Shaken, not stirred.

There is a great debate in my family.
About martini's.
One camp (my father and his cousin, Jim, belong to this camp) believe that a true martini is made ONLY with gin - NEVER vodka. This camp prefers their martini's shaken, not stirred.

A great, and very old friend of mine, I have recently learned - is staunchly in my father's camp about the gin, but he prefers his martini's stirred. Gently. "You'll bruise the gin if you shake it." he explained to me earnestly on the phone. "Gin has a distinct and delicate flavor - you want to taste that." he explained.
I laughed on my end of the phone - hundreds of miles away. I laughed because people can be so very passionate about these seemingly little things. My father and Jim are the same way. When I order a VODKA martini in my father's presence, he shakes his head and looks very sincerely disapointed.
"It's not a MARTINI, Jennifer." he'll say. "Ask Jim! He'll tell you."
"I know, Dad." I said the last time we had martinis. "I remember."
"Well..." he said back to me with an accusing look on his face."When you went to Harry's Bar, in Venice - you went, right?"
"I did. I went. I promise. I took photographs to prove it."
( I HAD gone, and I KNEW I'd have to have some evidence, so I begged my friend, Dorian , to take some pics of the martinis, the bartender - the whole scene)
"Well....did you have a REAL martini there? Or a "VODKA martini"?" (I could hear the sarcastic quotes hanging in the air around those 2 words)
"Oh, Dad...gosh..." I struggled to remember exactly what I'd ordered. For some reason it seemed important. It had been important to my Dad that I go there in the first place, so I had. These strange little strings of communication that we all hung onto in our family. Our bizarre versions of tradition, I guess. Harry's Bar was famous for being a Hemingway spot and an American x-pat spot, so of course the artists and writers of our family felt they had to make it ours as well.
"I just ordered a martini, Dad. That's what I did. You told me to order a martini, and that's what I did."

My father's face was suddenly covered with a cloak of righteous happiness. He looked fulfilled and delighted. A half laugh forced it's way out of his lips, "Ha...WELL..then you had a REAL MARTINI. A GIN martini - that's how they do them!"
"Mmmhmm. Yep. It was gin."
"A PROPER martini! THAT'S Harry's Bar for you!"
"It was a good martini, Dad. Cool place."

I prefer vodka martinis in general. But my father and I do land in the same camp when it comes to shaken, not stirred. I don't think a martini is drinkable if not shaken vigorously. And of course, I grew up hearing 007 say, "Shaken..not stirred".

This Thanksgiving, I had the impossibly great pleasure of having all of my children around me. And my brother, my sister and my mother. These days that's quite something. We are all so spread out and mobile. And after the girls all got on their planes and trains, the boys and I decided to go to a movie as it was spitting rain. The new James Bond on Imax won out. 50 year anniversary of the series this year. Wow.
It was great fun seeing that with my boys - Jake, Max and August Blue. The theme of the movie (or the hook, rather) seemed to be 'Sometimes the old ways are the best ways'. And I loved that. But - with that set up - I was disappointed that James never ordered his martini "Shaken, not stirred".

I found myself daydreaming during the movie. Remembering the drive around Lago Maggiore a couple years ago - how I felt like I was truly IN a James Bond movie - and little drives around the English countryside when I lived there many years ago. "Shaken, not stirred" was really sticking in my mind. I couldn't shake it (pardon the language).

That night I dreamt about all of the roads not taken. The safe roads. The predictable roads. The destinies I so often yearn for. And every night since, I have had similar dreams. The life that eludes me.

How can I say what I am trying to say?
I don't know how yet.
I am an awkward toddler of a writer at best.
I write like a toddler walks - like a drunken sailor. No balance, no form, no grace, no expectation or taking for granted that the next step will land well...or at all.

These dreams have been tormenting me.
I could have taken over my Grandmother's shop. She wanted me to. I didn't hate it. I sort of loved it.
I could have done a lot of things differently.
But I didn't.

I must come to some peace with the fact that I like my whole freakin' life shaken, not gently stirred.
I have loved so passionately, been hurt so terribly.....bruised all over. My martinis must be shaken. HARD. So must my life - at least up until this point.
And the question that remains - that dangles in front of my face like a cat toy - is...

......STILL??????