My Glass Overflowed....

Another beautiful day in Westport and we were once again woken by the gentle tapping of the robin. I admit, I am looking for signs and getting nervous, so I did the only thing I knew would bring forth the answer...I called on the wizard of folklores and all superstitions - my mother.

There's been a bird tapping on my window almost everyday for a week now, I said to my mother when she picked up the phone. What? there's a bird in your house?? No, no, no..that is really bad luck..get him out..she quickly responded. OK..my mother's hearing has been declining in the past three years and she is wary of putting on the ultra-modern-sleek-cool hearing aid my sister got for her last summer. NO!!!! the bird has only been tapping on my window, i said in a slightly higher volumed tone. OH!!!!!
That still doesn't sound good..be careful..drive carefully..something bad might happen..birds have no business trying to get inside..then she took it back..she said, well, maybe he sees that you are very happy and he wants to join in...

I admit, I am always a glass half-full kinda girl but my mother's response really freaked me out. So I did what I would naturally have done second and called my sister..OH!!! Let it in, she said..NO!! mom told me its bad luck...I am getting scared..we've got lots of running around today, I didn't want the robin to be symbolic of a messenger of doom. Then my sister said GO GOOGLE IT!!!

Which I did, and according to the Audubon Society of America..the following is the answer to my week's worth of guessing and wondering:

" A male cardinal continuously bangs against the windows of our house. It begins at dawn and doesn’t end until dusk. He’s been at it for many months. I don’t know how he has the energy to go on or how he hasn’t killed himself. What is the cause of this? Does he want to get into my house?



No, despite your best cooking, the bird is not trying to get into your house. This scenario is surprisingly common and is almost always perpetrated by Northern Cardinals and American Robins. According to biologist Daniel Klem, the concentration of hormones in male cardinals increases to 300 times that of normal levels during breeding season. This causes a ferocious defense of territory and the bird attacks all rivals, including perceived rivals such as his own reflected image.

The solution is to eliminate the reflective properties of glass by covering the window from the outside. Anything attached to the inside of the window may reduce reflectivity, but not eliminate it. You may have to cover the window for a period of time, perhaps a week or more.

Attach white paper to the entire outer surface of the window; this will allow for light to enter while eliminating reflection. Try stringing balloons to the outer surface, or strips of shiny mylar. The motion of these items might dissuade the bird."


*** I am relieved perhaps by this knowledge..still, I will continue to monitor my children carefully in the coming days..drive extra cautiously, and thread wisely in the hours ahead..after all, the wizard is not too often wrong!

Hope Springs Eternal

For I dipped into the Future, far as human eye could see; saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Although the calendar says that spring is upon us, local forecasts predict heavy rain with a chance of snow showers overnight here in Connecticut and its neighboring states.
It all started this past weekend when my six year-old son woke up with stomach cramps and a fuzzy headache on Easter morning. Plans for a day ski trip askew...the Easter egg hunt after nine AM mass unthinkable- we greeted the beautiful and lazy day ahead at home.

My family was already up and kept busy in the living room until I made my approach a little after 8:30. As I sauntered into the kitchen passing the dining room, my almost three year-old daughter called out to me to "look at the bird!" On a branch of one of the tall evergreen arborvitaes which nestles next to our dining room window, perched a robin of proportionate size; its chest fluffed with a coppery feathered bib. "Wow!"I said, not expecting what was about to happen. The robin took a hop to another branch and then hopped back to the branch that I had originally spied him on before making a dash for our window. Oh my gosh, can't he see? My husband casually responded that the robin has been doing the same thing for the past half an hour.

As I stood there mesmerized, the robin repeatedly hopped back and forth between the two branches and then flew to our window and ever so lightly..taps it. Big branch, small branch, back to big branch...tap!

My husband tells me that the robin is probably a reincarnation of Logan, our little pet-squirrel friend from two years ago. I saw Logan first, only he was a tiny baby squirrel without a name. My eye happened to catch him coming out of a hollow hole high up in the silver maple tree in front of our home early that spring. He comes out of the hole as if to take in the scenery around him, down to our front lawn, and then back into the hole. Once again, I made nothing of this until I repeatedly saw him in the following days doing the same thing. On the fourth or fifth day, I went out and stood there when I saw the baby squirrel on our walkway. Amazingly, he didn't scurry away upon my presence. Instead, he stood very still and looked at me..I said HI! I wondered if he was missing or separated from his mother..I had never seen such a tiny squirrel.After seeing him a few more times and realizing that he wasn't afraid of me, I gave him his name and started calling him out of his hole. Surprisingly, every time I called him, he came out and came down to where I would be standing. Of course I showed off to the rest of my family and they were amazed. Soon, we all called on Logan, showed our friends when they came over..and Logan became our pet squirrel, growing bigger by the day eating almonds and walnuts from my husband's hands.

I remember on July 4th of that year, we were invited to our neighbors' home across the street for a barbeque and Logan came looking for us. When we first saw him, I was like..no way..this can't be Logan! We told our friends the story and they thought we were joking..until my husband called out to Logan and he came over to where we were standing as if waiting for an invitation.

As Logan became fully grown, I began to get a little scared of him..nervous that he was getting too friendly and will jump on me to say HELLO or something. I started to scream AAAAH!!! at the sight of him, hoping he would be a little cautious..and soon thereafter, he didn't come around as much as he has done that spring and summer. He would hang around somewhere in our backyard next to the kids' swing set. Then one day he found his way up to a branch of the arborvitae and discovered that he could see us in our dining room. We knew it was him the first time we saw him laying there looking in. Winter came and we forgot about Logan because we didn't see him anymore, but one day he showed up and just hung out on that branch. And that was the last time he was seen until my husband came into the house one afternoon and said that there was a body of a dead squirrel outside his studio door. This, we knew, had to be Logan. He had known that my husband loved him and he wanted to let him know that he has passed. My husband buried him far off under the stone wall on the side of our front yard where I had found him the year before.

SO, according to my husband,the robin was Logan coming back to say HELLO! The hopping and flying to our window goes on for about three hours...as I prepared breakfast, ate breakfast, and cleared the dishes Easter morning. And then suddenly, just like that, the robin was gone. We would have missed all of it had we been away skiing. It was meant to be. If you know me, you'd know that I see things a little differently; I was all so grateful to have been there to witness such a neat sign that life IS precious....so simple - if we only took the time to see things as they are..to realize that we don't need to look too far when there is so much at hand to observe and treasure.

That beautiful Easter Sunday..a time of renewal, we had a humble meal of brown rice and salted Japanese salmon that I had in the freezer and some miso soup. Spiritually, we were so full and satisfied by the amazing events of the day, that we went to bed stuffed and happy...blessed to be alive!

Then today...four days after Easter, my son woke me up and told me that the robin was back, only this time, he was hanging out on a branch of the lilac bush next to my bedroom window. Branch, window, tap, branch..for at least an hour and a half and then we had to leave...This time, my husband said that the robin is his father who passed away eight years ago this June. Go talk to your father I tell my husband, ask him to pray for our children's health!

Spring is in the air...the buds on the branches are waiting to pop open unfurling their new leaves; the sight of the cherry blossoms signaling that yes, the time is here. As fleeting as spring is, there is still so much to enjoy. New found optimism, new beginnings...brighter days - aren't these alone worth rejoicing? The answer we seek is always within us...if we listen.

My Offer

Everything comes to a halt in our household the week before TET, which marks the first day of the new year according to the Lunar calendar. Celebrating Tet for the Vietnamese is not merely just welcoming in the new year. It is a host of centuries-old traditions and rituals that are followed to a tee and kept diligently. It is a time of calmness and mutual love and respect, a time of reflection and rest...and of course, a time of pretty good eating!

Weeks before Tet my mother would start preparing the house; it has to be sparkling and shining in getting ready for the most celebrated and most important holiday of the year. Homes are cleaned to get rid of the bad spirits that have hung over it during the past year...all bad vibes and jujus out the window; my sister Monica always discard her beddings, my mother buys new pots and pans, and me? I try to keep my kitchen clear of clutter and as clean as possible!Mind you, this is not just out of my love of being in the kitchen, but for the sake of the kitchen God who resides there. It is believed that he looms over the stove because the kitchen is where everything takes place in the house- where all souls meet, where deeds are done.

When we were younger, the activities leading to Tet were always exciting as we knew everyone had to be in good moods...especially my father. There are to be no arguments between adults, no bickering among children, and no raising of voices all around. This sets the parameters for what will be our new year to come. And it is in this spirit of renewal, that the days were very peaceful in our house.

About a week before Tet, the kitchen God, or ONG TAO, departs people's homes and heads to heaven to report back to the Jade Emperor all the wrong doings of those on earth. In order for people to secure his good words, sweets and many sugary treats are offered at the altar to this almighty deity. Along with oranges, tangerines and kumquats which bright orange colors signify joy and happiness... candy, dried fruits and honey are offered to sweeten the tongue of the kitchen God so that he will have nothing bitter or bad to say to the emperor. Some people go as far as smearing honey on images of Ong Tao to ensure this. Sometimes, his image is burned in order to help him get to heaven quicker and spirit money is used to sway him. Spirit money are special types of paper bills which are burned as offerings to the departed. Once all of these things are done, people can begin to relax because when new year's eve comes around, a new kitchen God will be posted to the house to reign over it for the next twelve months.

My mother would set out jellied guanabana candies, sweet sesame and peanut crunches and honeyed tamarind pods on a large platter for Ong Tao. Incense are lit, tea is made with plenty of cups for our departed ancestors as well as Ong Tao, and the door to our apartment kept ajar so that the spirits may enter and leave with ease. When we were young, my sisters and brother and me were a little freaked out by this..not to mention the hosts of spirits coming and going to our apartment, but also the real live deadbeats that may lurk around as well. We never felt rested until our mother or father shut the door finally at around midnight on the 23rd night of the 12th month. But all was well year after year and we kids got to enjoy the treats the following days.

So as traditions dictate, there is a large offering in my home tonight in Westport, Connecticut on this 23rd day of the 12th month of the year of the Rat. On a special turquoise-blue one-of-a-kind piece of Japanese ceramic dish, there is chocolate (milk and dark) coconut clusters, bananas and glutinous rice cakes for my very own Ong Tao; it is my first offering to him. My sons were at baseball practice this evening when I started the preparations. Upon their arrival home, burning candles surrounding the glorious plate of treats ushered them back to my childhood. As I tried to explain Ong Tao to them and observed their bewildered faces, I am soothed by the knowledge that I am passing down something meaningful and sacred to my children. Hopefully, they will then in future years to come, instinctively learn to set a plate of sweets for their very own kitchen God.

Come Back To Me~

Reaching far back in the channels of my mind, the first time I was ever asked what I wanted to be when I grow up took place probably around the age of five. I was in my first year at the Couvent des Oiseaux -Regina Mundi (Convent of the Birds - Queen of the World) in Saigon, a second-to-none private French school for young ladies from K-12.
I had the lead role of the Virgin Mary in one of the pageants that was put on towards the end of my time at the school in 1975, before we fled Saigon. I remember my mother finding the perfect sky blue fabric to sew my dress; some more beautiful gauzy material in the same color for the little veil that went over my head under a crown that was to be made from tiny white flowers. On the day of the pageant, the sun was merciless. As hot and itchy as I was, I remained calmed and patient in my regal gown and played my role proudly. Those memories are very clear and I hold on to them dearly.

Regina Mundi consisted of a few buildings united by a white gravel courtyard. A chapel and various mature plant life and trees dotted its landscape. I wonder what the property looks like now; the school closed the same time my life ended in Viet Nam, classrooms turned into quarters for the communist soldiers and their Generals....weeds overtook every few stones in the once manicured yard where I spent all my recess hours. I have a large scar on both of my knees from a fall during one of those carefree lunches; I was running quite fast aimlessly..chased by another student. I lost my footing and fell hard on the gravel; one of the nuns carried me to the office and cleaned my wounds. My mother, upon hearing the news and seeing my knees at pick-up that afternoon, closed her eyes and shook her head. I was fed a heaping hot bowl of my favorite PHO noodle soup that evening.

Who was it that asked me what I wanted to be? I think it was chu Le (chu is the official term that means uncle, your father's brother. "Cau" is how you would address your mother's brother. Isn't that simple? However, Vietnamese people also use those two terms to politely and formally address an older male friend of the family) In the case of Chu Le, he was not an uncle but rather, a very dear friend of my parents and I adored him. I am positive that I looked him in the eye and said that I wanted to open an ice cream store...testing different flavors every hour to make sure it was as yummy as possible.

Ice cream was cold and sweet and also a very expensive treat in Viet Nam. Our more popular sweets are usually made from sweetened beans, glutinous rice in many forms, coconut milk and preserved fruits. Ice cream requires dairy cream and we Vietnamese have very little cattle stock. Water buffaloes are the more common types - bred for their high drought tolerance, disease resistance and rapid rate of growth...they yield very low milk.

I was fortunate to be able to have ice cream once a week (although, now, I don't know if that was necessarily a good thing having all that milk fat in my body...sometimes the luxuries that you are allowed aren't great in the end! Hmmm..a lesson to be learned)The peach flambe desserts that I used to end all of my La Cave meals with always had a generous mound of richly-churned vanilla ice cream underneath the ripe fruit.

I supposed my mother knew better than to let me have ice cream everyday like I wanted..instead, I was offered amazing freshly made plain sour yogurt with drizzles of honey or brown sugar. The love for that taste stayed with me throughout my life. Freshly made yogurt is filled with countless numbers of beneficial bacteria, helps with digestion and kills harmful viruses. Various French Patissieres in Saigon made yogurt in small batches every morning. The yogurt then was poured to ferment in glass jars and laid in the display cases next to the croissants and the beignets. Fresh yogurt is always eaten at room temperature. That is where the difference comes in between store bought yogurt, which has been through the pasteurization process and leaves very little or no live bacteria, and fresh yogurt which contains live active cultures.

My mother couldn't have possibly known at the time, but by allowing me the wonderful yogurt treats, she was putting healthy live bacterias back into my body which was-living in a third world country-totally overdosed on antibiotics; depleted of lactic flora. I have a straight yellowish line that goes across the section of my teeth along the gum line from being given too much antibiotics as a child. I am sure the yogurt has helped me tremendously to rebuild a proper immune system.

Can you imagine to my surprise when in 1976, on the upper west side of Manhattan..displaced thousands of miles from Saigon...walking home from school, I spied a sign that glowed DANNON FROZEN YOGURT? What was that? Frozen yogurt? The goodness of ice cream but yogurt? Yes...yes it was.. A soft-served scoop of the frozen yogurt confirmed that it was yogurt..only frozen! From that day on it became an addiction for my brother, sister and me. Time went by and suddenly, frozen yogurt was no longer sour...frozen yogurt became soft-served ice cream with less fat. What was going on here?

The understanding that came to me was that the general American public wasn't ready for real sour frozen yogurt...that somehow, it didn't sit well..so the original frozen yogurt caved in and added lots of sugar sometime in the early 80s; quick researching confirmed my suspicion. Real sour frozen yogurt was nowhere to be found. Once in a blue moon, a rare health food store or restaurant stood their grounds and served the wonderful yogurt, but it was not common. Not until now, that is...sour frozen yogurt is showing a resurgence and making its comeback big time!!!!

Months ago, on one of our treks into New York City from Westport, a little tidy cute storefront caught my eye as my husband weaved our minivan across town. Minty green walls and bright modern light fixtures; little tables and clear acrylic chairs.. simple minty green lettering with a swirly strawberry-like graphic spelled out Pinkberry across its glass facade and doors...What was it? There was also a line to the street. I had thought it was some sort of hip new cafe but the name came up while I was with some friends rediscovering what for them was a new find. That commodity was real sour frozen yogurt and we three gals ordered up three large ones at a Lord & Taylor's cafe in Stamford, Connecticut. We vowed then and there that Pinkberry would be our next destination.

I can't wait to try Pinkberry's real frozen yogurt which is the only kind of its sort that uses real fermented milk. Sour, tangy and creamy...if only I knew back then what I know now, I would have said I want to grow up and open a Pinkberry franchise store in Westport, Connecticut when chu Le asked me that question!

A simple quest for a childhood love can awaken many senses. The power of taste evokes more than a longing, it satiates the mind and the soul...life is wonderful again!

Independence Day

I had no idea what Independence Day even stood for the first time we celebrated the holiday in 1975. My whole family were invited to the Ross'(The Ross family sponsored us out of Fort Chaffee and relocated us to Washington, Pennsylvania) farm for a great barbeque. We were so excited the morning of the party; my parents-nervous and thrilled at the same time. Early that afternoon, when the van came to collect us, we piled up and marched onto the vehicle high in anticipation and trepidation.

The Ross Family and their extended family greeted us with warmth and amusement when we arrived; the party began. Us kids were properly suited up and were allowed to ride with assistance on their many ponies; we ran around and around chased by little American children and played a game we later found out called pin the tail on the donkey. There were an abundance of new and delicious food. By the end of the evening hours and hours later, we parted after numerous bows, thank yous, and hand shakes - forever grateful and appreciative of our experience.

Although the meaning of Independence Day was unclear at the time, we were freed in our heart and in our spirits as the van with its very hospitable driver took the same road back to our home. The power of friendship and generosity that evening was enough to light up the sky along with the fireworks. Happy Independence Day!!!! May you never take your freedom for granted.

I Can Now Smell The Roses!

It wasn't until a few days ago that I was finally able to smell the Westerland roses that we grow near our kitchen entry. During the first few weeks of June, the apricot colored floribunda Westerland roses blossom profusely scenting the hot late spring air with its strong spicy fragrant.

Years ago, we spotted these climbers in a special gardening catalogue and decided that we must have them. My husband planted the rose bush by the large windows of our weekend house in northeastern Pennsylvania. We sold the house right before our first child was born but knew that whenever and wherever we should settle our roots next, we would acquire these magnificent roses again. The Westerland roses repeat bloom throughout the season, but nothing compares to its very first awakening from a brutal cold winter.

As of today, my father would have been hospitalized for two weeks. Fortunately, he is now taken off the critical list after undergoing his quadruple bypass last Tuesday. His recovery, up to date, has been remarkable. He woke up very early in the ICU and soon his tubes and IV were removed; there were no signs of stroke suffered, and my father was quickly returned to his regular room. The healing process, as expected, has been painful but he makes steady progress day by day.

The hours leading to my father being carried away to the surgery room was hell. Although his heart was healthy, he is 77 years old and with that the risks were so high; having high blood sugar and cholesterol didn't help either. Days before the scheduled surgery, throngs of people began to appear. The elder son from Philadelphia and his wife-their three kids; another son from southern New Jersey and his family, tons of daughters and their perspective husbands and boyfriends - I never knew who I was going to be running into.

The day my father's cardio-echogram showed blockages in his arteries and valve, we knew he should go for the surgery. Then there was no question that we had to find the very best cardiothoracic surgeon available in New York City (or the world)
My father's pending surgery was major news; fear, anxiety and chaos soon followed.
Everyone involved thought they knew what was best;everyone wanted to show my father that they cared- I just prayed to God everyday that he would make it through the surgery so that our relationship will have a chance to head in a better direction.

I now forget when I wrote the above and saved it as a draft; there hasn't been a free moment since Memorial Day weekend when my father was first hospitalized. As of today (June 25th) my father has been back home about nine days, my kids already out of school and started summer day camps, my back is killing me, my house a pigsty due to neglect over the past month, and take-out has been more the norm around here - I am ready for my father to be healthier and really back on his feet.

The recovery after bypass surgery though, is long and painful. Even more so for my father who is used to being actively working and barking orders...not take them from the slew of people hanging around him these days and his cardiac nurse whom we have hired to care for him everyday from seven to seven. On top of that, he is now in need of twice daily insulin shots, constant monitoring of his blood sugar level, blood pressure, and the amount of oxygen that is being taken into his lungs. My sister M, had totally turned our father's bedroom at home into a very comfortable hospital room away from hospital complete with wall charts, hi-tech medical gadgets, and tons of prunes (after all, he is 77!)

Throughout all of this, we have come out much stronger ourselves. Our sickness (estrangement from our father) have slowly evaporated and gone out the window. For the first time in our lives, our father was the weak one, the one who needed our help to see things through; our last four weeks have been very cathartic..emotionally purifying...FREED from whatever clouds that have hung over us in the past three decades.

I don't know how much my father will change after this experience (I joke and say to people that, after all, he didn't have a brain transplant)..but physically and spiritually, his heart had been touched and I can only hope that he will use this second chance that he has been given to take better care of himself and learn to enjoy this life that he has worked so hard all of these years for.

It is all up to my father now; how he will recover, what type of change he will make to his lifestyle, the path that he will choose for the rest of his life that has now been slightly extended...Come what may.. I am so happy that my prayers have been answered - I got my father back!

Dear Father,

A letter I wrote to my father on my way to see him in the hospital today (now translated to English, of course..) I have so many things to tell him, but the words just don't come out when I am with him~


Dear Father,

The Americans have a very intuitive saying~ The Crossroads of Life ~
A crossroad is the meeting point where many roads meet; we don't know beforehand which is the road to be taken -which road will lead us to our destination. However, with faith in God and courage, we will set out on the road that is meant for us, that we will do our best come what may. That is meaning to say we often find our greatest courage to help us face our toughest moments.

Father, you know that I cannot say these things to you, therefore, I am expressing my feelings in this letter and hope that you may find some comfort and understand how I feel.

I believe that before this medical concern with your heart, you have arrived at many crossroads in your life on this earth. And father, every time you have succeeded and defied the odds.

The first time I have ever written to you was in 1998, when the Tischmans tried to harass you in order to purchase the building where we have lived and worked for years. Father, that was another crossroad that you faced with determination and pride, and you are still there happily nine years later.

This sickness is nothing but another challenge. If you have the will and the strength to face it head on, your quality of life will be better and healthier than before. A few days ago, I brought the baby in to see you. She was scared and shied away from you; she doesn't know better because she is so young. I pray that you will get better so that my children can continue to get to know you and understand what kind of person you are and how you have lived; to understand that you are truly one of the most important persons in their lives.

I have told my children so many stories about your adventures. I have written many accounts of your life so that my children will have record of their grandfather when they grow up. We just pray and hope that you will once again conquer this crossroad that you are facing and that my children can hear the many wonderful stories about their grandfather directly from yourself.

Most respectful,

Your daughter


My head was dizzy as I struggled with my poor Vietnamese to get the letter done during the drive in from Westport. By the time my husband found a metered parking space, I was able to stuff the three pages of welled-up emotions into an envelope which I addressed simply "to Father."

Upstairs, on the 14th floor, where it is more private, I gave the letter to my brother to read to my father later. My father had just had a cardiac cathetherization (where a thin tube is inserted into an artery or vein in the arm or leg. From there it can be advanced into the chambers of the heart or into the coronary arteries)done and was feeling weak. My two-year old daughter craddled her head on my husband's shoulder as I stood over my father (once so strong, the grand patriarch of the amazing family that he has amassed) He is cold and shivering, his eyebrows fuzzy and needed tending to. I asked him how he was feeling and he said he was feeling okay; he should be going home soon. Everyone in the room at the time has already been privy to the result of my father's test but could not bring it upon themselves to tell him...knowing that he would definitely go into a panic mode. Moments later, we all parted like the Red Sea for the cardiologist to come in to deliver the news to my father that the results of his test showed that he must undergo a triple bypass open heart surgery.

Coming Home to Meat?

This is an entry that I will dedicate to my father and my brother.

Some months back my brother had mentioned that he would like to contribute a thought to my blog but has not delivered anything since.

Over this Memorial Day weekend, my father, as he was routinely coming home from church (which is three blocks from his home) fell down in the middle of the sidewalk. A couple of good and kind New Yorkers helped him to get up and walked him home.

Did he trip? His legs have been weak these past few months. My father didn't go into details. This is typical of him. Besides being a man of few emotions, he is also the last to admit that he is sick. A half-brother and his wife had to come up from Philadelphia to help my mother nudge him to the hospital bright and early on Sunday morning. Two hours later, the doctors on duty at St. Luke's Roosevelt screened my father for abnormalities with his brain and heart. His blood sugar level was over the roof; his heart weak. The blood sugar level could have accounted for slight dizziness or leg weakness; the heart is another issue. My father was checked into the hospital and as I write up this entry, he will have been there for four days.

This is only the second time my father has been hospitalized since arriving in the United States in 1975. The first time was when I was in the ninth grade. He was in Buffalo, New York to check on one of his properties and somehow swallowed a tiny piece of chicken bone over dinner. A piece of the breast bone was lodged in his throat and he was having difficulties breathing. My father was taken to the hospital and the ENT (ear, nose, throat) specialists had to operate to get the bone fragment out. When my mother and us kids heard the news, we were frantic with worries. We were overly dramatic and imagined all sorts of horrible things happening; possibly death too. However, when the operation was over, and the doctors had succeeded in removing the bone without any damage to my father's throat and vocal chords, a huge joy swept over us. The best thing was that my father had to remain in the hospital for a few days, and then afterwards, recuperate in Buffalo for another week before flying home.

What that meant was that, one..my father was okay..and two...us kids were free to do whatever we wanted to in New York City, and we were thrilled!!! You must know by now that my father is a very strict man; it is his way or the highway. Growing up, as busy as he and my mother were, we could have never made a move without my father knowing. He is strict to the point of tyranny. Us kids were motionless when our father was around; for this reason, we screamed for joy at the fact that he was far away recuperating and we had the apartment to ourselves.

Please don't get me wrong; It isn't that we didn't love or respect him..we just feared him and as we got older, that feeling has stayed with all of us. I still never approach my father with any question other than, "How are you father?"
My father will say things to me, and I would gladly answer, but that is about it. The little person inside never moved beyond the little kid in the apartment.

I am glad my father is the way he is, or was the way he was, for if not, I think I would definitely be another kind of person. I have slowly learned to be more comfortable around my father (although it is still pretty hard to say goodbye to my father with a hug or a kiss)

The first sets of test showed that my father's arteries are weak to bring blood to the heart. Some more tests will be done tomorrow to see if this could be treated by medication. If not, balloon angioplasty (done with a deflated balloon and catheter)might be an option, and at worse, bypass surgery. My head is aching for my father. On one side, this is a blessing in disguise; It is great to find this out before the situation grows worse. But on the other hand, knowing my father, he is probably scared to death at the thought of having to undergo any procedure at all. One thing I am sure of is that his faith in God (he is so deeply religious) will help him through the next couple of trials ahead of him, and hopefully come out much healthier in the end.

I will head into the city to visit my father once again tomorrow. Maybe I will have to write some uplifting words to soothe him; God knows I can't say them to his face.

In the meantime, my brother had text the following long-awaited entry to me which he wrote on the plane coming into New York tonight:

"Two days after I celebrated my 36th birthday, I board my delayed flight to New York City. It's great to come back to the "City" anytime of the year, for any reason. I Love NY! I grew up there; my roots are deep. My family is always the main reason I visit. Always a good time, never a dull moment.. I say! On this visit, however, I will be coming to see my father as he lies on a hospital bed. It's only the second time that I have seen my Father "down". I am not looking forward to any of it but at least I will be by his side.
I will get in late tonight and it will be past the time that I could come visit him so I will hold off until the morning. It used to be that when I come back home, and my dad's out of town or something, I'd have this feeling of "when the cat's away, the mice will play!" It is ironic that when I was growing up and even to this day, my father scares me when he's around. He never physically abused us or anything like that at all but it is just in me that am nervous somewhat when he is around. Now, I find myself scared and sad that he is not there when I get home. It's not the same without him there, I know that now and so my prayers and wishes are for his speedy recovery. I want him to be at his desk looking over the lobby. I want him to ask me, "where are you going?" as I try to slip out unnoticed. I want him to ask me to go buy something for him at the discount store, a bunch of it! And finally, I want to be there at midnight on a Friday with him at the dinner table. Why? Only my family knows stuff like that, let's just say it involves meat!
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

And I ditto every single word you have expressed Joseph. I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

We are born into a life that has been shaped for us by our parents. How they live and love, we either try to mirror or deny. They are, after all, our first role models and for that alone, we must love and cherish them. They are all we've got in this world!

Please Come Back Again....

I am in the process of organizing my thoughts and de-cluttering my mind. This is the most special time of year for my family; as of this month, it has been 32 years since we have been in this country that we now call home.
Although we have accomplished a tremendous amount, there is much to be done. For my part, the road ahead at times seems unclear. I just need these new days of the season to impart a new look into navigating the future.

Long Ago....

Long before there was life, love, and food in my America, there was Ha Tinh, a city in the northern provinces of Central Viet Nam where my father is from.

A very famous song, which is an ode to Ha Tinh, says that no matter where you go, you will always remember and think about Ha Tinh. This is my father's favorite song. He sings it aloud in his northern dialect whenever he is happy or whenever he wants to show us that he is happy.This is the song that I know I would have playing over the loudspeakers at my father's funeral service someday (faraway I hope) as I stand alone and eulogize him. There it is, I have never said this to anyone before. The thought of it makes me so sad and already I feel at loss for more words; depleted of all thoughts.

My father, on record, was born on January 5th, in the year 1930. If this were true, he was born on a Sunday in Ky-Anh, a town in the central provinces connecting the north to the south of Viet Nam. About 200 miles south of Hanoi, Ky-Anh, a district of Nghe Tinh, one of the least attractive places in Viet Nam according to residents that have come and gone. Being born in the central provinces, he was among those called nguoi trung, meaning a central person, compare to let's say a northern person or a southern person. And believe me, there was a huge difference in the people and their provinces those days.

Born in a land where houses were made of mud and thatch, surrounded by barren landscapes and fields unable to grow rice or usable crops, my father's life was hard from the start. His family was poverty stricken. He had an older sister and two older brothers; a younger brother died early of disease and malnourishment- life was bleak. My father never received a single day's worth of formal education growing up; he never once stepped foot in a school. Basically raised by his mother, my father worked various odds and ends jobs to make a living.

"I was a handsome boy though" he has told us kids many times when reminiscing. He also tells me that my oldest son is the spitting image of himself when he was young. This makes me proud for my father is not a man of many words, or of many personal thoughts. Knowing this is very heart-warming to me and I try to convey the feelings to my son; there is so much to tell my children about their grandfather. And NO, mother, nothing bad, only the truth!

Here I am!

My mother knows I have been trying to write about our family; I have been doing it since 1995. Well, mostly about my father and everyone else that revolves around him. A few months ago when I called her up late one night to ask her a question pertaining to him, her voice became all serious, "You're not writing anything bad, are you?"

"No, I'm not. Just the truth!"

She went on to tell me that a few years ago she came across something that I wrote which didn't make my father sound so good. "Just write good stuff!" was all she said before giving the response that I needed, and then she hung up the phone.

It took me a few minutes to get over her funny statements; so typical of her- always standing by her man! I say this with cynicism but in actuality, my mom being the way she is, has taught me so much in regards to my own life (which of course makes it all the more complicated too) Growing up, us kids were never allowed to breathe a single bad word about our father. We were taught by our mother to love and respect him for the man that he is. He was our father, and that was enough to warrant our undying love and loyalty; we would not be where we were had it not been for his hard work, suffering and perseverance.

I have so many stories. Where shall I start? What should I omit and what stories get told? How will it end, and when will it end? When I am sad, certain memories rush back and forth across my mind. When happy, my youth comes bouncing through the years and I feel as though it were yesterday once more.

I am turning 40 this summer. Yep, this is my year. I say it is my lucky SEVENS. July, 17, 1967. And I am going right back to the beginning. I started this blog last summer as a means of disciplining myself to keep writing without the confinement of the BIG story. Think of a thought or a significant event, and go with it...see where it leads me and hopefully bring another chapter to life somewhere. But in between taking care of a household of five including a toddler, and living the life that I am trying to come to grasp with everyday, my thoughts get jammed somewhere between laundry and trying to get in enough sleep (five hours) to function properly. A big part of me knows that time is running out. The story needs to be out there. I want my father to know the story as I see it; I want my children to understand, for they are, in the end, my most important audience. As I sit here tonight, 90% better from the crazy flu-like ailments I dealt with this week, I am determine to get it all down. To tell the story from its beginning (as I know it)and try to come to some sort of ending in the next few months.

Why choose to do it in this genre? This is a huge challenge. At the end of each entry when I push that "publish" button..my story is out there for whoever chooses to see it. In my case mostly friends and family members, but it is still a huge task. Friends have asked me sometimes "how come you haven't written?" This puts much more pressure on me, therefore, I think it is only helpful for me at this stage to keep adding to my entries and to keep writing and sharing any and all stories from the start.

The stories will flow as I see them in their respective order.

The Happiest Day!

My oldest son turned nine yesterday. He was supposed to have been born on St. Patrick's day in 1998 (which would have been great given my Catholic background) but my refusal of epidural and the pressure of trying to wait for natural birth pushed his arrival back an hour and 43 minutes after midnight on March 18. Twenty- three hours of labor pains and mind-numbing contractions eventually led to a caesarean section anyway; I was just happy our first-born was healthy and kicking when he came into the world.

When the nurse handed my son to me, that world of mine stood still. Barely ten minutes out of the womb, my son was alert and his eyes took in the room - staring to the left and right..up and across. I cried and cried and promised to myself then and there, that I am his mother and he is my child and I shall do nothing else but nurture and love him for the rest of my life. Day by day I began to see myself the way my son must surely have seen me...I am neither troubled nor scared, fat nor skinny, unattractive nor demure; I am just beautiful and I am the one he needs. I am his mother, his source, his guide. And the more I saw myself through my baby's eyes, the better a person I became; totally cured of all my insecurities.

They say your children are your greatest achievement in life. Yes, they are. BUT also for me, proving that I am a good mother will be the best achievement of all. Happy birthday to the little baby who made me healthy nine years and a day ago...

Footsteps

Somewhere between Washington, Pennsylvania and New York, New York, a wall was built between my father and me. That wall, with age and time, and dust and wind, stood erect and firm for over 31 years. What happened to that girl who went flying into her father's arms at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas?

Washington was dreary, but I didn't care; I didn't even know it. We were all together again and despite the fear and uncertainties of living in this new country, our little extended family felt reassured that all will be well. Little by little our English improved each day. Day by day, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit.

The house that was rented for us was a temporary solution. The family who owned it was living abroad somewhere in the Netherlands and so the place was left furnished, along with bicycles, toys and closets full of clothing. Merrily we enjoyed ourselves; immersed in the frivolity of the moments. We would live in this house for about three months before moving to another house at the end of the summer of 1975. Before winter arrived that year, we would leave Pennsylvania for good.

I had just turned eight in this house. On the faithful day that marked the rest of my life, the summer sun shone brightly overhead as we three kids and one of our nannies fiddled with the tennis racquets in the backyard. My mother had gone off with a social worker that morning and was due home sometime later in the evening.

I left my brother and sister to seek shade and refuge indoors; a big box of Lego provided the entertainment that I needed. Upstairs and in the little alcove between the bedrooms, I found the perfect place to build. It was then that my father emerged from his room and announced to me that he was going to take a bath. It was hot and a bath would do him good he said and closed the bathroom door behind him.

My father is a bath man. To this very day, as busy as he is, he still soaks in a bath everyday. "It is the only time that I can have for myself, "he says. Back in Vietnam, a beautiful bathroom was built for my father right behind his office. Sparkling white tiles imported from Italy adorned its wall; a special commode and bidet were ordered from Japan, and of course, a very large tub. Bathing is a ritual for my father.

Some moments passed and I don't know why but I felt the urge to look under the slit of the door after my father. I could barely see his feet as he walked back and forth, running the bath water and perhaps placing his clothing on the hook. Across the floor I can clearly see the other door that connects the bathroom to one of the nannies' bedroom. I looked on. Then I froze like a popsicle. The other door just opened and I saw her feet making their way into the bathroom. I knew they were her feet because she was upstairs when I came in. My first thought was one of great alarm - my father forgot to lock that door! I lay as still as death and expected shrieks and screams when she walked in and saw my father. But there was no sound except that of the running bath water and the room filled with steam. There were no more feet. I lifted myself up, collected my Lego, and ran off to my room.

I felt strange and isolated. I felt weak and useless. I felt naughty and bad. Later I realized that the emotions I felt were ones of betrayal. I didn't know what to do. When my mother came home that night, I pulled her aside and told her I wanted to tell her a secret. Would she be able to keep it? I was all flustered and stuttered the words. The next thing I knew, my mother leaped up and out of the room and what entailed could be considered the first act in the drama that stars my family for years to come.

From that day on, I just never saw my father in the same light again. I couldn't even look him in the eye. He would ask a question and I would answer him; my gaze focused on my own two feet. And it would continue this way for many, many years. And although my mother always managed to forgive her husband, I myself, could not get pass what I witnessed that day in Washington. That was the day that my childhood was gone; overnight, that part of me was over with and I knew it.

Slowly I was forced to accept living with others in our lives; my father is just that kind of a man. Of course I didn't know this back then, but my father has always been a cheater. The amazing thing is that my mother still loves him. He is her first love and her last love- very old school, I would say when I'm telling their story. But their story is my story and I am desperately trying to figure out how it will all play out since this is now like 32 years later, and many, many women (not to even mention illegitimate children at this point)What may be culturally acceptable in Viet Nam or wherever else, is most definitely not morally acceptable by any means. Like I said, there are so many questions that I may never find the answers to - like why my father is the way he is? All I know is that he IS my father and I love and revere him deeply. He is far from perfect, but he is still my father, the only one I have in this life, and that will never change.

Slowly parts of that wall have come down. It started the months before I delivered my first child nine years ago; my father made tremendous effort to show my husband and I that he wanted to be a part of our lives. Still, there is much left to be said. And though things can be left unspoken, I am trying everyday to come to terms with my feelings and somehow make leap and bound efforts to let my father know that I love him despite his faults and his betrayals to my mother and us. There are not enough hours in the day, I must do my best to make up for lost time.

Lost and Found

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation"
Kahlil Gibran


I lost my mother once in Times Square. It was our first week in New York City and we were underground waiting for the number 1 train. Thank goodness we were accompanied by a long time resident and friend who was with us to help scout a new business for my parents. As we stood among the throngs of people on the platform, a train arrived on the track. My mother, who was standing close to the door, was pushed inside as people made their entrance and exit. I recall the look of fear and dismay on her face as the door closed and she was pulled away. I looked up at our friend and the tears welled up in my eyes; how were we ever going to find her?

Soon another train made its way to the track and Mr. Nhan assured me that if we took this train and got off at the next stop, my mother would be there waiting for us. I didn't know anything else do to except grab hold of his hand and followed him onto the train. Sure enough, when we arrived at the next stop, we were reunited with my mother. I was so relieved that she had the good instinct to just jump off at the next station hoping we would have a better chance to find her that way.

It is such a gift that my parents are still vibrant busy people. My father just turned 77 in January and my mother will be a legal senior come December (she is actually proud of this fact since she still looks great and no one will believe how old she is when she tells them)However, as dynamic as they are, the wear and tear of aging is creeping up on them. I see this and I am scared to death.

My father's colds, which used to go away with a curse or some hot soup, linger a little longer these days - wearing him out and taking a lot of his strength as he fights to regain his health. He still goes to the pool to swim laps each day, but his gait is a little limper and he requires some assistance getting out and into his car. I know this and I am worried.

At least his grumpiness and shrewdness is still there; he is on top of his game and is at his desk working every morning. His vocal chords are still strong enough to send a chilling message to a slacking staffer; his eyes still keen and watchful. AND he is still making daily visits to his mistress. I know all this and somehow, as imperfect as it may be, I feel a little relieved that he is still that man; that he still has that something in him. That being hopefully, aging and sickness will be kept at bay!

My mother too. She prays that she doesn't have Alzheimer; twice this week she has left a pot of food to burn on the stove. Black smoke billowing out from under my parent's door and into the hallway; my mother in a taxicab happily rolling down Seventh avenue on her way to Jack's 99cents store to retrieve a shopping bag that she said the cashier failed to hand her the day before. "I can't believe they have it," she called to tell me from her cell phone, not realizing that at the same time, my father was going crazy at home letting all the smoke out their kitchen window. What am I going to do with them? More sadly, what am I going to do without them?

There is nothing perfect about this imperfect world that we live in. Yet, we can still live a beautiful life if we learn to accept things and people for what they are. The older I become, the clearer I am able to see. The roads that I have traveled to get here today could not have been treaded had my life or the people in it been any different; I am so appreciative of my experiences. There are still many questions that I may never have the answers to, yet I am learning to deal with them everyday.

So much has been lost in my youth when I think back on what could have been. However, what I have found is a certain solitude and a strong confidence of a sure and secure future for myself and my family. The love between my siblings and me; between my parents and us children; between me and my own family ~ serve as the foundation to withstand all hardship. In the end, the love you feel and the love you share is all you've got; and that, will never ever die!

Welcome Back!

There is something special about returning to a place of familiarity ~ your hometown after a long absence, a favorite restaurant, or a vacation spot that you have been to time and time again ~that feeling of welcome; that recognizable air; the ease of just being there and knowing that good things will soon follow.

To our surprise, my younger brother moved to Texas almost five years ago. Before that he had just returned to live in New York City with his family from Lexington, Kentucky. My sisters and I were so thrilled to have him near us again...just like old times. However, he only lasted about two years before he picked up and left; he wanted to find himself and was looking for a place to carve out a comfortable living for his family of four. This is not to say that he was no longer in love with New York...he just had to leave her for a while. "I'll be back when Jessica enters college, " he promised (Jessica will hopefully apply to NYU in two years and then my brother will be a New Yorker again.)But like the old saying, once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker...my brother is exhilarated every time he comes back up here for a visit. The minute he lands at any of the three tri-state area airports; the moment the New York skyline comes into view from whichever direction he happened to be - the Queens Midtown tunnel; the Lincoln Tunnel approach in Jersey City...anywhere. He takes in a deep breath and sighs happily at the thought of HOME AT LAST!

Take for instance also Chao Chow, our Chinatown noodle joint, and me. I was the first one in my family to have set foot in there back in 1983 when I was 16 years old. The cousin of the guy that I was supposedly promised to had come from Staten Island to meet my family and me. His family wanted to take me to dinner to get to know me better and that was how I discovered Chao Chow. Located at 111 Mott Street, the restaurant was very casual and nondescript. It was a little late in the evening when we got there and so the restaurant was practically empty. His family did the ordering as I waited with doubt and hesitation for the food to arrive. Piping hot bowls of egg noodle soups with amazing wontons, special soy sauce roasted duck, and a huge flounder that had been poached to perfection under a mound of scallion and ginger made their way to our tiny table. we ate with joy and appreciation, elbowing at each other to get at the delicious morsels of food, not realizing that while huddled up in the steamy little restaurant, a fast friendship was being carved and the foundation for love of Chao Chow was laid out. I have been a regular ever since and have brought practically everyone I know to dine there when we were living in the City.

After we were married at City Hall on February 23, 1988, my two girlfriends who witnessed our marriage and my husband and me scurried over to Chao Chow for lunch. We would eat there maybe three times a week before we had kids; ate there before giving birth to each of our three babies, and since have taken our kids there to eat whenever we happened to be in the area and wanted the best noodle soups. The headwaiter who took my order 24 years ago still stands in charge now...it is always like coming home when we walk in and he calls out each of my children's name and welcomes us to an available table.

Our boys were on winter break this week. At the last minute, I booked three nights for our family at the Skytop Lodge in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Our friend loves it and has been going with her family for years. As our car made its way up the winding road and approached the large stone structure that is the main lodge, our eyes lit and marveled at its sight. It was chilly; the doormen were sporting long thick green overcoats, escorting people and luggage out of and into vehicles with confidence and agility- it was like a scene from bygone days.

There we stayed and played and skied and sledded and tobogganed and dined and swam and hiked and laughed and shuttled back and forth, all the while wishing we didn't have to leave and knowing we will come back to do the same things over and over again with our kids. On the afternoon of our departure, big fluffy snowflakes fell all around us giving a beautiful white coat to the scenery, adding to the charm as we sipped our final tea there in the Pine Room. The doorman waved goodbye and said please come back.

There are some places that we have returned to year after year and season after season. It is difficult to explain how we connect with a place in our heart, but there is definitely an unspoken beauty and truth that beckon us to feel the way we
do- an inseparable intimacy, a hand in glove sort of sentiment. From Texas to New York, Japan to Westport, or Maui to Pennsylvania and Maine....Vietnam and back...it is that feeling of belonging, warmth, and comfort that welcomes us back each time and make us feel as though we are whole again and just happy to BE!

Knock On Wood!

As I have said before, the Vietnamese are a superstitious bunch! As a matter of fact, a very high percentage of superstition rules most of everyone's lives in Vietnam. I don't know if this is due to the fact that Vietnam was a country that was isolated for most of its history; or there is just not enough knowledge and education ~ superstitions are handed down from generation to generation.

I have been thinking about this because my oldest son, who is in the third grade, will start to learn how to use the recorder. A note came home from school asking parents to send in six dollars for one, or 12 dollars for two if we wanted to keep one at home for the kids to practice with. I was filled with excitement for him because I remember coming home from PS 81 when I was a fourth grader with my very own recorder. I was ecstatic and promised myself I would do my best to play it well. That afternoon, I took the recorder out of my book bag and placed it on the sofa next to me. On our glass-topped coffee table, I neatly laid the music sheet; I was ready to practice. Smiling, I brought the recorder to my mouth and blew ever so lightly. The next thing I knew, my mother dashed into the living room like a mad woman, froth at her mouth, screaming "STOP IT!!!!!!"

What are you doing? she asked, her eyes bulging; put that away..are you calling the snakes??????
She scared me so badly that I started to cry.Put it away! Put it away!!!
And that was it.

I know that there is not a single person who totally disregards superstitions ~

Did you know that the reason we cover our mouths when yawning is so that evil spirits can't enter our bodies?

Or some of the reason we say "God bless you!"when someone sneezes are that the soul escapes the body...or our hearts skip a beat when we sneeze and we want to thank God for allowing it to beat again??

and knocking on wood is supposed to keep evil spirits that live in wood from coming out as so not to spoil our good fortune??

Friday the 13th; don't walk under a ladder; don't step on a crack in the road; don't break a mirror or you'll get seven years of bad luck...we all have our superstitions..but the Vietnamese are over the top in their beliefs. That is just the way they are..and even me..to some extent.

Maybe I wouldn't use the term "superstitious"..but I do believe in the yin and yangs of life..I believe in feeling a rapport for certain people..I believe in a human being's intuitive capabilities..i believe in feng shui(by now, I'm sure you all know that it is a 5000 plus years old system where it is believed that a string of bad luck or suddenly declining health can be directly attributed to a person's environment)...well..that is supersition isn't it??

As I get older and finding myself totally immersed in Western culture, I now feel very connected to my Asian spirit when it comes to these venues. I have always relied and trusted my vibes..allowing the waves to influence my decisions; even more so now that I am mature.

The Vietnamese have so many beliefs~

Never give an empty wallet for it will bring misfortune...

Never give knives as presents for they will sever your friendship ( I always have to give my mother a dollar every time she has brought me a cleaver)...

When you are pregnant, never ever wear a necklace..you will suffocate the fetus..
Turn away from ugly things for you may bear an ugly child (i thought this one was hilarious..yet I have tried to adhere to it)...

If you sneeze that means someone is speaking well of you...

Never sleep with your feet facing the door..that means you are inviting death (meaning it will be easy to carry you out of the room)...

There are countless more..I shall have to consult with my mother...but perhaps the most interesting ones for me have to do with Asian wedding superstitions and customs..

Vietnamese wedding customs are elaborate and very much respected by both old and young generations. I don't have too many photographs of my childhood in Vietnam, but one of the ones I have are of me sitting between my mother and my father with the groom and bridegroom standing behind us (most of our precious valuables were stolen at sea the first time we tried to flee the country..I didn't know it then..but the Singaporean authorities boarded our private ship and took all of our trunks that my mother had laboriously packed before we left Saigon..the second time, when we left for good..there was simply no chance to take anything with us. We have only a handful of photos that certain family members were able to hold on to through the end of the war years. I wholly believe that this is what contributed to my parents' utilitarian attitude and outlook that they live with these days - they are totally non-materialistic..they don't even have a sofa in their apartment..but I will elaborate more on this later.) The expression on my face was one of camera-shy and pride, as if I were in Camelot or somewhere on that afternoon or evening of the wedding; my life was probably very close to perfect...

What did I envision for my own wedding?

In Vietnam, weddings are the most memorable and unforgettable celebrations of your life..for better or for worse, they are once in a lifetime. Traditionally, and depending on your status, there is a long period of courtship. If your family was in good standing in the community, say your father was a politician or a doctor or someone well-educated, your marriage most likely would have been already pre-arranged to a family of similar stature since the time of your youth. As you grew and continue to follow the course of your life (as planned)..you will eventually become formally introduced and engaged. So many little ceremonious activities throughout the whole courtship but that was how things were done.

My parents were not promised to each other. My father was 30 years old when he arrived in Saigon from North Vietnam and my mother was about to turn 19. The previous summer she had won the title of Miss Saigon and her mother and brothers and sisters were doing their best to shelter her from any male amorous pursuits. I don't even know how to tell this story from the beginning (because it would take at least a million words and i am not able to produce them all right now)..but my father saw my mother through the window of her older sister's tailor shop and was totally captivated..and that was it. From that moment on, their lives were never the same again and not a single member of my mother's family was happy about it. Who was this tall, curly-haired man? (some people have often mistaken my father for Indian because of his wavy hair and his tall height; his eyes extremely large and almond-shaped) Anyway, my father was basically a nobody at the time and that was not what my mother's family had wanted for her. Needless to say they fell desperately in love and eventually eloped despite my mother's family practically taking her away and hiding her in the countryside at their summer home in Binh Duong; their wedding was never officially accepted!

In our family, history repeats itself time and time again; was it a curse that doomed us when my parents broke all the rules in 1960 and eloped? I would have to superstitiously say yes to that!!!!

A Vietnamese bride wears red on her wedding day for red is the symbolic color of love and passion. We never wear white...which is the color of mourning in our country. White headbands or barrettes are never allowed to be worn except by those who have a death in their family. Before the wedding takes place, the groom, along with his family, serves tea to the bride's family. If it is accepted graciously, the ceremony and wedding will proceed. At the wedding the groom wears a black ao dai (our traditional tunic) to differentiate himself from the other men. He can later change into a silky blue or gold tunic as the wedding party progresses. Lots and lots of food are served at the wedding and liquor pours freely - this makes everyone happy and the day will not be forgotten by all. There are egg rolls, some type of steamed fish, and definitely the prerequisite roast baby pig; its skin all puffed and crispy, its body adorned with snowy white steam buns and sweet fruits. Then there is the traditional music and dancing til the wee hours of the morning (which I guess is typical of any wedding customs)

I basically grew up in America and was not envisioning that sort of wedding although I knew I would probably have to have it as well as my american dream wedding. I dreamed of a long white gown and an elaborate train; little cute children throwing flower petals as I walk up the aisle of a packed St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. I imagined dancing all night to a famous band's music at Tavern on the Green or Windows on the World (jeez..can't believe it no longer exists...) Most importantly, I dreamed of my dream man. He is kind and humble, fun and loving..giving in to all my needs and wants, the perfect father for our children. The wedding as I wished would have happened if I had married the man that my father has chosen for me since the age of 15...but I didn't and that spectacular wedding never occured. What actually happened was that I DID meet the man of my dreams and we were married on a cold February day in a courtroom in City Hall; my two best girlfriends at the time in attendance. I was 20 years old - the same age as my mother the year she eloped with my father...We didn't even have wedding bands; we exchanged the rings we already had on - I gave my husband his ring, and he gave me mine's.

Weddings can be celebrated in endless, special ways. It is the marriage itself that is sacred and holy, one of the most important celebration and union in one's life- the bond and promise that two people make and cherish with one another; lives intertwined forever. And knock on wood but it will almost be 20 years since that faithful day.

Scent To Me

Long ago, when I was a child, I never thought about the soaps that my mother used, or the fragrance that she wore; my mother always smelled good, and safe, and pure...and that was it!
To succumb to her embrace and hugs and kisses was all that I ever wanted.

My mother smelled clean and musky; fresh and happy all at once. To hear her voice chatting away to our cook in the kitchen upon returning home from Regina Mundi (a private school for girls that educated me formally in kindergarten and first grade) was security that there would be something good to nibble on after changing out of my school uniform. There could have been coconut curry noodles steaming from a pot on the stove, or sweet banana and tapioca pudding drenched in cream; waiting to be scooped and eaten. Sometimes, there was just hot rice and french butter with squirts of Maggi (a really yummy soy sauce out of Switzerland way back when~it is still made today by Nestle, i think..and it is delicious on almost everything)
If I was really lucky, my grandmother would be there too and the whole kitchen hustled and bustled with the sounds of an open market.

The whole family gets involved in the cooking process in Vietnam. One member would be in charge of the soaking of sweet rice or mung beans; another the task of peeling and deveining shrimps (which are plenty in Vietnam) another braising, stewing or caramelizing chicken or pork....there is always a cooking chore growing up Vietnamese and I was more than happy to take the whole scene in. Our kitchen was a happy place that always produced memorable meals and endless conversations; it was there that we spent most of our days. It is there that my memory becomes vivid; there where I can recall most of my past; there that inspires me to re-live with my own family now.

My mother, who prides herself in the domestic arts, was and is an excellent cook (but you already knew that from my other entries, right?) Back then, she had the tiniest waist, and the most delicate hands; she could do almost anything and everything...and of course, I worshipped her. Although each of us three kids had our own room, we always gathered and slept on a big bed in my mother's room; and she welcomed us each and every night ~ hypnotizing us to sleep with her melancholic songs and her 1001 Arabian Nights stories. I could not have imagined a better childhood (or a better first childhood, i should say)

After arriving in the United States, things changed overnight. We no longer had my grandmother, or any other family members around us. We no longer acted as though we were floating by life on a fluffy cloud; things just changed and they changed drastically. Childhood wasn't as pure and innocent as it could have been; we were just too busy trying to adjust to our new lives that everything else got lost in the shuffle. Yes, there was still sibbling fun and naughtiness, but in trying to get used to our new status of "immigrants in America," we had to grow up quickly in order to fend for ourselves. We had to learn a new language to survive, make new and foreign friends, and take care of each other~for all the nannies and cooks and drivers were no longer around. And because my parents had to do the same (and i'm sure it was so much harder for them) time that would have normally been indulged on us went to gaining new survival skills.

Yet, it is a part of my childhood, and I know I would not have wanted it any other way for the lessons that I have learned would not have come to me if we hadn't been uprooted from our homes. Ultimately, in the end, it is family that is important, and that could be in any country at anytime..as long as we are together.

I think I was in the fifth grade when I discovered my mother's scent. She and I were strolling around Woolworth's on the upper west side of New York City by our home, when my mother paused at the soap section and picked up a brown-packaged bar of soap from a gift basket. My mother brought it to her nose and said, "they have it!" She was puzzled and excited. She couldn't believe that she found her fragranced soap; the one she used everyday of her life in Saigon. I really didn't think of anything other then she found the same soap that she used to use..I was only 10 and not old enough to make the correlation until recent years..but that was the scent of my mother, the air that I breathed. After all these years, my mother found her sandalwood scented soap again. ***Living in America has changed my mother, she said, she eventually switched to Irish Spring. "Much fresher" she declared!!***

I haven't thought about this story in years. It is only recently with my own scent and self-discoveries that my mind jogged back to the sandalwood soap. Being female and indecisive and particular, I have experimented with many fragrances in my life. There was Paris by Yves Saint Laurent, Paloma by Paloma Picasso, Chanel No.19...and the tried and true Chanel Cristalle which has been my faithful companion for many years. I have read that a woman should have just that one true fragrance~so that she may leave her mark behind. And so, it was a couple of weeks before Christmas, when I was perusing the fun Anthropologie store in Westport for some bathroom cabinet knobs for my kids, that a little fragrant bottle caught my eye. I glanced at the name very quickly and picked it up and pulsed a spray to my coat sleeve and walked away. I found my little green crystal knobs and left the store. On my way home, I kept bringing my sleeve up to my nose and inhaling the intricate smell. I really liked it a lot and that was it.

A couple of nights later, my husband and I left the kids with our friend Catherine, and went across the street to our neighbors'holiday kick-off party. I got dressed and before leaving spritzed some Chanel Cristalle on my hair and neck. Throughout the night, the fragrance that has charmed me wasn't that inspiring somehow. In the midst of the throngs of people at the party, I stood to the side and thought of the little bottle at Anthropologie; thinking that I must go back and smell it again; I must get it!

The only thing that I was able to conclude was that I was changing; evolving into a slightly different person with different needs and wants (i know it sounds dramatic..but to me it was very clear and logical) When I got back to the store, the displays had just changed and the fragrance wasn't in its spot. I looked around and didn't see it anywhere. A very knowledgeable salesgirl tried to help me find it. After sniffing all the fragrances and not coming up with the right one, she asked me if I may have meant Voluspa, which was a home fragrance. I said, I didn't think so. She went off and brought back a very familiar looking bottle (the one that called out to me days before) called Voluspa Champaca Bloom and Fern..a room fragrance!!!! I sprayed it to my coat sleeve again and realized that I had definitely changed~ I became an aroma room spray person! The two of us laughed together and I went off with my new fragrance to pay for it. Leaving the store I was full of energy and excitement. Living with Voluspa for the next few weeks or months will determine if this is what I will succumb to. So far, I love it! I have been spraying it on my clothing and coats rather than directly on my skin; the fragrance still intoxicating ~evoking many moods and feelings.

Special memories, like special scents, stay with us somewhere in the midst of our emotions - awaiting their release and recall. There is room within us for so much; our capacity for love and longing, learning and yearning. I am truly blessed to be where I am today and cannot imagine my life in any other place besides here and now. 2007 here I come!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wishes!

Tis the season to find peace! To laugh with friends and to meditate on the closing of the year. To look back and see how far we have come, how much we've done, and how many special moments we have had to cherish over the year. To set sight on new goals and finding time to laugh more over the little things. To do as you have promised, to make yourself and others around you more happy and positive. Tis the season!!!!! Wishing you every happiness, every second of the day... Wishing you peace and comfort and warmth and kindness... Wishing you forgiveness and humility... Wishing you green grass and blue skies, raindrops on your head and a beautiful rainbow afterwards.... Wishing you more beautiful people coming through your life, enriching you with pure friendship... Wishing you bright lights at the end of the tunnel.... Wishing you absolutely the very best... Wishing you great joy and endless laughter...May you always be surrounded by those you love, enveloped in their arms, basking in their warmth.....Wishing you these and so much more!!!!!!!

The Long Journey Home

" Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! " Henry David Thoreau

When we finally arrived at the Fort Chaffee Relocation Center at Fort Smith, Arkansas in the late spring of 1975, we had no idea how much our lives will change and how difficult it will be to go home again.

The Vietnamese are a dramatic and melancholic bunch; needless to say to be uprooted from their homes and families and transplanted to a whole new country because of war, they were very sad. Sad to leave their lives behind, and very apprehensive of their future in America.

Over 140,000 Vietnamese fled South Vietnam after April 30, 1975; they were either air-lifted or transported by US military cargo ships to Guam, Thailand, Wake Island, Hawaii, or the Phillipines. My mother, sister, brother, nanny and me were whisked away on one of the ships and were deported to Guam where we spent a couple of days recuperating from the shock of being torn away from our homeland and our families-awaiting our flight to Hawaii and then to the continental United States.

There was no time for thoughts or regrets; no time to think of what lay ahead. We floated miserably at sea for days with neither the feeling of relief to be heading to America, nor dread. Hundreds, thousands of civilians lined the decks, ship quarters and berths of our ship; we stayed huddled in our little corner praying. My mother probably prayed that we'd be reunited with our father; the nanny probably prayed that she would be able to stay by our side, and I prayed for air-conditioning. I cried and cried with complaints of being too hot. My sister and brother, who were four and three respectively at the time, just held on to each of my mother's ankle and wept themselves to sleep. At least we were together, I remember thinking!

The flight to Honolulu was arranged quick enough and soon we were on our way. From there, we were documented and put on another flight to Arkansas (or At-khan-sat as we vietnamese pronounced it then) I just remember having a really bad time with motion sickness on the plane; throwing up violently as we landed.

We descended the plane to a scorching hot Arkansas sun (which the vietnamese don't actually mind given our own climate)..the ground dried and cracked like the surface of just-baked brownies. We were neither excited nor scared; just feeling very blank and slumpy with the weight of the world on our shoulders. I stared up into the sky squinting and frowning, and that is all I remembered of the day we first arrived in the United States over 31 years ago.

I would like to go back there one day because it was a very significant turning point in all of our lives. It was there that we were admitted and processed. Under the Indochina Migration and refugee Act of 1975, the Ford administration happily approved domestic resettlement assistance for those who fled Cambodia or Vietnam (I read later on that it wasn't so popular with some 62% of Americans who feared the new wave of immigrants into their country) It was there that we were given medical exams, finger-printed by the INS, and issued social security cards; alien registration cards soon followed. Most of the adults were given english proficiency tests and tested for job skills. Then we were interviewed with translators for our compatibility in order for a sponsor to be matched (since you couldn't leave the camp without a sponsor) It was a sponsor's moral responsibility to help find lodging and jobs for a Vietnamese family in their community; help the assimilation process, and introduce us into the way of life that we would soon lead.

Looking back, it must have been very well-organized on the part of all the agencies that were dispatched to the four relocation centers to help with the flood of people that seemed to have arrived overnight. Although we all bunked together in large dormitories or huts and makeshift tents, we never felt neglected or hungry. The cafeteria semed to be opened all the time; the food, although foreign, was delicious, hot and plenty. The chicken noodle soup was so hot that when we were on line to fetch our lunch, the nanny dropped a ladle full of soup onto my sister's arm and burned her pretty badly; her skin shriveled and peeled on contact. She screamed and screamed the most awful wail and was immediately taken to the nurses' station to be treated and bandaged. To this day, there is still a faint shadow on my sister's left arm with the reminder of that day centuries ago.

It was also at Fort Chaffee that I contracted lice for the first time in my life. Our mother had kept us very well-protected and lice-free in Saigon; something she couldn't do in this new country. Good thing she knew just exactly how to approach it. She went to each of us kids and took out every single nit and lice with her bare hands; dividing and sectioning our hairs; pulling and snapping; taking care of our little visitors under the flourescent light in our dorm room. This is a memory that stayed with me; my mom nit-picking for the first time in America!

We were there less than a week before I spotted my father as we were heading back to our dorm. He was just standing there looking at us. It was as simple as that! I ran to him with my mother on my tail. My parents didn't have a thing to say to each other. They just stood there for the longest time in disbelief; with over a hundred thousand people dispatched to camps in California, Indianna, Florida, and Arkansas, my father was just standing there looking at us!

My father had so many last minute details to cover and close before he was able to flee Saigon. Although he was a very important person, war had reduced him to merely another civilian. He did, however, used his connections with the US Governement to be among one tof the last few people air-lifted off the roof of the American Embassy two days after the fall of Saigon; taking with him two female staffers who managed to escape with him. After he arrived in the Phillipines, he was able to cut through all of the red tapes and had us located; he was on the next flight to Arkansas.

You can never go home again. Home as you know it, or as we knew it, seemed surreal and from a very distant past. Six hundred and fifty thousand Cubans fled after Castro took over in 1959 and relocated to the Miami area, and in 1956, 38,000 Hungarians immigrated to the United States after the Hungarian revolution. The Vietnamese were just another statistic for the Department of Immigration. My father loves America! "America was the only country who opened their arms..Singapore didn't let us in, France wasn't so happy, nobody wanted us!" He is a very grateful American.

My father has no desire to return to the land where he was born and raised. "Too dangerous for me!" he would say. My mother always ditto everything he says and would never even want to think of us kids going back there. Their lives are here now, as disconnected and eccentric as they are, they have embraced everything that has been offered to them in this new country they have called home since 1975. Home is New York City; home is Times Square; home is where they have worked hard for 24/7 for the last three decades.

I would like to return to Vietnam in six or seven years..when our children will be a bit older and can understand better what it means to have to pick up and leave for political reasons; how to appreciate the freedom that is their birth-right; and how to value life for all its worth; how not to take anything for granted, and how to always do the best that they can in any given situation.

Someday, I will take my own family to the place where I was born and spent the first seven years of my life. I'd really like to do that. I would really like to go back home again...someday!

The Lady On Turkey Hill

Did you know that turkey is a native game bird? That Benjamin Franklin thought the turkey should have been the national symbol instead of the bald eagle? That a female turkey is called a Hen and a male turkey a Tom? And that "roughly 270 million turkeys are raised on factory farms each year ? (Mostly the same variety - the Broad Breasted White) for one sole reason - producing disproportionately large amount of white meat in as little time as possible." New York Times Op-Ed Contributor: About a Turkey by Patrick Martins..November 24, 2003 It is not a pretty article and will definitely make you think twice about what will be on your plate come Thanksgiving next week. It makes you think twice even if you go the next one level up and purchase a turkey that is labeled "free-range"or "organic" and "naturally raised" because often they have been co-opted or manipulated by big businesses and therefore cannot guarantee a more healthier or more humanely raised bird.. I say this, of course..but I eat turkey (most likely the Broad Breasted White) since this is the only variety sold through supermarkets and butcher shops..Boars Head Ovengold is a byproduct of the same kind...etc...etc...Nothing better than a beautifully compiled club sandwich with its white turkey meats..Turkey pot pie; cream of turkey soup (my favorite, if you remember)...I recall when we were living in NYC and my husband used to work in the Trump Tower building, they had this wonderful salad place downstairs that made the most mouth watering turkey salad with chunks of aged cheddar cheese and white grapes. The two of us would sometime meet for lunch, and being very economical at the time, would order one of those salads to share with a couple of french rolls. We then took our tray to a table near the giant waterfall that tumbled from the seventh floor of the atrium..and enjoyed our meal. Those were the days! As much as I enjoy turkey, we really only cook a turkey once a year at Thanksgiving. And actually, because we have spent the last five Thanksgivings in the city with my family, I haven't cooked one in years- which brings me back to the above mentioned article on turkeys which came out the same year my sister M decided to order a heritage turkey for our special meal. And when the article was published, she said "HA!"and forwarded it to each one of us siblings. Heritage turkeys are a handful of older, pre-industrial turkey varieties, still being grown today. They are slowly gaining recognition for their dark, rich, and succulent meat (more gamey) and are raised by smaller independent family farms to ensure their survival. Some varieties are the Bourbon Red, Narragansett and Jersey Buff - which have been pushed almost to the brinks of extinction because there was/is no longer a market for them. But slowly, they are gaining popularity as consumers are becoming more aware of what they eat and how they eat. It is expensive though..compare to say a Butterball Turkey which retails for around 69 cents a pound to the heritage turkeys which go for about $5 a pound. But you know..sometimes it is a case of getting what you paid for. Nothing better than the fragrance of a whole turkey roasting in the oven; a definite love potion and intoxicating delight to the senses. I love, love, love Thanksgiving; no pressure..just a quiet day to spend with your family and enjoying the bounty of food that were prepared together in harmony. That will be the mood of our home this year as my whole family have decided to come to Westport to celebrate Thanksgiving together. My sisters and their boyfriend and fiancee will train up the evening before and we will start our preparations. Our boys are filled with excitement; it is like Christmas for them..only better..the aunts and uncles are sleeping over!!!! I can't imagine how much fun we will have and how much warmth and laughter will fill our home; I'm so thrilled as well and can't wait to start food shopping. Oddly enough, the reason we are even living here in Westport, Connecticut is due to a certain lady that lived onTurkey Hill South here in town. After our oldest son was born, my husband and I decided that it was time to finally say goodbye to New York City..which I will always consider my hometown..but it was now the time to find a place to call home and raise our family there. I have always been fascinated by Westport because I am Martha Stewart's best fan. She is definitely the queen of domestication; making living a little more of a "good thing!" However, we never, in our wildest dreams,, thought we would live here one day. But amazingly, a realtor found us a very nice rental on a great little cul-de-sac with the most nicest handful of neighbors (you know who you are). We were so enthralled with Westport that we set out to search for a home to purchase within months of living here. And coincidentally, the yellow 1959 ranch on .56 of an acre that we ultimately fell in love with happened to be right down the street from where we were renting and so we were able to maintain our old friendships as well as made new ones. We were proud owners on July 1st, 2000 and plan to live here for pretty much a very, very long time. Once again, Martha Stewart, you gave us yet another inpiration, and we thank you!!!!! As I write this, I am planning the menu in my head...when it comes down to it..it is all about food...what to make and create that will fill our tummy and give us pleasure on such a wonderful and beloved holiday..I have some good ideas, but I better start working on it..Whatever meals you are serving, whatever kind of turkey you plan to roast (or deep-fry)..just remember the special memory that will come from it, of the precious hours that will be spent with loved ones enjoying a very thankful meal. Happy Thanksgiving!

Love Is ~

Many wonderful things to many people....

Love is free and good and pure. Love is kind and fun and mesmerizing. Love is sharing and caring and doing. Love is giving and laughing and being.

Love is what happens every second the day, everyday! If you let it...

My mother came to visit us today in Westport. You must understand--it is not like she is a woman of leisure; she has responsibilities up to her ears. Leaving New York City AND my father for half a day is a BIG deal!

It wasn't always like this. Back In Saigon, my mother came and went. Between charity work, taking care of us kids, taking care of her own family, and being the wife of of the president and CEO of the largest shipping company in Viet Nam, she was quite the social butterfly. If you saw a green Peugeot 504 zipping around Saigon, you'd have to take a look to see who the beautiful woman driving around in it was. Most likely, you would have seen a woman in her late 20s ( a former Miss Saigon when she was 18), in a hurry, as she dashed back and forth from one orphanage to another. That was my mother's cause; she had a huge heart for the little children that would hover around her when she made her daily visits to bring them some treats or other, spend time with them and sewing clothes for them. And in between her missions, she would also be on the prowl for my father...the most famous playboy of them all!!!!! (oh my..this does warrant more details, but I will go into it later as I have to set up more perimeters..i promise!!)

Anyway, nowadays, she is so busy and so trapped in NYC..that a trip to visit her first-born is almost miraculous, and always overdued!!!!

I used to wonder, because my mother got so very little sleep, how was she able to function in the daytime? But she does and has been doing it for the past 31 years that we have been here in America. Life is different here; "harder" as my father would say, because we have had to adapt, to change in the way we live and the way we behave. I understand this all too well now - three children later- it is and has always been, a labor of love!

Before she came up to our home this morning, she went down (in all fairness, i should say she was driven) to Chinatown and bought all the necessities that she thought we needed ~ 5 pullets, 3 young hens (they make amazing stock), roast pig, roast duck, fresh vegetables, condiments and spices and special rice flour and turmeric, fresh egg noodles, three pounds of shrimp, and of course...money for the kids. "Here you go, "she said, "take them to Toys R Us"as she handed me the bills.

My mother arrived shortly before noon and proceeded straight to my kitchen island, unpacking the large white paper boxes that contained the roast pig and a whole roast duck, grabbed a little knife, and began hacking away- popping little pieces of savory meats into our mouths (my husband, Catherine and me)as she chopped and threw bones into a big pot to get her broth going for noodle soup. It was non-stop talking, eating, cooking, laughing, and listening to my mother dish out her advice-

To me - "Spend some time on your eyebrows, you need a better arch!"

To my husband - "Don't over work in the yard, I like it clean, but don't kill yourself!"

To Catherine - "Take your time and find the right man. Don't rush!"

My mother came and went..within three hours after her arrival, she hopped back in her car and headed back to the City..leaving behind many wonderful treats for our family to enjoy in the days to come.

She loves us so much and this was the best that she could have done..her pleasure was in seeing us, especially my little baby girl- hair growing a little more at each visit- and feeding us with foods that make us happy. In the end...this is what makes her happy and keeps her spirits high until the next time.

What makes you happy?

Catherine was happy tonight too. All she got was a phone call from her love and she was happy. He was at the airport waiting to board a plane. They spoke endlessly about all the whats, hows and ifs...they spoke as he boarded and until the steward person asked him to turn his phone off. As I make this entry, she is drifting off to sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day (and I want to make a mark of it with this entry)


Sometimes life is complicated. Things are not as they seem or as they should be. But the one sure thing is that LOVE is easy! There is love and that is it! Love between people..family, friends..lovers...everything else is just details. Love is an emotion that is raw and unpasteurized...made to be consumed immediately.

Life, love, and food - the most special friendship of all; a lifetime to shape and behold. What else is there?

Homage To Homard

My second son turned five yesterday. In front of me now are some photographs of him taken three years ago; they grow so fast. We have many family birthday meal rituals; there are no limits as to how many, we just have them until the birthday celebrant runs out of his or her allotted requests. We have our own private celebrations, we may have one or two with friends; we always have one with just the whole lot of us- meaning the aunts and uncles..and sometimes the grandparents in New York City somewhere.

But tonight, my son wanted lobster. Fancy that! At the end of summer, when we found ourselves up in Maine, it was lobster everyday. And on our last day, we all boarded a lobster fishing boat that took us way out into the Atlantic to pick up traps that were placed the day before. The staff on the charter had the kids wear rubber overalls and put them to work. They learned how to measure a legal lobster(3-5/16"in carapace), how to differentiate between male and female lobsters (fishermans are asked to throw back females if they have eggs) and how the traps work (pieces of rotting fish are placed in cloth pouches which are then secured to the trap..which has escape vents to allow smaller sized lobster to eat and leave)and found out that lobster is the biggest single fishing industry in the Northeast.

Did you know that at the turn of the century until the late 40s, lobster was used primarily to feed prisoners in Maine due to its abundance? Fancy that...

That is where his lobster fix came from and needless to say, we were glad to oblige. I do the same thing to the lobsters all the time...I boil them in water that has seaweed and sea salt for about ten minutes..depending on their size. I cover our dining table in newspaper and just crack open the lobsters to enjoy. Our favorite lobster pound in Trenton, Maine boil their lobsters in water from the ocean (especially the Mt. Desert Island area)over burning wood. The aroma as you wait for your lobsters to be cooked is incredible; the anticipation insurmountable!

I remember a birthday of mine's when we had lobsters as well. I must have been about 12 years old because it was our first year living in one of my father's buildings in Times Square. Thinking back, it is hard to believe that I was that old and still so innocent. I can't recall what inspired the crustaceous meal, but it WAS a fun evening of gathering around a tiny round table...some twelve of us, and just cracking open these little lobsters (called Chix- lobsters that are usually under a 1 1/4 pound and have soft shells) and having the time of our lives; totally oblivious to anything that may have been going on at that moment in time in Times Square, or New York City, or the world.

Years later, looking back, every single one of those people..aside from my brother and sisters, are not the people that I thought they were; that our lives were so intricately entwined even then..more so now...ever uniting us in the web that we live in (i'll go into details, i promise!)

For now, it is just the happy memory of lobster and strawberry and pineapple cake in my son's head as he dozed off in his bed; exhausted, full, and exhilarated at the thought of being five at last!

Frozen In Time

Do the contents of one's freezer reveal one's personality?

If you were to poke through my upright freezer right now.10:16pm EST., you'd find:

1 box of frozen prawns (often misapplied in the United States to denote larger-sized shrimps..when in actuality the two are superficially similar, with the prawn having branching gill structures; AND shrimp being the more widely used term in the US...too much info? I wrote prawn because the box in my freezer states that it holds 12 giant "prawns" in it)

3 lbs of large shrimps (each in one pound portions-much easier to deal with so keep that thought in mind when buying and storing)

1 rack of spare ribs (a gift from a recent visit by my mother; for which I will use soon with some chicken bones to make a noodle soup broth)

4 large sealed plastic bins each containing a 10 inch toy soldier made out of marzipan...rifles and all (My sister M threw a huge 50th birthday bash for her boyfriend last summer. The beautiful soldiers stood guard at each corner of the Sylvia Weinstock cake and were not served; they were too beautiful to leave behind so I asked the waiters to put them in boxes for me to cart home to freeze. "What are you going to do with them?" my husband asked me that evening as we loaded them up in the rear of our mini-van. We'll do something..reuse them or whatever on some other cake that i'll make, i said...i checked on one of them recently and he still looks perfect. My second son has a birthday coming up..maybe i will have the heart to use one)

2 packages of fresh rice noodles (until recent years, we were only able to get dry rice noodles. Not that they weren't good, but the fresh ones have a slightly chewier consistency and is a real treat! I save these for special pots of PHO, a traditional vietnamese beef broth noodle soup that is a favorite of mine since i was a child)

2 packs of beef bones (i buy these when they are priced well and freeze them til the need arises for my PHO stock. I don't, however, freeze any beef meats. I feel the flavor is totally gone from them once frozen)

1 package of lemongrass (minced and ready to use. I would add the lemongrass to some curries, sometimes certain soups, and in the summer, NEM NUONG, which means grilled cured ground meat. Lemongrass, garlic, sugar, fish sauce and onions are added in proportions to ground pork. They are then shaped into patties and cooked over the grill. You can have them on a roll or just plain; or served over cold rice noodles called BUN and topped with mint, shredded lettuce, basil, cucumber and a special spicy sweet NUOC MAM -fish sauce with vinegar, lime juice and chilies-YUM!!!)

2 Pullets (oh my Gosh...if you have never tried them before..you don't know what you have been missing. A pullet is a young chicken, more specifically a hen at least 20-weeks-old which has begun to lay eggs but has not yet moulted-which means they haven't yet fully shedded their old feathers..which i have no absolute idea what this has to do with anything aside from the fact that they are very young. Pullets are more productive than the older laying hens; they often produce eggs for an entire year, while hens will lay for six-to-seven months...this is all in research you know.i didn't know any of this. I just started to enjoy these chicken so much and wondered if it was because they were totally free-ranged when in fact it was a different specimen altogether. Anyway, pullets have much more flavors and produce a beautiful clear yellow broth compared to say a Perdue chicken whose broth is murky and more brown. If you don't know the difference, it is fine. Anyway, my freezer once held like 10 of them. My mother took me on a food shopping binge right after I had my baby girl last year and bought us tons of pullets. "Make chicken rice porridge everyday. It is good for your post-partum health!" Yes, mom...I will...and I did)

3 Pheasants ( our friend went pheasant hunting recently in South Dakota and brought three home for us. During season, hunters are allowed three per day; he was there four days and I guess came home with 12 of them; last year he brought us goose and duck. "The heads are still on them because of hunting regulation, do you mind?" he asked me. Nope..I'm going to make a very rich stock with the heads for a gravy. He knew I was a frontierswoman at heart...or a very out there Asian chick. Thank you DS, I am waiting for a cold sunday- with a roaring fire in our woodstove, and the kids sprawled all across the floor drawing, I will make a beautiful brandied-wild mushroom-shallot sauce to top the pheasant meat which I will sear ever so slightly on a hot cast-iron pan, and we will enjoy it with a nice bottle of William Selyem Pinot Noir. A meal like that has to be planned out and executed in the best of manners..after all, it was a very special catch by our dear friend)

12 boxes of NATTO- ( Natto is japanese fermented soy-bean and is often eaten at breakfast to accompany hot cooked rice. It is full of protein and unimaginable health benefits. The first thing noticed by the uninitiated after opening a pack of natto is the very strong smell, akin to strong cheese. It is also very sticky; stirring the natto produces lots of spiderweb-like strings- which my kids love- The natto itself has a somewhat nutty, savory, somewhat salty flavor that belies its odor. After marriage to my husband, it took me quite a couple of years to enjoy and eventually crave natto. Basically, it is not food for the finicky, but it is possibly one of the most perfect foods in the world. From building your immune system, isoflavones x million, soothing upset stomachs and poor intestines, to helping metabolic activities - i can't say enough! Usually i'll buy like a dozen boxes when i go to the japanese grocers-they are shipped frozen from Japan- and keep them in our freezer . Our family of five will eat 4 boxes per meal time as an accompaniment to some grilled fish or whatever i happen to be cooking up. Sometimes, when time is limited and dinner has to be made in a rush, our kids will just eat a big dollop of natto and soy sauce over hot rice; they love it and its gotta be better than pizza! I recently discovered Kendall's Farm in Massachusetts. They make small batches of organic natto and will ship a minimum order of 36 8oz containers of natto. I have heard that they might not even be taking new customers for a while, but I will call them tomorrow and find out..can't wait!)

4 large bags of iced (leftovers from a previous party..)

My upright freezer in the garage stores all the foods that I need but can't possibly acquire here in Westport; the contents collected over recent trips to NYC's Chinatown or Flushing, New York, Daido supermarket in White Plains,NY..or Fujimart in Greenwich, Ct..the woods up in South Dakota, or just a transfer from my mother's freezer in NYC to ours'

I don't know what the contents of my freezer may reveal about me, but akin to life and love, food is about that one true thing; that one fantastic, necessary ingredient that will comprise a beautiful meal that will serve as the foundation for a memory, a moment to linger on~~ What is in yours?

Common Bond

I spent practically the whole day with my sisters, M and V. To see their faces here in Westport is always a delight to my system; a boost to my metabolism. Although they both reside only an hour away in NYC, it is pretty difficult to align their spare time (since M is busy building her empire and V is studying for the LSAT to get into Law school to get a Law degree but doesn't plan to practice!)


I told them in a joint email this evening that today's get -together forged a stronger bond between us; it was a day of laughter, hope, expectation, and of course...way tooo much food!

Upon receiving my email, V called to say that she loves me...and M emailed back to say,

"Absolutely! The Love and food will never end!!!!"

Where would I be without my siblings? Who tells me I'm beautiful even when I am probably carrying around 20 more pounds than I should, who roll their eyes when I tell them that I've done a bad deed, who understand me better than any other being and share the same eccentric bloodline???? Who have totally inspired me to yearn for my three children...

In 2003, My husband and I tried to have our third child when my second son was about two years-old. I became pregnant soon after trying only to suffer a miscarriage 11 weeks into the pregnancy. It was devastating. You never think that it could happen to you. I thought I was fine- the miscarriage was for the better; it saved us from making life-changing decisions had the pregnancy been able to continue developing and we find out that the baby was not healthy.

I was wrong to put on a brave face. Of course, I mourned our loss. We all did. I still thought I was OK~thank God for my two healthy boys! But I was not alright..I had a huge self-combustion about a week later. I became totally irrational. I screamed at my husband, I screamed at myself. I didn't want to forget what had happened; I didn't want to put it behind me and move on. After that explosion-that huge release-after time, I slowly began to heal.

Five months after the miscarriage, I became pregnant again and soon into it suffered the same dull, burning back-ache. ----! I have been so worried and so afraid of these feelings. I have been constantly fearing another miscarriage. I never once not peered into the toilet bowl after urinating checking for signs of blood. I didn't let the paranoia get in the way of my happiness that time, however, the anxiety was there.

Then came the worst fear. The spotting. No, it couldn't be! Like a child who constantly looks under the bed at night for monsters, the spotting that I discovered, after weeks of hoping not to ever see it, jumped up and pulled me down into the toilet. I knew it was over. I called the doctor and she tried to reassure me that spotting is not a sign of miscarriage...blahblahblah...deep down inside, I knew. I just had to wait for the following morning's ultrasound to confirm it.

10:40AM Tuesday, April 13, 2004. I undressed and climbed onto the same lab chair and waited for the ultrasonic technician to confirm the baby's fate. After some prodding with her wand, she gave me a look that was reserved for moments like these, and told me what I had already feared. I didn't have any tears at that time. My second son was in his stroller looking at me. I felt as if I was fine. Devastated again, but fine. I met with my doctor afterwards. She gave me the same speech...blahblahblah...Sadly, according to miscarriage statistics, it's not a big deal. It only becomes a worry after a third miscarriage. Some 25% of pregancies end in a miscarriage before the twelfth week. OK..now I was officially a part of those numbers; I am two out of four!

The next day I went back to the hospital again for the official resolution of the pregnancy. At that moment it was to soon to say, but I was fine. I am strong. I had to be. That was not the final say. As soon as my body was ready, I knew that my husband and I would try again to have out third child. Just like the last time, the clarity and importance of having a slightly larger family seemed great and meaningful to us. I wanted our children to have wonderful siblings...friends to the end. Just like in my own family. We have always had each other to count on...to argue with; laugh with. Love and sharing. That's what it is...that's all there is. We have always been there for each other; I wanted the same for our children.

We were so very fortunate..the luckiest people in the world...when one year later, on April 19, 2005, our baby girl was delivered safe and sound and healthy and full of hair and just so beautiful. At the moment of her birth (my third and final C-section) I was overcome with an overwhelming sense of joy and completeness that I wept hysterically for the longest time. Through the shakes and shivers of the cold and sterile operating room, I felt that my life was only going to get better from that day forward. AND THAT IS ALL THERE IS.......

The Sun Will Come Out~

In an email that I just sent off to my friend Catherine, I told her that my day was almost done. It is 1:12am as I post this entry~ the boys' bikes have been put to rest in the garage... baseball mitts, helmets, and balls in their respective bins... dinner dishes washed; pots scrubbed, table cleared... A final look in the refrigerator to figure out what will be made for breakfast; what lunch will the boys bring to school, and what bones are available in the freezer for a big pot of soup tomorrow. Do I take a shower now or in the morning is the next dilemma. Overall, the end to yet another wonderful day. Wonderful because my three kids are peacefully asleep in their beds; my husband on the bottom bunk with our second son-he fell asleep as the New York Mets were leading the St. Louis Cardinals 2-0 in the bottom of the third inning of the NLCS (update::::the Mets won 4-2 forcing a game seven tomorrow at Shea Stadium with the winner heading to Detroit for Game 1 of the World Series on Saturday) Oops!!!! School pictures are scheduled for tomorrow as well, I must still go get the boys' outfits and press them. I think I'll set the alarm for 5:30 and take my shower in the morning.

Be Patient!

To a parent, there is no greater pain than watching your child suffer; whether it is a physical injury, sickness, or mental torment.

I realized this when I went into labor for the first time. Nothing prepared me for the pain I was going through; Lamaze was a waste of time and money. My mother came to the hospital that evening; I was in my 17th hour of labor and contractions. My body twisted in convulsions as I rocked myself silly on the rocking chair. Would there be relief if I kept staring up into the ceiling? Every so often I would catch the strangest look on my mother's face. She was pale and her eyes seemed full of trepidation. She tried to reach out for me and soothed me with "I know exactly what you are going through" but I couldn't hear her. After another hour of me biting my lips and refusing epidural (thanks again Lamaze!) I had to ask my mother to leave the room because I couldn't bear it for her to see me that way. It was suddenly in those moments that I became a child again. There I was...about to give birth, and I felt as though I were five years old. I whispered in a voice hardly audible, "MA!!!!!!!" Mommy! It was also at that instant that I became certain that there was no other single being on the face of this earth that could possibly know what I was going through, or could possibly love me any more than my mother did. My mom heeded our request and went home to wait there for further news.

Finally, I came to my senses and accepted the pain-numbing injection around eight o'clock at night. The nurse and my husband helped me to the bed and I was able to nap for about an hour..at which time my husband ran out to the corner and came back with two soups. I remember clearly: chicken noodle and Manhattan clam chowder. We shared sips of soup and waited for our first child to be born.

More time went by without progress and around 11:00pm I conceded to a caesarean section; I hadn't dilated beyond three centimeters in the 20 something hours.
But soon enough, at 1:48 AM on March 18, 1998, our son was born. When I saw his face for the first time, I knew,too, then that I will be feeling all of his pains for the rest of my life.

Eight years and three c-sectioned-children later, not to mention nine stitches, six staples and a dozen or so very close calls, life has just been very rewarding despite living on the edge of the NEXT time someone gets hurt.

On Father's day of this year, our second son fell while running around on the lawn after Sunday mass. We were standing around having coffee and he came to us in tears and said that his arm hurt. He couldn't lift it when I asked him to and by the time we got home, it had swell to double its size with the elbow jutting out. My immediate thought was that he had dislocated it. X-rays in the emergency room showed just a fracture, not a bone break. He was put in a splint and sent to the orthopaedics.

A fracture doesn't necessarily mean that it is better than a break in the bone. Not in our case, at least. Our son suffered a fracture of the LATERAL CONDYLE ~which is the round bump on a bone where it forms a joint with another bone. Medical journals cited that this happens in 17% of all pediatric elbow fractures and pretty common in the summer months to kids between the ages of 5-10.

Our son was in a cast for eight weeks and warned not to get off his feet. He was to be kept calmed and away from any physical activities (try telling this to a an active four year-old with an older brother) There was to be no swimming, bicycling, or running. Basically, we were supposed to turn him into a TV-watching vegetable.

As worried and anxious as I was for him, I was also so very proud of how he handled himself (he has now been voted the best little patient at Coastal Orthopaedics) We saw the doctor once a week for x-rays and monitoring. Although our son was very scared and in a lot of pain... I only saw glimpses of it - Why did this have to happen to me he would ask; or - what will make my bone stronger?

The latest x-ray yesterday showed he has improved tremendously (whew..our son dodged the bullet; he was supposed to have surgery to place pins through his bones, and bone grafting from his pelvic area on September 12th but his bone suddenly started to grow new bones and surgery was called off) Dr. Markey said that he could be declared safe next month. THANK GOD!!!!! I knew HE wouldn't allow so much grief for one of HIS children who happened to take a fall outside HIS church.

I am a strong believer in things happening for a reason...even when they are unpleasant. I say to myself that maybe this will relieve our son of further injuries in his future; that it was fine it happened when it did. Still, I jump up in the middle of the night at the slightest sound of his whimpering or teeth grinding(which I think started when he fractured his elbow) It is natural that I feel this way. I am a mother and for the rest of my life I am conditioned to give my children all that I have and all that is me for THEY are my greatest accomplishment!

There are not enough hours in a day. Make the most of yours!

Corn Nuts And Special Delivery

It has been approximately 12 days since my last entry (please be patient with me) and about 29 years since I discovered corn nuts.

Corn nuts are a variation of parched corn. Indians and pioneers ate parched corn almost as a staple while traveling. It was nutritious and took up little space so was considered excellent trail food.

I recently thought of corn nuts because I bought a container of nut mix (called spanish cocktail)at our local gourmet food shop. For $7.00 a pound, you got a variety of dried fava beans, chick peas,spanish peanuts, laguerda almonds,pistachios, and of course, the corn nuts. Very, very fancy considering the fact that originally, the corn variety that is used can pretty much only be found at feed stores and costs next to nothing.

Parched corn was made by Indians by putting dried corn on hot rocks or in hot coals. You can make parched corn by simply covering the bottom of a greaseless frying pan with corn and stirring until the kernels are uniformly brown.

Corn nuts are a little more refined. If you were interested in making your own corn nuts, use one cup of whole corn, bought from any feed or health food store; soak the kernels in two cups of water for three days and keep refrigerated. Then you would dry the kernels on a paper towel, and deep fry them in hot oil, lard, or bacon grease. The kernels will float to the top when done and look slightly caramel brown in color. Take them out and VOILA` You may season them with salt, pepper, chili powder..etc.

My mother came home when I was about 11 years old with a bag of corn nuts. She had spotted them in one of the markets and thought they looked interesting. We all took a handful and decided in unison that they were really yummy. From then on, we would pick up a bag every so often (although I must admit that I never knew they were deep fried til I decided to write about them in this entry)YIKES!!!! I shall have to save the spanish cocktails for special get-togethers.

Aside from recently spotting them in the spanish cocktail mix, I haven't seen any corn nuts sold in stores in the chips aisle or nuts section. This frustrated me because I had suggested their use at Catherine's party this summer, but we were not able to locate any. Since then, I've read that they are most likely sold in more ethnic neighborhoods (well,that explains why I couldn't find any in Westport) or at gas stations. Maybe corn nuts are considered too processed and best kept away from the general public (hmmm...)

This also brings me back to another bundle that my mom came home with in 1978 which totally changed all of our lives. My mother had three children by caesarean section. Back in the day, not to mention that it was third world Viet Nam..and even though my parents afforded the best doctors around...it was probably still not up to par. But anyhow, her c-sections were vertical cuts extending from the lower abdomen all the way up; a good eight or nine inches, maybe more-it is hard to tell with time and fading scar tissues. So after my brother was born in 1971, the doctors recommended that she should have her tubes tied and she obliged; my mother thought that was the end of her baby days.

Imagine the surprise when three years after we settled in this country that was still so new to us, my mother missed a couple of menstrual cycles and found out that she was pregnant. Never mind how we all felt (and I must admit I was kind of embarassed by it for a long time)but how were we going to find a doctor and start all over again? We managed somehow and on December 14, 1978 my little baby sister was born at the New York Infirmary Hospital (now known as New York Downtown Hospital - the only hospital in lower Manhattan)and became the very first US citizen in the family. Her Vietnamese name is Hong - An, which means the grace of God..because naturally, it must have been His will that she came to us when she did (I shall have many more entries about my siblings...i promise!)

She was followed by my father's citizenship in 1983 and myself in 1986. Did you know that every resident after the age of 18 may apply for their US citizenship? I counted the days until my 18th birthday. What would it all mean? How much freedom will I gain? In MY family - zilch!!! The first thing I did though was sent out my application for US citizenship and was called in for interview the following March. By the time April came around, I received words that I was to be sworn in at a special ceremony marking the Centennial celebration of the Statue of Liberty on July 5th on Ellis Island. I was blown away; couldn't believe it. What luck! Mikhail Baryshnikov was also sworn in on that very day a couple of rows in front of me. ON the base of the statue the following words are inscribed: All Those Still Yearning to Breathe Free.

I was freed! AND MY LIFE WAS NEVER EVER THE SAME AFTER THAT DAY!!!!!!!!

Dancing Queen

A song I love from long ago would play on the radio as I'm heading off in my car somewhere taking me back to the days ~

When I had a huge crush on Andy Gibb and Leif Garrett...

When the Sunday Times was like 75cents...

When life was out of my hands...

When David Soul (the original Hutch of Starsky and Hutch) had the hit song "Don't Give Up On Us" ( I looove that song!)

and when ham and cheese with mayo on a hero was THE sandwich...to be had from our favorite deli on the southeast corner of 77th street and Amsterdam Avenue in New York City, where we children used to frequent after school.

At 3:00pm the bells would ring signifying the end of the school day. In no orderly fashion that I could remember, we would exit the school. My sister and brother would be nearby or approaching the door soon enough. Chu Dieu, a gentle Vietnamese man who worked for my parents at the time, would be positioned somewhere on the curb in front of PS 81 waiting to escort us two and a half blocks home (my parents were too busy)~ Looking back throughout our entire school life from elementary to high school, I can't recall a single time when my parents showed up at school. Were there Back to school nights?; or teachers' conferences?...or anything back in the 70s and 80s that required parents? Certainly not ours! Yet, we have made it. We did our homework every night, got ourselves bathed and clothed, and we managed to eat very, very well.

It was a well conditioned routine. On the way home from school the three of us would shuffle in there like tiny wooden toy soldiers. The deli was just large enough to maintain a couple of narrow aisles where one was able to find anything ranging from Brillo pads to cereal, all happily coexisting next to each other on dusty beige shelves. At the front of each aisle, facing the register, shiny bags of fried plaintain chips, corn chips, and pork rinds dangled from nondescript poles awaiting to be plucked. In the back, refrigerated cases with sliding glass doors and mounds of frost held drinks, milk and packaged ice and eggs; basic necessities for any urbanite who might not have been willing to walk a few blocks further to a supermarket.

We always made a right turn upon entering and headed straight to the deli counter. Standing on my tip-toes with my chin raised slightly upward, I would tell the man behind the curved glass that we wanted "ham and cheese on a hero with lettuce, tomato and mayo." The tomatoes were always needed to complete the taste and definitely worth the extra 25 cents we had to pay. We always chose yellow American cheese - processed with added water, milk enzymes, unimaginable sodium, and annatto (which makes the inviting and tantalizing yellow-orange color.) That was what we wanted and it was to be cut into three pieces- my brother and me would eat the end snips, while my sister, the self-ordained princess of the family, took the soft middle. There was nothing better and we did this for about a year and a half until we left PS 81.

It also takes me back to the days when all I wanted was a pair of jeans; Sasson, Jordache; Couldn't even fathom Gloria Vanderbilt's. My parents didn't think too much of jeans - the working man's pants- so, no, I coudn't get any. In our house, clothes would just materialize in the morning and we would put them on and run out the door.
We had no say. I am still very traumatized by this. As an adult, I am very particular about clothes and how I look in them since I still look in the mirror and see a little girl, wearing a two piece purple rayon outfit with giant blue hibiscus flowers, looking back at me. UGH!!!! and DOUBLE UGH!!!! I am cringing as I write this.
It wasn't that my mother had bad taste, because she was considered one of the best dressed women in Saigon. But it was probably because she wasn't used to the rhythm of this new country yet. She was lost; we were lost; AND we had bad clothes.

Eventually my mother did cave in and she took me to Macy's in Herald Square and allowed me to purchase a pair of Sasson jeans. I was so happy that day. At home, with Abba playing on the little radio in my bedroom, I tried on the jeans. I ripped the tags off (to make sure that they couldn't be returned) and slipped the jeans on. It was such a comfortable fit that it made me just wanted to dance around my room;

You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
See that girl,
Watch that scene.
Dig in the dancing queen.....


With those Sasson jeans, I felt as if I was suddenly transformed. I now belonged with all the other girls in my class; in my new country. I was metamorphasized. I still love jeans and wear it like six days a week. Nothing is as versatile. AND I am always devoted to one specific pair. The one I'm wearing now is in dark denim and sits low at the waist. The brand is Giordano Blues and my sister brought it back for me two years ago from Hong Kong. Still, I am on the constant hunt for a replacement pair because there is only so much wear and tear a pair of jeans can go through. Somewhere out there, the next pair in line awaits.

When it comes to my own three children, I must admit that I dress them in my image, or rather, how I'd like to see them. I love putting the boys in button-downs, or a sweater over their white polo tops with the collar in place. My eight year-old is at that stage where he whines and complains that the clothes are "too itchy!" or "too hot!" I would furrow my eyebrows and tell him not to exaggerate. As I walk away feeling sympathetic to his grievances, yet adamant to keep him as he is, I realize that it is not easy to be a kid. As a matter of fact, it is rather scary to be without control and to not have a say in so many situations. BUT soon enough the day will come. I know this because I was once the dancing queen.

They Call Me "Tater Tot"

Who invented home fries anyway? A person who loved french fries and wanted it for breakfast but didn't want the burden of deep frying or extra calories?

According to Wikipedia (oh, I how I love Wikipedia!)Home fries are a type of potato dish made by frying diced or shredded potatoes that have been par-cooked by boiling, baking, steaming, or microwaving. The potatoes are cooled between the two stages.
The frying is typically done in butter or vegetable oil, and chopped onions, pepper, and other ingredients are typically added.

See all the details you can get?

I love home fries! As a matter of fact, I pretty much love all things "potato." I remember having mashed potatoes at La Cave and boy was it good! They mashed the potatoes the old-fashioned French way. The potatoes are boiled in salted water and pressed through a sieve. At the same time, fresh cream is being carefully brought to a scald and added to the potatoes. Last but not least? A huge lump of fine unsalted sweet cream french butter. Mind you, you have to have the french butter for its higher fat content. The end product was fluffy and ultra-creamy. That was my meal; Creme de Poulet (cream of chicken soup), steak au poivres with mashed potatoes; of course my Fanta Orange, and Peach Flambe for dessert. If I have gone to La Cave 50 times in my life, that was the meal that I ate 50 times in my life there.

Potatoes are not in the Vietnamese diet except for curries or so. I don't know why this is. Maybe I should have asked my mother before writing this entry (I'll get back to you on this) And by the time we arrived in Washington, Pennsylvania, we didn't stay long enough to explore the potato aside from chips and french fries...which I thought was heaven on earth. BUT, by the time we were settled on the upper west side of Manhattan in the summer of 1976, our potato urges exploded after we discovered HOME FRIES!!!!!!!!!!!!

Unless you have lived in New York City, you will never know what it's like to have your favorite diner or coffee shop within walking distance from your abode. AND not only their proximity, but these eating joints also deliver around the clock and within the half hour. No wonder so many New Yorkers don't cook!

Growing up on Manhattan's upper west side, we were all entitled to having a ratio on average of one coffee shop per four blocks. Yummy! Where else can you go and order breakfast and dinner at the same time? And soup too? Yes, on any given day, you can order a soup of your liking from any of these fine dining establishments; always a soup of the day somewhere that would satisfy your cravings. Maybe it is because we are Asians and we are conditioned to eat soup; love soup; feel dry and unfulfilled if we don't end our meals with soup; or maybe those coffee shops spoiled me and set me up to love soup for the rest of my life.

My sister, brother and I knew all the soup specials. We could tell the days of the week by the soups that would be offered on that particular day at that particular coffee shop. Our favorite days were Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday; split pea soup with giant deep fried croutons that oozed hot oil in your mouth, cream of turkey, and cream of turkey, respectively. To this day, the love for these favorites still remains deep in our hearts. Once in a while, my sister would call me from Manhattan and say in her teasing voice something like - guess what I just had? I would instantly give her the answer after pausing a mili-second to see which day it was.

We had settled on the upper west side because my father had purchased a single room occupancy hotel, known to those in the know as SRO, called the Opera on 76th Street and Broadway (I will detail our journey from PA to NYC in another entry..think eight non-speaking immigrants, and the one driving doesn't have a license, in a beat-up green station wagon with no headlights on the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the middle of the night..it is a wonder we didn't die a miserable death or were crushed by a truck.) It was to be our home for the next two and a half years. Early in 1976, my father had taken a bus to New York City and knew instantly upon stepping foot at the Port Authority, that if we were to make it anywhere, it would have to be in NYC. Had to get out of Washington; we were just wasting away there.

The upper west side used to be kitsch-y in the 70s, but we were kids and we didn't know the difference. We were in our own world anyway. I don't remember how it all started when we had all of our meals delivered, but most likely it was because my parents were busy adjusting to a new country, a new language, and running a business that they had absolutely no knowledge of or training in to say the least; they were working around the clock to stay afloat!

But it happened like magic. We picked up the phone, we ordered, and they brought the food in round tin foil containers with white paper lids. Everything was easy and disposable. The food would come, my mother would pay for it in the lobby where she was switchboard operator in training, front desk clerk, and cashier. And we three would open our door of apartment 1604 like mice and steal away with the food after grateful thank yous to the delivery men.

The home fries were a surprise! The very first time we ordered breakfast, I remember the person on the other end asking if I wanted french fries or home fries? I was curious and automatically replied home fries without asking my sister and brother. When our food arrived that morning, I opened the steamy lid only to discover that home fries were like fried pieces of potatoes. That particular coffee shop, now that I know better, cooked their home fries with just onions and paprika so that the potatoes were slightly speckled with red dust. We hastily ripped open the packages of Hunt's ketchup and covered our home fries and eggs with them. The potatoes melted in our mouths. We became so enthralled that by the end of the week, we requested home fries with every meal; hamburger deluxe with home fries; breaded pork chops with home fries; soup and a side order of home fries- our English suddenly improving and we became more confident belting out these orders for food.
I have heard that somewhere, people actually put homefries on their pizzas. Neither my siblings nor I have come across this as yet.

Home fries, tater tots, hash browns have become synonymous with our early years in New York City. Now, when we eat breakfast out, we always judge a diner or coffee shop by their home fries. One of our favorites is the Citi-Diner on West 92nd Street, and the best hash browns of all? The ones you order as a side dish (along with creamed spinach,of course) at Smith & Wollensky's in the City. It is on our "To Eat" list with our kids. My husband and I just want to introduce them to everything that is out there - the more variety their taste buds experience, the wider their world will be. Our oldest son just reminded us that it has been a while since he had Schwarma from our favorite Mamoun's (175 MacDougal). If you are in the area, please do give them a try. At $2.00 a sandwich, they serve upwards of 2000 falafels a day (watching the amazing gentleman behind the counter is almost as good as Cirque du Soleil); their hot sauce recipe is a secret; they have the best vegan green lentil soup on earth, and their exotic hot spiced tea is only 50 cents. We go very, very often!

Life, love and food - they all must be balanced. And when you have the equations all figured out, hold on to them with your dear life!

For the Love of Pork

Viet-Namese people don't look at pork as the "other white meat." I mean, there is pork, and that is it! There is nothing like pork, and in some cases, the fatter the cut, the better!!!!!!!!

The most true and primal example of course being the PORK BELLY; or bacon (for those who tread lightly in pork territory) in its raw, uncured state. Pork belly is the fattest part of the mature hog and consist of thick stripes of pure white (think hard lard) fat and thin streaks of pink tender soft meat. It is basically a side of fresh pork that contains the spareribs. The spareribs usually gets sectioned off and utilized separately. I think it is only in recent years that pork belly has been brought to the forefront of fine cuisine and consumers were treated to its richness and versatility in other forms besides bacon. I believe it was Daniel Boulud who took a thick slab of seasoned pork belly, fried it to a crisp, sliced it, and topped it over frisee and mache. Or was it Wofgang Puck who roasted the pork belly in a blanket of honey and tangerine and served it over wild rice? Definitely Emeril Lagasse has alot to do with it for at least five times during his cooking segments he would cry out "pork fat!" And the happiest person could only be my father.

My father was born into a very poor family in 1930 in North Viet Nam. His father died when he was very young leaving his mother to fend for herself and her five kids.
And when I say poor, I mean like really, really poor. They lived in a tiny hut in a town called Ky-Anh. ANH has many meanings in the Vietnamese language. It is a term of endearment that you would use to address a male older than yourself, or your older brother; a term of love and respect a girlfriend, mistress, or wife would call their lover. You see, we don't have any equivalents of YOU or ME in vietnamese (and I believe this is across the borders for all Asians) Everyone is addressed accordingly and appropriately depending on relations, age, and importance; rather proper, I think. ANH also refers to the British, and ANH DAO means cherry blossom.

My vietnamese name is Tam-Anh. Quite clever of my mother who blessed me with this for it has two separate and significant meanings in how my life began. The one meaning is - the heart of my lover, and the other meaning - the heart of the cherry blossoms. My parents were deeply in love; my mother's every breath was my father,and likewise, he was captivated and entranced by her beauty and purity (it would take a hundred paragraphs to go into details right now of the hows and whens..so I'll have to it at a later stage and in another order.)Anyway, my parents traveled back and forth together many times to Japan during 1964 to 1966; they were doing a lot of business with the various shipping companies in Tokyo, Osaka and Kobe. The first spring they were there, they happened to see the cherry blossoms in bloom for the first time in their lives and were won over; they had never seen such a sight. I guess it inspired many wondrous and romantic events since it was there and that my mother became pregnant with me, and hence it was the only possible appelation for their little baby girl who was born one hot day in July of the year 1967.

But years before that, when my father was still in his youth, he was almost always starving. Never enough food; never enough anything that makes everyday life slightly comfortable or worthwhile. The nights are cold in the North, so cold that his family had been forced to shave off pieces of the wooden posts that held up their hut in order to make fires for warmth. My father told me about a time when he and his mother had collected enough fish sauce and other knick-knacks that could be carted off to the next town to sell in the marketplace. They lugged their heavy load for miles on empty stomachs only thinking of the moment when they will earn enough to buy some food and drinks. And like all sad stories with twisted endings, the market was closed for some reason that day leaving them high, dry and stranded. They slept on a side street that night and were fortunate enough to sell everything the next day. His was a hard life. So, what kind of person did he become? When and how did he ended up in Saigon when the North and South were divided by a communist border?

The one answer I can give you now is that my father was and is a very determined man. Whether it was luck or brains or drive and a strong will or all of the above, the one thing for sure was that when he finally made it big...all he wanted was FAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Because he never had it, lacked it, was malnourished or all of the above, his desire was for all things rich and fatty. Beef bone broth with little pools of fat the size of dimes floating on the surface, boiled salted special chicken with golden yellow, plump skin enveloped in a ginger-scallion oil, and his all-time favorite until this very day - THIT KHO TAU, which literally translated is "meat stewed Chinese way." The meat used is always pork belly. The dish is of chinese origin, but every country that I know of in Asia has it in one form or another, and all known by the same description.

Once again, everybody's mother has their own recipe and technique, and different little secret ingredients, but the one that is the best, and I say this without bias, is my mother's. Oh my God! Out of this world! There is nothing more simple than Thit Kho Tau and a hot bowl of rice; nothing more comforting and soothing; nothing more rich and satisfying!

I have tried to make this dish countless times. I have my mother's instructions on paper; I have it commited to memory; I have had her telling me what to do on the phone as I set out making it; I have watched her. But it never comes out the way it does when my mother prepares it. I sadly realize that when my mother is gone from this world (and I hope it is a day far, far away from now) all the tastes of her foods will be gone too, and we will be left with just the memory of all her love and devotion to us.

Cooking is about love. Something special that was prepared for you to nourish you, to show you that you are special. Something that was created to fill your hunger; satiate your appetite; replete your soul and enabling you to go further. Food is happiness. The reasons we are happy when we dine in a fine restaurant; when we come home for Thanksgiving; when we gather with friends and families. Think about it. Everything revolves around food.

My father is so emotionally attached to thit kho tau that sometimes my mother has packed it in his carry-on luggage along with a separate tupperware of rice. Hours later, in his hotel room in San Francisco, or Houston, or Carthage, Missouri, he would unpack them from his bag, release the fork and spoon my mother had rolled up in Bounty, and begin to ingest all that it represents. When we were kids, my sisters and brother and me would find this embarassing and hilarious. Why doesn't he just order room service? Now, when I look back, it all makes sense of course. LOVE! Love is all it is, and it is so humbling that I almost always feel a tear edging the corners of my eyes and a tightening in my throat when I think of it. My oldest son loves thit kho tau too (well, he loves rice and the stew gives him greater incentive and reason to have plenty of it) "Grandmother's pork stew" he calls it. Sometimes my mother would make a batch and have it sent to my husband's workplace in New York City to be toted back to Connecticut.

"I made rice too, so you don't have to cook" she would call and tell me on the phone (seconds after the stew leaves her hands)
or,
"I didn't put too much white pepper so the kids can enjoy it more. Call me after you've eaten!"

(sigh) My mother..what would I do without her? What would any of us in my family do?

For now, I must try to master THIT KHO TAU.

My mother's recipe and instructions are as follow:
(and I must say that despite how good it is..her's is the most simple and uncomplicated version)

THIT KHO TAU

You'll need (and it is never in lbs. or oz. or grams)::::

sugar
vegetable oil
pork belly
fish sauce
soy sauce
oyster sauce
salt
white pepper (much more bite than their black pepper sister)

cut the pork belly into two or three inch cubes depending on your preference and toss it with a little salt.
put equal amounts of sugar and oil in a pot and heat up being careful not to burn the sugar.
when the sugar starts to caramelize and becomes a golden tawny color, add the pork and turn the heat to very high.
add all the seasonings and a good amount of the pepper to cover the pork.
keep stirring and tossing the pork in the pot.
when all the pieces of pork look about coated and sizzling, lower the heat to medium and cover the pot for about ten minutes (depending on how much pork you've used and how big the pot)
when the pork looks about done, take the lid off and turn the heat a little higher to reduce the liquids that have accumulated in the pot.
The desired color of the pork should be between dark honey to a light mahoghany.
add more pepper if you would like and serve with a bowl of hot rice.

*There are versions where you would marinate the pork with coconut juice or 7-up (if you can believe it..it is supposed to make the pork even softer) Vietnamese in America even use Coco-Rico (do you know what it is? it is a latin coconut soda which you can find easily in NYC supermarkets and in chains like Shop-Rite) Some people boil the pork first before caramelizing them (the Japanese always do this step) to take the "porkiness" out of it..OK! Some people use honey instead of sugar..it goes on. And you don't have to use pork belly..my mother also makes a chopped spareribs version of this and it is awesome!

My Big Apple

It is that time of year. Labor Day behind us; school buses find their way back on the roads; kindergarteners bid farewell to their parents as they board them for the first time - fall is unofficially here!

Goodbye summer whites and flip-flops; no more excuses to eat burgers and hot dogs...it's time to go pick some apples!

Being a New York City kid who was never let out of the apartment except for school and back (and of course, church on Sunday mornings..and if we were lucky - a visit to Authur Treacher's Fish and Chips afterwards on West 72nd street and Amsterdam)

Two golden crispy pieces of fried fish, big hunks of chips and a hush puppy (for those unlucky and unfamiliar, hush puppies are little balls of seasoned fried dough usually made of corn meal and served as a side dish in the South) and of course, my sister, brother and me could never get enough..even to this day when Authur Treacher's is no longer a chain restaurant, we can find them sometimes in food courts. Not quite the same as we remember from the late 70s and early 80s..but decent enough to bring back a little taste our NYC childhood.

Long John Silver's deserve an honorable mention but could never come close to our beloved Authur Treacher's. I was in the fourth grade; just old enough to be able to tell the difference between good spaghetti and bad spaghetti (and sometimes we just want the bad spaghetti with its thin liquidy tomato sauce); definitely wise enough to distinguish good fried fish and soggy bad ones. Yum!

Anyway, during this time of year, everyone talked about apple-picking. The news, our friends went here and there over the weekend and had their bushels filled with apples that they themselves pulled right off the trees; how we envied them and wished that our parents would take us.

My parents never left the city. They hardly traversed out of the five block radius that we lived in. What made us think that they would pile us all in a car and drive an hour or two out of Manhattan to go pick some apples that we could have easily had from Fairway down the street?

So that was that and the very first time I got to go apple picking was when I was 21 years old. My husband, sisters and a friend and me drove out to an orchard in Long Island and stayed the whole day picking. Rows and rows of apples. By the end of the afternoon, we had enough apples to feed a small colony.

And we never did it again until years later when our oldest son was three and a half years old. It was to be a school trip with the Japanese pre-school in Greenwich, Connecticut that he was attending.

We were very excited. My husband took the day off. It was an absolutely beautiful morning. The date was September 11, 2001. I was seven months pregnant with our second child. And then we heard the news. We didn't believe it. Howard Stern was playing an awful joke. Still, we boarded the bus that took us to an apple orchard in Easton, Ct and then the news unraveled. We arrived at Silverman's Farm in a state of disbelief. Cell phone calls to my parents and sister in NYC didn't go through; all the circuits were jammed!

I kept thinking, NO! NOT MY WORLD TRADE CENTER! NOT ALL THOSE THOUSANDS THERE! NOT MY BIG APPLE! I was feeling the ravages of war again for the second time in my life. It remains one of the darkest days in my life.

We still go back to pick apples there every early September and I always think of the correlation between the two events each time. We were there to purchase today because the picking time was over for our favorite apple - the Ginger Gold. Our second son got on the school bus today with his brother for the first time. They were safe and sound in their classrooms when my husband, baby daughter and I drove up to Easton to fetch our apples. Like the safety of our children, there are so many things we must treasure, protect and preserve; this IS the land that I love. This is the country that opened up its arms and welcomed the thousands of Vietnamese refugees (approximately 130,000 in 1975 to four large US military bases in California, Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Florida) We appreciate every single bite of our apples. I am a grateful American.

Cream Cheese Dreams

"Happiness is something that comes into our lives through doors we don't even remember leaving open"- Rose Lane


Once in a while, life changes at a speed faster than light.

I am speaking about those moments when you know for sure that nothing will ever be the same again; for better or for worse, you just can't turn back the hands of time.

I remember the house on Chestnut street. It stood on a quiet road overlooking an abandoned park in the middle of a town called Washington in southwestern Pennsylvania; hardly familiar to anyone who lived outside a 200 mile radius. In the census for the year 2000, there were 15,268 residents, of which 81% were whites. I think the numbers for asians were like 0.02%. Can you imagine little ol'me and my family transplanted there in 1975?

The house where we first lived, where we were sent to "re-settle" after our arrival in the United States, might have been listed as a furnished-brick two story family home with four bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, and a large eat-in-kitchen and fenced in yard. To me, it was and became much more personal during the five months that we resided there. It was a time of new beginnings in a new country; of learning a new language and new way of living, and a time of growing up and facing the hard realities of life even though I was only almost eight.

I remember there were eight of us in that house. My father, mother, us three kids, my brother's nanny Phu, and two other young women who had worked for my father in Viet Nam and who followed him to America - to Chestnut Street. I felt really secure in the midst of all these familiar people and thought that we were one big happy family.

I was happy there in that house because that was where my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. First I hobbled along on the grass, then onto the pavement.
"Are you ready to do it by yourself?" my father asked me "I'm going to let go. Just balance!"
A few yards after he let go of the bicycle seat and me, my weight shifted to the side causing me to lose balance and I crashed into a nearby tree and was thrown off the bike. Trickles of blood seeped out from a cut on my upper lip. I felt no pain. I was just simply overcome with happiness at the sight of my father running to my rescue.
My husband has now trained our two older boys to two-wheelerdom. Every time was the same..absolute joy and and marvel at the moment when they go off on their own. Such pride in the little things that your children accomplish.

In that house on Chestnut street was where I celebrated my eighth birthday. After an arduous trip to the supermarket with the help of a kind american woman, my mother managed to collect enough ingredients to bake me a pineapple cake. I clearly remember seeing the caramelized rings of golden pineapples nestled in the yellow cake. We didn't have any candles but that didn't steal any magic away from the moment or from the buttery-rich smoothness of my mother's cake. It is hard to remember any birthdays after the one I celebrated on that hot summer night in Washington, Pennsylvania.

It was also where I first discovered Philadelphia cream cheese...hence now you know as to the reason why I AM creamcheesedreams....I was infatuated with its taste and used to eat the packaged cream cheese like ice cream. Back in 1975, it was just marketed and sold in the 8oz rectangular bar form. I especially remember how smooth and creamy the bites used to slide down my throat; I wasn't counting calories then. These days, when I simply smear a touch of cream cheese on a bagel, I recall those long and lazy afternoons on the porch of the house on Chestnut street. Sitting back, staring out into nothingness, with a glass of lemonade, my little fingers would peel off the silver wrapping with blue writing to reveal and unleash that magical white cheese. I always tried to savor it, but it usually didn't remain in my hands for long (what else can I say? I just really really love the stuff. Can't get enough of it!!! Can't have too much of it! Cream cheese is the first thing that comes to mind when I reflect back on my early years in the United States. It made quite an impact...maybe this will have to be more picked through in another entry)

Everything was new and wonderful - Frito-lay corn chips, Campbell's cream of tomato soup and tunafish on a hamburger bun, chocolate milk, sour cream and onion dip- even the most jaded La Cave diner like me was won-over! There was hope yet for this new country.

Although not every discovery I made during my time on Chestnut Street was great (I shall elaborate more fully at a later time, if you'd like)it did mark a huge turning point in my young little life; one that can never be erased - one that I wear like my own skin; one that made a mark on me and still dictates how I live and love. How dramatic, you might think. But if you knew me, and you soon will, you will know that there was hardly a time period in my life, when anything was considered normal. Still, the one sure thing is that I am glad for all of it. I embrace all that is me and all that composed of my life..for I would not be this happy wife/mother/daughter/sister/friend/obsessed cook/pseudo-writer.

I would like to close this entry with another quote from Rose Lane -

"There is more laughter and more song in America than anywhere else."

After all is said and done...how true it is!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Away

I left Saigon on a hot day in April, 1975. I didn't have a suitcase full of clothes, travel guides, or even a passport. But then again, I wasn't going on a vacation. My family and I were escaping communism; it was our second attempt to leave the country.

The first time we tried to leave, we had been much more prepared. My mother had packed all of our clothing along with other items we had cherished in large trunks; the photo albums pressed upon our clothes provided the weight that enabled my mother to close them. I had no idea where we were heading. All I knew was that I was going on a long trip. I thought it would be fun. I guess I didn't noticed the frightened and worried expression on my mother's face as she frantically paced back and forth in our home trying to collect things deemed important; things we couldn't part with.

When the time came to leave, we went to the port of Saigon and boarded my father's ship with the captain and his family. They were also close friends of my parents, and their children were our friends. And then we sailed. I don't know how long we were at sea, but I do remember that I never got seasick. I find this fact very interesting since I am always seasick whenever I find myself on a boat these days - whether it is whale watching off the northern coast of Maine, or fishing on a charter boat in Sheepshead Bay, New York. I am balled up on a bench somewhere, my jacket over my head; my husband shoving crackers down my throat.

A few days after we left Saigon, the head stewart announced that the ship was getting ready to dock. I looked out the little window of my cabin. It was night. In the darkness, I saw specks of lights flickering at us from afar. Years later, I learned that those lights had been a harbor in Singapore.

However, the next thing I knew, our boat was turning around and heading back to Saigon. It didn't seem strange to me. To me, the whole trip was a magical adventure where my friends and me got to nibble on sausages and sucked on mangoes in the middle of the ocean. But my mother looked strickened at this news. Years later, I learned that we had been denied entry.
Word had gotten out that Saigon would fall to the communist North; that its citizens were trying to leave to seek shelter on foreign soil. No one wanted to take us on; no one wanted more mouths to feed.

And so we were home again - back in our own house; us three kids running like crazy in the backyard. The jackfruit trees were heavy with seed pods; ready to produce sweet, succulent fruits in the coming weeks. Through the open windows of our bedrooms at night we would breathe in the pungent aroma of the jackfruits when they were in season (imagine the scent of the most riped pineapple and then multiply that fragrance by 100) We were home, and we were happy.

When the moment came again and we left Saigon for the very last time, we hardly had any notice. I recall a family gathering; my mother's side. My grandmother, some aunts and uncles; everyone semed serious and solemned. I knew it wasn't a party because there were no elaborate trays of foods, no sweets, no laughter. They seemd to be waiting for more words or maybe they were waiting for Thanh, a young man who worked for my father. When he finally came through the door, all eyes were on him and all talking ceased. Thanh had come to take my mother and us kids to another ship for another voyage. We had to leave that very minute. When he said these words, my mother cried.

I remember my mother urging my grandmother to come with us, but she could not be persuaded. She did not want to leave this special place; she would wait there for us until we came back. Time was running out and we had to go. Everyone was crying now; everyone was embracing one another. Years later, my mother told me that her heart was broken that day when she had to leave my grandmother behind.

And so we left in an opened top Jeep. We drove hurriedly down the street passing many places that I didn't know I would never ever lay eyes on anymore. The importance of the moment was lost on me, but I knew it would be a long time before I see my grandmother again, and so I began to cry too.

This time we were fortunate enough to get on an American ship along with hundreds maybe thousands of others. That ship took us to Guam, and miraculously to where we are today- safe and sound, and happy!

I have been on many journeys since that summer of 75'. From Arkansas (where we were processed when we arrived in the United States) to Pennsylvania to New York City and finally to Connecticut , where I have made a home with my husband and our three children for the last seven years. And I have been away to many places as well much farther than that in between. Places unreachable by planes or automobiles; places deep in my heart and in my soul.

I am going away on a short vacation with my family in the morning; our bags not yet packed; tonight's dinner dishes still in the kitchen sink. We are heading up to Prout's Neck, Maine - a place described simply as "where Winslow Homer fell in love with the sea." We will spend the next five days playing, swimming, kayaking and biking with our kids. We will tote along watercolors and papers for in case inspiration hits us. We will lazily enjoy its rocky coasts and New England fares (we love lobster; we have been known to have lobster meals from the same lobster pound every day in a row for an entire week. I'm serious, ask the Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound people.)

You never know where life takes you. Going away sometimes really means GOING AWAY. As many times as I've GONE AWAY or BEEN AWAY, I have always learned that you must always go back to where you've come from. Whether physically or in your mind. That you should never let go of all the essences that makes you who you are. Like a spice that sits too long, its flavor becomes bland and unrecognizable.