Food Fighters




Adam Richman, host of the new show Food Fighters on NBC has finally found himself a respectable job. Adam of Man vs Food show, the gluttonous, eating pig-out contest (see Man vs Food on my blog )

 

Man v. Food (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

record-breaking, heart attack making show was in one word, disgusting. It was Adam, a lot heavier, breaking stupid records  for example if  someone had eaten  15 triple cheeseburgers in a row, Adam, of course, would have to top it and eat 16. Ugh. It was not a pretty sight.

 

Ninety-nine percent of the time, he took the title which is why his weight probably ballooned up, I guess the restaurant has to win once in a while. Apparently now a thinner, but nastier Adam is in a Twitter/Instagram (?) fight about remarks he made to some fans which were really distasteful, ugly and insensitive. Not smooth Adam, not good for Public Relations. Your manager is probably eating themselves up in cronuts right about now.

 

I love this show Food Fighters which puts together talented home chefs against professional chefs to cook a meal. Of course, if you are like me, you are always rooting for the home chef to win and to wipe the smug grins of the celebrity chefs right off their faces.

 

Tonight’s episode featured a home cook that really seemed to need the money and I was rooting for her. She beat every single professional chef that was on the show winning a total of $100,000. I had tears in my eyes when she won. She had come from a bad place, was unemployed and really needed a new start. I’m not positive but I thought she said she was living and cooking for her brother and family.  This win, gave her the opportunity to start over.

Aside from identifying too much with the contestant (which I did ) she was a woman you just wanted to cheer for. Her name was Elisha and the only thing I missed was a seat at the dinner table to taste her food and that of the celebrity chefs.

I LOVE THIS SHOW. I haven’t been this excited about a new show in a long time. Thank goodness for this, it’s the little things that make me happy, like the tiny sliver (okay big) slice of chocolate mousse cake

 

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that I stole from my daughter’s birthday cake. Heaven. Moist, creamy, fudge-like icing, my husband was aghast with horror. “Since when have you walked over to the dark side?” What happened to Vanilla Girl?” he asked. I didn’t think it required an answer because basically I was eating the frosting and did not intend to distract myself with an answer.

As many of you know I tend to be VERY flexible when it comes to dessert. I like many different types of dessert and I will have a slice of cake over a scoop of ice cream any day. I eat ice cream, of course, but it has to be in warm weather, outside of Ben & Jerry’s, seated in their cow couch outside licking a cone with rainbow sprinkles. Rainbow sprinkles

 

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make me incredibly happy. To me, they are what dreams are made of, my husband will only eat chocolate sprinkles or jimmies as they called them in Massachusetts.

It’s a particularly hard world out there now and very difficult for our family as well as many families that I know. We do what we can to cope with our situations but if an ice cream cone or a good cup of coffee, once in a while, makes you happy, I say, go for it. It might very well (no pun intended) perk you right up.

 

Just one blogger's thoughts. Allegedly.


Dear Body,

I know you have been trying to listen to me and I appreciate the effort but now, finally I think you have seen the light, pardon the pun. You have known what to do all along but with your being stubborn (and not letting your sister be right) you have negated every suggestion from everyone else. That’s not bad, you need to listen to yourself.

At the same time, I am proud of you, so very proud that you have decided NOW to,( on your own ), to do something entirely different. You went into a bad slump for a day and a half the “I can’t do this anymore” cry

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but you realized you really don’t have to give up. What a mood elevator that was!

Suddenly and slowly like each ray of a sunshine blooming like a petal you decided to do completely different. Instead of adding another med, you were going to stop them all. Yup, each and every one except for Synthroid which is medically warranted for your health. The others, well, you’re not stupid, you won’t go cold turkey, but you can talk (if you want) with each medical doctor and believe me there are way too many and discuss getting off the meds with ease. You are not asking IF you can do it but HOW. Hear that Doc? I am not asking your permission, this is my body and I’m taking it back.

You’ve had it in your germ-filled hands for exactly seven minutes each time. SEVEN MINUTES !!! I have (barely) seen you. My body, outside and inside deserves more than seven minutes. I need love, I need  respect and I deserve it. I know my body much better than you do. My instincts have never steered me wrong. Never. Can you say the same, that you have never given me the wrong diagnosis or the incorrect prescription. I thought not.

The other thing I will do and believe this is harder for me than the above is try to eat healthier foods and that means less processed foods. I can’t promise to throw my Kraft American Cheese Slices, individually wrapped, away, just yet, but I will only eat them when all other comfort foods are exhausted. I do make a mean chicken soup, all natural.

But, again, I’m not going to make myself feel bad if I go slowly in my process. And, I refuse to make quinoa on principle, kale too just because they are “popular.” I’ll wait six months to see what the new food trend is.

I’m not saying I wouldn’t order it for lunch at a cute local farm- to- land sweet restaurant my friend Sarah and I go to but I’m going to take just one step at a time.

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There you have it, my intentions, to be healthier, naturally and stop throwing back these ridiculous pills the doctors have given me because that’s what they do. Maybe I’ll send this to Michael Finkelstein at the Sunraven Center and we will go full circle. Meditation instead of medication. (Love that !) At least when Danny finds a job or if he has a sliding scale. It’s worth a shot. ANYTHING is worth a shot. Be Grateful, Be Kind even more than you have been. Heal Yourself. The time is now.

Love,

Soul

ps: Dedicated to my new friend, Ken

Haiku Horizons, Clear

 

Clear, sun-speckled sky

Angels fluttering like song

Wrapping me with love.

 

* forgive the lack of an image but nobody at Zemanta or any images will help me and I have been trying for a week. Thank you for understanding.

 

Food. GASP!


When I have NO food cravings I know there must be something wrong with me. I live for food, I think about food, write about food and I talk about food. I also fantasize about food and now I watch food porn on The Cooking Channel, The Food Network and more. My favorite shows include Master Chef when Chef Ramsay is nice and Hell’s Kitchen where I practically hide under my bed with all his screaming.

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I also love, LOVE Junior Master Chef and the new (but not improved) Supermarket Sweep (Supermarket Games?)

My fantasy is to eat food, write about food and eat Phish food (Thank you, Ben & Jerry’s) maybe one day get paid for eating food. Yeah, right.

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I inherited my love for food from my dad who loved food dearly. I remember one winter when I was a teenager my mom sent him out shopping for bread and milk. He came back two hours later with blackberries, he forgot the bread and milk. He couldn’t resist, he just had to have them and he knew we would all love them.  I can still hear my mother yelling about how much money it cost him. He didn’t care. I don’t care either.

 

 

 

The only difference between my father and I was that I can eat only eat small portions during the day and my appetite revs up at around 9:30 pm. My father never felt full. Ever.  He could keep eating and eating…. There’s a word for it called appestat, he had no appestat or barometer to ever feel full, he was constantly hungry.

 

 

 

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I have the anti-appestat for the last four days. Thus, I have no appetite. What is wrong with me? No food cravings, no food fantasies, no planning of what I want to eat for dinner tonight (even though it’s only 9:00am.) This is not me. I’m not even planning what I want to eat tomorrow night or the day after. Mind you, I do not even pretend to be a good cook.

 

 

 

The lack of appetite must be leftover (no pun intended) from the horrific migraine I had on Thursday night (see: Thursday, While I Was In The Emergency Room) because I am still forcing myself to eat.

 

 

 

I bet my friends would even prefer if I was eating pizza with grape jelly (or banana slices!! as I just saw photographed.)

 

 

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Also, and this seems tragic, I can’t even play the food fantasy game. One of my all-time favorites:

 

 

 

You are seated in an expensive restaurant with a person of your choice. The restaurant is known for it’s superb dining skills, everything from scrambled eggs to the highest quality beef wellington and exquisite sea food. What do you order” Three meals minimum:

 

 

 

Usually my answer would be something like this: Warm, Just Baked Bread with Butter, Room Temperature, I hate cold butter, (Shrimp Cocktail, Deviled Eggs, Beef Wellington/ Filet Mignon with sauteed Mushrooms and Brussell Sprouts AND the berry pie that explodes in your mouth with a slice of chocolate layer cake that has raspberry jam in between the layers. An Americanized version of a Sachertorte. Home made whipped cream or as we know it, Schlaag,(no Reddi-Whip) is essential on the side.

 

 

 

I play this game often and with ease and sometimes just with myself but today, the closest thing I can come up with is a graham cracker. That is pretty pathetic. I know, now you are jumping up and down in your seats screaming “NO D ???”

 

 

 

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And I would have to shake my head, lower my eyes and sadly say “No, I don’t even want dessert.” This is the strongest indicator that something is wrong wiith me that I can come up with. I am so sorry. I have no doubt that my appetite will come back any day now with relish (eew not that kind)

 

 

 

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and I will be sure to write about the very first meal I get ridiculously excited about. I don’t want to let you down. I think I have, forgive me. Maybe if you give me your fantasy meals I’ll get some inspiration?

PS  And, Judith, dear, Judith ice cream for all three is cheating.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday, In The Emergency Room…

I’m fine now. Okay, maybe not one hundred percent fine but so much better than I was on Thursday. I just FEEL like I’m alright in comparison with…you get the idea.

The left side of my head was wracked with searing pain, I could only describe it (and again this makes NO sense)  as oozing green jello on crack cocaine wearing a choker collar, fastened way too tight. The black collar was sharp, with metal triangular studs bursting through it about to swallow my skin. I have never had a headache, a one-sided headache, that bad, deep and unrelenting before in my life. And yes, in my imagination, there was blood, messy, crimson, creepy blood dripping from all my veins into my wide open mouth.

It was the headache that went on and off for weeks but got progressively worse.  Anyone living with Fibromyalgia is no wimp, let me start by telling you that. I’ve known all kinds of chronic pain but this was new. “Join the club” did not seem like an appropriate greeting. This stabbing, shooting misery aimed directly at the left temple and whole left side of my face were like launched missiles hitting their target every single time.

I was also nauseous and my left arm tingled. I was my in my war zone. Finally, after a few hours of this non-stop torture, I agreed, I even urged, to go to the Emergency Room where luckily there were no lines of people waiting ahead of me. I was so grateful that there was only one family before me that I could have started sobbing at the registration desk.

I was already dizzy, so that when the security guard on duty started asking me questions,  I just had to pry my aching head, from my folded arms on the counter, and squint to answer what my name was, my address etc. that was all I could handle.

“Have a seat” never sounded so good to me before. My husband rushed in after parking the car and with his arm around me, my head nestled into his neck, I tried desperately to hold on to my sanity with all the pain.

When they finally called my name they led me to a room which happened to house another patient with the same symptoms, it was so odd. The nurse, the lovely and sweet nurse, was amazed at both patients’ similarities and if we could have laughed, we would have but at that time we still hadn’t received  pain relief and we had no sense of humor.

Grey’s Anatomy (season 1) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After what seemed like hours, the ER doctor breezed in and while questioning a few things on my chart (not confidence inspiring At ALL)” What’s a stapedectomy mean? What does the drug Savella do?” 1) ear operation 2) a drug for Fibromyalgia.

Finally, FINALLY they gave me shot of some heavenly drug with a dose of benadryl and a huge bag of saline solution. They took me for a CAT scan and insulted my brain and my age which were not the same (never mind)  as they should be and left me to doze.

The medicine wore off quickly and while all I wanted was to get out of the hospital, away from potential staph infections (I watch way too much Grey’s Anatomy) my neighbor chose another shot (not that I blamed her) and slept it off. At one point I actually wore small blue hospital gloves that embarrassed my husband, shocked the ER doctor and amused me immensely.  I left to just get out of the hospital germ zone and they gave me a Percocet to swallow on the way out. All of this is true.

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We left at 1:30 am and I stumbled to bed. The next day I had three, yes, three doctor appointments: First with the Rheumatologist that my husband was hell-bent on me keeping (I regretted that. 2) My Internist (follow up from the ER and 3) New (bad-ass) Neurologist because I had no choice and I lucked out with a great doctor!!

She was an impressive, straight forward, to the point and very, very nice and I begged to be her patient to which she smiled and said she didn’t care who I made my post office appointment with and half winked….We love her. (A big thank you to my friend Phyllis.)

So, now I wait, until eleven pm, a more decent time to go to bed than 8pm. I’ve been waiting for this time, this pain pill, and my pillows all day and night. I think of it this way, nothing could be worse than the headache of yore. It won’t happen again, I hope.

*All typos and grammatical errors are due to prescription drugs that I am NOT abusing.

#Free Write Friday, Kellie Elmore

 

Nowhere To Go, In Time Or Place

I felt the tears of uncertainty and dread spring to my eyes. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my hand because if I didn’t they would stick to my face like hot glue. Change hasn’t happened in our lives for years but I know, in my gut, we will be saying good-bye to the world as we knew it, forever.

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Saying good-bye to the past, yet clinging, pathetically, to the memories that I hold dear. Old memories that rust in time but bloom in my brain like day lilies.

Another chapter will be beginning but we don’t know when or where.  Getting older is not easy unless you are a sweet, innocent child. Children love to turn another year older, there is no death in their future, just presents, and  cakes with candles, hope, fun and friends.The aged lack hope universally.

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For us, their parents or grandparents, it takes on a whole other realm of closing a chapter and warily beginning another, the last third chapter or the beginning of the end. We don’t celebrate parties in the same way anymore; birthdays come around, it feels like, every few months. There is no happiness in aging when you can’t go back in time. Even memories become stale, photographs, blurry.

Our bodies hurt, pain clings to us like Saran wrap on cheese, transparent, almost impossible to remove. It holds us hostage in our weary, broken bodies

I hold on to the wooden stair rail, going downstairs slowly, sticky over time, but now I am fond of the predictable stickiness in certain areas. I have walked up and down these stairs thousands of times, with sick babies, and naughty toddlers, with gleeful children and with young adults I was proud to call my children. I walked with my husband supporting me and me supporting him.

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I am not sure of the timeline, of when we will leave. It could be as early as six months but it could be more like a year, maybe two. The jittery nerves inside me says it will sneak up on us like a deer crossing our path in front of our car in the dead of the night.

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I have practiced saying good-bye to everyone I love and have to leave behind in my shaken heart. I will be leaving this home, this carrier of memories. I know I am on my way, still clutching to some false sense of security.

Entering into another phase of my life, of our lives. I have to control myself from me not to sob out loud. I know this tiny, white house which in six months could be painted navy blue or brown. I don’t know, I will never know. But it will never be my house again. My children will not grow up here, the trees we planted for the children will stay and the two big gray rocks other people’s children will climb on.

We are homeless, we have nowhere to go although we can stay for a little time in a few places but never like this again. The locks on the doors will be changed in two days, maybe three, new owners will eventually move in.  The FOR SALE sign on the front yard seems to deface our property. It has already defaced our home.

A chapter in our lives is about to be over, a new chapter has not yet been written, the lines blur together. We are standing, clutching on to memories not yet ready or willing to create new ones. I am not sure I will ever want to make new ones.

We step aside, we cling to the naked walls and to each other with the depths of our depression in our hearts beating slowly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eppiglottitis: Do I Dare Ask How We Fared?

Fellow eppiglottitis sufferers, you KNOW what I am talking about, don’t you?   How WAS your Winter? I know it’s still July but I am already on high alert just anticipating the cooler temperatures approaching.

This murderess, inexplicable disease comes quickly from one day to another landing at any time, in one very specific place, beyond the throat, with no warning whatsoever.  All the patients are sure of is at least ten to fourteen days of hell and the most excruciating pain we have ever felt. Am I wrong?

I just crossed my fingers so I will not jinx anybody, including MYSELF. Many people have written and asked me about this disease and while I have always followed up on each e-mail, now I want to ask how everyone did this Winter? I narrowly escaped it this year but I’m sure it’s on my To Do: List for this Fall. It’s hard to believe that you would be lucky twice in a row.

Does anyone care to share?  All “jinxes” are off and if they are on, I will be the one to get it because I initiated this damn blog. We share the same, horrifying experience, we feel the same excruciating pain and for all the pills to swallow and liquid to gargle it takes a long time to even feel the beginning of recovery.

As I mentioned in my earlier blog, “Calling Eppiglottitis A Bitch Is A Vast Understatement” the first time it happened, my ENT scoped me and said out loud “How the hell did you get THAT?” My answer, in my head, was “isn’t that your job, Bozo?” Which of course I didn’t say (basically because it was too painful to talk.)

Worst. Pain. Ever. Childbirth is like a little cramp compared to this misery of hell. There are no pain pills that can keep up. Literally, none. Be thankful if you can still breathe and get yourself to the Emergency Room ASAP.

It starts as a simple, little sore throat and then our alarm bells are on alert…we are always aware that this could be an invitation to the deadly Eppiglottitis instead of just a regular old-fashioned cold. If a sore throat lasts more than a few days/ gets progressively worse, I haul my behind to the ENT where he will insert a tube (sorry) through my nose to look at the usually ulcerated gap beyond where the throat lies.

Swallowing is torture. Pure torture. I did read of a trick that, while it may sound disgusting, has a definite advantage: don’t swallow. How, you ask? Lie on your stomach and have a spit bowl. Next time I have it I am definitely trying that. What could be worse than that razor blade swallow. Nothing.

Also, get your behind to an infectious disease specialist, I have never been but I plan to go the next time this horrible disease stops by to visit.

I hope you have a wonderful  rest of the summer and do keep in touch with me in the Fall and of course in the dreaded Winter. Keep washing your hands as much as you can (it will make YOU feel better) but no matter what you will get through it if it should creep up on you again. Trust me, I know.

 

The Reunion

 

My husband Gary and I were sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee, when he brought up the same conversation about my college reunion that I thought we had finished discussing long ago.  “You just don’t want to go to the reunion, he said “because your best friend hurt your feelings.”  “Gary, I replied slowly, she didn’t just hurt my feelings, she  decimated them, there’s a big difference, don’t you think?”

“What I think, he said, is that you’re being too sensitive, after all, you were best friends for four years.”

I had never wanted to go to any type of college reunion, what was the point to seeing people twenty years older, heavier, thinner with more or less hair? This time my husband pushed me to go “Come on, he said to me “why not? Everyone should go to one class reunion. Think of it as a rite of passage,”

I sighed.

Then, the final blow, my husband shouted “you just don’t want to go because you think Caroline might be there, admit it.”

I paused, of course he was right, but how dare he say that?  Did he not know the rules of marriage? He was supposed to stick up for me no matter what. “Asshole” I replied,  “that has nothing to do with it.” “Oh come on, he said, she was your best friend in the world, you think she betrayed you and you have never forgiven her.” “Just grow up,” he said impatiently.

I paused on the stairs leading up to the bedroom, gave him a killer stare and in a slow, moderated voice I said “Fine, if it is that important to YOU let’s just go” I said airily as I climbed the stairs to our master bathroom to shower, condition my hair and shave my legs very carefully.

We drove up on a Saturday morning, we checked in at the front desk of the University as if we were registering for classes. I saw my ex -best friend, Caroline, from the corner of my eye, I turned quickly away before she could see me.

“Bitch” I muttered under my breath.

“What? Gary said? “Nothing,  I didn’t say anything.”

Then, as my worst fear became realized, Gary, spotted Caroline and they waved to each other wildly. He nudged me, “Look Caroline’s waving” At that moment all I wanted was a divorce attorney. I turned to look at her and put my arm up with the faintest crack of a fake smile plastered to my face.

During college, the infamous Caroline, had been my  roommate and best friend. I loved her, like a sister and she was the one who introduced me to Gary; we had all been good friends.

After college we each moved home, she lived in Massachusetts and I lived in NY. We assured each other that we would always be best friends and find an apartment together somewhere in the middle.

In the beginning we talked on the phone every day. After that it dwindled to once or twice a week. Soon, I stopped hearing from her, she wouldn’t even return my calls. I wrote her but she never wrote me back. I convinced myself that she was dying and called her parents in desperation but they assured me she was fine.

I lived with that pain and that rejection in my life for many years. I just wanted to understand but I couldn’t, she wouldn’t even talk to me. Eventually, with time, It became more of a mystery and a dull pain and less of a piercing betrayal.

Many years later, on a vacation to Boston, Gary and I ran into Caroline at an Ice cream store where we took our two children, Nicholas, 5 and Erika, 3 for a special treat.  We were happy, laughing, eating dripping ice cream cones with rainbow sprinkles and I froze as soon as I saw her walk in the door.

 

I said ” hello” to her then, so did Gary and she commented on how cute the kids were. She was about to start playing with them and I felt the flush of heat go through my body. I tried hard not to say anything and then, suddenly, my temper flared and I pulled her aside. I demanded to know the truth: “Why did you stop the friendship? What happened? We were best friends!”

She looked at me blankly, she shrugged her shoulders and I will never forget the words she said: ” out of sight, out of mind.” I was speechless.

The next time I saw her was at the reunion, she came up to Gary and me and started chatting about neutral topics, the weather,  our jobs, and finally she asked about our children.

“Ben is applying to Medical school, I said and Sarah is finishing up college, with a degree in International Relations.” “What about you,” I asked somewhat sneakily. “How is your life?” She blinked and looked away for a split second and then said lightly “Oh you know me, I’m destined to live a life alone, I’m too much of a free bird to have a family,” she said  chuckling.

I nodded politely, “yes, I said, slowly, staring directly into her eyes, I think you made that clear many years ago.

I turned to Gary, who by now was grinning, he took my hand and we went into the seminar together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haiku Horizons, Content

Content life, morning

Coffee, swirling milk angels

Being One with Now.

 

 

 

 

 

In love with food, grace

bellies, content, sugar bombs

lick my lips, linger.

 

 

 

 

Dog lies next to me

Love (Photo credit: Noël Zia Lee)

her paw resting, yawns, content

Leaning on my leg.

 

Doing The Laundry With George

Growing up, my family lived in an old red brick apartment building in Queens, NY. The apartment building was its own little village on six floors. There was a feeling of comfort and safety having neighbors and friends around us.

I had good friends in the building and I ate many meals in my friends’ homes. In Lotti’s kitchen I always ate home-made matzoh ball soup, the matzoh balls light and airy. She introduced me to my first milkshake, made with chocolate and vanilla ice cream and served in tall, cold glasses.

Vanilla Kipferl (Vanilla Crescents) (Photo credit: sharon.schneider)

In Omi’s house, (my friend Linda’s grandmother) we settled into over sized chairs and we ate many home-baked cookies: granulated sugar-coated vanilla crescent cookies and chocolate kiss surprise cookies. To this day I can feel the taste of the melting sugar on my tongue, I have seen several duplicates in stores but they missed a very important ingredient: Omi’s special kind of love. I didn’t have grandparents and Omi made me feel like part of the family.

My older sister and I, individually, had to do the laundry as our chore. In an apartment building, a couple of old washing machines and one dryer lived questionably in the basement. The basement was dank, dark, dimly lit and uninviting. Thinking back, there never seemed to be anyone else down there doing laundry, it was an experience you just wanted to hurry up and finish, it felt scary being there alone.

I would lug the metal shopping cart, that we also used for groceries, and hold on to it with both hands grasped behind me. It always left a lingering metallic smell on my fingers.The elevator always shook and made loud scraping mechanical noises as it bumped and lurched to a stop in the basement.

The only person who lived in the basement was George, the handyman.  We assumed from his accent he came from Romania or Russia but that was never confirmed.  George was a happy and unconventional man. When you talked to him, most likely he was upside down, standing on his head. There was nothing scary about him, in fact, when the door to his room in the basement was ajar we always felt safer.

Clowns Upside Down on the Ceiling (Photo credit: wht_wolf9653)

George spoke little English but every so often he would determinedly either call himself Mr. Rockefeller or call my father Mr. Rockefeller; why we don’t know.

We accepted George the way he was as if he was a character jumping out of the pages of a John Updike novel, smelling slightly of old, cheap wine. All the mothers said “he was harmless.” Back then, he was.  In the sixties, that was normal, we trusted people. We didn’t even question his unusual style, we just laughed with him.

If you were lucky the two washing machines would be free when you had to do the laundry, the sense of achievement and happiness would be intense. I would dig my sweaty fingers into my jeans pockets, front and back, to find three quarters for each machine. The smooth shiny coins were placed in the slotted circles, I waited to hear the metal clinking sound as they dropped down.  Once I put in too much soap and bubbles, huge iridescent sudsy bubbles, started cascading down from the machine, everywhere. I was both thrilled and terrified at the same time. I ran for George.

There was one large dryer but more fascinating were these huge hanging racks that we would have to pull out of the wall and drape clothing on the clothing rods; how this was allowed and sanctioned by the fire department I will never know. Once we pulled back the steel rods and draped our clothing we could see the individual fires blazing. After we pulled our clothes from the hanging rods the clothes were stiff and scratchy. There were no fabric softeners, anything that was on those rods to were as crisp as burned toast.

George lived in our building for many years, we would try to get  in touch with him by phone but he generally didn’t pick up. More often one of us went to his room and knocked loudly on his door.

One day, he disappeared, no one had seen him for a while. Everyone was talking about it but he literally vanished from one day to the next.

In my young imagination, I decided he must have rejoined the circus, as of course, a clown. He already had the sweet smile, the jolly personality and the impeccable skills for standing on his head.

When I remember George I remember him upside down, firmly saying “Mr. Rockefeller.” Why he did this nobody knew, but we all accepted him for who he was.  No one ever heard from him again but after all these years, I never forgot him.