The Feiring Line

Bordeaux in Town & Country

I'm fresh from a tasting where I was taken to task about this piece. It was by someone I've known professionally for a long time. He told me what I wrote was not true. After all, he never sees the problem the Bordelais have. Did he think I was making this stuff up? Then after he criticized my point of view, I asked him if he read to the story to its end. He said no. 

Then it came out: he didn't even read the piece. 

He also said that as I write about natural wine, I had no business writing about Bordeaux. To which I said, "Listen to what you said. What a sad observation."

I did my research, and I did my interviews in France as well as well as from the sommelier's here and some pundits, from James Molesworth to Eric Asimov.

My story is on how Bordeaux has lost 2-3 generations of sommeliers. 

In the next Feiring Line (out end of January) I'll be publishing some of the results of the tasting which I had for the piece of Bordeaux recommendations, wines that I feel have authenticity and soul.   I'll also be printing some of the back story and other bits that fell on the cutting floor.

 

 

 

Imbibe Mag's wine person of the year? Me.

I hope you don't mind this sharing. But I was really stunned and honored when Imbibe magazine chose me as their wine person of the year. And so a little love doesn't come by that often, I had to post. There's more on their FB page and website, but this is a profile, I'll definitely cherish. Thanks, Imbibe. I think you're pretty terrific too!

 

The last remaining cigar maker on la palma

One of the most frustrating bits of being a writer is when you've got a great story and can't find anyone to buy it from you. Last year, on the canary island of La Palma, José,  Carballo and I went to visit the last remaining cigar maker,  Don Antonio González García.

The deal was Carballo gave him wine,  Don Antonio gave him cigars.

James Suckling wrote a story for Cigar Aficionado in 1998, where he erroneously indicated that no Canary manufacturers use local tobacco. Wrong. I saw the plantation with my very own eyes.

 

 tobacco in dormancy, coming from these seeds. 

Perhaps it was a little rustic. Perhaps the drying under plastic might not pass muster, but it exists and the Canary terroir, so distinct for fruits and vegetables must work for tobacco as well.

One of the more compelling tidbits of this story is his tale: as a young man, after the tobacco blight, he searched the island for wild tobacco plants, saving their seeds, now the basis of his plantation today.

Approaching the compound, we confonted it's mafia-like bouncer and fierce,  barking dogs.Inside was lush, grapefruit and orange trees. Every male worker had a stogie jutting from finger or lips. 

drying the leaves                                                           

                                           wrapping the leaves                                        

 

 

                    

                                                                                                    

 

 

                                            

 

Posts that (almost) never got written in '12

This is my first installment of utterly nonsensical blog posts that I neglected to write over this fraught year of 2012.        

 

+++++++++

The first night in the Loire last year I had a scratch in my throat. It was a Friday night and I was in a foul mood.  I was to start on the death vino-death march:  Renaissance, Dive, Les Pénitentes, and the Bio and I'm sure there was another little one thrown in too. By the time the Breton's Saturday night bacchanal rolled around, twenty-four hours later, I was in full frontal painful cold. The girl gang, Pascaline, Linda and I booked a room in Bourgeuil. As it turns out it was the Bates Motel I had stayed at years back and I have to tell you, I was not feeling misty about it.  But it was close to the destination. We got the key. Dropped our bags. Left. We headed to the resto/bar, which looked more Vermont than France, at least in the dim lights. 

The Bretons, if you don't know are the couple in Bourgeuil who started the Dive in the very beginning, are famous for a bon vivant lifestyle and beautiful cabernet franc, as well as early embracers of Biodynamie. A favorite cuvée of theirs, is the own-rooted, Franc de Pied, which always has more depth. But if pressed I have to tell you that their no sulfur Nuits d'Ivresse is always pure joy. There is no other man in the world who likes to get his party on more than Pierre, and while his wife Catherine can hold her own I often wonder how she deals with what he threatened he'd do to me: toss me over his shoulder like a pink and dead pig headed to the butcher, so I hid behind my snotty handkerchief hoping to blend in and huddled mostly outside of the raucous where Camille was sharing some sort of intimate joke with Philippe Bornard. 

 

Yes, it looks like he's fascainted by her left breast, but they were talking about his debut as one of the contenders of the  dating reality French TV Show L’Amour est dans le Pré, where they try to find farmers true love or at least a roll in the hay.  I am not sure how it worked out for him, but I undestand that single women were hanging on like fruit flies on a pre-ferments for a while, trying to catch a glimpse of the vigneron in Pupillin.

I was warming myself by the outdoor fire, being utterly miserable. Finally Pascaline asked me, can we leave? Thank God. But first there needed to be a goodbye to our host. He was holding court on top of the bar doing a Breton imigation of  a male stipper but instead of a G-string there was a pipette filled with old Trinch.  

 With the help of drugs, I made it through the Dive and the limestone caves. Snapped a few outrageous labels, oh what will the cool kids think of next?

When  I was in London in May for the natural wine fairs, so was Pierre. We tried to catch a glass somewhere. It didn't work and I felt guilty about it.

The next day, having arrived in Paris on the Eurostar, I headed to Gare de L'est for the train to Burgundy but had some time and was starved.  The food choices in the hood can  humble a diner.

I walked to  Daumesnil and found a dismal café with more than its share of 1980s decor and Mylar, though in the right light, I could see how it could clean up. The Viaduc café. I sat on the border of out and in. My salade was on its way.  The mozzarella was better than it needed to be, and so was the bread. But would I get as lucky with the wine?  For $20 euro was the 2009 Trinch!! 

Feeling guilty about not connecting with Pierre the previous night I ordered it as if an apology.  What a moonlit sip that was.   I delighted in its cabfrancishness. It will sound terrible stupid but I was communing with it, visions of Pierre and his pipette. How is it I wondered, that each grape from each of their soils could be so profoundly different? I felt like throwing my arm around it, with its acidity and cloudy, mysterious density.  Across the way my eye wandered to two men, eating huge crab, one with a shoe-brush-like mustache, bits of crab clinging to the polish around his lips as he sipped the same wine. They were  absentminded. Well they should be because the match couldn't have been swell. I watched for movement on his brush. I saw him crack a leg and insert in mouth. Then he sipped.  Stopped. Reversed course. Forgot the crab. Looked at the wine. He noticed.  

   

I paid my bill and offered my left over bottle to the gentlemen. They were large and had room, and I did know they would have their way with it.  I walked to the station for the train to Beaune, trailing behind me my suitcase. I rarely share wordless wine with strangers, not that I have a thing against comb-overs and fuller brush mustaches, but I rarely find myself drinking with them, even at a safe distance. That's the miracle of Trinch.

The peach tree in Cascina degli Ulivi

Let's talk about the peach tree.

Remember when the Rome wine store, Bulzoni was busted for having a section of wines devoted to natural? As there was no such thing as natural wine, selling wine as natural was a fraud perpetrated on the innocent wine drinkers of Italy.  

During that debacle the authorities seized four bottles of each offending wines for analysis. However, according to to Sonia Toretto who works for Stefano Bellotti ( the much beloved Cascina degli Ulivi)  a dozen each of  the degli Ulivi were taken for  testing.  

                                                                                 

My speculation: as Stefano has been in biodynamics  longer than any other winery in the country (since 1987) he's a marked man. Perhaps they were looking for a pot farm. Perhaps they were looking for a meth lab. But what they found was equally a danger to the people.

There in the middle of the cortese vines were peach trees.

Diversity in the vines is essential for vineyard health. Mono-culture, is anathema to organic and biodynamic farming. Yet, Regione Piemonte ruled that having more than 1% extraneous plants in a vineyard is considered no longer a mono- culture  of vines and therefore not worthy of public financing and right of appellation.  

Over the years, the government has given agricultural incentives to many winemakers and Stefano was one of them. Now, there was the threat that because of the trees, he was going to be stripped of the Gavi DOC. Gavi is where he makes wine. The DOC is  emblem of pride. In addition,  he had to pay money back years of incentives.

Forms of felonious life in  Stefano's vines. 

Sonia confirmed that the events took an even further bizarre turn. After all, we're talking Italy. "Last Wednesday," she wrote, "the government seized about 30,000 bottles, about a third of Stefano's stocks, due to inaccurate "non conforme"--criminal labelling of the wines."

The charge? He did not use both of his certifications on the label that he was entitled to.  He used his Demeter certification on the 2007 vintage. He did not use his organic certification. Fraud! Of what I am not sure.

The team Piemonte was off and running. They tested those bottles they confiscated after the the Bulzoni affair for pesticide and herbicde residue and lack of sulfur.  Stefano's wines were true to his word.  Yet they still fined him about 1200 euro per label for certification issue and 'correct' the labels.

But  there might be some good news about those peach trees and the salvation of the  Gavi DOC. The technician called the winery and did a little back-pedalling, "Maybe I might think about this some more. Because I really don't know much about biodynamics and biodiversity."

Over Skype Sonia told me, "They are paying people to make decisions who don't know anything. If you ask my eight-year-old son, he knows about the importance of biodiversity. It's just common knowledge." 

It's been a strange year in the world of wine where the race to steal its soul has been full-force. The Loire cracked down on Olivier Cousin. There was the  Bulzoni affair. There is Stefano. Is it merely ignorance, or is it darker? Could I project that one day Monsanto will put pressure on the EU to make sure the peach trees aren't in the vines, that biodiversity is broken, so they can sell more chemicals? Can we see the day when winemakers are punished for not using Roundup? This isn't too far fetched. The world, after all, is nuts. 

No matter the reason, wrong people are being challenged ,those who don't pollute, and those who seek purity are viewed as the culprits. Who was it who said, authenticity is  always threatening? 

 

 

The cheerful criminal himself, Stefano when I visited in 2006.

A Canary Island potato, mojo and goat heart

On this years voyage to the Canary Islands (the place and the wines and the vines are written about in detail in this month's newsletter) I found myself on a mission to compare as many wrinkled potatoes and mojos as I could.  

The potato dish might as well be the national sport and those mojos -- sauces, green and red--are always served  for dunking. Each restaurant shows off a local variant on the recipe. Spicy, tame, thick, watery, exoticaly spiced, one note. Hints of India. Tints of Morocco.

Even well into the nine-day trip, which involved three islands , ferries and planes,  my little brother-like friend José (the wine importer)  had had his fill of them ("I need sushi, Alice.") I was still on the trail.

In fact, on our last night on the island of La Palma we were at a magical resto, Chipi-Chipi, a  

    

a green submarine-like eatery, and like a magician José popped a valentine of a  petite baby goat heart into his mouth

I was happily drinking  Tendal (mostly listán prieto, 'bout $20)

                                                                                                             

 and still on the trail of  the wrinkled spuds. They were, steamy, tender and creamy. The mojos were working their spice. I was a happy girl. For the moment, they were as good as any white truffle.

 Ten months after the trip, I was taking coffee with  Esteban and Mima, who were in New York promoting their  "non-hangover" Canary Island-made vodka. This Blat, (The vodka , $37, is certainly extremely smooth, and my resident vodka expert claimed it a success.) I mentioned my love of mojo, potatoes and the Canary food to them. "Did you have black potatoes when you were there?"  Mima asked me and I said yes. There are many antique varietals on the island, so much so that one chef on Tenerife gives a class in them. But the blacks? I would love to have them again.

The next time the Blat couple visited New York City, they had managed no potatoes. But to my great thrill, they smuggled in  a bunch of mini-bananas and a mini-football sized mango from Gran Canaria.  I waited for the fruits to ripen.

They gradually did.

The reward was the the best banana and mango of my life. I finished the last bits before #Sandy and they will remain branded into the part of my brain in charge of these things. Their blend of sweet, texture and brilliant limey acidity is what made them singular. Those tastes are not to be had in this country. They further emphasized the notion that those basalt soils (once again, check the Newsletter for the way basalt effects acidity), have a profound effect on everything grown in that volcanic dirt.

 

                                            black soils on La Palma

 

"The next time, I bring you black potatoes," Mima said. "But meanwhile, make this recipe for mojo.  From an  old recipe of a person from a small village."  This is a bare bones mojo. Thank you so much Mima. 

Mima's Friend's Mojo

Mix the ingredients with a mixer:

 - 1 peeled enitre garlic head (I'm not sure I can go there. Would ruin my palate for a month)

- 1/2 red  bell pepper  (I would add hot)

  - 1 soup spoon of ground cumin

- 3 soup spoons of sweet paprika

- 1 soup spoon of salt

- 1/2 glass of water

- extra virgin olive oil to emulsify

Mix first six ingredients , add olive oil with the mixer till it thickens.  

 

And, for the potatoes?

Wrinkled Potatoes

*2 pounds baby potatoes

* 1 cup salt or more if needed.

Directions

Place the potatoes in a deep, medium-size pot. Add enough water to cover, and salt. Potatoes should float in the salted water; if not, add more salt.

Place pot over high heat and bring to a boil. Immediately reduce heat to a simmer and cook until potatoes are easily pierced with the tip of paring knife, 25 to 30 minutes.

Drain water from pot, leaving just enough to cover the bottom. Return pot to low heat and cook, shaking pot until the salt covering the potatoes begins to crystallize, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat and cover pot with a clean kitchen towel until potato skins have wrinkled, about 10 minutes. 

 

More Soldera Solidarity

On Sunday December 2nd or early Monday December 3rd,  there was a massacre at the Montalcino estate, Case Basse. Someone smashed through an unbreakable window and opened the spigots on the botti holding vintages 2007, 2008, 2009,2010, 2011, and the newest baby, 2012. The wines drained out until empty. When discovered in the morning, the floors must have been soaked and saturated with the color of bloodshed.

There were no lives lost. The substantial cost of the loss is covered by insurance. And yet I kept on thinking that this was a massacre.

Wine is raised like children, a wine is separated from its lees, as its separated from its mother (according to the Georgians, as least.)  Because one the wine can be raised for up to five years, Gianfranco Soldera will be around 80 if he lives to see a vintage of his Brunello ever released into the world. 

Gianfranco and Graziella Soldera first vintage was in 1975.  1997 was their  first vintage of Brunello Riserva. I can't remember exactly when I had my first taste. I think I was doing a story on a restaurant in Boston and the owners gave me a bottle, "This is real," they said.

I didn't trust the guy. Then I opened the bottle two months later,  I knew the truth-- an exquisite soulful wine. Priced out of my reach, I only was able to drink the wines at the graces of others. 

There is speculation about why this happened. All suspicions point to retribution for the Soldera's part of Brunellogate. Do check out Jeremy Parzen's article.  

It was a matter of time before Italy Big Wine took measures to prevent the competitive market that is now arriving. For years the big companies had had a stranglehold on the wine bars and resaurants of Italy. It was difficult to get a good drink anywhere--if everywhere was Florence, for example.  I remember some restaurants who tried to put independent, small winemakers on their list got threats  of fire or worse, unless they went back to the party line wine houses. I won't mention their names, but Jonathan Nossiter hinted around this in Mondovino.

Since 2006, though, the wine revolution has hit Italy. There is more variety available and more trouble on the horizon. This year we saw the Enoteca Bulzoni affair. The wine store in Rome was busted for having a section of 'natural wines.' Recently a friend of ours (royal we) in Gavi was busted for having a peach tree in the middle of his biodynamic vineyard, then he was fined a huge amount of euros for misguided labels. (stay tuned for that story.)  My suspicions is that  the money behind big Italian wine is not happy.         

I emailed Francesca Padovani of Campi di Fonterenza  who makes beautiful wines in Montalicino with her sister .  "What is the word in town?" I asked her.  She kindly wrote back.  

It was a great shock for me to hear about what happened to Gianfranco Soldera.

My personal idea is as yours a clear revenge for what occurred in 2008 the big brunello scandal.

The reaction of the people here is very different. What I hate is that some people are hiding behind a finger saying that this is a safe place, there is a general mentality that reminds me of MAFIA idea of thinking.

Yes, here they don't kill you but they poison your animals or cut down your vines or come around your life and making you afraid, they write anonymous letters... well... 

 
The message is strong and cruel and they went to the heart of this place. They touched the best wine producer , and raped him. the goal is to create FEAR. I am afraid, to be sincere but i am tired of this.

 
We need open and free thought. This action is touching every one .

++

Monica Larner has an interesting post on the Wine Enthusiast and speculates, one which was the possibility of this being an insurance fraud, strikes me as being terribly misguided. Because that would have been a man killing his children, of course the next step would have been suicide. Whether it is organized crime,  a disgruntled employee or just an act of random madness, the tactic was Mafia-inspired.

 

There is late breaking news. It seems as if there's sizable evidence now pointing to an ex-employee, Francesca's brother reports. 

 

The Drinks Business throws women under the bus

"Do you ever have problems in the field, because you're a woman?" So goes the oft asked question. After all, even if there are young men involved, there is an old boy network at the top. And so, I instead of telling them the truth I say, no, I get a  hard time because I'm short.

I've always felt a little guilty about not being totally honest, because I just didn't know what to say. Then, The Drinks Business came along and helped all of us  in the same boat out.

This morning they  ran an article about the 50 Most Influential Women in Wine (which in itself is unfortunate, why separate the sexes? Women are essenital to writing, marketing and making wine. This is not a tennis tournament.) To frame the story they initially chose an illustration that was simply stunning. All I can say is thank you to the editor for giving me a great fodder for future talks. When I don't know how to answer the question, I can now cite this incident by a well-read industry magazine.

I'm not sure if that is the image of a show girl or a pole dancer under glass or a pheasant, but it sure is female. She is trapped under a glass as if she were an insect in a sci-fi movie.

I remember when an a man who would have raped me in my early twenties (I had to take certain a tried and true but extremely unpleasant strategy) looked me up about a decade ago, totally clueless about what he had done.

He now lives in Japan and told me how he met his Japanese wife on the subway in New York City. He called her a princess in a glass, as that kind of good little woman, there to serve and service was called. I quickly got off the phone, and remembered our little episide and took a shower. But, never mind.

The Drinks Biz , falling under pressure of twitter outrage, changed the illustration to this.     

I like the homage to Emma Peel but they should have given her a gun to go along with the clothes.  

And now? They've gone classic, trying so hard to offend no one, but again so clueless, I almost feel sorry for them. Does anyone know if Murdoch owns them?  

 

Craft beer goes Kraft

Did you catch the The beer story in  Shanken Daily News entitled, Craft Controversy: Rotating Drafts Spark Concern Among Brewers? 

It seems that Boulevard Brewing in Kansas City, Missouri, a big craft produer with $36,000,000 in sales had a complaint. 

 

Bars that refuse to dedicate draft handles to particular brews, but rather regularly rotate beers in and out are “becoming more prevalent,” remarks Bob Sullivan, vice president of sales and marketing at Boulevard Brewing in Kansas City, Missouri, the tenth-largest craft brewer. The tactic—while often a successful strategy for on-premise operators—is damaging to all craft brewers, new and established, Sullivan says, as it doesn’t give brewers a chance to build their brands.

It strikes me that this attitude is contrary to the craft movement, which revitalized a dead, homogenized beer market.

The writer of the piece went further to comment more deeply on the trend, while great for consumers and beneficial to many bars—is a challenge for marketers and distributors.

We could argue that decreasing the consumer's intake of diet soda is bad for PepsiCo's business, or the decrease of smoking is bad for Phillip Morris, or that GreenMarket vegetables might be tastier but that's bad for Whole Foods or Southern complaining that they've harder time getting by  the glass pours because of Jenny & Francois selection being so popular.

Okay, I'm going on a roll here,this is not as pernicious a motive as those listed above, but the mindset is the same. Control the market, control the consumer.

Just to make sure the independent craft beer industry wasn't going totally off their rocker with commercialism, I put in a call to  craft beer central, Oregon, and specifically to Charlie Devereaux who  heads up Double Mountain, a company that has just started to put its draft into bottle, works in a much more crowded local market than Boulevard, albeit makes a whole lot less beer.

He was a surprised by the piece, because he  believes Boulevard to be the real thing, but he does realize they have a problem. "When they started there were 200 craft breweries, now there are 2000," he said.  

Even though he was eager to defend his bigger colleague, as he sees it,  the way a beer is built is merely through demand, and not because a bar pours you.  "The real damaging threat," he said, "is when the industry gets boring." 

 

The Rescue

Before the power went out on Monday night, for a few insane moments, I did think of heading down to Ten Bells. You know, winemakers in town, Crozes-Hermitage, that sort of thing. Then something went bang off of someone's roof top and I thought, hmm, maybe not.

Started to work on Newsletter #2.

Then the power went down. Computer crashed, "Fuck," I said. I saw the flicker, I should have shut down. 

8:45

I lit my candles.  Finished off the last bit of Txakoli  in my fridge. 

 Then opened the next, a 2010 Beaujo because why not. Cell phone still worked and I was draining my batter looking at tweets. Then visitors. More wine. I made popcorn, something I'd not done in 19 years. Poorly, I might add. In fact, it sucked. I plugged in the relic: the landline with a cord.

More candles.

The air was filled with the small of wires that had met their end.  Cell service no longer. Called mom on ancient phone to make sure she was okay. Afterall, she refused to evacuate her town of Long Beach.  "I walked into a wall," she said.

"Where was your flashlight?"

"In my hand." 

"Was it on?" I asked her. The answer was no. Of course. 

Bed. Wake up. Wonder what now.  Still no cell service.  No mom. Not even her landline. Fast busy. Not happy.

I took a walk to survey the damage of the night. There were a few people huddled on the corner of Houston. "There's service here?" I asked them.  My iPhone popped out of my pocket faster than the lights went down the other night.

A zombie feeding on flesh, a vampire looking for blood, I searched for the signal. Quick check. Communication. Nourishment. I felt like a junkie or at least one that is mixing metaphors.

Then after boiling an egg (I still had my gas) I walked up to my friend Okey's ondesign wired-up office (he designed my newly launched newsletter).  It was only then I realized how panicked I had been not hearing from my mother since midnight on Monday. I plugged in and searched for Long Beach news. no water, electricity, gas. National Guard was moving in and people removed from their houses by the morning. My mom in a shelter? That doesn't work.

 

Mom's apartment  is next to Lido Hotel--at the end of the shot.

I had to get her out of there.

But there wasn't a car to be rented in all of New York City. I went to Facebook, "Anyone have a car to lend me to help me find a missing mom?" (She'd kill me if I gave her age but let's just say she's closer to 100 than she is to 77--and she drives into NYC to work every day.)  Within five minutes, I had three car offers. Then one seious one came through on my cell. "I"ll pick you up in 20 minutes. Let's go!"

I told Okey how lucky I am to have these men in my life who take care of me. "I'm going to be one of them," he said. He fished out a phone charger and handed it to me, "For the ride."

I found a cab down down to E-street and the  no electric zone. Ozzie arrived. We left. Easy. Past Sunrise Highway there were no traffic lights. Starting around Lido Blvd the boats and cars were facing wrong directions. Power lines down. And after the bridge we saw people walking like refugees with bags, going where? Not sure. The scene was post -apocalyptic.

My mother's building was boarded up. Sand dunes were piled up far from the beach. I shouted up. She didn't hear. Someone was leaving the building let me in. I slid up. Pounded on the door. She was there, having just lit the candles for the evening's darkness.  She was one happy mother.

"Pack!" I instructed her.

"I can't leave," she said, showing her Ethel stubbornness.

"Do you think I'm here for dinner?  Come on, mom. Get your things together."

"My car's dead. It starts but it sounds awful. Go look at it,"  she said, giving me her keys.

"Pack!" I repeated. "Or I'll do it for you." But then I thought, my mother without a car? That's a bad one. Okay, we'll deal with that later.

She said she couldn't leave. Everyone else had left the building. But she wasn't going to leave. "They are expecting looting."

"Exactly why you're not staying here" I said. "You have nothing here anyway to take. Come on, Mom, pack."

Then she gave in and only then did I realize how terrified she must have been because she did actually pack.  She took a towel and a pair of underwear, as if she were going over night instead of indefinite. This is my mother, a stubborn woman. "How is it you have a friend who could be so wonderful?" She asked, as she met Ozzie. My mother knows how to be a friend but she doesn't understand the concept of receiving. She doesn't really grasp the power of frienship.

We dropped the refugee in safety at my cousin in Bayside. I headed back to Brooklyn deciding to spend the night with light instead of darkness. All was normal there. Franny's was packed. We decided to pick up Indian. Aarpan. Very delicious. Homey. I couldn't wait for a bottle.

Back to his house, with two cats, (not my favorite, but they were cute), and a 2009 Olivier Cousin Le Breton that I frankly could not stop drinking, as if it were water. A lush year for Anjou, Olivier has given me shelter and comfort in his home town, and there I was taking comfort once again, in Windsor Terrace.

My life as a refugee continues until electricity comes back. I'm tempted to go regress to the quiet and cold zone, remove myself from connectivity. Focus on seeing if I can still salvage the capability of writing by hand. Who knows, maybe Sandy will restore the part of my brain that has been wired away from me. I've thought about how technology and modern society has made it too easy to press a button to make things work, and along with it disappeared the knowledge of building sentences as well as function.

Maybe it's not too late to resurrect the thinking cells. Tonight, yes, back to candle light and brightness.

(Lights came on 5pm on Friday. I am grateful and appreciate how lucky I have been and am. Ethel will be homeless for a while. My apartment, five-floors up and a bathtub in the kitchen, even if it is walking distance to her business, won't really work for her. But she'll be okay. My heart goes out to all in the region dealing with worse destruction.  May there be power in friendship and even in darkness there is light.)