First Blog Post of the New Year

Do you ever do that thing where you wake up on the first day of the first month of a new year in a new decade where you think, "Oh, the first text message of the new year"..."Ah, the first cup of coffee of the new year"....like that?

It occurred to me this morning, when I received aforementioned text (at 7am...but from someone in another time zone so I forgive her), that my kid self did it a lot. Almost obsessively compulsively a lot. I have no idea why I was so struck by the occasion of things being a first; particularly given that we're not talking here about significant firsts (like cars or kisses). It was all of the ordinary and mundane: "this is my first breakfast of the new year"... "this is the first time I'm making my bed in the new year"..."I am not going to yell at my sister Martha Stewart for that stupid thing she just did because if I did then it would be my first yelling in the new year and I don't want to start out the new year like that"...

Maybe it was (is) my latent Celtic DNA, something that makes me predisposed to embrace turnings, shifts and tilts and to look for some personal meaning therein. I will, very shortly, cease the running "this is the first time..." commentary because my brain will refill with other noises. But it is a reminder of the importance not so much of firsts but of mindfulness. It's easy to be mindful on New Years Day. Because all is quiet on New Years Day. It's a day for lying around, for recovering from the night before. And in the quiet and the not-doing of New Years Day it is much easier to be aware. And that's still a quality I'd like to better cultivate in myself.

You know what I just realized? I've been very mindful so far in the new year. Yay me!

Happy felicitated new year!

Things that Make You Go "Huh?"

This is just fascinating.

You don't have time to read the article? Fine. Some woman in Ireland has a following on Twitter (6,000 before today's article) to whom she sends recipes. I don't Twitter, but a "tweet" is limited to 140 characters. That's right: think about it. This woman reduces complex international dishes to 140 characters. According to the Times author, they are delicious recipes. Kids, I couldn't tell you how to make coffee in 140 characters. This is quite an achievement, considering that they do, in fact, work. Really, you should read the article.

But the thing that smacked my gobs wasn't the fascinating process of reducing deliciousness to a minimum of symbols nor the attendant challenge of unpacking them in your kitchen to make dinner. (It goes without saying you'd have to have to solid cooking basics in your possession to decipher her tweets). No. It was this line:

"It’s attracted a bizarre amount of attention relative to what I consider my serious work,” she said, meaning her life as a poet, writer and anarchist. “Which perhaps is an indication that we shouldn’t take ourselves too seriously.”

Anarchist? That pretty, smiling chickey poo standing in a dress @ her stove?

Every anarchist I've ever encountered wore black, sported heavy, threatening looking shoes and scowled a lot. Anarchists are, in my experience, heartbreakingly serious and angry. I think anarchist and picture flaming Molotov cocktails, kicking in Starbucks windows during WTO protests and very bad haircuts. (I also never thought of anarchy as a career path. What's that pay, anyhow? Do you get health and dental with that? Stock options?)

This article blew my delighted little mind on at least two levels. That's a nice way to start the day.

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Coffee:Grind 1/4c beans/put in basket/add 10c H2O/press start button/wait.

OK, maybe I could tweet a coffee recipe. But still. I just hope, with all my heart, that if someone convinces her to publish a cookbook it is the size of a cell phone.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It is, as The Spouse describes it, "punch you in the face cold". We got about 2 inches of snow on Sunday. The roads are clear...there's just a little ice around here (it's worse in other places)...but more snow is predicted.

I hope it doesn't snow. If it does it will be impossible to go to Mr. Stewart's funeral and I'd like to be there for Martha. Not to mention, there's a school concert on Wednesday and I still have some Christmas shopping to do. Like, a lot, actually.

But the snow is so pretty, the sky so clear, the moon so bright. You gotta like that. Especially when the house is so toasty warm and the coffee good and hot.

My Bad

When The Spouse and I started dating he was intrigued by the fact that I kept a coffee maker in my bedroom. It acted as my snooze alarm. The night before I'd set it up with fresh ground beans. Then when my alarm rang in the morning I'd roll over and turn on the coffee maker. When the last gurgle of steam hissed and the fragrance of fresh coffee filled the room, then I knew to get up. Which I would. Right after I had my first cuppa.

The Spouse thought this was pure genius, so he married me.

With two people drinking coffee in the morning, we needed a bigger coffee maker, which moved into the kitchen. But being able to have that first cup right away was still vital so we'd take turns setting it up the night before. One night it was his turn but I did it, telling him that it was my privilege to serve him. (Newlyweds). He latched onto that and coffee duty became The Privilege.

(You do not, however, have to do The Privilege on your birthday. We even have a song about it).

Well, ever since The Spouse started taking the bus to work, he gets up way earlier than me and somehow or another it evolved that he did the Privilege during the week and I did it on the weekends. I don't really know how that happened; there was no reason why I couldn't do it. But then, I think that was emblematic of a lot of things around our house. As an at-home mom, I started doing a lot of things that we used to share because I was here, he wasn't and it just made sense. And if someone starts doing all the laundry it's easy for the other person to stop thinking about doing it.

The other night The Spouse told me that, with me working, it was time to get back to the way we used to do things: trading off cooking dinner during the week, sharing the household responsibilities 50/50, etc. He even said he'd go grocery shopping with me. (He hates grocery shopping and frankly, I don't think we have to take it that far; I happen to love grocery shopping). I'll be honest with you, it rather blew me away. Oh, you better believe I had every intention of broaching that subject but for him to offer it like that was the best "going back to work" present I could have been given. In that spirit of cooperation, I told him that we should also return to sharing The Privilege.

It was my turn last night and I totally forgot.

I'm glad it's a three day weekend. We're meeting some old friends for dinner tonight and one of The Spouse's on-line buddies is coming to stay. But I hope to use the time to get our new systems in place, put away the laundry that was washed days ago and generally try to set it up so that household-y things start functioning a little better. I'm also going to remember to do The Privilege.

All that has absolutely nothing at all to do with today's musical selection. I just happen to think it is a terribly delightful and quite sing-a-longable and it makes me happy.




The Dandy Warhols "We Used to Be Friends"

All The News That's Fit to Print

I started my day, as I frequently do, with a cuppa coffee and the NY Times, which I read online.

(We subscribe to the Seattle Times, which I don't read except maybe on Sunday, sometimes. The Spouse reads it on the bus. Then he brings it home and gives us "the quiz"...some goofy little "test your knowledge" thing. It's a dinner time game. And then he tosses it into a big basket behind his chair that eventually freaks me out so I dump it in the recycling. My point is that I sometimes advocate for dropping our subscription but he won't hear of it because he likes the comics. Even though I'm pretty sure he could find every one of them on line, for free).

Reading the NY Times isn't something I do to feel superior to my Seattle Times reading husband. It's just that the local paper doesn't do much of a job of international issues or national politics and that's the stuff in which I'm interested (even though blah blah, all politics is local, blah blah). Plus, the NY Times does reviews of plays and musicals that I'll get to see in 3-5 years when they finally get around to touring all the way out here. And the NY Times has really good columnists.

For a while there, you may be aware, the NY Times was trying this thing called "Times Select", wherein if you wanted to read Maureen Dowd or Paul Krugman or David Brooks you had to sign up, pay money and then and only then could read them online.

Seriously.

I was furious. So furious that I almost cancelled my subscription, for which I pay $0.00. I flirted with the Washington Post. [Actually, more than flirted. We get together at least a couple times a week. And the BBC. We're not even going to count NPR because that's the radio. Totally different.]

I wouldn't have objected, theoretically, to them charging a small annual fee for an on-line subscription. I probably wouldn't have paid it, but in theory it would not have been offensive. What bugged me was the suggestions that parts of the website were sooooo special and soooooo fabulous that not everyone was worthy to read them unless they proved their worthiness by paying.

I tend to think of myself as 'specially fabulous but I don't need to pay to prove it, thankyouverymuch.

So for months I'd look at that stupid red "Times Select" button and quietly seethe.

But the Times just recently abandoned their stupid little buttons. I forget why. Perhaps because they realized they earn their website money from ad revenue just like everybody else. Maybe it's because hardly anyone was clicking on those little buttons yet the editorials were still getting out there. [People silly enough to pay were doubtless emailing columns to friends. Folks could still pick up the print copy of the Times, for free, in a coffee shop and reading whatever they wanted].

Maybe, just maybe, people like Mo and Paul and Dave saw a significant drop off in their mail and went to their editors and said, "Hey! No one is reading us anymore".

I don't know. I don't care. I just needed something to write about this morning that didn't have anything to do with the 10+ and still counting hours I've spent on the school directory. But I'm glad the NY Times got rid of those silly little buttons because it meant that I could enjoy this with my morning coffee.

This and That

I love to sleep. I've always been something of a night owl but since getting sick, I've been going to bed around 10pm, sometimes even earlier. And I'm loving it. Who knew the difference getting 8 hours of sleep a night could make? You'd think some health organization would have lauded these benefits by now. Sheesh.

You know that old saw about "I'll sleep when I'm dead?" I always hated that. Makes it sound like sleeping is a bad thing. I myself am a big proponent of sleeping. Especially of naps. Lordy, lordy, naps are a beautiful thing. People should take them more often. I think the world would be a better place if everyone would have a snack and a little lie down in the afternoon. Maybe with some nice music softly playing in the background. There'd be less stress, I'm pretty sure of it.

The other thing about sleeping more is that I'm even perkier when I get up at 6am. I didn't used to like early rising. Made me nauseous. But I've come to really enjoy 6am. It's a lyrical time. The sun is just risen, or just about to rise. The air is full of lark-song. (I actually don't know that we have larks here but it sounds very poetic, doesn't it?) Coffee tastes richer at 6am. And the house is still. The Spouse is gone, The Child and Dog are still sleeping. Sometimes The Cat is up, meowing for her can but once I feed her she shuts up, too.

I don't like 7am for rising. It's too sharp edged, too close to the rush of the day. I can't sit and savor my coffee and a good book at 7am. If I can't get up at 6 I'd rather just wait until 8. Maybe I just prefer even numbers. No, that's not true. My favorite numbers are 21 and 23. And 7 is a lovely time for dinner, whereas 6 seems entirely too early and geriatric. But for rising time, 6am is perfect.

Now that I'm feeling better, I'm thinking I'll still go to bed earlier. There's not much going on at 10pm worth staying up for. 10pm used to be a good time for television but it's really not so much anymore. "Battlestar Galactica" will probably be on at 10pm so I guess I'll stay up on Sunday nights. "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style" is on at 10pm on Thursdays. I love the Gunn. But I've decided I only love him enough to tape him. I don't feel like staying up to watch him.

I used to stay up to watch "ER" but those days are gone. I hate "ER". Know why? Because the entire premise of the show is that happiness is stupid. Don't believe me? Name 2 people on that show that are happy. You can't. And when people do get happy one of two things happen. Either they leave the show, so that we don't have to watch their happiness (Doug, Dr. Carter, Susan, Carol - who, of course, went off and reunited with now-happy Doug) or else they die. That's right. Dr. Green gets happy and they give him a brain tumor. Nela gets happy and her husband gets blown up in Iraq. I'm telling you, they hate the happy on that show. And it ticks me off. So I don't watch it anymore.

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I read something really beautiful this morning that I'd like to share with you. I'm rereading Looking for Mary or, The Blessed Mother and Me by Beverly Donofrio. It's a terrific book, even if you aren't Catholic. Anyway, she's writing about a pilgrimage to Medjugorje and the priest that is leading the group gives this little homily:

"God gave everything to man and woman. Only one thing he said "Do not touch". A big success for Satan when he focused Eve's eyes from all that she had onto what she was missing. It is the human condition. All conflict begins at the same moment, when I become blind to what I have and see what I don't. We are conditioned to believe we need more to be happy. It's not bad to have more. It's bad when you do not see what you have. A man who lost his leg didn't feel joy when he had it.

"Life has to be more simple. We have so many gifts. If you want peace, open your eyes to what you have around you and say thank you".

That was a good reminder to me, after spending too much time yesterday mired in what wasn't done. It's good to be reminded to say "thank you".

Today Has Not Begun Well

The Spouse is my snooze alarm. About 5 minutes after my alarm brutally rings, he comes to me with a cup of coffee and a goodbye kiss. A most excellent way to begin one's day.

This morning he came in with the kiss and an apology. He'd managed to make coffee without installing the pot. And he had to go to work. Oops. Sorry.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

Sure, there was a pool of coffee on the kitchen floor but I have to mop today anyway. No, the problem was other.

First, there are no coffee beans in the house. No where. Which means that the only coffee available is the emergency pre-ground stuff that was leftover from the Big Blow. Fine. The adage "coffee is coffee" is not one I ascribe to, but a sip or two of hot beverage is still required.

The situation is not optimal but it is times like these that test one's character. I was brave.

Except that something, and heaven only knows what, has rendered the coffee maker mute. It will not light up. The little digital clock face is blank. I unplugged and replugged the machine (because that's the first thing you do in any mechanical misfire). Nothing. I smacked it, gently, but smacked it. Nothing. I swore at it. Still nothing.

Having exhausted my technical repertoire, I boiled some water and made some totally crappy coffee with the emergency* crap.

Fortunately, I do not have time to sit around and worry about this unfortunate turn of events. I have a house guest coming tomorrow and preparations must be made. Including getting some decent coffee into the house.

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Yesterday The Child and I went out to harvest grapes. Ah, the vendage. The harvest was not as bountiful as last year but there look to be enough to make jelly and juice. But that's not the important bit. The important bit was that as I was harvesting on one side of the vines and she on the other, I was thinking to myself that this was one of those perfect moments: brisk autumn breeze, the rustle of leaves, the snip of the shears, the scent of the grapes warmed by the sun. It made me recall moments on the farm, harvesting this or that with my grandpa or Dame Judi...little moments so perfectly perfect that they swell and make it seem, in memory as if growing up was always late summer, always harvest. And it made me wonder, as I do from time to time, what moments of her childhood will stick with The Child in that way?

And as I was thinking that The Child sighed and said, "I really love doing this, mama. It's one of my favorite things". She went on to rhapsodize about the glory of grapes, how they need so little effort...just planting and watering and pruning to yield satisfying fruit. She asked if I'd be making a winemaker's cake with some of the grapes and if there would be enough for her favorite juice. She told me that she wants to own a vineyard when she grows up.

I almost cried.

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*Note to self: get decent coffee for the emergency rations. What? We're going to compound the stress of a cataclysm by drinking crap? I think not.

Thursday Tosh

Thanks for all your good wishes yesterday about what I am now calling the Little Job. It's not that big a deal, really, given the money and the hours but it accomplishes a few things, not the least of which is effectively ending my summer as of tomorrow. But I realize that 99.9% of you work full-time and have 2 weeks, maybe, of summer anyway so whining about that would probably not warrant any sympathy. So I won't.

Pamelamama left a comment celebrating "worthwhile work". I don't know that this qualifies. It's hardly my dream job. The more I think about it, my dream job is building a miniature replica of all the sets for "Battlestar Gallactica" and selling tickets so people can come see my little tiny Play-doh® Laura Roslin and Bill Adama. So I'm looking at this as seed money for that project.

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Here's something else I haven't mentioned yet:

A few weeks ago Seattle Coffee Girl asked if I would be her doula when Buffy comes. Of course I said "yes". One of my dearest friends was with The Spouse and I when I brought forth The Child and I swear it wouldn't have been accomplished without her. There's just something about having another woman there, whose been through it and knows you well, to make the job just a little easier. Plus, I'll have the privilege of being one of the first people ever to see the little beggar and that's exciting to me.

I should point out that the use of the word little in this instance is ironic. He looks to weigh about 9 pounds already and her due date is September 2. Can you say "inducing"? "Yes, miss, I'll have a gin and tonic and would you bring a Castor oil on ice for my friend here?"

It's all terribly exciting. It's been a long time since our circle had a baby around and he stands to become one of the most fawned over babies in history. Do keep her in your thoughts and prayers, won't you?

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People were grumpy in my house last night. That was lame.

Here's what a typical evening looks like. The Child is usually off playing or zoned out in front of the TV. I'm usually in front of the computer. The Spouse comes home. We say "hi". Then he gets in front of the computer. And sometimes, sure, the greetings are a bit more effusive than "hi" but we all stay in our separate little areas until it's time for dinner and I don't know but I'm thinking that isn't optimal.

When we first got back from France, years and years and years ago, we adopted the concept of apertif, having a nice leisurely drink, a little nibble of something and some polite decompression conversation when The Spouse came home. Then he'd be left to further down time while I got dinner ready. That was nice. And we totally got out of the habit because frankly, our culture doesn't really support that sort of thing. We're really just not a "take some time and have a leisurely anything" sort of culture.

Hurry up and get out the door. Hurry up and work. Hurry up and take a break but hurry back because there's work to do. Hurry up and cook dinner and eat it in 10 minutes because I have homework/a meeting/a TV show at 8. Oh! Look at the time! I'd better hurry up and get to bed.

Our family doesn't even really operate at such a frantic pace most of the time but that "hurry up" thing is still at play somehow anyway. I'm feeling a serious need to don some pearls and greet The Spouse with a nice dry martini when he gets home tonight. May sound a little June Clever but Ward and June had it going on.

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And finally, this song has, for no particular reason, been on my mind for days.





"It's My Life" Talk Talk

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Now I have to go put baking soda on The Child's foot. She's sporting her second yellow jacket sting of the summer and she's not happy.

Breakfast of Champions

I have been trying all morning to think how to start this post. I know you are all dying to hear all the details from the superfantastic weekend with The Hat but I don't know where to begin.

"Start," said The Child, "with how I wanted money to go to the co-op to buy a chicken pot pie for lunch".

Well, that would be a beginning. But not what I was going for.

"But it's a good place to start because, remember? I just came home when she pulled up in Big Red and was honking and you were picking lavender for the ice cream (and really, mom, it's too strong) and how we waited for her to get out so we could hug her".

Well, that's a little better. Let's start with the hugs.

Miss Hat fiddled with things in her car as we waited. And waited. And I finally said, "Get over here!" and she got out and we hugged. A big, long, tight, hello-my-long-lost-friend hug. And then we both got all teary eyed. Because, if you haven't experienced it, there is nothing quite like finally holding in your arms someone with whom you have come to feel a kindred bond. Knowing them to be real and actually clasping them to your kvelling bosom are two very different things.

(The huggies photo, btw, Hat, are on your camera. Just saying).

After that, it was no big deal. Ha. Of course it was. But really, it wasn't. Miss Hat sat at my desk and watched me make applesauce cake and honey-lavender ice cream and we talked, the way I talk with friends who sit in the kitchen and talk to me while I cook. She met the family and The Dog and even The Cat deigned to show herself (something she typically does not do when other people are in the house).

We went over to The Neighbor's. There were more hugs. And I teared up again, watching my new old friend hug my best friend. Then we sat on the Deck of Delight and drank vermouth. (Well, I drank vermouth. They had Italian iced tea, which is red vermouth, lemon and ginger ale. Only The Neighbor uses diet ginger ale and I don't like diet anything. But The Hat loved it. I believe the words "my new favorite drink" were uttered).



We talked. And laughed. And The Hat was very giggly about "actual clinkies". We've raised dozens of virtual coffee cups and glasses to each other over the last nearly 2 years. This time we got to do it for real. It was pretty awesome.



See how delighted she is? Darling girl.

We spent so much time talking and laughing at The Neighbor's that The Child was forced to come over and beg for dinner:



"No job. Will do dishes for food".

So I made dinner and we ate dinner. We told stories and asked questions and laughed. Quite a lot of laughing, must say. And then The Hat and I sat in the back garden by lantern light, working on a bottle of wine and talking some more. Until about 2 a.m. or something, not that we were keeping track.

In the morning she joined me for applesauce cake and coffee, the breakfast of champions, before we had to go off to church and she had to try and beat Seafair traffic out of town.



Here's the thing. Being with The Hat was completely unfraught. I hadn't worried a bit that we wouldn't have anything to say to each other or that the reality would be a disappointment compared to our virtual illusions. We knew each other. The things we've revealed in our blogs and comments and emails and phone conversations created a context. That context allowed us to tell stories and ask questions and comment on things in a most delightful way. We both knew we would like each other, because we already did. Meeting wasn't about getting to know each other. But it was, for me anyway, an opportunity to make The Hat a part of my life, not just my blogging. (Although, you know, blogging is my life). She's a part of family memory now, someone we can all picture, someone who made our home that much nicer with her laughter and spirit.

There's so much more to tell but frankly, I'm still absorbing it all. It was that rich a time. A blessed time. I'm kinda basking in it, to be honest with you. But here's one little thing that sorta sums it all up for me.

We sat down to dinner and everyone was still talking. Then The Hat, sitting at the head of the table, held her hands out to The Spouse and The Child, initiating the gesture that we make every meal, holding hands for prayer. She doesn't share our faith but she was one with us, instinctively entering into a family ritual with ease and grace, being family. And The Spouse gave thanks for our food and for our family. Our family, that includes my sister-friend, The Hat.

Happy 1st of August

Is it just me or does summer feel like it's spilling away?

Last night I lay in bed forever thinking about things and not sleeping. In fact, it felt like I didn't sleep at all. Which I realize isn't true because when I was having my coffee this morning I remembered a dream. It was a terrible dream. First of all, I was a teenager. That would be enough to make me cry out in my sleep. The last thing I would want is to ever be a teenager again. Anyway, I was falling in love with a guy, who seemed to be falling in love with me, and we were being stalked by another old boyfriend of mine. So that was creepy. But the other thing was that the new guy had a dog, a Rottweiler or a doberman or something. And the dog hated me. He would be really nice to everyone else but when no one was looking he'd try to bite me.

I told the new guy about this but he didn't believe me. And then one time he left me alone with the monster. At first it acted like it wanted to play with me, so I was holding a book and letting it chew on it. But then it started chewing my hand. First just nibbly little play bites, like our dog does. But then it started really chewing on my hand. And it hurt. And I couldn't make it stop. I tried to pull my hand away but it wouldn't let go. Things were getting really ugly and scary so I did the only thing I could think of and, suddenly full of self-protective rage, I started to shove the book down the dog's throat.

I left it for dead and went to get my hand treated and when I came back, New Guy and a bunch of other people were with the dog, who wasn't dead, just seriously wounded, and they were all mad at me for hurting the dog. And I'm standing there with my bandaged hand, crying and trying to explain and all any of them could do was tell me what a horrible person I was for hurting an innocent creature.

And then the dream ran on for about another hour during which everyone in the dream shunned me and New Guy started legal proceedings against me.

Isn't that lovely?

I think I might be taking this Steve Martin thing harder than I thought.

Stuff

Yesterday was very satisfying.

When I got to Stina's she was describing her condition as "twitchy". Only 2 bedrooms were organized. The rest of the (very cute nearly 100 year old) house was packed with boxes and bags and stuff. They'd be in since Friday. She just didn't know where to start.

I got the tour and then we went for coffee, while I pointed out to her some of the must try restaurants in their new 'hood (The Child used to go to school nearby). And I asked her what one project we could tackle that would make her feel better.

The house has a great room sorta deal in the downstairs, with a 2nd fully-functional kitchen. (It is, in fact, the better designed of the 2 kitchens...the upstairs one is cramped, poorly designed and dark). She really wanted that organized but "there's not enough room for all the stuff that needs to be there".

Did someone just throw down a gauntlet before me?

It probably took us 40 minutes to get the kitchen in shape. Mostly because I made her take things out of their original boxes. Really? Maybe there are those among you who function in a similar fashion and I don't wish to offend. But do you have any idea how much perfectly lovely space is available if those things are out of their boxes? "But you can stack the boxes...can't you?" she asked. Uh, not unless you're keeping them on large and commodius shelves. Like in the store.

Once that was done I was all inspired. I went home to retrieve The Child and then went back to show her how to prune roses (one gardening thing I know how to do), clear out the living room and then with the help of Dave, who returned from yet another run to the old house, move some furniture upstairs and get the dining room restored to functionality.

Then we had a very nice steak dinner.

And I returned home determined to revive my quest to have at least one empty drawer or shelf in every room of the house. So not there. But there's nothing like being reminded of all the s.t.u.f.f. that crowds in on you, despite your best efforts to fling, discard the old, make judicious decisions about what to keep and what to jettison.

I abhore clutter. If you looked around my house you wouldn't see a lot of it. But it finds its way in, doesn't it, lurking in file cabinets and drawers and closets. It's time to re-read A Gift from the Sea by Anna Morrow Lindberg and lighten the load a little.

Now What Am I Going to Do?

As planned, The Child and I set off first thing yesterday morning to get our copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Her plans for the day had changed as The Boyfriend had invited her to the Bite of Seattle (like the Taste of Chicago, only with rain). And real boyfriends apparently trump literary heroes when you are 13. But we had time between getting the books and when she was supposed to meet him so she suggested that we get coffee somewhere and start reading. Which we did.

Only as soon as we sat down she was all "What time is it?" and "Shouldn't we go soon? and generally interrupting my reading so I deposited her with Boyfriend, came home, settled myself in and started to read.

I read and read. I ate some grapes. I read and read and read. I took a 2 hour nap. I read and read and read and read and had hamburgers with The Spouse. And then I read and read and kept reading until I thought, "Golly, it's midnight. I can finish this tomorrow" and just then I read something that made me say, "Golly, I've got to finish this now". So I did.

"And now you have nothing to look forward to ever again," smiled The Spouse this morning.

Of course, he's kinda right. I remember, for example, when I discovered the Lord Peter mysteries by Dorothy L. Sayers. I'm not even that much a fan of murder mysteries. But I liked the character of Lord Peter, a lot, and especially his odd romance with Harriet Vane, so I read them, more for the wit and the intrigue and the descriptions of food than for the mystery stuff. And then, one day I read the last book. And there weren't ever going to be anymore. (Actually, there was. A few years ago someone took the manuscript Sayers was working on when she died and fashioned it into one last Lord Peter story. It was OK).

And sure, you can re-read the books (and I do) and mine new things out of them and revisit the bits you really love and that's all good. But still, that first realization that there's no more to come is a little sad.

So I felt a little sad early this morning, when I closed the cover on HPVII. JK Rowling took us on a wicked good ride. It's been known that she's known all along how the saga would end and the best way to describe the ending of the final book is "fitting". It's not so much that she tidies everything up, although I suppose she does. Blanks are filled in. Questions are answered. And it is, in the style of all good epics, a matter of character determining destiny. But it is not pulled together in a way that is pat or dismissive. And I'm obviously just dying here because I'm desperate to talk to someone about it and no one I know has finished the book yet! So if one of you could get on that, please, I'd really appreciate it.

I was right about some stuff and partially right about some stuff and wrong about a few things. All of which I can live with. And what you've heard is true. Quite a lot of dying in this one. Tons of action, some snogging (not as much as in 5 and 6 but apparently adolescents don't think so much about snogging when their lives are in mortal danger).

And once again, I must give Ms. Rowling her props. This mega-franchise which has spawned from her work could have been the death of that work. But despite the astonishing success, the millions and millions of dollars, the movies, the products that could fill a thousand Hogwarts Castles, somehow she has managed to always keep it about the books. And each story has been better than the last, her style more confident, the characters more complex. She could have been phoning in these last few books and they would no doubt still have been best-sellers. But she didn't then and she hasn't now.

I haven't decided yet if the 7th will stand as my favorite of the series. But it's a bloody good book. I'm just sorry it's done.

Until the Muse Shows Up

"You should post earlier in the day."

"Huh?"

"Like, by 8am".

"Huh?"

"Because I keep checking and checking and I'm sad when nothing is there".

Poor Spouse. Problem is, what if I'm not inspired by 8am? Because I'm usually not. I gotta drink coffee first and think about things, maybe read the NY Times, maybe clean my fingernails. Like I need the pressure of blogging before 8. As it is, it's almost 9 and I got nothing.

Except there was a thunderstorm last night. It was really loud, really groovy. I love thunderstorms, provided they aren't right on top of me. Plus it brought with it, as it does, a requisite cool and mellow post-storminess. This pleases me in particular because I've been craving deep dish Chicago-style pizza all week and The Spouse said he knows how to make it because he used to work in a pizza place called...wait for it...."Chicago's"...and I got all excited about the possibilities but with it having been so hot I knew he wouldn't make it for dinner tonight but now, hey, nothing to stop him. Yum.

Also, I'm having a real problem with my brain. For over a week now two songs have been looping through it: "My Kind of Town", which is sometimes supplanted by "Popular" from "Wicked". It's starting to drive me nuts, especially since the songs are not running in their entirety. Just bits and fragments..."and each time I leave, Chicago is, tugging my sleeve, Chicago is....Popular! you're gonna be pop-u-lar....just not as popular. as. me!" Over and over.

I'm starting to fear that the only thing I can do is go to "Here's the 80s" and watch the Xanadu video. Which is really more like putting out fire with gasoline.

This song looping tendency of mine kinda frightens me. Like, if I lose it when I'm old and I'm sitting in the home, I'm going to be that weird scary lady who sits and rocks and sings just little bits of songs randomly, over and over, until it's time for my sponge bath. I don't want to be that lady. I want to be one of those elegant, poised, self-sufficient Kate-Hepburn-living-on-her-own-and-swimming-every-morning sorts of ladies. The one that grand and great-grandchildren are delighted to visit regularly because I'm so charming and funny and erudite and oh, so shockingly liberal for one of my advanced years. Also, I'll be wearing really nice Ann Taylor trousers and sweater sets with pearls and not purple track suits with orthopedic shoes. And my gun metal grey hair with just the most elegant streaks of pure white will sit atop my head in a loose French bun. And my nails will be painted red and nicely, too. And I'll still eat dinner at 7.

It's important to have goals, don't you think? So I gotta get a handle on this looping music thing so that I don't bring on some sort of early dementia.

Golly, it's gotten dark all of a sudden. I actually think it might rain. Dang! I have to shut down the computer...it's another thunderstorm! I'd better go make sure Rosie isn't still sleeping in the hammock.

Sunday Morning in Chicago

Oh man.

I have met John Iwanski.

It's all gravy from here on out.

Yesterday Jon and I took the El to the north end of town to do some grocery shopping. We passed Wrigley Field and I held my hand over my heart. I love old ballparks. Got to the store and invented our menu in the produce department. Then it was off to Jack and Steve's...old friends of Jon's...who have a bigger kitchen and a dining table that seats 10 (we had 11). We spent the afternoon cooking, talking, drinking wine and occasionally just plain giggling because after emailing back and forth about food and sharing recipes for over a year there we were, cooking together.

The menu:

Tapenade with crackers and a nice rich bleu cheese for apertif. A mixed green salad with shallot vinaigrette and a goat cheese crouton. Big fat pork loin chops that had marinated all afternoon in garlic, red chilies and olive oil. (The Spouse grilled them up for us). These were accompanied by a cherry and jalapeno salsa. Steamed asparagus with a compound lemon butter and lemon zest plus summer squash and pine nut gratin rounded out the main course. For dessert I made strawberry-nectarine kabobs drizzled with caramel and served with creme fraiche that had been mixed with sugar and limoncello. It was all just fine. But you didn't come here to talk about the food, did you?

Did I mention I met John Iwanski?

I admit. I got a little nervous as the afternoon progressed. But all of a sudden, there they were, John and Miss Healthypants, MHP's niece Stacy (who is getting married next weekend and drove down from Wisconsin to meet me...yeah, I was honored) and Stacy's future SIL, Nayla (beautiful young woman from Lebanon) plus a chappie named Harry who's a good buddy of Jack & Steve & Jon's. He reminded us of The Cardinal so we've named him the Chicago Cardinal. 'Cause we're like that.

It was a terrific party. Lots of good wine, good food, a surprise cordial that Steve brought out at dessert (whiskey flavored with maple syrup. Seriously. Delicious). I was seated across from Jon and there were times I'd catch his eye and just give him a "can you frakking believe this" look and he knew exactly what I meant.

It's probably not fair to do this but I must. John Iwanski is a great guy. He's famously shy and described by his wife as a hermit. But a hermit with social skills. He's as funny as you'd expect, smart as you'd expect. He's also a genuinely nice guy. Really, truly nice. Sometimes I'd look down to the end of the table to verify that he was really there. Oh, I know. Gushing. But let's say you were at a dinner and, oh, I don't know, found yourself seated with Cyndi Lauper. Wouldn't you be pinching yourself? And wouldn't you subsequently become somewhat charmingly insufferable about the fact that you had dinner with her? Of course you would. Well, that's me about Iwanski.

MHP is absolutely adorable and funny. Stacy was a frakking hoot. Nayla was lovely, and she really gets snaps for being thrown into that situation and comporting herself with such grace. It was one of those parties where there were 3 or 4 conversations going at once and you didn't know which one to join. But I suppose the best part was just that it didn't matter that we'd never met before. That bit of it was dispatched in about 30 seconds. And let's face it, it's just terribly nice when reality exceeds your expectations.

After bidding our hosts a very goodnight, we all walked to the train together and rode back downtown to "our" place. Wine, laughter, talking, some singing. (MHP has a really nice voice, btw). Wandered down to Iwanski Manor for a bit more of the same and then Jon walked us back home and hung for a while. He and The Spouse have bonded over Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

The Child is currently singing karaoke (Uncle Iwanski loaned her his Playstation). The Spouse is perusing the packet of tourist info Iwanski graciously collected for us. And I'm starting to think that we should wander out and find ourselves a brunch somewhere.

And yes. I have pictures. But I haven't figured out how to download them yet. Just know that when they appear, that will really be me with John Iwanski. No photoshopping involved.

The Spouse and I were taking our coffee on the balcony this a.m., reviewing the fun of last night and both basically feel that we could sit on that balcony and admire the view for the rest of the week and this would have already been the best vacation ever. The fact that there is more to come....must stop now and catch my breath. We're really glad we came to Chicago.

Go Cubs.

Dateline: Chicago

'Morning, all.

It is a lovely morning here in the (not so) Windy City (and why they call it that I've yet to figure out). Slightly overcast but the sun is doing it's best. I've got my coffee (which I'm drinking from a large mug emblazoned with the words "Chicago- The Windy City". And someone really needs to come up with another moniker). The Spouse is sleeping after waking up at 7:30 and realizing it was only 5:30 our time, which is when he usually gets up and hello? he's on vacation. The Child is working a word puzzle and drinking orange juice. Life is good.

The flight yesterday was uneventful, except for 2 things: a) Southwest, while being a very perky sort of airline in general, does this open-seating, group boarding thing. Which means that by the time the C group is called all that's left is middle seats. It also means that if you are in the C group and a family of 3 you will NOT be sitting together. Fortunately, The Child and I were able to snag the last 2 seats together, which was important because she was a little nervous during take-off. Like squeezing-Mommy's-hand-until-Mommy's-wedding-ring-cut-into-the-flesh-nervous. But that pretty much only lasted until she realized that we were off the ground and started oohing and ahhing at all the little stuff below her. (She's only flown one other time and was 4 so she really doesn't remember the experience). And there's something nice about having to be brave for someone else. I was very grown-up about what is to me the most terrifying part of flying. The gin and tonic helped, too. And 2) there were some turbulence. The sort that don't bother seasoned fliers but make someone like me start saying "Hail Mary's" under my breath.

So anyhoo. When the pilot welcomed us to Chicago both The Child and I got impossibly giggly. We hiked to baggage claim, where Jon was going to be meeting us. "How will we know him?" The Child asked? I told her I'd seen pictures and he told me what he'd be wearing plus I had his number in my cell. But as we came down the escalator I saw him right away. And we started waving like little girls and then there were big fat hugs. Anyone watching us would have thought it was a long-lost family reunion not a first time meeting between strangers.

But we're not strangers. And it didn't feel like we were. We have our in-jokes, the little things we already know about each other. Not an awkward moment all evening. Which was pretty much how I'd expected it would be with Uncle Buck but still, it was nice to have that confirmed.

We took the El back to his place, which is, if you don't know, right downtown. He lives on the 49th floor. Hello Chicago! He pointed out the Iwanski's building. He's right above the Chicago River. The evening was mild, the streets far more quiet than I would have expected (because everyone was at the Taste).

We got settled into Jon's superfantastically retro flat and then walked a couple blocks to "the brown gravy place", a Thai joint, for a very nice supper. Then it was back to his building and up to the roof for a 360 degree aerial tour of downtown Chicago. (Really pretty little town they've got here, btw). Then we went back to the flat and had some wine while Jon gave us a little piano recital. Golly, did we feel sophisticated.

After making sure we had everything we needed (note: Hospitality is his middle name), he slogged off to Jack and Steve's, where he's staying this week. (God love him - I'm already thinking that the packet of "Space Noodles" that I brought him (pasta shaped like the Space Needle) is not going to be an adequate host gift).

My little family gathered on the couch-now-folded-out-to-a-very-comfy-bed, looked out the window and kept pinching ourselves. The Child turned on the Food Network and just about plotzed because Gia's travel show came on and she was in...wait for it....Chicago. "That's so appropriate!" The Child exclaimed. Plus, we got some good ideas for eateries.

We all slept the sleep of the righteous and are now bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to roll. The Spouse and Child are going to do a little sight-seeing while Jon and I forage for groceries and go out to Jack and Steve's to make a dinner party for 10. But first I'll have another cuppa. And a bagel.

In Praise of Girlfriends and Dinner Guests

Friday night was a slumber party baby shower for Seattle Coffee Girl. What can I say? Good friends, good wine, good food and one very stubborn baby who absolutely refuses to kick his Auntie Raine.

I made melon soup for one course. Stina thought that mixed with vodka it would be a perfect summer cocktail. (The green is honeydew with mint and ginger ale; the apricot colored one is cantaloup with yogurt and honey. Really yummy. And yeah, blended with vodka would be worth the experiment).

Ree brought spa stuff so it was all about the manis and pedis and facials and generally being girlie. Which is just a really fun thing to do from time to time.

Sleeping on the floor has, sadly, lost it's charm. But waking up to coffee, mimosa, waffles, eggs and bacon in the a.m. was more than adequate compensation.

I came home from that party and went straight to bed and took a proper nap for about 2 hours. Then I was in fine mettle for preparing for the Summer Solstice feast. I have detailed the menu over at "Here's the Dish" so you're welcome to go over there for the yumfest. Suffice to say it was a lovely, lovely evening. The food was really good and the company even better.

Not to mention, and please don't think me shallow, but can these people give hostess gifts, or what? I swear. Prezzies are not the reason I entertain but holy moly, these 2 couples have pretty much just raised the whole thing to an art form.

ChouChou, who has always brought perfectly lovely things, has taken to getting specific requests from me. So I sent her in the direction of Williams Sonoma and a line of chicken motif tablewares I've been collecting. Except, she's the sort of person who, if you say, "I sure could use a new air freshener for my car" will not only by you a pretty little pine tree air freshener but the car to put it in. Consequently, she gave me the tablecloth I'd requested, plus napkins.

But isn't it pretty?

I ♥ it very much.

The Cardinal says that the very pretty French script is just made up nonsense. But we don't care.

He and Mr. Mikey are also no slouches in the hostess-gifting department. This season's offering: a new welcome mat.

I find this highly amusing. But cool as it is, pause for a moment and consider this:

That would be a Moroccan rosewater sprinkler. For The Child. Because every 13 year old girl needs a Moroccan rosewater sprinkler. Which she used with lavish spirit. (Because of course he thought to include both rose and orange water for her use). I'm kinda jealous but have been told that is not sporting of me.

Anyway, the food was fab and no one mentioned that the amuse bouche was the same one I served at the Autumnal Feast. (L'horreur!) I had reviewed all the menus of Solstice Feasts past to make sure there were no repeats but didn't think to research the entire history of feasts with this group. Not that anyone would mind if they did remember because it was an amusing bouche and certainly worth a repeat.

This cozy group of friends has been ringing in the summer season this way for 10 years now. Which is a nice, long time to keep a tradition going, I think.

Moi, playing with my dessert wine glass (empty, of course).

The Cardinal, The Child and Moi

ChouChou does not like having her picture taken.

Mr. Mikey, The Spouse and John, who don't mind being photographed at all.

It was a very satisfying and entertaining weekend. But I'll be super honest with you: after back-to-back dinner parties, book-ended on either side by potluck parties elsewhere, I was really happy to have Thai take-away for dinner last night. And there's some lasagne in the freezer that would be good for dinner tonight. Even the Czarina sometimes needs a mini-break from cooking.

Fair Warning: Today I Sneezed

I didn't buy a kicky skirt yesterday. The Gap was closed for remodeling.

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I did buy 2 new books: A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain and How to Cook a Wolf by MFK Fisher. They seemed like good travel/summertime reads.

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The Child has some Mother's Helper gigs lined up for next week. She's all googly eyed at the prospect of earning the superfantastic sum of $5/hour. She believes herself to be rich. Just wait until we start making her pay rent.

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The dinner last night was perfectly lovely. It's our church's centenniel this year so everyone got a little (plastic) boater to wear. The Spouse kept singing "Lida Rose".


The Child, being way too cool with The Prince and Seattle Coffee Girl. Look at SCG...doesn't being preggers suit her?


I hate super long tables. Very not conducive to conversation, even if you are sitting with people you really, really love. But it's probably ok. We were otherwise engaged. A little penne and meatballs, anyone?

As good as the pasta was, the real hit for me were the antipasto plates with delicious cured meats from Mr. Batali's deli, Salumi. Thinly sliced morsels of moist, spicy yumminess, set off by very ripe and juicy cherries. That and some wine was pretty much all I needed. Although I did, of course, have some pasta. To be polite, you know.

This is what The Child considers a salad plate:I don't even know what that greeny-white stuff was supposed to be.

And here's the giant St. James the Greater puppet that is sometimes used in parades and appropriate processions. He's very cool. Kinda freaky, but cool.
Right. I've wasted enough of your time with this dither. A day of grocery shopping and cooking awaits, with, I expect, a counterpoint of "Get in there and clean your room; you're not going anywhere until you do"...."But Muh-ommmmm"..."Don't you 'Muh-ommmmm' me, young lady". That'll be fun.

Oy Vey

What shall I tell you about today?

Should I share with you how thoroughly and completely yesterday was not my own and how I was a personal hero to both the school secretary and the 7th grade teacher? Naw,. You'd come away thinking that I single-handedly provide the volunteer corps for our little school and that would be inaccurate.

Perhaps I could tell you about the long and civilized conversation The Spouse and I had about a potentially marriage-altering subject. But no. It's personal. And don't worry. It's potentially marriage-altering in a good way; very positive, in fact. Mommy and Daddy are fine. And no, puppies, you're not getting a new baby brother.

I should announce that the corkscrews have been found. I know you were worrying about that. One turned up in the family room couch, the other one fell out of the dishwasher. And they were found in time to get some red wine into the stew. Phew.

I missed the Dateline interview with Wills and Harry last night. Had no idea it was even happening. The madness of this week is seriously interferring with my pop culture saavy. That is not good.

This morning is going to be spent doing more school-related running around and then I have to start planning the menu for the Solstice Feast, which is Saturday night. And put finishing touches on a shower that The Neighbor and I are hosting for Seattle Coffee Girl on Friday. And plan a menu for a dinner next week for friends who are visiting from Arizona. And probably a million other things that I can't even think of right now but will remember either at 3 a.m. or just before they need to happen.

And if you were planning on heading over to "Here's the Dish" (and btw, thanks if you are) you'll want to save that for your afternoon diversion because I need to get about my errands now or I'll lose my will.

Who's ready for a vacation?

Ta Da!

Y'all have been so supportive about the new food blog. I really appreciate it. A ton.

I'll spare you the whole story, because it's over on the new site anyway, but suffice to say that I would not be launching today without the superhuman efforts of The Hat and JP. She climbed into my brain, saw my vision and translated it into the most superfantastic art. You are going to plotz when you see it. He took the art and made the perfect banner, plus spent quite a few hours over the last days brain-storming, suggesting, admiring and generally being the wind beneath my wings. Kids, there is no way this blog would look as superb as it does without you and you deserve a life-time supply of applesauce cake.

Another big shout out goes to the folks who suggested titles, The Neighbor, Seattle Coffee Girl, The Cardinal, and Jon. But in the end it was Red who first suggested the winning title (confirmed later by some of the suggestions I received in comments). It's absolutely right.

I'd also like to thank my family, for being patient about their late dinners over the last couple of evenings and to Dame Judi, just because she's the best mommy in the world.

I think that's enough ado. Lords and ladies, distinguished Koihead, I am pleased to introduce to you (adjusts tiara and smashes champagne over the laptop) - "Here's the Dish".

Oh My Yord

Things have been relatively quiet around the Casa social calendar-wise. And then everything exploded.

While I was sitting in my Parent Board meeting The Child came in to announce that the 7th grade will be performing salsa at the Spring Concert.

"What Spring Concert?" I asked.

"The one tomorrow night", came the blithe reply.

Are you frakking kidding me?

Here's a run-down of the current calendar for the next little bit.

Tonight - Stupid meeting of the 7th grade parents (more on that in a sec)

Friday - Frakkety frakking Spring Concert

Saturday - Lie very, very low and don't move.

Sunday - Father's Day + church + I have to spend a couple hours at school with the other board members moving all our stuff out of a supply closet that we just found out is going to be taken over by a new computer system.

Monday - help set-up for graduation reception (something the 7th grade does for the 8th). I'm going to be there from 3-6 setting up. The Child has to hang until...wait for it...10 frakking p.m. Guess who has to pick her up?

Tuesday - Lie very, very low and don't move, except to coordinate details and plan menus for the rest of the week because:

Wednesday - end-of-the-year school picnic

Thursday - Ministries dinner at church (have to bring a salad for 8)

Friday - sleep-over baby shower for Seattle Coffee Girl (including an elegant little supper for 6 or 7)

Saturday - Summer Solstice feast

Sunday - Final Parent Board meeting

And then there are 4 days to pack and get hair cuts and what-not before we leave for Chicago on Friday.

I need a tablet.

So the meeting tonight. First, you need to understand that the parents of The Child's class have not historically distinguished themselves as go-getters. There are some parents who have been involved with various projects but after 3 years, I don't even know probably half of the folks. They show up for Curriculum Night in September and that's the last you see of them.

Right, so a meeting has been called to review our role for graduation (fine) and to start discussing fundraising for next year so that the kids can take their 8th grade trip to...wait for it...New York and D.C.

On one hand, this is a very impressive thing. I really didn't think we'd get our act together enough to manage anything more than a trip to Ballard. I am very impressed that a couple of parents, neither of whom are moi, have stepped up to get us organized.

That said, I happen to know for a fact that they are going to propose that our fundraising strategy should involve working a stand at Safeco field.

There are manifold problems with this idea, imho.

1) It's a complete headache. You need 20 people to staff a booth; 20 people who are willing to give up 9-10 hours of an evening or weekend. Parent Association has done if for a couple of years and we're not next year because it is such a pain in the arse.

2) It's one of those things that sounds good on paper. If you have a full complement of people you get paid $1200 plus any profits. But if it's a light staff, at $60/head, it can end up being a lot of hours for very little return.

c) Some people, such as moi ,are just not going to sign up. I'll tell you that right now. There is no way in the world I am going to work any Safeco games to send a bunch of 14-year-olds to the eastern seaboard.

Add to all that, I don't think it is the responsibility of the parents to raise all the funds for this expedition. Good lord, even this morning The Child said, "Well, Mommy, I really think that if we want to go to New York we should be the ones raising the money".

Damn straight, my little chickadee! She said I could quote her. I so am.

Now, I'm not going to go to the meeting and tell them that Safeco is a stupid idea. If they think enough parents will be happy to do it and they want to organize it, that's just dandy. More power to them. But I will make a case for there being avenues for parents who can't or won't do Safeco to aid the cause. And then I'm going to bring up the whole kids-having-ownership thing and then, just because I'm so superfantastic, I'm going to volunteer to be the one who sits down with the kids at the beginning of the year to brainstorm a slate of fundraisers, develop a calendar and marketing plan and generally engage the little beggars in raising their own bloody money.

And if that plan goes over, just between us, I'm also going to be keeping very close tabs on who is involved and to what degree. Because I can tell you right now there are entirely too many kids in that class who have quite the sense of entitlement and are very good at standing in the shadows while others do the heavy lifting, stepping out just in time to take all the credit. That is so not happening on my watch. Bwahahaha.

On the other hand, I'm so volunteering to chaperon the little darlings should all this come to fruition. New York and DC? Hello? I'm so there!

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On the Happy Happy Joy Joy front, things are moving ahead on the food blog. I finally have a name that I'm pleased with, JP is going to design my banner and The Hat is doing the artwork. I've been busy copying some of my old food posts into the new space so that there will be some stuff there when I launch. It's become quite the little project but I'm excited about it. I even, at JP's suggestion, registered the .com and .net domain names for the title. This is going to be a nice little way of keeping mommy off the streets and out of trouble. I'm thinking I'll open 'er up for business next week sometime. I'll keep you posted.