No Ketchup

One waits, the waiting accompanied by a pulsing of anticipation/excitement/worry.

Seven months ago I waited for this to be done:

Once the snow melted, I began to wait for these:

Today I waited for my grandson to be born.

This was different than when my granddaughter was born. Sixteen years have passed and life has changed, of course. On that day I was an active participant in the birth and while the pulsing was certainly there, my attention was on my daughter, my focus was keenly on her and the incredible ordinary magic of the process.

Today I waited. I sat on the couch in my living room working while the dog and cats slept nearby, the historic heat pressed its estimable weight on the world and, a few short miles away, my daughter once again labored through the incredible ordinary magic of giving birth. The pulsing this time was nearly deafening, pulling my mind and heart away from the work at hand. When the pulsing overwhelmed, I called friends and talked until it was just a hum in the background.

In the evening family assembled—my daughter's sister and aunt, my husband, Florida Freddy. We ate pizza, we laughed, we talked. We waited together. Then a point came when I knew I had to go to the hospital—worry had overwhelmed all the other elements of waiting. I drove the few miles, walked in to the labor/delivery room, checked out what was going on and, after a little while, came home again.

Two hours later my phone buzzed. "Baby's here. Shannon says Wendy's, please."

We all piled into one car and headed for the drive through. I spoke into the intercom, gave the order. "A #1 with cheese and no onions."

"No ketchup?"

"No. No onions."

Shannon's aunt said, "Where did she get 'no ketchup?'" 

We all laughed, releasing the swirl of anticipation and excitement (no more worry). We laughed again when the two giant cups of soda were passed out of the drive through window. We laughed again when we saw the sign proclaiming that ketchup and salt were available by request. We even laughed when we got stuck behind a man on a motorcycle following the white line on the right side of the road at 10 mph in a 35 zone—though our laughter was once again tinged with worry.

In the vestibule we had to wait to be allowed in—a group of five giddy adults carrying tubs of soda and a paper sack redolent of grease and salt, surrounded by a pulsing halo of excitement and anticipation that was surely visible.

Down the hall, the nurses calling congratulations from their station and then the waiting was over and there was this:

Look at those eyes. Look at the old soul peering out from inside.


When I held him for the first time, I felt a pulsing made of wonder and gratitude and the incredible ordinary magic of love.

Elizabeth Who?

I may have killed my blog.

To be more precise, my life may have killed my blog. Perhaps it was that I have been doing other things (like writing) in the time I would have spent blogging.

(Yes, a lot of the time this is how I write.)


Or maybe it was summer that did it.

Whatever the cause, my blog has lain fallow, untouched by me since my birthday which was over a month ago.

I promise to be more diligent. After all, where else can I indulge myself in the way I do here?

Again, Around The Sun

Yesterday was my birthday.
It was a delightful day: my husband and I went to the NY Botanical Gardens to experience the special exhibit about the gardens of Alhambra, to look at the peonies (my favorite flower), to walk through the rose garden; then an early dinner (or was it a late lunch?) at the Tarry Lodge with good wine (very good wine—thank you, Joe Bastianich, for that wine list) and good food (very good food—thank you, Mario Batali, for that menu).

This was a departure from my usual mode of celebration, which involves inviting people over and me cooking (which I love) amid the hubbub of talk and laughter and the kids braving the not-yet-warm pool. One of the by-products of having a birthday that usually happens on the "unofficial start of summer" holiday weekend is the tradition of a cookout, after all. And I love that, usually.
But this year I needed some time to walk among the flowers and trees and shrubbery with my best friend, needed to reconnect in a new spot (we'd never visited together—which is unbelievable), needed to smell the perfume of a garden I do not tend. I needed, frankly, to be tended to myself. Because I made the space for that, it happened.
My daughter and both of my brothers called with birthday wishes before we set out for the day—as did my friend, Miguel, with whom I share this birthday. I was, frankly, stunned by the number of birthday wishes I got on Facebook; an embarrassment of riches, that.




The weather was glorious. The peonies are beginning the end of their glorious blossoming (a surprise, each time, that just a few degrees to the south makes that much difference—mine have just begun!) yet they were still showing off, as peonies do and which is why I love them so. The roses were, as they always are, an inspiration. And as we rode on the tram through the shade of the forest (a forest in the middle of the Bronx—it still blows my mind!) with a good breeze blowing, I thought, "Oh, yes, it's my birthday. Happy Birthday to me."

This is a Peace and Love rose.

Graduation (Redux)

I walked in the "big" ceremony for Fairfield University's graduate programs today, celebrating—once again—the completion of the MFA program. There were six of us from the first cohort representing and it reminded me of the very first residency, when the original 27 gathered together at Enders Island.

We wanted to be writers.

Over the next two years, we read about writing, we talked about writing, we argued (sometimes quite heatedly) about writing. We wrote. Some of us wrote poetry, some wrote short stories, novels, memoirs, essays. We all wrote craft essays. Most of us wrote monthly missives to our devoted mentors. I think all of us, at some point, wrote a few emails to one another in which we wondered why we were writing at all.

We gathered together for 10-day residencies on that magical island (and it is magical). We ate three meals a day together. We negotiated those showers (oh, those showers!). We "workshopped" the poems and short stories and novels and essays and memoirs. We partied. We listened to our peers and our faculty read.

We became writers.

It was nice to be reminded, today, of the special journey we shared.

Google Self

Once in a while I conduct a Google search of "Elizabeth Hilts," just to see what I've been doing. Normally I find a link to this blog, a number of links to the Amazon pages for my books (here's my Amazon author page), LinkedIn, Twitter, etc.

Tonight I found links to a Dr. Helen Hilts in Scottsdale, AZ whose middle name is Elizabeth and the obituary of Elizabeth W. Hilts. Frankly, that was a little unsettling (even more unsettling to learn that she had a daughter-in-law with the same name as one of my sisters-in-law).

Then I read the obituary and I felt better. This other Elizabeth Hilts seems to have had a good life: a family and friends who loved and admired her, she accomplished things, and had community connections.

I have to admit that, even though I took an active role in the snark about this whole Rapture non-event, I have been reflecting on the quality of life—just in case the world did end, how would I be judged by the Universe? My hope is that my efforts to live as authentically as I can—to be as kind as I am able, to act out of love as much as I possibly can, to bear witness and support the people I care about—would be recognized and my frequent failures would be forgiven (or, at least, understood). I guess what I really hope is that, like the late Elizabeth W. Hilts, I would be remembered kindly.

Now that we know that the world continues, what are you hoping for going forward?

An Oldie But (I Think) A Goodie

I originally wrote this for "Pimp My Wry" and would have forgotten about it completely if I hadn't gotten notice of a comment (that was certainly spam). Anyway, I liked it when I wrote it and I like it now so I figured I'd repost it here. Hope it doesn't attract more spam. Hope you enjoy it.

Oh, and just for the record, I feel the same way now as I did when I wrote this.

Alice Waters, What Are You Thinking?

I’m a little bit annoyed with Alice Waters.

Oh, sure, she deserves her props for her food advocacy, for helping to raise awareness about the value of organic foods, yadda yadda yadda. I admire all that.

It’s her smugness that’s bugging me.

Did you see the segment about Ms. Waters on “60 Minutes”? The one where she cooked breakfast for Leslie Stahl?

The steps involved in preparing this "simple repast" go something like this:

• Open a restaurant in Berkeley
• Pretend it’s a co-op, but retain the majority share
• Make a couple of million bucks
• Build or renovate your kitchen to include a wood-burning hearth—conveniently at standard counter height
• Pick up some hand-forged iron spoons with really long handles
• Stock up on firewood
• Buy eggs, tomatoes, olive oil and herbs (organic, of course)
• Have your assistant build a fire in the hearth about an hour before you want to make breakfast—for me, that would be at 7 a.m., so my phantom assistant would have to get up before 6
• Chop up some tomatoes and herbs (are they organic? If not…), allow the mixture to marinate
• Slice some bread bread bread*
• Grill it
• Spoon the tomato mixture on the bread (which has been placed on a hand-painted plate that you got in Italy—part of a set of 40)
• Take a nap
• Coat an iron spoon with the olive oil (did I mention that the olive oil should come from your good friend’s grove and be organic?)
• Crack an egg into a bowl, slide the egg into the oil-coated spoon
• Walk across the kitchen to the fire shove the egg under the flames gently fluttering from the log and stand there until the egg bubbles up and cooks through
• Walk back to the counter where the plated bread/tomato thing is
• Scoop the egg on top of the tomatoes
• Serve
• Repeat as needed

This is the kind of every day food that’s perfect for a family of four or more because, really, making it creates an oasis of calm amidst the panicked searches for the missing homework and the right pair of black shoes. Those family members who are not sweating it out at the fire can make brown bag lunches at the same time. (You did include a separate lunch prep area in that kitchen redesign, didn’t you?)

“And you don’t really have to do it in the fire,” says Alice. “You can do it in the cast iron skillet on the stove.”

Well, thanks for that tip, Alice! Because, honestly, that never would have occurred to me.

The flaws in Alice's thinking are, in my (extremely humble) opinion, these:

Not everyone lives in California, with access to farmers and their foodstuffs—the only locally-grown organic tomatoes I can find right now look like they're made of styrofoam and they cost something like $20 a piece

Organic food costs a LOT—and I've got other expenses, like my mortgage

Shopping carefully for each ingredient takes time—I love meandering through my local farmers' markets (which operate in my neck of the woods from late May through November; the only food in stock after September being turnips) but since I have to also make a trip to the regular grocery store, shopping turns into a day-long event

But the worst part is, her serene self-satisfaction creates anxiety. Who can live like this? Do you live like this? Or are you wedging a trip to the grocery store in between work, getting the kids to their activities, going to the gym, doing a load or two of laundry, finding the lost homework, and refereeing arguments about who's turn it is to set the table with the chipped plates you inherited from Aunt Thelma?

Because that's the life most of us live—and we're the lucky ones who don't rely on public transport, aren't trying to stretch the food we can buy with food stamps, haven't had to visit the local food pantry...do I need to go on?

So, yeah, I admire the woman, but I don't think she lives on the same planet I inhabit.

* This is a completely gratuitous inside joke.

Kudos

My friend Phil Lemos finished the first draft of his novel yesterday. In blogging about it he wrote something that touched me deeply (for reasons both obvious and not-so-very-obvious):

"I may never get this puppy published. But at least when I'm on my deathbed I'll be able to say I wrote a novel."

To start something is easy. To prevail to the end (even if it's only the first end) is, I think, heroic when the only "reward" of which one can be certain is that the work will matter just because the work has happened.

Bravo, Phil. "Bravo!" to all of my writer friends who have finished the things they have started. And "Bravo!" to all who are still making the work happen (which is, as you all know, each and every one of us).

Check out his post here. And tell him I sent you.