I continue my new year blog tradition of sharing my word for the year. For 2019 it is —
It represents the life force continuing to circulate and move us forward.
For me 2018 has been one helluva year, and I know I need to train my eyes forward and leave these past 13 months behind. I am so grateful for all the friends, old and new, who have listened to me, encouraged me, supported me, challenged me, believed in me, kicked me in the butt, and simply been there to lift me up again and again. It has not been a year of great literary accomplishment though at least I have not quit. But I do enter the new year more whole, more centered, more appreciative than ever of the nurturing abundance that are the sweet authentic connections with those whom we love. I have pushed through and am on the other side, without bitterness and resentment. I am fit, I am resilient, I am healthy (despite some scares this year), I have work I love, and I know my openness and vulnerability are not weaknesses. And while my visa is up for renewal again this year, I know that I will always have options, and I am more than capable of reinventing myself wherever I am planted.
The novel that was out on submission in 2018 garnered a dozen requests for the full manuscript by agents, but no rep yet, so I plan to reel it back in and do a big rewrite as I still believe in it. And I am working on two other queer YA manuscripts, one set in New England and one near Yellowstone. will be pulling back on screen time and may well even put my blog on a sabbatical after 8 years of weekly posts. Aiming for more social and less media! I hope I will continue to connect with more of you in person because I feel that is where the real magic takes place.
In 2019, may you connect on multiple levels with the great universe in which we live, may your year be filled with wonder, and may you always keep your sense of humor! We belong to an amazing community and we’ve got this, together. I’m celebrating all your successes and cheering you on in the year ahead. Stay creative, do your best work, and know that I’m here to support you! Message me whenever you like and tell me how I can help.
In my teens, I read constantly and broadly. When I ran short of library books, I would raid my parents’ bookshelves where I read all the naughty parts in James Bond, AND stumbled upon some terrific texts that continue to inspire my travels. One of these was a WWII memoir set on Vashon Island. I was already a sucker for islands and island stories, and fell in love with the descriptions of this verdant if rainy paradise in Puget Sound. Just as I could never imagine living in New York City as a thirteen-year-old, I also never imagined one day I would visit the most north westerly part of the US.
Imagine the thrill when visiting a new friend in Seattle for the first time when she suggested we take a trip to Vashon island to visit a friend of hers who lived there. Vashon is a sweet gem, a short ferry ride from Seattle. A community with an eclectic mix of people and a laid back bohemian vibe — lots of artists, and a fab bookstore. It even has its own radio station and a thriving music scene. It’s a very quiet little place with a creative vibe. And as we visited the new parcel of land S’s friend had recently bought, I understood how Betty MacDonald, the author of the memoir Onions in the Stew, had in no way exaggerated about the humidity and consequent verdant prolific vegetation. It was from this book I learnt how to “hunt” the geoduck! And if I wasn’t geeking out enough on getting to visit this literary location, the dude we were visiting suggested a jaunt around the bay in his boat. I have visited three islands so far on my Seattle trips, and highly recommend hopping on a ferry if you get the chance.
The waterfront at Tahlequah, Vashon Island
I confess that having lived 13 years in southern France, I had become a bit of an old world wine snob! Since living in the US, you will be glad to know I have seen the error of my ways. American wine has been produced for over 300 years, and the US is the 4th largest wine producing country in the world (after France, Spain and Italy.) And, I discovered that wine is produced in all fifty states. Yup!
Did you know that the first Europeans we know of to explore North America, a Viking expedition from Greenland, called it Vinland because of the profusion of grape vines they found? The earliest wine made in what is now the United States was produced between 1562 and 1564 by French Huguenot Settlers from Scuppernong grapes at a settlement near Jackson, Florida. In the early colonies of Virginia and the Carolinas, wine-making was an official goal laid out in the founding charters.
While I have tried wines from the Finger Lakes, Long Island, Cape May, Portland OR, etc, the main vineyards I have visited and the American wines I tend to buy are not surprisingly, Californian. I have been fortunate to have spent several weeks in the Napa and Sonoma wine regions, just north of San Francisco, and have enjoyed some wine-tasting at several stunning locations here. I have drunk at European-style châteaux surrounded by immaculately groomed shrubbery, rose bushes and culinary gardens with Italian, French and American herbs and olive trees. And I have also tasted at tiny artisanal family-run wineries that may not bottle a lot of wine, but boy the quality is outstanding. The dry hillsides and dusky scents often remind me of France, which could be why this is where I would consider retiring. My favorite wine of the last 12 months is a bold Cabernet called Sophia’s Cuvée (named after the vintner’s daughter) that I drank in two restaurants in Baltimore but actually hails from a small Napa vineyard owned by the Kalaris family.
Well before the annual Rockefeller Center Xmas Tree Lighting, in-the-know New Yorkers gather on the plaza each year for the tree-raising. Taking place on an early Saturday morning in mid November. This little known event is truly a sight to behold and in my humble opinion more spectacular than the well-attended lighting in December. During my first Christmas in the city, my then girlfriend (a born and bred Brooklynite) took me to see both the tree-raising and a performance of the Rockettes at radio City Music Hall, for the genuine New York Christmas experience! Wrapped up in mittens and beanies we watched as the mammoth Norway Spruce was driven onto the square, carefully untied and craned into its new home on the Center Plaza. Of course, you should come see it lit up too!
This year’s 72-foot and 75-year-old Norway spruce, known affectionately as Shelby, is the first to be donated by a same-sex or Latina couple from their property in Wallkill, New York.
My first American girlfriend (see above) was Jewish and I received a wonderful crash course in both New York and New York Jews during the six months we dated. I flew in from London on a Saturday, and for breakfast the next morning she made me a bagel which had a shiny crust with a little bit of hardness to it and a nice glaze. The inside was very chewy, but not overly doughy. And the cream cheese, lox and capers filling was orgasmic! But I digress, good food will do that to me. From J, I not only learned about culture and cuisine, but my vocabulary expanded with many new words and expressions in Yiddish. Already speaking German and Dutch, I dove into this new language with glee.
Some of these words are so delightful to say and packed with meaning (and many you will recognize) that I have incorporated them into my daily usage: klutz, mensch, schmooze, schlep, chutzpah, shtick, spiel. But one of my favorites remains Bashert (or Beshert). It has many intricate layers of meanings. In it’s basic form it means “meant to be” but that alone doesn’t really give you the full character of the word. Meeting a soulmate, running into an old friend at the grocery store, rescuing an animal or not getting a certain job can be “bashert moments”. But most commonly it is about finding that person with whom one has that “oneness”, with whom you share a common soul-root, common goals and compliment each other perfectly.
In my last post I promised I would return to my Upper West Side ‘Z’, Zabar’s. It is a New York institution and has been around since 1934. The building itself has had the exact same facade since 1928. It’s Jewish food heaven, and my UWS Jewish landlady would have wasted away if it weren’t for her bi-weekly shopping here. The aisles are narrow; it’s pushy and loud and overwhelming, and everything is beautiful. And it’s like you’ve died and gone to Jewish food heaven, and I lived just a few blocks away. But it is so much more than just knish and babka. It takes up almost an entire block and it’s filled with favorites like bagels, caviar, cheese, chocolates, coffee, deli meats, pastries, smoked fish and so much more. Yes, prices are high on some items but others are quite reasonable. I usually first go straight to their fish counter. You grab a ticket with a number at the side of the counter and wait until your number is called to place your orders. I like the double smoked salmon, pepper salmon, and the baked salmon. The foreign cheese selection is also unparalleled, and on my student budget I went in regularly to do some olive tasting.
On my last visit here a month ago, I had some awesome tasting dill salmon, and cinnamon halvah. I have even bought Christmas presents from their house-ware selection on the second floor. If you visit New York, it is so worth a trip up on the subway red lines to W 79th to visit Zabar’s.
In a series of letters, a young girl writes to Santa to ask about the North Pole, Mrs. Claus, and of course, Christmas goodies. Year after year, Santa writes back, and a heartwarming relationship develops, until one year, the girl writes to her mother instead: Mom, are you Santa? Her mother responds to say that no, she is not Santa. Because Santa is bigger than any one person — we bring him out through kindness to one another and the power of imagination. This transformative tale spins a universal childhood experience into a story about love, giving, and the spirit of Christmas. (Publisher)
Why I like this book:
This was a rare moment when a picture book transported me back to my own childhood. My fingers tingled as I opened the real letters back and forth from little Lucy to Santa, and then to Mom. At the last exchange, I did not hold back my tears. I sighed and smiled at the power a picture book can have to encompass so much heart and truth and share it with its young readers in a way that can only leave you a better person.
This is a message for all, from atheists to humanists, and priests and Imams and all their kids. I also have such a love of epistolary picture books, and this brought out all those feels for me. It is an utter gem and illustrator packs all the heart of the text into the evolving emotions of Lucy as she matures.
The final letter from Mom to an older Lucy is long and heartfelt, and us a true copy of the letter author Martha Brockenbrough wrote to her daughter Lucy in 2009 when she was confronted with the same question.
Truth+magic+heart = Christmas
This should be on every family’s shelves ready to pull out when a child starts to seriously question Santa Claus, or for kids from other faiths to embrace the universality of the Christmas message.
In my 20's, with only my guitar and a rucksack, I wandered the continents, immersing myself in the lives of some wonderful people, projects and stories, which changed the way I view my responsibility to others and this earth. Right now I'm a European transplant in the US who writes books for children and young adults. Stories can help us not only navigate our world but can connect us to others, and allow us to inspire and help each other. I believe that equity and empathy should be at the core of our all actions, words, and stories.
I am also a school librarian and I get a kick out of book-matchmaking! And I use the pronouns she/her.