Tis the Season

Yesterday, Michael picked two quarts of strawberries, and it was hard work. The berries were tiny and sparse. Then we stopped at a stand and bought four more quarts. .The season is winding down, and since we've had few or none for the last several years, we decided this was the year to get some. We put four quarts into freezer jam a week or so ago. Now I have four quarts capped and frozen whole for smoothies in the middle of winter. The ones Michael picked yesterday are going straight into our pie holes, as they are too delicious to put off for anything other than straight eating. We ate almost a whole quart last night, lightly sugared, with very lightly sweetened fresh whipped cream. Yum!!
Michael is very tolerant of my lack of ambition when it comes to stoop labor. I don't mind picking blueberries because I can stand to do that. Strawberries, though, require squatting, an activity I am morally and physically opposed to. Luckily, I also have a neurosurgeon who has told me not to do squats until after my surgery next year. So I'm free to read while Michael picks the berries. Life is good!
Since Memorial Day is upon us, I have decided that the time is right to take the Santas off my mantle. Those who know me well are aware that I stretch out the Yuletide season as long as I can make it, sometimes not dismantling the Christmas tree until Easter beckons. While I do have a huge artificial Christmas wreath hanging on the brick wall in our family room that stays up all year, and a cabinet filled with Santas in my bedroom, I usually put away the ones I scatter throughout the house much earlier. This year, though, the spirit to stow them didn't move me until today, so that will be one of my little chores for a holiday weekend. My doing that will make Michael happy.
I'll also get around to inventorying the freezer, which I still haven't done. Other than that, my weekend is free, just the way I like it. Have a good one!

More on dining out and "celebrating" Memorial Day

Michael and I went to Ruby Tuesday last night for dinner. We had wanted to take the young couple who are our neighbors, but they had been painting all day, getting ready for new baby, and were exhausted. We had the best of everything for a night out--a 25% off your entire bill coupon and a gift card from a grateful guy to whom we returned a high school ring he lost over 40 years ago. (Gotta love Facebook.)
There we were, being served by a very competent and zaftig member of the wait staff. I started with the salad bar and was gravely disappointed at the lack of both black olives and beets. I was trying to show at least the appearance of eating healthy--which is difficult once you've looked at the nutrition charts on Ruby's site--but Michael decided to throw caution to the wind and order a burger that came with about six slices of apple-cured bacon. He also had fries and some overcooked sugar snap peas. My chicken quesadilla was quite good but decidedly NOT lo-cal or in any other way healthy. It was supposed to come with "homemade" pico de gallo, but instead came with an obviously jarred salsa. It was good, but there was too much of it and it certainly wasn't what I'd call freshly-made. We got a take-out box for about a quarter of what we had been served so that we would have room for their latest treats: cupcakes. We each had two, one red velvet and one carrot cake. Both were delicious, with nice textures and great icing. Our server told us that they don't make them there (surprise!). Probably the best thing we had was the strawberry iced tea--very refreshing, barely sweet, and unlimited refills.
It was nice to go out on a weekday with no special occasion, and the price was right.
We went home and watched a streaming netflix movie now that I have figured out how to hook my netbook up to the flatscreen TV. We saw Heaven Can Wait with Don Ameche. It was in the "classics" genre. We saw The Thirds Man a few days ago, also a classic. We liked both of them, tho Third Man was so dark on the screen it gave new meaning to "film noire." Heaven Can Wait was much lighter in every way, including being in color and featuring a charming Satan (Laird Cregar) whom everyone called "Your Excellency." If you're a fan of the lovely overbite actress Gene Tierney, this is a good one for you. Having grown up with a fierce overbite myself, and the total lack of self-esteem to go with it, I always felt uncomfortable watching her, imagining that casting her as a beautiful woman was some kind of mistake.Getting braces in my forties went a long way toward making me feel better about myself.
Lunch today will be two kinds of leftovers, from Wednesday night's dinner in and Thursday's dinner out. It's the start of the holiday weekend, and we have no plans, which is just the way we like it. We are, thus, available as guests for any holiday barbecues. (Just kidding--a little.)
Wherever you are and whoever you are, have a great weekend, and keep in mind the people overseas and those who died serving, whatever you think of the wars themselves. Too many have given too much for so little.

The Gourmet's Return

Michael outdid himself last night: marinated broiled butterflied leg of lamb, served with herb-seasoned brown rice and a salad of freshly picked lettuces, lightly pickled beets, peas, sweet red pepper, and grated carrot, tossed in a balsamic vinaigrette. Dagmar brought a quart of fresh-picked strawberries, which I capped and lightly sugared and then served over thin slices of pound cake with a scoop of lemon sorbetto.We had a Malbec with dinner and champagne with dessert.
It is difficult to go out and spend much money on dinner when you can have really good food in your own house for so much less. Our trouble is that we really like going out as well, just for the experience, and we do go back to those places where we found good food. Sometimes there's a dish we either don't want to go to the trouble of duplicating or that, try as we might, we just can't duplicate. Thus, we have to go back to the roots of the dish and have it again in its native land.
Michael is one of those people who think that if you're not busy every minute, there's something wrong with you. He reads three newspapers in the morning and will sometimes read an article in a magazine like Time or National Geographic or Discovery in the evenings, but he's not really into reading books. He just finds it hard to sit still for that long. Even when he's watching the Orioles--as he is today--he is up and down. He'll run outside while KC is batting, or take a phone call and walk around while talking, or just go to the window to see what's going on in the neighborhood. Because of this and in order to avoid being thought of as a slacker, I've decided to start my day with a "chore" I want to get done. For me, that usually means emptying and organizing. Today, kitchen cupboards and drawers. It's amazing what accumulates in drawers along with the flotsam and jetsam of life: strange stuff that was once food, errant paper clips and rubber bands, two tiny screw drivers, chopsticks, a single edge razor blade. I'm lucky to still have a finger, considering how I found that. Anyway, those drawers and cupboards are now clean, newly papered, and reorganized. For a couple of weeks, I will once again know where to find the hoisin sauce and the peppermint extract, and I'll know just how many bottles of nose spray I have left until the next refill. I found a milk frother I forgot I had and an ice cream scoop that I'd never use for ice cream but  might use for cupcakes.
The next job  is to empty and rearrange the big freezer so that I can inventory what's in there and post it on the door. Every time I do that I vow to cross off each item as I remove it, and that vow is kept for just about exactly three weeks, after which I make no notations for several weeks and then realize that the list is totally useless. Still, I like doing it, so I will. But I might wait until tomorrow, because I think I've earned my reading time, not that I ever really feel guilty for reading--but I've got an answer if anyone asks why I'm reading or what I've done today. So there.

Drummettes, Twizzlers, and the "Ice Cream Machine"

Today was a low-stress food day. Breakfast in bed: coffee (as always), scrambled eggs, and whole wheat English muffins with fresh strawberry freezer jam. Lunch on the back patio: reheated lamb & eggplant casserole left over from last night. Afternoon snack on the back patio: wine and Twizzlers. Dinner: baked chicken drummettes and steamed broccoli. iced tea for Michael and water for me, followed by treats from the ice cream truck. Michael had a bomb pop, and I had Jolly Rancher push-up.
It must be summer; it's hard to believe that we had an ice cream truck come through our neighborhood, and maybe it wouldn't have, but Michael stopped by to see Ella (our neighbor's dog) and Sarah, who is pregnant, said, "Did you hear the ice cream truck?" We hadn't, but she had, two neighborhoods over, so we drove over there to ask him to be sure to come into our street.
As it turns out, Sarah decided not to indulge, but while Michael was buying ours, a car drove up and a father got out with two little kids. I guess they had decided to follow the truck as well, preferring that to waiting to see if it would show up on their street.
It's been a long time; we live in the eastern suburbs of Salisbury, in one of five neighborhoods that open onto Parker Road. The variety in the atmosphere of these neighborhoods is vast; some are close-knit little families; others, like ours, is a collection of mostly congenial acquaintances. Michael knows everyone better than I do, but he recognizes them by their cars, and I hardly know the cars my friends drive. He waves to everyone who goes by unless it happens to be the people who live immediately across the street from us, whose presence we never acknowledge.I have no idea who's riding by, so I don't wave--I suppose I'd rather snub a neighbor than wave at a stranger. That seems very odd. In any event, we don't live in the kind of neighborhood where one would expect an ice cream truck. We've had a few over the almost thirty-four years we've lived here, but not very often and never even two summers in a row. We've decided to patronize this one to keep it coming back.
I started  a new book today--I can't remember the title just now, but it has something to do with cutting stone (the title, not the book so far). It was recommended by Barb Fernald, who lives on the island in Maine that we visit. I ate the twizzlers while I was reading; Michael was cutting the grass.In about an hour he finished the grass and I got through a hundred or so pages. It's quite interesting and I'm hooked.
I think tomorrow will be a company dinner day, so I'll have to rattle around in the freezer to see what my options are. I think there's only one casserole left from last summer's bumper crop of eggplant and peppers. This year's pepper plants already have blossoms. Once summer is in full swing, I'll have to start cooking again and refilling the freezer. My favorite part will be replacing all the blueberries Michael picked last summer that we had to throw out when the freezer died in October. It's a tragedy to run out of blueberries in the middle of winter, so we supplemented with frozen ones from Sam's, They're not bad, but they're not local, either. Still, in a smoothie with banana and Greek yogurt, Sam's blueberries do just fine.

End of an Era

Michael's family sold their farm yesterday. It didn't go for as much as they had all hoped it would, but it went pretty well for today's market. We weren't looking for a windfall; as we said to each other last night on the ride home after dinner in Rehoboth, we could live without it and be happy. There won't be that much once all is said and done: there are taxes to pay, and the auctioneer gets a nice bite, and there are still some expenses associated with the farm until the new owner settles some time in the next forty-five days.
The worst part of it is that it's like a death in the family for Michael. There are happy milestones in everyone's family--marriage, the birth of children--and  sad ones, too--the death of one's parents or other loved ones, divorce, sickness--but for Michael, letting the farm go is one of the top five negative stessors in his life, right after losing his father, his mother, and his niece Tracey.
He lived on that farm for almost half his life, and he took care of it his whole life. Except for living in the dorms and in an apartment while he was in college, Michael lived there until we were married when he was almost 28. He went back home after college when all he could get was a seasonal job at the airport, and then, when that led him to permanent work at Dresser, he stayed at home, saving money and helping out. When his father died in 1975, he stayed on for two more years so that his mother wouldn't be alone.
After we got married, his Saturdays were usually spent at the farm, cutting grass, doing whatever chores needed doing. Over the years the work changed, and as his mother aged his responsibilities expanded. At first, I was jealous of his days "down there," until I realized that his Saturdays at the farm gave me my own personal Saturdays at home. I could do whatever I wanted to--clean, or read, or watch movies, or shop--without answering to anyone. After the kids came along, he would also take them down on Tuesday nights, when I worked, to have dinner with their grandmother.
Michael's mother lived to 88; she was sixty when her husband died at 63.That means that Michael took care of her the same length of time she took care of him--28 years, and there was never a moment of resentment in it. Michael loved his parents and he loved the farm where he grew up. He took care of his mother as he thought his father would have, had he lived. I helped out some--I took her into Salisbury for doctor's appointments or to shop after she stopped driving outside of the tiny community of Willards.I found out that one can learn a great deal about a man from watching the way he treats his mother. Thus, the more he did for her, the more I noticed what he did for me. He also showed the boys how to treat their mother. Whatever resentment some women might have felt toward their husbands and their mothers-in-law, I didn't feel. I had my issues with her over the years, and I can see her influence on Michael in some ways I don't particularly like, but overall, she was tied in to the farm, and his childhood was essentially idyllic.
While his brother remembers toiling on what was, in his time, a working farm, and his sisters remember feeling isolated and out of the loop being so far from Salisbury, Michael remembers with deep affection almost everything about living there, including having to ride his bike into town just to have someone to play baseball with.He remembers walking the farm with his father, helping his mother tend the chickens, having family meals together, listening to his father laugh at television programs, riding his brother's Chincoteague pony, running away from his sisters as they chased him through the house.
Even in the later years, when his mother needed live-in care and then moved to assisted living, Michael dealt with all of it. He kept the checkbook and paid the bills and scheduled the sitters and called the repairmen; at our house, I shared these responsibilities, but he did  it mostly alone for his mother and the farm.
Today, Michael didn't quite know what to do with himself. Luckily, it was a warm and windy day, just like yesterday, so all the plants around the house needed watering. That kept him busy for several hours. We took a walk, shared a glass of wine, watched a little TV. Tomorrow will bring a little more tying up of loose ends and a little more healing, but we both know the mourning process moves at its own pace, so we'll take it slowly and deal with each new stage as it comes.

Potable Potions

Today, one week has passed since I finished all grading for the semester, Now is the time to start talking about alcohol.
I came to drinking late, as far as I can tell. except for communion wine (we used the real thing) and my mother's homemade cherry wine, I hadn't tasted alcohol before I graduated from high school. I wasn't part of that scene. Had I known it existed, I would have wanted to be part of it, but who knew?
We'll skip the summer of learning to drink and smoke--I did require instruction in both, actually--and go right into the college years. I suppose that most of my drinking during college took place at "functions"--parties thrown by upperclassmen at the American Legion hall just west of town on Route 50. They would rent the basement, charge a couple of dollars a head to get in, and then get 50 cents for beer and $1 for a "mixed drink." What I drank probably depended on how much money I had, but my preference was the sloe gin fizz or the Singapore sling. They were probably identical; the "bartenders" would pour them ready-made from bottles and add a little soda. Voila! They were sweet, somewhat alcoholic, and cheap. The Epicureans, a group of guys from SU (then SSC) played the popular music of the day, and we'd drink and dance the night away.
The most important thing was making sure you had a ride home, especially if you were a freshman girl. Curfew on Thursday nights was 10:30. Girls needed to be in their dorms (mine was Holloway Hall) before curfew, and they had to be able to sign in without revealing any disabling intoxication. Just as it is today, Thursday night was the big drinking night, so functions were almost always then. That meant both an early curfew and, for me, an early phys ed. class. Jumping jacks at eight a.m.after a night of questionable alcoholic mixtures--not fun.
The best thing about functions (other than that they were held in plain sight in violation of all the campus rules--signs all over campus said "FUNCTION THURSDAY 9/22" and nothing else) was that I met Michael at the first one of my sophomore year, which was his freshman year. I won't go into all the details, except to say that we had been eyeing each other on campus for a few weeks, and I decided to ask him to dance. The rest is history. That was almost 44 years ago, and we've been together ever since. It took us ten years to marry, but we didn't break up and we didn't live together in all that time.Strange but true.
We did the usual college drinking and then the occasional party drinking after college, but we really didn't drink much as a couple. Michael traveled a lot for work and socialized with his colleagues and his customers, so he did a fair amount on the road, but that's probably at least partly why he wasn't particularly inclined to drink at home.
We had both tried wine and found it not so much to our liking, but we've decided, now, that that was probably because we didn't buy good wine, not even good cheap wine. Once we started going to wine tastings ten or so years ago, we realized how good wine can be, and we began to develop our own tastes for wine.
Rather than go on with this, I'm going to end with two drink recipes. These are my favorites, not necessarily Michael's. He likes them, but I love them. I'll talk more about wine another time.

Dark and Stormy:
2 oz Goslings Black Seal rum (it's not a D&S without this brand)
6oz Maine Root Ginger Brew (if you can find it--Gosling's Black Seal ginger beer is an acceptable--if not perfect--substitute)
squeeze of lime juice
Pour together over a tall glass of crushed ice

Champagne Napoleon
1 1/2 oz Mandarine Napoleon liqueur
chilled champagne (I prefer Moet & Chandon White Star; be sure to use a good one)
orange peel for garnish
Pour the liqueur into a flute; add the champagne slowly down the side to fill the glass; toss in the peel

Enjoi!!

Meditations, Schmeditations

OK, so I haven't actually started reading the Meditations yet. I have discovered, so far, that old Marcus himself did not and would not have given it that title or any other, as it is more of a "to-do" list than a book of thoughts or advice. Just sort of "note to self," so when I finish the introduction, should such an occurrence become a reality, I will turn the entries into sticky notes and use them to turn my life around.
I don't know when I'll finish the intro--I have about 20 pages left--it's really long! But I am determined to do it. Some things you just have to do for your own good.
The other thing I'll be doing for my own good is watching Blow Dry this afternoon, apparently by myself. I know a couple of people who can't come over, but a blanket invite must be scary. Why else would anyone pass up Alan Rickman and Natasha Richardson in a comedy about hairdressers??? and pizza?? in my quite comfortable house??? which is, not incidentally, laden with wine???
This makes me feel sixteen again, when Alison Langrell threw me a birthday party and no one came. High school was hard.
As anyone can tell, I have nothing to say today. I've been cleaning my office, throwing things away and filling up the paper recycling bin. I save too much stuff. Always. I'm turning over a new leaf, again. Neatness! Organization! Bins! Folders!
I'm sure that Marcus Aurelius will have something to say to me (to himself, actually) that will give me the inspiration I need to neaten things up. We'll see. I'll let you know. Thanks for reading.

Bridesmaids, Revisited

Michael and I went to see Bridesmaids last night, and I don't know what to make of it. I love Kristen Wiig in all of her SNL manifestations, and she proved to be a really good actress as well. While it was billed as a kind of female Hangover, the film didn't seem that to me. Several times during the movie I found myself inexplicably crying.
While there were several hilarious--and never-before-seen-at-least-among-females--moments, most notably the double-ended-food-poisoning-in-the-bridal-shop-moment, there was something so sad and touching about Wiig's character that it was difficult for me to just go with the laughter. What sounds clever and funny in the retelling--a mother who attends AA meetings even though she's not an alcoholic ("Only because I've never had a drink in my life!"), for instance, isn't all that funny in the close-ups. Which is not to say that it's unfunny or disappointing, just completely different from what I thought I was going to see and feel. There's a sweet sadness in seeing Jill Clayburgh--obviously not well--in her last role, and the good-hearted cop was a great character, but not necessarily a hoot. I think Wiig may be too good to write the kind of adolescent film she thought she was writing.
I also have a thing about making humor out of fat people. The sister-of-the-groom was wonderful, but I kept wondering why she had to be fat, whether that was a requirement of the role or just a coincidence in the casting. The odd roommates also were more confusing to me than comedic.Why would she ever room with that crazy guy from Little Britain?
We got out of the house, we saw something people are talking about and we went home to make strawberry freezer jam at 11 p.m. I guess there are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening--at least according to one of my sons.
I'm still waiting for those book titles, folks. Am I going to have to read Marcus Aurelius?

A Question and a Challenge

Back home again, after a trip down to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, which included a stop at Sysko's Cash and Carry (why do people go there?), lunch at Sonic, and a nice long visit at Thomas's Gardens to buy herbs and a hanging basket to transplant into a big pot. What started out as rather gray and cool turned into a beautiful sunny day . It was lovely, and now we're at home and just a little dopey from hot dogs and cherry limeade chillers.
I've been thinking about reading. I've probably read more this semester than any other during which I was teaching. I managed to keep one or two books on my bedside table and actually read them and then replace them with a couple more.
I realized, though, that if I have a bucket list at all, it's mostly made up of books I'd like to read. I've done pretty well. In high school, in order to get an A in English, we had to read two books every six-week term, and I did that--twelve novels a year, forty-eight in all, and they were mostly really good books. We had to choose them from lists the English teachers provided. I read Henry James and Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. In senior year, the books were in pairs, and we had to read the pair and then write a comparative essay. I remember two of the pairs: Pride and Prejudice was paired with Cry, the Beloved Country, and My Antonia was paired with The Good Earth. I actually loved them all; I didn't relish the writing, but that was probably at least in part because we didn't get a lot of instruction--at least not that I remember.
I don't think I did much pleasure reading while I was in college, but I did read in the summers and continued summer reading after I graduated and started teaching high school. I would go to the library and walk the stacks, looking for something to catch my eye. Once it did, I checked it out and read it, and, if I liked it, I went back and sometimes read everything else by the same author. Sometimes I went in for genres--there was the summer of Jewish writers, starting with My Name is Asher Lev and then going backward and forward through all the other Jewish writers I could identify, including Ira Levin and Philip Roth. Another was the summer of political thrillers--Robert Ludlam and Ken Follett and even Robert Shaw (the actor, who wrote The Man in the Glass Booth, a wonderful novel about a Nazi war crime trial).
After Michael and I were married, we sometimes picked up the Sunday New York Times (now we subscribe) and I would go through the book review section and if there was a review of a new book that looked really good, I'd call the library and put it on reserve, often before they even had their copy. Probably the last book I read that way was Shoeless Joe, which became the movie Field of Dreams, one of a handful of really great baseball movies. Other novels I read because I saw the movie first, like Now Voyager and The Natural.
Over the years I've read many of the classics--most of Faulkner and Steinbeck, much of Hemingway, a little Scott Fitzgerald. I've read Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton and Kate Chopin. I've also read many of the popular trade paperbacks that have come out in the last twenty years: Eat, Pray, Love, The Bridges of Madison County, Message in a Bottle, The Omnivore's Dilemma, Ishmael, The Life of Pi,and on and on. Ive read Stephen King's entire output except for the Dark Tower series, which I own, but have never opened.
Some books I read out of necessity. I taught two sections of American Women Writers of Color one semester, the fall that Toni Morrison came to campus to speak, so we read Beloved as our first novel, and then I moved on to others less weighty. I lead book talks for Delmarva Discussions, so I've read a variety of books for that, from Gone With the Wind to This Boy's Life. You get the picture: I have read.some books.

So here's where my question and my challenge come in: what should I read before I die? That is the question. The challenge is to come up with a book that fits that description but also is one I haven't read. Suggest a book, and I'll let you know where it lands in the basket of books I hope to collect. I could probably get by on just the books I already own that I have not yet read, but that's not nearly as much fun. .

Better Late Than Never

I spent the morning grading papers. I got through the last seven research-arguments, filled out the paperwork for my plagiarizers, and put everything on the computer so I could print out grade sheets. Their essays to be returned after the exam tomorrow are alphabetized by class. I'm ready to go.
I always have mixed feelings about the end of the semester. I can hardly wait for it all to be over, but there's a load of work to do. I'm looking forward to not having to go in to school, but I have to clean up my office. I'm tired of grading papers (the last set--the exam--comes in tomorrow) but I'll be leaving for Louisville in early June to grade a thousand or fifteen hundred AP exams in seven days.
Now I can finally sit down at the computer and compose today's blog. I was going to talk about the chicken and dumplings I made for dinner, but I didn't think they were very good, so I'll talk about something better.
We have friends--neighbors--who are the same age as Ben. They have a little boy, Sam, who will be two in October, and they're expecting their second child in September. They have a beautiful dog named Ella who is in love with Michael, and Sam can say "Mike."
They have a kegerator in their basement, which is almost always stocked with a quarter-keg of Yeungling. This has created a bond between Michael and Sam's dad. From time to time, Michael will walk down there and have a beer, or he'll receive a call inviting him down. This evening, just as I sat down at the computer, the phone rang, and it was Michael. He had gone over for a beer, and he called me to say that they were making s'mores.I probably wouldn't have left the house for beer alone, but the idea of s'mores at 9:00 was too tempting. I grabbed a flashlight and headed across the yard. Michael met me so we could take a couple of chairs along.
They have a fire pit at the end of their driveway, and it was burning brightly with several small logs. She had a bag of marshmallows, a pack of graham crackers, and some chocolate bars. She handed me a stick with two marshmallows on it, and I stuck them in the flames until they caught fire. I like my marshmallows burnt on the outside and runny on the inside. When they were ready, I made my little sandwich and tried to eat it in the dark. It was messy and delicious. The marshmallows weren't really hot enough to melt the thick sections of chocolate, but I didn't care. The man of the house had gone in and he came back with a tall, icy glass of beer for me.
I could probably go the rest of my life without drinking another beer and be fine with it, but there's something about the evening--the fire, the s'mores, Ella, the good company, the stories we told one another, the quarter moon and the big dipper overhead, the sparks, the quiet coolness--that made it enchanted and perfect.
We're lucky that way, to have friends who are wonderful people and with whom we can just be ourselves. We're old enough to be their parents, but, instead, we're just their friends. Thinking about the evening will relax me enough now so that I can go to sleep easily and wake up tomorrow morning to head off and give those exams. I was afraid today's blog wouldn't get done, but here it is. Goodnight.

I Can't Remember How Much I've Forgotten

Michael and I were talking last night about memory. He remembers everything--to a fault, and I do mean that. His memory is so good that when, on occasion, he does get a memory wrong, he takes forever--and Trump-like proof--to admit it.
He can tell me what I was wearing on occasions that I don't remember occurring. He remembers specific sights and sounds from his childhood; I do, too, but three of them, not every blessed one. Trips we took--to Williamsburg, before we were married--he can recall in quite specific detail. I remember that we went because I took some pictures, and I looked pretty good in them. I know we saw people in colonial costume because I have pictures of them, too. Michael remembers who he talked to and what the buildings smelled like.
I finally finished Elsie's book about Charlotte yesterday; I guess I've had it on my computer for a year, but I just hadn't made the time to get it read. I envy her! The details of Charlotte's gestation and first year are so vivid in that memoir that I will probably remember her babyhood better than those of my own children!
I remember being in the delivery room and watching Michael see Ben for the first time. I don't, however, remember Ben's face. The same with Jonathan. I remember talking to the anesthesiologist during the caesarian, but I don't remember what Jonathan looked like in that room. I have the newborn pictures they take at the hospital, of course, but why can't I remember the images that my mind should hold?
High school is equally obscure. I have flashes of memory: Mr. Cotton drinking a bottle of Coke as he taught us plane geometry; Mrs. Moore taping us as we read Shakespeare's Julius Caesar aloud in parts. I remember being called to the office during a pep rally only to learn that I had won the Valentine's contest in which we had to identify famous lovers by props in a display case. I know that Romeo and Juliet and Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle were two of the couples. I remember being in a chemistry lab.
I guess my most vivid memory is of the day President Kennedy was shot. Like so many others, I remember where I was (French class) and where we went next (biology). But what about all those other days? Kaye Wilkinson Barley (a high school classmate) wrote me yesterday that she remembered my mother putting together a taffy pull at a pajama party at my house. I don't remember ever having a pajama party--ever! I remember going to one or two, but at my house? I know my mother made taffy for us to pull several times each winter, but I don't remember actually doing it.
On the other hand, when I watch Jeopardy I often call out bits of knowledge I can't for the life of me figure out how I even know. I once correctly yelled, "Phillip the Second!" and then looked at whoever was in the room with me and said, "I didn't even know Spain had a king named Phillip."
Does my faulty memory really bother me? Only when Michael says, "Do you remember that day [40 years ago] when we did whatever?" and I have to say, "No, not really." He doesn't understand my lack of memory and I can only imagine his, especially since he vividly recalls all the sadness as well as the happy times. I can remember my mother's still face, lying on the gurney in the emergency room of the hospital. I remember saying to her, "Oh, Bertha," and crying for a few minutes. The next thing I remember is talking at her service and keeping the congregation in stitches with stories of her. Michael remembers every minute of the time he spent with his mother in her last days in the nursing home, when she was already gone, to all intents and purposes. He relives the feelings of impending loss, the loss itself, and how much at sea he felt after her death. He feels those feelings again and again. I don't, and I'm glad I don't have to.
I'll content myself, then, with pictures of my precious babies. That's probably why I'm so optimistic and even-tempered. I don't remember anything really bad, so I always expect life to be good. And for me, it is.

What's in a Name?

Another Mother's Day has come and gone--one more victory for Hallmark. My feeling is: love your mother. Love her every day if she has been a good mother, and distance yourself from her if she hasn't been, unless, of course, there are financial considerations at play.
Jonathan called me in the morning, before 10, which is pretty remarkable for him. He said all the cards he found were crap, and I told him that I'd rather hear his voice than read a card from him any day. He's a big ole puppy dog and I love him.
Michael made me blueberry pancakes and bacon, served in bed, which is usually where we eat breakfast unless we have company. We could still serve it in bed, I suppose, since it's a king, but there's less chance of spillage if we sit at the table.
Later, he put two more chickens on the grill and then made potato salad and a tossed salad. He wouldn't let me do anything. All day we expected that Ben would be joining us for dinner, but he made a curry for himself and some friends and then I took him to their house. He apologized on the way, but said that he thought Michael and I would enjoy having dinner alone. I assured him that I wouldn't take it as a personal affront. He's also a big ole puppy dog, and I love him madly.
I stopped on the way back and picked up two pints of Ciao Bella gelato from Giant: one "Tahitian Vanilla" and the other "Blood Orange." I also bought a pretty traditional-looking blackandwhite cookie. After dinner, I dished us up a high-end creamsickle with half a blackandwhite. It was scrumptious, and Michael actually watched almost the entire two hours of the finale of "The Amazing Race," which he doesn't even like. That's true love. (The pretty card and the orchid plant didn't hurt, either.)
It was a good day, if not exactly the Mother's Day of everyone's dreams. Except for a little afternoon research paper grading, though, it was pretty close to perfect for me.

Just-One-More-Meal

Just when you thought I couldn't wring another dish out of last Sunday's chickens--chicken soup! Michael had made us oatmeal and toast for breakfast, but by 1:30 we were both famished (in that attractive way that affluent people living in the world's richest country can be hungry), so I agreed to make grilled cheese sandwiches. Michael left to buy flowers while I cooked.
Alas, there was no bread in the house. Not entirely true, as we had plenty of multi-grain sandwich thins, but if you want the world's lamest grilled cheese sandwich, use thins. Yekh! I called him and he came home with not only big hanging baskets of wave petunias and a huge pot of geraniums, but also a loaf of whole wheat and a loaf of rye.
Since I couldn't make the sandwiches while he was gone, I decided to go ahead and make soup. I had a quart-and-a-half of rich, herby chicken stock, so all I needed was something to add to it to give it texture. I chopped up four carrots into a small dice and put them in a dutch oven with a teaspoon or so of olive oil. As that was heating, I grated a piece of fresh ginger into the pot. I had forgotten how hot ginger is--I licked my finger and set my mouth on fire.
After the carrots had been in for about two minutes, I added a carton of Swanson's broth and let that come to a boil.Next I poured in the real broth from the roasted chickens.l When that was at a rolling boil,. I threw in half a box of whole wheat rotini and let it cook for 9 minutes (per the box instructions) and then turned the heat to low. It continued to simmer and thicken up a little.
By the time Michael got back I had sliced some jarlsberg, which went perfectly with the rye. Five minutes after his return, we were eating grilled cheese sandwiches, chicken-ginger-carrot soup, and a bottle each of Maine Root ginger brew.
Afterwards, we went outside to see the flowers he had bought, and we walked around the house, holding hands. and admiring his handiwork. Spring is finally here, just in time for Mother's Day.

Eating Out on the Spur of the Moment

When I'm right, I'm right, and I was right. Last night we went to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, so that we could scout out the Marshall's for more pasta sauce. Again, only one jar of sauce in the entire store! This one had  portabella mushrooms and something else I can't remember, but we bought it. We walked out with our one item feeling very proud. Michael asked me whether I wanted to eat in Lewes or Rehoboth, and I was trying to be frugal, so I said Rehoboth. I thought we'd go into town, stop in at Grotto's for pizza, and be off again for under $20.
Instead, he pulled into the  lot under the huge ORECK vacuum cleaner sign on Route 1, and we parked at Nage.We were skeptical as to whether we would be able to get a table, it being Friday night around 7:15. Who goes to dinner almost anywhere at 7:15 without a reservation? We've eaten at the bar before, and loved it, so we thought, what the heck? We got a table, so I'll get right to the food.
 Our waiter, John, who has served us before, was pleasant and knowledgeable. We weren't interested in the $59 tasting menu, and hoped to have just a sandwich and a beer. Sadly for us, all their draft beers are local craft brews which, around here, means hoppy ales rather than the lager beers we like, so instead of beer we had Dark and Stormys made with Black Seal rum and Black Seal ginger beer. Both of us had been on Islesford in our minds all day, so the drinks were the perfect nightcap.
John told us about the specials, paying particular attention to the beet soup. He said it was thick and rich and delicious--if we liked beets. After he left to get the drinks, Michael and I discovered we were on the same wavelength. We both wanted the beet soup and a sandwich; I chose the crab cake; he picked the prime rib burger.
The soup came fairly quickly, and it was beautiful. It was served in a white bowl with a large lip that was curved under so that it looked almost like an upside-down hat. The soup was a smooth puree, that perfect beet red, with dots of cocoa nibs and a goat cheese fritter that was about the size of a ping pong ball, flash fried to a crisp outside and a creamy inside. To say it was delicious would be an understatement. It was rich, earthy; there was no identifiable seasoning, just perfectly cooked and pureed beets.
The sandwiches  looked as good as they tasted. My crab cake was huge and meaty, served on a bun with tomato-and-onion jam (sweet and delicious) and a side (think side of cow) of shoestring fries that were drizzled with truffle oil. Michael's prime rib burger was equally large, covered in melted cheese, and accompanied by those same fries. Except for sharing a bite of each sandwich, we communicated very little during the eating phase, except to say things like, "Oh my God, that's good." It was everything we wanted and then some.
So we spent three times as much as we might have--why shouldn't we? We both had rough weeks, mine filled with grading, Michael's with grass cutting and other yard work, at home and at the farm. As we were driving away, heading toward home, Michael asked if he had surprised me. I told him he had, a little, because I know him, and he had been wanting a nice evening out. There's no better way to spend a Friday night than having dinner at Nage, and I told him so as I thanked him for a wonderful evening. We drove the hour back home listening to Paul McCartney's "Hello New York City" CD, holding hands in the car.

Another One Bites the Dust

The only thing left to do with the roasted chicken from Sunday was to throw together a casserole. Michael and I had been talking about trying to incorporate more curry powder and turmeric into our diet, since both are purported to have anti-inflammatory properties and since we both suffer from osteroarthritis in various body parts.
Curried chicken it would be then; this is important for several reasons. Four days after the cooking, there's not a lot of chicken left, perhaps the equivilant of almost one entire breast (both sides). A casserole can stretch out the protein to serve four  when, served alone, the same amount might serve only two. Second, four days in the refrigerator suggests to me that heating the chicken through is a good idea. The amount of bacteria in food is something remarkable, and I'd rather not have gastric distress just because I'm frugal.
My plan, then, was a relatively simple one: cook some brown rice, chop the leftover chicken, steam some broccoli, and combine everything to bake in the oven until bubbly. I added the spices to the rice rather than to the sauce or the chicken; it gives the rice cooker a lovely golden glow. I mixed several spoonfuls of Miracle Whip with one of Greek yogurt and a little milk to thin it out. I added that to the chicken in a casserole dish. I dumped in the rice when it was almost done and then the steamed broccoli. After I had tossed it all together, I sprinkled on some Italian seasoned breadcrumbs and grated a little parmegiano-reggiano over the top. It was in the oven at 350 for about 25 minutes. Michael and Ben both added salt at the table, but I was fine with it. I wish I had put some of the curry in the sauce, but it was fine. I brought half of the leftovers for lunch today.
Dinner was one of those strangely silent ones; sometimes Michael seems moody for no reason I understand. It might have been the dinner; it might have been the music ("A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night"); it might have been that the Orioles were trounced in a day game; it might have been nothing in particular. I've found it's best not to question him at these times. I try to give him space for his moods, something that I usually don't need because I'm not moody.
I am generally operating on an even keel and rarely get upset even about things that seriously affect others. My mother taught me, by example, that pragmatism beats out temper every time. Since there were six of us siblings, dinner was a noisy adventure. If someone spilled milk or tea or soda at the table, my father would explode. He wanted to know who had spilled it and why, as if a child could possible explain to his/father why the glass went over. My mother, on the other hand, would grab a sponge or a towel and clean it up without saying a word.
Michael wears his emotions on his sleeve. In me, still waters run deep. I feel a lot and think a lot, but I keep both to myself much of the time. The combination has worked for us for the almost 44 years we've know each other and the almost 34 years we've been married. I guess we'll keep it up.

Marshall's and Michael

Michael loves to shop at Marshall's. I think it's part of his fundamental nature, the part that says, "I must have the best, but I must not pay full price." I remember when, in the early years of our marriage, my sister told me about a store she had discovered called TJMaxx. She said it had brand name clothes at low prices and that the merchandise changed almost every day. It sounded like a good idea to me, but where would I find one? She lived outside of D.C. at the time.
Then we learned that a TJMaxx had opened in Dover. Fifty miles is not so far to go for a real bargain, so we packed up the kids and went. Michael was skeptical, but when he was able to buy a Ralph Lauren sports coat for under a hundred dollars, he signed on for life. We continued to travel to Dover for various purchases; one year when we all needed winter coats, we walked out of there with five. (I got two; what can I say?) The nest thing we knew, wonder of wonders, someone built a Marshall's--the TJMaxx sister store-- three minutes from our house! Needless to say, it is a store we frequent, in every sense of the word.
Anyway, after he dropped me off at school yesterday--yes, I'm nine years old and I'm taken to school every day--he stopped in and came away with a jar of artichoke pasta sauce. When we got home, around 6:20, he asked me what I wanted for dinner. That usually means, "What are you going to cook for dinner?" so I said, "I don't know" and walked away. About twenty minutes later, I asked him what he wanted, and he said we could have that pasta and a salad. Fifteen minutes later, we were eating pasta and a salad. I heated up the sauce, cooked half a box of Gia Russa whole wheat angel hair (three minutes flat), and stepped out onto the front walk to snip some micro greens. I tossed them with a little onion, a little shallot, some kalamada olives, and a dressing of fig-flavored balsamic vinegar (from Olivier & Co. in Greenwich Village), olive oil, and a pinch of Dijon mustard. I threw on a few fat-free parmesan croutons et voila! dinner. Michael poured us each a glass of Gumdale Shiraz-Cabernet.
Ben said the sauce was so good it made him forget there was no meat in the meal, a perenniel complaint of his when we're trying to eat especially healthy. Michael said he was disappointed that there was only one jar of pasta sauce in the whole store. This might mean a road trip is in our future: there's a Marshall's in Ocean City and another in Rehoboth Beach. I love a man who loves to shop!

There is something deceptively simple about chicken salad. It seems so simple, in fact, that many people destroy it in their attempts to improve it. That said, I'll tell you how I make mine.
If I set out to make chicken salad from scratch, as it were, I might start with a whole chicken and simply boil it. That would do two things for me: one, I'd have the cooked chicken, and two, I'd have a nice stock. That equation makes perfect sense to me, except that I find salad made from boiled chicken rather bland in its essence and the stock equally so. While it can be done that way, then, I prefer the more flavorable route of using leftover roast chicken as my foundation.
I could, therefore, simply stop by Sam's Club or another store that sells rotisserie chicken and pick one up, chooseing a variety that appeals to me: lemon-herb or barbecue or some other. I, however, happen to live with the man who makes the best herb-roasted chicken in the world. I basically gave you his recipe yesterday. Know that if we have no apples to stuff the chicken with, he has been know to use oranges, or peaches, or even dates and figs. There's something about having all that fresh fruitiness inside the bird as it cooks on the kettle grill that gives it a je ne sais quoi. (I belive that's blogese for "I can't think of what I want to say about it.")
In any event, the fruit on the inside and herbs on the outside create a chicken that is delicious all by itself. None of the blandness of boiled chicken breast for me! I chop the chicken into a fairly fine dice and do the same for a stalk or two of celery, depending on how much I'm making at one time. These days, with either two or three of us eating dinner at home, I try to cook with as few leftovers as possible, especially with dishes like chicken salad or coleslaw, that only sit well for about two days in the refrigerator.
I add a large spoonful of Miracle Whip--we're MW, not mayo, people--and a heaping teaspoon of my secret ingredient: homemade sweet red pepper relish. Voila! Chicken salad.
I know people who add nuts or grapes or chopped apple or something else, and, I must say, I just don't like it. Of course, this is all a matter of taste; far be it from me to tell you how to eat your chicken.
Last night we had ours with leftover coleslaw and whole grain sandwich thins. It was a comfortable, casual dinner that Michael could eat in the family room while watching the first half of the Orioles' game (later lost in the tenth) and I could eat in the kitchen watching the end of the local news.
For a variation, try adding a nice spoonful of curry powder and/or turmeric and some chopped onion, along with, perhaps, some just-thawed (not cooked) frozen baby peas, and you have a cool chicken curry salad. If you've got it, don't forget to chop some of the dark meat as well as the breasts for even more flavor, and if your diet allows, finely chop a little of the skin and throw that in as well. Yum!
Whether I've made a gourmet feast or I've put together a meal of leftovers, Michael always thanks me, usually more than once, for making dinner. That goes a long way. It's amazing what a sincere thank-you can do.

Home cooking

My son Ben cooked dinner for us last night. He made a Mayan pork dish, spicy, but served it over brown basmati rice with a cool mango pico de gallo. It was delicious. Like Michael and me, Ben loves to cook and enjoys trying new recipes. He's especially into hot and spicy; he loves hot sauce and cooking with fresh hot peppers. We always have disposable plastic gloves handy for chopping and seeding peppers. Soon will be time to plant peppers in pots around the house so we'll have a handy supply.


Right now, most of our cooking plants are greens and herbs; we have lettuces of several varieties, spinach, flat-leaf and curly parsley, and thyme and rosemary. Onions, scallions, and chives are handy as well.


Sunday afternoon Michael cooked two chickens on the kettle grill; we salted and peppered them inside and out, then sprinkled on poultry seasoning, crushed rosemary, thyme, herbs de Provence, and Mrs. Dash. Two apple quarters stuffed inside the cavity meant they were ready to go on. Less than two hours later--delicious herbed chicken. The three of us ate a leg quarter and a wing each, and the rest was pulled off the bones for sandwiches and chicken salad; the carcasses were boiled down and strained to produce a quart and a half of rich broth that will become a soup.

We tried to get in touch with several different friends to make this a spur-of-the-moment dinner party, but I had waited too long and used Facebook instead of the telephone. We love having people over for dinner. Wine is usually a part of the deal as well. Add some homemade coleslaw, pickled beets, roasted sweet potatos right out of the skin, and iced tea with lots of lemon, and there is dinner, better than restaurant food unless you're willing to travel far and pay a lot.