Maintenance Not Required

Most people would write about the wonderful Thanksgiving they had with their family gathered round in Mummy's lofty Manhattan digs. And of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade that surged and throbbed with crowds and excitement just outside her door.

Yet I, in my own iconoclastic way, would rather tell you about the MAINTENANCE REQUIRED light on my otherwise lovable 2005 Scion xA. The girls in the audience will recognize the sheer terror that comes with seeing a warning light blink -- or worse, stay lit -- on their dashboards.

However, I'm told by reliable sources that the "maintenance" the light advises has nothing to do with foretelling that your car is about to blow up. It's merely another scam to get you to run to the dealership for a $300 oil change.

Have the car companies no conscience? I ask. Making a faithful consumer worry for their safety is a line, as the police like to say, that no one should cross.

Meet me @ the Club Car

It's becoming harder and harder to find a diner-like venue on a Sunday morn that isn't clanky with dishes or squalling children. Imagine my delight at discovering The Club Car Cafe in West Concord, MA, a station house I've passed a hundred times without noticing. There I enjoyed a peaceful and leisurely breakfast sans souci with the ever-cranky Global D in tow. A trio of little girls ran amok "helping" the two waitresses refill sugar and wipe table tops. One even presented us with the check with professional aplomb. I'd return. And isn't that the highest compliment?

Plains of Jamaica

Note: Owing to cutbacks and downsizing, we're trying out a new style of stripped-down prose for this entry.

Sunday, the Arborway: Sunny, mild. Trees, foliage, paths.



Light. Leaves. An old friend met. Tai Chi.




Town center. Market. Hip. Artsy. Coffee. Apple strudel.

Stronger than Dirt

A theater marquee during last month's trip to New York predicted my current status: cleanup woman. Little did I know then that my apartment would undergo ritualistic deep cleaning at my own hand.
Redolent of the smell of freshly scrubbed floors, I felt a little like Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment, in a sweet Siberia of my own making.

East of Beacon

Determined to enjoy the few remaining sunny Saturdays before the onset of winter, I took a stroll down Beacon Hill. A market on Charles Street yielded a display of oranges watched over by a neighborhood Corgi, not indifferent to a young bell-ringer plying her trade next door.

Nearby, an upscale hardware shop window touted household iron, crystal and brass trinkets priced in the stratospheric reaches. I gazed upon the parade of store windows filled with exotic clothing. Unexpectedly, someone took my picture. Did they mistake me for Anna Wintour? Maybe on a good day. And this was a banner day, at that.

Saladio Law

But not too picky...
I do appreciate a finely tuned salad. I guess it runs in the family. My mother wrote a cookbook years ago that required conducting nightly exotic food experiments at home. We kids were presented with, let's say, 3 different salads, and asked to vote on our favorite. From this came her immutable law set down in print, and to which I adhere to this day: "If a puddle of dressing collects in the bottom of the bowl, you've used too much."