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!!!!!!!!!!!!!