Category Archives: Family and Friends

Relationships and personal interaction

July 31, 2010 · 8:30 am

Dear Chelsea

Dear Chelsea,

Please accept my very best wishes for you and Marc on your wedding day today. 

You and I have never met, which explains why I wasn’t invited, though I have met your parents a time or two.  Your future mother-in-law used to be a television news reporter here in my area, so I do feel a remote connection.

I’ve been a fan of yours since you arrived in Washington in 1993 at the tender age of 12.  You endured undue ridicule about your appearance and later, the sex scandal of the century, with grace and maturity and without any siblings to share it with.

You grew into a beautiful woman, excelled at Stanford and landed a high caliber job.  I enjoy the occasions on which you step to a podium and speak with intelligence and poise.

I trust no detail of your lovely affair has gone unattended.  Just arranging all those helicopters to transport your guests to the event must have beeen a challenge. 

Because we can always  count on the public to jab political figures and those they love,  I imagine there will be snickers about the $15,000 you are reportedly spending for Porta-Potties for your Rhinebeck affair, but then you would also take heat if you neglected to make arrangements for your guests’ comfort.  Damned if you do… 

I too had a ridiculously large wedding.  I had no wedding planning consultant or technology to help me.  I did have great parents who helped.  Besides picking up the ridiculously large tab, my father picked out the dinner menu and made sure the reception venue was perfect.  My mother, while not Secretary of State, arranged for all of the flowers and centerpieces and thoughtfully selected the church music (even though the church music director snubbed her requests and played what he wanted anyway).  My husband and I did everything else ourselves. 

I was in charge of arranging transportation for everyone.  Two hours before the ceremony, I stood by to make sure our parents and the wedding party and the groom were picked up on time.  When they had all left, I realized my oversight.  I had forgotten to arrange transportation for myself.  So I threw my wedding dress in the trunk of my car and high-tailed it to the church.

I tell you this, Chelsea, as one bride to another.  It’s just something you might want to check on.

Blessings to you on your special day.

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July 30, 2010 · 8:05 am

In Memoriam: Darrin Beachy

Of the special things we could truly count on in life, one was going to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware–and to Espuma restaurant–and having the great pleasure of being served by Darrin Beachy.  Every year for the last 10 years, my husband, friends and I have made a point of having dinner there.  The creative fare was about 40 percent of the reason.  Darrin was the other 60 percent.

Yesterday, when I told you about Darrin in my blog post, I had no idea he had passed away suddenly in June, at the age of 42.  Darrin might have been part owner at one time, or the business partner of chef Jay Caputo, but he was a big part of what Espuma does well–taking the highest quality raw ingredients, treating them with love and respect, and creating culinary masterpieces unlike any other.  The restaurant is tiny, so he also served patrons in the dining room.

As I said yesterday, while the printed menu is simple, listing only the ingredients, Darrin made the menu come alive.  Slowly and quietly, he took you through every delicious detail of how the food was prepared, in such a personal story that you were on that boat with the fishermen or in the fields picking the produce at its ripest moment.  When you ate at Espuma, you didn’t take leftovers, because you never left a morsel on your plate, but you always took a bit of Darrin with you.

When we went last summer, we were disappointed to learn that, because Darrin had won a series of bartending awards, he had moved behind the bar to serve his famous homemade cocktails.  We sat at the bar before dinner that night. Darrin’s Italian Mojito, made with his homemade limoncello and fresh basil, was the best drink I’ve ever had.  In fact, ever since last summer, I have tried unsuccessfully to replicate it and was planning to stop by in August and ask him to give me a lesson.

I cannot imagine Rehoboth without Darrin.  I just know when we go in August, it will feel a lot less Beachy.

Here’s to you, Darrin, my friend.  Thanks for giving us good times, good food and a bit of yourself.  If I could, I’d toast you with an Italian Mojito.

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July 29, 2010 · 7:47 am

Poetry for the palate

When I started this blog, I promised to share occasional samples of good writing, whether by poets, authors, journalists or songwriters.  Today I’d like to add restaurant chefs and the menu writers who staff them.  I enjoy good food as much as I do reading and writing, so any occasion to combine these interests is a welcome treat.

It used to be that the best restaurants were as creative in presenting their gourmet creations on a printed menu as they were in presenting them on the plate. 

One playful, alliterative chef might have portrayed his gnocchi as a “platter of petite potato pillows,” while another balanced his bounteous entrée with “braised baby bok choy.”

I tingle reading about tender young reeds of California asparagus and glistening flecks of pesto.  Once, at Janos in Tucson, I actually wept when mushroom baklava was paired with a demitasse of consommé, silhouetted on the dinner plate in pistachio dust.  Such artistic wonder could never be captured in mere words.

Things have changed.  It seems nowadays, fine dining menus no longer offer poetic descriptions.  The food stands on its own.

On one hand, omitting excessive verbs and adjectives puts the spotlight where many believe it belongs–on the food itself.  This is effective when exotic or rare ingredients might otherwise be overshadowed by flowery language.

Examples of a straight menu include:

Restaurant Eve, Alexandria, Va. – Sautéed Sugar Toads with Glazed Sunchokes, Castelvetrano Olives and Espelette Pepper Aïoli.  Or Wild Chicken of the Woods Mushroom Custard with Roasted Morels, Porcinis, Chanterelle Foam Feuilles de Bric Crisps and Micro Beet Greens.

The French Laundry, Yountville, Calif. – Four Story Hill Farm Cuisse de Poularde, Kanzuri Mousse, Akita Komachi Rice, Broccolini, Cashews, Shishito Peppers and Sauce Japonaise.  Or Tartare of Japanese Toro with Sea Urchin, Razor Clams, Cucumber, Hawaiian Hearts of Palm, Thai Basil, Coconut and Lime Aigre-Doux.

Charlie Trotter’s, Chicago – Steamed Tasmanian Ocean Trout with Green Tea and Coriander Dusted Garbanzo Beans, followed by Meiwa Kumquats with Frozen Meringue and Cured Black Olives.

On the other hand, a straight menu takes half the fun out of the restaurant experience.  In my quirky circle of family and friends, we make a parlor game out of going around the table and doing dramatic readings of the menu. 

One of my favorite restaurants is Espuma in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where the printed menu does the cuisine no justice whatsoever.  Rather, your dinner choices are brought to life by the waiter, who vividly recounts how fishermen brought in their fresh catch that very morning; how the afternoon sun fell upon, at an acute angle, the wild blueberries that are lovingly tucked into the shortcake (garnished, by the way, with an orange-thyme biscuit, cantaloupe carpaccio, citrus granite and EVOO); or how the Classic Three-day Berkshire Pork made it to the platter, in a day-by-day account of its journey.  Don’t even ask about the Duet of Hudson Valley Duck or you’ll be weepy for the rest of the night.

Do you have favorite menu descriptions that have remained in your memory over the years, or can you suggest any eateries that still playfully present poetry on their pages?

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July 28, 2010 · 7:39 am

Waiting on Godot

My parents were sticklers when it came to teaching us proper speech.  I look forward to sharing more examples later, but one particular lesson comes to mind today.

One approach my father took in teaching life lessons was to warn me about certain behaviors and then say, “Don’t ever do that.”  For example, before I began learning how to drive, he once said, “notice how some drivers make a turn and go immediately into the middle lane.  Don’t ever do that.”  Instead, he instructed, turn into the closest lane and then change lanes gradually.  Even though at the time I didn’t have any personal context, I came to see that he was right; plenty of drivers make these sloppy and dangerous turns.  And I don’t ever do that.

Another time, he warned me that some people say “wait on,” when they mean “wait for.”

I had never heard anyone say “wait on” in any way except correctly.  My father assured me that someday I’d hear someone ask, “what are you waiting on?” and, when I did, he wanted to be sure I didn’t repeat it.  It might be a regional thing, he said; still, “Don’t ever do that.”

I listened for it but it was years before I noticed anyone saying “wait on” in lieu of “wait for.”  I was in the car with my new fiancé, behind another car at a stop light.  The light turned green.  The car in front of us didn’t move.  My then-fiancé honked the horn, stuck his head out the window and shouted, “What are ya waitin’ on?”  The moment about which my father warned me had come.

Let’s just remember that to wait for is to await or expect  someone or something.  To wait on is to serve, as a waiter waits on a restaurant patron.  Unfortunately, to wait on is still misused quite often.

John Mayer is “Waiting on the world to change,” as 30 years ago, Mick Jagger was “Waiting on a friend.”  It could be that the friend was laid up and needed waiting on.

Just this month, we read the following in sports headlines:

  • David Lee Waiting on LeBron
  • Brett Favre Waiting on Ankle to Heal
  • Waiting on Kovalchuk: Why Steve Yzerman should trade for Simon Gagne

Perhaps it’s one of those errors that, having gone colloquial, will in time be condoned by official sources.  That doesn’t appear to have happened yet, thank goodness.

Is it too late to turn the tide?  Or is it worth putting out a reminder and a tip for keeping it straight?

Maybe we can think about the Samuel Beckett play, “Waiting for Godot,” the title of which has become colloquial itself.

We recall that, in the play, the two main characters are waiting for a third, named Godot, who never comes.  The expression “waiting for Godot” has come to mean waiting for something that will never happen, or is futile.  I certainly hope by expecting to turn the tide, we are not waiting for Godot.

Or do we just simply reprimand ourselves, or our friends who ask “what are you waiting on?”  “Don’t ever do that.”

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July 27, 2010 · 9:22 am

Not the end of the world

You may have noticed that Word Nymph didn’t post yesterday.

Following 100 consecutive daily posts (except Sundays), the streak was broken yesterday by a series of outages here in the Washington, D.C., area.  The irony is that yesterday I had planned to send out a hello-world-I’m-here notice about the 100th post.  The one person who asked me yesterday, “hey, where’s my blog?” pointed out that one never says a word when one is on any kind of a streak.  Like a pitcher headed toward a perfect game, I learned that I was about to speak too soon about Word Nymph‘s streak.

I don’t know if our power and cable outages made national news–because I have no TV service.  Internet comes and goes, and it was reported this morning that it could be some time before power is restored to the region.  The Washington area takes enough heat about its drivers.  You can only imagine what happens at a dark intersection.  Most of us are aware that, by law, intersections without working traffic lights are to be treated as four-way stops but, in typical Washington fashion, there is wide interpretation.

Please accept my apologies for yesterday’s lapse.  Most readers are now thinking, there was a lapse?

I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but it’s just too good not to share. 

I’ll first say that my neighborhood didn’t lose power; we seldom do.  We’re a little unexplained oasis.  But we lost cable Sunday afternoon.  Around the region, trees snapped like matchsticks all over our county, taking power lines and, tragically, the life of a young boy who could not get out of the way in time.

Yesterday morning, determined to not break the Word Nymph streak, I set out to find Internet.  I first drove to the home of my aunt and uncle, to use their Internet and also pick up a bee removal suit my husband wanted to borrow.  I arrived at their house to find a note taped to their door: No power, no phone service, no cell service, back later.  I decided to try and find them to make sure they were all right.  Given the downed trees and power lines and dark intersections, driving was a challenge.  I drove to five places I thought they might be riding out the crisis–my aunt’s nail salon, her health club, Macy’s, the movie theater and Starbucks.  I planned Starbucks for last so I could settle in and use the wireless.  Everything was closed–including Starbucks. 

I went home, resigned to the unavailability of Internet and worried about my aunt and uncle, and went out back to clean up the storm debris.  As I was filling a large bag with broken limbs, I looked up to see another large bag being hurled toward me from over the six-foot fence.  I approached it cautiously, as I had been feeling all day that this might just be the end of the world.  I peeked inside and saw something wrapped in netting.  It was a bee removal suit.

I opened the gate to find my aunt and uncle.  I told them I had been worried sick and had looked everywhere I could think they might be.  I scolded them, “Where have you been?!” 

“Holy Cross Hospital,” my aunt said.  I hadn’t thought to try the hospital. 

“Are you all right?  What were you doing at the hospital?”

“Getting coffee.”

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July 24, 2010 · 8:37 am

Centesimal celebration

I am tired of talking about me.  When I posted my first blog entry in late March, I expressed discomfort about blogs in general, because people tend to use them as platforms for talking about themselves, and I just didn’t want to do that.

Today, on the occasion of Word Nymph’s 100th blog entry, let’s take a look at some others.

If you are reading this from the Word Nymph site (as opposed to a subscription e-mail), look toward the right of the screen and scroll down just a bit.  You will see a section entitled Blogroll, and a list of half a dozen blogs I visit regularly.

But first, let’s talk about me—and why I’ve chosen these six.

I am interested in broadcast news, as a viewer of course.  Not just the Holly Hunter movie, but live television news.  I watch as much of it as a working person can fit into a day.  In Advancing the Story, veteran journalists Deborah Potter and Deb Halpern Wenger provide an enlightened glimpse into broadcast media—the art and the science, the complexities and the nuances.  Their recent piece on interviewing victims was inspired.

I am a lover of words, a lifelong learner and maker of mistakes.  I try to be tolerant of others’ mistakes but draw a big fat line between an earnest slip and steady patterns of egregious violation.  I have peeves that make me itch like a case of poison ivy.  I commend to you two blogs that illustrate blatant assaults on our language.  Please visit Apostrophe Abuse, study it and tell all your friends—be militant about it—that apostrophes do not make words plural.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, an “s” makes a noun plural, NO APOSTROPHE needed, or wanted.  My family and I are the Welches, not the Welch’s.  We are not having the Nelson’s over for dinner and we won’t be serving clam’s.  The blog will give you a good laugh and, I hope, a good lesson.  Let’s stop the abuse.

I am serious about punctuation.  What I’ve said about the apostrophe, likewise with quotation marks.  If we keep using them unnecessarily, they will become endangered and we won’t have them when we really need them—for quotations.  Please visit The “blog” of “unnecessary” quotation marks and notice how silly it looks to wrap serious punctuation around ordinary words willy-nilly.   If you want to make words stand out, there are plenty of text formats available, including italics (CTL + i), bold (CTL + b) and underline (CTL + u).  And if you must—and only if you must—ALL CAPS.  Please do not use quotation marks for emphasis.

I love English, but realize what we speak in the United States is American (I love that too).  I am also interested in all things international.  The Economist is a magazine that is read and respected by intelligent people throughout the international community.  It maintains a high standard of thought and writing, so when it launched a language blog, Johnson, earlier this summer, naturally, I signed up.  Check it out.

I love humor, possibly above all else.  My motto is “laughter heals” and I need a steady diet of it or I’ll die.  If you too need a chuckle a day, log on to The Sticky Egg.  The Egg posts every day, providing a full week’s worth of minimum daily hilarity, as the clever Carla Curtsinger muses about the entertainment biz and life in New York City.  She’ll also explain the origin of her moniker.  Be sure and check out her Blogroll.

I miss my kid.  He grew up in the blink of an eye, probably because I worked 12 hours a day and traveled regularly for the first 15 years of his life.  To bring back memories of having a child in the house, I get great enjoyment from the colorful tales of Cara Garretson, a  mother of two young kids, a gifted storyteller and a writer who works at home.  Time Out will make you smile.

But enough about me.

See you Monday.

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July 22, 2010 · 7:54 am

Coward or careless?

In matters of public affairs, we often hear about a person shooting himself in the foot.  Typically, this means the person has exercised either poor judgment or incompetence, thus jeopardizing his cause.

Frankly, I’ve never given the expression much thought.  It’s a descriptive image that accurately depicts an easy but serious error.  The phrase is used, perhaps overused, in wide range of personal, business and political contexts.

My mother recently conveyed to me a peeve.  She wondered why so many people, including articulate public speakers, misuse this expression, and not just use it incorrectly but use it essentially as a direct opposite of its real meaning.   

I didn’t know this, but she explained that shooting themselves in the foot was what some soldiers did during World War I to get out of going into battle.  It was done deliberately and out of fear or cowardice.  One source explains that shooting oneself in the foot is “to deliberately sabotage an activity in order to avoid obligation, though it causes personal suffering.”

Clearly, to shoot oneself in the foot comes from such wartime acts.  But these days, we hear a lot less about soldiers intentionally wounding themselves and more about people at home accidentally shooting their firearms and wounding themselves, often in the foot.

So it’s easy to see how the expression’s meaning morphed from intentional to accidental, from being caused by fear to being caused by stupidity.

As I contemplated whether there might be a scenario that encompassed both meanings, a long-repressed childhood memory came to mind that, until now, has remained a secret.  When I was in the seventh grade, I jumped six feet off a jungle gym, hands first, intentionally spraining my wrist, to get out of a piano lesson.

The daughter of two musicians and a lover of music, I still regret not being able to play the piano.  I guess I really shot myself in the foot.

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July 21, 2010 · 8:09 am

Last words

Is anyone else a creature of habit when it comes to reading the newspaper?  I don’t mean that you read it but, rather, how you read it.

I’ve been reading The Washington Post every day for 27 years and still read it in print.  First the Business Section, then Metro, followed by the main section and, for dessert, Style.  On Tuesdays, the Health section comes first; Wednesdays it’s Food.  The Crossword page gets torn out, folded in quarters and filed chronologically in a bedside folder for later enjoyment. 

Recently, when honey they shrunk my paper, Business was folded into the main section.  And it just isn’t the same.

During my years as a corporate lobbyist, the Business section was everything.  All stories high tech and financial, where I focused, were to be devoured and responded to as part of a day’s work.  That’s why it still comes first–old habits die hard.  Mondays were especially fun in those days, when the announcements ran—and still do—about major players changing jobs around town.  It used to be that I knew about 75 percent of the movers and shakers whose names and job changes appeared in this feature.

These days, I recognize more names in the obituaries than I do in Washington Business.

I’m not  kidding.   At least once a week, I see a familiar name or face in the obits.

When I started reading the death section years ago, my parents (Mom lives out of town; Dad travels a lot) appreciated my letting them know when a family friend or neighbor had died.  More and more, my own contemporaries are making appearances in the back of the Metro section.

But even when they aren’t my acquaintances, I have come to really enjoy reading obituaries.  This might sound twisted, but I also enjoy attending funerals.  Please don’t get me wrong.  I grieve the losses of my loved ones as deeply as anyone.  But I appreciate the words that are written and spoken, and the music played, when they pass.

It is hard to sum up one’s life in mere words.  The fact is, the words that are chosen, and they way they are put together in final tribute, are an art.

To me, the most interesting obituaries typically include an unusual profession coupled with an odd or obscure hobby, musical talent or second language.  While the heading might read “Church Member,” we may learn that the deceased also made a mean pound cake or could whistle Bach’s Fugue in G Minor.

It’s hard, when reading the obits, not to wonder what will be written about oneself after passing.  It makes me approach my life a little more conscious of what might be said about me when I’m gone.

Chances are, when I go, I’ll leave my own write-up behind.

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July 16, 2010 · 7:52 am

Real life

Greetings from Lake Chautauqua, where I’ve been with about 25 family and friends for a mid-week reunion.  Aunts, uncles, a niece, four nephews and another 25 or so second cousins, cousins removed several times and family friends who’ve been in my life since day one were all here in western New York for the gathering.

It’s fun hearing everyone’s news and even more fun re-hearing the old stories.  Yes, it is true that I was “baptized” with gin by a drunken lobbyist while in my baby carrier atop a night club piano.

If you saw the movie Dan in Real Life, you have a picture of what it is like here—right down to the used book store in the center of town.  Dozens of relatives, complete with their successes and worries and baggage and history, under a roof a wee bit too small for the crowd, loudly living the joys and bumps of real life.  

The fact that I write a blog has come up periodically, and people have asked if I’d be writing any stories from the week.  I simply said, only if they are blogworthy.  That was all it took for one aunt who set out actively to achieve blogworthiness.

Wednesday alone, we fished off the dock for hours, undertook a hopelessly disastrous group craft project, which I orchestrated after temporarily forgetting my deficit in this area.  We divided into teams for a putt-putt tournament, swam, ran, played basketball, attended my father’s brilliant performance before an audience of 5,000 at the Chautauqua Institution’s amphitheater and had a loud dinner with 50 spirited guests. 

Was it blogworthy?  You decide.  I must report though that my 76-year-old aunt succeeded in achieving blogworthiness in her own right, on the mini golf course.  On the 12th hole, she stepped back from a rolling ball, into a row of raised bricks, and fell backwards, landing simultaneously on her tail bone and her head.  She got up and finished the remaining six holes. 

It takes a lot to stand out in this crowd, but everyone tries.

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July 14, 2010 · 8:19 am

Toy with me

Last weekend my husband and I, sans child, went to see Toy Story 3.

Somehow I managed to miss 1 and 2, even though our son was six when the first one came out; perhaps these were part of a guys’ night out.

Friends and family members who remember what an awful time I had when our son left for college in 2006 made sure I saw Toy Story 3 and that I brought along plenty of Kleenex.  Used every last one.

We weren’t the only childless adults in the theater, which is a testament to this particular series of Pixar animated films and, I dare say, to the therapeutic effect of being surrounded by toys for two hours.

Until we got to the heartbreaking part where Boy leaves Mom, I enjoyed re-living my own childhood through the animated toys. 

I had practically every one of those classic toys.  Those I did not, my brothers or cousins or friends did.  Someone in our family, perhaps grandparents, had the old cymbal-slapping monkey.  My brothers had the See ‘n Say The Farmer Says, as did our son.  I like to think of that one as onomatopoeia machine.  I loved the telephone on wheels that googled its eyes when you pulled it along on its string.  I also had a doll in about as good of shape as Big Baby, abused by love.  I had a few Barbies, but not Metrosexual Ken.  Oh, and who can forget Slinky Dog?

After seeing the movie, I went up to our attic, where a few of our son’s old toys have retired, and to the basement, where the old books and games are, to apologize for sending them there.  I pulled some fire engines off the shelf and rolled them to a make believe emergency–big pileup of Matchbox cars–and paid overdue homage to some other old friends.

One fellow who was never banished to Floors 3 or B was Pippo, a sock monkey named for the series of Helen Oxenbury books we enjoyed so much.  He still lies on our son’s bed, mainly to keep alive the childhood spirit of the room in the absence of our boy, now grown and living out of state.  I suppose Pippo is our Woody.

I think I’ll see if my husband wants to play Candyland tonight.  We can call it a playdate with destiny.

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