Burnt Chocolate Stories

 I created Burnt Chocolate over twenty years ago, shortly after our son Ben was diagnosed with ALS. After my first few posts Ben asked, "Don't you want to write about anything else?" I did actually, but I was consumed with his illness, worried for his future and felt ill equipped to handle this devastation. I forced myself to write about my children, grandchildren, interests, travel, but ALS often crept in unannounced to my commentary. That's how I feel today. I wake up and the first thing I do is read Heather Cox Richardson's essay and become consumed with the battering our country is taking. Then I read my neighbor, Vicky Shufton's post, and feel unhinged. My worries do nothing to change the situation. I've joined the protestors, written postcards but feel powerless. Blaming every issue on immigrants has become the scapegoat of the current administration. These are good people seeking a better way of life for themselves and their children. But they shoul...

 Today is a day filled with chocolate covered strawberries, red roses and perfume for loved ones. And while I enjoy the goodies, I've felt putting aside a day to celebrate love is like putting aside a day to enjoy a good meal. Every day deserves celebrating our loved ones, telling them we love them, and putting aside old wounds so they can heal. As some of you know, I am writing a novel. Although it is a work of fiction, it also contains the love I feel for grandparents I barely knew, for their courage and love for a granddaughter they would never know. They saved me from a life of constant persecution because we are a Jewish family. Not that anti-semitism isn't alive and well in the United States because it is and always has been. I attended a program recently on the current politics our country is enduring. There were excellent charts presented with percentages of the numbers of people who support Trump's agenda and those who are against it. 35% for 59% against. Someone i...

Part of being human is making mistakes. Some of us have no problem owning up to them. Others feel they would lose their authority, or feel diminished, if they admitted they had taken a wrong turn. Saying 'I'm sorry' or 'I screwed up' or 'I made a mistake' are words I've said more times than I can count. It's a freeing experience for those who have never tried it. And I think it creates a strong human connection and provides the opportunity for forgiveness. Why am I thinking about this today? Mostly because there are hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of people, neighbors and friends, who supported Trump in his early days and might have regrets today. Unsure of what to do or say, they remain silent and perhaps feel ashamed. And that's sad for themselves and for the rest of us. I admit I'm also a little sheepish about bringing up the topic, fearful it might lead to blows. At the same time, I think it's worth the risk.  The funny thing is...

This past week has been both terrifying and an awakening. We've been here before and if memory serves, we survived and thrived. We will do it again. It doesn't matter whether the tyrant is a mayor, like Richard J. Daley of Chicago, or a governor, like George Wallace of Alabama. In the 1960's, we watched on our little 12" television screens in horror, as the Selma marchers were beaten and sprayed.  In the 1970's, I remember seeing the west side of Chicago in flames as angry, disenfranchised citizens burned down their neighborhoods. The yippies marched from Lincoln Park through the elite, near north side, smashing car windows and screaming vile epithets at the police. The Vietnam war finally ended in 1975, but left millions angry and adrift.   I'll grant you, we've never had a felon as president before, but we will survive this travesty. Trump told us who he was and what he would do. Anyone who has been surprised by his actions hasn't paid attention. Demo...

 My brain is a muddle this morning. Through no fault of my own, there was a water leak into my apartment on Thursday that has left me with noisy machines interrupting my sleep. So I'm tired today and worn out from the noise inside my apartment and outside in the world. What do I worry about? Nothing that I can do much about. I worry about the damage being inflicted on all of us by a totalitarian nutcase who just can't seem to have enough power, money and control. Years ago, a man who made 400 million dollars a year was asked in an interview if he felt that was enough money for him. His answer? No. Imagine how many yachts, airplanes, and villas the man must have had and still, not enough for him. What a miserable way to live your life. I think Mother Nature has become impatient and angry with us for not appreciating her gifts and allowing the worst among us to take over. What was Covid, if not a way to keep us chained inside so the skies could clear? Freezing temperatures here ...

 I start my mornings the same way every day: play the NY games, make myself a latte, and take some deep breaths. A friend suggested I try the app Balance, which provides a deep soothing meditation that is a great way to begin the day. Then I read what Heather Cox Richardson has written because she is so thoughtful and brilliant and even handed in her remarks which provide some protection in the face of political rhetoric that I know is wrong. And then, sometimes, FaceBook breaks into my sense of calm with a jab. Here's one. When someone says to you, "But these immigrants are illegal!" as if the horrors inflicted upon them by ICE is appropriate. Or that the protesters should be arrested, pulled out of their cars, beaten within an inch of their lives and sometimes murdered by ICE who look and behave exactly like brown shirts in Nazi Germany in the 1930's, here's your answer. "You voted for a convicted felon who breaks the law every day!"  Immigrants, like ...

Steve and Michael in Spain, 2012 When we moved into Saint John's in 2018, I loved everything about the place with one exception. When someone died, a photo was hung on the bulletin boards along with the dates of their birth and passing and an announcement about the funeral plan and memorial. Not every day, or even every week, but more than once a month, someone would be gone. Not surprising with a community of around 400 persons, but still, seeing the announcements was a little like reading the obituaries, something I never cared to do.  I've come to feel these notices are a gift to me as my numbers grow and I'm closer to passing on. After all, we're all headed in the same direction. Best to accept the inevitable and see it as a normal part of life. At least that how I've come to feel most days. I find my tears are further away from me and I hold onto the belief that when the body is filled with pain and trauma, it's time to let it go. But when someone dies who ...

 In 1996, we became empty nesters, a term that hadn't yet been popularized. Three were married and all five were living in different cities. I was missing those early years when we were creating our family and all the challenges that came with it. So I began to write stories, little nuggets of time that I found charming, difficult, crazy or funny. A whole collection that I promised myself I would continue to expand. But then life had a way of interfering and I sadly, abandoned that project, and turned my attentions towards a more immediate concern.  Here's a funny little one I wrote nearly thirty years ago that any new mom or dad can appreciate. Holes        "Hi sweetheart," I say to my first born two-year-old son Matt, whom I have not seen since yesterday.   My half eaten dinner tray is pushed to the side of my hospital bed.   One day old   Josh is wrapped like a blintz and lies across my still huge belly sleeping.   He twists and, as I...