Who in the World is Biscuit Tortoni?

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Back in that fanciful time known as childhood so many things were unknown and exotic. Not only to me, but to the world in generally. I grew up in the epoch of time known as AMERICA IN THE 1960’S. I was there for all of it, whether I was conscious of it or not. I mean how many 3 year olds remember what they were doing the day Kennedy was shot? Not this one.

So many things commonplace today, were then new and exotic. I remember the family’s first microwave oven. A behemoth stainless steel and glass “Amana Radarange”. It was a gift from my brother living in Ohio. I think it was unpacked, and left on the dining room table to be gawked at for quite a long time. No one wanted to be the first to risk using it I guess.

New foods were also being introduced that were also rather exotic. The avocado springs to mind. I’m not even sure we got ripe ones because I just don’t recall anyone being particularly thrilled with it. Coconuts were widely available for some reason and we usually had one in the house. No one was sure how to open it, so often we would just have them so long they would eventually crack from the internal pressure caused by the rot inside. Hey they look like they could withstand direct mortar fire.

Italian food was very popular. I’m not sure if it was all that exotic, but seeing as we weren’t of Italian heritage to us, it sure was. Mom really knew how to make a mean lasagne and spaghetti and meatballs. And oh the garlic bread! Many years later I remember when she learned of Baked Ziti! New and exotic!

If you wanted an Italian dessert you will be sadly disappointed to hear that we had to have to suffer for decades before anyone introduced us to Tiramisu. Back than there was a choice of two Italian desserts: Spumoni or Biscuit Tortoni.

The former was not a favorite in my house even though it was readily available. Spumoni was more or less the fruit cake of the the ice cream dessert kingdom. It was usually a slab of chocolate, vanilla and pistachio ice cream done in layers with candied fruits and nuts usually in the green, pistachio layer. The pistachio was also heavily flavored with bitter almonds which just added to this kid’s “ick” factor.

The other Italian dessert exists mainly on the periphery of my memory. A hazy, fond memory. A name out of the mists. For years, to me, it was “the other one”. The “not spumoni” one. It was the “good one”. I think that, as a kid, I could not remember the name “Biscuit Tortoni”. Or if I could, perhaps I thought it was a distant relative.

Say hi to Auntie Biscuit kids!

Only in my adulthood, and thanks to the dear old Auntie Internet, am I able to form a more distinct picture of that lost treasure. It too was flavored with almonds, but somehow also with something boozy, and had bits in it that were actually delicious and not something to spit out and leave on the plate. There were a lot of disgusting foods developed back in that exploratory decade but Biscuit Tortoni was not one of them.

Now that I knew what it was I, of course, had to make some because I sure couldn’t buy any. A few years ago I was reading various recipes and there are many. They all have different levels of complexity and vary in what bits and pieces go into it. The long and the short of it is that Biscuit Tortoni is ice cream with stuff in it.

My first batch was a cheat of sorts. I took the best vanilla ice cream I could get my hands on, softened it, mixed in some bits and then refroze it. Mistakes were made but on the whole the taste was similar to what I was aiming for. One of the charms of Biscuit Tortoni was that it was made and served in little paper cups. I didn’t have any so I froze the whole mess in one huge tupperware container. The problem with that is the bits kind of settled out. Not the effect I was going for.

I kind of forgot about this dessert after that. My curiosity satisfied. Then, this summer out of the blue, my partner announced that all he wanted for his birthday this year was a batch of Biscuit Tortoni. EEP!

Determined to make the real stuff I went into research mode and came up with a base recipe that seemed to fit my needs. It wasn’t exactly what I wanted so I modified it a little.

I wrote all of this mainly for my own benefit so that I could memorialize the successful recipe. Months from now if it comes up again I’ll hopefully be able to recreate it. I’ll include the link to the inspiration for my recipe at the end. So without further ado:

LOUNGEBOY’S BISCUIT TORTONI

unnamed

Cup o’ Biscuit Tortoni

4 Large eggs (separated)

1/2 cup almond paste or Marzipan

1/2 cup + 4 tablespoons granulated sugar

1/2 cup slivered almonds, toasted

1 1/2 cups heavy cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1 teaspoon almond extract

2 -4 tablespoons Ameretto liqueur

1/2 package Amaretti cookies (3 1/2 ounces or 100 grams)

1/4 cup Amarena cherries

15 4 ounce paper cups

**Please note this recipe is made with raw eggs. Pasteurized eggs are the safest way to proceed. I used fresh local eggs from a trusted source. Use your head and proceed as you see fit.

Put slivered almonds into a toaster oven and toast them for a few minutes and set aside. Put the cookies in a medium bowl and coarsely crush them with your hand (very easy to do). Cut almond paste into small pieces (1/4″ cubes work) and put them in with the cookie crumbs. Cut cherries into 1/4’s and place them in the bowl with the almond paste and cookie crumbs. Add the almond slivers to this as well and them mix it up with your hand. This will be the “bits” that go into the ice cream base.

Start with a clean mixing bowl and add the egg whites. Using the mixer, start whipping them and toss in 2 tablespoons of sugar. Whip until it forms stiff peaks. Scrap this into a large bowl.

Using the same bowl you just used to whip the egg whites (no need to clean), add the heavy cream. Start whipping this and add 2 tablespoons of sugar. Whip until soft peaks form. Scrape this into a clean bowl.

Using the whipped cream mixing bowl, add the egg yokes and sugar. Mix these until they are light and foamy with a  nice lemon yellow color. To this, add the extracts and the Ameretto and mix well.

Now fold the egg yolk mixture into the egg whites. Then fold the whipped cream and the dry bits into that. Save some of the dry mix to sprinkle on the top of the finished product. And there you have Biscuit Tortoni batter.

Using a ladle or large spoon, fill the paper cups with the batter. Sprinkle some of the reserved dry mix on top and put a cherry in the middle as the topper. Wrap each cup with cling film and freeze. The unfrozen batter is delicious so feel free to lick the bowl!

ps- feel free to play with the amounts of dry bits. We love the taste of the freshly toasted almonds so I added more of that. I also used Amarena Cherries instead of the traditional Maraschino Cherries because to us they taste better and are still very Italian. ENJOY!

As promised, this link features my inspiration

 

 

Chapter One: Moving on Up

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It all started innocently enough somewhere near the summer of 1969.

What a terrible opening line but it fits. It was all innocent. We were all innocent.

I think it is safe to speak for all of us and say what we were about to experience was never even the slightest flicker of a thought in any of our minds.

I had lived in the house on Justin Street for my entire life; all eight plus years. With my older brother and two older sisters I had heard the stories often about them growing up while it was being built. My industrious father built the house himself for his new wife, and as you can imagine an endeavor like that took time. I particularly recall one story about a rainstorm when the roof wasn’t quite yet finished which led to hijinks with the suddenly indoor slip and slide that appeared in the kitchen. All of their memories were there and so were all of mine.

I learned to walk there, cross a street there, ride a bike there. I started school while living there. All of my friends were there. It was my safe place and my refuge. So imagine the surprise when my father announced that we were moving.

The fear and uncertainty of the move was mitigated somewhat for me by the fascinating place we would be moving to. It was literally just down the road so it wasn’t all that foreign. It was also a brand-new tract house in a development of what were, for all intents and purposes, the 1970’s equivalent of today’s McMansions.

The large spilt level had been the model home for the development and as such was decked out to the max with all of the lavish touches of the day: a huge yard, built in gas barbecue on the spacious entertainment ready patio, an above ground redwood decked swimming pool, green, red and gold flocked wallpaper throughout the house and a Minute Man statue in the middle of the front lawn complete with musket. I was thrilled about the pool, of course, but I was equally thrilled and fascinated with the wallpaper. Oh that wallpaper! Velvet for Pete’s sake. Surely we were moving on up in the world.

Looking back, it’s easy to see the signs were there all along. But to us, the innocents, there was nothing untoward just the mayhem that moving house brings. Boxes gone missing that suddenly were there again, talking to the person you swear is there that really isn’t. The crazy door knobs that had no locks but sometimes would lock. Nothing strange that being in a new house and the stress that goes with it couldn’t explain.

If you counted the basement as a level we now had a four-level house. That’s a lot of space and a lot of stairs. Strange stairs. That goes for the hallways too. Normal looking hallways but strange nonetheless.

And then there were the shadows.

Are You Free?

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Recently I started watching the old British sitcom from the 1970’s, “Are you Being Served?”

It isn’t the first time of course. Like many people, I first saw the thing when it was being run on PBS stations around the country in the 1980’s. I believe it was on around 6pm on Sunday evenings and was just about the only enjoyable things about Sundays at that time. It was a strange show, having an air of “cheese” about it even then. The harsh lighting, one cheap looking set…did upscale British department stores of the time really look like that? 

And that theme music?! Using the cash register’s operational noises as percussion and a female elevator operator’s announcements as lyrics at first it just horribly cheap but soon upon repeated listening it becomes a genius earworm that you challenge to yourself to “sing” along with.

“Ground floor: Perfumery, stationary and leather goods, wigs and haberdashery, kitchenware and food. Going up!”

There was uneven staging, cameras getting in the way of the actors, bizarre plots contrived to put the cast into bizarre situations, and a weekly change of flamboyant hair colors on Mrs. Slocomb to accompany her weekly “pussy” jokes.

“Oh I don’t need to set an alarm clock. My pussy wakes me every morning at 630 and drops a clockwork mouse on my pillow.”

On phoning her neighbor to say she is detained at work: “Please go to my door and peep through the letter slot. If you can see my pussy, drop a sardine on the mat.”

In case you haven’t guessed, she was talking about her cat “Tiddles”.

Oh the fun the writer(s) must have had devising those gags every week. Probably not as much fun as the prop designers  that were often tasked with coming up with some pretty amazing sight gags using mechanical devices that usually involved something rude with lady’s underwear.

My praise so far in no way indicates I am blind to the very dated norms of life that were acceptable of that time. Sexual harassment seems to be considered normal as does rampant “classism”. That and the representation of the lack of fair labor laws leave me appalled. If that’s the way it was, I’m glad to be rid of it.

Watching it again, I can see how it is all up to the stellar cast to make the whole mess work. For the most part these were consummate professionals who knew how to mine comedy while building the characters’ good will with the audience. By season four, you felt like you really knew these characters and looked forward to seeing what hijinks they would be getting up to with each show. Imperious Captain Peacock mellowed to show his weakness for women and conflating his war record and Mr. Grainger showed what a nasty old cur he could be, especially to Mrs. Slocomb. As you do with friends in real life, you still liked these people warts and all.

Coincidentally, while making my way through the series this time, I saw on social media that it was the birthday of the late, great, John Inman. With gray hair and crooked teeth, he played the mincing, effeminate, “is he or isn’t he” Mr. Humphries on the show. Always flamboyant and close to his mother, Humphries was always available to get a laugh from a crazy costume, outlandish story of the night before, or the ever present innuendo. Apparently his characterization was in the vein of a long time British stage tradition of the “camp” comedian. I realized I knew little of this man outside of this character so I did a little research.

I was happy to see that after the show he still made a career out of playing Mr. Humphries and apparently even travelled Down Under to play the character on stage in Australia. It seems his biggest career success after Mr. Humphries was in playing a “Pantomime Dame” in UK stage shows. He never married but had a lifelong male partner to whom he bequeathed a tidy sum of almost three million pounds. Camping it up pays!

I’m sure many in the modern audiences take a dim view of the character and the way it was played feeling that this type of entertainment needs to be left in the dustbin of history along with other “entertainments” like performances in black face.

I take a different view. Played by Inman, Mr. Humphries is an ever present ray of light. He is never sullen or morose. He never allows himself to be a victim. He is ingenious and outgoing and never seems to be anyone other than who he is. He certainly seems to have the most active, interesting and fun life outside of Grace Brothers Department store.

In some early episodes, the character was written as obviously gay. There is a moment at the end of one episode that sees him seize the hand of young Mr. Grace’s chauffer and lead him towards the men’s room for an implied romp. As the show went on, it became obvious that more humor could be had from making the character more enigmatic. In some of the things I read online the creator of the series asserts that Mr. Humphries wasn’t gay, but was always just meant to be a confused momma’s boy. I don’t buy it.

Played by Inman, I don’t see Humphries as anything but supremely self-aware. He knows that over the phone he could easily be mistaken for female and uses that fact when it benefits him.  Just as he knows to avoid confusion it is best to answer his department’s house phone with a melodiously fake baritone; “Men’s wear!”

As has been the case lately when viewing any movies or TV shows from the 1970’s I am reminded by how progressive some of the mainstream releases were, previously mentioned anachronisms notwithstanding. They are almost modern “pre-code” when compared to so much of today’s infantile mainstream entertainments. I doubt any of the people involved with AYBS had any idea that their work would be entertaining people over 40 years later but it does thanks to DVDs and streaming and we are all the better for it. Stream on!

Midair

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We met on the night plane from Hong Kong. Things had been going well in the consulate until they weren’t, and I needed to get out of Dodge. I saw him in the club before I’m sure. Saw him the way one sees a thoroughbred anything through the veil of yearning, admiration and utter contempt. But it wasn’t until that moment over the Pacific, when he dropped that grape and our fingers touched, that I could say we finally met.

Behind the Curtain

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​When I was a kid they actually took the time to teach civics. I doubt they do that anymore and if they do it is probably unrecognizable to the civics lessons I was taught. We were taught the fundamentals of government and the citizen’s role in the functioning of that government. Free elections and a person’s right to vote were emphasized as being everyone’s responsibility. 

As in most places in the USA, schools are used as polling places so just before Election Day the lobbies and hallways would fill with the machines used in the voting. Back then in my little corner of the Eastern United States, they were standalone booths. You stepped in and pulled a giant lever to one side causing the curtain behind you to swoop shut and the small flip switches that actually record your vote to all flip upright like a giant circuit breaker panel in front of you. These switches were how you voted. You went along the switches flipping the one next to your selection down. At the end when you moved the giant lever back to its original positon, the curtain would open, the small switches would all flip down and your vote would be recorded. The switches all flipped down so that when the curtain opened, people couldn’t tell how you voted. Genius!

You learned at a very early age that voting was for adults only, voting was secret and sacred, and hence you could not go into the voting booth with your Mom/Dad or whomever. You were a kid and wanted to know what was going on behind that bloody curtain, but rules actually meant something and were enforced. So because they still taught civics and voting was held in high esteem and not thought a bother, there was a certain point in Elementary school that you were brought to the lobby where the machines were and actually got to see what went on behind the curtain! FUN! Levers and switches and curtains! What’s not to love?

The voting booths always reminded me of those photo booths at arcades; the ones that printed four pictures of you on a strip of photo paper. In fact the only thing missing from that voting experience was a huge flash of light at the end and a picture of you having voted to record the event like a game show.

When I was an adult and had moved to Hawaii I was surprised at the whole laid back air of a Hawaiian polling station. Really I shouldn’t have been. One of the things I loved about the place was that “hang loose” vibe. But here there were booths with no levers, just a small shelf for you and your ballot and hole punch. There was a curtain that you had to pull closed yourself and barely went halfway down from the top and often had a festive printed pattern. The curtains on the voting booths of my youth were uniformly heavy, dark green/grey and most definitely opaque. Most interesting of all to me was you could bring anyone into the booth with you. I said it was laid back.

Every Election Day I am reminded of my libertarian minded father. He hated having to register to vote and be assigned a polling station and then showing ID once you got there. He always felt it was a little too “show me your papers”. And, he reasoned, that if his ballot was secret why did they need to actually record that he voted and in what booth he did so? As an American he felt it was his right to vote plain and simple which meant he should be able to go to any polling station at any time and vote, registered or not.

My father loved this country. LOVED IT. And to him this country was the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence and he didn’t need a bureaucrat reigning in his God given right to vote. So when he voted it was tense! Would he start arguing or just go with the flow? It really was like a game show! If only there were cameras.

The Deal

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​The kindred soul

Protected and protector

Roles manifested only with instinct

Two minds as one with lifetimes shared

Ambitions entwined and futures unbounded

Romance unleashed

But the heart’s desires are not sustained

That hope of ages melts

Time tells that tale of fanciful wishes

Realities burned by reality

No karma no kismet

No one or other

It’s time to know

That dreams are just dreams.

Chapter One: IT BEGINS

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When I was born, I was very young.

When I was born, I cried like a baby.

When I was born, I was so ugly the doctor slapped my mother.

If only my birth story were anything like the Henny Youngman midnight shows at the Sands, circa 1960 something. I’m not being coy about my age it is just that I don’t think a Henny Youngman show varied much over the years and one show from the 60’s is as good as another.

No, my birth story was much more “General Hospital” than shtick. Mom was fairly worn out by the time she had me. I being the youngest of four or “last born” as my sister ominously puts it. Mom and Dad were never known for over sharing abut family histories or life events even when directly begged, so I’ve pieced things together as best I could.

Mom would often be very sick when she was pregnant. In fact pregnancy really threw a monkey wrench in the shenanigans when the first child, my sister, came along soon after marriage. The sickness was so bad both Ma and Pa had to quit smoking! Talk about cold turkey. They never seemed to hold that against us but it was brought up often enough.

By the time I showed up (SURPRISE!) it was 12 years and three kids later. The bloom was off the rose and motherhood was old hat. It was also, I see in retrospect, a time for a 32 year old mother of two girls and a boy to “get it right”.  No laissez-faire mothering here. I would be molded into mom’s vision of what a son should be: God fearing, mother fearing, humble to the point of subservience, a Priest if she could swing it, and most assuredly straight as an arrow.

This, she thought, would be achieved through a combination of sly teaching, astute mothering, and making me terrified most every day of my life. Terrified that if I didn’t suppress every natural and God given urge and feeling I had that I could be handed over to the State, go to Hell, punished in some horrible way left to my fertile imagination, or even put in a box and shipped to Outer Mongolia. Did I mention my siblings may have contributed some of their own ideas along the way?  Their combined success with some of that and failure with other aspects haunt us both to this day.

And speaking of fear, I have come to the realization at this point in my life the driving force of my entire life has been fear. I was a happy little chappy up until the age of five. That is when life got real, fear got real, and it has been with me ever since. Like most things there are good and bad things that come with that fear, and in the coming pages I hope to cathartically be delving into those psychiatric riches. Here’s a hint though; fear has driven me to get an education, have a career and keep a roof over my head.  So see, not all bad.

Anyway, whether or not Mom was applying that same mother love to my older brother (number one son) I honestly can’t say. I was far too young and he was eleven years older so his existence always seemed peripheral. Our lives didn’t exactly cross even though we shared a bedroom so I would say our upbringing was very much compartmentalized. It was probably best that way as nearest I can determine, he hated my little guts. No brotherly love, no role model. Just some guy who was there with an occasional smack for me usually when I least expected it. Not fun.

So while there was no love there, one thing I do know, we were loved by our parents. Deeply. Our parents, short falls and all, did one hell of a job for us four and that is to say, they did their best. Whatever they did, did not do, said or didn’t say, really did come from a place of love and caring. Then, as they do, the chips fall and you are left how things have played out.

Oh but I am getting far ahead of myself. My birth story is the subject so let’s get back to that. I always enjoyed the fact that I was born at the time school got out. I got out too! But then the calendar told me it was a Saturday so bit doesn’t quite pan out. Let’s keep that a secret.

All of the kids were born in a Catholic hospital and all the nurses were nuns. That could be where that Priest thing came from. Even though we were spread out over twelve years we all had the same pediatrician deliver us. Mom was loyal!

The story goes that having gone into labor Mom is rushed to the hospital so this little light can come into the world but, about halfway through, I seemed to have second thoughts. Mom was no fool. No natural child birth for her! She insisted on full sensory deprivation and backup drugs. I applaud her choice but it did muck things up just a little. Halfway down the birth canal, lulled into a cozy haze with a little tranquilizer still known as “twilight sleep”, all contractions stopped. This, I am told, is not good.

That’s when the big guns were called in: Sister Mary Whocansay from the order Our Lady of Perpetual Motion was asked to assist. She of the magic fingers. Her comforting presence, her honed massage techniques and soft prayers all helped my petrified mother and her little butterball get to the desired outcome. That Sister pushed and smushed and kneaded my mother’s belly until the nerves started sending the muscles all of the required signals. Whew!

We weren’t even Roman Catholic but it was through experiences like this that humor at the expense of Catholics or their clergy never sat well around our dining room table. And this from the family that can find humor in pretty much anything.

I can’t resist the little joke about her name and her profession and no harm is meant in it, that’s just me having to be silly. Believe me; I am forever grateful that this woman was there to save both our lives.  I’ll never know her and I don’t think my mother even knows her name. Over the years it has become canonical that she somehow miraculously appeared when needed then vanished when the job was done.  There may have been wispy smoke. I think there was wispy smoke. And of course back lighting and angel song.

 

 

To be continued…maybe…

Sex Idiot 2.0

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I know Ryan Lochte from 2 things: the Olympics and an episode of 30 Rock.

I know he had a reality show, but I ignored it.

And even though I say I knew him from the Olympics I didn’t realize until recently that he was so successful; second only to Michael Phelps for medals.

So he had his medals, his goofy big nosed dimpled face and a propensity to appear in a Speedos: all the ingredients to be a celebrity in America and intergalactically through social media.

I was surprised when a high brow show like 30 ROCK featured him in memorable cameo, but NBC had both the Olympics and 30 Rock and Jack Donaghy sure would have been proud of that vertical integration.

The episode revolved around Alec Baldwin’s character being concerned that the woman he was currently involved with, the pizza heiress Pizzarina Sbarro, would find out he was still seeing other women and she would get the wrong idea and possibly dump him.

To his surprise while out with one of these women he runs into Ms. Sbarro also out on the town with another man.

The man here was guest star Lochte. The upshot being that both Donaghy and Sbarro have a “sex idiot” they keep around in addition to the person they consider to be their main squeeze. Sometimes they just need to be with someone “for fun”, no sparkling wit or conversation required.

The sex idiot need only be young hot and willing with any sort of intelligence being a highly undesirable trait.

They don’t give Lochte much to do as the male sex idiot and since he pretty much is a de facto one in real life not much acting is required. His laugh line has him wondering why so many “old guys” are constantly offering to buy his shirt (he appears shirtless here with only a jacket on). Funny, right?

Not a star turn by any means but memorably playing the definitive sex idiot it did give him a more humble good guy burnish than perhaps he had been projecting.

Then came Rio.

Too much idiot. Not enough sex.

Hey Ryan, I hear they are already casting the gay porn version of your story. Redemption is at hand.

Look Ma! No pants!

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It was recently brought to my attention that I would soon be turning 56 years old. Time marches on dear children and it does none of us any good. I’m fairly certain this birthday won’t bring the shit storm of emotion that turning 50 did, but please do me a favor and don’t mention 60.

I am firmly convinced that mentally, who we are when we are approximately 24-27 years old are who we are for the rest of our lives. When I mention this to people my age or more they tend to agree so I think I am on to something. Your body changes and deteriorates, but that core “you” is eternally youthful. That’s my rationalization for not feeling as old as I am.

Scratch that. I FEEL my age. Maybe even older. I feel the aches and pains. I feel the searching my brain for words sometimes. I feel the “what was I saying?” or “why did I come in here?” moments. But in my mind I’m not old. Sure I have matured and that maturity breeds wisdom and to some extent contentment so please do not confuse being youthful with being childish. I speak of youthful in the sense that I am not ready to call it a day. To quote the brilliant Barry Humphries as Dame Edna, “I still have all my drives and juices possums.”

My tastes have certainly changed. Also, things that were very important to me at one time now mean pretty much nothing. A real biggie for me is my embarrassment quotient has really fallen to an all-time low. File that under learning not to care what other people think of you. I think that’s where the wisdom part comes in and it is a real blessing. When you are clumsy or not particularly graceful you find yourself being embarrassed or in embarrassing situations almost on a daily basis and in 56 years you learn to deal. That is not to say I welcome embarrassment, far from it. I’m still human after all. But there is an ease that comes with age that is worth its weight in gold.

Last night I had a short dream right before the alarm was set to go off. It took place in some alternate universe where I lived in one room with quite a few people, all dream strangers. The dream had me slowly waking to see people lying around me. Some were awake and grumbling. My late great Bichon Frise was making an appearance as a puppy and he wanted to play, while those around me wanted to sleep. One of my cohabitants opened the door and pushed the dog through it then slammed it shut. I was appalled that no one in this room could appreciate that dog’s simple joy at being alive and wanting to play and I quickly followed him out the door. Next we were walking through the most glorious gardens. I was tossing his toy and he’d run after it and then, true to form, he’d catch a smell that was much more interesting than playing fetch and he’d be off snooting around.

As I walked enjoying the sunshine, I soon became aware that the gardens were overlooked by luxurious apartments with walls of glass to allow the occupants the glorious views. I also became aware that I was easily on view and that I also was without pants. In my haste to leave with the dog I left as I slept. In younger days this would have caused great dream embarrassment. Who hasn’t dreamed of being at school without clothes? But here my only thought was “Oh well. I hope they enjoy the view.” The day, the gardens and the dog were just too wonderful to care who saw my underwear. The dream ended with me walking the paths with my dog and finally picking up a hose and watering a few shrubs. I was happy.

As you can see it made quite an impression. Perhaps getting older really is about getting better?