Oh no. A chin hair. The quest for an explanation.

The other day while looking in my rear-view window, I noticed a terrifying sight. It was not a fast approaching tornado ready to swallow up my car, nor was it Jason Voorhees from Halloween ready to slash me. It was a chin hair. Even worse, it was long and it was white. Horrible images flashed through my mind. First, I thought of crazy mediterranean gypsy women, the likes of whom might sacrifice a chicken for good luck. Next I thought of The Stygian Witches from the original Clash of the Titans movie who had scared me to death when I saw it for the first time in 1981. I had been seeing a stray grey hair or two pop up on my head for a few years already, but this was a different story. I then realized that the real scare of the discovery was that I was reaching middle age. There are lots of things a person can do to fight social or legal injustice, but what about aging injustice? I take care of myself. I eat my fruits and veggies. I'm fit. I've even cleansed with the lemonade drink. Why the *#@! was this happening? Although I'm half Italian, in other words, "mediterranean", I've never had issues with dark or unwanted hair growth. I never really had to do any facial waxing, and thought of waxing in general as a barbaric ritual. I really had to wrap my mind around this one, and come to a place of acceptance. I had my twentieth high school reunion not long ago, and I get that I'm not twenty-something anymore, and frankly I'm much wiser and happier being in my thirties. But still, I felt I needed to do some research to see why more facial hair sprouts as we age. Apparently, this is usually part of normal skin changes associated with aging, and certainly can be a hereditary trait. Hmmmm, Nana is Sicilian..... On a more serious note, having lots of excess hair growth can be a sign of hormonal imbalance called hirsutism. It can also be a sign of menopause. If you have irregular periods, hair growth can be one side effect, as androgens, (male type hormones) increase. One hair or two doesn't mean that you're necessarily having a medical issue, but it does make you wonder why does Mother Nature have such a messed up sense of humor. So when I got home that day, I prioritized to get the tweezer and pluck that thing to kingdom come. By the way, it is a wives tale that plucking hairs will make them grow back coarser. So, afterwards, I was hit with a strange touch of guilt. It was the same feeling that had come over me after plucking a few greys from my hair in the past. Was I committing an offense to my rightful hard earned maturity by banishing the grey from my head? Perhaps. But I decided that the chin hair fell into another more dastardly category, and I'd not obsess about the aging process, but simply resign myself to the idea of having to pluck a hair or two from the chin location every now and then. Big deal. I'm trying to keep my eye on the bigger picture these days, reinventing my career, volunteering at my local theatre renovation, and have nearly finished my first novel. I decided I have no time to sweat the small stuff, or an occasional chin hair. The pen is mightier than the sword, but I'll carry a tweezer anyway.

Letter written to the Democratic Party- submitted to Wash. Post and NY Times

* originally posted Feb. 2010

Written by Danielle Boiardi

Enough is Enough.

What's going on in this country is a disgrace. I fought hard in my twenties to educate myself, and was able to pay for college by working three jobs. Since ending a twelve year career in fine arts restoration, I am thirty-eight years old, and currently have no health insurance. I paid for it myself as a freelance artisan in New York City, but I had to leave my line of work after developing a repetitive use injury in my right hand. Even while I was at the top of my field, I still had to pay a disproportionate amount of money to be insured. Even then, my coverage was pathetic, waiting a month at one time to get ""insurance company approval"" for an MRI of my knee, while being in so much pain that I couldn't walk up and down stairs. I found myself spending hours on the phone actually begging the service reps to put the approval through. I deserved better. All people do. Our government needs to take control of this inhumane, out of control industry and reform health care so we all have it, and don't have to cry and beg for it, or go without it as I am now. I am in between careers and instead of feeling that I can use my savings that I fought tooth and nail to put together, to re-educate myself, I am scared to death that I could lose everything I have. I need basic diagnostic work that I am not getting because I have to make the choice between having money to live, while I develop a new line of work, and seeing a hand specialist. Even the hardest working people in this country have no one to turn to anymore. I'd love to see some of that bailout money put in a re-education bank account for myself, and others who are in my shoes, but its currently lining the pockets of the wealthiest people in America, by way of tax cuts they don't need, and bonuses they don't deserve. If I wanted to live in a mafia state, I could move to Mexico or head to southern Italy. Even my ninety-eight year old grandmother isn't safe. The State of New York just cut her drug care because they said she made too much money. She worked as a seamstress until she was seventy-two years old which is WHY she makes a decent pension, and now she's being penalized for working those extra years of labor. She needs to have an aid in her home to help her, but she can't afford it, and the state could care less. She deserves better. The Medicaid office just informed me that New York State feels that everyone can live on $676.00 a month. WHAT????? I stood on line in the freezing cold for hours to watch President Obama walk down Pennsylvania Avenue, and was proud that my vote, and my grassroots involvement helped put him in office. But he can't make the changes that this country needs all by himself. Organize Democrats. Stop being so blind and selfish republicans. Yes you deserve the lower case r. Present a united, unstoppable front for health care reform and stimulus money for people in the ""ever sinking middle"" like myself. We have officially become the ‘tired, huddled masses’."

Why Caponata?

Making a good caponata takes the same crazy mix of ingredients that you'd put into a well balanced life. It's all about the sweet and the savory working together in harmony. Nana taught me to make la caponata years ago when I was in my early teens. She has been eating this delicious eggplant relish her whole life and is still going strong at 98, her longevity yet another reason to add it to your recipe box. The foundational first ingredients of the caponata are onions and celery, two stalks or so, that are browned in olive oil. This is not a recipe that should be rushed, so slow down and take your time. While the onion mix is cooking down you should be well into chopping up the eggplant into small-medium size cubes. There is no exact amount of eggplant, but I use two to three decent size long and thin eggplant for every onion. Nana has convinced me that the thinner eggplant will cook up to be more tender, and not so bitter as the more rotund examples. Help the chopped eggplant slide down the cutting board into the pan. If you are having "one of those days", make a caponata. If the sun is shining outside but you're still feeling blue, make a caponata. You should let the eggplant get slightly soft and start to unite the mix you've got so far. Open a large can of crushed tomato and add it to the happy pot. Stir the mix so that the tomato well covers the eggplant mixture. Do this with love and patience, the flame should be low now, and you can take a little while to daydream,....thoughts of Italy, of Nana's New Jersey kitchens, of your first kiss, etc., while the eggplant cooks down further. If you haven't done so yet, put on some of your favorite music. Once the sauce has cooked "into" the eggplant mix, add one cup of red vinegar to the mix. Follow the vinegar with one cup of sugar. Give the new and improved, about to turn sassy mix a good stir through. You'll also need some green and black olives. You can use just one kind or the other, but the caponata wont be as colorful, and trust me, it's just as pretty a dish to look at as it is tasty to eat. Nana taught me to chop them in half, and even a little smaller is fine, but don't go too small. Think hearty. Now comes the wonderfully salty, joyful little capers. Add enough so that they're "easy to find" in the mix, but don't go overboard or the caponata could end up being more salty than sweet. We don't want that. One time, I was making a caponata and was doing a little too much talking with my roommate and instead of pouring a cup of sugar into the mix, I measured out a cup of salt from a storage jar, and needless to say, there was no saving it. It was salt city, and the batch was done in. So.... daydream yes, but be present in the kitchen. Once the capers are in you can add a bit of pepper to taste, you shouldn't need to add salt, as the olives and capers take care of that task. Let the mixture continue to cook a bit more on a low heat, and then "ci siamo", we've got a caponata. It's nice to eat hot, over pasta or even couscous, but my favorite way to eat it is chilled from the fridge. Great on a cracker, by itself, or paired with some nice fresh italian cheese. It's a great "go to" recipe when you need to check out for a bit from the stress of life, or if you want to make something special for yourself or for someone you really love. Mille grazie Nana.

31 Miles: My Paddle Around Manhattan by Kayak -originally published Jan. 14th 2010

THURSDAY, JANUARY 14, 2010

31 Miles: My Paddle Around Manhattan By Kayak

Thirty-one miles is not that far. We are living in a time where keeping up with the Daredevil Jones means motorbiking across Mongolia or swimming The English Channel. When I decided to kayak around Manhattan this fall it wasn't about proving superwoman endurance or getting into a record book. It was about changing my perspective on things. I paddled around a collective mass of over 8 million people and randomly, probably only 50 or so were aware of my water presence. If you think of New York City and the energy potential of all those people, lights, and dollars, nuclear proportions come to mind. All those footsteps, heartbeats, text messages, and dreams are massed in such a relatively small space. I used to be one of those heartbeats, racing up and down subway steps, consuming Americano's as if they were the sixth food group in the food pyramid. I worked as a fine arts restorer in a basement space in ultra-chic Tribeca and felt so insulated and frenetic that I almost never thought about the water that surrounded the city and even less about where it came from and where it fights to return to.

Our party of six left our upstate NY town around 5am to make a 7am departure from the Dyckman St. (200th st.)boat put-in on the upper west side. I had grown up as a competitive flatwater kayaker plus I'd done some distance paddling on the Hudson up north near my house, so I wasn't nervous about the mileage. I did have some concern about the frequent passing barge not seeing me, but was more excited about the paddle itself, and the vantage point that it would give me, both on the city and maybe even on myself. It is a powerful thing to experience the quiet intimacy of the Hudson, so ironically close to the mega Gotham with all its sounds, confusion, and aggression. We departed from our chosen spot at a specific time in order to be paddling with the current, which was carefully plotted. There was quite a bit of chop on the water that morning, but I still felt that I had to be less "heads up" out on the Hudson than I would need to be on the city streets. I couldn't help thinking about the history of the city, but even more about the history that the water had seen. My Italian ancestors had done some time on these waters, but they had travelled them with the much bigger goal of immigration in the late 1890's. I thought about so many things that day during the nine-hour paddle. I looked up in admiration and amazement at the underside of the antiquated bridge structures as I paddled under them. We don't build bridges with that kind of architectural beauty and decorative iron -work anymore. Why not? I realized as a metaphor for life at Hell's Gate channel crossing on The East River, that sometimes you can give it all you've got and still you seem to go nowhere, but keep paddling because eventually you'll get to where you want to be (plus if you stop, you'll get sucked out into The Long Island Sound: not good). I was happy to discover that you can still pee in public on the not-so deserted island of Manhattan without getting seen, or at least not arrested (small beach just north of The South Street Seaport behind bridge buttress). As we paddled up the Harlem River, I could see the now "old" Yankee Stadium. I thought about what New York must have been like when my Dad grew up in The Bronx in the fifties. I thought of all the Yankee Games he'd taken us to as kids to give us a taste of that history. Mickey Mantle, Thurman Munson, Don Mattingly. I said goodbye to the stadium and was thankful for our last game day there last summer. Dad finally caught a ball after sixty years of attendance. Good things do come to those who wait.

Somewhere around hour eight, my arms and shoulders started to get tired, so I concentrated on my stroke, and could easily meditate on the rhythmic swoosh of my paddle entering the water. I was glad that we'd had a fairly warm day for october, and that the sun was still shining. As we paddled closer to the historic Spuyten Duyvil ( the devil's whirlpool) where the Harlem River meets up with The Hudson, I knew we had come almost full circle. Re-entering The Hudson felt so victorious, and we had scenery to match. The water was real choppy, but the days-end sunlight was exquisite on the water, and the view of The Palisades Cliffs was straight out of a Hudson River School painting. I thought many times that day about how little or how much a person can accomplish in nine hours time. Believe it or not, when we got back to our starting point landing, I felt kind of sad to get out of my boat, but made a pact with myself that I would be back to explore the Hudson again, and other waters too. Since the big paddle I've been increasing my awareness of the state of our waters and have come to find out that we are responsible for some seriously devastating changes both to the ocean systems and its species population. Check out the work of Dr. Sylvia Earle and the Deep Search foundation for some eye-opening information.

Despite having done lots of paddling on The Hudson while growing up, my october paddle around Manhattan was still a poetic wake-up call and reminder of the intimate and therapeutic personal experience that only the water can provide. Being out on the water is the best place to think about where you came from and discover where you want to go. See you on The Hudson in 2010.

Saved by Siena "2"

He had come to America in the late 1880’s with his school teacher wife Aminta, and their first two boys, in search of the good life, as so many did during the end of the eighteen- eighties. After many years living on Bleecker Street in Manhattan, working as a tailor, he took ill, and made a heartfelt decision to go back to Piacenza to die. Standing in front of his gravestone, I felt a deep sense of personal completion and at the same time felt sorry that I could not know him, or my grandfather or great-uncles for that matter, and would never be able to hear about all the exciting and cinematic experiences they had lived through in their lifetimes from their lips. My Uncle Jack who was an engineer who worked a lot in France and England, and he regularly traveled on the Queen Mary ship. He was married at one time to a screen actress , and always dressed like a real dapper Don. He supposedly had a ticket for the Titanic, and due to his late arrival that day, missed the ships departure. He was somewhat luckier than his brother Mario who after working as an artist in New York, and even painting parts of the celestial frescoes on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, went to Italy to fight in World War One and tragically died in an avalanche. My grandfather John, was a supervisor in the GE Prentiss factory in Connecticut, which made lots of mechanical parts used in the war, including parachute harness closures and such. He unfortunately died young of an aortic aneurism in the early sixties. He felt the attack come on, and drove himself to the hospital , but by the time he got there the damage was too great and he died that day. Times were hard for most back then, and my Nana had more than her share of tragedy as a young woman. Her mother died tragically of a missed diagnosis burst appendix when she was only thirty four. Her last words to my Nana were “take care of your brothers, and don’t let the baby cry”. My Nana Jean, was the oldest child, only twelve at the time, and had to learn hard knocks style how to cook, clean, and care for all her three younger brothers. The boys were at first taken to an orphanage, by her father who didn’t know how to care for the boys, as would’ve been a popular decision in the nineteen twenties. But upon an early visit to the orphanage, Nana’s father found one of the boys with two left shoes on his feet, and decided he couldn’t bear to leave them all there. The two year old baby Marie would be taken in and cared for by my Nana’s Aunt, but the boys and her father became her responsibility. Nana learned to sew and make money as a seamstress when she was just thirteen years old. A french seamstress taught her how to hand sew fine undergarments of silk and lace, for wealthy clients who would commission such items. Nana went on to have a long career in the garment district in New York as a pattern maker and dress maker for Patty O’Neill, amongst other companies. She worked hard, paying high rents in order to raise my father in a wealthy neighborhood in the Bronx, and didn’t retire from the business until she was seventy-two. She was still hemming our pants until a few years ago, when at 95, her arthritis stopped her from being able to work her magic with a needle and thread. Maybe because there was so much sadness in my family history, so many lives half- lived, I would eventually feel such a calling to go to Italy, to learn how to live well, and to fulfill the lost dreams of my ancestors by way of my own adventures. From Nana, I learned how to bread chicken cutlets, make manicotti crepes by hand, and learned to love good food and the art of hosting an Italian feast. I also learned the importance of good work ethic, and to appreciate opera. As kids, we spent plenty of weekends at Nana’s apartments in the Italian American Jersey towns of Lodi, and Hasbrouck Heights. We’d walk to the local Italian deli to get veal cutlets, hard salami, and provolone. At the time, veal cutlets and mashed potatoes were the staples of my sister Jocelyn’s diet, but by age twelve, she became a vegetarian and animal rights activist and it was bye-bye veal. Nana’s house was comforting in all the best ways. Our parents were going through a divorce and much of our life at the time was filled with the confusion, chaos and sadness that often accompany a split up. Nana always smelled like good perfume.

Saved by Siena, Intro

Can a story save someone’s life? If a person believes it’s important and has the will to get the words down, then maybe it can. My two hands worked a lot better before the story began, before I went to Italy, before I became an artisan. These days, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have carpel tunnel syndrome in both my hands; the result of gilding and restoring antiques for fifteen years. I learned the ancient, artisan craft in Siena and Florence while living in The Tuscany between 1995 and 1998. Yes, Under the Tuscan Sun, but without the professors income and old family money backing. Not to diss Frances Mayes, but moving to Italy and living there on a professors income albeit brave, isn’t quite the same thing as living there on a ten dollar a week budget and without papers. Yes, I was a W.O.P., but on the other side of the ocean.

Some days, like today, the only way to visualize a bright future is by looking back to the brightest memories of your past. I didn’t always fantasize about going to Italy, the way many people do. But it’s important to say that I did grow up with Italian American culture and family on my father’s side. Italian culture “american style” that was actually a lot different than the Italian culture I would come to know so intimately. Italian Americans will eat their meatballs with a mound of spaghetti while an Italian will eat meatballs or “polpetti di carne” as a main dish with sauce, but no pasta. I grew up from a young age loving the smell of a pot of espresso that my Nana would serve with a little lemon rind on the saucer. Despite my nostalgia for her way of doing things, I was surprised to never see this done in any part of Italy during my time there. My Italian relatives are quite religious practicing catholics, whereas my Italian catholic friends would confess to being “catolica, ma non fanatica” (catholic, but not fanatic). I grew up hearing a somewhat southern Italian lingo- “la rigot”- ricotta, “manigot”- manicotti, “finoiq”- finnocchio, or fennel bulb, and the infamous “mozzarel”- mozzarella. My father’s family is full blooded Italian, his mothers family being from Messina, Sicily, and his fathers from the town of Piacenza, not too far from Parma, the cheese and prosciutto mecca. My Nana, has reached 98 years of age, thanks to a life full of hard work, lots of olive oil and hot pepper at most meals, and her ever tenacious soul. Her husband Amerigo’s family was from the small town of Bettola, as I said, near Piacenza. He was the only one of three brothers not born in Italy. He became John, once here in the states. His brothers were Mario and Jack. While living abroad I visited my father’s family’s hometown of Bettola, and was greeted at the entrance to the town with a marble statue, where Uncle Mario’s name in fact was listed as a fallen war hero, “una caduta di guerra”. I went to the town to request paperwork for dual Italian citizenship, and can tell you it was one of the most emotionally rewarding days of my life. After visiting the town church and archival offices, I walked through the town, searching for my great grandfathers’ gravesite. After looking in the wrong town cemetery with no success, a local informed me that my family name Boiardi would also be found at the cemetery on the other side of town. I walked up a steep hill, anxious, but honestly expecting that I wouldn’t find the gravesite I was searching for. But Luigi Boiardi’s gravestone was there, with the same early black and white photo encased on the front of the grave stone, that I had been given from our family album. My past and present imploded one into the other as I stood peacefully taking in the gravesite on that sunny day. I knew it had been a while to say the least since anyone had visited my great-grandfather, or “bisnonno” there, and was so moved that I walked back into town and bought a large red geranium plant which I walked back to leave with him there......

Coochy-Coochy Coup 9/09

Coochy Coochy Coup 

An Expose' on Bikini Waxing and the Plight of the Uninsured Glamorous Woman

by Danielle Boiardi

    

 Recently, I was feeling like I needed a little glamour before leaving for a vacation to visit friends. So I called my friend “Amelia” to have her book me for a bikini wax at the spa where she works. I had never had a bikini wax before, and frankly was always turned off to the whole idea of waxing after seeing a friend of mine wax her father's back on the living room floor of our apartment. I guess I thought a bikini wax would make me feel pampered, taken care of, and yes, a little Hollywood. Despite the relaxing, posh atmosphere of this chic upscale town spa, the waxing experience was anything but pampering and glamorous. Truthfully, it was awkward, excruciating, and a rather ridiculous ritual. Believe it or not, women have been manicuring their southern states since around 1500 AD. “The American” leaves you with a basic trim of the bikini line, “The French” leaves you with just a landing strip- for brave girls with sight- challenged partners, and “The Brazilian”, or “Playboy” wax takes it all off as the name suggests. As I didn't give any direction to my friend, who recently became an estetician, I ended up with a landing strip plus a bit. I will also tell you that my poor coochy underwent a very painful experience both during the waxing, and for four days after. I did feel more “trim” in my bathing suit, but I also felt really irritated, self- conscious, and stupid. I was told that the first time wax will be the most painful, and then they hurt less if done regularly. If you haven't ever had one, you can check out some crazy videos on Youtube that sneak -peak the vibe of this trend.

The experience and my discomfort after seeking out what I thought would make me feel glamorous, got me thinking that deep down, I don't feel very “taken care of” these days. We pay an absurd amount of attention to the details of appearance. Waxing has been popular in Brazil and Europe for ages, and is now more mainstream than ever here in the U.S. . But it's somehow more acceptable to me to live in a country that's hyper-focused on beauty and appearance when you feel that society firstly places value on your inner health. France and Brazil both have national health care, while we still do not. It seems it could finally be on the horizon, but for an ever increasing number of us, it can't happen soon enough. I work for myself, and finally bought into a private plan after being uninsured for over six years. The small business I contracted with didn't provide insurance despite the fact that myself and my co-workers worked full time hours, and that their business was quite financially successful. Ironically, their business was under the radar enough being in a Tribeca basement, that they also didn't feel they had to "cash up" to provide their artisans with proper ventilation or regular chemical disposal (but that's a whole other tale). I stayed working there at least partly because it afforded me the money to pay for my own health insurance, but because I couldn't afford to live in New york City, I bunked three or four nights weekly with my 97 year- old Nana in her one bedroom apartment in New Jersey. Yes, this was a totally crazy way to live week to week, but it at least allowed me to hold a decent paying job. I eventually realized that my job was presenting actual health problems and greater risks overall to my physical and mental health, than leaving, and not having the income to afford to be part of the now elite class of the insured.

 I haven't had health insurance for five months since having to cancel my plan. I will mention that I practically needed a part time secretary to get them to pay on my claims anyway. Working for myself, I make too much to get subsidized health insurance and yet too little to afford a decent plan where I live. My friend “Amelia”, the estetician, doesn't have insurance either. She used to work three jobs to support herself and still made little enough to get Medicaid. But after she worked hard to get schooling to have a new career, she started making just slightly more money so that the state of New York dropped her Medicaid. Only now, she still doesn't make near enough to pay for a private plan on her own. She ironically called me the week after my plebian wax, worried that she had a serious bladder infection but didn't have the money to go see a doctor, and likely pay a month's salary for exams. Besides doing waxing, “Amelia” gives very personal, doting facials and skin care advice to women who, for the most part don't have our money struggles ( Attention: conservatives/ national health care enemies-We both have college educations and work full time jobs and still can't afford to be insured!) and in a moment when she realized she needed serious medical care, it was out of her reach. I could hear desperation in her voice and imagine she felt like a degraded, second class citizen. So many of us can't even find the luxury time to feel pissed off about what's going on in this country because we're so busy just trying to get by. 

Yes, we are a pretty nation. Pretty messed up. There is no priority for health, dignity or basic rights of people in this country. Those politicians and their fearful, misinformed flock who work against the progress of pro-national health care reform should have their heads hot waxed.