Burnt Chocolate Stories

My 60th Birthday Present from Steve Created by Steve in a Neighbor's Barn Perhaps you’ve wondered how Steve and I ended up in Dodgeville , Wisconsin , of all places. The short answer is that around our thirty-fifth anniversary, we thought a place in the country might be fun. A family retreat for our children and grandchildren appealed to our sense of adventure. But, like a lot of things, it’s more complicated. In 1974, we moved to an expansive home next to Lake Michigan in Evanston , Illinois. Some years later, we renovated the nearby University Club, converting it to a celebrated public museum only to have it destroyed by an electrical fire before its third birthday. Once the details of that disaster settled, and the last of our children left for college, I felt the urge, the necessity, to move away. It didn’t matter where. Just someplace new and different. Long Grove was both of those things and it was there we experienced both anonymity and life as incorrigible ...

We’re buried inside on this snowy day. Winds blow thick tufts against my balcony door. Driving is a needless risk, walking past the mailbox a foolish notion. Super Tuesday primaries have settled enough to turn off the television and enjoy Leonard Cohen’s music, read a book, write a few words. Years ago, when Rebeccah was a toddler, a similar snowstorm piled mountains of the stuff on our front lawn, covering sidewalks in five foot drifts and blockading streets. A Chicago mayor lost her job, disgraced by irate citizens for her delayed response to the blizzard. But for me, those few days remain a cherished memory. Time stopped. We had plenty of food, wine, books, each other. Quiet moments, safely inside. Respite. I’ve recently emerged from a different kind of respite, one filled with fear and sadness. But being at this end reminds me that I can still surface, that I still have enough spirit left to carry me the distance. Just a few days after I last posted, Steve slipped on ice from...

Here's Elliot! Meet our newest grandson, named for my father and just as handsome and sweet as his big brother Henry, who's fifteen months old and fast on his feet. These past two weeks I immersed myself in their household rhythm, changing diapers, wiping noses, rocking, tickling, singing, laughing.  While Rebeccah nursed Elliot and Henry napped, I knit sweaters, hats, stuffed animals and watched the cycle begin once again. We discussed the ins and outs of pregnancy, delivery, milk production, sleep deprivation, diaper rash, nipple pain, cramps, headaches, tension, paper vs cloth diapers. Did Elliot sleep better after a supplement? After nursing? What did I think?  What does anyone think? In 1967, formula was the rage. Few breast fed their baby. By 1974, the year Rebeccah was born, the switch to breast milk was in full swing and formula had dropped from vogue. Neither view takes into consideration the individual situat...

. . after two wonderful weeks in Spain and Portugal. From Las Ramblas in Barcelona to the Alhambra in Granada, we enjoyed mild and sunny weather every day, walked dozens of miles, saw Picasso’s evolution and Miro’s legacy. A brief train ride took us to Toledo, an ancient city where centuries ago Christians, Jews and Muslims lived together in peace, something of a miracle. Rugged coastlines, circuitous streets in Seville and magnificent cathedrals boasted thousands of years of history. We tasted sweet custard and lobster, flan and baby piglet, tapas and sixteen varieties of olives. Mid trip, the Chicago premiere of “Indestructible” took place to a sold out audience that left scores of people without seats. The evening’s excitement reached us via email from family and friends able to be there in person. Josh was in New York on business and unable to attend. Matt and his family live in Connecticut now. And so it goes. Busy lives pull us in different directions. All of which reminded me ...