In which I cheat and order pizza

by Lorin Michel Monday, April 25, 2011 9:25 PM

We’ve been doing the low-carb thing for a while now. Some weeks we do better than others as far as keeping the carbs to a minimum. I’m a potato freak. A pasta freak and pizza freak, too. Basically all of the really good Ps; all of the exceptional carbohydrates.

We do reward ourselves each week though, regardless of whether we really deserve it or not, with a cheat night. Cheat night means carbs galore. Pasta? Forget the whole-wheat stuff and bring on the enriched white flour kind. With lots of cheese. And garlic bread. Maybe a cookie for dessert.

Or something on the grill – the usual suspects apply: chicken, ribs, steak – accompanied by a twice-baked potato. With lots of butter and sour cream mixed in so it’s nice and creamy.

Or pizza. 

Ah, pizza. That most delicate of dishes from, well, everywhere according to its rich, storied and tomatoed history, a history that begins in the Mediterranean centuries ago when the Greeks and the Phoenicians indulged in a flatbread made from flour and water. They soaked it and cooked it on a hot stone before seasoning it with herbs. The Greeks called it plakous, and it was a bit like our current focaccia.

The word pizza comes from the Latin word pinsa, meaning flatbread. One particularly interesting legend has Roman soldiers acquiring a taste for Jewish Matzoth while stationed in occupied Palestine. Recent archeologists actually discovered a perfectly preserved Bronze Age pizza in the Veneto region. What I’d like to know is… why wasn’t it eaten?

By the Middle Ages pizza began to resemble the pizza we know today, with dough flattened and covered with olive oil and herbs. Indian Water Buffalo cheese gave pizza mozzarella, an ingredient that no good pizza today would be caught preserved without.

Tomatoes were introduced in the late 18th and early 19th centuries when the starving peasants of Naples started using the fruit they considered dead (!) in many of their foods. It soon became a staple of Naples, with street vendors offering it to customers for every meal. By 1830, the Antica Pizzeria Port’Alba of Naples was born. It was the world’s first true pizzeria.

Said world would never be the same.

The pizza Margherita made its debut in 1889 when Italy’s Queen Margherita visited Brandi Pizzeria and Rafaele Esposito, the pizza maker, created a pizza in her honor, one showcasing the three colors of the new Italian flag: red (tomatoes), white (mozzarella) and green (fresh basil).

I bring this up because I just ordered a pizza in the Queen’s honor, though I had them throw some mushrooms on it as well. And we went with the thin crust rather than deep dish.

Pizza came to the US in the late 19th century and took up residence in San Francisco, New York, Philadelphia and of course, Chicago, where the Chicago-style deep dish pizza first made an appearance in 1943 when Ric Riccardo and Ike Sewell opened Pizzeria Uno. It’s still one of the best places for pizza in the country, along with its sister restaurant, Pizzeria Due.

It’s hard to find good pizza in LA, but after 14 years here in Oak Park, we finally found one that’s close by. Tomorrow we’ll feel guilty for having cheated on a Monday rather than a Friday, but only slightly. Because we’ll have indulged in one of the best Ps around.

Pizza, thick or thin, meated or vegetarian, Quattro Formagi or cheeseless, is always worth celebrating. 

I think I hear the doorbell…

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Auntie Warren holded the ladder for Uncle Kebin

by Lorin Michel Sunday, April 24, 2011 8:37 PM

Many years ago, Kevin and I were doing some painting in the great room. He was up on the extension ladder, the top feet resting against the beam traversing the ceiling that goes all the way to the top of the second story. We had done some drywall sanding as well so there was a fine layer of dust on the marble floor of the entry way, where the bottom feet of the ladder rested.

I’m not a big fan of ladders though I understand their necessity, and evidently so does just about everyone in world, now and for centuries past. In fact, the first known recording of humans using ladders can be seen in a Mesolithic rock painting in a cave in Valencia, Spain. The painting is at least 10,000 years old and shows non-descript humans carrying baskets or bags up a ladder that seems to be made of grass as they climb to reach a bee’s nest. Obviously they were in search of honey. More modern ladders were first built by Hebrews and Egyptians during the rule of the great Pharaohs. Many were used to build the pyramids. Those were fixed ladders, largely constructed of bamboo or other reeds.

There are 14 different types of ladders currently in existence. While most were originally made of wood, aluminum was introduced in the 20th century because of its lighter weight.

There are bridge ladders, which are used horizontally, and cat or chicken ladders used on steep roofs to keep roof dwellers from sliding off into oblivion. There’s also a roof ladder that hooks over the ridge of a pitched roof. A folding ladder has hinges; a hook or pompier ladder has a hook to grab things like windowsills, explaining why they’re so popular with firefighters, as are turntable ladders that are fitted to the rotating platform on top of fire trucks. An orchard ladder has three legs so it can be placed between branches to make things like apple picking easier, and safer. Step ladders, patented in 1862, are short; builder’s ladders have multiple sections so they can be short or long. A telescoping ladder has three parts that can form two step ladders while a vertically rising ladder is designed to climb impossibly high, reaching nearly infinite points.

And then there is the extension ladder like ours. It has a pulley system so Kevin can raise or lower it by himself, lock it into place and then climb to wherever he needs to climb.

Yesterday, he was using it against the palm trees in the yard, extending it high up toward the fronds so he could cut down the dead ones and clean up the trees in general. There are three such trees. They reach to the sky, and there he was balancing against a ladder that was leaning against a long tree that has very slick bark. I was on the ground, trying to keep the ladder steady as it slid from side to side as he wielded some kind of saw on a pole. Fronds crashed around me. Rigid spears sliced through the air. But the mission was accomplished without incident.

The same cannot be said for that episode many years ago when the extension ladder had a seemingly solid place to rest against the beam. The beam, it seems, was not the problem. The fine layer of drywall dust was. Under Kevin’s weight, the feet slid as if on ice and the ladder fell, bringing my husband crashing to the floor, through furniture and paint cans. We spent the day in the emergency room before learning he had been lucky, suffering only torn ligaments in his ankle and a couple of bruises.

I told my sister about our little episode and she called back several hours later with this question, dripping with wisdom, from my then four year old niece: “Why didn’t auntie Warren holded the ladder for uncle Kebin?”

I celebrate that wisdom every time my husband insists on climbing to the sky.

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relative celebrations

Christmas in April

by Lorin Michel Saturday, April 23, 2011 11:33 PM

It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting here on the love seat of our matching couch set. The TV is on, have no idea what’s playing. I have a glass of wine on the table, my dog lying in heap on the floor next to me and my husband asleep across from me.

I’m watching the faces he makes as he tries to wake up even though he’s really not ready, his face screwing slightly to the left as he lifts his head, then drops it again to his chest.

I’m listening to the sound of Maguire’s breathing, a sigh with a gurgle. In the background, the cooling unit for the wine cellar is humming softly. Outside, the breeze is gentle, tickling the wind chimes. I hear a car door slam across the street, the beep of a car alarm sets. Brianna must be home.

I pick up the remote control and start surfing, finding nearly nothing on. There’s a Sex and the City repeat, the last half hour of Die Hard; CSI Miami, The Ten Commandments. Nothing on HBO or Showtime, not until tomorrow. I go back to Sex and the City. I always loved that show; I miss it. There are so many good shows that have come and gone over the years that I miss: The West Wing, The X-Files, Once and Again, Sex and the City. At least Sex and the City is still in syndication.

On this night, I’m celebrating Saturday. The quiet of it, the ease of it. Saturday’s are for celebrating in general but Saturday nights are special. They creep in slowly, hover at first and then descend to wrap you up in the possibility of total and complete disengagement from work, from the world. Everything shifts into neutral, everything stops. It’s a once a week break from the reality of work and it’s nice. Peaceful.

Tomorrow is Easter. We won’t celebrate it as such, but we will celebrate the perfectness of the day. The sun will rise as the birds chirp, cars will drive by, the paper will arrive, we’ll make breakfast. Life will be good – it is good – and fun.

Bored with Sex and the City, I switch to Die Hard. It’s one of my favorite Christmas movies. Even in April, it’s festive.

Happy trails. And happy Easter.

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You need me on that wall: Vintage puppy edition

by Lorin Michel Friday, April 22, 2011 8:58 PM

Lately, Maguire has developed an interesting routine. Every night, when it gets dark, he rises, a bit painfully, from wherever he’s been sleeping, often on the hard wood floor, shakes his fur into place as he arranges his legs in order, and marches stiffly – good little soldier – into the bedroom. Which is dark. And evidently populated with all manner of evil just waiting to reign down on our heads. Only Maguire Michel can save the day.

He stands in the dark room and barks. And barks. And barks. And barks. And just about the time we can’t stand it anymore, he stops. Then he starts again until finally one of us braves the evidently bad, bad, bad men or boys or girls or animals or ghosts and walks to the door way. He’ll inevitably be in one of three places. At the back slider, his head nudged between the vertical blinds, barking toward the neighbor’s yard and the fig tree silhouetted in the evening sky.

Frightening.

Or he’s standing next to my side of the bed, his big bear head mere inches away from where my much more delicate head would be nestled into the pillow, were I there.

Terrifying.

Or he’s facing into the master bath, the impossibly long tiled entry leading toward the sunken tub, miles and miles away. Wait! Is that something in the mirror?

Oh. My. God.

We tell him to knock it off and he looks at us innocently before turning to follow us back out into the family room. Within moments, though, he’s on high alert. He looks to Kevin first – Dad! Did you hear that!? – and when Kevin didn’t hear anything worth worrying about, the gaze switches to me. Mom?

And then he decides that the only way to protect the house and his parents is to go back in. The routine begins again. A dog soldier at his post.

Because we need him on that wall. We WANT him on that wall. And deep down in places we don’t talk about at parties, he is the great defender.

I salute you, my vintage puppy. Thanks for keeping us safe.

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Son rise

by Lorin Michel Thursday, April 21, 2011 10:57 PM

He came into my life when he was four, and nothing has been the same since. All red hair and huge glasses, big ears and a lopsided, crooked-toothed smile. I was hooked from the beginning when he gazed at me, mostly uninterested, from a car seat in the front seat of his father’s gray Mitsubishi pickup truck. He weighed less than 35 pounds, and he was still in pre-school.

We eyed each other warily, both loving the man whom we shared, and not quite knowing how we would fit. I decided early on that I would simply let the relationship develop; at his young age, he evidently decided the same. We became good friends after that, and eventually became mother and son. Justin Thomas Michel and Lorin Michel.

He visited for years, once every four or five weeks, flying by himself for the weekend. He started asking to live in California when he was nine. He finally made it before he started high school. And then the real fun started. We had many issues, both normal and extreme, but we got through them with love and anger, hurt and healing. Now he’s 20 and a sophomore in college, studying to be a lighting designer for theater. I’m as proud as any mother could be.

When he first came to live with us, he was elated and yet had horrible emotional problems, largely due to issues with his biological mother. He also had some school issues. He wasn’t stupid; just the opposite. But the quality of his education prior to moving to Oak Park and the quality of the parental contribution, was lacking. As smart as he was, his grasp of things as simple as grammar was severely lacking. Sentences started with “Well, here’s sorta what I know,” and included abbreviations like U for you and 2 for to, too and two. As a writer, it drove me crazy. We worked and worked and worked.

Soon, he graduated from high school and started college. Today, he sent me a paper to look at. It’s due on Monday and it starts: “The world of automated lighting has quickly taken over many facets of the entertainment lighting world. Automated or intelligent lighting fixtures are everywhere, from high school to world music tours, from China’s Olympics to the University of Arizona musicals.”

Not a texting abbreviation in sight.

When he came home at Christmas, he pulled into the driveway late and sauntered into the house, all low-slung jeans and waffle knit long-sleeve tee. He needed a shave and a haircut, his auburn hair curling just at his collar; his glasses sliding down his nose. We gave him a bit of wine, he’s getting into wine, and listened as he told us about lighting. He might as well have been speaking Japanese; we didn’t understand it at all. But it was incredible, inspiring, amazing. Kevin and I were so proud. He knew things we would never know or understand. He was grown up, nearly grown and his entire life was stretching in front of him. It nearly brought tears to my eyes.

We met 16 years ago. I’m his (step)mother, he’s my (step)son, but he couldn’t be more mine had I given birth to him. I suspect he feels the same. For all the angst and irritation, the challenges and successes, we’ve come through it. My kid, his mom. Our dad/husband. And dog.

Life stretches ahead. Behind us the issues have set, but on the horizon I see the sun rising. And it is bright and wonderful and amazing. 

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The power of a walk

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, April 20, 2011 9:57 PM

I used to be a runner. Nothing made me feel better than lacing up my asics, putting on some shades, strapping my iPod to my arm and slipping my earbuds in, hitting play and taking off. Before I started having knee problems, I’d run 5 or 6 miles. I loved the feel of my muscles, the way running kept me thin. I was at my physical best when I could truly classify myself as a runner.

Then my right hip started to hurt. I’d go to bed at night and couldn’t get comfortable because it was so sore. I tried to blame it on my beloved bed at first (it must be the mattress), and then I had a couple of weeks when I didn’t run. And suddenly, my hip got better.

The writing was on the road. As much as I loved running, running no longer loved me.

That’s when I started walking, briskly, still with my shades and my iPod, asics gels laced up nice and tight but not too tight. It wasn’t quite the same but I didn’t have the pain anymore. 

Kevin and I started walking together at lunch nearly every day about three months ago. We go about 2 to 3 miles four to five times a week, and we both feel pretty good. And why shouldn’t we? Walking is good for the heart, good for the circulation, pumps blood to the brain so it keeps our minds active and interested, and even helps keep us slim, or at least slimmer.

Kevin bought new walking shoes recently. He tried on the Skechers walkers, with the rolling soles, but they felt funny, so he settled on a pair of New Balance. They have a funky wedge sole but not nearly as funky as those new-fangled walking shoes that look, well, uncomfortable. I’m sure there are plenty of people who think they’re fabulous.

But give me my asics 2150s any day. I’ve been wearing the same model for at least 10 years, changing out for a new color every six months or so when the tread starts to wear and the bounce disappears. I don’t need the bounce so much these days so maybe they’ll last a bit longer. Maybe not.

No matter. I’m walkin’. Yes, indeed, I’m walkin.’

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And loving it almost as much as running.

Almost. 

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You've got mail(box)

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, April 19, 2011 10:49 PM

It’s a ritual nearly as old as the fine art of writing itself. It is the art of writing a letter and putting it in the mail with the hope and knowledge that it will make its journey however long or short to its intended destination; that it will be delivered via a certified mail delivery person who will walk, drive, or ride to deposit the envelope into a proper receptacle. A mailbox.

According to the National Postal Museum, the mailbox has been around for more than 150 years. But the earliest history of a mailbox in the US is actually at the corner of Boxtree Road and Lewis Road in East Quogue, New York. It stood there in the late 1700s. In 1863, postal carriers began delivering mail to homes by knocking on doors and waiting patiently for someone to answer. Because people were often not home, mail like that special letter, wasn't delivered in a timely manner. People soon began installing mail slots or letterboxes as they’re known in Europe. Of course, this was in the city. If you lived in the country, where roads were scarcely traveled, there was often no delivery at all. In 1896, the United States Post Office introduced a concept called rural free delivery, though mailboxes consisted of empty bushel baskets, tins and wooden boxes. In 1923, the Post Office mandated that every household have either a mailbox or a mail slot in order to have mail delivered. The flag was added later.

Originally, the flag was raised not by the owner of the box to signify outgoing mail, but by the mail delivery person to indicate mail had been delivered. Post Office employee Roy Joroleman designed the curved, tunnel-shaped box, so rain and snow could slide off, with its latching door and movable signal flag to indicate outgoing mail in 1915. This box became the standard for years, especially after the Post Office issued specifications for curbside mailbox construction for use by a variety of manufacturers.

Luckily, not everyone complies with the standard. And as long as they conform with specs that will hold at least one and half inches of stacked envelopes without bending or damage, be about 9 inches wide and 13 inches high, standing between 27 inches and 66.5 inches off the ground and be able to withstand rain, wind, snow or sleet, they’re OK to display any artistic box they want.

Mail delivery is what truly matters; the style and shape and personality of the box is what defines both the mail sender and the receiver. It’s a way to non-conform and a way to celebrate originality.

Our mailbox is currently standard issue. A black dome shape. Some of the paint has flaked off, exposing gray steel beneath. The front latch takes some coaxing to get it to catch correctly. The box came with the house and it’s on a post at the curb with three other boxes just like it. It holds our incoming and outgoing mail, and its red flag works just fine.

I have to admit that I’d like to revert to the old days, when the flag was raised to indicate mail had arrived. It’s much more dramatic and suspenseful to see what’s waiting, who wrote, and what they have to say.

These days, most of the people who write are asking me to send them money. In other words, you’ve got bills!

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Clean sheets to the wind

by Lorin Michel Monday, April 18, 2011 8:45 PM

One of the simplest pleasures of life is clean sheets. The crisp feel of them, the fresh smell, the new way they both conform to and refuse to become part of the body. Every Saturday, I strip the previous week’s sheets from our California king-size bed. Sometimes I enlist my husband and we spin and/or flip the mattress, the enormous 18 inch deep mattress with its double-sided pillow tops. Hard if not impossible to find these days, and a lovely accent to fresh, clean, crisp sheets.

This weekend I was a day late, pulling the chocolate top sheet and peeling the fitted sheet from the mattress, dislodging the pillows from their cases. I threw them all onto the floor, into the laundry pile and went to the linen closet to choose this week’s dressings. I went with the mocha colored set, and settled into the task of remaking that monstrosity of a bed. It takes about 20 minutes to get everything just perfect. Sheets pulled flat, top sheet cornered and tucked. Blanket draped equally on either side, also tucked so nothing peaks out from beneath the comforter. Pillows pushed into their respective cases and propped against the headboard, comforter spread and smoothed, throw pillows in place. Worthy of a magazine.

The mountain-breeze-rain fragrance, faded somewhat having been in the linen closet, still fills the room, slipping out from under the comforter, beckoning, teasing, majestically calling my name. I admit it; I love my bed. It is one of my favorite places to be, probably because I also love to sleep, though I never seem to get enough of that, and definitely because it is big and comfortable and soft yet firm, and with clean sheets, it becomes one of the definitions of heaven on earth.

When I was little and we lived in New York State, my mother would hang our sheets outside to dry, filling them with sunshine and bumblebees. I don’t know anyone who does that anymore, though I’m sure there are those who live in the country who have both the time and the space to let their sheets be free and flowing.

I prefer breeze-scented dryer sheets, sans the clothesline and pins, and bees. I still get my clean, fresh feeling and acting bedding. And that first time, pulling back the comforter and sliding in between the top and the bottom sheet, when it’s just a little cold and the slight chill makes me shudder, is like having something new and rapturous every week.

Oh. Yeah.

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The sounds of a Sunday morning

by Lorin Michel Sunday, April 17, 2011 2:37 PM

There is something uniquely peaceful about Sunday mornings. I don’t go to church or practice any particular type of religion, so it doesn’t have anything to do with that. Rather, it’s the gentle awakening of the world to this singular day, the one day of the week that is truly meant to be restful and lazy.

It was warm here yesterday, unseasonably so, and we slept with the window open. There is little noise at night, but oh, this morning. This morning, various sounds wafted through the bedroom, sleepily making their way into my consciousness.

Under the back awning, the wind chimes touched their long cylindrical, copper and aluminum tubes together for a quiet song. The new spring leaves rustled in the trees just off the patio. Someone in the distance decided it was a good time to cut the grass as a lawnmower roared to life. Sprinklers next door hesitated, sputtered and then burst across the neighbor’s yard. A dog barked and barked and barked. The children three doors over laughed and giggled in that little kid way where the world is just one delight after another, wonder waiting to make their day.

I heard the door to my husband’s studio open and breeze closed, a soft thud. His voice on the phone talking to one of his programmers somewhere in another part of the country, the words indecipherable. Laughter. Something good had happened.

The coffee machine purkled. In the street, a car roared by. Mike in his bright red M3 coupe. Hi, Mike. Another car raced by, faded into the distance, then came back, slowing in front of the house. The newspaper landed with a thud on the driveway. I love the Sunday Times.

Maguire, on the floor, stretched and sighed. I, still in bed, followed suit. Time to get up and celebrate the day.

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Fly me to the moon

by Lorin Michel Thursday, April 14, 2011 10:33 PM

I love looking up in the sky at night to see the moon, regardless of what stage it’s in. Naturally, the most dramatic is always when it’s full and shining nearly as bright as the sun, lighting the night. It’s not that way tonight and that’s OK. But it’s on its way to full so there’s more than half the light. It allows the moon to still hide in the darkness while teasing what’s to come, a full celestial presence on Monday, April 18.

I’ve always had a fascination with the moon. There’s something mysterious and dramatic and welcoming. It didn’t start with the famous moonwalk; I was too young to pay much attention. I think it started when I heard the story about the moon being made of cheese.

When did the world’s fascination with the moon and cheese begin? Believe it or not, in 1546, when a man named John Heywood proclaimed, simply: “the moon is made of a greene cheese.” Greene means new and un-aged. Francois Rabelais, Renaissance humanist, and Thomas More, utopian philosopher, also said something similar as did John Wilkins in New World 1 in 1638: “You may as soon persuade some country peasants that the moon is made of green cheese (as we say) as that ‘tis bigger than his cartwheel.” John Wilkins was a big fan of Galileo and loved to discuss the possibility of lunar life. In fact, he saw no reason why men wouldn’t someday invent a way to travel there, to establish places to live amongst its craters, valleys and desolate moonscapes. That possibility, that blankness, that drama is part of the moon’s charm, and to be there? Incredible. If it was possible to somehow reach the moon – and oh, how intoxicating! – how would we get there? According to Wilkins, via a flying chariot.

Knowing that, and coupled with my love of the moon, it’s no wonder that one of my favorite songs is “Fly me to the moon.”

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Celebrate being moon-struck.

 

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