Chicken Dinner

Is there anything better than walking half the length of Central Park with an old friend on a classic April afternoon? Short answer: No.
Ron and I were neighbors in San Francisco in the late '70s. We lived in matching one bedroom apartments at the corner of Union and Webster in the city's Cow Hollow neighborhood when a spacious place just north of Pacific Heights went for a measly $350 a month. (Sweet!)
Ron made the best chicken dinners I've ever tasted and today he shared his recipe. His tips? Slow cook a butterflied bird (tented with aluminum foil) at 250 f. for a few hours, finishing it off at 375 f. for 20 minutes. Baste with butter and lemon juice throughout the process. Use one of those old enamel grandmother pans for best effect.
That is all.

Sorry, Kiddo

My daughter just called from California. She is distraught: The young man she's dated for a year, her first love, has broken things off. He wants to be free to surf and hang out with his friends this summer sans girlfriend. Her heart is broken. And my heart aches. For her.

I'm a mother, a woman who's been through this a few times herself. The tone of voice is unmistakable: wrenching, shrill, verging on hysteria. I wish I could tuck her in, read her a story, take her out for an ice cream cone. Right now, she'd probably prefer a dry martini and a Valium. But I gave her the parent drill nonetheless: You'll live. You'll forget about him. Don't call. Sit on your hands. Go out with your friends...it's all advice I've been given myself. And I know it probably won't help.

What will help is time. Lots of time. Coupled with a copious amount of sitting on one's hands. I only wish I had a magic balm, like the ointment I used to rub on her skinned knees when she was little, that would work as easily on her heart.

Unfortunately, none exists. How I wish it did.