The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Inside Thoughts

Ode to Chicken Soup: COVID, Be Gone

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Chicken soup saved me through a bout with COVID in December. I was a vaccinated, boosted COVID virgin who hadn’t experienced so much as a sniffle through this pandemic. All the vaccine precautions combined with masking and social distancing, and Empty Nest living, kept me safe, I’m certain. At some point however, COVID weary fatigue kicked in. I had begun to assume a distinct air of COVID invincibility, many of you know it, a sense of “Well, if it hasn’t got me yet, maybe I have a special immunity to it.” Then, boom, the alien virus, forever mutating (was it Delta, Alpha or Omicron that got me?) settled on a new unlucky host–me–following travel to Spain and Morocco to visit my son. I had made travel plans as soon as I could to visit my son abroad, shelving any lingering pandemic fears.

But I return to Chicken Soup. My main purpose in writing this is to confirm its reputation as ‘Jewish Penicillin’. In the immediate days following testing positive, I dreamed of cooking a great big batch, but admittedly I was too sick–with COVID striking from multiple ends of my compromised human being. This bug is still no joke, au contraire, and I’m not here to make light of it, truly, so I digress to add that no one on Facebook seemed particularly phased by my ‘I’m Sick with COVID’ announcement. The comments were soft and understated, of the ‘Feel Better!’ variety versus ‘OMG, Grace, we are praying for you!’–utterly unsatisfying! We have entered a period of the COVID blahs and blues versus the dire stage of everyone rushing to write their wills. I felt cheated of more angst-ridden responses.

Despite my COVID barely impressing anyone, I was duly concerned for myself as it peaked. I chatted with friends who still had a healthy respect for COVID’s wrath, and one friend loaned me her oximeter to track my oxygen level. It became a favorite past time! When a low fever kicked in, I also called my doc to ask him if I could die. I asked about PaxelIAmLivid (the I got COVID after being vaccinated and boosted drug). From his voice mail, I knew he would not be whipping out his prescription pad. “You’re a healthy older woman, not elderly, and without any underlying conditions. But if you want to discuss it, let me know.” A pause followed. “If it gets bad though, go to an emergency room.” Because clearly, he was not coming anywhere near me. I was on my own.

In the immediate aftermath of my breaking news, a couple dear friends brought over containers of Chicken Soup from local places (one wellness package included a bottle of red wine, which would come in handy). The donated soup, pretty good and much appreciated, was gone after a couple repeat episodes of Handmaid’s Tale. As any Jewish mother knows, I needed bottomless pots of my homemade broth to drown the sucker! I also didn’t want to die of COVID with a dipping portfolio exacerbated by food inflation, on account of too many soup deliveries. I plotted my chance to brew my own for totally indulgent personal consumption and for considerable cost savings too.

Finally, following a supermarket delivery of the key ingredients, I rolled up my pajama sleeves, and at long last, prepared my own personal Pot. I readied myself for continuous ingestion to surely zap this unwelcome invader.

Scrolling social media reels? Interrupted only by slurps of soup. Addressing emails after my away message went away? Great big bowl of soup. During episode 7 of Fleishman is in Trouble? Two big bowls. I desperately wanted Claire Danes to feel better, too, and would have loved to have shared some soup with her.

I am happy to report that my efforts were worthwhile. Chicken Soup soothed me, nurtured me, and I firmly believe fast forwarded my illness. Did it cure me? I’m not sure, as the aftermath of COVID has continued in the form of a chronic cough and chest congestion. Still, a firm believer that eventually My Soup will assume a final victory, I continue to whip up batches. In Chicken Soup, I trust. I am completely and unequivocally indebted to this miracle bird when it is infused with the healing ingredients from nature’s bounty.

My broth’s slurp worthy secrets were inspired in me, by my mother, and grandmother, and from generations of long-suffering ancestors who understood the value of a Chicken centuries before I ever did. The real COVID Buster in my story, however, was my own modern-day spin on Mom’s recipe–fistfuls of chopped garlic and ginger and mad dashes of turmeric, and a splash of that gifted red wine, too.

A few people have asked for the recipe. Apologies, but I am holding it hostage for a sizeable ransom. Still, if I’m deluged with letters asking, I’ll consider publishing it in the May/June edition. Or perhaps send your own favorite (& healing) soup recipe! Write to Grace@insidepress.com with the subject line: Ode to Chicken Soup.

Musings from The Townhopper

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I moved to Northern Westchester in 1988 from a Hoboken condo when I was pregnant with my older daughter (who is now 34 and a mom). Like many young families, we were looking for a true neighborhood, extra living space, good schools, and green lawns.

Fast-forward to 2003. I left my corporate job and brutal commutes and started my own marketing consulting and writing business. I met Grace Bennett along the way and contributed an Inside Press series called “Townhopper” to spotlight food, shopping, and activity gems, ‘beyond’ our immediate ‘hometowns’, and encourage Inside Press readers to explore fun communities all over the county.

Now, fast forward again to 2021. I’m single. My kids are grown and flown. The Westchester house was sold to a young family.

I moved to Scottsdale, Arizona to be closer to my mother. She passed away last year at 95 and I’m officially an empty-nester, solopreneur, free agent, and digital nomad.

The towns I’m hopping to are now global, and I publish a series called Route 66, about how the women of the 1980s are reinventing their lives and defining how to live in our “free” years.

Growing Up and Giving Back

Every few weeks I return to the East Coast to visit family and friends and get a much-needed dose of New York snark and a decent flagel with lox. I attended the Yonkers Partners in Education* 15th Anniversary gala. I play with my grandkids on the same beaches I frequented as a little girl.

And, of course, I visit Grace and see what’s new in Northern Westchester. A lot has changed over the years. Cool restaurants and retailers in the area abound.

I also drove past my first-ever office and realized how much my business has evolved since then, about how far I’ve come since then–personally and professionally.

Going back to one’s roots can be a powerful experience.

I recently read Daniel Pink’s The Power of Regret and loved it. He believes that regret is a great emotion because it causes us to reflect on the choices we made over the years and the lessons we learned. Although I now see myself mostly as a city girl, my years in the ‘burbs brought many great things into my life.

• My daughters both enjoyed a safe and relatively wholesome environment. They played sports, which contributed to their leadership and team skills.

• We felt relatively safe in our walkable neighborhood and we woke up to trees, deer, and the occasional fox. I shared Brownie troop mom duties with other working mothers and the girls were able to “unplug” and learn about the great outdoors, albeit just a short drive away.

• I met other working mothers through a local group. We spent so much time on Metro North and dealing with childcare that we had little time to get to know each other. This era was long before social media, so staying in touch with friends was virtually impossible.

• I even did short stints as the President of a local Chamber and my homeowners’ association. I learned that I did not want to pursue a political career and have virtually no tolerance for neighbors who bicker. My non-profit board stint was gratifying and eye-opening and I remain committed to organizations that provide programs for those people who don’t have the good fortune to live in the bougie burbs.

• I wrote my first widely published article at my Chappaqua kitchen desk, and it opened doors to a cool career as a published author (eight books, several websites, and a regular column for the Rolling Stone Culture Council and the Forbes Agency Council).

What Town Am I Hopping to Next?

My latest revelation (at 66) is that no geography is ever as important as that place that lives in your head and your heart.

Restaurants, retailers, and traffic lights will always change. Our kids will grow up and move on. Technology enables us to work from anywhere at any time.

Northern Westchester will always represent an important era in my life. Returning to it energized and inspired me and helped inform my next moves. And, the pizza, soft-serve, and paninis in the area are still world-class!

To read more of Nancy’s musings, visit: badgirlgoodbizblog.com

Visit Yonkers Partners in Education: ypie.org

Teaching History With a New Consciousness and through a Personal Lens

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The holiday season is rapidly approaching, and with it, the Jewish festival of Hanukkah, an eight-day celebration honoring the triumph of the Jewish people over the Syrian Greeks. The holiday is joyous, complete with gift giving, dreidel spinning, menorah lighting and lots of latkes.

For me, however, a teacher trip through the Holocaust and Human Rights Education Center (HHREC) to Germany and Poland last summer caused a subtle shift in the way I think about Hanukkah and my career as an educator.

As a social studies teacher and self-proclaimed history nerd, I wanted to learn about this dark period in human history up close and bring these experiences back to my classroom. I can listen and read and even watch Ken Burns’ excellent documentary, “The US and the Holocaust”, but none of this makes history come alive the way walking along the streets of Berlin, Warsaw and Krakow did. It was here that I saw the physical evidence of a once thriving Jewish life, now all but gone. I walked in the very places where the Warsaw ghetto confined its Jewish residents. I visited concentration camps, like Auschwitz-Birkenau where millions were murdered and left with the picture of a pair of shoes that had once belonged to a small child seared in my mind.

Memory became paramount on this trip, as I scrambled to imprint every lecture we heard, every object we saw, and every place we visited into my consciousness. Our tour guide at Auschwitz, a Polish Professor and activist, reminded us that the simple act of visiting the death camp had afforded us the chance to bear witness to this evil tragedy and therefore we now shouldered the responsibility to make sure the next generation remembers. This has never been so important as it is today when Shoah survivors are diminishing in number.

This is where teachers come in.

As educators we make content choices. While a curriculum is prescribed in broad strokes, it is the teacher who decides to spend a week on World War II, and two days on the Cold War. Or vice versa. In so many ways we are the gatekeepers of history, and as such we have a responsibility to continually learn and consider how we will present material to our students.

As much as we want history to come alive for our students, we need to make it vibrant for ourselves. When we learn, they learn, and if there is a personal connection to the material all the better. I certainly cannot arrange for a field trip to Europe for my students, but I am certain when we find ourselves in our World War II unit next spring, there will be an increased interest because I can offer a personal lens with which they can view and understand this time period.

I hope that my enthusiasm will be palpable as I show them the photo of their English teacher and me straddling the wall with one foot in the former East Berlin and one foot in the West. I am excited to answer their questions as they look through the 100-page photo journal I created to try and capture the essence of my experience.

There are even pedagogical ideas from the trip–the idea of memorializing, the purpose of museums, the contrast with how our nation and Germany grapples with its dark history that have easily fit into our earlier units of study. In essence, the trip has rooted itself in my consciousness as a teacher, a Jewish adult and as a human.

My students remind me daily of my responsibility to help them develop compassion, empathy, and an ability to grapple with the darker side of human history. As for me, I will continue to celebrate the triumph of the Maccabees, and admire the warmth and light the menorah brings into my home. But my lens has shifted ever so slightly and I can never look at it in quite the same way. The on-going struggle of the Jewish people, which so many ethnic and racial groups experience is built into the story of Hanukkah, and this year I will light the candles and say the blessings for the six million European Jews who cannot.

Marissa DeFranca (left) and Laurie Lichtenstein, teachers from the Seven Bridges Middle School in Chappaqua, during the HHREC trip last summer.

Notes of Deep Gratitude

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From the Founder and Director of the Chappaqua Children’s Book Festival

Have you ever had the feeling of teetering but somehow knowing that a safety net was beneath you, ready to make sure you didn’t hit the ground?

This was the disorienting but ultimately comforting feeling I had in March and April of this year. I was hospitalized and in intensive care and yet knew that my friends and community would take care of me and my boys…and somehow make sure the Chappaqua Children’s Book Festival would go on.

Dawn Evans Greenberg. Dawn’s Hair and Makeup Courtesy of Aura Salon and Style Bar in Chappaqua. www.auraboutiquesalon.com Photo by Donna Mueller

I had to hand over control to my husband, Paul, and to friends, and just focus on keeping myself alive for Jackson and Ben, my teenage sons. I don’t recommend falling ill, but for a means to learn to appreciate every breath we’re allowed, becoming vulnerable that way can’t be topped.

I entered the hospital for elective surgery on February 10th. My next memory was waking up to dozens of cards taped to my hospital wall. The cards were the only thing that held my attention–the only thing that made any sense. I recognized “Ossining Children’s Center” and read the message over and over again. And why did author Dan Gutman feel the need to write “get better soon?”  I was flattered but also puzzled. How did he know where I was and how did he know I needed well wishes?

The date was March 1st and I had lost three weeks of my life. I had a tube coming out of my trachea. I couldn’t speak or lift my arm.

The cards and what they represented from the community ended up being a highlight of my days. My husband would drive to NYU Langone Hospital each afternoon, always with more cards. So many cards. He told me that two dear friends Karen Visser and Robin Chwatko were taking care of our kids, along with dozens of other friends jumping in to help, even coordinating walking our beloved dog Flare. Beloved merchants reached out too. The Kings’ Scribe was facilitating the cards and they never seemed to stop. I couldn’t count them all and still treasure each one. 

Each day my husband would offer me my iphone, usually my umbilical cord, and I flat out declined it–a sign of just how sick I was. But he also knew I was worried about the festival and kept me current on book festival developments. Paul assured me that our volunteers were making sure it would happen in October. As the days went by toward my discharge of April 10th, I started to feel relief and excitement about getting back to real life.

Now, we’re three weeks away from the festival. I have gradually gotten stronger and feel incredibly optimistic about the future. The love that our community showed me that my family will be with me throughout the rest of my life. I will never stop being grateful.  

 

 

 

 

 

Nesting from Chapp to Tapp

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At Stephen’s 50th birthday, all four of us in Chappaqua

When my kids were little, one of our favorite bedtime books was The Best Nest by P.D. Eastman. I can still recite much of it from memory, maybe they can too; I know my oldest could “read” it well before he could read. But I digress. Point is, that beloved story is foremost on my mind these days as Mr. Bird and I prepare to leave our empty nest and settle into a smaller coop. Or, in our case, condo.

It’s a daunting task, moving. And, perversely, it gets daunting-er the older you get. Dorm-moves? Mostly trash bags and buy the boys some beer. First apartment? Ikea flat packs and the boys still like their beer. New home? Ok, this time we call the professionals–but it’s one small truck and all kinds of excitement. And space, lots and lots of space. Space to grow a family, to buy adult furniture, to fill closets and fulfill dreams. Decades worth. So, at the end of nearly 27 years, the tangibles and intangibles are simply too numerous to name. You pack your real and virtual boxes and pack a huge emotional punch along the way.

Enjoying our New ‘Hood

That said, and unlike the Birds, this is really it. No deciding to stay after all. The house sold quickly and the new owners are…well, lol, they’re us, 30 years later. That old saying “the more things change, the more they stay the same”? Too true! They are perfect for our young neighborhood, and we wish them nothing but happiness in our/their home.

Today, they are coming by to re-see the house, to take measurements, to have me “walk them through” how everything works. I have prepared lists for them–HVAC to lawn maintenance to snow removal, all the nuts and bolts. For them, I suppose that, not the move, is the daunting thing. But I’d like to think they’re also coming to imagine themselves into their future lives here…

Which kid gets which kid-room? Will they have bath time rituals, and will those rituals include fish stories (fish tiles inspire fish stories, or so we always thought). Will they put in a swing set (do we still call them that!?) and will it go where ours was? Can they see the bus stop across the street? Every morning it’s packed with kids and cars, parents and pets. I still have my first-day photos for K-5; maybe they will do the same.

Will they love the smell of lilacs wafting into the kitchen, the lilacs I specifically planted there because they remind me of MY childhood summers. Do they have a dog, will they get a dog, should I mention the garbage truck guys carry dog biscuits for all the furbabies out walking in the ‘hood.

And for us? Well, the whole thing started even before this seller’s market. We knew we’d outgrown our neighborhood and, to be honest, also our home. While we built it, and still love it, we no longer need all this space and the upkeep it requires. So, we took a deep breath, extended our wings and jumped. We hope we’ve chosen a soft landing. We’ll be just down the road–nearby enough to see friends and frequent favorite places, but new enough to re-invent ourselves to some extent, to test our senior wings in a new lifestyle. The plan is to rent for a couple of years while winding down to final retirement and deciding whether to fully stick around or finally cut the NY area cord. Ultimately, we hope to tweet with Bird-like contentment that we’re well and truly best-nested.