“If you just find out what people …like to eat, you make them happy. And they think totally different when they’re happy.” — Leah Chase, Queen of Creole Cuisine, 2018.

I heard Mrs. Chase say this on the New Orleans segment of the Netflix series, “Somebody Feed Phil.” She was 94 at the time she was photographed at the stove stirring her iconic gumbo. Her restaurant, Dooky Chase, had been a gathering place for civil rights activists in the 1960s when it was illegal for black and white citizens to meet together.

She reminisced, “Tip O’Neal said ‘when we meet with Republicans we talk together,’ but now they’re not talking. They don’t talk about things. That’s what we do in New Orleans. We’d have a bowl of gumbo and change the whole world.”

Why did Mrs. Chase’s words strike a chord with me? Because I knew someone who believed the same about the value and importance of food that makes people happy, although I never heard her say so. I don’t know if she ever tasted gumbo, but like Mrs. Chase, she used food to make people feel welcome and even joyful.

My first memory of my mother in action was when my sister’s then boyfriend Marty came over. I was a kid and my sister probably in her teens. Mom always had at the ready his favorite: cherry pie and chocolate ice cream. Fast-forward decades to the first time my then boyfriend and future husband Homer came for dinner. She made him his favorite–floating island. Maybe that’s why they became close friends—I’ll never know.

I’m worried. Food doesn’t seem to be a priority with the current administration. According to Google when I asked if the president ate fast food even in the White House, I read, “Yes, Donald Trump does eat at [sic] McDonald’s in the White House. Reports indicate that he has a consistent fast-food routine, including ordering items like a Big Mac, Filet-O-Fish, and Quarter Pounder during campaign events and even in the White House. His preference for McDonald’s is rooted in a long-standing belief in the brand’s cleanliness and consistency, as well as a personal preference for fast food.”

So I guess we’ll have to wait for the next administration and hope that the winner of the top spot is a foodie if we are to put Mrs. Chase and mom’s philosophy to the test.

Do you believe in the power of breaking bread and the value of food to lubricate and assist relationships and conversation?

   

Some things seem just fine when a new broom enters the picture and feels it must sweep clean or an advisor justifies his/her existence by recommending a change for change’s sake and bam! Something that worked just fine no longer does.

By the way, I love change when it improves something. But this isn’t a post about accepting change. It covers things that no longer work.

Where have all the coat checks gone?

I’m lucky to have a winter jacket and coat but my coat is warmest and when we go through a cold spell it’s my outerwear of choice.

However, I hate to wear it when I go to a restaurant. Why? In NYC there are fewer coat checks and a puffy coat is cumbersome to sit on. A jacket slips on the back of a chair or takes up little space on a bench.

This situation may only be a consideration for folks who get to restaurants on public transport as it generally involves a lot of walking in all weather. Those with cars aren’t outside for long. A coat is a pain to wear in a car anyway.

So why don’t restaurants in NYC add hooks if not hangers for those with coats?

From 40 to 10 carrots

The food at 40 Carrots at Bloomingdales is pretty good—sometimes very good. When I went the other day I was surprised by the new layout. Instead of many tables sprinkled throughout the space there were fewer of them and each table is larger. The tabletop is of a higher grade.

We were eating when staff moved two tables together very near us to accommodate a large group—much too close. When one of the guests sat in her chair, her long hair missed my friend’s food by inches. This never happened before.

With fewer tables I predict longer lines between noon and 2:00 pm and unhappy regulars who will make other plans.

The trademark Forty Carrots disposable napkin [photo above] is gone in favor of a beige cloth one. I prefer the branded ones.

I give the improvements a 2 of 10 or in carrots, a 10 down from 40. My lunch was tasty or a one in both instances would be a more accurate assessment of my opinion of the layout change.

Don’t be in such a rush

Novocain hasn’t lost its impact after a long dental appointment when I get a “how did we do” text from the dental surgeon’s office asking for a number representing my opinion of the visit followed by a request for an online review. A friend had surgery, the stitches still smarted, and she’d not yet been to her follow-up visit when she received–and objected to–a similar survey.

These things are annoying anyway—how did you like your purchase of paper towel? Physicians should take a breath and wait to send out these surveys if they must.

Hold it

I don’t go to enough theater to identify a trend but within the last month a friend and I each went to a play and in both instances, there was no intermission and the audience was advised that if they left their seats they would not be allowed back.

Whose convenience is this for?

Some people are on medication or have conditions that demand frequent pit stops. Do they cross going to theater off their entertainment list?

Can you think of changes that haven’t improved things for customers?

   

I’ve written frequently about losing and finding things. What a cause for celebration when I find something important! This time I’d lost my keys for two days. I have alternate sets, but I love the little widgets, mostly gifts, that I’ve added to the keyring over years.

I spent, all-in, well over an hour on my hands and knees with a flashlight checking under furniture, in tote bags and silverware drawers, emptying my handbag several times, pulling apart my bed, layer by layer, digging in the pockets of my coats and jackets, taking down all the Christmas cards in case the keys were hiding behind one, to no avail.

I said: “Saint Antoine, grand filou, rendez ce qui est a nous.” [Saint Anthony, you old scoundrel, return what belongs to us.”]

Those keys had to be somewhere. I was inside the apartment and I don’t walk through doors. They weren’t in the lock in the hall outside. I’ve knocked on many a door to inform a fellow tenant that they’d left their keys outside.

In my bedroom is a hip-high piece of wood furniture that, I think, originally held a telephone and phone book in my parents’ Paris apartment. At my place it stores books. I also park clothes on it, tossing pants, sweatshirts and sweaters on the arc-shaped top. When the stack gets high enough to drive me crazy, I sort through it. On Saturday morning, there, on the floor on the wall side hidden from sight, were my precious keys. They must’ve fallen out of the pocket of pants that I had hurled on the stack.

My husband lost anything that wasn’t tied down from cash to gloves, hats to recording devices, bank checks to scarves so that while he was here, I didn’t notice misplacing things by comparison. He would be amused by me today. I think I misplace my reading glasses the most, my keys second. I have never found other lost beloved belongings though I keep an eye out.

How do you feel when you find a lost object? What tips do you have for finding things? What do you misplace most? Dare you admit what you’ve never found?

   

This is a story of two little girls who were trying to look like they were 15, huddled on the floor of an outdoor elevator at an upstate, N.Y. train station on December 26. They were dressed alike wearing goth attire that didn’t look sufficiently warm for the windy 20-degree day. Nothing but black tights covered their legs that were sticking out from under short black skirts. Their distinctive makeup was in keeping with their clothes. They were focused on their phones, squatting on black canvas bags.

I entered the elevator with an overnight suitcase and two giant TJ Maxx shopping bags that made me clumsy. I wondered at first about the safety of doing so but had committed to the ride and the thought of stairs with my encumbrances didn’t appeal. Had I been in Manhattan, seeing others in the elevator when the door opened who weren’t getting out, I’d have backed away.

As the elevator landed at the train’s platform level I fished into my handbag and pulled out a $10 that I handed to one of them and suggested they get themselves some hot chocolate. At Beacon station there is a small operation that I’m sure offers warm refreshment during this season.

They were surprised at first and when they smiled and thanked me, they looked close to 12 in spite of their dramatic makeup. “Be careful,” one said as I turned around my suitcase to exit and adjusted the bags on each shoulder. They weren’t poor waifs and they had exemplary manners. They seemed happy, even comfortable and content. They reminded me of the child actors in “The World of Henry Orient,” [1964].

I wish they’d have found a warmer place to roost but there wasn’t an alternative. The tiny, enclosed waiting area on the platform was jammed with passengers protected from the wind. It was a breeding ground for germs. As I waited for the southbound train a northbound one arrived. I don’t know which one would take them to their destination. They’d found an original place to wait nearly as creative as their costumes.

Do you imagine what people you meet along the way might be up to?

   

I was describing to a friend a heart wrenching 2009 movie, “Everybody’s Fine,” that I just watched on Netflix. Robert De Niro was a new widower trying to gather his four adult children who lived around the country. They balked for a variety of reasons, so he traveled to visit them unannounced in spite of his doctor’s warning not to travel. Their receptions to his surprise appearances were sad.

My friend reacted to my description, “Please stop!” It isn’t a very Christmassy film. She and her family had just watched “Elf.” She suggested the Hallmark Christmas Rom Coms. I find most poorly written and acted–bromides. But I found a series made in Norway, “Home for Christmas.” It’s well acted and engaging.

Once a year my apartment is filled with the fragrance of baking thumbprint cookies that I was told my grandmother made and my mother and I made at Christmas for as long as I can remember. Currant jelly is almost impossible to find. Bonne Maman makes one but the wrong color. My mother also used mint jelly in the day for the traditional red and green combo, but I don’t care for the taste. She also made some in crescent shape, but I prefer the ones with jelly.

I no longer have a real tree but bring out a tiny Charlie Brown style faux one on which I hang a few favorite ornaments. Last year I bought a wreath for my door at a farmer’s market. I was still sweeping up the needles in July. That’s why I don’t buy even a tiny real tree. I also have a bunch of stuffed animals and friends who visit once a year.

Some buy annual tickets to the Rockettes, the Nutcracker or for free, plan a visit to the iconic Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Maybe they gather a bunch of friends for a lunch. Others go to the yearly Lincoln Center Chamber Music Society’s Brandenburg Concertos, light Hanukkah candles and hand out chocolate covered coins.

What family holiday traditions do you enjoy? Have you tweaked any?