Godmothers, Gougères, and Grace...

Although the days of my youth could never be described as the wonder years, the ‘70s inextricably held a cache of fond memories and beloved events: watching the Partridge Family at 8:30 p.m. every Friday, the propagation of Kentucky Fried Chicken, no-tech toys like Slinkies and View Masters, and the glossy issues of Gourmet magazine that arrived each month at our rural post office on a hill overlooking Lake George, N.Y.

After a cursory perusal by my mother (who was knee-deep in raising four kids and helping my father run his business), the newest issue would usually wind up as a display item on our living room coffee table. Gourmet magazine was as beautiful to look as it was brimming with intriguing travel stories and elegant recipes. The subscription was an annual birthday gift for my mother, courtesy of Connie, her college roommate and longstanding confidante.

Above: the Lycoming College grads, reunited in the Adirondacks

After graduating from Lycoming College in Williamsport, Pa. the adventuresome duo high-tailed it to Pittsburgh for a spell of bachelorette-hood until the early ‘60s, when my mother’s marriage and Connie’s ascending career took them in different geographical directions. They kept their vow, however, to remain in touch.

My mother enjoyed leafing through the Gourmets, but was more the Betty Crocker cookbook kind of gal. Connie, on the other hand, was champagne and caviar from the get-go. Both hailed from little ‘burgs in Pennsylvania, but the two were classic introvert-extrovert prototypes, and went on to lead vastly different lives.

I always rejoiced when Aunt Connie would descend for a long weekend. Our house seemed to tremor with effervescence when she walked through the door. With her vivacious smile, sun-kissed complexion, and tousle of blonde locks, Aunt Connie always looked photo-shoot ready for a Coppertone or Virginia Slims ad. Usually, she visited for a leisurely getaway in the Adirondack foothills, both to enjoy her school chum’s growing brood, and also the requisite swimming, sunbathing, and the cocktail parties - often thrown in her honor on our living room-sized slate patio overlooking the lake.

Above: One of my parents’ cocktail parties, circa 1974. Aunt Connie is guest
of honor, and I’m presiding over the hors d’oeuvres.

Aunt Connie’s visits customarily began with the unveiling of the gifts: toy trucks for my brothers, baby dolls for my sister, bottles of Chablis and Merlot for my parents, and for me – always something that spoke to my passions, whether it was a book of poetry or an ornate bottle of perfume.

Sensing I was starved for girlie accouterments, Aunt Connie was encouraging (in a moderate way) of my fascination with make-up, and let me rummage through her fragrant zipper bag filled with gold compacts, an artist’s palette of lipsticks, and an array of other mysterious tubes. Giddily unzipping that magical floral pouch was my first order of business after she was settled in and unpacked. And Aunt Connie always made time for a tasteful makeover, much to the chagrin of my mother, the inveterate Tom Boy. Mom was more interested in throwing whiffle ball pitches to my brothers than giving time or energy to the glittery goods at the Estee Lauder counter; her femme fatale arsenal was limited to a couple of worn-down drugstore lipsticks and a forlorn eyelash curler.

Career choices for a woman in those days tended to center around teaching, nursing, or secretarial jobs. My mother earned a secretarial science degree, and Aunt Connie became a registered nurse who went on to earn a Masters Degree from Washington University and later, a Doctorate from Columbia. She plowed past servitude and temperature-taking to become a professor at New York University and Hunter College, and ultimately, Dean of Nursing at the College of New Rochelle. She wrote several books on nursing and mentorship and traveled the world on the lecture circuit.

But there was that memorable visit from her in September of 1970, when Aunt Connie donned her nurse’s ensemble once again to be at my mother’s side in the delivery room, helping to bring my youngest brother into the world. Years later my mother would dreamily recall how her friend murmured into her exhausted ear that she now had a beautiful little boy. When she heard those reassuring words from her friend, my mother, ravaged and delighted at the same time, could finally exhale with relief.

Above: My mother and Aunt Connie, through the years…

Aunt Connie loved nothing more than unwinding in Paris and living in Manhattan, and had a coterie of friends and colleagues from St. Petersburg (the one in Russia) to Sonoma. Her adventurous missives were sent via colorful postcards from Europe and the Orient, and the tapestry of exotic details fed my constrained spirit. Even after marriage and raising a son and a daughter while maintaining her tenure at N.Y.U., Aunt Connie continued to travel the globe for business and pleasure.

I only saw her a few times a year, but Aunt Connie’s influence permeated my affirmation-starved formative years. There were other honorary aunts in my world, but she was infallibly honorable. Aunt Connie noticed my strengths and spoke of them - and never once uttered a syllable about my weight – psychological Manna from Heaven considering I was bombarded with advice on portion control, posture, flattering clothing options, even my hairstyle. Once during a gathering an (alleged) well-meaning auntie cornered me to admonish I must part my hair on the side from now on because “…it’ll make you look tall and skinny,” she leered, while looking me up and down.

By contrast, Aunt Connie’s focus was pulling me into the kitchen for a culinary project. Her twofold purpose was to arm me with a few sophisticated cooking techniques while giving my mother a much-needed respite from the stove. Betty Crocker also had the night off when Aunt Connie was in charge. She would supervise me in how to expertly slice a strawberry for a birthday cake garnish, and teach me how to roll the perfect sphere of cheese dough onto a baking sheet full of Gougères (cheese puff hors d’oeurvres, courtesy of the latest Gourmet).

When I attended college in New York during the ‘80s, Aunt Connie had me over for candle-lit dinners, took me to museums, and salved me with empathetic advice on an ill-mannered brat I was dating. With her encouragement, I penned a measured, yet scathing break-up letter to him (long before the dawning of e-mail and texting). She proclaimed it perfect because it was bereft of low blows, which, Aunt Connie said, are for the cowardly and unskilled, adding I was neither.

Aunt Connie taught me by example, and she also gave me much, especially by way of that treasured intangible known as the exhilarating experience: shopping trips on Arthur Avenue for Italian delicacies, cabarets, tours of Chelsea Market and the Highline, and a much-appreciated exercise in literary match-making through an acquaintance of hers known as “Professor Morty.” A teacher of journalism at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, he took me under his critical wing for two eye-opening years, and made me a better writer.

Not long after that, Aunt Connie brokered a dream housesitting assignment in Amsterdam through another friend. This meant I had an entire summer to explore the Rijksmuseum, placid canals, historical landmarks like the Anne Frank House, and neighboring countries. When Aunt Connie emailed that she was on her annual sojourn in Paris and would I like to come for a weekend, I hopped a train and met her at Gare du Nord with a simultaneous squeal and bear hug. I don’t usually squeal at anything, but seeing Paris for the first time…come on.

Our first stop was lunch at a favorite restaurant on the Île Saint-Louis, a compact, bustling island in the middle of the Seine River, and connected to the 4^th arrondissement by four bridges. A half-hour later we stood on the Pont Saint-Louis overlooking the Seine, mesmerized to the point of tears as a violinist effortlessly played a string solo of Ave Maria. “Aunt Connie,” I said, stammering for the right words. “I think…I’m in heaven.”  She looked out at the river, and then back at me with a smile that said, ‘I’m glad you’re finally HERE!’

Sometimes healing from an emotionally jagged past requires taking deliberate steps to remove the embedded shrapnel. Other times, some of it magically evaporates because a healing salve is personified and placed generously and mysteriously, smack in the middle of your path. The fact is, there’s no way to avoid the winning and the losing of life’s relationship lotteries. We get bum tickets and jackpots alike. Who gets embedded into our everyday fabric is often random and inexplicable, whether on a family tree, on the job, or from a chance encounter such as the one bestowed upon my mother and her college roommate all those decades ago.

I’ve shared here in great detail about some of my losing lottery tickets, and I’d be grossly remiss if I didn’t extol the virtues of my existential windfalls as well. I don’t take anything about Aunt Connie’s place in my life for granted, and when a fond recollection of her popped into my mind last week, I resolved to search out that beloved Gougères recipe from the ‘70s.

I thought of her as I rolled out each one onto the baking sheet. And when I pulled a sizzling tray of cheese hors d’oeuvres from the oven 20 minutes later, I knew it was the perfect occasion to raise a glass to the woman who taught me that we’re here to find joy in the ever-unfolding banquet that is life…sparkle with satisfaction…and repeat.