Pipe Dreams

There is nothing quite as terrifying as first-time home ownership.   

In California, where we bought our first house, there is little pomp and circumstance associated with the purchase of real estate.  The buyers and sellers do not sit down together to mark the occasion as a life event.  Word came by phone from one of the many brokers—a faceless foot soldier in a veritable army of transaction mercenaries—that we had taken ownership of the property.  It was a small Victorian home, vintage 1880, barely 900 square feet, which we had been renting for four years.   We spent many a comfortable night in this charming house until the switch was thrown and we became the owners.  With that, we would never sleep deeply again; we tossed and turned with the fear that something was about to happen.

And it did.  For one thing, I became pregnant in a matter of weeks with our first child.  This meant that our little apartment and the small basement flat beneath—a potential source of rental income—would need to be surgically connected into a single-family dwelling.  Becoming a matter of urgency, we had a finite number of months to figure out how to engage in, and complete, our first major construction project.

We found a deck builder who was reputed to be an expert on stairs.  He assured us that cutting a hole in the floor to drop a stairway would be a simple matter.  But after enduring three inspector-ordered reconfigurations of the stairs, we were months behind.  By the time he was finished, we had just eight weeks to paint, recover the floors, turn the small downstairs kitchen into a laundry room and assemble the crib.

That’s when the sewage started backing up into the bathtub.  I am not kidding.  This was raw, stinky, germ-ridden, 100% American-made, landfill bound material that lost its way, choosing to swim upstream to take comfort of our home rather than endure the arduous journey through the sewer pipes.   Baffled, we called Roto-Rooter.  They dispatched a rather jovial gentleman in the middle of the night to snake the drain and clear whatever blockage had allegedly caused this backup.  This bought us some relief—temporarily—in which we were convinced we had dodged a bullet.  Not so fast!  After nearly two weeks, the problem occurred again.  Then again.  And again.  Each time, the interval between events got closer until it became clear this was not an average drain obstruction.

 The Roto-Rooter guy suggested that we take a different approach.  He could run a diagnostic procedure—something akin, ironically, to a colonoscopy, and priced to match.  He could pass an infrared camera through the drain system to look for damage.  Noting that the definition of insanity is repeatedly snaking your drain and expecting different results, we agreed.  They confirmed what we were beginning to suspect, that the drain pipe was broken.  Unfortunately, the breakage was located about eight inches beyond the footprint of our house.  Had it been “within the walls” it would have been covered by our insurance.  Their estimate for repair: $5000.

With a new baby soon to arrive and the finishing work of the renovations still underway, this was devastating.  I began calling for other estimates, but the best we were able to do was $3800 from a sketchy source.  Finally, our former landlord suggested that we call a plumber with whom he had done significant work on his other properties.  The guy arrived in the biggest, newest, fanciest Mercedes Benz I had ever seen, sporting a solid gold Rolex watch.  I doubted that this was the solution to our problems, yet I batted my eyelashes and rubbed my swollen abdomen to its greatest effect. 

He looked at me sympathetically, urging me to sit while he explained what needed to be done.  “You don’t want to pay a plumber to dig a hole,” he said. “So this is what I want you to do.”  He explained that my husband should drive to a particular corner in the Mission District on Saturday morning.  There, all the ‘illegals’ line up hoping to get day jobs.  He said to look at their hands, choosing 3 young workers with heavy callouses.  “Those boys,” he explained, “have experience digging holes.”  We were to pay them $5 per hour each—not one penny more.  “Have them dig until you can see the pipe,” he said, “exposing about 4-6 feet.  Then call me.”

Sure enough, when the pipe was revealed, it was crushed.   I called the plumber who, not surprisingly, did none of the work himself.  He had a few young guys get in the hole and repair the broken segment of sewer pipe.  A few days later I received a bill for $159 with a note that said, “Deduct 10% if it’s a boy.”

It was.

Tomorrow's blog:  Shattered Dreams

Lucky Day

Traditionally, Friday the 13^th is an unlucky day. 

Back in 1981, it was a particularly ominous year, featuring back-to-back Friday the 13ths in February and March.  I was a recently minted college graduate, trying my best to survive on a meager salary in a microscopic Beacon Hill apartment with my dear friend Jane.  It was my first foray into true “adult” independence, living without a parental or financial safety net.   It was terrifying, and it was the best time of my life.

Only a few months earlier my life was on a different course.  I was planning to attend graduate school in a different city, following my then-boyfriend to the southern campus where he attended medical school.  It took me years to discover that he was not a sharing person, nor did he have a rational mental model for relationships and marriage.  Escaping with my future and dignity intact, I found myself in Boston with an unexpected excess of options. 

Then one day (see 2/19 blog) I met Tom.  Ours was a bizarre courtship, begun during an intense “winter term” in which medical and dental students had little free time.   He invited me to attend an Andrés Segovia concert at Symphony Hall to be held six weeks hence, for which he had to liquidate the majority of his work-study wages.  As a result—lacking both time and funds—we had regular tele-dates on Wednesdays and Sundays.

As the Segovia concert weekend approached, there was a strange convergence of events.   The ex’s college roommate, who was then a graduate student at my alma mater, was to perform in the annual “Lowell House Opera” that same weekend; he had made me promise that I would attend at least one performance.  Perhaps not coincidentally, the ex-boyfriend himself came to town to interview for some type of fellowship.  While still suited up, he appeared unannounced at my office for what he hoped would approximate “shock-and-awe.”  Later that evening, he called me at home, trying to entrap me in a verbal throw-down.  He asked, “In retrospect, don’t you think breaking up with me was a rather high price to pay for your independence?”  I remember his pompous words as if they were uttered yesterday.

It soon became very clear that there was no way to fulfill my commitment to the opera performance without once again encountering the unpleasant ex.  Furthermore, I knew he was not above making a public scene—although I hoped this would not be the case.  Still reeling with mental anguish, I was relieved when Tom called at his predictable Wednesday time.  Although we had yet to have our first date, we had developed quite a friendship over the weeks of tele-dating.  I asked him if he wouldn’t mind escorting me to the Lowell House Opera.  I explained the situation and gave him every chance to refuse; he assured me that he would be delighted.  It would be Friday the 13^th.  We laughed at the irony, determined to make the best of whatever came our way that evening.

The Lowell House Opera was an English rendition of Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’Amore (Elixir of Love).  Tom and I sat in the second row and had a wonderful evening.  My friend, who is now a renowned Physical Chemist, made his singing debut with a small role—proudly belting his one solo line in tune.  At the end of the show, we worked our way up the aisle toward the exit.  I was beginning to think that I was going to escape unscathed, but then suddenly I was face-to-face with the ex.  He was predictably rude, brandishing his date—a particular woman who chased him regularly while we were dating.  As if on cue, Tom emerged from the crowd, dwarfing the ex while slipping an arm around my waist possessively.   Perhaps I was still wrapped up in the romance of the opera, but to me, Tom was like a knight in shining armor.  He whisked me away to safety, leaving the smoldering dragon in our wake.

There is no way to tell this story so that it doesn’t sound silly.  After all, I am now fifty-something and I have been married to Tom for almost thirty years.   Every time Friday the 13^th comes around, we celebrate the night that finally brought us together.  Luck, like life and love, is what you make of it.

Tomorrow's blog:  Pipe Dreams

Groovin' to my Own Soundtrack

I am an utter disappointment to the marketing executives at Apple.  Though I am an accomplished musician, I have yet to buy in to the whole ipod culture.  I own an ipod—a thoughtful mother’s day gift from my family—but it sits in a drawer, idle, and many generations old.  I also have an itunes account that carries an expired credit card number.  I do not use it, so I have no need to update it.  Don’t get me wrong—I have nothing against this technology, or even Apple’s monopoly of this segment of the music world.  It’s just that this whole business simply does not fit the way I consume music.

I imagine that most people who use ipods are not dissimilar users to my kids and my husband.  They snap up every new album and immediately load it on their playlists.  Sometimes they bother to stratify their tracks, separating the few classical items from the “vintage hits,” soundtracks of musicals we have seen on Broadway, indie samplers, concert albums, and acoustic specials.  Mainly, my husband uses the shuffle feature, serving up tracks from every genre in random order like a musical version of Russian roulette.  I cannot stand it!

Listening to recorded music is like a journeying to a million destinations.  Each piece—whether classical or not—is a personal treatise of the composer’s or artist’s state of being.  It is not white noise that drones incessantly in the background; it is experiential.  I find myself standing in the snakeskin boots of a country singer done wrong as easily as I follow the sturm und drang of a 19^th Century harmonic progression.  For this reason, I prefer not to listen to my own collection ad nauseum, but rather enjoy the surprise queue of the radio.  When a Beethoven Symphony comes on, it typically is not the Bernstein collection that I own and recognize immediately; it is a fresh interpretation that peaks my interest with unpredictable phrasing.  I enjoy each gesture, the conductor’s choice of tempo, and the signature tone of the orchestra’s woodwinds.  Similarly, I love SiriusXM’s Coffee House for the acoustically naked reworkings of pop and rock songs.   Music is so much more than the notes on the page.  Performance offers infinite variations.

There is an even more exciting element to radio listening, however:  the karmic serendipity of it all.  The radio is a character in the sitcom of my life.  I will stop short of suggesting that the Almighty Himself is spinning records just for me, but there is musical providence in the daily toil of my life that bears documenting.

I’ll give you an example.  My nephew visited this past weekend for the purpose of securing an apartment for his upcoming surgical residency.   As he texted me that his flight had touched down, the radio began playing the last movement of the Mozart Clarinet Concerto—which my nephew’s father (my brother) performed at the peak of his high school music career.  If any single piece of music could be considered emblematic of my brother, this movement would be it.  It serenaded us through the Ted Williams Tunnel, coming to a close just as we pulled up at the airport curb.

A few weeks ago I was sitting in morning rush hour traffic on my way to my hairdresser’s house, where she cuts my hair in her kitchen.  I am fortunate to have this relationship with Nancy, as the alternative is the same haircut by the same woman, only for a much higher price in the Newbury Street salon where she works.  As I exited the highway, a selfish driver with a particularly large gas-guzzling vehicle straddled the lanes in front of me crosswise, trying to insinuate herself across the intersection after the light in her direction had already changed.  As a result, the car next to me and I were completely gridlocked, unable to advance when our light turned green.  Out loud to myself, I said, “Augh! I cannot believe this!”  At that very moment, the last movement (not the “duh-duh-duh-dah” first movement) of Beethoven’s 5^th began its enigmatic opening, a set of chords that, in college, we music majors set to the words:  This. . .is. . .sim-ply-not-to-be-be-lieved!

After a recent and surprising phone call from my mother, I turned on my car to find that the finale of Brahm’s 1^st Symphony was playing.  It’s lovely theme, vaguely reminiscent of “Ode to Joy” (earning the symphony the nickname “Beethoven’s 10^th”) was used as the alma mater at the High School of Music and Art in New York, where my mother once sat next to Billy Dee Williams in homeroom.

After my father passed away two years ago, the Hungarian folksong Czardas was practically a fixture on the local Boston classical station.  On a number of occasions, it was the piece that woke me when the radio alarm clock went off in the morning.  My father played this piece as soloist at his high school graduation.  I had the opportunity to perform with him as his accompanist on this same piece for his 40^th reunion.  Just as strangely, Khatchaturian’s Sabre Dance was playing when my daughter texted to inform me that she had made the finals at the National Women’s Intercollegiate Fencing Championships.  Her weapon:  sabre.

Just today I was thinking about how my blog-writing was consuming so much time that I was neglecting the piano.  I am hoping to compete in an amateur competition in Poland in 2014 with an all-Chopin program.  On my way home from settling my tax matters, I heard a particular Chopin Mazurka on which I am working.  It is a beautiful piece that I selected for my program after viewing the manuscript in Chopin’s own hand at the Morgan Library in New York.  It was a gentle but pointed nudge to tend to my other commitments.

How dull my life would be if I played and replayed the same versions of the same tracks from my ipod.  I wonder whether our kids are enriched by what they are piping into their brains or sensory deprived by what they are not.  I choose to allow music to enrich my life, providing its commentary with interactive whimsy.  It is a constant companion, a supportive friend, and never ceases to amaze or amuse me.

Middle Ground in the Middle East

Once upon a time, Sam Cooke crooned “don’t know much about history.”  Sandy and Sonny fell in love over the same words, bridging their differences by looking forward and finding common ground.  I do not know enough history to be scholarly, or enough politics to be unifying.  I do know, however, that when I visited Israel back in the 90s I met a lot of different types of people who just want to get along.

There is something in Middle Eastern DNA that polarizes.  I see it in my own family’s nature.  Being Jews of the Diaspora, at some point we must have originated in that region before going forth, being fruitful, and multiplying.  There are two residual attributes that stand out among members of my family: the need to cling to our own kind in a tribal sort of allegiance, and the need to be right with a vengeance.  An eye for an eye in every sense of the word.

In Middle East politics, any sort of confrontation predictably provokes an equal and opposite reaction.  For this reason, government actions—particularly those presented as lines in the sand or ultimatums—perennially backfire.  Diplomacy is challenged by non-negotiation doctrines that operate around the idea that “I only win if you lose” or “you first”.  These official fronts seem impenetrable, and they are.  This is why we teach the opposite to our children.

It is true, especially at this time of year, that we steep ourselves in our history in order to appreciate our freedom.  At the same time, we also reflect on those who succumbed so that we might rise.  Peace, however, is not modeled in the past; we cannot look for it there.  It can only be achieved by looking into the future and imagining what has never been.  One must let go in the hope that others will do the same.  It is no different for great nations than it is for the most petty and selfish of children.  Or estranged spouses.  Or political parties. 

That’s why I was so pleasantly surprised to visit Israel.  I rode in cabs driven by polite and charming Arabic-speaking natives.  I met people who lived comfortably in ethnically diverse neighborhoods.  Israelis and Arabs slipped back and forth into each other’s languages and shared the common ground of commerce and family and peaceful co-existence.  Both sides spoke of their fear of extremists—a fear that each side would only visualize a peace wherein the other side perished.   As if in defiance, my Israeli host shook hands with our Arabic taxi driver.  “We are brothers,” the driver said.

Of course, peace on a national or international level is much more complicated than this and all citizens of any nation are not of a single mind.  It makes me wonder:  If we spent more time thinking about what peace would look like and how it would make us feel, would we all be more inclined to compromise something to have it?  I look at the leaders we choose as our face to the world and ask: “Are these people whose words and actions reflect a vision of, and desire for, peace?

Like I said, I don’t know much about this sort of thing.  I certainly cannot solve that which has eluded the greatest of diplomatic minds for centuries.  But as a mom, I do know a few things with certainty—that the only thing you can do to water under the bridge is let it go, that you cannot force people to do something they are not inclined to do, and that to drive people to a new place ideologically you have to sell it with a compelling vision.

I’ll also bet my life that every nation is made of mothers who love their children as much as I love mine.

Tomorrow's blog:  Groovin' to my Own Soundtrack

Sew Tired

Today is one of those days I feared would occur eventually.  I have lots of ideas for blogs, yet I have had no time in the last few days to flesh them out for public consumption.  In fact, I prefer to save some of these topics so that I can do them justice at a time when I have focus and clarity.  Fortunately for my heart but unfortunately for my literary progress, I spent a busy day helping my nephew—who is relocating to the area for a surgical residency—to chase down convenient affordable housing (somewhat of a triple oxymoron in Boston).  Since early this morning he and I have been driving back and forth between two likely neighborhoods.  Every hour a new piece of information made one property have the edge over the other, sending us into an endless loop of negotiations and commitments.  Though the deed is now done, I am exhausted and virtually brain dead.

I checked the fine print on the original public declaration of my blog and found that I neglected to allow for the occasional personal day.  Bummer.  The written page is a harsh taskmaster.  Though today is somewhat of a milestone (having posted blog #100—only 266 remaining), there is no time off for self-congratulation.  The beat goes on.

Today’s malaise reminds me of a series of unfortunate high school events.  It was one of those days when nothing went right, leaving me emotionally spent.  After gym class, I caught my favorite bright red bell bottom jeans in the latch of my locker, ripping them down the side seam.  I had to suffer the rest of my classes with my naked thigh peeking through the flaps of red denim, exposing a prominent birthmark that was a constant focus of ribbing since childhood.   Then, when the school day was over I discovered that my bicycle had been stolen from its lockup post.   Enduring the sweltering heat and humidity, I trudged home on foot.

Once home I became concerned that my mother would be displeased at my torn jeans.  I was fairly adept at sewing; I opened the sewing machine and threaded it with a red bobbin, thinking that I could repair the damage before my carelessness was revealed.   I flinched at the sound of my mother’s key in the lock downstairs.  In that moment, I inadvertently ran my finger under the moving needle, driving the sharp metal point through the fingernail on my middle finger.  The pain was exquisite, as was the scene:  bright red blood spewing out of control from a throbbing digit, bright red thread upon bright red jeans.   The needle immediately snapped in half disabling the whole operation.

I grabbed my finger and ran to the kitchen.  By this point, my mother had caught up with the fiasco, asking what happened as we washed the wound, squeezed it tight to stop the bleeding, and iced it to numb the throbbing pain.   Once bandaged, I lay down, exhausted by the trauma of the moment and the sum total of the day’s emotions.

“What are you going to do?” my mother asked.  “About what?” I asked back.

Clearly I had been lost in a sea of self-pitying angst.  I had forgotten about an important dress rehearsal that evening with the Hollywood Philharmonic Orchestra.  The following night I was scheduled to perform Rachmaninoff’s 2^nd Piano Concerto in the Hollywood Band Shell.  Normally, this would have been enough to transcend the teen drama, but this was one of those days when all I wanted to do was take a hot bath and curl up in a furry robe with a good book.

As they say in show business, ‘the show must go on.’  There was no time to lick my wounds or feel sorry for myself.  While eating dinner, I began the mental exercise that revved up my musical machinery.   After an hour, I unwrapped the wounded finger and assessed the damage.  The cut divided my fingertip and half of the nail in two.  I trimmed the nail short, removing as much of the cleavage as possible.  Using crisscrossing band-aids, I gave the finger as much padding as I dared without losing its flexibility. 

In the car on the way to the venue, I tested my finger continuously.   The throbbing made it feel as if it were the size of a fist.  I castigated myself for my haste, for my carelessness, and for allowing myself to forget what an important day it was.  The conductor stepped off the podium to greet me, shaking my hand so hard it inflamed the pain anew.   At the piano, I began the enigmatic chords, a signature eight bars that transports the listener into the composer’s realm.  The concerto itself was the product of the composer’s personal pain, coaxed into its beautiful form by a well-documented course of hypnosis.  I followed where harmonies led me, feeling them envelope me until I had no body and no pain—I existed only in the music, to make the music, to feed off the music.

At the end of the run-through I stood to applaud the orchestra while the stage crew wheeled the piano away.  I did not notice the bloody fingerprints all over the keyboard; nor did I realize that the cut had resumed its bleeding from the repetitive force of the notes.   The conductor gaped at me, looking first at my face and then at my bloody hand.  I shrugged unconcerned.  The pain was easily assuaged by the joy of doing something I love.

And just as simply a blog is complete.  Pain is temporary.  The written word is forever.

Tomorrow's blog:  Middle Ground in the Middle East

Crank Call

A tiger never loses its spots, and a mother never loses her instinct to protect her kids.  Even though my ‘kids’ are now adults, this does not diminish the need to protect them from harm.  To a fault, I am like a lioness, ready at a moment’s notice to lend a nurturing hand or to pounce violently upon anything that might threaten them.

It was a shock to me—body and soul—when during the final moments of prep for our Passover Seder, my cell phone rang from an unidentified phone number.   All nerve endings jumped to attention as I dried my hands and reached for my phone, which is never far from my side.  Before I even said ‘hello’ I could hear the terrifying sound.   The screeching on the other end of the line conjured the image of my daughter in the midst of a very real threat.  It was the cry of violence, terror, pain, desperation.  How do you translate sobs and screams and gasps into coherence?  My knees went weak, my hands began to shake.  My friends who witnessed this in my kitchen later described how the color drained from my face, how my very being imploded from the fear.  I cried out, “Emily, Emily, Emily” until the phone line abruptly went dead.

I could barely breathe.  My mind raced in several directions at once.  I had last heard from her only an hour or so before.  She had been with friends, happy, planning to attend a campus Seder.  Then I ran through a laundry list of potential on-campus threats:  grades, boyfriend troubles, physical harm, random violence.  I stopped myself before I went too far.  Seizing control, I dialed her number, remembering that she sometimes borrowed someone else’s phone when hers lost its charge.  It was not uncommon for me to receive text messages from unfamiliar numbers that began, “mom, it’s Emily.”  I was unrelieved but not surprised when her phone rang and rang without answer.   I searched my contact list for alternatives; finding her boyfriend’s number I prepared to call him, wondering what I would say. 

Stopping me in my tracks, I then received a text message from the same unidentified number.  It said, without punctuation: Sorry that was my kid he took my phone and dialed a random number im very sorry.

I responded: Thank you for letting me know.  That was very upsetting.  His response:  I am very sorry for the inconvineance (sic).  My kid will be getting a lesson!

I was immediately relieved, but it hardly soothed the sting.  It was hours until I began to feel comfortable again.  Feeling the need for contact, I sent my daughter a message explaining what had happened; it was an incredible relief to hear from her (by text, of course) with a message that sounded and felt like it was really her.  But by the following morning, as I continued to replay the events in my mind, everything took on different meaning.  Had this been an episode of Law and Order, I realized, her return message could have been sent by anyone.  I still had no “proof of life.”

Violating the rules of college life (“don’t call me, mom; I’m busy”), I called my daughter directly, trying at least three times before she deigned to answer, in a sweet, sleepy haze—at noon.  I apologized for disturbing her, while inside I was melting with relief and joy that my baby was safe and sound.  She laughed at me for my silliness—a state with which she was well familiar.  On the other hand, I sensed that it was an opportune moment to heap on an extra dose of motherly love.

I am still angry at that nameless kid, who probably thinks his random act was a funny, victimless crime.  I doubt that his “lesson” balanced out the pain he caused, upending a holiday celebration and undermining a mother’s comfort in the well-being of her child. 

As for me?  I am a confirmed helicopter parent--unabashed and unapologetic for indulging my maternal instincts.  Sorry, kids!

Tomorrow's blog:  Sew Tired

Yummy Decadence

In honor of 4,000 hits, I am sharing another recipe from my collection:  Decadent Lobster Macaroni and Cheese.

This is a luxurious dish that requires the preparation of a whole lobster.  Use it only for special occasions.  You can use any shape pasta, but I like the irony of sea-shells with the lobster.  

I do not mess with cooking a live lobster at home.  I go to a local seafood restaurant and ask for them to prepare a lobster for me, including the removal of the edible meat from the claws, knuckles and tail.  Make sure to ask for them to give you the entire carcass, as it is used to impart a luscious lobster flavor in the cheese sauce.

A few tips:  Use a restaurant, if possible, instead of a supermarket for lobsters.  The restaurant will have more volume and therefore the lobsters will likely have spent less time in the tank.  Also, I like to order the lobster late in the afternoon on the day I am serving this dish.  Lobster breaks down quickly after it is cooked.  This is not something that can be done way ahead of time.  

I have been asked whether frozen lobster tails can be substituted in this recipe.  The simple answer is ‘of course,” however, I have not tried it myself.  To substitute for the missing shells in the stock I would probably recommend a little anchovy paste or 1-2 teaspoons of Worcestershire sauce (which contains anchovy).  This will add a little of the salty, fishy, briny taste that you extract from the shells during simmering.  The difference between this recipe and others where you simply add lobster chunks to mac-and-cheese is that this dish tastes like lobster.

Decadent Lobster Macaroni and Cheese

1 lb. of medium sea-shell macaroni

1 lobster (1 ½ to 2 lbs)—steamed

1 small onion, diced

7 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided into 2 + 5

2 cups whole milk

1 small clove garlic, minced

1 shallot, chopped

12 whole black peppercorns

Kosher salt

Freshly ground black pepper

5 tablespoons flous

2 lbs total of grated cheese, made up of equal amounts:  Extra-sharp cheddar, pecorino romano, and gruyere

3 tablespoons of plain Panko bread crumbs

Dash of paprika

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.   Butter a 13” x 9” casserole.

In a large pot, cook macaroni until al dente.  Drain, reserving 2 cups of pasta water.  Do not overcook pasta as it still needs to cook in the oven!

Remove all edible lobster meat from claws, knuckles, and tail.  Cut into large chunks and set aside.

In a medium pot, melt 2 tablespoon of butter and sweat the onions until soft and translucent.  Remove and set aside.  In the same “seasoned” pot, scald the milk with garlic, shallots, and peppercorns.  Add the carcass of the lobster and then bring to boil; cover tightly and reduce to simmer.  Season stock with salt and pepper.  Allow this lobster stock to simmer slowly for about 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, make a “roux” with the remaining 5 tablespoons of butter and 5 tablespoons of flour.  Mix constantly while cooking over medium heat until the mixture is thick and golden yellow in color.  Set the roux aside.

Strain the stock, removing and discarding all the solids, and return the stock to the same pan.  Bring it back to a simmer and then begin whisking in the cheeses slowly until they are all incorporated into a smooth sauce.  Add the roux, reserved onions (my daughter prefers these omitted, as they add some texture to the finished product), and the lobster meat, continuing to whisk.  Use reserved pasta water to thin out the mixture if necessary.

Toss the cooked pasta with the sauce and transfer the mixture to the prepared baking dish.  Top the casserole with Panko; sprinkle with paprika.  Bake 9-12 minutes until bubbly and brown.  Serve immediately.

Tomorrow's blog:  Crank Call