Nestled amid all that glorious sauce and spaghetti is one enormous meatball, at least three inches in diameter, and just waiting to be devoured by my lucky mouth. If there’s one thing that Andy knows how to cook (and there are actually many) it’s the meatball. Despite their size, these always turn out tender enough to slice easily through with a fork. Their flavor is wondrous, yet I’m told the ingredients are simple enough. (Perhaps you can cajole him into sharing the secret with you. I’m content to have him continue making them so I’d rather not know.)
While I enjoyed spaghetti and meatballs as a kid, it wasn’t something I ever ordered or cooked for myself as an adult. Andy’s meatballs changed that, because these are an art form.
This fun pic shows the reflection of Andy white illuminating that Abba was playing on the radio – ‘Fernando’ to be exact. The last time we had the twins over, I made a joke of Abba and I’ve been texting it to them ever since. An inside joke, it’s just something that makes me smile now, and Abba has become a code word for fun when talking with them.
This is merely an almost-bite of Andy’s perfecting of a chicken curry dish which has taken over two decades to reach this blissful state of warmth and deliciousness. It is the perfect antidote to a winter’s day, and even better during the early arrival of a winter’s night. This dish rivals that of Mom’s beef stew, to which Andy has also added his special touch. Comfort food to warm the heart.
One of the first meals Andy ever made me was his pasta and meatballs. It was in the summer when we first met, and he had invited me and Suzie over for dinner. So frazzled were my nerves and so high was my anxiety that I made Suzie stop at the TGIFriday’s at Stuyvesant Plaza for a cocktail beforehand. There was no need for such worry – once we were seated in Andy’s Guilderland house, it felt comfortable and safe, and as we ate his pasta and meatballs, it felt like it could be home.
Throughout the years that followed, this meal would become a reliable dinner of comfort food, and word of its goodness traveled among our friends. Suzie’s daughter Oona would come along, and she loved the meatballs as much as any found in a restaurant. My parents would join in the adoration for the classic dish, and our other friends would enjoy it whenever we were at a loss as to what to serve.
Andy revised and refined his recipe, following hints from Rosanna at his favorite restaurant (hint: no garlic, only onions) and no matter what insanity was going on in the world and in our lives, this meal would ground and stabilize us – made with care, consideration and love – and enjoyed in the same manner. Andy finds comfort in making a big pot of sauce then crafting a baking sheet crowded with meatballs, and I find comfort in eating it all when it’s ready. It’s a system that works.
Two queens in a king-sized bed
There’s no mistletoe above our heads
But I’ll kiss you anyway on Christmas day
Yeah, I’ll kiss you anyway on Christmas day
I don’t have a lot to give
But I would give you everything
All my time is yours to spend
Let me wrap you in with my skin
With my skin
This song is a good one to play when you’re not quite ready to get out of bed in the morning, or when you find yourself napping at the same time as your husband, something that happened happily a few days ago. I found myself lying down just for a moment after work, and that moment turned into a few, and then I was fast asleep. When I woke, Andy was beside me, covered in blankets and warmth. I stayed there a little while longer in the darkness of early afternoon, simply enjoying the comfort of the moment. That’s hygge.
Two queens in a king-sized bed
Like angels in the snow
My only wish is one more year
And then I want them all
Your freckled cheeks, our tangled feet
The closer, the better it gets
So let’s stay right here
Until forever disappears
I don’t have a lot to give
But I would give you everything
All my time is yours to spend
Let me wrap you in with my skin
With my skin
When the wind whips by the windows on a cold, clear, almost-cloud-free day, and the tan grass heads nod in brutal agreement, it marks a moment to indulge in a bit of coziness with a loved one. There is calm here, and there is quiet here, and the world could use more of both during the Christmas season.
Two queens in a king-sized bed
Mm, there’s no mistletoe above our heads
But I’ll kiss you anyway on Christmas day
Yeah, I’ll kiss you anyway on Christmas day
There is nothing more comforting than taking an early-afternoon nap with your husband as December gets underway. Let the season of hygge begin.
Way back when I was about to move to Chicago circa 1999, my Mom gave me a book of recipes that were designed to be cooked quickly and easily – a basic entrance to cooking for someone who was about to embark on some simple housekeeping. I did my best to work through most of the recipes, and one of my favorites was an utterly-inaccurately named ‘Chicken Curry in a Hurry’. It was simple as far as ingredients went, but woefully ill-monikered because it took forever to make, what with all the chopping and cutting. I used it as a basis for branching out once I became a little more confident in things, before passing it on to Andy once I introduced him to Thai food. In his capable hands, it was modified and perfected, to the point that it now rivals the chicken yellow curry at House of Siam in Boston. Here’s how he does it:
2-3 lbs chicken of your choice (I’ve used boneless chicken thighs, breasts cut into strips and precut tenders. Also full thighs with bone in.)
4 cans of coconut milk
Package of Campari or cherry tomatoes
1 whole ripe pineapple cored and chopped into chunks
Two “handfuls” snow peas
A mesh bag of mini red or multi colored potatoes
2 cups sliced or mini carrots
1 can whole or half mini corn
2 inches of fresh ginger root peeled and minced (held separately from vegetables)
Optional: a diced onion and a diced bell pepper
Yellow curry paste
Peanut (or olive) oil.
Chop vegetables first and put in one bowl. Set a large Dutch oven on high heat with enough oil to cover bottom. When hot, add chicken and brown it. Add all vegetables to Dutch oven and sauté with chicken for about 5 minutes.
Add fresh ginger. Sauté another 5 minutes. Cover in coconut milk. Add curry paste 1 tablespoon at a time to taste at simmer. Low simmer stir frequently for about 45 minutes until potatoes are cooked. Add tomatoes whole and simmer another 5 minutes.
Every year at around this time I can sense Andy recoiling from the world a little bit, slipping into the sadness of the season, and no doubt remembering when he lost his Mum. Next week will mark twenty years since she died, and for him it’s still as sad and sorrowful as when it happened, perhaps compounded by being without her for such a long time. Sometimes grief subsides in certain ways, while growing in others.
The holidays are marked by two memories I have of his Mum: the first is a very happy and funny one, taking place on Christmas Eve the first year I was dating Andy. We were stopping by his house en route to mine, and he told me she would offer me a highball, and it was ok to say yes. (He knew I might otherwise have declined in a desperate act to be polite.) It was a bit nerve-wracking, as it was the first time I was meeting her, and in my nervous discombobulation when she offered me the drink I enthusiastically said yes, then mentioned that I’d heard she liked to drink. It didn’t come out right because there’s no way for that comment to come out right. She looked my way, then looked at Andy, and let it slide. We would laugh about it for years. (At least I wasn’t wearing a ‘Get Wicked Tonight’ t-shirt to meet her, as he did when meeting mine.)
The second holiday memory is when she was sick, and we got a call from the hospital on Thanksgiving and had to leave the Ko house early. By then he already felt like part of the family, so losing her was losing one of our own. I wish I’d gotten to spend more time with her.
Twenty years later, it feels freshly painful all over again, so I’m letting Andy lead the way on how he wants to proceed as far as what he wants to do on Thanksgiving. Still, I know she is with us, and Andy knows it too, whenever a cardinal comes to visit or partake of our seven sons flower tree, or flit around the front thuja hedge. She’s there whenever Andy gives me a quick look for something inappropriate I’ve inadvertently said or done, just like on that first night when I met her. And she’s with him whenever he gets down at this time of the year, in ways that I can’t comfort or ameliorate.
We continue our celebration of Andy’s birthday with this post, featuring Andy VanWagenen as our Dazzler of the Day. Having already waxed rhapsodic about his attributes and magnificence here, I’m going to allow these handsome pictorial reminders of the past speak for why he has been a Dazzler in my life for over twenty years. PS – Don’t forget to wish him Happy Birthday today!
Like many retired and current police officers, Andy likes to keep his online presence rather quiet and discreet, and for the most part this space has tried to honor that, but at least once a year I insist on putting him up here and celebrating all that he has done for me, and for the world. Today is his birthday, so he deserves all the happy well-wishes and congratulations for surviving another rip around the sun on this wacky planet.
In ways too numerous to mention, Andy has provided the foundation and stability that our home has needed. For many years I relied on him for that core of safety and security – it was as much a part of his make-up as his care and compassion for others when he was an officer. While I’m the last person on earth who thought he’d end up married to a retired cop (having had more than my fair share of traffic tickets alone) it turned out to be the best thing for me. In exchange, I hope I’ve introduced him to things he never would have experienced in his world.
As a beloved member of our family, he has also been indispensable when times are tough and life gets difficult. My parents are getting older, and every day comes with greater challenges and obstacles. Having gone through losing his own parents, Andy’s experience and guidance through these moments has proved a comfort in more ways than I have probably acknowledged, so I’m taking today to remind him of that, and of the gratitude and gratefulness we all feel toward him.
As we get older, I’ve noticed our love runs in a deeper way, its grooves softened and honed by the accumulation of years and shared moments together. Where some fear and dislike comfort and safety, we pull ourselves closer to it with each advancing year, and if the last two years have proved anything, it’s how dark and depressing this word can sometimes get. Andy and I have survived partly because of the life we have created for ourselves. There have been times when it’s just been the two of us against what felt like the whole world, and on this day I want him to know how much that has meant to me.
Having recently finished up this year’s Fall Treasure Hunt weekend, I was compelled to take a rare look back at our interactions with the Ilagan twins, so I found these photos of Uncle Andy with Noah and Emi in years gone by. It’s amazing how quickly they are growing up, and how much we are evolving in the process. Just a few short years ago we could throw them easily around in the pool, and they could barely reach the counter-top of the kitchen.
Now they almost look like young adults in comportment and carriage, and I want to go back just a couple of years, not only for their youth but for our younger years. I only indulge in such maudlin sentiments for a brief moment, and then I’ll be back in the mindfulness that focuses most on the present, and all the wonder and joy that can be found in the here and now. The twins represent that passage of time in ways that are bittersweet and contemplative, providing a pause in the relentless tick of the clock.
Twenty-one years ago we had a rather rainy summer, not unlike the one we are having this year. Great for the gardens, not so great for sunny summer fun. We were both beginning to come out from relationships that had hurt, and we were both finally learning to be happy on our own. I took the rainy season as a sign of healing and forgiveness, a way of moving beyond the past while honoring our present. I don’t think either of us intended to find a love that would last beyond a night at Oh Bar, so when your friend Patrick invited me to sit down at your table, I sat across from you and did my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, and the way your gaze cut through to my heart unlike any other man I’d ever met.
You seemed reasonable and fair, kind and grounded. Something about you felt calm and safe, and though I sensed you were not quite over injuries suffered in the recent past, I also sensed you had accepted life in a way that my immaturity could not yet fathom.
The more we talked, the more I fell into your blue eyes. More thrilling was the hope and sense that you were falling into me as well – I honestly felt you were so far above my league that I wasn’t even sure you meant to be talking to me.
Outside, the night felt calm and quiet. After raining all day, the clouds had departed and the world felt clean and new, the way it sometimes does after a heavy rainfall. Do you remember walking to our cars? I was going to follow you home because we both knew something special was afoot, even as I fought against falling so quickly. I didn’t expect the ride to be so long, and I didn’t mind in the least; I would have followed you anywhere.
When we arrived at your house, it was dim, but you carried that sense of safety and calm with you – something you would provide no matter where we found ourselves – Boston, Ogunquit, New York – and I understood then that it didn’t matter the precise place or location: you were already my home.
When I left, it was practically morning. Fumbling awkwardly in your kitchen, I told you I’d probably never see you again, and as would become the case many times over in the ensuing decades, I’d never been so wrong, and so happy to be wrong.
When I came upon these roses at Faddegon’s, fresh from a rainy night and unfurling their petals in the morning light, I was instantly transported back to the summer of 2000, when I first met Andy. He grew roses in his garden, carefully tending and trimming them as necessary, occasionally clipping a bloom for his Mom or his living room. A man who knew his way around a garden was a good man indeed. That he took the time and care to share something beautiful with his Mom cemented the notion.
He favored the perennial rose favorite ‘Peace’ and tried his hand at ‘Mrs. Lincoln’. There was also an extremely fragrant tiger variety that was a deep pink, marbled with fuchsia – its beauty matched only by its exquisitely potent fragrance. I remember walking into his living room one evening and wondering at the delicious perfume – all produced by a single bloom in a little vase.
His prowess with roses was impressive, as it was one of the plants that always eluded my green thumb. He knew when to apply the fertilizer, when to protect the crowns for winter, and how to bring them all back to life each spring. Equally adept at preventing problems, he kept the aphids and beetles away, and managed to elude powdery mildew and rust, things that even the most skilled gardener can’t always keep at bay.
I was content simply to enjoy the fruits of his labor, as every few summer nights a new rose would appear in a vase by the couch, gently perfuming the air, reminding us of the beauty of the world when you put in a little work.
Only Andy and I, and a few select Audi associates, will ever truly understand the epic failure and subsequent journey that was undertaken and endured to reach this smiling point of happiness with a vehicle. As any regular reader will tell you, Andy is all about his car. He has a photo album of every car he’s ever owned or leased, like a proud parent or grandparent, and he religiously researches and keeps up to date on all the latest news about whichever model currently occupies the garage. It’s his passion and his hobby, and one of the three things I looked for in a mate all those years ago. (When we were young and foolish enough to demand such things in a partner, one of the things I wanted was someone who was passionate about something – it didn’t need to be anything that I liked or enjoyed, it just had to be something about which they were excited and knowledgable about – and in Andy’s case that was cars. I still get a kick out of watching him peruse his car magazines and figuring out which car package would work best in any given situation.)
His last Audi was a lemon of the most sour variety – you couldn’t eve make lemonade with how dangerous it was getting. (The automatic correction thingie almost smacked us into a truck on the Mass Turnpike.) Luckily, he reached an agreement on a new car with the local Audi dealership, so for now things are looking up after a year-long nightmare. His smile says it all, and I have a sleek new ride to work.
Our grill likes to act up, particularly during times of Mercury in retrograde, or when we are having guests over for the first time in well over a year. Or in the case of this incident, when both are coinciding in tumultuous fashion. After 2020, Andy and I can roll with the punches, but even this one threw us for a doozy that required a quick decision to be made – a decision with no easy or guaranteed happy ending.
My parents, Aunt Elaine, my brother and his fiancee, and my niece and nephew were due for a family barbecue on one of the hottest days of the year thus far, and Andy was about to begin the grilling. We hadn’t had this much family over since the days prior to COVID, and we were giddy with the reunion. Elaine had just returned from a winter in Florida, so it was doubly exciting, and having the twins over was a much-missed treat, especially when they’re growing up so quickly.
I was finishing the preparatory work on a quinoa salad when Andy came in and motioned for me to follow him, saying we had to make a quick decision. It was his serious voice, and he was keeping it low which meant that no one could know something. He brought me over to the grill, and when he lifted the side cover to the secondary grill section a magnificent but wholly unwelcome finch place stood, encasing five little eggs. The main grill had already been lit and was quickly heating up, so I advised that we take it out and put it on the ground until we finished cooking.
The next day I was conferring with a cardinal about the finch situation as she chirped in the nearby thuja hedge, before we were rudely interrupted by a squirrel. Andy picked up the conversation later in the day – he says the cardinal chirped a bit at him then sang him a little song – a message from his mother that we had done all we could do for the finches.
Making up for missing our tenth anniversary last year may seem like a good moment for going all out and throwing down the party gauntlet, especially after a year of staying home, but it felt better to keep things quiet and intimate, the way our marriage has grown and evolved over the years. That made this anniversary weekend somehow more special – it was as much a return as it was a new beginning – the same way we are all navigating this new world.
Boston had evolved and grown as well – the European flavor of open-air cafes beside restaurants that would have never considered outdoor dining options before was its most apparent update – and as scary as change can sometimes be, this felt right.
Uniting the blooms of upstate NY home with our home in Boston, these lilacs bridged New York and Massachusetts, proving that home was wherever you brought your loved ones, and sometimes it was wherever you found simple beauty.
And now the purple dusk of twilight time
Steals across the meadows of my heart
High up in the sky the little stars climb
Always reminding me that we’re apart
You wander down the lane and far away
Leaving me a song that will not die
Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by
Eleven years into our marriage – and almost twenty one into our relationship – the memories and the history we share emboldens us to keep going, and helps us to survive such trying time we have all had of late. Winnie-the-Pooh said it’s so much friendlier with two, and on magical weekends like this it rings absolutely true.
Sometimes I wonder, I spend
The lonely nights
Dreaming of a song
The melody
Haunts my reverie
And I am once again with you
When our love was new
And each kiss an inspiration
But that was long ago
And now my consolation
Is in the stardust of a song
For our last dinner of the trip, I wear ‘Straight to Heaven by Kilian‘ and we order a car that will bring us to one of Andy’s favorite restaurants, Boston Chops.
There we have a delectable steak dinner to cap off a weekend of good eats, good memories, and good times with my husband.
As we head home and retire for the evening, the rain arrives. It has held off until the midnight hour – for which we are completely grateful – and now forms a cozy reminder of the rain that arrived on the day we departed Boston eleven years ago. We hear it splash onto the windows and the air conditioner, forming a percussive soundtrack to lull us to sleep.
The next morning, in spite of earlier weather reports, the rain is completely gone. There are even peeks at blue sky through the clouds. I pick up some pastries from Cafe Madeleine and bring them back for our breakfast, pausing to look at the flowers along the way, like this snowdrop anemone, which nods its head in the slightest of breezes.
A last look belongs fittingly to the delicate blue blooms of the forget-me-not. Until we return to this beautiful city…
Beside the garden wall
When stars are bright
You are in my arms
The nightingale
Tells his fairytale
Of paradise, where roses grew
Though I dream in vain
In my heart it will remain
My stardust melody
The memory of love’s refrain
