“IT MUST BE IN YOUR DNA,” PEOPLE SOMETIMES TELL ME, ON LEARNING THAT I AM THE DAUGHTER OF WRITERS. BECAUSE THIS OVERLOOKS THE SOLITARY, INDIVIDUAL WORK I PUT INTO WHAT I DO, IT USED TO BUG ME. YET HAVING A RELATIONSHIP THAT WAS AS COLLEGIAL AS IT WAS FAMILIAL WITH MY FATHER, INFLUENCED ME. HOWEVER, ANY KIND OF FATHER INFLUENCES… Read More
THE AIRLINES DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW IT, BUT IT’S TRUE. AND FLYING ON THE MILES GIVEN TO YOU BY SOMEONE YOU LOVED, WHO HAS HIM- OR HERSELF FLOWN OFF EARTHLY LIFE… WELL, THE JOURNEYS I HAVE TAKEN UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES HAVE BEEN DEAR TO ME. HERE’S WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW. This post is unusual for me. It is… Read More
SOMETIMES YOU JUST DON’T KNOW HOW IT’S GOING TO COME OUT. OR EVEN IF IT WILL. BUT IF YOU HANG IN THERE ANYWAY, TRANSFORMATION IS POSSIBLE. IN FACT, IT MIGHT BE ON ITS WAY TO YOU RIGHT NOW, HERE’S WHAT MY EDGY, ALCOHOLIC, WRITER FATHER – WHO LATER SOBERED UP – TAUGHT ME ABOUT THIS. About three years ago, a… Read More
“Daddy,” I said admiringly, “You should run for president.” I was six. Sitting on the dirty clothes hamper in the bathroom, my back to the window, watching him shave late one afternoon. He stood, in his white boxers, facing the mirrored white medicine cabinet. At that time, he was a Broadway critic, and if he was going out to an… Read More
After the Los Angeles funeral of my late father, Maurice Zolotow, a well-dressed, chic, trim woman came up to me and extended her hand. She had excellent posture, and her hair — a jet-black that looked neither harsh nor unnatural — was well-styled in a short, flattering, expensive cut. Her age was hard to guess (I figured out later that… Read More
Walking yesterday, up near Frazier's sugar shack here in Vermont, I heard an animal rustle in the underbrush edging the woods by the gravel road. Though I stood stock-still and watched, I couldn't see what it was. Too large for a chipmunk or a squirrel, smaller by far than a deer, I was left only with the sudden sound of… Read More
Re: my father, Maurice Zolotow, and Roman Polanski… Y'all know I am given to writing long, thoughtful, wrestling-with-big-questions blog posts — what my friend and fellow cookbook writer / memoirist Ronni Lundy called "blongs" (as in "blog" plus "long"). But you can teach an old dragon new tricks. This is a quickie. Every time I hear the coverage about Polanski's… Read More
I used to be an innkeeper. I used to be a daughter with a living father. I am neither of these things now. Yet both reside within me. Both come into my present life at unexpected times. They did today, a moist, misty day, one in which I felt slightly out-of-sorts. Perhaps this very out-of-sortness is what brought to the… Read More
