CALL ME

Posted on March 9, 2024 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Certain kinds of intimacy emerge on a phone call that might never occur if you were sitting right next to the other person.” (Errol Morris)

Techno Wizards have taken a big bite out of the dating dance.   With its swipe-left, swipe-right mentality that offers up an instantaneous array of winnowed profile pics throughout the globe, faster than a Horn & Hardart automat used to dispense egg salad sandwiches, it’s become a disorienting game of “Let’s Make A Deal.”  If you settle for Swipe #1, you may have missed out on the prize behind Swipe #2 or #3, if only you had delved a little deeper.  Singlehood has devolved into a box of cracker jacks. 

The Swipe generation will never know the excitement that came with a limited means of communication, and the element of surprise and anticipation it could bring.  Before mobile phones became an appendage to our physical forms, we were left to our own devices, which for most of us consisted of an analog landline and its trusty sidekick, the answering machine. After a night on the town, a blinking red light on your answering machine the next day was a figurative call from Monty Hall, telling you that either you’ve won a velvet clad living room set from Drexel Heritage, or a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni … Could it be that handsome guy you spent half the night swaying with on the dance floor, or is it Bamberger’s department store, calling to remind you that your charge card payment was due on the 1st?

Socializing with the hopes of meeting a potential love interest, and without the armor of a text or email, made introductions a safari-like experience.  You both had to be game, and once your eyes locked onto a target, the hunt began.   The awareness of small talk lessened as the intensity of the eye gaze increased, and after all, who was really listening?  The primal need to size up a potential mate first, through magical pheromones and a quick glance at their shoes, took precedence.  “Can I buy you a drink?” had a liquifying way of sounding in one’s imagination like, “What are you doing the rest of your life?” depending upon how attracted you were, and how many gin and tonics you may have consumed.  And then there was the escalation of the electrical current passing between the two of you, a sensation that an LCD screen can never duplicate. 

“I’ll call you…” became the mating dance sign-off, a wrap up to the initial encounter with a desired intent to keep the dance going.  And there were tricks that came with giving your phone number on a piece of paper that a test call to their cell phone as a means of securing your number on their call log would never allow.  That machismo guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and who appeared to be easier to get rid of by reciting your number?  You simply gave an incorrect digit at the end of it.  It offered up the option to pretend they had mistakenly written it down should you ever run into them at a local deli. 

The best part of the promise of “I’ll call you…” was receiving the actual call.   With measured breathing and the right modulation to your voice, it expressed a flirtation that could never be captured on Facetime.  There was a mystery attached to the voice at the end of the receiver that fueled the getting-to-know-you banter, and if all went well, culminated in the anticipation of that first date.  It was a simmer instead of a boil. Getting from one step to the next without instantaneous gratification was half of the thrill, and a missed call or two made it even more fun. 

There’s something in the nature of a phone call that a text will never replace.  It’s having a 3-course meal instead of Chicken McNuggets on the go.  As for me, I’m reasonably up to date with technology and new apps, and I believe the world would be a much larger place without email.  Still, I’ll never forget the twinge of excitement at seeing that blinking red light, at a time when anything and anyone seemed possible. 

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UN CROISSANT ET UNE NOUVELLE VIE, S’IL TE PLAIT

Posted on February 15, 2024 by KAREN SGAMBATI

In 2010, I became a living cliché and ran off to Paris for a few months to find myself.  It was a well-timed and well-deserved sabbatical after what had been a string of arduous years prior.  Like any respectable heroine on the pages of a plumy novel, I packed too many suitcases, spent in excess time conjuring images of the perfect place to be idle with a notebook in one hand and a glass of rosé in the other, and bought a black cashmere beret before locking the door to my life at home.  I was restless, roving, and ready.

I rented a cozy apartment in the 4th arrondissement that exuded charm upon entering and was roomy enough to glide through its space unencumbered yet had an intimate feel to envision a moveable feast set on the table while Hemingway regaled with tales of life and literature.  The ornate wrought-iron railings that protected the elongated, stately windows beckoned each morning with a flitting visit from a neighborhood bird, reminding me that there was a buttery croissant awaiting in the café below. 

As with most retreats from reality, I relished being hedonistic with my time, luxuriating in the unpredictable chronology that comprised my day. I spent hours in communion with art, minutes on the Metro, and embraced the suspension of any clock as I walked aimlessly to the next fabulous destination.  In Paris, my days and nights were gleefully without structure; lunch in Montmartre flowed into evenings at the Bercy, and a midnight concert in a candlelit cathedral came with an element of surprise as to what level of light would greet you upon returning home.  In Paris, time is the rebel child in a family of framework.

One of the joys of traveling to a place where you’re unknown is not the thrill of being able to bluff your way into being someone you’re not, but rather the freedom to be who you truly are beneath the quotidian of life. There’s gratification in a shared story with a stranger that in time will fade from their ears, and the divulgence of a surname that is unnecessary for casual acquaintance. What’s more exciting is the sensation of meeting someone new, someone with whom you won’t share a tomorrow. The encounter becomes a page from a newly opened book, with the shared camaraderie archived as you move on to the next chapter.

It’s effortless to fall in love with Paris.  With its enduring beauty and gilded architecture, impressive cuisine that looks as sumptuous as it tastes, verdant gardens whose trees stand guard like graceful ballerinas, and the open-air markets with their hues of floral splendor and hints of Provençale herbs that resemble a Monet still life come to life, it’s uncomplicated in the spell it casts.

The true exquisiteness of Paris isn’t in its alluring facade, but in its presence. It possesses an attitude that seizes the air with a fragrancy that drifts into the mind of its dwellers, a gentle reminder to savor life through the imbuement of all that is aesthetic and pleasing to the senses. It’s a philosophy that embraces the small subtleties of beauty with each day to conclude a life well-lived, more than a monumental event that overtakes a year. It’s the instinct to set a gorgeous array of flowers on the dinner table, knowing it will make the meal appreciably better. It’s the secret of less is often more, and that beauty is most beautiful when it’s allowed to be understated. Paris lives in the moment, not waiting for a special occasion to shine.

Although my love affair with Paris was all too brief, it guided a change to the way I think.  I now see colors where there was once black and white.  It gave me the call to courage needed to move my life across the country and begin a new chapter at a time when many of my peers were nestling into the familiar.   The imprint of its experience helped to endure the challenging times that scattered about the years that followed, knowing that behind every storm cloud, awaits the possibility of a joyful reward. The exuberance of Paris helps one to find their missing joie de vivre.  

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I’LL BE SEEING YOU, THE OG VERSION

Posted on February 6, 2024 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“It’s paradoxical that the idea of living a long life appeals to everyone, but the idea of getting older doesn’t appeal to anyone.” (Andy Rooney)

When I was 12-years old, I would race home from the park around the block from my house on a Friday evening, obeying the sound of the 8 p.m. fire station whistle, and giving a quick wave to my friends who still lingered, all to get home in time for my date with the TV.  “The Partridge Family” was dominating the ABC time slot, and it was the perfect reward for a homework filled week. 

They were days of pre-DVRs and limited channels, and watching your favorite show, at any time and as many times, was still a technological embryo.  Back in the 70’s, if you missed a new episode of a show that aired on a certain date, it came with consequences.   It would be months before the network’s rerun season began, and I wasn’t about to take the risk.  My pre-teen heart had an all-consuming, mad crush on David Cassidy.

With his slender build, shaggy hair, and aesthetically pleasing features, I thought he was the most beautiful guy in the world. The cool clothes, hip bell bottoms and occasional puka shells he donned only added to his appeal.  And he could sing.  I imagine for every love-sick young girl listening to the sound of his voice, “I Think I Love You,” with his heartfelt persuasive conviction, convinced them that somehow it was directed at them. 

The effect a teen idol has to a young, impressionable mind is branded, in perpetuity, as the version of themselves portrayed during the height of their fame and awarded adoration. I remember decades later watching David Cassidy on Larry King Live, a few years before his untimely passing, and listening to him speak of the trials and tribulations he endured throughout most of his life, most notably his relentless battle with alcoholism. 

As with most people who age naturally, his teen-idol looks were a fragment of the past, washed over with the weathering the years attach to our face with time.   His story was honest and brave; his vulnerability spoke with the strength required to make an impact.  He earned the resurrection of my memory as I recalled the version of this beautiful man who was once the object of many a teen heart’s desire. 

Isn’t it the way for most of us?  We awaken each morning, before our eyes adjust to the new day, feeling as though we’re still the glossier, more vibrant versions of ourselves, even if it shares space with a few more aches and pains.  It’s not until we first look in the mirror and see a stranger in the reflection who we think we recognize, or worse wonder, is that my mother staring back at me from behind the glass? 

If we can get past the initial bewilderment, we can realize that aging need not be as painful as a root canal if it’s accepted and embraced.  Think back to a time when you ran into an old friend you hadn’t seen in decades.  Chances are you both stared silently at first, trying to take in the aged version standing before you, and giving your eyes the appropriate time to adjust to the difference, as you would, had you just emerged into sunlight after time spent in a darkened theater.  A glint from behind their eyes then reassured you that this is the same person you shared conversation and laughs with, only time has remodeled the building.

In truth, the fine lines and gray hairs that insert themselves uninvited onto our bodies shouldn’t be mourned too greatly if our soul has aged well in sync.  They represent God’s permission slip to live another day, and the hand stamp to prove you’ve gained entrance to the club.  It’s a gift that is not bestowed to everyone, and a gift that with the proper mindset, and some much-needed luck in life, comes with a bow. 

In my opinion, Ali McGraw, the American actress and activist, is a woman who has cornered the market on aging gracefully and beautifully.  At 84 years old, her mature face is highlighted perfectly with the gentle sweep of cosmetics, her resplendent silver hair gorgeously maintained.  More important, she owns a face that seems to convey a peace and wisdom that cannot be replicated with a scalpel.  

It’s when we can accept the advancing years and view the metamorphosis of our physicality as a gold star on life’s exam, the sense of accomplishment that comes with knowing the finish line just might be met with the accruement of years, turns every wrinkle into a badge of honor.  And for those of us who like to wear our badges a little more loosely, a small tweak here and there can remain our little secret.

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THE THUNDERBOLT … CUPID’S BEST SHOT

Posted on January 9, 2024 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Many of us have certain habits and behavior that we’d prefer keep quiet … those 1 a.m. snacks consisting of peculiar food pairings that would make most sober people queasy on sight, or watching a reality television show that’s considered witless, the type that is often followed by a social media comment that groans “well, that’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back.” Still, there is something captivating about these shows when approached with a Margaret Mead mindset. Humans are fascinating creatures in their known habitats, even the crazy ones.

I’ve become strangely engaged with the Lifetime series, “Married At First Sight.”  It’s based on the premise of arranged marriage, which is still prevalent in certain cultures. A team of “experts” select people who are eager to be married, usually after years of dating Mr./Ms. Wrong, who are then matched with an equally willing partner, based on a formulaic comparison of compatibility, personality, physical appearance, and lifestyle.

Another way to describe it would be a scripted trainwreck imparting just enough hope for a happily ever after, with bookies setting the line at the same odds Cinderella had when Prince Charming returned her untraceable glass slipper. Cinderella may have beaten the book, but unfortunately the majority of these embellished attired and tuxedo clad hopefuls do not.  Reality shows are provoked by ratings, which translate into revenue, which crown viewers as the God Plutus in the eyes of the media. Drama is imperative.

It should come as no surprise that conflict, coupled with an overabundance of libations, and the flipping of a table for good measure, is encouraged. With Married At First Sight, viewers are drawn in by the quirky bride walking down the aisle with an objet d’art in the form of a feathered bird pinned to her veil as she sets eyes for the first time upon her nervous groom, who happens to be wearing a fez.

To keep viewers engaged, the altar meet-and-greets are steeped with elements of surprise, such as an intoxicated bride who needs to take a rest in the grass before making that trek down the aisle to her matrimonial match, or the alpha female, all glossed and curled, who immediately senses the beta in the bow tie standing to her right.  Viewers become cats with a non-fatal curiosity that purrs, “How will this turn out?” 

I believe in love at first sight. Italians call it the “thunderbolt,” an instantaneous burst of intense love, a direct hit of Cupid’s arrow, when a person meets their romantic ideal. What film buff can forget the iconic scene in “The Godfather,” when Michael Corleone first sets his eyes on Apollonia, the woman he marries in Sicily. Upon seeing his future bride for the first time, Michael stops cold in his tracks, speechless, as he gazes upon her beauty. Within a half-hour, he’s sitting at a wooden table on the rustic porch of her father’s cafe, sipping homemade wine and declaring he intends to marry his daughter.

I call it meeting your “template,” based on a theory I have of romantic love. It’s more than simply an intense physical attraction, it’s the mystical and perfect confluence of physical features melded together, wrapped in a familiar feeling and a predestined essence. It’s the image imprinted in the subconscious of a young girl playing with her Barbie dolls, or the boy watching a movie with a flaxen-haired heroine, who thinks,“she is so pretty.” 

We carry that template long into adulthood, with pieces of it emerging in various love interests. But when you meet your perfect template, available and equally interested in you, there’s an unyielding resin that will keep a fulfilling relationship connected with a devotion that withstands the test of time.

I recently watched a heartwarming video of a married couple in their 90’s, reflecting on the secrets to their 70-year marriage.  After listing traits known to enhance a loving relationship such as knowing how to resolve arguments, being kind to each other and being supportive, the husband added his favorite element – he still loved seeing his wife’s face on the pillow beside him each morning, after all of the years.  

The power of the template.

The next time you come across a Picasso painting of a figure with two noses converging near a forehead and a jumble of incongruent features, think of it as I do … somewhere during his childhood his template became erased, and he’s simply trying to recapture it.

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A SIGN, SONG & A WONDER

Posted on December 5, 2023 by KAREN SGAMBATI

In the mid-1980’s, pre-iTunes, and pre-internet, and at a time when information was not a keystroke away, I would listen to a Latin music station on the stereo system that rested atop the large dresser in my bedroom. My favorite part of the program was the closing, when the DJ would give his sign-off in Spanish and play a beautiful instrumental song. Although I did not understand what he said, it didn’t matter. The intonation of his voice was so heartfelt, and the chosen tune so hopeful, I just knew he was wishing me well.

After one show, the DJ ended the program with a song that was so hauntingly beautiful it became an “earworm,” a song I couldn’t get out of my head.  He must have acknowledged the name of it and the artist, but it went past me. I became obsessed with this song; I just had to know its name. I phoned the radio station headquartered in Paterson, NJ, explained the information I was seeking, and met with a round of attempts to connect me to the right department until my call disconnected somewhere along the chain. I continued to listen to the program for weeks after without success. The song evaded me.

Without the help of modern-day technology, I found myself walking into small Mom & Pop records stores in Greenwich Village in NYC, trying to warble the melody in my terribly off-key voice, in a determined attempt to identify it. Embarrassment was the last thing I cared about; I was on a mission. After what felt like too many exercises in futility, I shrugged it off as something that was not meant to be. Still, I thought of it as the most beautiful song I had ever heard.

One weekday morning thirty-plus years later, now living in southern California, I was sitting on a remote section of a Los Angeles beach gazing into what I refer to as a “Land of Oz” backdrop, the type of day where the colors of the sky and the horizon blend, saturated in pixels of high definition.  While enjoying the peace and sunshine that washed over me, and meditating on my future, I opened the YouTube app on my phone, setting it to auto-play to enjoy some instrumental background music.  

Ten minutes into the playlist, as I watched the playful dolphins somersault in the distance and contemplating if I was where I was meant to be at this point in my life, the hauntingly beautiful song that had eluded me for decades, came on. In a suspended moment of both excitement and disbelief, I carefully looked down at the screen and there it was, the elusive melody: “Piano” by the late, great composer Bebu Silvetti.

I turned the volume up as loudly as my ears could manage and continued to stare into the ocean, thanking God repeatedly, not only for finally disclosing the song’s identity, but for confirming to me, in a supernatural sense, that yes, I was exactly where I was meant to be in this part of my journey. Since then, “Piano” has become a favorite I’ve repeatedly played, never tiring of, that allows me to drift into that comfortable space in my mind where boundless dreams and the anticipation of future happiness exist.

A few years after that magical morning, I came face-to-face with a cancer diagnosis. As shocking and devastating as it was for my mind to absorb that reality, and my body to endure the accompanying treatments, there was a quiet assurance inside of me that knew I was in the right place at the right time to navigate this trial.  The battle has been tough and debilitating at times, but the California sunshine, the steadfast warmth, and as I choose to believe, the prescient dolphins who enjoy nothing more than conveying joy, were there to provide encouragement.

The paradox of life is that we are granted both free-will and a predestined fate in the years gifted to us. Our Creator understood this long before we entered the world and gave us a spiritual GPS system called intuition to guide us through. We may not be able to escape all the lessons and circumstances we came to experience, but we can choose to honor ourselves and consciously flourish with greater awareness by listening to this guiding voice within. 

And, on those occasions when we are smack dab in “the zone,” that sweet spot of awareness of all things in perfect order, and the appreciation of this great offering, the Universe will reward us with an unmistakable and glorious sign.

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WHEN THE BLINDERS FALL FROM YOUR EYES

Posted on December 4, 2023 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Part of healing from any “dis-ease,” or at least what I believe, is to do the soul searching necessary to get to the emotional root causes your body has buried, the experiences and thoughts that manifest into deregulated cells, giving them power to come alive with physical disobedience.  My healing journey from cancer has followed suit; I was instructed to dig deep into my psyche with an unfiltered eye to examine what factors and experiences may have contributed to my body finally screaming out, “something’s gotta give!”

I did just that.  At first, it presented itself as a rabbit hole of discomfort and recoiling, of ripping off a band-aid halfway before leaving the task for another time because the shame of it, well, felt too shameful. Knowing this truthful exploration would be purifying, I prayed, and then prayed some more, to God to give me nothing less than clarity and crystal-clear vision. I longed to reach the point of saying “I finally get it … this is the truth of this situation, the beliefs that created it are no longer relevant or have power, and I can comfortably walk away from anything that isn’t aligned with my walk in the here and now …”

After all, doesn’t the Word tell us, “The truth shall set us free?” Little did I know I was about to become Eve, taking a bite out of the forbidden apple of truth.

The nakedness felt as though I was standing in a department store window, exposed, while pedestrian eyes fixated upon my soul.  It was painful.  I had to take an introspective look back into the ghosts of decades past to understand how what happened may have helped shape the mindset and belief system that encouraged these wayward cells into my body. 

For many of us, it’s more than we’d readily care to share on a public forum, me included. Every revelatory experience of peeling away the layers and seeing things for what they really are – and more importantly, as they really were – is simply too raw.  It’s truthful to say that when we’re able to sit back with distance and an objective eye and can witness the seminal events of our past as they actually happened, not as we thought or hoped they did, it is surprisingly cathartic.  You become the teacher grading the exam of a student you’ve never met; it’s your red pen that knows to circle the accurate answers, correcting what their pencil may have told the paper. 

I was able to relive times of faulty choices and some less-than-stellar moments of days bygone and forge through the eye-squinting that comes with resurrecting these buried memories, only to see what really led to certain trajectories in my life.  I gained the ability to see people I loved, and those I didn’t, as flesh-and-blood fallible humans, not the lionized or judgmental versions I had created in my mind.  

As God removed the blinders from my eyes, and the emotional intelligence I had always possessed in quantity came to the forefront, I relished in this new-found clarity.  The pieces of the puzzle started to press into each other, making sense out of what had been unaware. I began to see my life as a tapestry of regrets and mistakes woven into times of triumph, beauty and love. 

I came to understand that to ruminate on the past, which is now a long-faded hologram in time, knowing that the permanence of its end is real and nothing can be done to rewrite any differing outcome, is futile. The reward comes in understanding that as humans, we can only do what we know to do at any given moment. When we know better, we do better. 

Now that I’ve reached the stage in life where more years are behind me than in front of me, I cherish the clarity I’ve been gifted, and the ability to forgive, move on, and live as fearlessly as I possibly can before the end of my journey.  I treasure the ability to make decisions based on the reality of what is, and not what may be colored by unresolved patterns. I can live as I am, right now in the present, without disillusionment. 

One of the surprising lessons of cancer is that it introduces itself as fear, yet in actuality, it’s a catalyst to dissolve much of the longstanding fear in your life.

Let the truth set you free.  The joy and freedom that will come will far outweigh the initial discomfort the revelations bring to the surface. When you can release the people and behaviors that no longer serve you, and remain accepting of that which you know is intrinsically right for you, you’ll feel that you’ve arrived in the place that has the potential to make the remaining years of life both exhilarating and genuine.

I’m committed to making the days I have ahead as authentic as possible, and full of who I now am, without the insecurity of curating my life for the sake of others.  As Carl Jung wisely said, “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.”  And if Jung is not your thing, take heed of the words the incomparable Janis Joplin reminds us of in “Me and Bobby McGee” ….

“Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose…” 

When it hits home that everything in this world is temporary, everything is fleeting and there really is nothing left to lose, you’ll stop hanging on so tightly and trust the process. It’s in the letting go that the peace you’ve so feverishly been chasing will wash over you in an undeniable wave.

Let Go.

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THE FICKLE INDEX FINGER OF FACEBOOK: To “Unfriend” or “Unfollow,” is that the Question?

Posted on December 10, 2015 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Those little ions behind our LCD screens that make up our cyber space playground are getting heated! Facebook is an odd bird; it’s an obsession for some, a casual acquaintance for others, an electronic tabloid to go with our morning java or afternoon break. A place to give friends a high-five in the form of a thumbs-up, a place to share photos of your food, your dog or your latest vacation. A place to be silly, a place to be witty, and place to banter with strangers of similar thought, a place of computerized camaraderie that brightens a day, if only for a few minutes …

… and then there’s politics.

Memes with an orange hair comb over do battle with the nutty old man from the Muppets. Fiery Lefties and impassioned Righties comment and hit the “like” button with furor, “I’m right” “You’re wrong,” You say “To-MOT-oe” while I know it’s “To-MATE-oe” so let’s call the whole thing off.

Click. Unfriend. Ouch.

I was in my car last night listening to a drive-time political show on the commute home and went into a laughing fit over something that in actuality, isn’t really that funny, but just happens to strike you at a the moment. The hot topic naturally was what’s been happening with the recent terrorist attack in California and the president’s address, yada yada yada. A woman called in with an excitable tone in her voice and a pronounced southern drawl. She gave the show’s host her opinion on the matter and between catches of breath added, “I even had to UNFRIEND my son today!” The host responded to her comments then laughed, “Now go FRIEND your son again, and don’t let politics ruin your holiday.”

I had a belly-laugh. The thought of this woman, sitting behind her computer screen with perhaps a cigarette dangling from her terse lips or a cup of coffee wobbling near her mouse, and becoming so angry at something typed by a person who once came through her birth canal, struck me as funny. I envisioned her, slightly flushed, searching for the take down menu on her son’s profile page, a page that more than likely had a photo of her smiling with a cocktail in hand, swiftly banishing him from her wall of connected faces. “No Go-Pro dashboard camera for you this Christmas, young man!”

I’ve never unfriended anyone for a political opinion. I believe everyone is entitled to their beliefs, opinions and personal convictions and as long as they’re shared in a relatively civil and respectful manner, no name calling or over-the-top anger, it’s all fair game. The reason we live in such a great country is precisely because we’re free to state our opinion. And, to prevent those little political embers from becoming a full force flame, there’s a nifty little feature on Facebook called the “unfollow” button or “see less of so-and-so’s posts.” All can be enacted without hurt feelings, knee jerk reactions or the finality of unfriending.

If someone’s on your friend list, they’re most likely there for a reason. Either they’re someone you’re currently close friends with, someone from your past, a old friend or classmate, a friend from a job past or current, a friend of a friend or a ‘hey, let’s reconnect’ type of buddy. There were warm feelings at one time, and feelings can stay warm. It doesn’t matter if you’re Liberal, Conservative, Republican, Democrat or the person who still believes Ross Perot’s infomercial”Chicken Feathers, Deep Voodoo and the American Dream” didn’t get the recognition it deserved, it’s all okay … as long as respect is given.

So if your friend is looking through yellow tinted glasses and your’s are a shade of blue, just remember … there’s a green hue somewhere in there.

crazy angry man

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LOVE LIES BETWEEN THE STUFFING BITS

Posted on December 1, 2015 by KAREN SGAMBATI

I was one of those fortunate kids who got to experience a traditional Italian Thanksgiving while growing up. For those of us who are culturally bonded, you know the side dishes may have varied a bit from house to house, but the theatrical carte du jour never contrasted much.

I remember awakening on thanksgiving morning to savory aromas filling the house and the sound of sizzling bits simmering on the stove. The last minute bustle of a forgotten item was always a given, eased by the convenience of a local market a few blocks away. Dinner was served mid-to-late afternoon, but the real magic began with trays of my father’s indescribably delicious baked clams oreganata.  If heaven were encased in a sea shell, I have no doubt his unrivaled recipe of perfectly minced clams in its melange’ of delectable stuffing would construct the Pearly Gates. They were devoured within minutes of being set on the table, with heaps of empty shells and the smack of sated lips the only remnant that they ever existed.

There was Aunt Eileen’s billowy “manigutt,” a first course of gossamer whipped ricotta wrapped in ever so light pasta sheets and baked to perfection. Aunt Anna’s sought after stuffing, a dish that lead the way in honoring the turkey, was a perennial favorite and ushered in the start of the holiday, with its ingredients commanding the kitchen table on thanksgiving eve. Food, family and escalating voices were followed by too many desserts, fruit and cracked nutshells scattered on the table; coffee and anisette to help aid digestion before a second act of turkey sandwiches at 10:00p.

Thanksgiving is about gratitude for all that we have and all that we’ve had. My parents have been gone for many years now, and family has dispersed but family isn’t limited to shared DNA. It’s encompassed in every wonderful friend who comes into our life, and for that we can count our blessings. I wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving, with a bit of the Italian, in your very own way.

stuffing

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7 TIPS TO HELP BEAT THE BLUES:

Posted on April 17, 2015 by KAREN SGAMBATI
  • Watch the Woody Allen romantic fantasy “Alice,” starring Mia Farrow as an unfulfilled, wealthy NYC housewife seeking to find meaning in her otherwise shallow life. Mia’s character visits an enlightened and unorthodox doctor in Chinatown who prescribes various herbs as part of her treatment, one which comes with a side effect of making her invisible after drinking, allowing her to freely move about into the private lives of others whom she desires to know on a more truthful level. After you’ve thought, “hey, that would be a neat power to have…” ponder on where you would go or who you would drop in on if you were invisible. Have fun letting your mind drift as your eyebrows wiggle.
  • Dance with abandon. Put on a pair of white gym socks, hit an uncarpeted floor in the house and crank up James Brown. Let it go. If you feel the urge to lip-sync because you’re a multi-talented entertainer, pick up a hairbrush but take care not to hold it too closely to your mouth. The gag reflex caused by a lip latching loose hair can derail even the smoothest moves. And since you’re going to be “dancing like no one is watching,” do be sure to first pull down the shades.
  • Sort through boxes of old photos and pick out any of an ex love who has broken your heart. Scan the photo to your computer and download a version of photo editing software. Repeat the following affirmation: “My outer adult now forgives and releases you with love; my inner child gets a kick out of seeing you with donkey ears and nose hair.” Then start editing.
  • Enjoy a glass of heady wine. Don’t enjoy it at home. Go to an inviting bar, plop yourself on a stool and seek out the oldest bartender you can find. Ask them, “So how’s life been treating YOU?”
  • Eat nothing but finger-sized food items throughout the day … fancy canapes, miniature ears of corn, quail eggs, olives, melon balls, etc. Arrange them on a decorative plate before photographing and uploading to your Facebook page with the caption, “Having a nosh at the House of Windsor, btw Charles really is a stitch.”
  • If finances permit, buy yourself something that only a slightly eccentric friend or relative would give as a gift … a chartreuse handbag with a monkey tail handle, “House of Hogwart” embossed cuff links or a trendy unisex fragrance called “Clean Dirt.” Look at it and nod with agreement, “yes, life IS too short not to have this wonderful item.”
  • Send an email to someone you really like and haven’t communicated with in a while and ask them to tell you about something comical that has recently happened to them. Most people will jump at the chance to share the absurdities of life. If you add that your spirit is flagging a bit, chances are they’ll respond by channeling Milton Berle.

 

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A DATE WITH DESTINY

Posted on July 4, 2014 by KAREN SGAMBATI

rockyI just finished watching “Rocky II” on AMC.  I’m mesmerized by the Rocky story, both on-screen and off.   Even after watching it for the hundredth time, I still find myself at the beginning of each sequel wondering whether or not Rocky wins the fight at the end, and still yell at the screen “hit him, hit him” long after I remember that yeah, he is gonna land that punch.

At a time in society when I find it difficult to respect or hold in any regard many of the mainstream Hollywood actors or ”celebrities” of the day, Sylvester Stallone is an exception.  He’s more than just another “rags-to-riches” story, he’s a testament of a human spirit so tenacious, so dogged that failure was never an option, even when it was a very real probability during some of his darkest moments.  I envy people like him.  They have a “knowing” in their calling, an unshakeable faith in themselves that surpasses simply trusting in the future; they know without doubt what they’ve come to this earth to accomplish, even when all they can see in front of them is a muddled road riddled with uncertainty. A “knowing.”  What a gift that knowing is, but when success finally sidles up to a doorstep, it’s easy to forget that it often comes with a very large price tag attached.

If you’ve never heard the story of Sylvester Stallone’s “Rise to Rocky,” take a few minutes and listen to Tony Robbins in his own words speak about Sylvester’s triumph over seemingly insurmountable adversity.  Can you imagine a guy so confident in his destiny that as an unknown hungry and more often than not penniless screenwriter, he turned down an initial offer of $125,000 for his script, an offer made while he was so “dead broke” he actually had to resort to selling his beloved dog for $25?  More money than he could have ever imagined at the time was dangled in front of him and refused, all because he would have been denied the right star in his film, something he knew with certitude was part of a much bigger plan.  Subsequent offers of $250,000 and $325,000 followed, again declined by Stallone because he knew, he just knew, that he was born to play Rocky.  Now that’s what we Italians call “appuntamento con il destino,” a true date with destiny.

Most of us are aware of how Sylvester’s career turned out and the success he’s achieved.  But did you also know that when he finally sold his script for the rock-bottom price of $35,000, a price that granted him the exclusive right to play Rocky in the film, one of the first things he did was to track down the man who purchased his dog and pleaded to buy him back, negotiating an inflated fee of $3,000?  “Butkus,” his loyal canine companion went on to his own cameo role in the film as Rocky Balboa’s dog.  I just love a happy ending. Happy 4th of July.  Independence comes to those who stand firm in their beliefs even when it seems hard to do so.

Here’s Tony Robbins talking about about Sylvester Stallone and the Rocky story:

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