A Humble Little Café

Another Thing Steve Jobs Got Right

2012-01-22T06:59:00.000-08:00

For the past four years my professional and personal life has been so frenetic that certain important things have gotten out of control.

One of them is my wardrobe. I've got professional gear: Jackets, bazars and skirts or trousers. I've got board meeting ensembles and casual Friday pieces. I've got the clothes I wear when I'm running errands on weekends, or having fun and I've got the oft-laundered, comfortable and somewhat frayed pieces I wear around the house.

Guess which ones are my favorites?

Most of my life black, navy, khaki and red have been staple colors, with white and cream to relieve the monotony. In recent years, I've added brighter hues. Right now I've got a rainbow in my closet.

My overall style is tailored, almost sporty: White shirts, jeans, cambric shirts, cardigans, and always, a black turtleneck.

And that's where Steve Jobs enters the picture.

We all know about Jobs' routine style: Black mock turtleneck, jeans and athletic shoes. Jobs created a personal brand with this uniform, but he also made it easy to figure out what to wear every morning.

And that, more or less, was his plan. Jobs wanted to simplify.

After years of worrying about what to wear and what not to wear, after decades of shopping (the sales, of course!), I finally get it.

Simple really is best. Subconsciously, I find myself wearing the same items over and over again, especially on weekends. I am captivated with the idea of giving it all to Goodwill and St. Vincent's and starting over again with the classic basics.

I can't do that, of course, until I retire. But I can pare down and shed those pieces that don't suit my need to make getting dressed a little easier.

Fretting over what to wear strikes me as inordinately silly at this point in life. A hot wardrobe does not equal happiness or satisfaction - that I know.

There are just a lot of more compelling things I want to turn my attention to now.

A Landmark Birthday

2011-07-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

On my 60th birthday my husband took me to a resort on an island. We ate well, slept long and hard and walked along a shoreside path early in the morning.

I spent several hours in the resort's spa, getting massaged and buffed and polished to a fine sheen. After a late lunch I crawled into bed and slept deeply, dreaming of holding the infant that was once me and hearing the words, "I must protect her."

There was another dream, too, the type of dream we writers often have, in which a story unfold as we watch. In my dream, a young wife and mother circa 1950 was faced with a move from her humble Cape Cod house, where she cooked and sewed and played with her baby girl, to a more comfortable one-story brick home in a slightly nicer neighborhood as a result of her husband's new job.

That the dream dealt with transition was surely no coincidence. The woman's reluctance to move on was strong and heart-breaking. She was not my mother, though she was of my mother's generation, but her anguish reminded me of the difficult time my mother is having adjusting to life in an assisted living facility. Although my sister and I know she is safe and cared for there, her pain ("Why can't I go home?") tears at us.

Turning 50 was no trauma for me, as it ushered in the start of an exciting new decade of travel and fun, along with some interesting career and health challenges. Turning 60 was apparently much more difficult, at least when my subconscious took over.

I think it was Gloria Steinem who said upon turning 40, "This is what 40 looks like."

I will have to reinvent what 60 looks like for me. I am not certain yet. I know that it will mark a return to simplicity in all that I do, from simple meals to simple lifestyle changes. I'm hiring a personal trainer, learning to eat lighter, and spending more time in contemplation.

One thing it has taken me 60 years to learn: Life is best lived and appreciated when it is pared down, simple.

Welcome again to my humble little cafe.

Welcome Summer: Relax and Recharge in the Door

2010-05-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

The harbor at Gill's Rock, sunset.

Door County is less than 20 miles from my hometown by boat, but two hours by car: Close enough for a day trip, certainly, but why just spend the day when there are an abundance of fine motels and resorts, not to mention bay and lake breezes that keep humidity - no pun intended - at bay.

And a whole slew of restaurants that cater to every taste and pocketbook.

My first visit was as a teenager, and even then I sensed there was something special here: Somnolent little villages, white cottages cheek-by-jowl with red barns stuffed with antiques, rolling hills and verdant farmlands, and huge outcroppings of rock, sandy beaches and dunes. Some call it the "Cape Cod of the Midwest," but the terrain is more rugged than the Cape. Of course, there are many similarities.

The place names here are picturesque: Egg Harbor, Fish Creek, Ephraim, Sister Bay, Ellison Bay, Gill's Rock, Northport. And those are just the bayside names. On the lake we have Bailey's Harbor and Jacksonport.

French trader Pierre Espirit Radisson called it "a kingdom so delicious," a phrase a feature in National Geographic used in the 1960s, and it is as good as any way I know to describe the acres and acres of cherry and apple orchards, the wineries, the eateries and the feast for the eyes and spirit Door County offers.

One famous Door County treat, cherry stuffed French toast from the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek, won Good Morning America's Breakfast Best Challenge the week before our recent visit. My little issue with gluten prevents me from sampling this treat, but I have promised myself to come up with a comparable breakfast treat this summer.

Apart from food, Door County relaxes me and soothes my soul. For the past decade or so, we've been staying at a resort perched high on a wooded bluff over Sister Bay harbor, and part of our visit always involves simply sitting on a porch watching boats come and go and gull wheel and whine above.

There are no bad water views in Door County, and very few bad inland views. No bad vacations either.

A Heart in France

2010-04-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

For reasons I won't go into, it has been a stressful winter on all fronts. Perhaps that is why the intense feeling of wanderlust that usually strikes in August has arrived early this year.

I live in a lovely little community. But I do not want to be here. I want to get away, to leave all the unsettled affairs and unfinished drudgery behind, rent a car and wind my way through France.

It always seems like a holiday in France. Of course, it is for me when I am lucky enough to get there. My dream is to just drive, finding a village that captures my heart and checing into an auberge. If you look carefully, you'll see a sign for one at left in the photo, which was taken on the north bank of the Lot River, heading east to St. Cirq Lapopie.

The word itself conjures up crisp white sheets and a bedside bouquet of flowers in riotous colors. Oh, how the French love their flowers! For now I must satisfy myself with buying a flower box for the laundry room window and plotting the blooms I'll plant there on Memorial Day weekend.

I imagine finding an old bistro table and chair that I can place next to the window - there is a bit of concrete there - and the gaily striped seat pad I'll find. What a place to have morning coffee!

We'll see what the season brings. Meanwhile, my heart is in France.

My Penchant for Rabbits

2010-04-03T18:15:00.000-07:00

Rabbits inhabit our little hill all year long.

In June they nestle in the grass guarding their nests from preying creatures. In winter, they huddle under the cedar trees near the horse barn. They leave calling cards everywhere. I like to think that is why the grass is so green.

I love them, and consider seeing one a sign of good luck to come. I am often proven wrong, but no matter. I love rabbits.

Peace.

A Walk Through a Quaint Neighborhood

2010-03-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, my mother often sent me on foot to our little, bayside downtown on an errand: A utility bill to pay, a library book to return, a drugstore item to purchase.

It was an easy, eight-block walk, but I preferred to take the back streets so I could pass by gardens and yards and houses, most built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

The first lap took me through the parking lot of the old hospital, passing under its chapel and second-story greenhouse. The second phase took me past another greenhouse, this one at a private home, a yard filled with perennials, a rabbit hutch and several old churches. Finally, I walked pass a yard where pigeons were housed in tiny cubicles, and lastly, a dairy.

Then it was an easy sprint along the water, under towering elms and maples and past much larger homes.

Finally, I would find myself in our little commercial district, with two stately banks, a few gift shops, a drug store, post office, and telephone and power utility offices. My favorite stop was the Beaux Arts-style library with its reading rooms that looked out over the harbor.

There was always something calming about this walk, and the quaint neighborhood through which I passed help define my appreciation for a sense of place and my affection for the quaint.

But most of that is gone now. No one keeps rabbits or chickens in town. The pigeon man is long gone, and the old chapel and greenhouses are gone.

The charm we create now is more contrived. I miss the old days.

Lean Times, Good Times

2010-02-06T17:53:00.000-08:00

Like everyone else, we have spent much of the last year in a balancing act: Living frugally to save for a home improvement project and another trip to Paris, and spending money at local businesses to do out part to keep the economy going.

In years past, my indulgences were creams and potions and perfumes and scarves and pins and books and...I went to the mall on Friday nights, and the cosmetics counter on Saturdays. I've curbed my spending, shopping at home for new looks and using up every bottle and jar in my overflowing medicine cabinet.

Well, not completely.

I enjoy the prospect of shopping more than the act itself. When I have money to spend, nothing temps me. When I had no money to spend, I wanted everything.

During my last few years in college I had a studio apartment in a hilly, historic neighborhood near the heart of downtown. My tiny apartment was so close to shops and stores that I was able to venture downtown several times a day on weekends, if I so choose.

Saturdays meant an early morning run to the International Market for fresh produce, bagels and cream cheese. I loved this little market, because it reminded me of the neighborhood mom-and-pop stores that once dotted every third street corner of my hometown.

Every other Saturday afternoon involved a trip to the library, which meant I passed the market again. I'd choose 3-4 decent books, usually two fiction and two non-fiction and then push my way uphill again. The reading material helped me fall asleep at night, but tempted me while I studied. A mixed blessing, certainly.

On the Saturday after pay day, I usually treated myself to herbal teas and henna hair rinses from the organic drug store and off treats from Woolworths: a new shade of lip gloss, the latest face cream, some inexpensive bubble bath, or some small trinket that comforted me and reminded me of earlier jaunts to Woolworths.

I was 13 then, and my friends N and C joined me every Saturday afternoon for the mile-long trek downtown and a soda at Woolworths. We perused the teen magazines, bought lipstick and sampled cheap perfume. We saw the handkerchiefs our grandmothers used and bought thread or notions for our mothers.

I still dream about that Woolworths. In that dream I am lost in the aisles.

My trips to Woolworths in the city were a way of bringing back those tender years, a way of finding comfort in an uncertain time, as I studied and worked my way to a BA degree, sometimes holding 2-3 jobs at a time.

After several months of penuriousness, I found the need recently to spend a bit. I bought things in bright hues, as I always do this time of year, in an effort to drive the darkness away. I have more income now, and even knowing that, I have to tell myself I deserve new things once in a while.

Still, I'm not so certain they bring me as much pleasure as those Woolworths trinkets did, almost three decades ago.

The Woman in the Mirror

2010-01-24T16:00:00.000-08:00

When I look in the mirror these days I see someone I have not yet gotten to know very well.

During the past 8 years, the person who inhabits my body has finally grown up, shedding knee-jerk reactions for true critical thinking skills. There are many reasons that this process - learning to think - has taken so long, none worth going into here. Each of us grows up with a different set of challenges, even those who appear to lead a normal uneventful life, without dysfunctional parents or tragedy or loss or physical setback.

That's just life.

I think I like this new person I see. She certainly looks level-headed and if not quite serene, at least content.

I credit marriage to a good man for much of this growth. I suppose a better person could have done it on her own, but we are what we are, and even when we try to improve what we are, we still have limitations.

I have noticed recently that people are asking me for advice. I rather like that, and I enjoy talking to them and finding a way to help. I like the problem solving process a lot. I want to become a wise woman.

And if I am stiff and achy on a winter morning and if I occasionally want to tear off all my clothes because I am HOT, well that's OK.

There is much to appreciate about growing older and wiser.

Kick 2009 out - now!

2009-12-31T20:57:00.000-08:00

Good bye and good riddance to a bad decade.

And a bad year.

Yup, the first decade of the 21st Century was awful. Stupid politicians from both sides of the aisle, horrendous terrorist attacks, a flailing economy, reality shows - you name it, it was awful.

Decades seldom end when they are supposed to. Usually, some pivotal event marks the start of the decade. We could surely agree that the 1940s began on Dec. 7, 1941, with the bombing of Pearl Harbor and we could argue that the 60s really began on Nov. 22, 1963. The first decade of this century probably started on Sept. 11, 2001.

Who can tell when the twenty-teens will really begin.

For me, they begin in 55 minutes. (Yes, I a spending New Year's Eve surfing the Web.)

Too many bad things befell my friends in 2009. I talk about this on my other blog. Let's not belabor it. But really, let's get this decade over with. Now.

As I noted in the previous post, my husband and I celebrate 20 years of marriage on Dec. 28. I realize this is no small feat. But in looking back, I really think the world was a more interesting place then, the year we married.

We've lost so much. I was shocked a few weeks ago to read the Editor & Publishing was shutting down. This is the bible for people in the newspaper business. So many newspapers fold this year, and in 2008. Fortunately, the closures were mostly in two-paper towns. Just imagine what will happen if we lose the press: Who will shed light on secrecy in government and who will hold elected officials accountable? (Oh, no, don't let me get started on elected officials!)

The loss of so many of my favorite lifestyle magazines - County Home, Cottage Living, Victoria - hits home, too, because these were the book I looked forward to finding in my mailbox after a bad day. Victoria was revived two years ago by another publisher who clearly has no inkling of how to produce a literate and layered publication. Lay the two magazines side by side, and be sure to compare the early years of Victoria (1987-200) and you will see what I mean.

As someone who daily works to create a healthier economy (and a seasoned shopper), I'm bothered by all the small retail outlets that have closed in the past 10 years or so. There were shops that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla where a girl could buy frou-frou stuff when she needed a lift: Sachets, candles, linens and whatnot. Gone, so many of them.

OK, I will stop there. You don't need to read any whining. We've lost jobs, we've lost industries, and we've seen people lose their homes and their bank accounts.

Out of this loss, I hope will come much innovation and ingenuity and a return to simpler times.

I still have hope.

Welcome, 2010. I'll drink to that.

Twenty Years of Friendship & Marriage

2009-12-17T17:27:00.000-08:00

Tucked in between Christmas and New Year's is the anniversary of my marriage. The timing of this important occasion creates a trio of holidays for my husband and myself, thus marking the end of the year on a very high note.

This year we celebrate 20 years together. Like any marriage, ours has had its ups and downs in those years. But there was never any doubt in my mind that we'd go the distance because we started with a strong friendship and that, in my mind, is the basis for a successful marriage. That and patience, tolerance and a willingness to overlook that which is not really important in the long run.

We've grown together. I have come to appreciate film noir, The Simpsons, Martin Scorcese and ribs. He has come to appreciate Paris, tossed salads, drives in the country and the rituals of changing seasons. We both love art, good food, wine, movies, books, living near large bodies of water and boats.

Big fancy gifts are not important. We just like being together, doing simple things and sharing sunsets. Sounds hokey. But I am very lucky.

For Love of Books

2009-11-15T17:18:00.000-08:00

My husband and I lead quiet lives, more enamored by reading and the arts and introspection than most people around us. Our late-19th century home is cluttered with books and art projects.

We like to read about history, art, architecture, politics, travel, culture and food. The history of science and engineering books are his. The self-help books, business and decorating books are mine. We have small collections within our collections: The homefront during World War I, biographies of presidents, labor history, Irish history and urban history in the middle ages.

He once remarked I have enough books on France to finance another trip there.

A few years ago my friend, T, bought me a box of old books at an auction. They belonged to the mother of Sara, one of my first role models, a lovely and fiesty lady who died five years ago. Those books joined several given to me by my late mother-in-law, Margaret, and my late aunt and godmother, Dorothy.

We have a tall bookcase in the living room, and books tumble from it. We have a glass door bookcase in the front hall and a barrister's case in the dining room. There is a mission style book case in the room off the kitchen, and two in the ziggy-zaggy upstairs hallway. There are two in the spare room, and one in the room tucked away under sloping ceilings. That room has floor to ceiling buit-in bookcases, too. So does the room off the kitchen and the master bedroom.

Books, books, books! We have more books than money, certainly.

But that's OK.

Sadly, I think we are oddities in this town we live in. The bookstore owners across town and a smattering of others share our passion for the written word. It makes it difficult to establish close friendships. Non-readers need not apply.

I imagine that sounds snobbish to some. I suppose it is. But I cannot summon up much passion for football or NASCAR or "Dancing with the Stars" or whatever other obsessions make up popular culture today. Neither can my husband, although he routinely cheers for Notre Dame and Michigan while I root for the Badgers.

There are simply some things in life I will not do, would not ever do, like drink too much beer and drive, or bear a child without benefit of marriage, or cheat someone or lie to someone else. But I will read in the quiet of my own home. And I will read all manner of opinion.

And I will talk, talk with a chosen few, about what I have read and I will celebrate ideas and enlightenment.

If that makes me a snob, well, that's fine with me.

The Old Neighborhood in Autumn

2009-11-15T14:24:00.000-08:00

About three weeks ago when the leaves were still on the trees, I found myself driving through the neighborhood where I grew up.

An area of craftsman bungalows and simple frame houses, it had its own little business district, filled with mom-and-pop stores, a dairy, a barbershop, two taverns, a funeral home and appliance shop. A few blocks from the commercial center was the neighborhood school, Somerville School, a hulking brick schoolhouse that was soon exchanged for an ell-shaped, one-story building. The streets were lined with maple trees and quaking aspen, and the ended in semi-rural areas only a few blocks from the school. You could easily walk from city to country in a matter of minutes.

All that is changed now. Everything has changed. Much of the change has been good.

But on the downward slope of life, it is easy and comforting to look back and dream of simpler times. For me this neighborhood is redolent of new notebooks and pencils, of plaid cotton dresses with white colors, of orange drink and butterscotch brownies after school.

Just a bit of comfort as one season slips into another.

Welcome to the Café

2009-02-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

All my life I have wanted to own a restaurant. I know my siblings have the same thought.

It's in our blood.

Once upon a time, I thought I'd have a cute little place called The Red Hen. I would specialize in egg dishes, of course, and also bread. I saw red checkered curtains and a few plants. Baskets. Crocks. A touch of country and a touch of French. Perfect for 1980.

The I had this crazy idea I'd buy an old depot and start a diner called Bertha's by the Tracks. I look more like a little red hen than a Bertha, so I thought I'd have to hire a jolly woman with ringlets to play the role of Bertha. I'd specialize in hearty soups and sandwiches and name them after railroad lines.

Chicago and Northwestern would be hot beef. Milwaukee Road would be German - something with sauerkraut, maybe. Burlington Northern Santa Fe could be some sort of fusion dish with a Tex-Mex twist. You get the idea.

It would be a place for hungry business people. Bertha would offer sage advice and an occasional ribald comment. I'd hang old train prints on the walls.

Later I fantasized about a place called Café du Soleil, which would offer Mediterranean fare. For the past several months, I've been wondering if it might be possible. But my timing has always been bad.

Concurrently, I've been seeking a way to express myself and do more writing. I made my living writing for many years, and although I still write news releases and memos, it's not the same.

I've also been looking for a way to bring my blog, French Kitchen in America, back to its roots of family, food and France. I wanted to try more French recipes. In recent months, I have come to the conclusion they must be frugal French recipes.

I wanted a separate place for the humble little meals I make from scraps. Like the rest of you, I am watching money closely these days. Just in case.

Welcome to A Humble Little Café.