A Surprise New Year’s Gift
Do you dislike New Year’s Eve as much as I do? For many like me, it can be a distressing time of year. Not only does it include over-hyped and forced merriment, but it also screams out for a fabricated “new year, new me.”
Admittedly, as a young adult I loved getting dressed up and going out to a fancy restaurant to celebrate the year’s end. Inevitably, the food would be badly prepared, predictably over-priced, and poorly served by disgruntled waiters. While we all knew that executive chefs usually take this night off, we’d forge ahead anyway and make our reservation. Then, at 11:45 PM, goofy-looking paper hats, noise makers and party horns would be distributed to all the anxious guests. At the stroke of midnight, the lights would go out, then flash back on as guests yelled “Happy New Year,” grabbed a smooch, and threw wads of colorful confetti at each other.
A preferred quiet end of year
Later in life, my late-husband Ed and I resorted to quiet dinner parties at home with close friends. A great bottle (or two) of wine was always part of the ritual as was an early turn-in. Often our guests would be gone by 10:30 PM. Seeing the Times Square ball drop was something we’d enjoyed seeing the following day on the morning news.
This year, I elected to spend my New Year’s Eve with Jan Hazard, a close friend, who had invited me to New York City’s famous Saint John the Divine Cathedral where a “Concert for Peace” was being performed. Traveling across town to the Upper West Side was an ordeal. It had started drizzling by the time I hopped on the bus and paid my fare. The driver asked where I was going. When he told me that due to police security that evening I couldn’t get off at the requested stop, I abruptly jumped off the bus. Getting a cab was near impossible.
Getting to the church on time
However, I finally grabbed one and even managed to arrive at the appointed time for the rendezvous with Jan. As I joined the long line of umbrella-toting New Yorkers waiting to get in, I realized my new and beastly expensive leopard skin gloves had been left in the taxi. That loss, plus the long line and pounding rain put me in a foul mood. I texted Jan to see where she was. Fortunately for her but not for me, my friend was already inside with my ticket. Back and forth we went trying to formulate a game plan.
A thought-provoking concert
Finally, inside the church—a half hour into the concert—I landed onto the seat Jan had saved for me up front. The concert was heavenly but hardly upbeat. Conductor Kent Tritle and his Cathedral’s Choir performed to perfection. The program was filled with music about war-torn countries, civil rights tragedies, and the universal need for peace. Hearing the poignant lyrics of the songs along with the pastor’s though-provoking commentary encouraged serious reflection among the audience.
The concert’s first song—or at least the first one I heard—was based on the historic siege of Leningrad by the Nazi Army at the end of the World War II where over a million people died of starvation. It recounted how a young girl, as well as her mother and grandmother, were able to survive the blockade and devastating hunger thanks to their cat Vaska. According to the lyrics, the cat would disappear during the day to scavenge for food through the rubble. Whatever he brought back, the grandmother would use to make a stew. One could not fail to compare this remarkable tale of unrelenting horror and hardship with our American New Year’s Eve’s tradition of boundless excess.
Passing up New Year’s Eve Dinner
The concert over, I headed home, passing up an invitation for a late dinner with Jan and some of her friends, none of whom I knew. Getting home was no easier than going to the Cathedral. I joined a large group of concert goers huddling together at the bus stop in the middle of a downpour. Even after a good twenty minutes, there was still no bus in sight. “Uncle!” I heard in my head as I decided to look for a cab. But no luck. Eventually, I began walking towards the next bus shelter.
A surprise encounter with a stranger
Arriving at this one, I noticed it was empty except for one person. There sat a lone woman dressed in a simple, slightly worn, brown woolen coat waiting patiently on the bench. She was a middle-aged Black woman with a slightly bad complexion and a head of wild hair which desperately needed a color retouch. But when I looked closer her wide, welcoming smile and cheerful demeanor instantly won me over. “Happy New Year! Did you just come from the concert?” she inquired kindly. I sat down next to her and replied that I had, indeed.
Strangers in New York do not typically talk to each other. However, on holidays we allow ourselves the freedom of being more hospitable. I wondered why she was not with the others back at the bus stop closest to the church. No doubt, like me, she preferred to be alone with her thoughts. Yet, her face lit up when I sat down next to her. I could detect that she was bursting with child-like excitement about the concert. When she tentatively asked which part I liked best, I detected that she was a severe stutterer. But that did not stop her from being sincerely interested to learn my reaction.
Vaska, the family breadwinner
I replied that I loved the song about Vaska the cat. Then I revealed a slightly morbid curiosity to know what the cat dug up during his daily hunts. What was the cat’s prey? Rabbits, mice, or small birds? Or, what other unpalatable things did the family have to eat to survive?
My fellow traveler and I giggled as we both had the same response to the song and its tale of survival. With the ice broken, we quietly began chatting about other things. I never found out the lady’s name but for the sake of this post, let’s call her Charise.
The benefit of talking to strangers
It continued to rain heavily as we sat there wondering if the bus would ever come. Charise stared at me for a moment then popped a question which clearly had been percolating in her head ever since I arrived. “Are you a writer?” she queried suddenly. That caught me off guard. “As it so happens, I am and have just completed my first book,” I divulged, being somewhat surprised by my openness with this total stranger. Charise was intrigued and started showering me with all sorts of questions about the book’s theme, how long it took to write, the genesis of the project and more. You could tell that she was rather proud of herself having correctly guessed that I was a writer.
Charise’s response secretly pleased me as many people have a high regard for writers. However, if truth be told, I felt like a bit of a fraud as I don’t consider myself a serious, professional writer. Instead, I see myself as a public relations expert who sold her business and decided to produce a blog. The fact that I plucked out some of the better essays and tastiest recipes from TarteTatinTales.com to use as the basis for my book, doesn’t make me a full-fledged writer. Or does it?
The attributes of a writer
The bus finally arrived. Every seat was taken by concert goers, so Charise and I had to stand. Eventually, a couple got off and we grabbed their seats. I was dying to know what made Charise think I was a writer. So, I leaned over and tentatively asked her. Her eyes twinkled as she carefully considered my question. After a few seconds she replied, “You just look smart and writers are always smart.” While that conclusion might have been a bit of a stretch, I wasn’t about to waste time by contradicting her. Besides, I was curious to learn more about what “smart” looked like.
“Your glasses for a starter,” she continued. Okay, I could accept that people often look smarter than they actually are when they wear glasses. “Slightly intense but also curious” Charise added. Finally, she summed up her impression of me, the purported writer, with the word “tight.”
Now I was completely confused. “Tight,” I queried? Charise struggled to explain her assessment. I reckoned she meant hesitant or shy, both characteristics of my personality which she had clearly identified. Then she offered, “The way you are dressed as well, especially your scarf. That was a dead giveaway that you were a writer.” Wearing a tweed jacket with patches on my elbows would have been my guess of typical writer attire but my new acquaintance thought otherwise. She wanted to know where I got my scarf. “Oh, this old thing?” I replied hesitating to tell her it was a Hermès that Ed had purchased in Paris many years ago.
Reality vs perceived reality
What I hadn’t realized until I got home was that Charise had given me a special New Year’s Eve gift. She had presented me with a reality check, a virtual mirror of how I unconsciously present myself to the outside world. Ironically, the New York Times recently talked about the benefits of small talk with strangers (NB: https://rb.gy/sh6unz) and here was a good example of how you can learn from others, even people you don’t know.
As my close friends recognize, my normal personality is self-effacing and sometimes uncharacteristically shy. I tend to downgrade my accomplishments and prefer to allow others to shine. I am also a bit of an introvert despite my outwardly smiley, public relations demeanor. But here was a person who immediately formed a snapshot opinion of me as someone special. A smart, inquisitive writer, albeit a bit “tight” one. The scarf descriptor may have been off base. But it is reassuring to know that the world might have a higher regard for me than I do for myself.
True confessions on the MTA
Our quick friendship was about to come to an end. Charise looked admiringly at the scarf then intently into my eyes. “So, if I tell you my New Year’s resolution, will you tell me yours?” I nodded yes, while quickly glancing outside the bus window wondering where we were along our route and how much time remained to share our respective New Year’s resolutions.
“My doctor told me I needed to lose some weight so that’s what I plan to do this year. About 20 pounds although I’ve already lost eight,” Charise offered with obvious pride. “And you?” I lied telling her that I, too, wanted to lose some of those post-pandemic pounds.
The real truth
What I did not tell Charise, but will reveal to you, my faithful followers, is that my resolution this year is to find something meaningful to do with my time. The last two years have been consumed with two activities: completing my book and organizing, along with my co-chair Joan Brower, a conference in New York City for 300 top women in the hospitality industry. Now that my book—also called Tarte Tatin Tales—is in galley format and the conference hailed a success, I’m seeking another substantial project to fill my day.
Naturally, I will continue to enjoy New York’s rich cultural scene. Travel more, for sure. And of course, I will remain active as a trustee at both Cancer Care and at Early Music New York. But my real resolution is to explore meaningful volunteer work at New York Food Bank or a similar hands-on community experience. Whatever I finally decide to do to recalibrate my time, energy, and talent, I image Charise would approve.
TarteTatinTales.com is back!
And, as witnessed with this posting, I am back to blogging. Thank you for your patience and indulgence during the extended hiatus. Working my way through the publishing process for my book was more challenging than anticipated. I promise to send out information soon on where you can purchase my book. Then, you too can read the selection of entertaining (hopefully!) essays and perhaps, even try your hand at making one of the book’s recipes such as my grandmother’s spicy spaghetti and meatballs. While I’m not sure whether this dish would be permitted on Charise’s new diet, I’m confident she’d love it!