And so this is Christmas...

Another year almost over.  A trip for the all important tree selection, then to bring in the boxes of decorations.  Each ornament tells a story, some from family Christmases past - a very few still survive.  One, a hand painted rose on a tear drop globe was a favorite of my Fathers' and is over 50 years old.  Two Snoopy ornaments from 1960 that got lost over the years but found their way back to me. Seahorses, red headed mermaids and butterflies, all glass, from a trip to Cape May NJ.  The itemization goes on. A yellow duckie in a Santa hat to signify the birth of my grandson. The Radko Radio City Rockette kicks in a memory of that same Christmas Show with my Mother.  The fabulous lunch at the now defunct Rainbow Room with it's glorious skyline view.

And the many many Dalmatians that litter the tree, in a not so small nod to all ten that have pranced through my life.

These are not merely decorations.  They tell the story of the years past.  Of people that have come and gone, some of their own will, some not. These ornaments are the glass blown quilt of my life.  As I lift each one up I hold dear the memory of the moment, the loved one or event duly noted.  Like the hand made red glass ball decorated and selected just for me weeks before the pancreatic cancer took her life. "Which one do you want?" she said. "Pick the one you want me to have" I replied.

Just like these ornaments, I am grateful to have these interactions, these relationships that I can call to mind and reflect as I give them each their own place of honor on my tree.  A singular, solemn act that gives me pause and presence at the same time.  One day these will all belong to my son and his son.  My wish for them both is that they have found a true and unfaltering love, a life rich with happiness and that they cherish each ornament as I did, for they mark the passage of our time together.

This year, this time, hold your loved ones tight.  Hold them in your heart.  Hold them in a place of honor, and never never let go.

Merry Christmas to all.  As fleeting a season as it is.  Hold your loved ones dear.  For that time with them goes by in the blink an eye.  In the very heart beat that holds us all together.

The elusive four door refrigerator....

No, he is not supposed to get his own ice cubes.

It all goes back to ergonomics with me. Well, ergonomics and education. My refrigerator of 15 years is close to gasping it's last breath. Kamikaze shopping on a Saturday is not my favorite way to spend the day but a few free hours allowed the hunt to begin.

First came the education part. The research, the recon, looking for the elusive four door counter depth 69-1/2" high, 36"wide, water and ice inside the door stainless steel refrigerator. Easy peesey right? Three stops later I'm breaking out the duct tape to hold my sad old fridge together.

Four Door

 The ergonomic end of this is that I like the French Door Fridge, but I think that the bottom drawer is heavy and the black hole of frozen foods. Since I try to buy fresh all the time, I don't need a large freezer. A two drawer freezer fits the bill. The top one is easy open to hold that Ben & Jerry's. Bottom one for things you will eventually throw out.

So let's talk. I went to one big box appliance/electronics store, one old faithful everything store at the mall and one locally owned. Let's begin with the big box. After being stalked through the aisles of ice boxes, the boy in the red shirt finally approached. "What can I do for you? Oh we don't have that here". And off he scurried. No commission for him today. Mouth still open to speak, I turned on my heel and went on my way.

Ice and water inside. Clean look
and someone that is spotted
can't help himself.

Now the MALL. I hate malls. I call them "mauls". The old faithful department store wasn't bad. Not bad at all. Decent selection and the salesman left me alone. He did online searches and showed me the features and benefits of various floor models. Prices were comparable to the first store. When I slipped and told him what I did for a living, he started asking me questions about the market and trends. At least he was interested in what he was selling. He then apologized to my husband for "picking his daughters' brain". Ha. I'm sure that's the first time he used that line. All in all, a pleasant experience.

The locally owned. After an hour of price comparison, features and benefits, floor demonstrations, checking on availability, coffee, water or soda, list of items reviewed with pricing and a list of competitors that carry brands they don't.....is there any choice here? The Macy's and Gimbles tactic at it's best! Overwhelming knowledge of what was on the floor, what was coming out in the spring, what is selling, new trends, input on use....the staff in these stores REALLY do this for a living. Not only that, they have their own in house installation staff. What? Full service in a bare bones price gouging cut throat down & dirty industry?
This locally owned store came out on top and squeaky clean.

I'll go back to that locally owned store. These are people who know their product, view their job as a profession, and educate themselves on how these appliances are used in the home. Ergonomics AND education. When you are investing in an appliance that will last you 10 or more years, who would you trust? A neighbor, trusted advisor, informed and on trend professional, or someone else?  Shop small, stay local. Stay community strong. It is where you live isn't it?

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As a designer I just think that I should know my way around a kitchen before I make recommendations to a client that they will have to live with. I love to cook. I love to prep. I love to invent. And I know how to move and utilize the space I'm in.

So I decided to challenge myself. I enrolled in a cooking course on making pasta, ravioli, sauce and  gnocchi at the Rev. Oreste Pandola Learning Center in St. Leo's Parish in Little Italy, Baltimore. I wasn't just in for a treat - I was in for a treasure. In the basement kitchen of the learning center, my instructors - Joe Platerote, his mother Josephine and Terry Giogilli demonstrated the art of  hand made dough and how to create an Alfredo sauce. And they made it look so easy. My turn. My egg yolks escaped from the flour mound, my fingers clumped with flour as I chased them across the stainless steel prep center.

And I thought I knew how to cook.

"Your dough has to be as smooth as a baby's behind" was Joe's definitive instruction. And with a little muscle and watching the technique Terry deftly demonstrated, I got it down. Jospehine nodded her approval. We then rolled out our dough and made our very first fettuccine. As the Alfredo sauce came out hot and loaded with enough butter and cheese to clog an artery, we heaped it all on a plate. We enjoyed not only the lunch, but the camaraderie of the group effort while putting it all together.

All this for a modest fee. I questioned the cost and the answer I got was that they do it for the love of cooking, the tradition of sharing recipes and techniques handed down from generation to generation. That simple joy brought about by a sharing of knowledge to others with a passion for embracing a simple meal.


"This is how my grandmother made it"...I heard expressed more than once.

With Thanksgiving on the horizon I have to give pause to reflect on the reason I love to cook and design the space where the act of cooking becomes an art. There's a little more to it, I realized, when I sat down to reflect.

It's about serving love on a plate. It's an offering of "I made this just for you." It's a gift from the heart. A gift that those lovely instructors from Little Italy gave an awareness to - by sharing their love of their traditions with me. And the best way for me to celebrate that tradition is to continue to pass it on. 

And so enjoy, mange, eat, share and share some more. Share the memories, the traditions and the moments that make us all just a little richer. That pinch of salt, that crack of the egg cannot be measured by an instrument alone. Just as those fleeting moments become memories passed down from generation to generation can only be measured in time.


 

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