A few years ago, researching a short story that I have yet to write, I ran across the following article which is germane to yesterday's crash landing of a passenger plane in the Hudson River. See the link at the end of this blog.
Isn't it just unbelievably great and cool and wonderful to have a bit of really good news? And with the inauguration coming up, life looks good even if the economy is still in the toilet.
A mini-report on the economy as witnessed by me today: Chinese restaurant C.K. Shanghai in Wellesley, good crowd, good food, cheap menu. I went for General Gau's chicken.
At the AAA in Westwood: lots of people. Like us, they must be getting maps and guides to go somewhere. Price of gas is up again.
At Walmart: again, lots of people, many buying groceries. We got cat litter, cat food, cat diabetic supplies and bottled water. I am buying Fancy Feast without gluten for the diabetic cat.
At the tire store: not crowded but phone ringing and some customers. Ye gods, what a new set of tires will set you back. Holy freakin' crap!
People are out and about and buying lunch, planning trips and cruising the Walmart aisles. This is good.
Here is the link to the water landing site:http://www.equipped.org/watertrees.htm
Showing posts with label Boston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Boston. Show all posts
Friday, January 16, 2009
Friday, December 05, 2008
Kate's Mystery Books
This evening, Kate of Kate's Mystery Bookstore in Cambridge, MA will throw her annual holiday party, a soiree not to be missed. The crime-writing literati of the Boston area will gather to chat with fans, autograph books, nosh, schmooze, and yes, imbibe.
Kate is Boston's best known promoter of the mystery genre. Her wide umbrella shelters thrillers, cozies, horror, true crime and of course the traditional mystery. Her collection of black cats (statuary) is totally awesome.
With the book business in crisis, this is an opportunity to buy personalized (signed by the author) holiday gifts the recipients will actually read and enjoy, support local authors and give a leg up to one of our local booksellers. Kate can always recommend books that you or your gift list will adore, a knack born of many years in the business. Her knowledge is encyclopediac and her inventory is vast.
The party is from 5:30 - 7:45 at Kates (2211 Mass Ave in Cambridge). Close to Porter and Davis Squares. Lots of eateries and drinkeries nearby. The party becomes a mob scene but is ever so much fun. You literally rub elbows.
I'm bringing my spicy empenadas, a riff on Paula Deen's recipe. The dough is resting in the fridge and the filling is waiting for the diced tomato. The party food is always toothsome. One year there was a meatloaf to die for.
Look for me. Ah, hell. You'll probably be gazing at Robert Parker or Dennis Lehane. So will I.
With the book business in crisis, this is an opportunity to buy personalized (signed by the author) holiday gifts the recipients will actually read and enjoy, support local authors and give a leg up to one of our local booksellers. Kate can always recommend books that you or your gift list will adore, a knack born of many years in the business. Her knowledge is encyclopediac and her inventory is vast.
The party is from 5:30 - 7:45 at Kates (2211 Mass Ave in Cambridge). Close to Porter and Davis Squares. Lots of eateries and drinkeries nearby. The party becomes a mob scene but is ever so much fun. You literally rub elbows.
I'm bringing my spicy empenadas, a riff on Paula Deen's recipe. The dough is resting in the fridge and the filling is waiting for the diced tomato. The party food is always toothsome. One year there was a meatloaf to die for.
Look for me. Ah, hell. You'll probably be gazing at Robert Parker or Dennis Lehane. So will I.
Cheers!
Grapeshot
Grapeshot
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Year of the Rat
Horrible forecast for this evening's weather, and we were supposed to go to the New England Mystery Writer's meeting. The scheduled speaker was a PI, so it disappointing when stuff is cancelled.
I moved up our Chinese New Year dinner. Orange chicken, I think it's called. Every Chinese New Year we celebrate with a home-cooked feast. Always something yummy. I'm also sauteing pea pods and making a salad with the orange that will be left after the rind is used. And rice of course. Basmati, not Chinese, but who cares?
Sometimes we eat with chopsticks. When my kids were little, they would ask what the writing on the chop sticks meant. We always told them, "it says 'shut up and eat,'" which they believed. I suspect that I was not the kind of mother that will ever go down in history as the greatest. Hated car pools, and didn't much like birthday parties, after a bunch of 7 year old boys spent the greater part of the party on the floor wrestling. Having little kids is stressful, and it's 24/7, plus you can't turn off the beeper. Nope.
Back to Chinese food. Article in NY Times (I think) this week about how none of it is authentic, and I have known people to return from China and say the food was awful, so it's hard to know what' to believe, but the best Chinese meal I ever ate was in New York's Chinatown with someone who knows his Asian food and it was totally wonderful.
We have noticed that in Boston you can't get decent egg rolls, whereas every store front in Chicago had them. The worst I ever ate were homemade. One of life's mysteries. But I'm hoping the orange chicken, which I suspect is not authentic will be tasty. Tastes good and not too many calories and doesn't take all day to make is ideal. My aims are modest.
Since I first went to school and ate the school lunches that were usually yucko, I've liked a macaroni casserole made with ground beef, tomatoes and elbow pasta. When we came to Boston, I discovered they called it "American Chop Suey," which I had never heard of, but now it has a name. A pound of ground beef feeds us for 3 nights, and it's tasty with parmesan cheese and some red pepper flakes for zing. Comfort food.
Enough rambling. Time to do some writing. And then it's off to feed the cows before the storm hits. I think they are starting to accept the new young bull that appeared in place of the sweet faced young bull who sired all the current babies. So far he has kind of been taurus-non-grata with them. Cow culture is hard to understand. But isn't that also the case with our own culture?
Alors,
Grapeshot
I moved up our Chinese New Year dinner. Orange chicken, I think it's called. Every Chinese New Year we celebrate with a home-cooked feast. Always something yummy. I'm also sauteing pea pods and making a salad with the orange that will be left after the rind is used. And rice of course. Basmati, not Chinese, but who cares?
Sometimes we eat with chopsticks. When my kids were little, they would ask what the writing on the chop sticks meant. We always told them, "it says 'shut up and eat,'" which they believed. I suspect that I was not the kind of mother that will ever go down in history as the greatest. Hated car pools, and didn't much like birthday parties, after a bunch of 7 year old boys spent the greater part of the party on the floor wrestling. Having little kids is stressful, and it's 24/7, plus you can't turn off the beeper. Nope.
Back to Chinese food. Article in NY Times (I think) this week about how none of it is authentic, and I have known people to return from China and say the food was awful, so it's hard to know what' to believe, but the best Chinese meal I ever ate was in New York's Chinatown with someone who knows his Asian food and it was totally wonderful.
We have noticed that in Boston you can't get decent egg rolls, whereas every store front in Chicago had them. The worst I ever ate were homemade. One of life's mysteries. But I'm hoping the orange chicken, which I suspect is not authentic will be tasty. Tastes good and not too many calories and doesn't take all day to make is ideal. My aims are modest.
Since I first went to school and ate the school lunches that were usually yucko, I've liked a macaroni casserole made with ground beef, tomatoes and elbow pasta. When we came to Boston, I discovered they called it "American Chop Suey," which I had never heard of, but now it has a name. A pound of ground beef feeds us for 3 nights, and it's tasty with parmesan cheese and some red pepper flakes for zing. Comfort food.
Enough rambling. Time to do some writing. And then it's off to feed the cows before the storm hits. I think they are starting to accept the new young bull that appeared in place of the sweet faced young bull who sired all the current babies. So far he has kind of been taurus-non-grata with them. Cow culture is hard to understand. But isn't that also the case with our own culture?
Alors,
Grapeshot
Friday, January 25, 2008
Fireworks and Water
We trekked into Boston via public transporation tonight for the Handel and Haydn concert at Symphony Hall. Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks and Water Music, also Bach's Orrchestra Suite No 3 and some Purcell.
Missed the train by milliseconds and had to wait 12 minutes for the next one in the 20 degree cold. Man reading Car and Driver across from me. Notice bare skin peeking out from gap in his cotton dress shirt. No undershirt, no sweater, just a storm coat, weird hat and gloves. He chewed his fingernails while he read.
On the green line, S.O. sits next to crazy woman: a) she has no teeth, b) she has a perfect witch profile, c) she talks to herself and everyone and d) she gets up twice and does a little dance. S.O. ignores, but the man sitting on the other side smiles gently which seems to make her happy.
Concert wonderful. Too many old folks, though. Classical music will die if we don't get young people to these concerts. Woman in vicinity has drenched herself with perfume. Doesn't smell bad, just too strong.
Harry Christophers conducts in a very vigorous manner, and sometimes weird and spastic and again dancing, almost, and I'm afraid he'll fall off his podium, but he doesn't. Orchestra stands for the entire concert except for cellists, etc.
Afterward, back onto the T except there are 300 people waiting after the performance and the train doesn't come for 15 minutes and when it does, it's almost full, so there's one of those tight situations when you become intimate with perfect strangers. At least nobody weird.
We catch the Red Line after a short wait. Middle aged couple in love across from us. Isn't love strange? Isn't it wonderful? And mysterious, too. No wonder so many books, movies, songs, and such are all about love. It hold on to the mystery.
Back home, and all is well. House still reeks of last nights Pan Seared Scallops in Ginger Broth. I can still smell the curry, the scallops and the ginger. Not unpleasant, but man does the odor hang around. Burned candles all afternoon which did nothing. Too freaking cold to open the windows.
Thisbe went out on the porch for 45 seconds today, and again for about 30 seconds. Saw a turtle dove and ran back inside. I don't know about her. What kind of a cat is afraid of birds? Remember, Friday is cat blog day.
Grapeshot
Missed the train by milliseconds and had to wait 12 minutes for the next one in the 20 degree cold. Man reading Car and Driver across from me. Notice bare skin peeking out from gap in his cotton dress shirt. No undershirt, no sweater, just a storm coat, weird hat and gloves. He chewed his fingernails while he read.
On the green line, S.O. sits next to crazy woman: a) she has no teeth, b) she has a perfect witch profile, c) she talks to herself and everyone and d) she gets up twice and does a little dance. S.O. ignores, but the man sitting on the other side smiles gently which seems to make her happy.
Concert wonderful. Too many old folks, though. Classical music will die if we don't get young people to these concerts. Woman in vicinity has drenched herself with perfume. Doesn't smell bad, just too strong.
Harry Christophers conducts in a very vigorous manner, and sometimes weird and spastic and again dancing, almost, and I'm afraid he'll fall off his podium, but he doesn't. Orchestra stands for the entire concert except for cellists, etc.
Afterward, back onto the T except there are 300 people waiting after the performance and the train doesn't come for 15 minutes and when it does, it's almost full, so there's one of those tight situations when you become intimate with perfect strangers. At least nobody weird.
We catch the Red Line after a short wait. Middle aged couple in love across from us. Isn't love strange? Isn't it wonderful? And mysterious, too. No wonder so many books, movies, songs, and such are all about love. It hold on to the mystery.
Back home, and all is well. House still reeks of last nights Pan Seared Scallops in Ginger Broth. I can still smell the curry, the scallops and the ginger. Not unpleasant, but man does the odor hang around. Burned candles all afternoon which did nothing. Too freaking cold to open the windows.
Thisbe went out on the porch for 45 seconds today, and again for about 30 seconds. Saw a turtle dove and ran back inside. I don't know about her. What kind of a cat is afraid of birds? Remember, Friday is cat blog day.
Grapeshot
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Series Versus Standalone Part II
Location. Location. Location. If you've been writing a series, the setting is probably fixed, with a few forays per book into new places, but you know where your character hangs out--think Stephanie Plum's New Jersey with the office and her apartment and her parents place; think Evanovich in St. Teresa with the garage apartment, the Hungarian restaurant and Henry's kitchen. Spenser's Boston. Of course Jack Reacher has no place to hang his hat.
But normally in a series, the characters and the setting are familiar, at least for a portion of the book. You can describe the places your character hangs out in your sleep, and if he or she moseys somewhere else, well, you can just go there and do your own research. Maybe she eats at a nice restaurant. Hey,you could try out the menu offerings, too.
But in a stand alone novel, not only are the characters new, but so are the places. 1928 California! They're tearing down those old houses as we write. So much has been lost. Yet one wants authentic details. This is hard work, she whined. Grapeshot does a lot of whining when she's not sucking it up, and chances are, she's whining then, too. For shame!
So I have a trip to California planned, hoping that some of 1928 remains. That's when the Los Angeles City Hall was completed. They are still a few little places and some houses left. We thank the heavens for historical societies and photographs and the web. Images of old Mexicali are scarcer than hen's teeth. One will have to dig.
So, onward into the past. I hope you have saved all the old family photo albums. Did you know you can sell slide collections on EBAY? It's a piece of history, and so much the better if you have Disneyland, Yellowstone and Coney Island. Who would have thunk.
Wondering,
Grapeshot
But normally in a series, the characters and the setting are familiar, at least for a portion of the book. You can describe the places your character hangs out in your sleep, and if he or she moseys somewhere else, well, you can just go there and do your own research. Maybe she eats at a nice restaurant. Hey,you could try out the menu offerings, too.
But in a stand alone novel, not only are the characters new, but so are the places. 1928 California! They're tearing down those old houses as we write. So much has been lost. Yet one wants authentic details. This is hard work, she whined. Grapeshot does a lot of whining when she's not sucking it up, and chances are, she's whining then, too. For shame!
So I have a trip to California planned, hoping that some of 1928 remains. That's when the Los Angeles City Hall was completed. They are still a few little places and some houses left. We thank the heavens for historical societies and photographs and the web. Images of old Mexicali are scarcer than hen's teeth. One will have to dig.
So, onward into the past. I hope you have saved all the old family photo albums. Did you know you can sell slide collections on EBAY? It's a piece of history, and so much the better if you have Disneyland, Yellowstone and Coney Island. Who would have thunk.
Wondering,
Grapeshot
Sunday, August 26, 2007
St. Anthony in the North End
St. Anthony looks so young and innocent. He is holding a child in his arms. Why is the size of the child always off in relationship to the adult? There is a statue in the cemetery in Stoughton with the same issue. Child is too small. Well, saintliness overcomes rules of proportion, and one doesn't want to quibble with the fantastic feast the North End puts on for the saint and the faithful and even the tourist trade. The whole freshman class of Stonehill College seemed to be in attendance. They must think they've come to a really cool part of the country. They have.
Grapeshot
To Italy and Back In A Day
Today is St. Anthony's Festival in Boston's North End, with bands, street food, parades, the effigy of the saint laden with lucre and spectators galore.
Hot day, but cloudy with a breeze blowing through the North End. Plenty of Italian Ices, Gelati, beer and beverages to slake the thirst.
The first band we encountered played the theme from the Godfather, although that's probably not the name of the song, and I will find out for you. We came to the square where the saint, a nice looking young man holding a child was being carried about, weighted down with green bills, with more to come. A true spectacle, and with the hordes of people, many speaking Italian, the heat, the noise, the smells of peppers and sausages you might have imagined you were in Boston, no I meant Italy.
After viewing the festivities, we stopped into a nice little family run trattoria and had a good lunch, modest but very tasty.
When did a decent lunch skyrocket to $65.00? Wine, salad, entree and coffee. How did this happen? For two, of course. We beat it back to the subway, and came on home, sated with sounds, smells, sights and a full belly. Poor, but happy.
Buon Giorno,
Grapeshot
Hot day, but cloudy with a breeze blowing through the North End. Plenty of Italian Ices, Gelati, beer and beverages to slake the thirst.
The first band we encountered played the theme from the Godfather, although that's probably not the name of the song, and I will find out for you. We came to the square where the saint, a nice looking young man holding a child was being carried about, weighted down with green bills, with more to come. A true spectacle, and with the hordes of people, many speaking Italian, the heat, the noise, the smells of peppers and sausages you might have imagined you were in Boston, no I meant Italy.
After viewing the festivities, we stopped into a nice little family run trattoria and had a good lunch, modest but very tasty.
When did a decent lunch skyrocket to $65.00? Wine, salad, entree and coffee. How did this happen? For two, of course. We beat it back to the subway, and came on home, sated with sounds, smells, sights and a full belly. Poor, but happy.
Buon Giorno,
Grapeshot
Sunday, July 29, 2007
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream
About a year ago, S.O. and I were shopping with a friend at the Williams Sonoma outlet at the Wrentham mall and discovered an ice cream maker that was really really reduced in price. I had always seen these really cool (!) recipes in Gourmet and Bon Appetit that require an ice cream maker and glossed over them. The time to purchase such a device seemed ripe.
Our friend told us that we were too fat already and why make ice cream and get even fatter, her somewhat flawed reasoning being that one would only eat ice cream one had made. Ha ha! Like the supermarket doesn't have it, or Boston doesn't have a bunch of super-yummy premium ice cream parlors.
We bought it anyway, but due to both guilt and all of a sudden no ice cream recipes in Gourmet and Bon Appetit (had they, too, bought her philsophy?) we never opened the box.
This week I volunteered to bring a dessert to a dinner party and thumbed thru some old recipes for something incredibly delicious, using fresh fruit in season. I found a plum pie with a streusel topping and lemon-lime ice milk. Hey! Ice milk--practically low-cal, right?
So we unpacked the ice cream maker and took it apart and washed it, as directed, read the instructions 16 times because this suddenly didn't look so simple. Anyway, I put the bowl in the freezer for 24 hours as indicated, and yesterday morning I made up the lemon-lime ice milk mixture, which was really simple, because I didn't have to make a custard. With that properly chilled, and the pie crust cooling in the fridge, it was time to make the ice cream, and we had to assemble the freezer again. I confess to being an idiot about following verbal and pictorial instructions, all of which are written by folks who can assemble the whatever in their sleep. After a number of false tries, we finally got the thing together before it thawed and the ice milk was made and popped into the freezer--no problems there. Then we had to disassemble the rest of the pieces to clean. We couldn't get the paddle out. More reading of the instructions and much cogitating and tentative pulling and twisting. The paddle was stuck tight. Finally, I told S.O. to give it a very strong yank, and voila! out it came.
We decided to try the ice cream making again, real soon now, hoping to become more adept at the process.
I am pleased to report that the pie was scrumptious and the lemon-lime ice milk was sweet and tart and frosty and not too rich, almost low-cal. Almost. What's better, there are two pieces of pie left for dinner tonight, and a bit of the frosty stuff. All's well that end's well. I'm thinking of rum raisin or coffee next. And definitely some frozen yogurt, to balm the conscience.
Isn't that what one does with a conscience? Bad and guilty are bannable words. Shun them. To the back of the dictionary with you, I say.
Onward,
Grapeshot
Our friend told us that we were too fat already and why make ice cream and get even fatter, her somewhat flawed reasoning being that one would only eat ice cream one had made. Ha ha! Like the supermarket doesn't have it, or Boston doesn't have a bunch of super-yummy premium ice cream parlors.
We bought it anyway, but due to both guilt and all of a sudden no ice cream recipes in Gourmet and Bon Appetit (had they, too, bought her philsophy?) we never opened the box.
This week I volunteered to bring a dessert to a dinner party and thumbed thru some old recipes for something incredibly delicious, using fresh fruit in season. I found a plum pie with a streusel topping and lemon-lime ice milk. Hey! Ice milk--practically low-cal, right?
So we unpacked the ice cream maker and took it apart and washed it, as directed, read the instructions 16 times because this suddenly didn't look so simple. Anyway, I put the bowl in the freezer for 24 hours as indicated, and yesterday morning I made up the lemon-lime ice milk mixture, which was really simple, because I didn't have to make a custard. With that properly chilled, and the pie crust cooling in the fridge, it was time to make the ice cream, and we had to assemble the freezer again. I confess to being an idiot about following verbal and pictorial instructions, all of which are written by folks who can assemble the whatever in their sleep. After a number of false tries, we finally got the thing together before it thawed and the ice milk was made and popped into the freezer--no problems there. Then we had to disassemble the rest of the pieces to clean. We couldn't get the paddle out. More reading of the instructions and much cogitating and tentative pulling and twisting. The paddle was stuck tight. Finally, I told S.O. to give it a very strong yank, and voila! out it came.
We decided to try the ice cream making again, real soon now, hoping to become more adept at the process.
I am pleased to report that the pie was scrumptious and the lemon-lime ice milk was sweet and tart and frosty and not too rich, almost low-cal. Almost. What's better, there are two pieces of pie left for dinner tonight, and a bit of the frosty stuff. All's well that end's well. I'm thinking of rum raisin or coffee next. And definitely some frozen yogurt, to balm the conscience.
Isn't that what one does with a conscience? Bad and guilty are bannable words. Shun them. To the back of the dictionary with you, I say.
Onward,
Grapeshot
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