fromthemouthofmoi

For Cliff W. (because your favourite word is in here) Going into my kitchen is impossible without bringing  Simon Gerard  with me. Simon was a master chef, exquisite painter, teacher, raconteur, musician, carpenter and someone I consider as having been a dear friend. I met him through another childhood friend, Maud McKenna-Sugg when I was in my early 20's. At the time Simon was living in 'The Pink House" which was on his grandfather  Cushman Haagensen 's property. That little house was the cutest thing you ever saw. It had four rooms and each room was a step or two down from the next room. Cushman and his wife Alice lived in 'The Big House" only feet away. What struck me about Simon's family then, as it does now, is how absolutely talented they all were. A high value was not simply placed on education, but something about their rearing allowed for each of his family members to be fully respected whatever their chosen pursuits were. This was especially

Yesterday I read a profile article in New York Magazine about Cornel West. In it he is quoted as saying, "21st-century confessional narcissism isn't his thing". When I read that I was reminded of an Actor's Studio interview with an actor, whom I've forgotten now, describing that it was an uniquely American trait to say and express everything in a film that one had on one's mind. That American actor's bulldoze their way through a film leaving nothing to the imagination. The actor then gave examples of American films versus say, French film. When I thought about it I felt I had to agree. Anyone who has seem an Isabelle Huppert film will surely agree that what she expresses without words says volumes more than what Robert DeNiro or a Woody Allen film attempts to do. We as Americans can't seem to shut up. Another side of this is an insistence that what you say be polished and presented to satisfy everyone within earshot. This last component is interesting

I was picked up in a limo after work and taken to The Old Homestead Steakhouse over in the Meat Packing District/Chelsea. Herbert Khaury was performing. He had sent the limo. I was going to be 'Queen For A Day'. The limo looked something like this: The driver was an old friend of Khaury's from way back who had once been a NYPO, now retired, and who at the time had trouble walking. His name was Colonel Something or Another. I can't remember. He's dead now. He was married to a Filipino woman and had lots of kids. When I arrived at that shiny, beefy steakhouse, I was taken to a private room, away from patrons, where an array of randomness sat.  I was seated at a table and instructed to order what I wanted. This was a pricey joint and me not knowing what the plans were, I chose the least expensive.  Darlings, Tiny never struck me as rolling in the dough; and I'm a lady who likes to keep friends. I ate, I drank, I schmoozed. I sat through music set