Better ingredients, better technique, better results.


My Grandmother's Sunday Sauce: A First Time for Everything

No one in my family has ever written down their recipe for tomato sauce.  Not in 4 generations.  Not on my husband's side.  Not on anyone's side.

Why?  Totally not necessary.  Your mother learned from her mother, and you learned from your mother.  It was too simple to bother writing down.

In most Southern Italian homes, particularly in the Northeast where the majority of the wave of immigrants from Southern Italy (and their decendents) settled in the early 20th Century, there was always a pot of sauce on the stove.

In our house, and in all my mother's sisters houses as well.  

Then our mothers would do something really foolish.  Like leave the Italian bread meant for dinner out on the counter where hungry kids coming in from school could reach it.

A bowl of sauce, some torn bread, maybe a little grated cheese.  

Who needs Hot Pockets?

So why write it down now?

One of my clients got held up and was late to a conference call.  So I decided to throw a pot sauce together. It was snowing.  It's been doing that a lot lately.  I wasn't going anywhere.  I had 15 minutes and an entire day at home.  

When we finally had a chance to get back to each other, I couldn't let her continue to grovel about being late. (She's the client after all, why should she grovel?) 

Nancy:  I'm so sorry, I called your office instead of the bridge, I've got too much on my desk, and I was on the phone with help desk, Sorry, Sorry, Sorry!

Me:  No problem.  I got my sauce going while I was waiting.

Nancy:  That's what I call multi-tasking!

Me:  Yeah, the beauty of working from home.

Nancy:  What kind of sauce?

Me:  Oh just tomato sauce.  You know, 3 ingredients, simmer all day.  That kind.

Nancy:  Really?  Three ingredients?

Me:  Ok, maybe six.  And water.

If I had been there, I would have taught her.  Just like my mother taught me. But she's in Kansas City and I'm in Connecticut, so I thought I would write it down for her.

Nancy, hope you and your family my Grandmother's Sunday Tomato Sauce.


Chicken Soup: Staging is everything in Life

And you thought it was timing. 

We found out everyone already knows this when we went antiquing this past weekend (what we hope to be the last of Winter). 

More accurately, we went searching for crappe. 

And we found some.  In fact, we found a lot of it. 

But not before we hit about six shoppes on the Shoreline that seemed to specialize in strategically staged second-hand stuff. 

You know the kind of place I mean.  You walk in, and they have little rooms or booths with hand-me-down stuff you saw at the dump last week, all beautifully arranged to give the impression you are at Sturbridge Village or Olde Mystic Seaport.

Not our kind of place. 

We like to have to dig through the stuff your relatives never threw away.  When they vacate their homes for whatever reason, someone gets called to take it away in a panel truck.  That’s where the real bargains are. 

I’m on new mission:  Green Glasses for Summer

Those recycled green glasses of all shapes and sizes that came out of Mexico about two decades ago.  At the time, they weren’t expensive (nor were they terribly durable, but you needed something to sip your margarita out of).

Look!  There they are now, staged in my kitchen because my house was on the market and I was moving to California.


The first ones I found were in one of my favorite places whose signature color closely resembles the color of these glasses.  I remember these specific ones:  simple thick stems with an enormous bowl set on the top.  Two dollars, max. 

Fifteen years later, though, they’re vintage, collectable and $18 each. 


At the end of our afternoon, with the rain and the wind pounding us, and the owner hitting on me again, we start to leave the old car dealership turned antique market, when he points us around back to the flea market. 

What flea market?  That sounded promising. 

To be kind, it was the kind of place “where crap goes to die.”  

I found a green glass with grape impressions in it for $.75.  Just as Chris was about to get change back from his dollar, I found another one.  $.25. 

When we finally got out of there, it was nice to know there was a bowl of hot Chicken Vegetable Soup with Broccoli Rabe waiting for us. 


Fast Technology, Fast Food: Gnocci with Sausage and Rabe

Back in the 80’s, I once had the pleasure of hearing author Tom Wolfe speak at a business conference.  As a newbie in the telecom/datacom world (see MCI Mail and the Days of Corn and Crab Soup), and as a fan of Wolfe’s many works about societal introspection, I couldn’t image what he would have to say to a group of techies that would resonate.

But that he did.  While he meandered around a number of subjects keeping the audience in side-splitting hysterics, he eventually found his way to what he viewed as the emerging technologies of the time:  Cable TV and Car Phones.

From his comedic perspective, he lamented that he couldn’t understand why televisions, which you primarily left in your living room, were not connected to anything to get their reception, while telephones, which you needed almost anywhere you were, were plugged into the wall?


He then blatantly predicted that in the next 20 years, these two technologies would flip-flop.  The audience gave him a standing ovation.  (I’m sure his research assistants were standing in the wings patting themselves on the back.)

A decade later I’m working at Sprint.  Sadly, their reputation has become somewhat tarnished, but I did spend 12 years there, and I learnt a thing or two.  In fact, they were the first company to build a nationwide cellular network, long before anyone else. 

But I digress. 

At one of our big Corporate Rah Rah events, our COO, Len Lauer, spoke at the event.  I had the privilege of spending a bit of one-on-one time with Len.  He was executive sponsor of my accounts, and ever since, he has been top on my list of most admired in Corporate America.  Anyway, Len made a prediction as well.  He said, “Right now, if you leave your house and you realize you don’t have your wallet and your keys, you go back and get them.  In the not too distant future, we will add to that list our cell phones.”

At the rate of current technology adoption, it was probably by the end the conference.

Fast forward yet another decade.  I get this email from my dear friend Susan in my mailbox, subject "iLost":

Dear Family and least the ones I had saved to my iPad,

Do you remember when phones were attached to a wall, post, phone booth or a night stand? Well, for good reason, you could always find them.

Today, in my haste to catch the ever so late 6:15 train out, I lost my iPhone. You know, the typical snoozing with intent to nap and dropped phone on seat. "Stamford, Stamford Station"...snort, snort and I was off.

I have submitted the correct forms and paper work to the Metro North (in triplicate) and they assured me that they have an 80% recovery rate...pick up at Grand Central within 5-7 days. I am truly optimistic.

Lucky for me, my company has supplied me with a biz cell phone and that is how you can reach me for the next 7 days.  I feel compelled to share my only vocal contact tool number....555-555-1212 with all of you.   You can also reach me by email:

Now that the Holidays are over, the need to communicate will slow down considerably but we do still have snow and nasty weather to get through, more birthdays, Super Bowl and according to The Weather Channel statistics,  80 days before we're clear to Spring.

Sadly missing my "iConnection" to the world... Naked I tell you,


Good thing dinner was quick when she got home:  Gnocci with Sausage and Broccoli Rabe.

BTW:  Happy Birthday!


Too Many Cooks: Accidental Molten Chocolate Cake

Grace arrived at our house on Saturday and made two requests:  Did we have milk, and did we have dessert?

Milk we had.  We also had company, so it seemed that the right thing to do was to make our guests make their own dessert, right?

Given a short time frame, a three-year old, popcorn on the floor, and five people in the kitchen, I needed a simple recipe that didn’t take a lot of time. 

Chancellor (above) was testing his own recipes, so its a good thing this cake is a snap to make, and doesn’t require more than a bowl or two and a whisk. 

Done in two bowls.  One for the dry ingredients whisked together, and one for the wet ingredients.  Butter melted, sugar, eggs and vanilla whisked in.  Mix the dry, add the coffee, pour into a cake pan and throw it in the oven for 40 minutes. 

Piece of cake.


In the confusion of recipe interpretation by all involved, mimosas, and the convenience of reachable pans, I grabbed the 9 inch round cake pan instead.   We got the cake into the oven and set it for 40 minutes.  Grace is learning how to tell if a cake is done, so at the sound of the buzzer, she carefully opened the oven, and tested with a toothpick. 

Very wet.  Back in the oven for 2 minutes. 

Buzzer again.  Very wet again.  Back in the oven for another 2 minutes.

After two more attempts, we decided to just take our chances and pull the cake out of the oven.  Chocolate does tend to bake after the fact and its often very easy end to up with an overbaked, dry result.

Hmmm........ I wondered.  This cake was exhibiting the classic symptoms of having too much batter in the pan.

Math Wiz to the rescue!!

Grace (who at 14 doesn't ask me for help with her homework, thank goodness) did a quick calculation, and sure enough, there is nearly 25% more room in a 9 inch square pan than there is in a 9 inch round pan.  Whodda thunk?

When there is too much batter in the pan, any cake will rise up and dome in the middle.  If you leave it in the oven long enough for the dome to finish baking, you end up with dry, often burnt outside edges.  If you take it out of the oven, the dome will fall, and leave you with a gooey mess in the middle.  Not a good result if you are making a layer cake.

But we weren’t. 

We were making a cake to snack on right out of the pan, hence the name Coffee Cocoa Snack Cake.  We cut the cake just as it was cool enough to handle.  It was very wet.  My instincts told me to pour a little heavy cream into the middle, and serve it warm.   

It has now been renamed Accidental Molten Chocolate Cake, and will forever be timed to get served about 30 minutes after it comes out of the oven.


Grace's Favorite: Chocolate Sparkle Cookies


OMG, she's 14!  The Girl, that is.  My sister walked in at Christmas, and proceeded to blame me for letting her grow up.  Who is she kidding, she did the same thing with her daughter (Broken Promises and Pecan Sandies). 

Back to Grace.  She's still my Kitchen Slave, but now she's wearing my shoes.

And sleeping late on Saturday's like a typical teenager.

She promised she was going to help me make Chocolate Sparkle Cookies for Christmas and for her birthday.  By the time she got out of bed, I had already blanched and skinned the almonds for these cookies.  Which left her with the easy part. 

I got her back, though.  She was still in time to make the 160 Walnut Shortbread Christmas Cookies that are part of the family ritual. 

And also part of my gift giving ritual when I lived out West.  I ran with a rather well-heeled crowd and they were very difficult to buy gifts for.  I eventually ended up baking these and about six other varieties of cookies as gifts.  Couldn't get them at Nordstrom, that's for sure.  My dear friend Barbara and I exchanged gifts this season:  she got these, and I got a box of See's Victoria Toffee.


Lasagna Bolagnase: The Way to a Man's Heart

My grandmother, Caroline Martone, who was born in Italy in 1892, made this version of Bolognase Sauce, eminating from the city of Bologna in the Emilia Romagna Region.  Every family in Emilia Romagna has a Ragu recipe, and her family was no different.  Now, our family heritage holds that Caroline wooed Vincent Euzzine with this recipe, using the tried and true method of getting to a man’s heart.

Caroline and Vincent immigrated to America in 1918, and settled in Connecticut, to join other members of the Martone family in Branford.  Caroline died in 1938, and Vincent died in 1940, leaving six daughters, the oldest 20, and my mother Nancy, the youngest, just 8 years old. 


All six daughters were wonderful cooks, and a few of their mother’s recipes survived, and were passed along.  My mother fell in love with a handsome Irish hunk, Edward, and used this Ragu recipe to snare him.  When I showed an interest in cooking at an early age, she taught me to make this sauce.  It’s nothing like the canned versions of tomato sauce made popular in the 1950’s and 60’s.  In fact, it has very little tomato in it, which makes it stand apart from the normal, Southern Italian fare popularized in the Northeast.  


So, when a certain gentleman came into my life with all the right stuff, I made up my mind to use my family’s love potion to seal the deal.  The first time I made it for him, I thought he was going to cry.  The second time, he showed a particular interest in learning the ingredients.  The third time, which I thought was going to be the charm, he showed up early enough to “help” the cook.  He painstakingly wrote down every ingredient as I added it, and watched the sauce cook slowly to perfection.  Again, tears when the meal was served.  I eagerly awaited his proposal during dessert.  

I never saw him after that night.  I thought he wanted me, but he just wanted this recipe.  So, here it is  Paparadella or Lasagna Bolognasse.  Take your time with it, buy the best ingredients you can find, and be very, very careful who you serve it to.


Right Coast Newport and Thanksgiving Leftovers

When I lived in Newport  (the one on the Left Coast), one of the local magazines coined the phrase “Affluenza” which meant visibly (though perhaps not actually) wealthy.  Mercedes and BMW’s aplenty.  Bling everywhere. 

McMansions.  This is actually the neighborhood that become The OC, under construction.

The women wore “short, black and tight.” Surgically enhanced everything.  The men were wealthy.  Or at least highly leveraged.  Shortly thereafter came the rise of “The OC” and “Real Housewives of Orange County” both filmed in my neck of the woods.

That’s nothing compared to Newport, Rhode Island.

What does this have to do with Christmas (you ask?)

We visited the Newport Mansions this past weekend.  In December, three of the largest are open and decorated for Christmas. 

I thought The Hearst Castle was grand, but it’s dwarfed by The Breakers, Cornelius Vanderbilt’s weekend cottage. 

Measuring a mere 135,000 square feet, with 70 rooms, it sits on the Cliff Walk, and dares you to compare it to anything but Buckingham Palace.  We also visited The Elms, a cottage built by the coal magnate, Edward Berwind, who supplied the fuel for Vanderbilt’s steamships, then his railroads, Carnegie’s steel mills, and Rockefeller’s oil refineries. 

Cozy arrangement, no?

Not to be outdone by anyone in Paris, Cornelius’s daughter Alva Vanderbilt, built The Marble House.   Modeled after The Petit Trianon, the smaller of King Louis XV’s palace at Versaille, Alva stole architecture (and sometimes other things like mantels and ceilings) from anything French.

Mrs. Vanderbilt:  “If it’s good enough for King Louis, it’s good enough for us.”

Her husband:  “Whatever, dear.”

Well, she did wear the pants in the family, being an heiress and all.

The dining room chairs were made of bronze and covered in gold, to match King Louis' chairs made of silver.  They weighed in at 75 pounds for the guests, and 125 pounds for the armchairs.  A servant behind each chair was required to help each guest pull up a chair to the table.

The estimates of what it would take to build The Breakers today, at $22 Million, seems way off base.  I’d say more like $100 Million.   Not including the furniture and the drapes.

From my perspective, once you have seen one coffered ceiling stolen from a palace in France, you’ve seen them all.  I was more fascinated by the kitchens and butler’s pantries.

But it was not the buildings that most impressed me.  Yes, clearly these were built to portray immense wealth and power.  And they do.  But it was the men who built them that fascinated me.

The Men Who Built America is a very recent documentary from The History Channel. (See the Link at the bottom of the side panel on the Fun Stuff page.)  We happened to catch it while channel surfing over the Thanksgiving Weekend, and we were hooked.

I don‘t remember learning much about these men in school.  It seems history went from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War, to the Mexican American War, to the World Wars.  Yeah, we discussed the Industrial Revolution, but that was a cast of thousands.

Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, JP Morgan and Ford.  Those names are familiar to all of us.  But did we really understand what they did, and how these five changed the face of America?

Did you know they all knew each other?  Did you know they competed, coerced, spied on, blackmailed, attempted murder and partnered with each other? 

They defied the US Government.  They bought the US Government.  They bought themselves a President.  (Sound familiar?)

By today’s standards, Carnegie and Rockefeller had a combined net worth of more than 3 Trillion dollars.  Today, they would blow past Bill Gates and Rupurt Murdoch as if those two were standing still.

Four episodes, 90 minutes each, covering Vanderbilt’s rise just after the Civil War, through Henry Ford’s defiance of the Automotive industry to produce a car that even the workers making the car could afford.  If you have a chance to see it on the History Channel, don’t miss it.  I just purchased the DVD collection from their web site.   A steal at $29.95 with a 25% coupon.

Perfect to settle in front of a fire with a bowl of Turkey Paprikash Soup, and Cranberry Chutney, my take on Thanksgiving Leftovers. 


Resolutions and White Bean Pasta Fagioli


Leave it to Chris to decide to go on his diet BEFORE Thanksgiving. 

No stuffing.  No gravy.  No mashed potatoes.   No potatoes au gratin.  No beans.  No bread.  No root vegetables. 

Why?  No starch of any kind. 

Meat?  Sure thing.  And lots of it.

Cheese?  You bet.  So much that I’m surprised he’s not a solid.

Olive Oil and Butter?  Slather it on.  Fat is not his enemy.


I figured out what my kryptonite is:  All of the above.

And I have to cook for both of us.

Which means either I cook two completely different meals, or one of us doesn’t loose weight.


Boring.  Just what you want in a food blog.

Worst yet, no cocktails on the porch. 

My diet starts January 2nd.

Until then, here is a quick little dish I just whipped up with what I had in the house.  Depending on volume, it could be healthy or a heart attack.

But I won’t think about that today.  I'll just enjoy my White Bean Pasta Fagioli.


Real Men Make Quiche

No one makes better Quiche than my husband.  Faster maybe,  but not better.  Being the methodical fella he is, it takes him a good four hours to make his famous Quiche recipe. 

While working at a Long Island grocery store as a kid, he learned how to make Quiche in the deli department, and has not deviated from it for thirty (Happy Birthday, dear) years.

The crusts must be purchased from the freezer department.  They must be Oronoc Orchards. 

The cheese must be the exact ratio of Swiss, to Jarlsburg to Lorraine.   We have since found that there is no longer any Lorraine cheese to be found anywhere.  There seems there is a story going around that the factory burned down, but I found no hits to prove that to be true.  I did find several other hits where queries about the disappearance of Lorraine cheese were met with the same mysterious story from the trusty folks behind the deli counter.   I even found a hit that claims it is illegal to lie down and fall asleep in a cheese factory.

Emily (Latella):  “Nevermind.”

The cheese must be grated by hand, using a box grater.  The cheeses must be mixed by hand.  The eggs are whisked two at a time, no matter how many Quiches are being made. 

The heavy cream must be individually measured by the cupful for each pie, and poured into the two wisked eggs.  And then the mixture is seasoned with salt and white pepper, before being poured into each pie shell.

Then, and only then, is the ham or spinach added to the top of the pile.  By the time he’s finished, the pie shells are full to the brim, carefully moved to the middle rack of the oven, and baked. 

For nearly 90 minutes.

I learned how to make Quiche from the Joy of Cooking, and we nearly got divorced when I tried to get him to alter his process.  Not his recipe, mind you, just his process.   


I had convinced him to let me play soux chef.   Made all of the pie crusts myself.  I’ll never offer to do that again.  Two, maybe.  Six?  Fogettaboutit!

Six pounds of cheese to grate, you say?  That’s what a Food Processor is for.  Ok,  good idea.

Mix all of the cream and the eggs together and then measure them out?   I could see him drawing up the papers in his head.

Scald the eggs and cream together to cut down on the baking time?  You would have thought I had suggested he divulge his Recipe for Quiche Lorraine.  (Luckily, he doesn't get to edit this blog.)

But no matter what we serve at our Christmas Day Brunch, this dish always gets rave reviews.   Chris would make it more often, but it would be unfair to all of the other quiches.


Next Time make it Bracciole

When I pictured having a husband in my life, one of the first chores I thought of having help with was a Christmas Tree. 



My father got the tree for my mother, put it in the stand, and brought it in the house.  From there, it was her deal.  Why shouldn’t I have expected anything different?

From my earliest trees, it was always an event.  I’ve always been a big fan of “choose and cut” trees, having grown up on a tree farm.  Depending on where I was living at the time, it was as much as an hour to find a place where trees actually grew.  I would make a day of it.  I’d have a meal all prepared, have my ornaments out and at the ready, and not a drop of anything to drink until the lights were on the tree.

Someone once showed me how to wrap the lights around each branch, and from that point on, it became one of the biggest chores of the season.  Since I was single, it was me getting the tree, getting it home, getting it in the stand, getting it in the house, and getting the lights on it.

Not without incident.

Take the year I decided to have the tree delivered to my house.   I thought I would finally have some help, and for a mere $25 fee, actually have a man bring the tree in the house. Didn’t quite work out that way. 

I was in Newport Beach at the time, and there were Christmas Trees available on every corner.  I thought it would be easy to get my tree delivered on the spot.  When I went to the tree place, they were not able to deliver until the following week.  And I’d already planned my Saturday event around having the tree that evening, and decorating with a date.  A date that stood me up, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise as I later found out the reason he stood me up was because of his wife.  But that’s another story.

It took the tree guy nearly 45 minutes to tie the tree to the top of my car.   He could have driven it to my house and been back in that time, and gotten paid for his efforts, but no.

As I’m driving up the hill towards home, I happen to look in my rear view mirror, and what do my wondering eyes behold but a tree rolling down the hill.  Odd.  Where did that come from? 

Oh.  Right.  It was my tree.

I pulled over to the side of the road, got out of the car, looked at the tree laying on the shoulder, and did what any normal woman would do in that situation. 

I cried.

Miraculously, a truck pulled over almost immediately.  A nice young man got out, and after introductions and a couple of attempts at putting the tree in the car, he said,

“Where do you live?”

I pointed to my condo complex, because it was within sight.  He threw the tree in the back of the truck, and said, “I’ll just follow you, it’s easier.”

Smart guy.

When we got to my place, and he put the tree in the bucket of water I had ready, he said to me,

“Next time, ma’m, maybe you should have your husband help you.”

Right.  Next time.

Then there was the year I decided to use up all of that cathedral ceiling space with a 9 foot tree.  I went to the local tree place, and picked out a beauty.  I even had my gardener -- (OK, I know that sounds ridiculous, but when your yard is all of 100 square feet, it doesn’t make sense to invest in yard equipment, it’s actually cheaper to just have someone else do it) -- scheduled to help me with my tree.

The difference between an 8 ½ foot tree and a 9 foot tree is more than just the six inches in height I discovered.  The trunk of the tree was also about six inches bigger around, and there was no getting that thing into my tree stand.  Nor any of my neighbors tree stands.  After several attempts to trim the trunk with his chain saw, my gardener even threw in the towel.

Back to the tree place to purchase an extra large stand, one with three legs more than four feet in length to support a tree as big as I had purchased.  As I’m paying for the stand, the tree guy says to me,

“You know you have to drill a hole into the trunk to get it onto the spike in this tree stand, right?”


“Do you have a drill that big?”

How big?  As big as my forearm it turns out.


Out of the goodness of his heart (not to mention the $125 I shelled out for this tree), he loaned my gardener his drill.  Back again to my house, where Frank (that’s was my gardener’s name), proceeded to drill into this poor tree, and then it takes both of us to get the tree into the house and then back to the tree place to return the drill.

By this time, it’s nearly 6pm, and I have to string 1200 lights on this monster.  It took me nearly four hours. 

Did I test the lights before hand?

No I did not.

I’ll remember to do that.

Next time.

Good thing dinner was ready. 

This year, Braciole, made the day before.




Vodka Sauce, Then and Now


Many (many) New Years Eve’s ago, alone still, I had invited Louise, one of my dear friends, over for dinner.  I had been dating a man the previous year and was devasted by the break up.  Actually, it wasn’t so much a break up as it was a case of MIA.  (Yeah, again.)

A couple of months before, I was driving us to dinner.  At the time, I had a five-speed Mercedes.  He commented that he had bought his first wife a Mercedes, and his second wife a BMW.  I was leasing my car at the time, and we were discussing the "keep or not keep" option at the end of the lease. 

Later, he said to me, “You know, I think you should keep that car.”  And I said, without missing a beat, “You’re just saying that so you don’t have to buy me one.” 

You know that moment when you think you are in a relationship and then you know you’ve stepped over the boundary line?  I held my breath.

I never saw him again.

Being a glutton for punishment, I sent him a tin of Christmas Cookies over the holidays, in a desperate attempt to get a response from him. 


I was planning to make fusilli with Vodka Sauce for New Year’s Eve dinner with Louise.  Whole Foods Market had just opened, and they carried fresh pasta, and I placed an order for a couple of pounds of fresh fusilli.  When I went to pick up the pasta, they had forgotten my order.  My emotions running rampant, I burst into tears.  The Manager of Whole Foods took pity on me, and promised to make the pasta and deliver it. 

When I got home, I found three items on my doorstep:  The pasta, a bottle of champagne from Whole Foods, and a package.  When I opened the package, it was the empty cookie tin and note from him to: “Take care.” 

I was livid.  When Louise came over and I told her what happened, she asked if I was going to do anything about it. 

Me: “I’ll wait until I’m a little less angry and then I’ll decide.” 

Louise: “Don’t wait too long.” 

She was right.  I picked up the phone and left him a scathing voicemail about being such a coward. 

Hung up. 

Called back.

Me (to his answering machine): “AND YOU ATE THE COOKIES?!” 

We spent the remainder of the evening marveling over the vodka sauce, and the fact that that creep ate the cookies.

Recently, I saw a woman I know from the gym in the grocery store.  She was racking her brains trying to come up with a plan for dinner, while her teenage son pulled at her sleeve to buy a jar of Vodka Sauce.  I quickly wrote down this recipe for her.  Hope it was good.  Saw Mr. Pepin in the grocery store as well.  Should’ve asked him what he was making for dinner.


The House Tour

The house on Beechwood Road was one of my very favorite houses.  Great bones, as they say.  So I was excited to put it on the Lights of Branford Holiday House Tour in 2007, to benefit the Blackstone Memorial Library.  This is the Entryway as you walk into the front door.  Looking through into the Family Room, past the staircase.   

 Please enter . . .

Woodsy Santa and Little Deer to greet you.  The Little Deer were from Target, the woodsy Santa was my mother's, and the Cat Bench was on loan (at the time), from Chris.

Don't hesitate to have a treat.  Coming into the Family Room.

The Family Room, with the World's Greatest Fireplace.  No kidding.  Behind the tree is an opening known as a Wood Butler.  It has a door out the back and you load your firewood into the house from that door which opens into the garage.  I kept my wood rack underneath the door, never had to go outside to get more firewood.  It as nice and dry and I didn't have to drag it all over the house.  Never saw that anywhere else ever again.

I now think of this as the Tree of Grace, since it was my first tree after meeting her.  Most of these tree decorations came from the Pink Sleigh, and the sign behind the tree was on loan from Country Home in North Branford. 

You exit the Family Room from the other side, walking directly into the kitchen.


Didn't forget the kitchen.  It's where most people end up.  We sat in the rockers, enjoyed some champagne and greeted our guests with chocolates.


These Three Wise Men were my gift to my mother from Lake Arrowhead, CA.  They seemed appropriately muted and wintery for the kitchen.

The view out the kitchen window.  The hand-made porcelin Angel was a gift from my cousin.

 Enjoy a chocolate as you make your way through the kitchen.

With no doors on the cabinets, everything had to look just right.  Cup hooks made the perfect hangers for Santa's closet.  I got these little coats and pants at Target.  From the kitchen, you walk to the right into the Dining Room.

Santa's Buffet, with decorations from The Pink Sleigh, Dazzle in Newport Beach, CA, and an antique candy dish that belonged to my Aunt Alice.

The Dining Room set for the Wall Family.  Black Winter dishes from Crate & Barrel, Towll flatware and Mikasa Jamestown Gold stemware were gifts from my mother.  My Aunt Alice's Crimson King glassware and a bowl full of Roses finish the setting.  Napkins are folded with Green Velvet Ribbon.  As you exit the Dining Room to the right, you are back into the Entryway, and enter the Living Room, otherwise known as the Martini Room, which is separated with French Doors.

The Martini Room, with the second fireplace (the third was in the Master Bedroom). white chaise sofas. white penguins, and pearl pillows from Country Home, white sheepskin rug from The Village Shop in PA (you can find them online), mirrored cabinets, pearl tree and venetian mirror from The Bombay Store.  Remember them?  They were the first casualty of this recession.

Susan and I pearlized the ceiling, crown molding and the mantel with Modern Masters paints.  You could only paint in one direction so every brush stroke and every roller pass was only one way.

You can see the ceiling reflected in the top frame of the mirrors.  Those are my mothers angles on the mantel.

My sister made the miniature boxwood Christmas Trees every year for her Church and I bought two of them.


The Tour concludes back into the Entryway from the Martini Room.  The feather wreaths were also from The Bombay Store.


Go Flock Yourself



What was I thinking?  Volunteering to put my house on the Holiday House Tour?  I’d been on the tour the previous year, and other than getting to see other people’s houses, I wasn’t terribly impressed with the level of decorating I saw.   Most of them looked like skimpy department store decorating.

I thought to myself, “I can do better.”

Did I say that out loud?  Evidently I did and to the right people, because the next year, there was my address on the program.   The result was nothing short of spectacular.  The process, on the other hand, was exhausting. 

If you are going to put yourself and your house on display for Christmas, and you are doing this as a benefit for a worthy cause, and people are paying money to see your house, they should get their money’s worth.  I hope they did, because it cost me more than $2,000 to make my house look like it did, and that was for materials only.  The labor was free (meaning me and Susan).

I had five rooms on the first level that were decorated (so was the powder room , but somehow that didn’t make it into the photo shoot).  Three trees, all live.  With more than 1,000 lights on each tree, all wound by me.  Each room had a different color theme.  Each room had garlands (made by me) over the cornice boxes.  Each room had a vignette display of flowers, candy, candles and beverage glasses which matched the decorations in the room.  I don't miss much.

The Family Room was relatively easy, since it was the room I typically decorated.  Ditto the Dining Room, as I already had most of these decorations.  The Martini Room was the most fun.  I had my mother’s tree in there as the decorations were all silver, white, crystal and green, like the tree.  The Martini Room itself was decorated in all white, glass, silver and black.  The only color in the room was on the walls.   It was awesome.

It took me nearly three weeks to get the decorations made and put up.  I started the day after Thanksgiving to get ready for the December 9th tour.  When I finished, there was something missing.  Then I realized I needed to set the stage for guests coming into the in the Entry Way, just as spectacularly as when they finished the tour in the Martini Room. 

I needed a theme.  Winter wonderland.  All Natural.  Like a wintery storm came through and left its crystals everywhere.   I needed another tree.  I needed more decorations.  And I needed snow.   In the house. 

Out in CA, where they are so environmentally conscientious (except for their enormous SUV’s), it is shocking, but you can get a live tree with flocking on it.

What’s flocking, you ask?  Fake snow.  Actually I found out what it really is.  It’s the fibers that make up the fabric we call chenille, sprayed onto something when they are wet.  They stick, and then they dry out, and you have something that looks like it has just snowed. 

In theory.

I should have just bought a fake tree, already lit and pre-flocked.  But I’m a purist, and I wanted a live tree, and I thought you could just go down to the corner tree farm and get one flocked.  Just like when I lived in CA. 

Turns out, the EPA has more or less outlawed that practice because people throw their live trees into the environment in responsible fashion, except now there are all of those chemicals stuck to it.  Not good for mother nature.

“If I can’t find a reindeer, I’ll make one instead.” thought The Grinch.

The kit showed up a few days later with thorough explanations for attaching this thingy to your garden hose, then attaching this other thingy to the bag of fibers, pointing it at the tree, and turning the water on.   The garden hose should have been my first clue.  (I thought I was just going to get something in a spray can.)

As the sun was going down, Chris pulls up to the top of the driveway, and sees me standing outside in the dark, spraying this poor tree.  He said he thought he was in the last scene in the movie "Scarface."

All I did was water the tree.  The thingy wouldn’t work, the fibers went everywhere but on the tree, and the entire kit was a complete waste of money. 

But I wasn't going to give up.

I had purchased some white glitter and a can of spray glue, and had used it on many of the decorations.  Something you want to do outside, or in your garage I might add, and not anywhere near anything you care about. 

In fact, my sister made the bird’s nests out of raffia and some Jordan Almonds, and we glittered those and stuck them on the tree.  We did the same for a bag of pine cones.  It was quite lovely.   But I didn’t think to do that to the tree until it was too late.  It was already in the entryway, and it already had decorations on it. 

  What to do, what to do?

My friend Susan is my Go To Girl.  Anytime I need advise in the way of artistic, creative, problem solving, I ask her. 

In fact, she and I together painted both the Dining Room and the Martini (nee Living) Room walls, ceiling and moldings with pearlized paint.  There was analyptic wallpaper on the ceilings that made them look like they were the old fashioned tin ceilings.  They had been painted with copper paint when I bought the house.  While they were lovely, the ceilings just crashed down on you and we decided they needed to be lightened up.    We did the ceiling, the mantel and crown molding in pearlized white.  We did the walls in the Dining Room a pearlized pink.  We called it Tin Pearls and Satin Ribbons.  If you look closely in the mirror in the Martini Room, you can see the ceiling reflected in the frame.  I hope the new owners didn’t paint over it.

But I digress.

Susan asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?” 

(You would think she would have learned her lesson by now.)

So branch by branch, she dipped into a puddle of craft clue and then into a pile of white glitter.   Branch, by branch, by branch.  It took her all afternoon, but at least she can say she got flocked.

I sent her home with a tin of these cookies my family called Nut Gems (See Recipes).