Sheri's Blog

World Vision - Dominican Republic

Picture a space roughly the size of a child’s bedroom, created out of sheets of plywood, metal, or, if you’re very fortunate, cinder block.  Roof it with corrugated tin.  Divide that into a kitchen/living area, a bedroom or two, and a privy.  There’ll be no television or telephone or even refrigerator, which is just as well since electric service is sporadic and unreliable, when it’s available at all.  Perhaps you’ll have a tiny gas stove to prepare the one meal per day that your family depends on.  But there won’t be any running water, and very limited access to clean drinking water.  When it rains, the rain will come into your home, and if you live too near it, so will the river.  And if that’s the case, when it rains heavily, you will have to take your few belongings and evacuate to higher ground, and wait, unsheltered, until the water recedes.  Along the narrow, deeply rutted and unpaved streets – often barely wide enough to accommodate a single vehicle – there might be piles of garbage, or open ditches flowing with sewage.  Dogs are everywhere, but it’s best to avoid them for fear of rabies.  The simplest things we take for granted, like streetlights, sidewalks, windows glowing with the blue light of countless televisions, are all absent.  It’s nearly impossible to comprehend that a human being would actually call this place home, this landscape so utterly deprived that it borders on the surreal.    

For some residents of the city of Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, that landscape isn’t a nightmare; it’s the norm.  They call it Sabana Perdida, the lost savannah.  More than one hundred and forty thousand people live there, many of them children.  This is the Third World, something we hear about on the news, but have managed to keep at a comfortable distance, not realizing how close to home it truly is.  Relatively few Americans know much at all about the Dominican Republic.  If you’re good at geography, you know it shares an island with the country of Haiti.  Or you might have heard of the incredibly posh resorts, like Punta Cana, that dot its coastline.  The combination of that growing resort industry and proximity to the US – the DR is barely two hours by air from Miami – is driving increased American tourism and awareness of the DR.  That’s good news for the Dominican economy.  But what they don’t tell you in the glossy resort brochures is that the Dominican Republic is the third poorest country on earth.  It’s hard to fathom this kind of extreme poverty, right at our doorstep.  Yet it’s the hidden face of the Dominican Republic, the one you won’t see at the airport, or at the rental beach villa, or in the charming, ancient streets of historic Santo Domingo.

The third poorest country in the world – how poor is that, exactly?  The average annual income in the Dominican Republic is $2,080 USD.  By comparison, the average median income in the United States - $43,318 – is just over 20 times that number.  In the DR, a poor family might scrape by on about a dollar’s worth of food per day.  In the US, where we feed a dollar into a vending machine in exchange for a Diet Coke, that’s a tough concept to wrap your mind around.  In the Dominican Republic, despite the taxes that citizens pay, basic amenities like water and sewage, power, transportation, and public education are painfully inadequate.   How inadequate?  For one example, there aren’t anywhere near enough public schools to serve the population.  This means, very simply, that a great number of the very poorest children will never have the chance to receive any formal education.  And without education, there’s virtually no hope of breaking the cycle of poverty.  Add to that poor nutrition, little or no access to healthcare, and the devastating effects of HIV/AIDS, and you have, in essence, entire generations of children just written off, condemned. 

Hopeless, you think.  The problems are too massive and complicated, too tangled a knot to ever unravel.  It’s easier to be cynical, to turn away.  And then you go to Sabana Perdida, or a place like it, and you see what’s possible when people don’t turn away.  When one individual reaches out to another, and using the most basic tools, creates hope where there was none.  This is the work of World Vision, the group we traveled with to the Dominican Republic.  World Vision, founded over 50 years ago and today the fifth largest relief organization in the world, operates on a simple principal.  One sponsor coming alongside one child, and, at minimal cost, providing access to better nutrition, clean drinking water, healthcare, and educational opportunities.  Sponsorship, like World Vision itself, isn’t about charity; it’s about finding solutions to root causes of poverty.  It’s about helping to create the environment and the opportunity for communities to become self-sustaining.  It’s about developing that most precious and valuable resource, the one found in even the most wretched and forgotten places: children. 

The children of Sabana Perdida are beautiful, silly, mischievous, playful, shy, clever, bold.  Just like your kids or mine, or kids anywhere in the world.  They’re smaller than our children, a result of poor nutrition.  Darling 9 year-old twin girls, their hair carefully braided and beribboned were significantly smaller than my 6 year-old daughter Olivia.  Their health is more fragile; the immunizations we take for granted aren’t available, and serious, even life threatening conditions like asthma and especially, HIV/AIDS, go untreated.  Most of the parents I know agonize over which chewable vitamin to buy; can you imagine watching your child suffer and being powerless to do anything about it?

I went to Sabana Perdida with a lot of expectations.  I expected to see terrible things.  I expected to feel pity and sadness and even despair.   I couldn’t have been more wrong.   Here’s what I did see: possibilities.  I know that seems impossible, but it’s true.  World Vision has been working in this area for a number of years now.   Sponsors – people like you or me – are the reason that so many of these children are now able to attend school.   The buildings are small, the classrooms overcrowded, but it’s school and it represents the first step, maybe the most important step, out of the slums.   There are job-training programs, there is a health clinic, and a clinic that treats and counsels HIV positive parents and their HIV positive children.  There is a youth center; so primitive by our standards that I had to be told I was looking at a “gymnasium”.  But every afternoon, that center fills with young teens.  They study and play music, learn computer skills, and most of all, have a safe place to gather.

I sat down on the ground in front of a house, in the dump, by the river.  Children clambered into my lap and pressed themselves as close as they could.  I tried out some of my Dora the Explorer Spanish on them, and believe it or not, we managed to have quite a conversation.   It seems that kids, no matter where they are, are surprisingly patient with adult stupidity.  They giggled at my pronunciations, and nodded with delight on the few times I found the right word.  Holding them, I was struck by how immaculately clean they were.  Again, those expectations – I was expecting filth and hopelessness.  One little girl who curled up in my lap was wearing a flowered dress.  It was faded and old, but it was clean and starched.  God knows how, in that crowded, sweltering, forsaken place, her mother found a way to iron that dress.  I sure don’t.  But I know this: that child is loved.  And that, more than anything, is what I learned in Sabana Perdida.  There’s no difference at all between my kids and those kids.  There’s no difference at all between them and us. 

Here’s why I support World Vision and am asking you to consider doing the same.  World Vision works in 99 countries around the globe.  And although it is a Christian relief organization, World Vision isn’t only about preaching Christ’s message.  World Vision staff and volunteers show Christ’s message of love through the work they do.  And they do that work in parts of the world where simply being a Christian is a life-threatening risk.  World Vision isn’t a charity where those of us who have feel ennobled by giving to those who don’t.  World Vision enters a region or community with the express purpose of eventually leaving it, strong, healthy, and self-sustaining.  And World Vision is a first-rate financial steward.  87% of your sponsorship dollar goes to the programs that benefit your sponsored child.   See for yourself at www.charitynavigator.org.

I know it’s hard to believe that a dollar a day can do anything for anyone.  But I’ve seen it in action.   I’ve seen what happens when a school appears where there was no hope of education.  I’ve seen a hundred or more parents and children standing for hours in the sun just to register, and receive a few notebooks and pencils.  I’ve seen what happens when a young mother is taught a marketable skill, or when a five year-old HIV positive orphan and his grandmother get enough to eat.   When you see what a dollar really can do, you don’t feel hopeless.  You don’t feel pity.  You feel energized and inspired and ready to jump in and help.  And believe it or not, you feel joy.  When I went to the Dominican Republic to meet my sponsored child, 7 year-old Perla Estafania, I thought I was bringing her a whole sackful of presents.  Little did I know, I was the one receiving the gifts.

You can learn more about World Vision and view videos and photos of our trip at www.bobandsheri.com/worldvision.

Juicy AND Meaty

Finding myself out of town with two whole hours all to myself and a Saks Off 5th nearby, I hit on the idea of buying some new jeans.  I hate shopping for jeans - which is problematic since I wear practically nothing else.  Shopping for jeans is a nightmare.  It's the retail version of the dark night of the soul.  And yet, for some reason, I thought that jeans shopping away from home would be a different experience.   I hoped my self-loathing might have missed the plane to Minneapolis, leaving me free to stare into a dressing room mirror without falling into despair.  No such luck.

The lower-rise bootcut days in the jeans universe were the happiest days of my life.  Everything fit.  And why not?  Those jeans were actually made for regular people.  For women who had some flesh draped over their bones.  Throw on a pair of dark rinse, low-rise bootcuts, a cute t-shirt, and a jacket and you were by God dressed for the day.  Add a cool bag and you were stylin, sistah.  Easy.  Anyone could pull it off.  And just about everyone did.

Which is why those jeans are no longer in fashion.  Drainpipes are in.  To get a sense of just how tricky a look drainpipes are to pull off, google Posh or Kate Moss.  Essentially broomsticks with hair, these two goddesses of chic look great in drainpipes.  They look curvy.  Curvy!  Never doubt that an article of clothing that makes a skeleton look curvy, will look absolutely horrid on anyone approaching a normal weight.  I just read a little snippet from Posh - hawking her own line of jeans - in which she dispensed this nugget of sartorial wisdom:  "Heels. Always.  And never let the jeans bag at the knee."  Posh, my sweet, jeans bagging at the knee wasn't a worry we had back in the day - about ten minutes ago - when we were allowed to wear jeans that didn't hug every bulge like a f-ing straitjacket.  And heels?  Always?  Don't come around here with that kind of crazy talk.  Not everyone has a butler, round-the-clock nannies, and a fortune.  Some of us are actually expected to walk around on our feet, sometimes all damn day, if you can believe it.  These rich Hollywood women just kill me.  It's like they think God gave them toes so that  pedicurists in LA would have something to paint.

Anyway,into the dressing room we go, me and my stack of 7's, True Religions, Josephs, and Juicy Coutures.  In the 7 jeans, I looked like the lead Keebler Elf: short, stubby, and with an improbably large head tacked onto my round little legs.  Next up, the True Religion pair.  The only religion those brought to mind was Satan worship. The ankle openings were barely wide enough to admit a cloven hoof, and once I weasled my way into them, I looked like pure hell.  The pair by Joseph was supposed to be all bootylicious or whatever, but since I'd like to be able to actually sit on my booty now and again without gasping, those were out.  The Juicy's fit pretty well, and I could breathe - a plus - but there was no denying the truth: I'm not just juicy; I'm meaty, too.  And there's no way in this world I can pull off a pair of super-tight, super-straight jeans.

Let the fashion victims pour themselves into their skinny jeans.  If they want to go ahead and compress their internal organs like a pack of corset-crazed Victorians, what do we care?  And, after tossing back three Blue Moons on a humid July night, at least we won't have a life and death struggle with sticky too-tight denim in a crowded ladies room.   Besides, skintight jeans and stiletto heels are a risky combo.  Get it wrong, and you look either like a refugee groupie from the hair band 80's, or a streetwalker.  I don't know which is worse. 

In defense of anchovies...

How on earth did we get onto the subject of anchovies the other day?



I guess most people don’t like anchovies. You typically associate them with pizza, or cat food, or bait, right? But anchovies have the power to be more, so much more.



You know how sometimes you’ll wear something utterly seductive and wicked beneath your clothes – a silk leopard-print thong, say, or maybe a vintage black bustier with about 75 tiny snaps up the back? And all day long you’re conscious of feeling a little sexier, a little more dangerous, a little more like the grown-up woman you thought you’d someday become? Well, think of anchovies as the culinary equivalent. An earthy little secret something known only to you, but possessing the power to subtly infuse the occasion with an aura of mystery.



Now that I have your attention, you naughty little minx, let’s take another look at these weird, salty little fish. And it is a fish – anyone who calls the anchovy a species of worm is just trying to gross you out. Anchovies are generally filleted, preserved in brine, and then packed in oil. They’re definitely salty and fishy-tasting, if eaten straight out of the tin. But cooking transforms them into something very different: rich and meaty, yet elusive, and thrilling.  Which is why every pantry should have a tin or jar of anchovies packed in olive oil. Or, if you absolutely have to have something a little easier to deal with, a tube of anchovy paste.



Heat several tablespoons of olive oil over a low flame, and add an anchovy fillet, or two, or even the whole tin if you like. Using a wooden spoon, gently mash and stir, and watch in amazement as the anchovy slowly melts away and disappears into the oil - the way you used to melt into a kiss, back in the days when the biggest problem you faced in life was making it home before curfew. Add in some finely minced fresh garlic (a garlic press makes it simple).   A tablespoonful or so of dried red pepper flakes comes next. Keep the heat low, stir, and don’t allow any of it to burn or even brown. (Overcooked garlic is bitter and nasty.  I don't think it can be saved.  It's like a guy who cheats on you with your sister.  No matter how much work you've put in, the only solution is to start over fresh.  Sorry.)  When the garlic is soft and golden, it’s ready.



This is your base. From here, you can jump to all sorts of fabulous conclusions. As is, you have a take on the world’s simplest pasta dish: spaghetti with oil and garlic. Add a can of crushed tomatoes (San Marzano, if you can find them), a handful of coarsely chopped, pitted kalamata olives, and a handful of chopped fresh parsley. Toss with hot pasta, sprinkle with some freshly grated Locatelli or Reggiano cheese, and you’ve got Pasta Puttanesca.



Skip the tomatoes, and instead add fresh shrimp, or slices of boneless chicken breast. And why not splash in some of that pinot grigio you’ve been chugging while you cook? Surely you can spare about ¼ cup? Sauté it - how long? Long enough to take the bite off the wine, or until the shrimp turn fully pink. Serve over pasta. Or not, if you’re on an anti-carb kick.



Or, you might steam up a bag of broccoli florets in the microwave until just barely tender. Add those to the pan, again gently turning and sautéing, until the broccoli softens a bit more and every floret is coated with the oil/anchovy/garlic/pepper mixture. If you really want to show off, chuck in a handful of toasted pine nuts. Mix with hot, freshly cooked pasta, and top with some freshly grated cheese.



You see where this is going. Asparagus, artichoke hearts, sweet little grape tomatoes, baby clams. All sorts of variations on one basic theme - with the lowly anchovy whispering sweet nothings in the background, concealed, like a fishy Cyrano de Bergerac.



The best part is, almost every ingredient we’ve used so far can be stored in the pantry or freezer till you need it. Let’s say you’re too tired or too lazy for a trip to the store. Or you’ve been snowed in. Or, as was usually the case back when I worked in TV, you’re broke. You need still need to eat, right? You can eat really well with the following:



Extra virgin olive oil

Oil-packed anchovies

Pitted kalamata olives

Fresh garlic (that minced stuff in the jar is just never as good, and with a garlic press, it’s almost as easy to use fresh, and a whole lot better tasting)

Dried red pepper flakes

Pasta

Fresh Locatelli or Reggiano cheese. (Buy a hunk, wrap it tightly, and freeze. You can grate it straight from the freezer. It is so much better than a can of sprinkle cheese. Honest to God, it’s the difference between being with George Clooney, and merely looking at George Clooney’s picture. No lie.)



One more thing to try: after draining the pasta, immediately toss it with just a drizzle of olive oil, then with the freshly grated cheese, then the sauce. I like it better this way –the cheese melts from the heat of the pasta and sauce, instead of just lying on top like an afterthought.



I’m sorry that I can’t give you a more precise recipe. That’s because it’s different for everyone. Only you know how much heat or spice you can take, or just how adventurous you’re willing to be. Which is why this particular kind of Italian cooking is so very like love. It can’t ever quite be captured in words, but if you get in there and give it your all, you’ll know when it’s right.

Let's All Encourage Bob!

Heads up! 

Bob is now blogging! Check it out – click on the link on our homepage at www.bobandsheri.com His first entry is about a visit he paid to a friend in prison. I think it’s good stuff. Hope you do too.

On another note, I had a very funny e-mail asking me whatever became of my prom date (see Prom entry and/or horribly humiliating prom photo in the B&S Gallery). I hunted around the internet and discovered that he’s doing exactly what I hoped and knew he would: making great, original music. He was a prodigy, with just unbelievable, crazy talent, trust me. Check it out for yourself: www.myspace.com/92moon. He’s released a cd - which you could actually buy, enjoy, tell a friend about, and thus help support an artist.  But you really can’t tell him that I sent you, okay? Come on - would you want your prom picture out there? Would you want to be even dimly associated with me?  Didn’t think so.   :-)

Coming soon: Anchovies – They’re Much More Than Bait!

Have a great  Wednesday -

xxxooo
Sheri

Commencement

Watching my friend’s daughter walk across the stage to receive her high school diploma was a strange experience. I met Marsha when she was pregnant with Rachel – how on earth could it already be time for that baby’s graduation? It gave me a shiver, thinking of how much time has passed, seemingly so quickly. With 464 graduates in Rachel’s class, I had plenty of time between “Pomp and Circumstance” and the final recessional in which to daydream. And, because I’m a morbid neurotic, I used that time to catalogue the many mistakes I’ve made since picking up my high school diploma.



To start with, how about my ridiculous focus on boys? I wasn’t boy crazy, mind you – that’s another flavor of trouble altogether. No, I merely allowed one boy or another to dominate my present, and thus my future, in ways that I could never have predicted or imagined. Maybe it was always my destiny to end up where I have – or maybe a boy led me here. For one big example, I came to North Carolina mostly because of a boy, never guessing or dreaming that my life would take this direction. Would it be interesting or a nightmare to know now what I was following: the Fates, or my hormones?



Then there’s my oddly obsessive need to nest. Did I think I’d feel safer in the world if I surrounded myself with a wall of stuff? I don’t know. I can tell you that it’s a giant hassle to maintain and keep track of it all. I say I’d love to get rid of it and live in some high-ceilinged minimalist loft, but I know the truth. In no time at all I’d pine for my weird little kitchen gadgets, and the girls would be in revolt over their vanished piles of Legos, Polly Pocket, crayons, paints, costumes, fake jewels, etc etc etc. I’d wind up replacing our old stuff with new stuff and soon be back right where I’d started.



Fear of injury, of death, of the worst possible thing happening…I’m my own Stephen King. A vivid imagination is all well and good, but trust me: there are serious downsides. I envy people who appear to float through their days blissfully unaware of just how many psychos, toxins, speeding cars, stray bullets and rabid dogs are out there. People like me, well, we look for trouble every place it might be hiding. The whole world sometimes feels like one big sheet of thin ice. There we are on our skates, feeling our way, one baby step at a time, holding our breath against the icy plunge that we just know is coming. And when it doesn’t? That just it means it still can. What an exhausting way to live, right? Right.



I started adulthood with a list of mistakes in my head that were to be avoided at all costs. I wonder, does everyone have this? This was mine:



1) do not get pregnant in high school

2) do not break the law

3) do not fall in love with crazy people

4) do not go to any remote location with a strange man, or even an un-strange man, lest you become his captive

5) do not wear ankle socks with stilettos and short skirts



Clearly, my list was formed after careful study of my closest relatives, and horror movies.



I figured that if I didn’t make my top five mistakes, chances were good that things would turn out at least okay. What I didn’t understand was that while I was busy avoiding 1-5, I’d be even busier making plenty of other mistakes. Some far, far worse. So I guess my message to the graduates would be, lighten up. You’re going to screw up – not everything, but some things, even some important things. Mistakes will be made. In fact, you’re likely to make a minimum of one giant mess of a thing you can’t even imagine yet. So calm down. Worry less about bubonic plague, e-coli, and the eventual collapse of the sun, and more about who it is you choose to share yourself with, as a friend, a lover, a confidant. Spend more on experiences, and less on stuff. Try to have more first kisses, because nothing you can buy will ever be that amazing. Take a few more calculated risks.  Order something off the menu that you can't identify, much less pronounce.  Listen to new music, even if you have to force yourself.  Make at least one baby laugh really, really hard.  Be friendlier, less paranoid. But not too friendly, and especially not with strangers who invite you to remote locations…

Prom

Our latest fit of masochism here at the show was inspired when Max brought his prom picture into the studio one morning last week. That took real courage, given that he’d opted for the classic powder blue tux. On Max’s 6”3” frame, that’s a lot of baby blue. It was all nicely set off by his stunned grin – and by his date’s super trendy Farrah Fawcett-style wings. Oh, to be 17 again, right? Not hardly. Not unless you could be 17 right now, when prom dresses look like they belong on the red carpet and not on the Gone With the Wind rack at your local costume shop. These damn kids today don’t know how good they have it, with their tan-in-a-can, their Spanx, their affordable home highlight kits, their Rembrandt toothpaste. They don’t even have to have a prom date, unbelievably. They can actually just show up with a pack of friends, have a blast, and risk no social approbation. We had to rough it, with Sun-In, polyester, and the sheer terror of not being invited in the first place. Oh my God, I get the shakes just thinking about it.



My prom date was my first love, a beautiful Italian boy. He had olive skin, huge brown eyes, and the de rigueur rocker mullet of the day. He would have looked spectacular in a traditional black tux, unbelievable in a white dinner jacket. Did I choose either of those options? No, I did not. Instead, I dragged him into a mall tux rental place and made him put on a western-inspired cocoa brown monstrosity that would have looked right at home on Wyatt Earp. Those stories you’ve been reading in the newspapers about how the part of the human brain that's responsible for good judgment doesn’t develop till age 25? All true. How else can I possibly account for this lapse in fashion sense? Let’s don’t scrutinize my choice of dress too closely either. What, there wasn’t a bed sheet available to wear? Nice color too – I guess jaundiced was the look I was aiming for. And don’t even get me started on my hair. If I’d just given up and let it be curly, instead of chopping it off and all but gluing it to the side of my head with gel and hair spray, I swear my teenage years would have been so much happier. And more productive, definitely. All that time wasted on curling irons that I could have devoted to algebra. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I probably would have spent even more time practice writing “Mrs. Steven X” on the inside flap of my binder covers.



But at least I can help my daughters avoid the classic teenage girl grooming pitfalls, don’t you think? No, I don’t. I’ve already lost the battle with Olivia – and she’s only six. The child insists on dressing – as her father puts it – like she’s a weekend party guest on Star Trek. A few months ago, she announced, “All of my dreams would come true, Mommy, if I had a Bedazzler.” Where she got the idea, I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t seen a Bedazzler commercial on TV in about ten years. I didn’t know they still made them. But they do. You can buy one at Michaels for $19.99. So, because making your child's dreams come true is practically the law for parents, I saw to it that Eric got a Bedazzler for his sister for her birthday. As to whether or not all of Olivia's dreams will be coming true, I’ll let you know. We’re going to Bedazzle a skirt later this week. With luck and time, she may outgrow her lust for sequins and sparkles. If not, there’s always prom to look forward to.

LOST...

We had Michael Emerson – Ben – from Lost on this morning. His voice coming through the phone line made the hair on the back of my neck rise. I’m such a Lostie! You know that the actors aren’t allowed to give away any key plot points, so there’s almost no point in asking, but we sort of got Michael to indicate in a not entirely ambiguous way that his character would survive the finale. Hopefully. Which is as close to a straight answer as you’ll ever get from anyone associated with Lost.



Now, the last time we talked to Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse on the air they said that whatever else the island might be or represent, it’s not Purgatory. Okay, so if it’s not Purgatory, could it be some sort of Limbo? (Catholics will know Limbo as the place that unbaptized babies go to, though Pope Benedict recently said that those babies could actually go to Heaven instead. Or I think that’s what he said. Note to self: pay more attention to news bulletins from the Vatican, less attention to news bulletins from TMZ.com.) Anyway, my current Lost theory places our survivors, the Others, Rousseau, and all yet-to-be-discovered island inhabitants in some sort of Limbo between earthly life and the hereafter. Suspended in time, in the split second between their corporeal death and whatever comes next, our characters have a last opportunity for either damnation or redemption.



Think about the way they’ve all come to the island. The plane crash; Desmond’s sailing accident; Cooper’s car wreck; Rousseau’s shipwreck; even Juliet accepting that glass of liquid from Richard – any of these events could have led to death, right? And think about how they "die" on the island.  Michael and Walt, Boone, Shannon - what did they resolve, or sacrifce in order to move on?  Remember last week’s special show with Damon and Carlton? When they said that the characters were most definitely alive somewhere along the space-time continuum? Maybe what feels like weeks, months, years to them would register as a split second to us. Time could become elastic, right? You've noticed that some of the people on the island don't sem to age - like Richard - what's that all about?  And the Dharma Initiative? Isn’t dharma the path or foundation of righteousness, of living in harmony with the Divine? And blah, blah, blah and so on in this general direction.  You get my drift. 



Or maybe this is all just gobbledygook from the sleep-deprived brain of someone who thinks way too much about Lost and not nearly enough about, say, Congress. One theory I won’t consider about Lost is that the whole island is some evil government experiment gone awry. The creators of the show are way too smart to fall back on that hackneyed old chestnut. For crying out loud, if the island is some rogue outpost of the CIA, then why not just send in Bruce Willis and be done with it? Die Hard in a Hatch, anyone?



What’s your theory?

Strawberries & balsamic vinegar

I generally don’t like strawberry flavored things, but I love fresh strawberries. What could be better than a perfectly ripe, perfectly sweet, fresh, juicy strawberry? Which is why it’s so disappointing to bring home perfect looking berries that turn out to be either too tart or kind of anemic and bland. Loading them up with sugar helps a little, but still doesn’t get you all the way to strawberry nirvana. What to do? I found a cool trick a few years ago that transforms even sub par berries into something amazing: balsamic vinegar.



I know, I know: vinegar on strawberries? Yuck. But balsamic vinegar is actually pretty sweet all by itself, even syrupy, and besides, there’s still a little sugar involved. The combination is pure magic. As always, there are lots of different ways to go about the recipe. You can opt for a lengthy simmer to reduce ingredients. You can get all fussy about what kind of sugar ought to be used. You can insist on adding extras like lemon zest or rare Tahitian vanilla, or pricey liqueur. Or, you could just grab some stuff that you actually have in the house, put it together in about a minute and a half, and get on with the day. This is one of those painfully simple recipes that you can easily adjust for quantity. Just remember to use roughly half as much balsamic as sugar and it’ll generally work out.



Balsamic Strawberries



A load of berries (like one of those big rectangular packs they sell at Costco, for example)

½ cup sugar plus some, maybe two or three additional tablespoons. Tell you why in a minute.

¼ cup of balsamic vinegar



Combine the sugar and vinegar in a glass bowl large enough to accommodate the berries. Here’s where the vagueness on the sugar quantity comes in. Berries that are already super-sweet might not need more than the half-cup of sugar. Berries that are tart or wan will want those extra few tablespoons. Also, don’t use really cheap, nasty vinegar. I’m not saying that you have to run out a buy a bottle that’s been handcrafted in an ancient Roman fortress by monks who’ve taken a vow of silence, but please don’t buy a barrelful of sour swill either. Really good balsamic vinegar can be really expensive, but for our purposes, a decent mid-range bottle is worth the money. A little goes a long way, and adds a lot of flavor to all sorts of things, from salads and vegetables to steak and strawberries.



Okay, so pop the sugar and vinegar into the microwave for about 30 seconds. Stir, and add washed, hulled, sliced berries. Let them marinate on the counter for an hour or so, then serve. These berries are awesome all by themselves, transcendent over ice cream, fantastic with yogurt, and unbelievable with angel food or pound cake. You’ll want to drink the juice – and you should. Try it with club soda. Or vodka. Or both. You can also siphon off some of the juice and use it to make a vinaigrette for spinach salad. But I mostly slam it down with vodka, by which point, honestly, who cares about spinach?

How you spend your days...

I’ve just had a really great weeklong visit with my niece Brittany. She’s nearly 21, the daughter of my older brother, and my godchild. Britt’s an old soul, an artist. She’s struggling to figure out what to do with her life. I want her to aim big, really big, and not let anyone tell her what she can or can’t be. My thing is, if you’re going to listen to the voices in your head that say, “you can’t”, then go ahead and give at least equal time to the voices that say, “why not try?”



Mark and I were at a gallery crawl last weekend. Wandering through one of the funky little shops in the neighborhood, I came across a postcard printed with one of my favorite quotes:



How you spend your days is, after all, how you spend your life.



Wow. That’s a punch in the gut, isn’t it? I vowed right then and there to try and not spend so many of my days in a near-stupor of exhaustion. In that spirit, I went nap-less all week, clocking a 15-mile bike ride one afternoon (poor Britt hung in for five miles before telling me that I was nuts and that she was heading home), and a couple of hours of solid shopping another afternoon. We hit Urban Outfitters, where I scored a hippie-girl hoodie for $19.99 and Britt got the cutest zebra-and-roses print ballerina flats ever for about the same price. I used to take her on shopping trips when she was a little girl, so it’s great fun to hang out together now that she’s an adult. Looking back, I can’t believe that her parents let me take her out of the house unsupervised. I had absolutely NO idea what I was doing. I barely knew how to drive. Her car seat was more baffling to me than a Rubik’s cube. What was my brother thinking???



Britt turned me on to a fabulous cover of the Nelly song “Hot in Herrre” by an artist named Jenny Owen Youngs. Google her, and listen to the song. I promise that even if you hate rap or hip hop, you’ll like her version. Speaking of music, I am loving Plain White T’s. You’ve got to download “Hey There Delilah”. Or just go to their website, www.plainwhitets.com, and give it a listen. Britt likes the song too, though she said she can’t get behind my enthusiasm for the Shins – “That’s a little too emo for me, Aunt Sher.” Ouch. But I love the Shins. What can I say?



Have a great weekend – and happy Mother’s Day to all of my fellow mommies!!! I love being a mom, don’t you?

Free Your Curls

In June it will a full year since I last blow-dried my hair. Or even brushed it, for that matter. Okay, so it’s not exactly a momentous anniversary or anything, but think about it: how much time do you spend a day or a week wrestling with your hair? My hair is really way too thick and, depending on the day, either wavy/curly or bushy/insane. To blow it straight takes a minimum of 25 minutes. To blow it dry takes about 15, but results in a ‘fro of such breathtaking enormity that small moons have been known to orbit it.



For years my friend Anne said, “Let your hair go. It’s fabulous.” Of course, this is what friends with natural spiral curls of their own always say, especially after you’ve plied them with a bucket full of Shiraz. My husband has insisted for years that my hair looks better when I leave it alone, but this is the same man who thinks that makeup is for drag queens so please, it’s not like he has any credibility on the subject of girl grooming.



So why did I finally stop fighting my hair? I don’t know, fatigue mostly. Boredom. Plus I’d just about destroyed my hair by bleaching it blonde and baking the hell out of it with a flat iron. (Plenty of brunettes seemingly go blonde without trouble. I try it once, once! and my hair starts breaking off in my hands. I can’t get away with anything. Story of my life.) Clearly, my hair and I both needed a break. But how to manage it? How could I leave the house every morning looking like the bride of Sasquatch? The natural look is one thing, as every woman knows. Going totally au naturel is another, and the results are seldom as appealing.



I remembered reading in one of my magazines about a John Frieda product that allegedly turned any hair into tousled, day-at-the-beach sort of waves. A quick net search revealed that that particular product had been discontinued. So I bought a bottle on e-Bay. Wouldn’t you know that it worked like a miracle? My wonky gorilla hair was transformed into waves and curls that actually looked not only human, but also downright hippie-chic, in a Sheryl Crow sort of way. Which meant I had to go right back to e-Bay to buy a whole case of the stuff. (I’ve since whipped up my own version: distilled water, sea salt, and baby oil. Shake it up in a spray bottle, generously spritz all over.) Then, a few months later, I got an e-mail from a listener recommending a website: www.jessicurl.com.



If you have wavy or curly hair, you need to know about jessicurl. Their cleansing cream and shea butter conditioner are the greatest. I’ve been using both for about six months, and the difference in my hair is remarkable. It’s softer, shinier, and healthier than it’s been in a long time. And I spend almost no time messing with it. I’m free! Step into the glorious light of hair freedom, fellow wavy heads! You don’t need to be a slave to your hair! Spread the jessicurl word, and help your bushy-headed sisters out. And just think of all the things you can do with the free time you’ll have once you slip out of your styling shackles…Last night alone, I managed to get in an extra episode of World’s Wildest Police Chases. That, my curly friends, is quality time. Or maybe not. But it’s got to be better than a half hour spent blasting hot hair at your head, right?