Do you hear the people sing?

We have been Les Miserables fans since Grandpa Vince first took us to see the show in Chicago back in 1993.
For years afterward we had to step carefully in our house because our oldest daughter Katherine, who was only four-years old when she saw the show the first time, believed she was born to play Little Cosette on Broadway. At frequent intervals she would grab a rag, drop to the floor and sing "Castle on a Cloud." This habit annoyed her brothers, amused our neighbors and kept the hardwood floors in the first little house we owned well dusted.
We all loved the show and listened to the cast recording endlessly. A quick trip to Blockbuster Video turned into one of those moments of high amusement and utter mortification common only to parents when our oldest son Charlie, then six-years old, burst into song. "I smell women, smell 'em in the air. Think I'll drop my anchor in that harbor over there." Charlie has always been blessed with good, strong lungs.
Last night, Vince took Molly and me to our local Performing Arts Center for opening night of the New 25th Anniversary Production of Les Miserables. I'm sure by now we've seen that show a dozen times, counting all of the high school productions. That's peanuts, though, compared to J. Mark McVey, who played the lead role of Jean Valjean for us and more than 2,900 other audiences in his impressive career. His magnificent performance truly moved us and we noted with delight that the actor shared the stage with his tiny daughter, an ensemble cast member.
We're very grateful to live in a community that supports the Arts as passionately as it supports its Packers. We're especially fierce about promoting live theater for its tangible ability to both enrich lives and inspire dreams.
And the little girl in our house who would only clean her room if she could wear a costume and sing? She lives in Chicago now and is working hard… as an actress.

Forgive the awkward angle. I shot this lovely picture myself.

Here we are with the Thenardiers proving once again that we
are quite tall. They were very good sports though.

Here is our Little Cosette, circa 1995.

Here's a Packer hero you may not know

It's game day in Titletown and I'll be one of the 70,000 pumped up Packer fans streaming into Lambeau Field tonight. Whether you're joining me, or watching the game on TV tonight, I'm asking you to pay special attention to one of the names displayed on the inside rim of the stadium.
Henry Jordan was inducted into the Professional Football Hall of Fame in 1995 and lucky I got to attend the induction ceremony as a guest of the Jordan family. With the invitation came a red button that identified me as a "Guest of Henry Jordan." I treasure both the button and the memories it inspires of a thrilling weekend in Canton, a charming family whose beautiful matriarch both intimidates me and makes me smile, and an intelligent man whose premature death at age 42 stunned us all.
Today when I look up at Henry's name, I will be sending a prayer for his widow, Olive Jordan Frey, who recently was diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease.
Henry Jordan was my dad Ron Kostelnik's best friend on the storied Packer team of the 1960's. Sadly, both men and their teammate on the defensive line, Lionel Aldridge, suffered fatal heart attacks and died young.
As much as Henry mentored my Dad both on and off the football field, so too did Olive mentor my mom. Olive, a vivacious and generous woman, happily assumed the role of team social director, according to my mom.
Olive organized family dinners for the single players and taught an eclectic group of very young Packer wives, most of whom had never heard of Green Bay, Wisconsin, how to conduct themselves with style in the increasing glare of the spotlight.
In the 44 years since the Packers won the first Super Bowl, Olive has cheerfully maintained that role. At my own wedding in 1987, Olive arrived and kindly offered to organize our wedding party and she stayed in the back of the church to pace them through the opening march.
Six years later she proved to be an invaluable resource at a far sadder occasion, guiding us through the grim process of organizing a funeral following my dad's sudden death.
Today, Olive could use some help in her battle with a brutal disease.
Please join me in praying for her and, if details regarding any other way you can help her become available to me, I will pass them along.
Go Pack Go!

Henry and my dad take a breather. At left
is a scanned paper napkin. At dinner one
night, a bored Henry sketched my dad. Not
a bad likeness, right? My dad kept that napkin
for the rest of his life.

Here Olive spruces up one of our groomsmen, Dennis Fitzgerald
prior to sending him down the aisle.

This is my dad and Lionel Aldridge at my wedding in 1987.
The Aldridge family could use your prayers today too.

A toast to the heroes next door

It's easy to recognize a hero, especially today. They walk tall in pressed uniforms and shiny shoes. They volunteer for hard tasks and run toward things we avoid. Last night, we had dinner with a guy like that, an army veteran and quiet recipient of a bronze star and an oak leaf cluster.
Our next-door neighbor Doug doesn't speak much about his days as a member of General Patton's army. Instead, he conducts his life with the quiet dignity extolled by so many members of his generation.
At 88-years old, he remains constantly busy. He keeps his house and yard immaculate and works very hard to make sure the grass is greener on the other side of the fence as well, which is nice for us because we live on the other side of his fence.
Doug and his stylish wife Janet, with whom he recently celebrated a 60th wedding anniversary, intimidate us with their never-a-complaint nor-a-hair-out-of-place way of life. Their days begin early and, by proximity, ours do too.
Let other people snooze in on snow days. Here in our neighborhood, we rise with the Octogenarians. 
For many years, whatever the season, mornings would begin with a whir indicating Doug had yanked out his snow blower, lawn blower or leaf blower and gone to work. In the darkness I'd open one eye, gauge the sound waves and then yank the covers off the guy sleeping next to me.
"Vince, get up!" I'd yell. "Doug is blowing us out again."
Pride compelled us to get up then and go out to help him.
During one particularly nasty blizzard when Vince was out of town, Molly and I hauled ourselves outside to clear our driveway. Pelting snow stung my eyes as I looked over and saw them, Janet in a cute matching pink coat, hat and gloves and Doug with a jaunty cap pulled over his forehead.
"For the love of God," I yelled. "Go inside before you hurt yourself. We'll take care of the sidewalk."
They laughed and continued on their merry way.
We have so much to be grateful for today -- a free country and the brave people who help us keep it that way, a holiday that gives us an opportunity to thank them, and a couple of neighbors like Doug and Janet.

Molly poses between our neighbors Janet and Doug, neither of
whom looks a day over 60.

In a time honored family tradition, Molly brands her
Styrofoam leftover container.

Presumably, this will keep late night snackers away.

A Happy Veteran's Day cupcake for the man
of the hour.

Chicken Soup for the Whole…week

You know the weird relative that asks for the ham bone after holiday meals? That's me. I take it for my bean soup.

Soup happens to be one of my specialties. I love that I can get most of the meal finished before I leave for work in the morning and that when I come home the house smells like a properly cooked dinner. I love that I can dump all of my leftover vegetables in a big pot of soup and people will neither notice nor complain. I love that good soup tastes even better the second day.
For 12 of her 13 years Molly was right with me on the Souper-di-duper bandwagon. Then Vinnie moved out, leaving her an only child. The first time I made chicken soup for our post Vinnie family, we had Chicken Matzo Ball soup on Monday. On Tuesday we had Chicken Tortellini Soup and on Wednesday we ate Chicken Rice Soup. Same pot of soup, I just switched up the starch. And that wasn't the first time this fall Molly ate the same meal three nights in a row. (Don't even get her started on my husband's recent wild hog extravaganza). A few weeks ago, Molly launched a campaign to get me to adjust my portions. I couldn't do it. The lure of the leftover proved too powerful. This business of cooking once and covering three dinners is new to me and I am, you should pardon the phrase, eating it up.
Last night I made a thick chicken tortellini soup and appeased Molly by serving it with her favorite  Foccacia from Great Harvest Bread. I know she'll enjoy it even more tonight.

Chicken Tortellini Soup

1 whole chicken

Water to cover

2 cups chopped carrots

2 cups chopped potatoes

2 cups chopped celery

2 cups chopped onion

1 teaspoon salt

1 can diced tomatoes

1 can stewed tomatoes (Molly would like me to mention that she really does not like stewed tomatoes and she suggests you leave them out. I agreed once to leave them out but I thought it left the soup a little too flat. You decide.)

1 can corn (drained)

1 can chicken broth

1 large package fresh tortellini

Fresh grated parmesan cheese

Rinse chicken and place in large pot. Cover with water and add salt. Heat to boiling. Turn temperature to low. Add carrots, potatoes, celery and onion. Cover and simmer several hours. Carefully remove cooked chicken from pot and set on plate to cool. Meanwhile, add both cans of tomatoes, corn and canned chicken broth to the pot. Remove skin from chicken and debone. Cut chicken into cubes. Return cubed chicken to the pot and allow soup to simmer. Just before serving, add tortellini directly to soup. Cook 7 to 10 minutes until tortellini is tender.
Ladle soup into your bowl and sprinkle with fresh parmesan cheese.

Here's my lonely chicken, salted nicely and just a little mortified
to be photographed all raw and in the buff.

I keep the carrots kind of chunky and I add several because
they're pretty and they taste good.

I chop the potatoes chunky too because I don't want the
carrots to feel bad.

Keep the onions and celery fat and happy too.

The trick is to lift the chicken out firmly but gently after it's cooked.
It's a fragile little poultry and if you aren't careful it will fall apart in
 the water and your children will have to pick bones out of their soup.

You should be very impressed. I am cooking and snapping
pictures at the same time here.

And here's your Tortellini Soup, all dressed up for dinner. 

PBS: Pizza Bufala Style

My husband's television habits continue to confound us.
Last week, though, they directly resulted in our thorough enjoyment of a Neapolitan style pizza, so we're not going to complain. Much.

His truly gifted mastery of the remote control combined with the expanding network of available programs brought to us by digital cable means television shows and commercials whiz by those of us still willing to watch TV with him (me and, only on a very slow day in her life, Molly). We end up craving Dramamine. This TV ADD, I'm told, is not uncommon in the less-fair sex.
What makes the experience uniquely Vince, though, is when his hyperactive thumb pauses. Of course he has his go-to stations (anything beginning with ESPN), but Vince also enjoys Paranormal Activity, John Edward Cross Country, Antique Roadshow and, most recently, Wisconsin Foodie. Odd, right?
But we're not going to complain.
If some of those shows have given us the opportunity to make sport (and this from a woman who once lost an embarrassing chunk of time to a Real Housewives of Orange County Marathon), others have added to the general enjoyment of our lives.
Wisconsin Foodie, for example, led us to an impressive little trio of restaurants in Sheboygan, Wisconsin that champion the farm to fork movement.  On Saturday we went to one of them, a pizza joint called Il Ritrovo, for a delicious lunch.
We took notes and hope to recreate the Bufalina Bianca pizza we enjoyed, although we're going to have a little trouble reconstructing the 800 degree wood fired oven.

We don't know these people and we don't write restaurant reviews
but this bread, baked on the premises, is both fantastic and free.

We want to make this at home. Arugula we can find, Bufala
 Mozzarella maybe not. Also, we're a little afraid of yeast. But,
this was so good we're going to give it a whirl.

Here's Molly enjoying a little pre-Pizza house salad.

Two months into the blog and he finally appears
(albeit back-lit and sadly hazy)! Here's Vince
 using his well-conditioned right thumb to dig
 into a bowl of pre-pizza pumpkin squash soup.

Live at the Met

Molly and I poked our heads into the Metropolitan Museum of Art last week looking for a clean bathroom and a quick diversion. Three and a half hours later, we stumbled out transformed by the sheer number of incredibly cool things we had seen. Our day had started quite early and a little mishap at the airport that morning, which may or may not have stained the carpeting at gate B1 strawberry red, meant that we had to split a single luscious yogurt fruit parfait for breakfast. By 3:00 that afternoon we were starving and the older of our little duo really had to use the facilities. We had taken a long stroll through Central Park when Molly suggested we stop in at the Met.
We bought our tickets and hustled up to the Art of Dissent exhibit, which just happened to be next to the Ladies Room. That exhibit alone was worth the price of admission. It was full of beautiful pieces from 17th century China, all created by political dissidents. After that, I pulled out the map.
"Holy cats, Molly," I said. "This place is huge. We're going to need some sustenance."
Fortunately, the Met has a very nice cafe and you get to eat right in the middle of the American sculpture exhibit.
We wandered through Asian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman, European, Islamic art displays and the great Arms and Armour hall. Each single piece dazzled. As a whole, the museum took our breath away.
I hauled Molly out of there after three and a half hours because my dogs were barking and we had to meet the rest of our family for dinner. Easily, we could have spent another hour or two. We're adding the Metropolitan Museum of Art to our long list of Reasons We Must Return to New York.
And, of course, we took pictures.

Here we have four-armed Avlokiteshvara,
the Bodhisattva of infinite compassion. We had to
google Bodhisattva, but we're still not clear. We're
 big fans of compassion though.

Perhaps we could have been more reverent, but we enjoyed
posing like the sculptures.

See caption above.

As if the beauty indoors wasn't enough, we enjoyed this
lovely display through the window.

I really loved the maternal joy portrayed by this
sculpture and I suggested to Molly that we use
it as a logo for our blog. Then she pointed out that
 they were (whisper this) naked and she vetoed it.

Dined pseudo al fresco with a bunch of cool sculptures.

I kept trying to capture Molly and my reflection in the mirrors of
these American exhibits until a security guard mentioned the no flash rule.

Like I said, we enjoyed posing like the sculptures.

Can you spot Molly in this picture?

Charge!

So then I pointed out the beautiful white American
 hieroglyphics with the red background and suggested
 we follow them. I just plain ran out of gas.

We'll take Manhattan

Molly and I popped in on our oldest son/brother Charlie this weekend. The good news for Molly and me is that Charlie works in Manhattan. We loved every Strawberry Field-matzo ball-Greenwich  Village-crazy cabbie with a heart of gold-Broadway-Times Square-stinky subway-bocce ball minute.
We arrived, stored our bags and hit the road to the Time Life Building where Charlie works. Much to our sweet surprise and his consternation, the Time Life Building was just a block and a half away from our hotel.
This situation provided us with my favorite line from the weekend after I excitedly and Midwesternly gushed to a Time Life security guard.
"We're here to visit my son - her brother- but we don't know what floor he works on," I said.
"Well that makes three of us ma'am," he replied. Hilarious.
Charlie wasn't expecting us for several hours, which is why I'll forgive him for the greeting he gave his mother who had not seen him since June.
"I thought you were going to call when you got to your hotel," he said. Sweet.
In the 48 hours that followed, Molly and I (who were later joined by our oldest daughter/sister Katherine) walked through Central Park, spent so many hours at the Metropolitan Museum of Art that they will require their own post, had dinner on a rooftop overlooking Rockefeller Plaza, stood in the sleet at the half-price ticket booth in Times Square, saw a Broadway Show (obviously), had lunch at Katz's Deli, took a subway ride back and toured the underground city, had dinner at an Italian restaurant that houses the country's oldest indoor bocce ball court, sipped drinks and heard a great band in Greenwich Village, went to mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, had lunch at a delicious kosher cafe, and did a little shopping on Fifth Avenue.
Very little. We are not shoppers.
We're hoping we absorbed some of the energy that beautiful city has to offer. We have several things on our list that we were unable to see, including the 911 memorial, so here's fair notice to young Charlie: We will be back soon.
So many pictures and just one blog. Here are 10 of our favorites:

"Look Molly, Charlie works here," I said as she
pretended not to know me. I had to squat in an
unsophisticated manner to get this shot.

It's the little things that thrilled us -- like free
fresh water stations on every floor of our hotel.

Caught this guy spray painting the Trump Tower sign. And you
thought they were made of real gold!

Central Park checkerboard.

Shakespeare's Garden in Central Park. Such tranquil beauty
amid such roaring chaos! It's a city of extremes.

Scary low rider. Apparently common this time of year.

We shrugged too!

Charlie said the subway station was right up the street. It was
a sleeting, messy hike, though. Even that was fun!

Happy Katherine in line at the half-price ticket booth.

Irritated Katherine in the basement of the subway
after a wet and chilly hike.