Book Club Tour Challenge Progress Report. Week Two. And Going Nuts.

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In a word. Oy. I can’t believe it’s two weeks in, and I’m already pulling my hair out. I knew this thing wouldn’t be easy. I knew as a virtual unknown with little following in the literary world, that I had my work cut out for me. And I might not succeed at all in meeting my goal, getting all fifty states on board and visited within a year’s time. But I also knew I had the state of New Jersey in my back pocket right from the get-go, so I refused to let anything faze me. I approached this like I approach any other challenge I set for myself. With wide-eyed optimism and dummy donuts for breakfast.

donut girl

The idea for the video to get the ball rolling, came out of the blue. Like one of those lightbulb moments. And I loved it from the start. It was a project unto itself where I spent hours upon hours of time and putting on make-up that I wouldn’t normally bother with, while trying to have this mumbo jumbo two-minute script memorized so I wouldn’t keep looking off to the side every other second at my cheat sheet, like an bleepin’ idiot. But once I finally had it down pat, once I felt that it was as good as it was going to get, I released it. Again I was under no great illusion here that this would be my ticket to ride. That after a reasonable amount of time and people spreading the gospel that this cute little old lady author was available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs . . . that the other forty-nine other states that I did not have in my back pocket, would come banging down my door. Let alone knock.

Yes, I had a lot of shares, a lot of buzz and plenty of views over these past two weeks. But that’s it. And with time ticking (remember this challenge has a shelf life of 50 weeks), I immediately turned to Plan B: Meetup.com. In case you’re not yet familiar, this is the go-to website for anyone, anywhere looking for every conceivable type of social club or activity. A group to go hiking with, people to have drinks with, go to the movies with. Seriously, it’s great! When I moved to California not knowing a soul, it was a perfect way for me to meet new friends. And I did.

And now I believed it would also be a perfect way for me to go from state to state, introducing myself and my little book to as many clubs as I could find; all without ever leaving the house or changing my jammies.

In my mind, it couldn’t be any easier. Having so many opportunities right there at my fingertips, in such a centralized spot. It reminded me of the good ole days when I sold insurance for a living. Wow. Talk about pounding the pavement. Jesus. Un-believable. I would drive around for hours looking for business parks and literally go from door-to-door, in the hot Florida sun, all decked out in my professional skin: suit and heels. Just praying to God that someone would eventually feel sorry for me and buy something.

Anyway, I’m getting off track here a bit. I think the point I was trying to make is that I was so hungry to be successful, that I was willing to do anything. To put up with anything to get the job done. And despite the passage of time, I’m still that tenacious girl, and this job for me would be no different.

So I stuck to the plan. I created what I believed to be the perfect email. (I’m the writer, remember?) And day by day, in those spare clips of moments between editing my next book and helping take care of my granddaughter, I began to work my way through the website. Starting off though with the state of Florida for the simple reason that’s where I live. And as luck would have it, I found over ten clubs within a twenty-mile radius of my house. Wow. Another bonus, I remember thinking as I sent off the emails, as I waited and waited for a single reply. One day, three days past without hearing a word from any of the organizers. And when the fifth day came and went I began to get a little panicky. Thinking oh boy, something’s definitely wrong here. Maybe the emails didn’t go through. Maybe they got deleted somehow. And just as I was about to repeat the entire process all over again, because what else could I do, I finally received a response. A response I had not expected.

“Our club is meant for serious readers ONLY. Do not bother us again!”

Wow. If that didn’t burst my bubble, the next email that came a day later, sure as hell did.

“It is our club policy not to allow authors to attend our meetings. It’s too disruptive. I’m sorry.”

Too disruptive? Is she f**cking kidding me?

Needless to say, as much as I wanted to argue with the wall, I had no time or choice but to plow on. This was after all still my Plan B. A plan I still felt confident would work, complete with good odds, forty-eight other states to try, and a fresh batch of dummy donuts waiting for me on the table.

So on I went. Back to the computer. Doing an Internet search for the biggest cities in Alabama before proceeding once again over to the Meetup.com site. There I managed to locate one club in Birmingham, one in Mobile, and nothing, I mean nothing in Huntsville, Tuscaloosa, Montgomery and Dothan. This didn’t make me at all happy. But I shot off my whopping two emails anyway and repeated the process for Alaska and Arizona.

As you can imagine, Alaska isn’t exactly the book club capital of the world either, but Arizona certainly made up for the first two states, and in spades. Yielding over fifteen clubs. I was thrilled. And after I shot off all those emails, after I noted each club into the excel spreadsheet I’d created to keep track of all my doings, I began to feel as if the door was finally opening up, and things were heading in the right direction.

Yes, that was me yesterday afternoon at around 3:30 pm. All hopped up on those dummy donuts and giddy throughout the day and into the night. Right up until 8:00 pm when things went seriously south faster than Superman and a speeding bullet after I received an email from Meetup.com advising me that I could no longer use their site. My account was now shut down, locked out, and in other words sista, here’s the boot, screw you and go figure out another damn plan. Because this one . . . ain’t gonna fly.

I felt like crap. I could not believe this was the attitude and the perception I was now forced to face. How did I go from a million opportunities to zero in a blink? From easy peasy to what the hell do I do now to find all these clubs? I wanted to scream. Because honestly, nothing else seemed suitable for the occasion. Yes, perhaps I was having one of those melt-down, kick in the ass moments reminding me that nothing from nothing in this life ever comes easy. Especially those things worth having. Only I couldn’t concentrate on that. I couldn’t because I was still blinded and too caught up in my own small world of frustration to allow this wonderful message of resiliency to wrap itself around me.

But . . . that was yesterday. And today, well, like they say: it’s a whole new day. Another opportunity. Another chance to shine and make this thing happen. The only problem for me right now is, I seem to be coming up a little short on my next course of action. Plan C.

Any suggestions? I’m all ears.

 

 

 

 

Photo credit: Flickr themanwho66

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Split to the Core

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As a young girl growing up in New York, I was required to attend Hebrew School. My parents, following in the tradition of their parents, their upbringing, felt that this was where I belonged every Sunday morning, and as I got older, every Wednesday evening as well. They must have imagined I’d miraculously absorb the sense of God somewhere within those walls. Had they known then that I would turn into such a doubting Thomas and forsake the idea of any God, I absolutely believe they would have put their time and money to much better use.

In those early years before I hit the age of twelve, I admit I was a believer in all things magical. My young mind hadn’t yet the wings to think for itself. So, I listened in awe to the telling of all those magnificent Bible stories. Joshua and the Battle of Jericho. The Maccabees and Chanukkah. Noah and his Ark (scratch that Russell Crowe version from the brain. K?). David and Goliath. Bathsheba. I loved them all because they were the seeds from which I sprang.

Holidays were celebrated with the appropriate pomp and ritual. Family and friends would gather around the table on Passover with my father at the head reading through the prayer book, and us kids at the other end wanting the whole shebang over with as quickly as possible so that we could run off in search of the afikoman (matzo) and the dollar bill to whoever found it first.

Nothing then made me want to challenge the universe in which I lived. A universe which as I transitioned from blissfully ignorant childhood to painfully awkward pre-teen hood, had me too distracted and grappling with the uncertainty of my place and who I was in this perky-nosed, skinny, straight-haired world where you were only as good as the body you lived in, to be bothered with anything else.

Perhaps it wasn’t the most religious of upbringings. Even though my father came from Orthodox roots and my mother’s side kept a Kosher home. I imagine that this second-generation from which both my parents stemmed were so caught up in the aftermath of a war, digging their heels into Middle America and keeping up with the Smiths and not so much the Cohens, that they didn’t deem it quite so necessary to be as religious as their parents. So I grew up following a minimal Judaic practice. Which entailed only celebrating and observing the most significant holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Passover, Chanukkah); going to Temple on only two of them; and lastly being Bat Mitzvahed. (Not sure if that’s a word here folks, so just go it. Thanks!)

And while it seemed all my Jewish peers were doing pretty much the same thing, following this quasi Jew for a day routine, the closer I got toward that pinnacle point of standing in front of a whole congregation of faces I did and didn’t know, reciting a portion of the Haftorah, pledging my commitment to God on my thirteenth birthday, somewhere in between my direction of heart changed. Changed in a way that came as swiftly as learning the Easter Bunny didn’t exist, and as profoundly with its unspeakable dawning that I found myself pivoting away from all that I had known, to search out something more, something impactful that made sense to me. I mean “real” sense.

As you can imagine this upset my parents terribly. While they might have been tourists in their own faith, they still saw themselves as Jews and couldn’t understand my growing need that now led me down a different path toward Buddhism. A path that didn’t materialize right away, rather manifested itself over time after dabbling in numerous abstract schools of philosophy way above my mental pay grade, first. They were horrified to see me kneel before an “alter,” which in reality was the Gohonzon. An encasement that symbolically “reflects the state of Buddhahood inherent in life.” They couldn’t possibly know what it felt like to be welcomed into this world of thinking disciples, who like myself were also seeking an alternate road to that “something more” that didn’t require a belief in a mystical being—only a belief in myself.

That I remained a practicing Buddhist for many years in my OCD world where it’s impossible for me to stay true to anything longer than a minute, was a major feat. When I walked away though, I didn’t walk away empty-handed. I carried a deeper understanding of who I was and would always be. A Jew. Those are my roots right down to my core, an inescapable fact of my being.

In truth, people search their whole lives for all sorts of reasons. For justifications on why things happen the way they do? What does it all mean? What’s our purpose here? It’s simply part of the process. And because asking those questions for which there are no right answers, will only drive you bonkers. I learned that one the hard way. On my sister’s deathbed. So, I simply don’t go there anymore.

How do any of us figure things out, if it isn’t the hard way?

Many times when we view life in retrospect, it’s pretty damn easy to all be bloody geniuses with crystal balls the size of Texas. And for me, it seems almost comical, ironic even and yet not, that I had to travel so far to learn what had been there all along. My mother used to constantly shake her head at my “pigheadedness,” she called it. Always fearing that late night call from the police that I’d be lying in a ditch somewhere. I just don’t know how to do things any other way. Taking the easy route means nothing, sweating out the victories means everything. Even if the conclusion is the same.

Because you see . . . it’s all about the road trip getting there. I had to determine for myself what those defining parts were in order to come to this particular place I’m now standing. A place of bittersweet understanding of my role and my own concept of what it truly means to be a Jew. A person who’s only real job is to carry the cherished stories of my heritage with me wherever I go. And should I somehow pass this sense of embodiment onto my children . . . well, then . . . two points for me!

Look, I realize the sensitivity of this topic. And believe me when I say, “to each his own,” that they are words spoken with the utmost of sincerity. This is what makes this wonderfully, crazy, ridiculous world of ours so great. Or should be great, that we can feel okay about expressing our opinions free of fear and recrimination. When you look at the kaleidoscopic landscape of our society, seeing how different all these moving parts are—all shapes, sizes and flavors—you know, you just gotta love the beauty of it.

In any case, today is Rosh Hashanah. And I will celebrate it. Celebrate the small part I play in this remarkable tribe of people, the beginning of our New Year, the anniversary marking Adam and Eve’s creation. And regardless of your race, religion and slant on reality, from the bottom of my heart I wish to all of you 365 days of health, of prosperity, peace, love and happiness.

L’shanah tovah!

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Move Over Julia Child….There’s A New Kid In Town

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The Levine Girls in the Kitchen

This is a picture of a kitchen. My kitchen. And the little girl with the funny-looking white puffy hat on, the one sitting in the mixing bowl, well…that’s me. Meghan. Not as uncomfortable as I look, I promise, but the hat was a definite no-no.  It made my head feel weird. But my grandmother, who for some strange reason all her own insists I call her “Lolo” and is, by the way, the lady standing next to me in the photo holding me up so I don’t drop to the floor, and was the one that made me wear it. That and the string of beads obviously not from Tiffany’s. But since she does all kinds of good things for me that I can’t yet quite manage by myself such as: feed me, burp me, dress me and scoop the stinky yucky stuff from my pants, I go along with whatever she wants. Which most times is fun stuff.  Other times things get a little hairy around our house, even though I don’t get out much.

Mind you, I’ve got no complaints. If I did, well…all I need do is open my mouth and let out a scream and the next thing I know my Mother and Lolo come running. Yeah, it’s pretty funny to watch them in action do whatever I want without saying a single word. I might just be a baby, but I was not born yesterday.

Anyway, here we are in the kitchen. Lolo’s “sacred room” as she calls it. The heart and soul of the house where no matter what kind of day she says she’s having, she knows she can park those troubles at the door and all sorts of wonderful things happen. I can also tell this is where she’s the happiest. She lights up in such a way that I can’t help but imagine is joyful, almost as joyful as sucking on my fingers while I normally just sit there and watch propped in my chair with my favorite kitty socks on that jingle while she zips around the room doing her thing like a ballerina or crazy woman, depending upon who you ask, to the sound of pots clattering, cupboards slamming and utensils clinking.

Yes, normally I don’t participate in this dance of hers. But today it seemed Lolo had different plans for me.

“Alright Meghan Fagan (the old lady’s into rhyming), I think it’s about time to see what kind of stuff you’re really made of?”

Umm, say what? I blinked back wide-eyed with confusion, vaguely aware that this big gooey blob of drool was clinging to my lower lip for dear life.

There her tired, but always happy expression broke into a smile. “Don’t look so nervous my Little Cupcake,” she said wiping my face. “I’m not asking you to run a marathon here. I’m only talking about baking. Something I learned to do at an early age watching my mother and her mother create the most delicious deserts for those holidays, those birthdays that otherwise would have just been another day for us. But what I also learned early on is that the wanting to do something and actually being good at it…are oceans apart. Without the passion and above all else knowing how to infuse that sense of love, that one magical ingredient you either have or don’t, into each and every dish, then you might as well dream another dream as far as I’m concerned.”

 Lolo I do hope there’s a point to all this, and if so get there.  Because I really want this stupid thing off my head already.

“Okay, lovey-dovey, stop fussing.” She readjusted the hair pins holding the hat to my head. “With today being your one-month birthday and the fact we’ve all survived to see it, I thought I’d whip up something extra nice to celebrate and in the process see whether or not my culinary skills perhaps merely skipped a generation onto you—because they sure as heck were lost on your Mother and Uncle Jared. Their only interest in food I’m afraid is to eat it.”

At that her head knocked back in such a way with one of those great big old laughs that made the whole world seem funny and was the very thing about her I loved the most. Her ability to laugh at herself and make life interesting when I get the feeling the majority of the time it’s not.

“So what do think Baby Two Chins…want to learn how to bake some chocolate chip banana bread today?”

Hello? Does a bear poop in the woods?

I like when grownups ask me questions even though they don’t really want an answer. But it does give me a chance to think about my world. More than that I was finding this conversation fascinating because Lolo was talking to me like another grownup.  None of that baby talk they all feel the need to do. Why? I don’t know. I guess it’s just another one of those things I’m going to have to figure out for myself.

The time seemed to fly by. And even though I didn’t know what I was  doing for most of it—I am after all just a little girl with limited skills—I pretended I did.  Then after plopping back down into my chair exhausted, baking’s hard work, I continued to sit there quietly, watching, learning, listening, until this lip-smacking smell, oh yes that wonderful, wonderful smell filled the room and out of the oven popped this rather unusual-looking brown hunk of stuff which made me think: yippee, all for me. 

Well, needless to say I didn’t get a slice of bread. I didn’t even get a crumb. What I did get though was a lick. And you know what? After living on formula 24/7, I loved it!  It was sweet, it was wet and tingly on my tongue and absolutely wonderful. Like having a party in your mouth.

But hey, don’t listen to me. I’m just a baby…remember? Why don’t you try out the recipe for yourself and let me know what you think because I’m always looking for more friends who also like to eat. Better still, tell Lolo instead because I don’t know how to work the computer yet.

Anyway, it was a fun day. And while I might not be the next foodinista sensation, I learned a lot about myself and that I already have lots of good qualities and the best part of all was realizing that with each new day comes new opportunities, new challenges and that anything can happen. Especially if it has something to do with bread.

Bon appetit!

 

chocolate chip banana bread 2

Chocolate Chip Banana Bread

An easy recipe that tastes even better the next day. And if you’re looking to cut out a few calories, skip the nuts and chips—or not.

Ingredients:

  • 1-3/4 cup flour
  • 2/3 cup sugar
  • 1 tsp baking powder
  • ¼ tsp baking soda
  • ½ tsp salt
  • ½ cup butter (1 stick)
  • 1-1/2 cup mashed bananas (3 medium)
  • 2 eggs, slightly beaten
  • 6 oz. semi-sweet chocolate morsels
  • ½ cup chopped walnuts

Directions:

  1. Preheat oven 350 °, grease and dust 9” x 5” loaf pan with flour
  2. In large mixing bowl with fork, mix first five ingredients
  3. With pastry blender or two knives used in scissor-fashion cut in shortening until mixture resembles coarse crumbs
  4. With fork stir in bananas, eggs, chocolate pieces and nuts, just until blended
  5. Pour into prepared pan and bake for 55 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean
  6. Wait five minutes then remove from pan and cool on rack

Oh yeah, don’t forget the milk. Everything always tastes better with milk!

 

 

 

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