55 Things About 55

A year in review for this Leo sun, 29 degrees.

My first-ever haul of meaty heirloom tomatoes.

My childhood friend Claudia (#7 & #41) told me about this ritual she does every year before a birthday. She writes a list of events, thoughts, impressions, or whatever comes to mind from the previous 12 months, one for every year lived. On the eve (well, in a few days), here’s my list of 55 for a road very much traveled. I could have kept going. I might.

I’m sharing because maybe it will inspire you to do your own year in review. Maybe it will make you write like the wind, as it did for me. Maybe it will be therapy. Maybe it will surprise and delight. Spawn new ideas.

Late August on the east coast is a time of transition. The light is softening, the air gets still. The cicadas still sing, the zinnias still bob, but in a month, maybe not. May we all have a minute (or 10) to review time gone by. It goes so quickly, you know? Be well. love, kod

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1. I celebrate a magical 55th birthday in Seattle. Seaplane to Blakely Island. Oyster lunch at Buck Bay with Erin and Greg. 

2. Erin baked a cake. I can’t remember the last time someone baked me a cake.

3. On that same trip, Ethan became a Bar Mitzvah. We watch him via Zoom because of Covid. 

4. Leslie organizes a dinner for out-of-town guests at Serafina, an old fave. The first place we ate when we moved to Seattle in 2008. 

5. We gather at a long table in the courtyard. It’s lovely beyond measure. Ethan likes the three-dollar rainbow sunglasses I got him from Target. 

6. Frances dies. I don’t get to see her. I go to Seattle for the memorial service in October. I say a few words. I cry a lot thinking about how young she was to exit.

7. Tim comes to Lancaster for Thanksgiving. I am so happy to see him. I teach him to make pie dough. I give him Dad’s merino wool turtleneck from his days in the Naval reserves. Mom gave it to me, and it’s time for me to pass it on. It looks good on him. 

8. Lee drives from Kentucky. Susan acts like a brat. She apologizes the next day as I drive her home with a stash of turkey leftovers.

9. After wrestling with the decision for several months, I quit my job right before Christmas. I agree to stay through January. Those six weeks are more emotionally fraught than I think it will be. But I’m ready to make space for other things.

10. I meet Sally, a friend of Shelley’s, who knows how to read the Akashic Records. It is one of the most woo-woo things I have ever done, being asked to trust something that you cannot access with your physical senses. It is profoundly informative and helpful, and please don’t ask me to explain how it works. 

11. It’s a cycle of firsts. First time to Guatemala. First time to Eastern Europe. First time to San Miguel de Allende. First international trip in nearly three years. First time in Europe in 20 years.

12. I’m go to Guatemala for a memoir retreat with the writer Joyce Maynard. It’s a trek getting to her house on Lake Atitlan, but it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. 

13. I write some, but more importantly, I read my work out loud. I talk about my idea for an essay collection. I feel propelled to keep going.

14. The real gift of the week is the women I meet. Ann. Annie. Kim J. Gina. Trinity. Megan. Erin. Kelly, who leads us on the yoga mat every morning. Rosa, who cooks for us and whose smile is as wide as Lake Atitlan.  

15. Trinity and I wake up before 4 a.m. and meet our Mayan guide, Luis, at the top of the hill. He drives us in his tuk tuk in the moonlight to the base of a mountain. We hike with flashlights, another first for me, to watch the sun rise. I learn that the lake is deep, as in Jules Verne deep. Luis tells us how archeologists have discovered an underwater Mayan city. 

16. My cup is fuller when I get home. 

17. Ellis dies. Claude and Stu’s dad, husband to Margot. The family has been in my life for more than 40 years, the same family that was there for mine when my dad died. 

18. The service is graveside in a Jewish cemetery in the Northeast Philly boondocks. It’s the second or third day of spring, and it is snowing as the rabbi chants. We are freezing, but nobody cares. We need to wish Ellis well.

19. In late April, I heed the call that won’t go away in my dreams. I sign up with World Central Kitchen to cook for Ukrainian refugees in Poland.

20. I have three weeks to get organized, and it’s almost not enough time. The preparation for this trip is multi-layered, complicated. I order personal safety devices. Register with the State Department. Emergency evacuation insurance. Friends connect me with friends on the ground. I make lists, check them twice. 

21. Some friends are worried I’ll be so close to the Ukrainian border. Others are emotional, say it’s personal, that I’m going on their behalf, for their families, their heritage. Friends come out of the woodwork, sending money to help with expenses. My eyes fill with tears, even now, when I think of the generosity. 

22. Karla, my homegirl from dotcom days, introduces me to Marek, who meets me at the Krakow airport. He is my intro to Poland. He takes me to a little hole in the wall for pierogies. He introduces me to Polish beer. We talk about the war. He shows me how to read a Polish train ticket. He helps me to understand that I am on a mission. And the minute I hear him say that, my body relaxes. 

23. The WCK kitchen is in Przemysl, about 8 miles from the Ukrainian border. The days are long and intense. I’m humbled. I’m proud. I’m physically tired. I’m seeing the best of humanity. The other volunteers are from all walks of life, mostly from the States. We make three thousand ham and cheese sandwiches a day. We work hard. We don’t pray together but you can tell everyone is praying in their own way for peace. For this senseless war to end. 

24. There is one good restaurant in town and I eat there almost every night in my scrubby kitchen clothes. 

25. After dinner, I pour a glass of wine and write until I can’t keep my eyes open. I document my experiences here. [tk link]

26. Megan, my friend the psychic helps me connect with my spirit guides. I see Mrs. Karl, our across-the-street neighbor on Penarth Road. She was an avid cook and my first culinary mentor. She is sitting on a bench in the garden that sits along a sea wall. Maybe it’s Puerto Rico, maybe somewhere else in the Caribbean. I can smell the flowers, I can hear the birds. 

27. Miz Cheese Danish is blue. We agree that I will come to Copenhagen to hold her hand, or whatever she needs as she figures out whether to stay married. 

28. I head to New York the day before flying to Denmark. I meet friends dear to me – Grace in Chinatown, Dorothy in midtown, Margit in Brooklyn. All women with grit, determination, creative spark. All women I am proud to know. 

29. In Copenhagen, Miz Cheese Danish and I ride bikes.  We drink wine, we drink coffee, we eat really good rye bread. She cries, I listen. We sit out on the terrace and watch the late sun. 

30. Russ gets sick in late May and even though he tests negative, we both suspect that maybe Covid has finally caught up with him. We cancel our trip to LA for our friend B’s birthday bash. 

31. Russ, Shelley and I pick strawberries. They’re the best I’ve eaten in recent memory. I make sorbet with a whole lemon, rind included, and it is transcendent.

32. I pick raspberries three times, blueberries twice. The fruit does more than sustain or fuel the brain; it feeds something in me that is difficult to articulate, something deeper. 

33. Ramona and Jerre, our next-door neighbors, both get Covid at the same time. They leave hand-written lists in the front door, asking for sweet bologna and low-sodium Heidi something-or-the-other swiss cheese. Instant decaf, sweet Hawaiian rolls. Skippy peanut butter, some kinda canned soup. They thank us with a box of mail-order Omaha steaks. 

34. We spend the weekend with longtime friends Liz + Matt. It’s the weekend of the March for Our Lives rally in DC, in response to Uvalde, Buffalo and all the other mass shootings. Matt and I accompany their 11-year-old son, who’s understandably nervous about attending. There’s a scare at the rally. We run for cover. False alarm. But we get to see just how on edge we all are, and how crazy it is for an 11-year-old to be worried for his personal safety. 

35. Russ and I skip July 4 and instead go to San Miguel de Allende to see Ann. It’s a part of Mexico new to us. We meet her Jeremy. We walk and walk and walk along the cobblestones. We see lots of art and eat good food. There’s a Peruvian restaurant that is especially good. Oh, and the cutie coffee place where we waited on the sidewalk for nearly an hour. 

36. Ann and I talk about collaborating with words and food. We’re not sure what that looks like yet, but that’s okay. We will. 

37. I sign on to be the recipe editor for an Israeli cookbook project, with a group of really smart, creative, good-hearted people. They’ve all worked together before; I’m the newbie. But they make me feel at home.

38. We gather at chef Mike’s house for multi-day photo shoots. His house is five or so miles from where I grew up. The way the light casts shadows on the trees reminds me of my childhood summers. The sound of the crickets (cicadas?). The air stagnant like the inside of a laundromat, and popsicles or wooder ice to help you forget the humidity for a few minutes.

39. I’m on one of these photo shoots when the news comes about the reversal of Roe v Wade. I cry, and three of us women hug, sad, angry, devastated. I get home with minutes to spare for a rally in downtown Lancaster. 

40. The news fuels me to finish an essay I had been working on for several months, a piece about my own abortions. It’s a part of my story that I kept in the vault for more than 20 years. 

41. Chef Mike’s house is a five-minute drive from the Horwitz’s, which means I get to see more of Claude, who’s been visiting Margot and planning Ellis’s memorial service. My thread with Claude is 43 years long. It’s got gold tassels now, sparkly and strong as ever.

42. My meditation practice and my yoga practice is as deep as it’s ever been. A silver lining of the pandemic. Overnight, Zoom classes became the new studio. I’ve known Danielle since my early days of yoga, but through an online yoga platform I met Maud, Tamika and Mel, who all have become dear to me. I never thought I would have a daily practice. Now I do.

43. In meditation, sometimes Mel asks us to envision our happy place. And repeatedly that place is a big house with a big porch or terrace. We’ve invited friends to join us for a week, to cook, to play Scrabble, to swim, to dance. I keep seeing this gathering in my mind’s eye. And I hope to manifest this vision sooner rather than later.

44. I invite Susan to lunch for her birthday. Double 7s, she says. She picks at her noodle salad, doesn’t want cake to commemorate. Instead, could I please take her to the Verizon store so she can get a new flip phone. 

45. I make a vegetable garden, as I endeavor every spring. But this one is my best work yet. I plant three kinds of oxheart tomatoes, another first. I buy the starts from an Amish woman named Lillian. The harvest has been extraordinary, a haul of giant juicy love apples, both deep red and orange. Slicing into one, with a little bit of sea salt, feels like communion. 

46. I call Susan up and tell her I’m coming by with a coupla tomatoes to make sandwiches. She toasts some bread while I slice the tomatoes. I bring her a few extras for later plus an ear of corn. She spreads mayo on hers; I sprinkle salt on mine. We eat in silence. Communion, again.

47. During growing season, I spend my first waking hour in the garden with my coffee. I prune, I weed, I sip. I watch Bee TV. I harvest. I shoo away the squirrels like Yosemite Sam. Russ tells me that he can see me smiling from the kitchen window.

48. I cut corn kernels off the cob and put it into freezer bags for later. Corn broth from the cobs, too. 

49. I also crush the kernels in a mini-chopper and add a little cream or half n half, season with black pepper and salt. I smoosh it on top of pizza dough. Dried oregano and grated Parm follow. Halved cherry tomatoes dot the whole thing like gumdrops. We finish it under the broiler after the 15-minute bake. Rinse and repeat.

50. The tomatillos are coming in and soon it will be time to make salsa with their plant neighbor, the poblano pepper. This year’s harvest is robust. Someone is smiling down on me.

51. We fly to Louisville to see Russ’s mom. Uncle John and Marcia, too. We take a few food field trips outside of the city worth the drive. I have my first sip of really good dark rye.  

52. I am grateful for the many new friends I met from my travels. But I miss those I haven’t seen in more than a year: Joseph, who moved to Arizona. Nay-star, a North Star who lives in the west. Billy, whose love for fruit has no bounds. KC and her Canine Band. And yes, Frances. 

53. I often think of Hilton, Ralph and Kim, who also died way too soon. What would we feast on if we had another chance?

54. On the last weekend of my 55th year, I’m canning more than a hundred pounds of tomatoes with Cathy and 5 other women. It’s got me wistful for the Canning Across America “can-aramas” we used to host in Seattle, with Jeanne, Butterfly, Shannon, Leslie, Judith, Lucy and so many others who were passionate about putting up summer in a jar. 

55. I realize that the first day of my 56th year is 82222. Play the lotto? Maybe homemade peach ice cream.