with her grandson, no one became alarmed when they hadn’t heard from her for awhile. They were accustomed to her self-sufficiency between trips to the market, feeding the birds, and exercising walks.  Oh sure, everyone tried to convince her she needed an answering machine, but she refused.  When the stroke hit her, she crumbled to the floor in fear and laid there for hours before being discovered.  As darkness turned to light, and returned again to dusk, all Marian could do was pray. 


The words of Mark 12:30 were ringing in her thoughts.  “Thou shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, with all thy mind, and with all thy strength.” Later on the emergency room doctors discovered her low body temperature, in essence, prevented brain damage from setting in.  Although Marian’s memory was sharp, her limbs would never respond to mental stimulation again. The only recourse was life in a wheelchair.  The challenge of faith and acceptance became Marian’s new life focus.  The haunting words of survival echoed daily in her head.  “Thou shall love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, with all thy mind, and with all thy strength.”  But where were those five children she raised in the prime of her life?  And the ten grandchildren?  She tried to understand their lack of visits. Career obligations. Job transfers. College expectations. Lack of time and extreme distance between them.  Adult responsibilities.  Even the awkward feeling of discomfort associated with stopping by the nursing home.  But she hadn’t expected this sorry plight.  It wasn’t her choice either.  When she hung up the phone fighting back tears, across the room she heard a soft gentle voice. The CNA was singing softly to herself as she took a step closer to offer Marian a tissue. “Never alone, never alone…..May the angels protect you, trouble neglect you and heaven accept you when it’s time to go home.” (Never Alone~Lady Antebellum)

Virginia is for Lovers?

This family of four was forced to live on a pittance. Three months, countless interviews, and a stack of resumes later, the house in southern Indiana was closed up and left unsold.  We packed our belongings and moved 500 miles away to the Allegheny Mountains of Virginia.  We knew things were going to be a little bit different from our Midwestern lifestyle as soon as we headed up that first mountain road at 55 mph on a 15 mph curve. The shock set in as the road coiled round and round while our ears popped and the baby spit up his breakfast.  I, too, felt the nausea rising in my throat as we continued our ascent. To control that feeling, I focused on the trees outside the window in the George Washington National Forest. It didn’t work. When I spotted a Scenic Overlook, my husband quickly pulled over. Once I set foot on the ground, my dizziness subsided and I could appreciate the breathtaking view of a powerful waterfall’s misty torrents cascading to the green valley below. It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen!  Mountainous peaks touched the clouds as flocks of cardinals soared through the sky overhead. The fresh crisp air smelled of damp wildflowers. It was enough to revive my senses in order to continue traveling upward.  


Rocks jutted from the ground somehow appearing like a violation of the land. A log cabin or two nestled back against the mountainside. The cattle, scattered throughout the terrain, hardly noticed the passing car on that two-lane highway.  Things were getting remote when houses turned from modest dwellings into tin-roofed shacks with the boastful washer and dryer perched on the front porch for all to see. The sight of a Confederate flag waving in the wind alerted me to the possibility of Time standing still. Once we arrived at our final destination, a tiny village of 50, I began to reacclimate.   Crossing the lawn between two houses, a man hollered out, “Haaa…Y’all from the flatlands?  Ma name’s Mac. Welcome to Bath County!”  Then he proudly began to tell us about our new homestead. “Been in the family for years,” he beamed. “This here’s an original Sears & Robuck house that was ordered out of the catalog over a hundred years ago and shipped piece-by-piece up the mountain on a railroad that no longer exists.”  As I was about to retreat to the car, the sluggish moving van arrived. It was left parked along the side of the road on a shoulder that barely existed. The driver jumped out, waved, and asked, “Where to, Lady?”  I simply shrugged my shoulders and said with a sigh, “Up the hill. Follow me.”

The World of “What If?”

My grandfather was a tall man. Not as tall as a professional basketball player, but he towered above the other members of the family and especially the farm animals. His stentorian voice brought respect from all the field hands, although he could be as gentle as a summer breeze with the ponies and calves.  His sunburned face reflected the length of the day. The old straw hat protected his head from the burning sun, and yet it enhanced his piercing blue eyes. His bib overalls were thread-bare from constant wear.  Nicknamed “Old John”, he was always the first one to arise so he could “smell Mother Earth before she woke up”.  Every morning he’d head to the barn to begin the unending chores. He loved that old barn, and even though it was his haven in times of trouble and times of joy, a place to which he could escape, it was in that barn that Grandpa shot himself. I never knew my grandfather. The news of his suicide shocked my mother into premature labor with me. The only memory I have of him is a framed black and white photo where he’s standing next to that old barn holding my mother’s hand when she was a small child. 


Why was life so unbearable for Grandpa?  When did he decide he couldn’t take it anymore?  Was there no one he could turn to for help?  Had he thought about that tiny unborn grandchild he would never see?  Did he know that I would feel robbed of the opportunity to know him?  Did he even consider the impact his death would have on my mother?  Didn’t he realize that my birthday would forever remind my mother of his death?  Suicide leaves a trail of unanswered questions. The word implies rejection. Suicide rejects family, friends, and any chance of a future. It’s usually a cry for help or a means of escape. But sometimes it takes great strength to survive, to live on through the depression and pain. It’s just not that simple anymore. If there’s a chemical imbalance in the brain, suicidal tendencies occur. Although doctors have discovered how to control the imbalance with medication, the problems continue if the person feels he cannot confide in the doctor to get help. That’s when suicide looks like the perfect choice, the only alternative to life’s trials and tribulations. Death appears to be the ideal solution to a troubled soul. Unfortunately, no one who has ever committed suicide has returned to the world to enlighten us on the pros and cons of being dead. We can only assume they are at peace. Families experience guilt and blame over a suicide victim. It’s so unfair to place that burden on the living because they have chosen to endure life’s trials. Death is not an option for them. Life is a gift, one that needs to be carefully unwrapped and shared daily for the benefit of others. 

Make Mine Moët & Chandon

“‘Have a glass of champagne for me, and a safe flight.’ With that being said, Gigi turned toward Concourse B, flung her red monogrammed canvas bag over her shoulder, and took two steps as Robert kissed her on the cheek.  Walking away was never easy, especially blinking back the tiny tears at the corners of her eyes.  Here she was, at midlife, starting over again.  It’s one thing to chase a dream at the age of 20 when the possibilities seem endless.  It’s quite another to imagine those same unfulfilled hopes at 44.  ‘Isn’t that what life is all about?’, she could hear her daughter, Jocelyn, whisper in her mind.  Gigi reminded herself those were words easily spoken from a younger version of herself sitting comfortably in her happily-ever-after life married to her childhood sweetheart.”


Snippets of conversation enveloped me as I sat in the airport terminal awaiting a connecting flight back home from our tropical vacation.  People-watching. It’s a great pastime.  And it keeps me grounded, so to speak. I had no intention of eavesdropping on others while my husband played office catch-up on his reliable laptop.  Over my shoulder the scene above unfolded like a newspaper. The only problem was, the last page was missing.  At one time or another, every person must stand at the crossroads in life. Whatever choice you make, even if none is taken…..pause, be strong, and have a glass of champagne. 

Two of a Kind

“Are you two catching the next flight to San Francisco?” We both looked up simultaneously to the uniformed man standing before us. “If so, it’ll be awhile before the ticket agent opens up so I can check your luggage curbside,” he continued with a grin, “if you’d like.”  There was something strangely familiar about this middle-aged man who approached us in the open-air terminal. His thinning hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and dimpled chin caught me searching my mind in general recognition. 


We knew we had arrived a couple hours before our flight’s departure, but that’s just the way we travel. Early birds.  No last minute dashing for us, if we can avoid it. Since we’d already cleared customs and the bags were sealed, we nodded as he rolled the overloaded suitcases toward his portable station. A few minutes later the porter, who’s badge said “Harold”, became the bearer of bad news.  He scratched his head and offered a half-smile.  “You’re about 15-20 pounds over on each bag”, he apologized. “So I can’t issue you a tag.”  Again, we nodded in the affirmative.  This wasn’t news to us. In fact, when we weighed the luggage earlier, I remember thinking:  “Note to Self—Just because the suitcase holds a lot doesn’t mean we have to fill it.”

Meanwhile, as I searched my mind for recollections of this perfect stranger, Harold began storytelling as if we were kindred spirits. He’d been in this job only a couple of years, but overall enjoyed the interaction with travelers. “Most of the time,” he said with a laugh.  “Every once-in-awhile you run into some pretty rude characters.  I’m just here to help, ya know. But sometimes they seem pretty determined to put me in my place.”  After a couple minutes, he offered us a Wal-Mart tote so we could redistribute the contents of our luggage with a carry-on.  He was still trying to save us unnecessary airline charges. What a kind man.  I thanked him wholeheartedly when he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and returned to his post.  Minutes later as we headed to Gate 2A, it finally occurred to me why Harold seemed familiar. He had a strong resemblance to my father-in-law who had passed away over a decade ago. In fond remembrance, a warm feeling of comfort rushed over me.  Two of a Kind.