My hand has been adorned with De Beer's diamonds for national ads. A security guard stood nearby for protection from unknown villains. My hand once was smooth with extended nails not often my own, and manicured at least each week. It was part of my business as a Ford model and called "upkeep." This hand waved for cabs in NYC, held the knife for a delicious taste of Sole a la Meuniere, painted and sculpted in extended art classes. My hand also flipped the pages of cook books, Bon Appetit and Gourmet magazines and turned the top of a new fangled device called the Cuisinart in 1973...and I cooked.

Hospitality had been as much a natural part of my upbringing as my learning to breathe. I never thought of it as a gift, but now it is part of my DNA. My hand lit candles, selected and arranged flowers, picked up the phone (as in a 'landline" with a cord). Guests came and my hand opened the door to welcome friends and perhaps "a stranger unawares."

My hand has shifted through seeds, planted them in gardens and pulled harvest from the earth. My hand is worn, nails ungilded, but it still functions well.

It is as if this hand has a mind of its own...As if It types this blog, and today will stir a pot of tomato vodka sauce while a skillet sizzles on the next gas unit. That well seasoned copper skillet was lugged back from Paris by a then beau in the 1970's and has been in use for 40 years.

Chicken Marsala will be the dish to come from its heat today...and, this also "well-seasoned" hand will serve it to my guests tonight...with pleasure.