Starting over:  cookin' up a new beginning

By Carole Kane

Felice Ricci sat in his old recliner, hardly paying any attention to "Let's Make a Deal." This Long Island neighborhood was so quiet compared to Thirty-Third Street in Brooklyn. Tomorrow night at the poker game he was gonna tell Lorenzo and the others they weren't missing a thing. After Josie died, he had left their lonely apartment in Brooklyn to live with his daughter, Patty, and her kids. At the going-away party they had made him, Skinny Vinny and Johnny Downstairs had made a big fuss over him going to live the rich life out on the Island. He shook his head. They didn't know how rich their own lives were! But at least he kept in touch with the weekly poker game.

He could hear Patty's housekeeper, Mrs. Hettinger, bustling around in the kitchen upstairs, and he switched off the television. He'd go keep her company for a while. Maybe he could get her to make him some coffee.

Her dress made little swishing noises as she walked to the round table and set two big cups and saucers on it. "I'm so glad you came upstairs, Mr. Ricci. This time of day is very quiet. The boys won't be home from school for a half hour, and the housework is done. Right about now I like to have a little tea and a biscuit, and it's much nicer to have someone to share it with."

Felice tucked his thumbs under his suspenders and leaned back in the chair. Maybe he should have changed his old shirt before he came up. "What is a biscuit?" he asked. "I don't think I ever had one."

She smiled and put a pink-flowered dish on the table. On it were several baking soda biscuits and a few Lorna Doone cookies. "Then you must have one," she said, offering him the plate. "When I was a young girl in Liverpool, my mother and I would always have tea and biscuits in the afternoon. I suppose everyone did. It's their custom, you know. And I still do the same thing after all these years."

She poured hot tea from the blue china pot. "There, now - how do you like it?"

He bit into the hard, dry muffin. How could anybody eat these things? He would not say anything to hurt her feelings, out of respect. But Madonn' - he was gonna have aggita all afternoon now. "It - it is different - yes, different," he said lamely.

"I like them with butter, and then dunk them in the tea," she said, spreading sweet butter on hers and dipping it into the cup. "They tend to be a bit dry."

He tried it. Then he took a big mouthful of tea to try to get rid of the taste. The weak liquid only made it worse.

"Did you ever have black coffee?" he asked. "Espresso?" He rolled his eyes upward and kissed his fingers.

"I don't believe so."

He jumped up from the table. "Wait here," he said happily. I will show you."

He hurried down to his own kitchen in the basement to get the Medaglia D'Oro, and two pastries he'd bought that morning. Hopefully she'd throw his tea out before he returned. On his way back through the big living room, where he also slept, he put on a clean white shirt, and he picked up a half-empty bottle of the anisette he had made last winter.

A little later, the upstairs kitchen was filled with the good, delicious fragrance of real coffee, and Felice stood pouring some into their cups. "Now you taste something really good," he said. He sliced a canolli into three pieces, then added some anisette to the coffee. "Enjoy!"

She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped a bit. The vile, bitter stuff almost made her gag. She couldn't drink it! But he had tried to please her - she couldn't tell him how awful she found it.

"A little hot," she said. "I'm going to let it cool off a bit." Then she pointed to the pastry. "What's in this?"

"It's a canolli." He pronounced it 'gone-all.'   "The inside is made with ricotta ('adigaut') and sugar and candied fruit. My favorite pastry. You like?"

She bit it gingerly. After the coffee, she was afraid of what this would taste like. Ugh! It was too sweet. Too heavy. But at least she could swallow it without gagging. "Delicious!" she said. "But it's so rich! I'd better not eat too much of it." She pushed it away.

"Go 'head, eat," he said. "You don't have to worry about calories. Besides, this little bit won't hurt." He pushed the dish back towards her.

The kitchen door slammed open, and Brian and Greg stormed in, piling school books on the counter as they ran to embrace Uncle Felice and Granny H. The school bus was right on time.

"Hey! Pastries! Can we have some?"

Felice smiled benignly at them.

"Sure - sure. Here. Eat. But leave some for Mrs. Hettinger."

"Oh, let the children have it," she said. Thank God. "I've got to start dinner anyway." She grabbed Brian's arm as he reached for the plate. "Go wash your hands first, young man! You too, Gregory."

"What are you cooking tonight?" Felice asked. "Stew again?" He always had dinner upstairs with the rest of the family.

"No - meat loaf," she said, and he watched her bustle about the kitchen, getting her ingredients together.

"You could make meatballs with that stuff," he hinted. "And a little spaghetti on the side would be nice."

She turned to him, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, Mr. Ricci - I never even thought of it! Of course! You must miss your Eye-Talian food." She smiled warmly at him. "Tomorrow you shall have it. I've got a nice can of sauce, and plenty of noodles. It will be just like you're back in Italy."

He could feel his stomach turn in revulsion. Canned sauce! Noodles!

"That would be wonderful," he said, smiling valiantly. He stood up. "Well, I must go. I'm out of cigars, and Genovese is having a sale today. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

"No, thank you anyway, Mr. Ricci."

She watched him go, relieved. He was such a nice man, but she'd have to avoid eating with him or her stomach would dissolve. That espresso!

In the driveway, Felice started up his old black Ford. She was a very nice woman - but she knew from nothing about good eating. Maybe tomorrow he'd invite her downstairs for lunch.

 Adapted from A Dream of Roman Candles by Carole Kane  copyright 2002

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   By Frank Clark

Everyone in such a rush these days.  No time for anything.

Time is of the essence.

Got to get the kids to school.  Hurry!

Got to get to work on time.     Hurry! 

Got a meeting at 10 am.         Hurry! 

Got to make it crosstown.       Hurry! 

Got to meet client at office.     Hurry! 

Got to run to the market         Hurry!

No time for lunch.  Errands!   Hurry!  Hurry!  

Got to get back to work.          Hurry!  Hurry!  Hurry!

Need  job!! Got to finish report by 5 pm.  Hurry!

Got to stop by market again.  Hurry! 

Got to get home by six.            Hurry! 

In rush hour traffic.        Can't hurry!

We're all in a hurry going somewhere.  Can we ever slow down the running?

How about a little time in the day to relax and enjoy the moment?

Could it be possible?  Have we forgotten where we are?  We're in Florida.

Just take a moment to relax.  Take a breather.  Slow down.

Look around you and what do you see?  Over there, wind blown oaks.

Ah, Florida!

Take another breather.  Look around you and what do you see? 

Over there, ibises and egrets all along the road. 

 Ah, Florida!

Another look.  See the palmetto blowing gently in the wind.

Another look.  Tropical flora in abundance.  Brilliant hibiscus and bouganvilla.

Another look.  Up in the sky, the soaring and diving gulls and pelicans.

Ah, Florida!

Feel the gentle tropical breeze.  Ah, feels so good.

Florida!

Feel the refreshing foamy surf as you wade along the shore.

Feel the balmy air across your skin.  Feels so good.

Florida!

Smell the salty briny air from our ocean, bays, rivers and gulf. 

Ah, Florida

Smell the bounty of fish at our docks.  The catch of the day.

Ah, fresh Florida!

Smell the aroma of seafood, from fine restaurants to backyard grills.

So appetizing!

Hear and see the palms rustling in the wind.

So Florida!

Hear the natural sound of birds and animals in our mangroves, marshes and forests. Hear the sounds of frogs, crickets and cicadas.  Almost deafening at sundown.  Hear the stirring of gators in our rivers looking for prey.  Watch out!  You're in Florida!

Last, but not least, the incredible palette of colors in our sunset.  Nothing like them.  The soft colors of orange, red and pink along with a wisp of clouds all heading for the horizon.  Just breathtaking!  Enjoyed by so many every day in Florida.

Naples, Florida Sllunset

Old Florida?  It never left us.  Still here.  Just need to take time out to notice it.

Florida.  A sensory experience!

A house in London                                   

  By Joyce Magnavito

It is commonly believed by many that when Man's final journey takes him to that most feared of all destinations, none ever return. But is this true I also once believed that leaving this world meant the end of existence in all its forms. However, I had not yet lived in the house in London - - the house that haunts my memory still.

It appeared identical to the others in the row of landmark homes built in 1740, but when the heavy door with its lion's head knocker closed behind those who entered, a deep, unnatural silence, and the dim, dismal interior enveloped and shut them off from the outside world. At first, I could hardly believe my good fortune and the uncanny coincidence that had brought me there; an ad in the newspaper for a room to rent, in the very same house that always drew my eyes irresistibly to it on my walks to Hampstead Heath. How I used to wish that I could live there - and now I was about to!

The unnerving occurrences began slowly, then increased in frequency and in their menacing nature, until they could no longer be explained away. The feeling of being watched, followed, and the sense of a constant presence, manifesting itself in doors opening and closing by themselves, footsteps and whisperings, made me feel that I was never alone - - and that I was not wanted there. Friends stopped visiting me, saying they felt "uneasy" and the house had an "atmosphere." One friend said that she had felt a hand push forcefully against the small of her back, on the staircase, and she was saved from a bad fall by grabbing onto the banister. A photograph of me taken on the staircase reveals a man's face behind me staring into the camera. And when resting with a migraine headache while visiting me, this same friend had heard someone come into the room and stand beside the bed, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes - - too terrified of what she might see.

Hampstead Village

One night, slow, heavy footsteps mounted the stairs and stopped on my landing. Jane, whose bedroom was next to my own, emerged from her room at the same moment that I did from mine. She told me that she could no longer pretend that this house was the same as any other, and she was too frightened to stay on. Jane asked me if I "had ever heard the strange music?" Yes, I had heard the eerie strains floating on the air in the middle of the night. Once, I had left my room and stood at the top of the stairs listening. The music sounded as though it were coming from below. It stopped as soon as I began to descend the staircase - - only to begin again when I returned to my room. I would soon learn that others before me had moved away, afraid to remain in this house where reality retreated before chilling incidents, for which no stretching of logic and probability could produce believable causes.

The months passed and I stayed on, while it was as if parallel lives co-existed within these walls - those of unseen beings, and those of the living. The door of my bedroom often opened as I sat writing letters, and the old floorboards creaked as if someone were walking across the room. A heavy chain with a wooden knob at the end, suspended from an old-fashioned light fixture, swung like a pendulum without being touched. Ginger, the cat, sometimes gave a start of fright and stared at the wall on the landing, then ran off with fur bristling. The sense of malevolent eyes boring into my back grew stronger.   The house felt terribly cold; even summer's warmth was unable to penetrate the chill and gloom, or a pervasive feeling of a sinister, watchful presence. I was being forced to the realization that there was a consciousness behind all the occurrences and it was we who were considered the intruders, by them.

Another night, I awoke to see the featureless form of a woman gliding to my bedroom door. She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned and looked in my direction. But it was my friend, Mary, who first saw the girl on the staircase and thought it was one of my flatmates. I had difficulty convincing Mary that this was no flesh and blood being which she said "looked like a living human being" and had passed her on the staircase. My friend described her as "about twenty years old, blonde, very pale, wearing a high-necked, long dress. The figure had not responded when Mary introduced herself. That same figure was seen in my bedroom more than a year later.

It is now more than three decades since I left that strange house in London, where the dead had found no rest and dwelled among the living. There are times when I return to it in dreams, and I see again its shadowy interior and massive, dark, Victorian furniture, its faded carpets and damp-streaked walls. I believe that the dead did return from that most final of destinations, and they will inhabit this house always, re-enacting the scenes from their lives that have trapped them between worlds, or possibly, they had never left?

A few years after moving away, I would return to London, and to that house again, for a stay of two weeks. I was fortunate to escape its malignant presence with my life, although barely. But it is best if some experiences are left forever untold.

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The Megaliths

   By Dr. Brad Holway 

Look at a map of Europe or picture one in your mind.  Now, imagine a crescent beginning in Sweden, encompassing the British Isles, stretching down the Atlantic coasts of France and the Iberian Peninsula and extending into the Mediterranean as far as Malta.  This crescent is the cradle of a mysterious civilization that preceded that of the Greeks; throughout its length and breadth are found odd monuments made of huge stones that awe and fascinate us to this day. 

Little is known of the megalith-builders, who left no written records of their culture.  Wild speculations have linked them to sources as arcane as space aliens and refugees from the sunken continent of Atlantis.  Their ethnic origins are subject to debate, but they represent an earlier stock of western Europeans; at the time the megaliths were built, the Indo-European peoples who now dominate the continent had not moved beyond Anatolia, the Balkans, the Russian steppes and the Danubian Basin.
 

Megalith Filitosa, Corsica

Any time I have travelled within the aforementioned crescent, the megalithic sites have drawn me like a magnet.  Among the sites I have visited are England's Stonehenge, Ireland's Newgrange,  Carnac in northwestern France, Corsica's Filitosa, and the Nuraghe di Sant'Antine in Sardinia.  Each time I have visited a megalithic fort, tomb or temple, I have been seized with an air of awe and mystery, suffused with a surge of inexplicable energy.  It is as if shadowy, half-forgotten memories are stirred within me; something touches me at a deep, subconscious level.

Is it Jungian "racial memory"?  Is it the stark, forbidding nature of the megalithic monuments themselves or, as the occultists implicate, are these places really emanating some kind of energy that the scientific community has yet to fathom?  I don't know the answer to these questions, and I don't expect to have those answers in this lifetime.  I do know that the megalith-builders and their world continue to fascinate me, hovering in my deepest thoughts.  That is why I wrote this essay.