Elaine Ambrose

A dozen years ago, I married into an Italian Catholic family and became part of a gregarious clan that gathers regularly to celebrate weddings, funerals, family reunions, and any excuse to cook and share the “La Bella Figura.” Although my marriage ended in divorce, that family remains an important part of my life and I miss them; well, most of them.

My ex-niece is getting married Friday, and of course, I’m not invited. One of the many unfortunate realities of divorce is that the ex-spouse belongs to the ex-family. I remain in contact with my delightful ex-sister-in-law and her charming children, and I wish we were closer. Because of my past failures and my current success in marriage, I want to offer some advice to my ex-niece on the eve of her wedding.

1. Believe in Yourself. You can’t depend upon anyone or anything else to make you happy. Your tenacity will sustain you throughout your life, and your husband will appreciate a self-confident partner (and vice versa.)
2. Retain an Attitude of Gratitude. Sometime after the wedding you will experience the first major disappointment or crisis. Be grateful for the opportunity to prove that you are strong enough to handle it. Kick some butt, if necessary.
3. Respect your Family and In-laws. My ex-mother-in-law, your late grandmother, raised six children and dutifully supported her military husband. And, she made the best green lasagna in the world. My ex-father-in-law, The Colonel, is still feisty, and I miss talking with him.
4. Children are Fabulous and Frustrating. If you are blessed with children, share equally in the responsibilities. Make your marriage a priority so that when the kids move away you’ll be excited because the two of you can run around the house naked.
5. Keep the Faith. It’s great fun to experience the abundant joys of life. The true challenge comes when you’re assaulted with pain and circumstances that bring you to your knees. But, that’s where you will be comforted and inspired by the grace of God. Trust me.

I believe that people come into our lives for a reason. I was raised in a critical, competitive family; my father chose not to attend my high school graduation, my parents and brothers refused the invitation to my first wedding, my brother sued me and I haven’t seen him in 14 years. So I’m grateful to the Romanos for giving me a brief but boisterous look at how families should celebrate together. Now, I eagerly enjoy spending time with my wonderful husband, our children, and their families. It’s with that conviction that I raise a glass to toast Jenn and her new husband and sincerely invite them to come to Idaho for a visit. I have a well-worn recipe for her grandma’s green lasagna, and we will eat, drink and be merry.

Today’s blog is compliments of a bottle of Amarone, a bold, Italian, dry, red wine that is worth the price, and perfect for a special family celebration. Ciao!

I’ve never been one to follow rules. A long list of frustrated teachers, exasperated parents, and humorless police officers can confirm that fact. It’s not that I’m overly rebellious; it’s just that I prefer to have my own way. About everything. This attitude can be annoying to others.

However, after living this long, I do adhere to a few Rules of Life:

1. Never assume people will appreciate that you are alive. (This fact comes in handy when dealing with sales clerks, bank tellers, neighbors, classmates, audiences, ex-spouses, etc.)
2. Always tip waiters, hairdressers, and physical therapists. (Acknowledge that these people help you eat, look better, and feel great. They deserve a tip for dealing with you.)
3. Be nice to children. (My generation survived without helmets, car seats, cell phones, computers, and nannies. Today’s kids need to climb and fall out of trees, catch frogs in the ditch, and play outside until dark. I worry about them.)
4. Avoid laxatives before playing in a golf tournament.

I just added that last rule. For those of us past a certain age, IBS does not mean the International Banking System. No, we’re blessed with a malady known as Irritable Bowel Syndrome (sorry if you’re having breakfast.) We never know when or where our bodies will decide to perform necessary bodily functions. I’ve always admired those who have been in the military because they get up, grab the newspaper, and go to the bathroom. Every day. However, many middle aged women greet a BM like those winners in the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes ads. We’re so overjoyed that we want someone to deliver balloons and a big check.

I recently played in a golf tournament. A few days before the tournament, I was so miserable that I downed several “gentle softeners” to assist Mother Nature. Well, she was out of town and didn’t return the call…until I stepped up to the first tee box. I know some of you are nodding your heads. Yes, that’s when the gurgling started. Imagine that awful scene from the movie Dumb and Dumber.

Golf courses are designed by men, probably with military experience, who have already done their daily duty and don’t need restrooms. When I golf, I calculate how long it will take to get to the lonely restroom at the far end of the course and have been known to jump into the cart and take off over the next fairway. Others golfers do not appreciate this, but many of the “seasoned” women raise their clubs in silent salute.

Anyway, at last week’s tournament I made the decision to break the rules (golf has too many rules, anyway), and I took off in the cart. I returned by the second hole, refreshed and rewarded, and hit the longest drive of my life. My scramble partner now wants me to repeat the exercise for the next tournament, but I refuse. My new rule is one that I just can’t break.

Today’s blog is fueled by a bottle of 2010 Fidélitas M100 from Columbia Valley. This delicious red wine is a unique blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Cabernet Franc, Malbec, and Petit Verdot. The label states that the wine was named for “Our Grandmother Mary – a passionate, stubborn, loving, opinionated, caring, tough, God-fearing, Lawrence Welk-lovin’ gal” – sounds like my kind of woman. Find this wine at A New Vintage Wine Shop for around $25.

For most of my adult life – a vast and glorious amount of time – I have started the day by reading the newspaper and sipping coffee, with cream. I read and mumble about the news and then scan the obituaries, grateful that I’ve been given another day to seize. In all the stories, nothing incenses me more than reports about incompetent and abusive parents who shouldn’t be allowed to breed.

From my kitchen table where I read the paper, I can see the wreath on the front door. Last month, a robin began to build a nest in the wreath. I watched as she repeatedly brought twigs and leaves to create a perfectly secure home, and soon she was perched over four brilliant-blue eggs. And there she sat through storms, wind, rain, and heat to protect her offspring. She would fly away briefly, probably to eat, but then return. Any pregnant female can relate to that urgent need to eat, and during my two pregnancies I personally am responsible for the success of the chocolate chip industry.

The baby birds began to hatch this week, so every morning I enjoy a personal nature show as Mama Robin flies in and coughs up food into the squawking beaks. They would die without her. She’ll push them to the edge of the nest in a few weeks and show them how to fly, and then they’ll be on their own, as it should be. Then I’ll have to go back to grumbling over the newspaper.

It’s a sad indictment on humanity that birds and animals are often better parents than some people. Mother Nature doesn’t come with detailed manuals or instructional videos, but somehow they know what to do. OK, you’ll have the occasional sow that will eat her baby piglets or the male lion that kills male cubs that aren’t his, but for the most part, the parents protect their young at all costs. Think Mother Bear. I may be a bit punitive about this but I advocate sterilizing any parent who abuses a child. And if they kill a child, they don’t deserve the right to live. Rehabilitation, my ass.

So, it’s back to the newspaper and another cup of coffee. I hope Mama Robin returns next year with another brood. I’ll have the bird poop cleaned off the door by then.

Today’s blog is fueled by a 2008 Fraser Snake River Valley Cabernet Sauvignon from Fraser Vineyard, right here in Boise, Idaho. It’s around $24 at A New Vintage Wine Shop and a little more at A Grape Escape. I enjoy the velvety feel and the rich taste – the perfect choice for some afternoon bird watching.

The adults at our recent Father’s Day BBQ will cancel each other’s votes in the next presidential election. Yet we were all able to come together and eschew politics to chew on the best ribs in the whole world. And no one was offended, criticized, or shot – and that’s always a goal at my dinner parties.

My 85-year-old mother still is irritated that Barry Goldwater lost the 1964 presidential election to Lyndon Johnson who subsequently destroyed the country with his socialist programs. But she gobbled up the ribs and laughed along with her granddaughter, an Obama fan. Another family member has marched in liberal parades yet happily dined with two gun-toting police officers. By the end of the feast, nine racks of ribs were gone and 16 people were happy with life and at peace with the universe. It’s too bad people in the Middle East don’t eat pork because these ribs could save a lot of unnecessary warfare.

I believe that Studley and I make the best ribs ever. The secret is in my rub and steaming technique and in his Texas-style sauce. Here’s our recipe that is guaranteed to delight taste buds of all ages and pacify any political pomposity:

(Photo: Granddaughter #3 enjoying World Peace Ribs)

World Peace BBQ Ribs

Place a few racks of pork baby back ribs on a rack over a broiler pan.

Create a rub of grated lemon rind, grated fresh ginger, and lots of pressed fresh garlic. Pat the paste on the ribs. (Save the lemons for iced tea or water.)

Pour boiling water into the bottom of the pan and cover with a tent of tin foil. Bake for an hour at 350 degrees. Open a bottle of wine and test for flavor. Test again.

For the sauce, Studley starts with a bottle of hickory-smoked BBQ sauce and one flat beer in a sauce pan. (To make beer flat, leave a bottle open for several hours or heat it 20 seconds in the microwave.) Add two cubes of butter (yes, he is a true Southerner), and some Montreal Steak Seasoning and some garlic salt. Simmer for about 40 minutes. (This sauce would make horse manure tasty.) While it simmers, share some beer and/or wine with your spouse. Then throw the steamed ribs on the BBQ, slather with plenty of sauce, and wait about 10 minutes for the magic to happen. Share more beer and wine with guests.

Serve with salads, fruit, veggies, rolls and more butter, and lots of paper towels. These ribs pair nicely with cold Miller Lite Beer and several bottles of bold Cabernet. End the meal with some pie and brownies. Then sit around, rub your full bellies, and offer toasts to world peace.

Our Father’s Day BBQ ended with hugs, laughter, and promises to get together soon. And we share exciting hope for the future because two of the women are pregnant. The world will be a better place this fall with the arrival of a baby girl and a baby boy. My hope is that these children will grow up in a more civilized society where people can share good food instead of bullets. Close to the time they are born, I’ll go to the voting booth and vote for the candidates who most fervently believe in the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all (women and) men are created equal, and they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Hear, hear!

Today’s blog is fueled by an exquisite bottle of 2007 Sol Rouge “The Keep” red wine from Sonoma, California. It was a gift from my daughter, and I must say that she has exquisite taste!

Warning: I may call upon my friends for money to get me out of jail next week. That’s because my overconfident use of the freedom of speech often gets me into trouble. I predict that at the July 4th parade there will be some punks (young and old) who don’t stand up, don’t remove their hats, and don’t place their hands over their hearts when the flag goes past. That’s when I’ll admonish them to show respect or don’t come to the party, and then a fight could start and I’ll be hauled off to jail.

I was raised by parents and teachers who shared a love of country and a reverence for the flag of the United States. I realize that’s not taught much anymore, and that’s too bad. Too many people have fought and died for that flag, and I’m not ashamed to get teary eyed when the band plays “Stars and Stripes” as the flag waves in the breeze. Yes, one of the many advantages of getting older is that I don’t need to be politically correct about anything, and I can declare that I truly do love this country. And when the music starts, I will sing out loud that I’m proud to be an American.

So, we’ll go to the parade, and we’ll raise and lower the flag at the cabin, and we’ll enjoy barbecue and beer because we’re free to do so. Then we’ll raise a glass of exquisite wine and toast the brave patriots who finished the final documents on the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. Happy July 4th!

To celebrate our nation’s independence, we’re having a fabulous bottle of 2009 Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. This rich wine is so good we might organize our own parade. If I’m still in jail, I hope someone smuggles in a glass for me.