Kathryn Davis Editorial

If It's April, It Must Be Paris/Marrakesh!

2014-04-06T16:40:00.000-07:00

If It's April, It Must Be Paris/Marrakesh!
by Kathy Davis

I landed at Charles De Gaulle and hailed a taxi bound for Paris.

It was raining and the smell of diesel and Gitanes filled the air. The rear lights of the cars darting in and out of the Parisian traffic at night shone like patent leather on wet asphalt.

My heart raced, jazzed to be in Paris yet again, after too long a pause. My uniform My uniform was any number of Chanel suits slightly varied and adorned with a white or golden Camelia. Paris was to be a pause, en route to Marrakesh for an extended visit in North Africa and Europe. Unknown to me at the time, I would be returning to Los Angeles in very different form than my arrival in Paris (joyfully with child).

The Queen Elizabeth was a hotel labyrinth loved visiting because labyrinth could simply cross the street and enjoy my favorite jazz club in Paris, Calvados. It was a thrilling way to appease jet lag and yet interesting too, due to a small crowd of colorful patrons, inclusive of Baby Doc and sometimes even Gaddafi (and other political renegades and dictators). Maison du Caviar, one of my favorite dinner haunts ,was a short jaunt in high heels from the hotel. After a late dinner of Norwegian smoked salmon on petit toast with minced onions and capers, fettucini Alfredo with several ounces of Sevruga was served and a bottle of Moet Chandon. Dessert was a Calvados while taking in the jazz at the club Calvados and all the while, Baby Doc smiling as though with recognition. I squirmed uneasily.
It was the first time ever that I tasted Calvados and funnily enough, the last time as well, though unintended.

Marrakesh called and the Mammounia sated in every sense. Morocco is tantamount to entering another dimension. The architecture is exotic, curvaceous, and in sherbert colors.It feels like laybrinths upon laybritnhs and taunts with the dichotomy of sensuality, yet religious restraint. The cuisine is visually beautiful and dining is festive and absolutely all of my senses were engaged. I want to breathe Morocco, eat Morocco, feel Morocco.

I long to return to Marrakech but only if, by way of Paris.

An Egg To Remember

2014-03-15T20:12:00.002-07:00

by Kathy davis

Although there are many memorable dinner parties I have enjoyed there is one that is etched indelibly in my memory.Sonja is a friend that I had in France who lived in a stunning Art Nouveau town-home. She was known for her eccentric style and great ease in which she entertained.To be invited to one of her dinner parties was to experience the quintessential culinary and visually pleasing meals.

When Sonja greeted you it was with an almost ,self - contained wisp of a smile, as if she had some secret delight in knowing that you would almost require resuscitating from the pleasure that filled your every cell.

The particular evening that is forever in me, took place on the cusp of Easter. As I entered the cream - colored monochromatic home, my eye was captivated by a twenty four - inch - high, sky - blue Easter egg displayed on a gold Louis XVth stand. It looked much like our planet Earth embossed with billowing clouds, yet egg - shaped. What an extraordinary, monolithic,

white chocolate creation, evoking multitudes of symbolism.The egg was a creation of a well - known confisserie in Paris.

Dinner was served by Sonja, on a cream linen table cloth on white porcelain china. It began with white sautéed asparagus, served with white truffle oil and black cracked pepper. A salt encrusted ,roasted Mediterranean sea bass with head and tail intact was presented on a large oval platter.I watched in fascination as Sonja cracked open the hardened salt that moistened the fish while roasting.She made a sauce of extra virgin olive oil and lemon to drizzle over the fish.Steamed potatoes were served with a compote of jalapeño and garlic . Salad was Belgian Endive with semi - hard boiled eggs and Dijon vinaigrette with walnuts. After an array of sensuous cheese and crusty baguettes, we actually made room in our stomachs for a yellow cake with marzipan and berries for dessert.We sipped countless antique Lalique flutes of Rose Champagne and did so, all the while under the imposing eye of the grand, monolithic sky - blue Easter egg.

It was, an egg to remember.

Worlds In A Bite

2014-02-20T11:54:00.002-08:00

by Kathy Davis

Food is political, seductive, sensual and can evoke the most powerful memories. Whether I am savoring the aroma of a chicken in a pot or risotto with white truffles, I feel as though I am tele-transported to the past, inclusive of relationships, other eras and cities in which I have lived.

Having grown up for much of my youth in Los Angeles,during my teens, salads abundant with avocados, sprouts and seeds were my mainstay, punctuated by yogurt, fruit and cheese. Although content with my limited culinary staples, my taste buds were in for a sensory voyage the day I descended from Air France and embraced Paris as my new residence.

I easily welcomed the eponymous croissants and baguettes, steaks aux frites and of course my frites were enhanced with strong Dijon mustard.Mornings were embarked upon with bowl - sized cafe au lait, and dinners were an enticing introduction to Moroccan,Vietnamese,Thai, Italian and numerous regional cuisines of France.

It was in Orleans in late July ,while staying for the week - end in a seventeenth century stone farmhouse, while basking in the early evening sunlight with my eyes closed,that I tasted for the first time,foie gras avec le truffle noir on a tiny toast. Both texture - wise, and taste - wise, it was the most sensuous, delectable gourmet experience to have ever graced my palette.

I have had numerous sojourns in Italy,some for vacations and some for modeling jobs and I have come to realize that I associate different "dishes" with towns and cities.For me, Milan is Risotto with White Truffles in Fall, Rome is unrivaled for Anti Pasti, anytime. Summer is Capri, dining "al fresco" with an endless seafood buffet for lunch, in a bathing suit sitting at a table on lava rocks overlooking the churning indigo sea while the ocean spray cools. New York is poached sea bass with "sauce verde" and cucumber salad and New York Sunday mornings are fresh water bagels piled high with cream cheese, smoked salmon and the requisite thinly sliced purple onion. Mimosas wet our palettes.I could wax on and on,and I will, but in future posts. For now and again,worlds are in a bite, and my fresh Compari Tomato Sauce with Penne Arabiatta with Roasted Garlic and Seared Chili Flakes and Grilled Green Asparagus Salad accompanied with a Barbaresco for dinner are calling...

My Guardian Angel

2013-12-22T18:03:00.001-08:00

My Guardian Angel
by Kathy Davis

My paternal Grandmother mothered me for most of my first ten years. She was Scotch/Irish and raised on her family's farm in Butte Montana. Her name was Kathryn Farrar. I was the daughter she never had, for years before, her only daughter was stillborn and Grandma kept an album of poetry expressing her grief tucked away. I only discovered it amongst some of her personal belongings that had been guarded for decades in a box. It was a treasure of an insight of her grief and vulnerability that no one would have ever sensed she possessed while alive.

Kathryn Farrar ran away from her family farm toting her violin and long eared rabbit when she was fifteen.A boarding house became her home and she made a living playing violin and piano. In private she recounted how numerous times she endured being locked in a closet and beatings by her mother. Her crime was putting her finger in the cream to taste a bit while churning butter.

Things must have been very bad at home to risk running away,yet Grandma made quite a life for herself. She became the leader of an all female orchestra and became famous in the West with the aid of her violin and piano.Newspaper clippings from the early 20th century portray a spunky pretty woman armed with her female troop of musicians.

Before Kathryn Farrar played in my Grandfather's cabaret nightclub and eventually marrying him, she played violin duets with a man named Flex. She confessed that he had been the love of her life. I remember hurting for my Grandfather when she shared her heartbreak with me for it was the first time I had ever thought of anyone other than my Grandpa being at the center of her life.Her secret was safe with me for two reasons; loyalty to her and wanting to protect my Grandpa. Flex died from salmonella poisoning after eating lemon meringue pie while traveling with Kathryn Farrar on a train en route to a violin duet. I can only imagine the grief she must have endured while feeling so alone in the world after losing the love of her life. I keep a photo of Flex and Kathryn Farrar tucked away much like Grandma did with her secrets. My loyalty is to my Grandpa, but I feel honored that I was trusted enough that she knew her secret was safe with me.

I can see her now in my mind's eye with Rapunzel - like auburn braid, flawless pale skin and flashing green eyes. Life was hard for her in the beginning but she was made of the stuff to turn her life around. She shadows me in mine, and I call to her with knowing and feel, she is really is around, but this time, as my Guardian Angel.

Athena's Gift

2013-12-04T21:25:00.001-08:00

by Kathy Davis

The ubiquitous olive, is the fruit of the Gods. Athena, for whom Athens was named, is known to have brought the olive to the Greeks as a gift. She planted the first tree on a rocky hill that is now known as the Acropolis.

It is native to Asia Minor, and made its way from Iran, Syria and Palestine to the Mediterranean six thousand years ago. Zeus offered any God or Goddess all of Attica if they could discover a commodity that could produce the most revenue in all of the ancient lands.

It was the Phoenicians who spread the olive to the shores of Africa and Southern Europe.
The Minoans credited their wealthy empire to the production of olive oil,for it was Crete's largest export to the ancient world.

Athena's gift had a variety of uses such as lighting lamps in antiquity and anointing the early Christians' heads in baptisms. The olive also has an indespensable list of medicinal uses such as anti inflammatory properties to combat diabetes,asthma and cancer.Women of the ancient world used it cosmetically as well. Feral olive shrubs in the Middle East are related to original olives of the ancient world.

Our modern world would make Athena and Zeus proud by our heightened appreciation and capitalization of their legacy for the greater good. Few commodities can be realized from antiquity as beautifully and comprehensively as the fruit of the Gods.

Eat, drink and savor the olive in any of its forms, for we are blessed to be able to enjoy Athena's gift, and of course, Zeus would approve.

Market Vignettes

2013-11-19T16:39:00.000-08:00

by Kathy Davis

In a world that supplies every kind of spice and sauce ready - made, I am truly aghast by how easy it is to make everything fresh, and from scratch. My pleasure knows no bounds while shopping for fresh herbs and produce in an open market. I attribute perusing at open - air markets in Paris the reason I learned to speak French so quickly.

Having arrived in Paris the day after high school graduation, I took to the metros and also walked no less than miles everyday with my seventeen year old feet! As I headed to any of the fourteen "go sees" a day for modeling jobs, I was spellbound by the markets and shoppers ordering the cornucopia of produce. Shopping for food enabled me to think in French,for there was no translating.

The panorama of the city streets of Paris during my modeling days, was like a cultural anthropological museum replete with side - walk cheese markets, butcheries, produce, bakeries and flower markets. What a sensory explosion just to shop for a meal! I was instantly smitten with all things culinary and in time became absolutely passionate about all things related in any form.

I treasure returning to this exploratory time while shopping,chopping, stirring and making magic with the gifts that our incredible Earth has to offer. The essence of who we are is that we desire "connection" and what better way to "connect" than beginning with a wonderful meal?

Remembering My Filipino Family

2013-11-10T09:55:00.002-08:00

by Kathy Davis

It never occurred to me when I was a little girl that not everybody had people from all over the world as a part of their daily life. I was raised in a "global" family. Various family members were from any of the continents.

One of my uncles was Filipino/Swedish. His mother, who was Swedish, helped deliver me when I was born. My Swedish Filipino cousins were like sisters for me. I would have lengthy stays with my Filipino relatives and one of my coziest memories is of the chicken adobo wafting throughout their house. There was always a rice maker on the kitchen counter contributing to the aromas of lunch and dinner. There are fun and interesting memories of my time with my Filipino! kin. Upon entering their house we had to remove our shoes and leave them by the door.It would have been a cardinal sin to wear shoes in the home! Pork and chicken adobos,chilies and stir fried veggies were a mainstay. Everyone was very lean but I did not realize at the time that their healthy, delicious way of eating had anything to do with how lean they were.I felt joyful while staying with them for everyone wore sweet and slightly self contained smiles as they moved through their day.

My very favorite uncle for whom I was the fondest was named Uncle Gene.He was an orphan and a veteran from WW1. Bald and barely 5 ft. 2 inches, he delighted in making stinky feet toast for my cousins and me. Although the toast truly was foul smelling,it tasted delicious! Uncle Gene smiled with tolerance to our naughty giggles as we ate our stinky feet toast. He wore a smile even though his circumstances were tragic from WW1 but I could sense some sadness through his smile and kindness in spite of my having been four years old.

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To this day, when I cook adobo I feel utterly nostalgic for those days in my early childhood when the rice and adobo wafted throughout the air.Those memories make me feel at home inside of myself,no matter the kitchen in which I may be cooking at the time.

I pray for the people in the Philippines who are suffering and those who have lost their lives in the typhoon.May their safety and healing be restored.

Embracing Autumn

2013-11-06T17:09:00.003-08:00

by Kathy Davis

As November arrives in burnished colors, smoky scents and streams of chilled air, with it comes the anticipation of of things to be celebrated. My palette desires the pleasure of truffle season, (the season for chocolate truffles is year round ) Beaujolais Nouveau and Olio Novelli, the exquisite essence of first pressed olives. For me,the elixir of first pressed green olives permeating my taste buds is one of the most joyful of culinary experiences.I can almost ingest the olive oil as though it were fine wine.It can transform an ordinary tomato into one of the most delectable experiences.

It appears as though for myself and fellow Gourmonds that the pinnacles of culinary rapture are often inherited from the ancient world.

As in the sublime gifts of Mother Nature in Autumn,so as in people. While trees reign in their majesty of hues, people are often graced by the beauty of wisdom and altruistic love in the Autumn of their lives.
Life is cyclical in its seasons and there are all kinds of seasons for reverence and for celebration as foretold by The Bible. For me, Autumn is for celebration,giving and introspection before dormancy and rebirth. The gifts of Autumn give way to a dose of healthy hedonism and gratefulness for the many gifts that Mother Nature so abundantly provides.

Cross Country

2013-10-12T10:18:00.003-07:00

As a teenager living in Paris, and working as a model which entails constant travel, I realized the wisdom of packing lightly. One of the paradoxes of having worked for many years in the fashion business, is that I also learned to never be underestimated by allowing clothes or jewelry to define me.I confess there were times I reveled in my fancy wardrobe, yet I also recognized that the activities I found most fulfilling, had nothing to do with my image.Creating beauty by way of cooking, gardening and furniture design are magical interludes that sustain me whether times are challenging or fulfilling.

Until my daughter left for college, she was the center of my world. I made a conscience decision while pregnant, that I would devote myself to being a full time mother.Life was full and exciting before her arrival, so I could be fully present while raising her. Life became full and exciting again, after her departure, just in a newly rewarding sense.

It took some time to find my way and to rediscover my passion. Discover it, I did. I found it in not only in grocery markets ,herb gardens, and hardware stores, but in the beauty of the cross country road trip. Crossing country can be elevated to an art form. Comfort and imagination are key to pleasure. What is mandatory, is packing lightly,thus expediting the ability to enter and exit numerous motel/hotel rooms in an ordered,functional way, without sacrificing the overall experience of the trip.

I make sure to limit driving to six hours a day so that there is time for dining.Yes, I said dining, for part of the pleasure of the cross country road trip is to continue to create a setting for dining and pleasure. Pleasure has its many forms and I create it while crossing country. The following is the prerequisite for my pleasure; upon arrival I create ambiance by lighting a travel candle, organize my toiletries and small suitcase, take a hot shower, slip into something spanking clean and comfortable, commence cooking a lasagna by micro wave (or any such comparable dish ) and pop open a bottle of wine. I appreciate my talent of improvising.

My canine family is ever present and are perfectly behaved in the car, yet I respect their needs to stretch and to accommodate their potty stops.They are also a fixture at the end of my bed enjoying the travel quilt I bring so that luxury accompanies me wherever I travel.

I find it thrilling upon awakening to start the day with the comfort of the gurgling coffee pot and anticipating new vistas. When I am sufficiently energized from my coffee infusion, I read a map and navigate each new day in my mind. The road is a microcosm of life that requires planning and letting go. Possibilities are inspiring.

I live in a Ritz state of mind, even though I may be overnighting at a Day's End. I include my canine children. I simply could not bear being without them while crossing country,for they protect me,and I, them. Devotion abounds. Each new day brings with it, new territory, fostering new dreams and dreams become actualizations and manifestations. For me, the art of the trip is key to the destination, and so it is.

Kitchen Magic

2013-07-19T17:18:00.005-07:00

Kitchen Magic
by Kathy Davis

The kitchen is my refuge. It is where I find my center. It is the sacred space where I can clear my thoughts and create a little kitchen magic. I am content to cook food that "delights" loved ones and friends.

No matter where in life I have lived, whether in a seven story walk up in Paris or a sprawling house in Los Angeles ( and everything else in between ) you can usually find me cooking, and happy in the kitchen. Washing, chopping, stirring and serving, tethers me to my dreams. I can strategize, empty my mind or simply fantasize.

For me, the miracle of everyday life is how individual segments akin to a symphony, morph into "Abra Ka Dabra" manifesting the coveted "whole".

So it is, cooking and creating are comprised of part physics, part magic. For me, the kitchen is that sacred space that lends itself to dreaming, nurturing, creating and provides the respite and pleasure to those for whom I am so appreciative to serve.

Grand Anne

2013-02-13T00:18:00.002-08:00

by Kathy Davis
Grand Anne was my maternal grandmother.She was indeed grand, and a southern belle from Athens Georgia. I saw a photograph of her a few years ago in a line up for a basketball team for whom she played in high school. I felt such love for her with her trademark widow's peak,chiseled nose and long defined legs and clothed in her basketball uniform. The photo betrayed the "siren" that she would become as she morphed into a smokin' hot, bourbon swilling,piano playing matriarch who could cook up a batch of the best chicken 'n dumplin's in life.

When I was eleven years old her youngest daughter and yet my aunt {three years younger than I } and she moved in with us.Life was a party everyday after school with Grand Anne at the stove.She would be at the stove with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth while tending to the ham hocks and beans, cherry cobbler or any of the southern dishes she was known for with her bourbon within reach.

Although she was "Grand Anne", to us ""chilluns" she was "Grannie Annie". She cussed like a sailor yet had the regal features of a patrician beauty.There was nothing that could not be discussed with her.She could charm a diplomat or a hell's angel, for she was comprised of the facets that could be at home with either.

Grannie Annie was a glamour queen,a hostess and an unbelievable chef.As a tribute to her,I will embark upon a car trip throughout the south,discovering my southern roots and paying homage by including her divine southern "fixin's"in the final chapter of my autobiographical cook book.
I have lived in Paris,stayed for lengthy amounts of time in Rome, Milan and loved Bangkok but never did I dream that I would return with a fervor to my southern roots and embrace all that I ever really was, and rediscover my family's cuisine wholeheartedly and without apologies.

First Oyster

2012-12-01T01:23:00.001-08:00

by Kathy Davis

A group of us were going to Mont St.Michael for a little dinner party during a week - end excursion in Normandy. I was by far the youngest,and the only American. Just six months before, I was in a plaid uniform with a gray blazer and knee socks with penny loafers and here I was living in Paris and posturing as a French sophisticate in a Christian Dior smoking {tuxedo} with a pale pink voile dress shirt and black suede evening ankle boots. I so did not want to resemble the Californian teen queen that I had been for five years prior to moving to Paris to work as a model. I was making every effort to access my "mojo" and dispel any links to my California girl high school personna.

I was successful playing my new role at the dinner party in the beautiful restaurant in Mont St. Michael until the dinner guest across from me offered an oyster to me and I accepted it with studied pretension, as if I ate oysters every Friday night.

To my shock and humiliation, the nano second the oyster entered my mouth I gagged, making the most disturbing noise for all of the guests to witness and hawked the oyster involuntarily across the flowers and the candles. I ran to the bathroom in horror and humiliation, for I could not fathom how the oyster ejected from my mouth into the face of the gentleman in front of me. My posturing as a French sophisticate was betrayed and the California girl in me just wanted to hide and regroup and practice my French and all things related,mostly culinary. I yearn to return, and to try again.

Not Really a Love Letter

2012-09-26T18:47:00.002-07:00

by Kathy Davis

As I lie here still and hearing my own breath envelop me with thoughts on living and all of the tomorrows I dream of and
cling to, I pray as one small voice in a sea of millions who may even need you more, yet I call to you more than ever for you to teather me to this painfully beautiful place. Sustain me please a while more, maybe even years please for there is someone I must reach with whom I must share the first crisp bit of autumn in the air and behold the silent and soft falling of first snow in front of a fire.

I clutch my heart with my right hand curled and tense as if I can will away my vulnerability and I humble myself for i am just one human in a hospital room,in a bed alone with my thoughts. The ceiling spins around and the day and the night and my all my feelings blend as a kaliedescope and I cannot separate myself from my fear.

This could be, might be, the sentence that each of us secretively braces against. I think of all of the unspoken words I intended to say,yet held back because I might have been judged dramatic, yet now I could care less about be judged for I only want my loved ones to know how much they mattered and how tough I once was and how humbled I am by my world spinning and when the spinning stops there is somebody I just have to reach. Dear Lord please. Please just deliver me and all will be well and my prayers answered.

Arrival Lunch in Beirut

2012-08-26T21:31:00.002-07:00

by Kathy Davis

My daughter was seven years old during our second trip to Beirut. It was exciting to see the reconstruction since the civil war and recovery of this gleaming jewel of a paradise that at one time was ancient Phoenicia. Lunch was served high above the city in a mirrored dining room with a beautifully set table and the Mediterranean shimmering in the distance dotted by the coastline of sherbert colored Byzantine/Roman architecture of old Beirut. Lebanese cuisine is one of my very favorite in life,but nothing could prepare me for what was served for lunch. There was something that resembled chicken m'nuggets but was not.I inquired as to what it was and was told that the specialty was deep fried lamb testicules and lamb brains. I did not have the heart to tell my little girl who was half Lebanese what she had been eating, but she did seem to be eating a lot of french fries too!

When lunch was finished and I helped her out of the beautifully polished formal chair, I saw that my daughter had been discreetly throwing her portion of fried lamb testicules and brains under her chair and on the exquisite Oriental carpet. She had been able to socialize and seem to enjoy what she was eating, and all of the while not offend the hostess and had simply thrown the unwanted parts of the lunch under her chair!

My daughter was a clever seven year old and knew how not to bring displeasure to our hostess! I learned quickly that I could profit by learning the wisdom of some of my daughter's approach to being non confrontational and maintaining a convivial approach to socializing. I have so many myriad stories to share of Beirut, and I will, but another time.

Kathy Davis Cheryl Tiegs GlamourMagazine 1966

2012-08-26T16:27:00.001-07:00

Treasure Trove

2012-08-25T13:59:00.001-07:00

by Kathy Davis

Two of my most favorite things in life are traveling and entertaining. I am drawn to people who like to enjoy themselves and know how to savour the good life.Because I was a model for seventeen years, I had the opportunity to stay for extended periods of time in foreign countries and frequent many exotic locations. While I developed a keen interest in other cultures my palette was becoming finely tuned to the "exotic".

It was always fascinating to me how two different cultures could use many of the same ingredients yet their respective cuisines could be so unique.

Sadly, a lot of cultural diversity has been homogenized by the technological age in which we live. Fast food has become rampant globally. Fast food, however tasty on occasion is the antithesis of communing and connecting.

The pinnacle of the day in many cultures is a long meal enjoyed in the company of family and friends. Dining lends itself to an intimacy that cannot be replaced.

Cooking and entertaining is the medium by which I express my friendship and love. I find great satisfaction creating a beautifully presented delicious meal presented in a dramatic ambiance.The heady aromas of various herbs and candlelight on a gorgeous table can evoke nostalgia of other civilizations. I love bringing other cultures to me by way of their cuisine. I keep many memories close of having stayed with friends in foreign lands while socializing in the kitchen with family matriarchs and secretly noting their recipes.

There is just no better way than to feel the pulse of another culture than by accompanying people during their daily rituals. The panorama is not just before my eyes,the panorama is in my treasure trove.

Early Memories

2012-08-24T16:12:00.003-07:00

by Kathy Davis

One of my very first memories is of my second birthday party in the backyard of my grandparent's home. I felt so special, not fully understanding why. My mother dressed me in a fancy short, short organza polka dot dress that revealed my chunky Michelin tire thighs. After all, I was only turning two, and if there is any time in one's life that being fat is permissible, it's when you are two years old.

Anyway, my mother placed me on a garden table for a photo session next to my very fancy white birthday cake decorated with countless waxy sugar roses. With joyous abandon my little fat legs were flailing about. One of my feet kicked through the sumptuous white birthday cake,smashing it to blitherings. It was hardly my desire to be destructive, it's just that the visual treat of my big white sugary birthday cake made my limbs kick involuntarily with pleasure!

A flurry of displeasure ensued. I did not quite understand the response that I illicited.

Many decades later, my delight is just as intense when people I cook for love what I prepare. However, I have since learned to control my limbs and my thighs have not resembled the Michelin tire guy's since.

My Psyche Already Knew

2012-08-21T19:21:00.003-07:00

by Kathy Davis

My grandfather was the only person on the planet that ever made me feel safe. I knew that he genuinely loved me. When I lived with him and my grandmother for most of the first ten years of my life he used to hold me in his arms as I sat on his lap. We would watch Gun Smoke and Bonanza. Life was good from his armchair. Grandpa was my anchor and little did I know that his love and protection would provide me sustainence for many years to come.

Grandpa looked like a big blond Indian, and he was for his mother was Cherokee.He was bullied growing up and called "half breed". I felt sorry for him when he shared with me stories of being taunted and teased, for I could feel his pain.

I used to hide his cigarettes and he would actually cry sometimes because he wanted one so badly but I did not relent. I was a tough little thing protecting my grandpa from his habit. One day, just before moving to Philadelphia when I was ten years old my mother told me we were going to visit grandpa in the hospital. Because the hospital did not allow children inside, they brought him to a patio in a wheel chair. Unknown to me, he had suffered a heart attack and had severe heart disease. My grandpa had changed. He was no longer the big blond Cherokee of a grandpa who could do anything and everything for me. He was crying,and he made no attempt to hide it. His ankles were swollen and large like nothing I had ever seen before. I stood stiff and tall in my ten year old body and felt tight bands choking me in my throat. I was scared of losing him; scared not to have him in my world and not grasping what "good bye" would mean if he died. As the nurse began wheeling him away,grandpa cussed and cried saying "don't take me away from my girl". He repeated it like a mantra and I wanted to chase his wheel chair and throw myself across his lap and pretend that everything could be okay again. It was not to be.

One evening when I was living in Philadelphia my grandpa phoned me. It was a big deal to me that he called. I felt special,and connected to him. I asked him if he was better and if he would be getting out of the hospital.There was quite a pause before he answered and he replied "yes I will be all better". He also stated deliberately,"Kathy my girl, I love you".

The following day when I returned from school,sullen and worried in spite of the phone call the night before, my mother told me that my grandpa passed away in the night. Something inside of me whispered that he would never be leaving that hospital, for since the day I visited him in his wheel chair on the hospital patio, my psyche already knew.

After The Cease fire

2012-08-11T16:56:00.003-07:00

My first trip to Beirut was a few months after the cease fire of '91. I had been dreaming of visiting Beirut since I was a little girl because my mother had been engaged to a Lebanese man whose family showered me with a lot of affection. My father had fallen in love with a Lebanese woman while staying in Beirut performing with the Les Brown Band and he brought me bountiful stories of the Lebanese. I had a best girfriend in my Sophmore year of high school who was Lebanese and I became friends with numerous Lebanese students who had fled the civil war of 1975 while waiting in Los Angeles for the war to end so that they could return to their callings.

I was thrilled to be visiting Beirut in spite of being warned that it was dangerous to do so, but I had a daughter whose DNA was half of the exotic ancient stronghold. The impetus of my visit was to introduce my six month old daughter to her grandparents.

My American family is comprised of Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists so I never defined anyone by their religions. It was a shock for me to witness the disdain I sometimes did while visiting Beirut that one side had for the other.

What Lebanese share is a passion for life and merriment. They make no apologies for their love of beauty and material riches. I found that refreshing in a world rife with false modesty.

With my six month old daughter as a fixture on my hip,and happily so, I reveled in the Mediterranean sea, indulged in the unparalleled Lebanese cuisine and brought home as many beautiful textiles as I could.In spite of the civil war or maybe even because of it, the people I met in Beirut were infectious with joy. They lived life as if there were no tomorrow and maybe for them, that is a possibility due to the political volitility of the region.

It is my hope that for the Lebanese that they will be admired for their contagious lust for life.My memories are myriad of Beirut and my glorious daughter will always be half of this exotic former stronghold in the ancient world.

A Pause In Time

2012-08-04T21:15:00.002-07:00

My mother arrived for our lunch date in her classical little BMW, looking glamorous and chic. Her make up is always perfect and her manners are flawless. She was and is,a little too perfect however, I understand. From my observation it seems that perfection is in relation to the emotional pain that one carries unconsciously throughout life.

My mother has had to suffer more than her share and maintains a beautiful veneer of perfection as if she can will away any indication of fault or flaws with her idealized beauty.

I remember when I was a little girl I would watch in awe as she dressed for a night on the town. Her clothes always had a touch of perfume and she was impeccably groomed with movie star hair and make up. She would leave our home with much fanfare as if the papparazzi were waiting for her exit. I waited on the sidelines mesmerized by her rituals and in awe that the untouchably glamorous woman was my mother.

Today, as we took our seat in the restaurant I studied her features as discreetly as I could and wondered how she maintained her flawless beauty while carrying a heart filled with more pain than anyone should endure. Even though I could not help but express my admiration of her fortitude and beauty in spite of it having been several decades since
the seas parted when she arrived anywhere.

She remained humble in spite of my complements although they really were genuine.It was as if she felt the need to apologize for having not been what she was before. It made me sad that she seem to not feel worthy of my complements.The lush, luminescent beauty that radiates in one's prime, morphs into a more complex kind of beauty with the years.

I find my mother even more beautiful with the passing of the years. She has a quiet dignity and has made peace with her private pain. Even though we spoke of meteor showers and cures for diseases in the up and coming future, it is the subtext of her life that keeps me in awe. I am past the point of blaming my mother for my own short comings as progeny often do. It is simply the " now " that I want to freeze frame. Making the memory of this " pause in time " is all that any of us really have. Memories stored in the archives that comprise what we are made of, is where the truth resides. I have learned to cherish the stories guarded in the subtext of our lives.

From the Heart

2012-07-24T18:39:00.003-07:00

As I reflect upon the year of life I have lived since my last birthday it has been one lived on a precipice. Prayer and blind faith have kept me whole and permitted me to experience joy and well being in small increments. There are several deeply cherished friends without whom I simply could not have done without and had any quality of life.

There have been a few people I had to let go for they were incapable of comprehending the complexities of my challenges, and I had to keep my energy not for explanation, but for my very being in order to keep breathing.Sometimes if the best one can do is to keep putting one foot in front of another,then you just do that. One friend in particular has been my guardian angel and continued to believe in me while voicing my angst, and at times not so in the most dignified manner. This friend will forever be kept close and loved.

It is life altering when someone believes in you when you have at times lost belief in yourself. I was instructed to just stand after having done everything I could do and so I did, and remain standing.

God hears those who asks with their heart for direction, courage, protection and keeps them in the light.I know this to be true because this is my experience. This birthday I will begin my day at dawn and begin celebrating life, with a walk in the middle of nature, for nature is my church and I have much to be grateful for.

I will climb to the crest of the mountain and give thanks for all of the people who are dear to me and thank God for allowing me yet another year of life and celebration.

Always Perfect, Always Beautiful

2012-04-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

by Kathy Davis

When I was small the world and everything in it was so beautiful...

I saw love in the faces of my pets, my grandparents and in the faces of Nature. Beach days, downpour days and even flat smoggy days filled seasons and everything would always begin again.

Mommy was so beautiful and glamorous and so was her house. I idolized her from afar. Beauty concealed everything so perfectly. Nobody could have guessed that she was deaf in one ear from having ... In my perfectly beautiful childhood bedroom I took refuge. I learned to block the noise from the fights through the walls.

Family reunions and revelry would seem to keep the scary times at bay, until I grew and kept becoming. I keep secrets and struggle to always be perfect.

There are cracks in my veneer, yet beauty itself is not the culprit.What is, are the things that were sacrificed so that the "blocks" would keep what was painful at bay.

And so it is now that I find love in the face of someone, beach days, downpour days ,Nature and even the flat smoggy days.Everything

begins again, except now I struggle to retrieve what I at one time lost by keeping pain at bay... Oh and my on going struggle is,to let go of the need to be so perfect and to not allow beauty to get in the way.

A Splendid Introduction

2012-04-23T19:12:00.000-07:00

By Kathy Davis

My treasured friend who lives a full life in NYC, is someone whom I call a conduit. She is a conduit of the most exalted kind, for she makes the time to bring sentient beings together who would not have had the opportunity to discover one another either by chance or by circumstance. Two of her closest friends since college days have sought refuge with her from abusive marriages.

My friend's home in NYC is a harbor for them and for two precious dogs that needed rescuing. Most evenings,this menage of humans and canines are enjoying one another's company and there is always a beautiful Italian meal prepared lovingly for dinner by her two house guests, both first and second generation Italians.My mouth waters as I am told of the home made raviolis, pizzas,soups and zucchini tureens that are routinely prepared for dinner.

One of the house guests has an Italian born mother who lives in NYC and is in her mid eighties. Her name is Mrs. Mancini and she too cooks splendid culinary Italian creations.My conduit of a friend invited her dear friend Gerty, who is Jewish and is also in her mid eighties to dinner in her home so that she and Mrs. Mancini could meet. Gerty was raised in Germany during the Holocaust and Mrs.Mancini was raised in Mussolini's Italy. Both of these woman were survivors of the second world war, and both immigrated to America in NYC.

Gerty and Mrs. Mancini are extraordinary human beings for they lived and survived world war two and triumphed the many heartbreaks and challenges on the path toward arriving in one's mid eighties. Mrs. Mancini moved to Germany as a little girl, for her father was in the Italian military and she witnessed the attrocities perpetrated by the Nazis while living there.It would take a life time of living, and reaching her eighties before she would meet her kindred spirit of a friend, Gerty.

Both of these women, in spite of and because of their life experiences have a zest for living. What they share is having young spirits by virtue of having remained a part of life and open to new perspectives.Some people become reclusive,isolating themselves from participating in life and doing so, is the kiss of death.Not so, for Gerty and Mrs. Mancini.

My friend the conduit, received a phone call the other night from Mrs. Mancini thanking her for the splendid introduction to Gerty.The two of them had already gone out on the town and had attended a film at the Tribeca film festival. Gerty of course had just invited Mrs. Mancini into her circle of kindred sprits for one of their regular Friday evening dinner parties, of which some of the gals are in their nineties. One of these fabulous ladies is a former Ziegfield girl and still does Pilates.

Oh how these gals/ladies are my new role models for they are celebrating life and not worrying about when it will all end.My motto has always been that a good dinner party can create the most magic in so many ways. Now all I have to do is to figure out how I can be invited to one of Gerty's evenings! I just gotta get to know and "party" with my new role models! Perhaps my friend the conduit can procure my invitation. Oh, the magic of a good dinner party!

A Tiny Tale About Tyre

2012-04-06T20:48:00.004-07:00

The ancient city of Tyre, in Phoenician times provided purple dye for the rest of the ancient world. The sea was abundant with an anemone {or urchis} and a substance could be extracted from it to dye garments purple. Tyre became the capitol of the color purple.Oh and yes,there is a recipe from Tyre for baked whitefish that makes me crazy with pleasure in so many ways.

Once upon a time I was a dinner guest in the home of a friend from Tyre, Lebanon, home to the former Phoenicians.All of my senses were in rapture during the course of the evening due to the bountiful meal served on the most exquisite tabelcloth sewn with gold thread by the local women in the mountains.

The Lebanese music billowing to my Westerner's ear seemed exotic/erotic and the white gauzy curtains seemed to dance in rythm. I could feel in every cell, the pulse of a culture with many stories to unveil. This particular evening reminds me of why I so enjoy cultural diversity.

Nothing could prepare me for the theater of the presentation of the main course.A large ceramic platter was placed in between candles with a baked white fish with its head and tail in tact. It was carefully sculpted with a mound of fried onions,garlic,tomatoes,cilantro and crushed walnuts.

Anticipation is the first stage of pleasure,and anyone who understands true pleasure will know that it is best to allow it to build before becoming sated, and so it was with our appetites!

The Phoenicians believed in feasting with the eyes first,and it is something as a hostess that I have borrowed and incorporate into every facet of living that I can.When greeting guests I like to taunt the senses with gobs of candles, a beautifully dressed table, flowers everywhere and of course,the scents of dinner wafting everywhere from my kitchen.

Dopplegangers and Other Mysteries

2012-01-16T12:30:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine who is Valkyrie beautiful,called and spoke to me of a homeless lady outside of her building exclaiming that the shoes she was wearing belonged to her! The homeless lady was becoming a fixture, accusing my friend many times of wearing her shoes. This was laughable yet unnerving because the homeless lady truly was convinced that my friend's shoes were hers.

One day when my friend was wearing aviation sunglasses and her hair down a la Veronica Lake, the said homeless woman told her that she looked exactly like her deceased daughter. She was obviously grief stricken and derived comfort by seeing my friend when she exits her building .We thought that was the end of the story until, one recent morning the homeless woman handed my friend a photograph of her deceased daughter. To my friend's astonishment she was her daughter's doppleganger! The homeless woman also revealed her daughter's name and birthday and they were the exactly the same as my Valkyrie beautiful friend's. No sense could be made of this.

We pondered what the events were in the homeless woman's life that led to her demise. Did she break from the heartbreak of loss? It is just eerie that the deceased daughter is my friend's doppleganger and that she shares the same name and birthday. Parallel worlds? Crossover dimensions?

Is there a message from the other side that we are simply not "getting"?

To my Valkyrie beautiful friend's credit, her heart is empathetic and what concerns her most is that the homeless woman is not deriving any pain from having found her daughter's doppleganger.I am trying to convey that the the sight of her in aviator glasses and blond Veronica Lake hair is of comfort and not of pain for the homeless woman. This appears to be at the least, an episode from Twilight Zone and maybe even one of life's mysterious messages from the other side providing fodder for years to come.