Love and Hurricans and Tropical Storms. Sandy is coming

It was November 9, 1965 when the black-out happened.   No storm, just no power and nine months later, babies.  The legend was published in a series of three articles in the New York Times where doctors reported that they saw an increased birth rate after that week of hell.  Five years later it was debunked by  love-skeptic,  J. Richard Udry, who claimed he saw no statistical surge in screaming women in laboring.  He was so wrong.  It takes up to one year to get an egg and sperm to shake hands.  He forgot that back then there was birth control.  I know—I babysat plenty of people who had condoms in their nightstands, making a side business of harvesting their crop—it was better than weed.  I lived in a time where you might have to produce a marriage license or have your parents phoned if you tried to purchase one of those things.  But that's another story.  

Some twenty years ago there was the October snow fiasco.   Then I lived through Irene. 

Hubby didn't take it seriously so we never prepared.  By the time we realized this huff-and puff might be true, we had to battle torrents of rain to the local  Piggly-Wiggly.  No candles left I was left to use my Jewish-Italian-Hispanic resources—I knew the international aisle.  Amidst the Kosher soups, the bags of beans and boxes of pasta my hands knew where to reach,   Rokeach and Manischewitz Yahrzeit candles—to honor the dead, then Maria Mother of God greeted me between the Allessi Risotto and Colavita olive oil, followed by San Lazaro nesting next to the rice and Amanida Ajo Blanco- a Spanish white garlic.  I grabbed that garlic along with the tall yellow glass candles.  A hundred dollars later I had light.  That's when I learned what the term WATT meant: one candle equals one watt, unless they are kosher —those ingenious Jews know that white wax reflects more than yellow, blue, green or red.  Leave it to them to come up with a perfect small candle that lasts 24 hours and in the end gives you a shot glass.   

Then it hit.  We were trapped by the private road that showed us what being cut off from the world was really like.  Crazed with e-withdrawal, no power, cooking formerly frozen steaks on the barbi in the garage, eating canned goods I thought were only good enough for the poor, re-reading dog-eared novels, watching my Benz float away, my roof come off, crapping on a dry-wall bucket, drinking water from my tub, I began to go crazy.  Hubby was worse—there were no video games, baseball, football and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies to capture his attention. 

I did what and any normal person would.  Using the grill  I made a chicken dish using the risotto, an entire head of parsley and Spanish garlic I met earlier.*  I broke out the whiskey and wine, followed by the three year old weed found in my kid's knapsack.  OMG, weed is so much more potent nowadays.  We lit the fireplace and hunted down the old scrabble game now missing half the tiles.  I managed to place "frenzy" in my first hand.  He got "now" off my N.   I responded with "you" leaning off his Y.  And then he placed "uck" beneath my F. 

I was stunned, which is a strange perception when you're high.  Do you know it?  It's when half your brain is saying "wow man, isn’t this cool," and the other side is panicked and screaming,  "OMG-you shouldn't have smoked this shit."  Suddenly I realized why I gave up on pot.  But David came to my rescue.  He tenderly kissed my mouth and smiled, revealing his parsley checkerboarded teeth--confirmation that I was a great cook.  What more could  Jewish, Italian and Spanish woman want?  So with San Lorenzo summoning his power of everlasting endurance, The Virgin Mother smiling, and Jewish spirits dancing on the walls, I slowly settled on that scrabble board and did what Dr. Urdry said was a myth.  An hour later, my ample ass embedded with tiles that spelled frenzy, now, and  fuck I was tempted make the words  "fun,"  "funky," "zen," and "rock." 

Now it's Sandy.  Again, he did the same thing- poo-pooed the storm.  But not me.  After buttoning up our Woodstock house I assembled a horde of saints and Jews to back me up, with some wine.  The glass and wax is gleaming on my kitchen island, waiting for the power to go and the power to come—to learn again what's important. 

Yes I'm scared.  But the scrabbled cubes are lost and the only letter I might assemble are on keys!   So write.  dawnmhopper@gmail.com

* Lemon-garlic Chicken- (Really Italian)

I should know, I live in Italy half the year.  Don't get scared by the ingredients.   First, slowly begin to sauté a lot of chopped garlic (the whole thing head)  in olive oil, making sure you don't burn it.  Add an entire bunch of chopped up parsley.  That parsley will actually fry and transform into something you never thought parsley could be.  (Think of great sex with a really nice man).  The rule is that you don't want to burn the garlic or the parsley. Set this aside.
Now you need the chicken.  You can make this recipe with any kind of chicken.  If it's boneless breasts, salt and flour lightly, it in olive oil and butter.  Pieces can follow the same rule.

 After they are browned, put the chicken in a baking dish, followed by the garlic-parsley mix and squeeze a lemon over all of it.  Bake at @350 until you are sure that chicken is done.  Boneless breasts are done very quickly.  Cook risotto or pasta and top it with our garlic-chicken.   Now top the entire dish with a ton of grated Romano cheese.  Make sure your lips are olive-oiled  and you have plenty of parsley in between your teeth as you kiss.  My husband has fished out that green for me.   

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