In this bittersweet, humorous, novel, newly retired Linda Lisser dreams of moving across the country and partying with the Rolling Stones via her celebrity chef daughter, Jazz, but her husband, Joey, is rooted to their home and content to stay in his pajamas all day glued to the television watching Matlock reruns.
A series of unexpected events causes Joey to have a change of heart, only to learn that Linda has shockingly had one, too.
Leaving Candyland takes a lighthearted look at growing older as Linda and Joey struggle to stay young at heart while comically navigating the pitfalls they face in their golden years
In this bittersweet, humorous, novel, newly retired Linda Lisser dreams of moving across the country and partying with the Rolling Stones via her celebrity chef daughter, Jazz, but her husband, Joey, is rooted to their home and content to stay in his pajamas all day glued to the television watching Matlock reruns.
A series of unexpected events causes Joey to have a change of heart, only to learn that Linda has shockingly had one, too.
Leaving Candyland takes a lighthearted look at growing older as Linda and Joey struggle to stay young at heart while comically navigating the pitfalls they face in their golden years
Candyland is crumbling.
I walk down Penny Lane with my eyes squeezed almost shut so I donât have to see it deteriorating in the late afternoon sun. The exterior paint is peeling, and a second-floor shutter is hanging by a thread.
And that is not even the worst of it.
You can tell the owners' priorities, though. The large front lawn and back garden are a glorious explosion of wild roses, sunflowers, begonias, sweet peas, nasturtiums, marigolds, geraniums, and carefully maintained rows of tomatoes, peppers, baby eggplants, alongside every herb imaginable.
I should know. I helped plant them.
Oh, Candyland.
Itâs the last split-level home in a development conceived by an eccentric Renaissance man rumored to have gone to India to study transcendental meditation with the Beatles.
We never found out if that was true, but it was enough to sell Joey and me on the place. Weâve lived here for over forty years. How is that even possible and why hasnât anyone figured out a way to freeze time?
When she was in elementary school, our daughter Jasmine (now known as Chef Jazz), made us a wooden sign in painstakingly drawn red and white striped letters after overhearing a classmateâs mother sarcastically call our house Candyland because, as Jazz told us, we let her eat junk food and stay up late. Itâs still outside on the front lawn, weathered and splintered, but it still makes me smile.
Jazz originally wanted the sign to read âThere Are No Rules at Candyland.â Her teacher telephoned me, clucking and clutching her politically correct pearls when I laughed. I never stopped wishing I had that version of the sign instead.
Now Candyland sticks out like a toothless old woman in an intimate lingerie shop, nestled between bright rows of outrageously expensive brand-new townhomes that Joey and I joke are made of LEGOs.
As I patiently jiggle the loose door jam, our dog Chester hears me and comes running. "Go get Daddy, Chester," I tell him through the mail slot.
Chester tries to put his tongue through the opening instead.
I stick my hand in for a kiss and he obliges. If only the world could be this way.
I'd text my husband, Joey, but unfortunately, he has a twenty-year-old flip phone with the ringer permanently off. He proudly testifies it's because he's a hippie, which is great, but honestly, I think Joey's late hippie heroes, John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, would have embraced technology and called him a Luddite.
"Joey!" I call his name through the mail slot and bang on the door simultaneously. My efforts are met with a series of ear-piercing barks and whimpers.
Great, now Chester decides to bark.
Finally, Joey hears me and shouts, "Be right there!"
"Oh, good job, Chester, what a genius you are," I tell him.
"Hey, Linda," Joey says, opening the door. He kisses me and hugs me.
We're still sweethearts.
Joey doesn't look his age. He's built like a teenager with a full head of long, salt-and-pepper hair, and he dresses the way he did in collegeâjeans, sneakers, and classic rock t-shirts he buys at shows.
Joey gives me another kiss.
"How was your afternoon out? Was lunch any good?"
"Both were fine," I reply, not looking him in the eyes.
"Really?"
"Okay, I'm lying; it was awkward. I don't have anything to say to my former coworkers anymore. I've been retired for over a year, so I'm not used to being social anymore. Why, oh why, do I still get invited to these things?" I make what I hope is a grumpy face.
"They miss you," Joey remarks, ruffling my hair.
"Well, I don't miss them."
But in a way, I do. I had a cool job at the Museum of Art where I was probably the last art major to be employed steadily with benefits for forty years. My coworkers were all art lovers like me.
And okay, I must admit these lunches are an excuse to leave the house and eat in a restaurant with someone other than Joey. Since we retired, we've been together around the clock. Not that there's anything wrong with that, although I'm finding it a little scary that the longer I stay in the house in my pajamas watching television all day, the less I feel like getting dressed and going out. I understand how older people become agoraphobic.
"What's the plan for tonight, Joey?" I ask, rubbing his back and leaning into him. "Anything good on television, or should we just listen to music? Meanwhile, something smells amazing. What are you cooking for dinner?"
"You and food," Joey says, smiling. "I'm making ravioli. No television. Bob and Marcy are coming over. Hey, that reminds me. Let's go to the kitchen because I want you to taste my sauce."
A groan escaped me â still full from lunch, and ugh, Bob and Marcy Garber. I should be used to it by now, but honestly, I don't want to be around them tonight.
It's the same reaction I've had for decades.
We met Bob and Marcy in college and hung out mostly because our cooler friends were busy with free love or following the Grateful Dead. Joey and I always found them dull, but somehow, we ended up being each other's best people at our weddingsâprobably because none of us ever left Philadelphia. Bob and Marcy live in an apartment complex around twenty miles away.
When we were younger and raising our daughter, we drifted apart and maybe saw Bob and Marcy only a couple of times a year, sometimes even at our yearly Christmas party. But once we all retired, suddenly they text and show up for dinner all the time.
I guess it's okay. It kind of feels like all our other friends are either dead or barely living somewhere in Florida, anyway.
Our daughter resides three thousand miles away in Seattle.
I just can't believe out of all the people we've met over the years who have come and gone, we're stuck with Bob and Marcy Garber. Joey is nicer than I am. These days he gets nostalgic with them over our shared pasts whenever they come over.
I'm more in awe of the fact that we've been friends with Bob and Marcy for over forty years and still barely know who they really are.
Joey grabs a wooden spoon out of a pottery jug on the counter, lifts the lid off a pan and stirs the simmering sauce.
"Here, tell me what you think," he requests, offering me a sample.
"Oh my god," I swoon. "What's in this? It might be the best thing I've ever eaten."
Joey laughs. "You always say that."
"It's true! You are the master. And obviously, you passed your cooking genes on to our daughter."
Joey smiles like he's never heard this before. I bet I say it twice a day.
Before he retired last year, Joey was an executive chef. We have hundreds of photos of little Chef Jazz, ages three through her teens, standing next to Joey in our kitchen as his enthusiastic sous chef.
Unlike Jazz, Joey's culinary journey didn't include attending the Culinary Arts Academy or prestigious internships at places like The French Laundry and Noma. Nor did he get a phone call from the producers at Top American Chef and end up a finalist, enabling him to land a fabulous job and an outrageous waterfront home on Puget Sound in Seattle.
If you're someone who watches Food Television, you know we have a famous daughter. Sigh. A daughter on the other side of the country.
"Lots of butter, lemon juice and zest, parmesan, and garlic," Joey answers, interrupting my thoughts. I recover enough to not look at him blankly.
"You should bottle that stuff. It's freaking otherworldly," I tell him, helping myself to another taste. I'm in heaven.
But as I lift the spoon to my mouth, something wet hits me in the head and rolls down my face. I wipe it away with my hand, which is now getting soaked, too.
"Joey! What the heck is this? Do we have a leak?" I ask, pointing at the ceiling.
"Huh? What are you talking about? It must be condensation from the pasta water."
Condensation from the pasta water, seriously? That's such a typical Joey response. Rather than admit Candyland is decomposing, he has a magical explanation instead.
I'm not having it this time.
"Condensation from pasta water my ass! No way. Something is dripping from the ceiling! Holy hell. There's already a puddle on the floor!"
He follows my glance and is startled.
"Oh, shit!" Joey yells, turning off the stove. "Stay here! I'm going upstairs to check."
"No problem!"
I don't want to see it anyway, especially if it's coming from the bathroom.
He takes the steps two at a time. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, I try mopping up the mess, but the water keeps dripping, forming brownish pools on the floor. Joey's bargain-brand towels crumble uselessly in my hands.
Frustrated, I grab the mop instead, which I somehow step on, slamming the wooden handle into my forehead. Oh, perfect. I'm in a Three Stooges movie now.
I hear Joey cursing upstairs. Please, please, please let this not be a burst pipe or anything else outrageously expensive not covered by insurance. Our finances can't take it.
Ever since we retired and are on a fixed income, it's been one thing after another. The maintenance and repair expenses (courtesy of Candyland) are killing us. Joey comes back into the kitchen with his wrench and another soggy roll of paper towels.
"Okay, all good. It's the sink. The trap is so old it disintegrated. I temporarily shut the water off, the drip will stop in a minute. Just don't use the sink until I can fix it tomorrow."
Ugh. In Joey World, tomorrow means three monthsâŚor never. I have depressing visions of brushing my teeth in the bathtub for the rest of my life.
Joey is awesome, but yeah, fixing things is not his forte. He's also stubborn and uncharacteristically macho regarding home repairs and refuses to call a handyman. Stuff breaks around here and rarely gets fixed quickly. But years have taught me to pick my fights and not sweat the small stuff.
I help myself to some more of Joey's sauce and consider heading upstairs to nap before Bob and Marcy arrive. My plan is thwarted by Chester, who starts barking like a maniac
"Chester! Stop!" I yell.
"I think he hears something outside." Joey walks over to the front window, looks out, and then turns to me.
"Do we know anyone who owns a bright orange Lamborghini?"
"Huh?" I join him at the window to have a look myself, just in time to see a tall, good-looking man get out of the driver's side. He walks around the car to the passenger side and opens the door. A beautiful woman in a long white dress gets out and he takes her hand. It's like a scene from a movie.
They turn to Candyland, the man gesturing animatedly toward our house while his companion nods, her gaze unbroken.
"Okay, this is insane," I exclaim. "Should we go outside and introduce ourselves?"
"They're probably real estate investors, Linda. Let's pretend we're not home."
"They don't look like real estate people. He's got a haircut like a pop singer and she's very exoticâshe reminds me of a young Cher, when she was still with Sonny. And I know real estate people are wealthy but a Lamborghini? C'mon. Those two are celebrities. Look at the way they're standing, it's like they're on a stage," I point out.
"Yes, celebrities drive up Penny Lane in a Lamborghini and stop outside our house and point," Joey laughs.
I look at him incredulously. "Joey, what do you think is happening right now? I'mâŚwhat? What are you doing?"
"They just walked up our driveway and now I can't see them, but I think they're in our yard. I'm going out there. They're trespassing on our property!" Joey grabs his jacket and goes down the short flight of steps to our back door. Chester and I follow close behind.
"Hi, can I help you?" Joey asks in what I can only describe as a strange, scary adult voice that I've never heard him use, ever.
Meanwhile, I'm transfixed. The man is handsome and obviously monied, but the woman is breathtaking. She looks like she's made of porcelain.
"Oh, hey. We didn't think anyone was home. We just wanted to get a closer look at this marvelous house. It's classic Brady Bunch, isn't it?"
"It's not for sale," Joey states tersely.
"I wasn't asking," the man replies, a smile tugging at his lips. His beautiful companion continues to stare at Candyland, transfixed.
"You can see the Frank Lloyd Wright influence," she remarked. "Did you know his designs are the inspiration for split levels built in the late fifties and early sixties?"
"Yeah, I'm kind of art buff," I admit. "Are you an architect?"
The woman laughs. "No. Far from it. I was born and raised in Philadelphia, though. And we were married at Beth Sholom Synagogue outside of Philadelphia, one of Frank Lloyd Wright's most famous buildings. Since we're in Philadelphia visiting my family and we've heard so much about your property from Ric's father, we wanted to drive over and see it. By the way, your garden is lovely. It's hard to believe this hidden oasis exists so close to downtown Philadelphia."
The man pulls a business card from his wallet and hands it to Joey. "I'm Ric Swift, and this is my wife, Natalia."
Joey looks at his card and hands it to me. I study it and almost start laughing because I was right. He's no real estate investor. His card reads "Ric Swift Studios, Nashville, TN." He's a record producer.
I called it, Joey. I try very hard not to smirk.
"Joey and Linda Lisser," Joey introduces, shaking his hand.
I look over at Natalia. "You're a singer, aren't you? They play your music on the college radio station I listen to. Am I right?" I must be slipping since I've retired. Of course that's who she is. I love her music. They play it at the Whole Foods where I shop.
She blushes and nods.
I hand Ric's card back to Joey. Joey studies it again and asks Ric, "What did your father tell you about our house?"
"Oh, it was my grandfather's only foray into building. The development was wildly successful and imitated throughout the country. Does your home have a sunken living room and cathedral ceiling?" he asks
"Yep," I smile. "We love it."
"My grandfather was a visionary. After he got out of the building business, he was one of the first people to set up shop in Silicon Valley, California in 1972," Ric informs.
"We heard he studied transcendental meditation with the Beatles in India," I blurt excitedly.
Don't tell me we're finally going to confirm this. Heart be still.
Joey, meanwhile, shoots me a look that says, "These young hipsters don't care about the Beatles," which kind of breaks my heart but I know he's right.
"The Beatles?" Ric questions. "I never heard that one, but knowing my grandfather, I suppose it could be true. How cool would that be? He was a student of T.M., I'll have to ask my dad to see if he has any more info."
Nah, nah, nah, Joey, he's a music producer and he drives a Lamborghini. He knows who the Beatles are.
I get the feeling that they would like it if we'd invite them in for a tour. I would love to do that, and invite them in for dinner, but damn it, Bob and Marcy Garber are coming over in a couple of hours. I am not going to expose our new cool friends to the dull-as-mud Garbers.
We stand around in awkward silence for a few seconds until Ric looks at Natalia and says, "Ready to rock, babe? Your parents are going to send out a search warrant for us," he remarks, rolling his eyes.
Natalia flashes him a warm smile before turning to Joey and me. "Weâd love the chance to visit and explore the inside of your house next time weâre in town. In the meantime, weâll try to uncover more about Ricâs grandfather. Itâs been such a pleasure meeting you."
"We'd invite you in now, but we have friends coming over for dinner and we need to get ready,â I explain. âMaybe you can come back when our daughter is in town. You might know her, she's Chef Jazz from Top American Chef and Food Television."
I don't meet Joey's eyes. I know heâs going to make fun of me for bragging and all the proud mama stuff.
"Chef Jazz is your daughter? That's amazingâI adore her! We watched her entire season of Top American Chef and, naturally, rooted for her to win since she's from Philadelphia," Natalie gushes, her enthusiasm contagious. Ric flashes a warm smile at us, adding to the moment.
Yay! I'm not embarrassed to pull the celebrity card in the presence of other celebrities. If I can't use it, what good is it?
Natalia and I exchange numbers, and I promise to let her know when Jazz is in town for the holiday season. That's when she and Ric will be back in town, too.
We chat a few more minutes about music and how much we all hate the surrounding LEGO houses. Then they're back in their orange Lamborghini and driving away.
"Well, that was interesting," Joey comments, opening the back door for me.
I nodded . "Too bad we have to follow it up with an evening of Bob and Marcy Garber."
"Be nice, Linda," Joey admonishes with a smile.
"I'm always nice," I reply in my best Mae West voice. "But when I'm bad, I'm better."
Linda and Joey Lisser have lived for many years in a house they call "Candyland," surrounded by cookie-cutter homes they refer to as "Lego-houses." He's a master chef who cooks gourmet meals for her; their only daughter, Jasmine (Jazz), has been a winning chef on one of the TV cooking shows and is a celebrity, recognized wherever she goes.
Jazz lives in Seattle, while Linda and Joey live in the Philadelphia area. Linda and Joey are a fun couple, very much in love, with each other, the house, and their dog Chester. Linda thinks they should move to Seattle to be with Jazz, but they know they can't afford to delve into the Seattle housing market. They have two sort-of friends, Marcy and Bob, whom they tolerate, but with whom they're not really close. Linda and Marcy meet for lunch at a specific restaurant, where they both usually order the same food from the same waiter.
Linda and Joey visit Jazz in New York City, where she's competing and judging a cooking competition with a guy who's twice her age, and known as the Pasta King. Linda gets the idea that the Pasta King and Jazz are an item, and she hates it.
This is where the story gets interesting.
Jazz resigns from her affiliation with Food TV and decides to return to Seattle to open a pizza pop-up business. Joey decides to spend a couple of weeks in Seattle with her, and teaches her a few tricks about making superb pizza. Linda stays at home with Chester, becoming more and more obsessed with Jazz and the Pizza King, and their potential relationship.
She's also hoping that Joey will be convinced to move to Seattle so they can be closer to Jazz--their only child.
I loved the easy writing style within this novel. It was as if Linda was having a conversation with the reader, allowing the reader to get into her inner thoughts and anxieties. She admits to smoking marijuana or using marijuana "edibles" to help her get through the day. She deals with a health scare. She confesses things to Chester and rarely keeps secrets from Joey. She loves Candyland, but hates the clutter Joey's collected over the forty-plus years they've lived in it. The reader hears Linda's inner monologues, learns about her favorite music, going back to the time when she and Joey went to their first concerts, and what she thinks when she learns that her friend Marcy had an affair with someone she knew.
There's a neat twist at the end, vis-a-vis Jazz's relationship that wasn't with "the Pasta King." I won't spill the beans, though.
I would recommend this book as a nice beach read for this time of year. It's fun, it's well-written, and it's the kind of novel that people may need during the turmoil this country is experiencing right now. I would have given it five stars if I hadn't found some punctuation errors involving quotation marks that happened often, but, beyond that, "Leaving Candyland" is uplifting and well worth the read.