Pass the potatoes….

Well here we are on the downside of another holiday. The last two on the books for this year will be New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. For this year, at least, we are leaving the horn blowing and champagne drinking to other people, and staying home both tonight and tomorrow. I’m pooped. Last weekend, I packed five get togethers into three days. Whew. Sometimes, I amaze my own self. Three we hosted, the remaining two were hosted by other people. It doesn’t really matter which way the dial leans. Even if the party’s not at your house, you always end up doing something. An appetizer or a dessert is needed, or someone asks you to contribute chips and dip. At one function were invited to, a white elephant gift had to be located and wrapped for both Richard and I.

For me, it wasn’t about all the food preparation, the dishes or the cooking, I didn’t mind that at all, but by the fourth affair it was simply having to get all dressed up again and go out that became the issue. My mind and body were belting out a loud of a chorus of “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t want to go”, by Sunday afternoon. And the food…… Well, the food just kept on coming. Let me first say, I am not one to eat large amounts at one sitting. Instead, I am a bit of a “grazer”, if you will, choosing instead to eat small meals often throughout the day. In this case, however, there were no small meals. Saturday I was manning the controls in the kitchen. Spaghetti and meatballs, a tossed salad, and garlic bread were on the menu, plus appetizers and desserts. There were to be twelve of us gathered for dinner that night including my children, their spouses and the grandchildren, plus Richard and myself. Let me say, when my brood gets together we are a force of nature, so bless Richard for opening his house to us. As I mentioned in a previous blog, we have several family members who are vegan. This always seems to become an issue, even though I try not to make it so. I don’t exactly understand the substitutions necessary to bring food to it’s pure natural state, if you will. According to my oldest granddaughter, who is vegan to the core and determined to leave as light a footprint as possible on this world, any food served to vegan standards must not have parents. Kay. Were you to ask my daughter (her mother) how I manage this aspect of her personality she might respond, “Mom is very stubborn”. Fine, labels are so unnecessary. I could have gone on the Internet to figure it out I would suppose, but honestly I had about eight minutes free time penciled in at 2 a.m. for myself and I intended to make good use of it by soundly sleeping.

In the end, it was about us all being together and the presents and vegan non-vegan issues seemed to have little importance. There were two pots of sauce to choose from, one to satisfy vegans and one for the carnivores. Salad, which has no parents, was served with vegan dressing as well as, for lack of a better adjective, regular dressing. Everything was split down the middle right down to the garlic bread, one prepared with ghee and the other, which we ate, made with yes, full disclosure, parented butter. Chuckle.

The second get together was to be the following morning. This was also at our house, for breakfast and mimosas. There were eight in attendance. Richard wore the apron that morning. Seriously, the man missed his calling. He should have been a short order cook. Moving seamlessly about the stove and counters, he produced biscuits (from scratch), sausage gravy, bacon, scrambled eggs, and homestyle potatoes. It got the full five yums from the taste testers.

Once that was done, we tidied up and prepared for the white elephant party we were to go to at his neighbors house later that day. Dinner, of course, was to be included. Groan. I should have thought to include my pants with the elastic waistband when packing. Richard hasn’t quite embraced the white elephant gift concept. He had wrapped up twelve lovely wine goblets to bring with us, six for him and six for me. From what I understand gifts for this type of party are supposed to be either unique, weird, or funny. Wine glasses, last I heard, fall under none of these categories, and since both our boxes were identical, um, never mind. Ah well. As I recall, I got a snowman one year at such a gathering that held a plunger in one hand. When you went to use the bathroom it had a repertoire of phrases it called out and when you sat on the commode and pulled the toilet paper, well, the silly thing broke wind. People were fighting over it, but lucky me I got to take it home.

By the time we got next door I realized, though dressed nicely, I was still wearing my slippers. This, undoubtedly was a subliminal message my brain sent to my feet indicating my brain thought I should be going to bed and not to another party. The following morning, which was Christmas Day, I had to go to the store. People everywhere were full on shopping in their pajamas, so after seeing that I don’t feel I was too far out of step with only slippers representing my sleepware. Thankfully I only had to walk across the lawn to retrieve my shoes, so no harm no foul.

Somehow, I survived another meal without face planting in my plate. I have to give myself kudos for that. It was not light fare either. The main course was beautifully grilled tri-tip sided with garlic mashed potatoes and glazed carrots, not to mention a long list of other dishes. I could barely raise my fork to my lips without sighing. That was, of course, before all the pies, carrot cake, upside down cake, and cookies were put on the table. I kept thinking about my grandmother always saying, “remember all the starving children in China”. We could have saved 90% of them with the food I’d eaten in the past three days.

Four down and one to go, the last one turned out to be the most laid back of the five, Christmas dinner. Sigh. Sorry, can’t help myself. This was to be hosted by Richard’s brother and his wife. They had been cooking for two days. Two sighs. Ribs were the headliners this time, paired with the most delicious beans I’ve ever eaten. There was potato salad, tossed salad, creamy decadent scalloped potatoes, and next to them, representing your heart, were heaping dishes of fresh carrots and asparagus topped with disappearing pats of butter. Oh boy. Their house was decorated beautifully, the company entertaining, and dinner a delight. All in all, is was the perfect end to a lovely holiday celebration. By the time we made it to the car, full but not beaten, my eyes shut before the door had even properly closed. Ahhhhhhh.

Sooooo, I hope your Christmas was special. We are turning our attention to 2024 tomorrow. I have a feeling we are on the precipice of a very interesting year.

Happy New Year to you and yours. Let’s head into this one supporting one another, even if someone believes differently then we do. Let’s stop and lend a hand instead of looking the other way when someone is down on their luck. Let’s say “I love you” every chance we get, as another chance might not come along. Remember kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity are all free commodities so inflation or no inflation you can afford to use them liberally.

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Gobble, gobble…..

It feels pleasantly familiar to be sitting at my keyboard at last. Been awhile. Particularly, on this gorgeous fall morning in Northern California. The front yard is a crisp bed of fallen leaves, and the blue sky bright outside the window. Glorious. Another reason to feel thankful on a day created just for that purpose.

Today will once again find many of us gathering with families and friends to celebrate another Thanksgiving, or as my oldest granddaughter calls it, “Dead Bird Day”(She is vegan with a capital “V”, so views it as somewhat of a pagan holiday,).

Richard and I opened the door to the food fest by driving down to my son and his wife’s lovely house to have a pre-Thanksgiving and belated birthday for me dinner. The event was planned the weekend before Thanksgiving for several reasons. The first reason was I am scheduled to work Friday and Saturday this week making it next to impossible to get back from where they live after eating on Thanksgiving day without leaving either immediately after pie is served or in the middle of the night. As neither of those sounded like appealing options, we moved on to Plan B. Also, traffic along the three hour route we have to take to get to their house is notoriously a hot mess on holidays. Been there done that, and we did not want to get stuck in that snarl of humanity again this year. Yay.

As usual, they put out an amazing table. With five children in the house, there are lots of extra hands in the kitchen, which helps to both add to the controlled chaos associated with having that many offspring, as well as enhance the pleasure of it. It is a happy kitchen to my mind. Everyone is talking at once, dishes are clinking, people are laughing, it is like a joyous uplifting piece of holiday music filled with so many lovely notes.

The menu was prime rib, scalloped potatoes, candied yams, green beans, glazed carrots, sautéed mushrooms, and homemade yeast rolls. A five yum feast on a plate. I was handed an apron and a recipe to follow for the scalloped potatoes. My daughter-in-law and I took liberties with what the previous cook had suggested, and there wasn’t a morsel left in the bottom of the pan by the time the leftovers were put to bed. Richard contributed four pies, two pumpkin and two peach, his specialty, and his homemade fudge, which were all gobbled up after the meal along with an amazing carrot cake made by my daughter-in-law. Where they put the extra calories after that huge dinner I have no idea. I know the waistband on my pants was sending up urgent messages begging me to give it a break so I just sampled the cake, which was to die for.

Though it was only Tuesday when we got back on the road, traffic was already pretty thick. Thankfully, the cars were moving along at a nice clip so we made it home without too much slowing down and no incidents. Police and highway patrol vehicles could be seen at every turn. From. what I heard on the news this is a big week for them with lots of DUI’s in people’s futures with all the celebrating being engaged in.

Today we are going to Richard’s relatives for the big turkey gorge. My only contribution to the festivities is guacamole. I have made it so many times, it is definitely a no brainer for me. Avocados and a little love and you’ve got it going on. As a kid I hated avocados, getting the dry heaves if one even entered my line of vision. Now, I could eat them with every meal and not complain. Richard once again was tasked with baking. Brought up by his mother and grandmother it is obvious from the flaky crust he delivers, they taught him something about getting around a kitchen. We make a good team, because as much as I enjoy cooking, baking, as I’ve said before, is just not in my bailiwick. I didn’t inherit my grandmother’s white thumb in any shape or design, and defer to others to create delicious goodies around the holidays. Perhaps it’s because I don’t eat sweets, that I’m not good at preparing them? So many questions. It constantly amazes me how my lack of interest in sugary treats perks the interest in other people. “What, you don’t eat sweets?” “Nope”. “Are you saying no sweets?” “That would be a negatory, yes.” Then comes the incredulous stare like I’m some sort of new species of animal that just climbed out from under the lid of a petrie dish. Now, I am not completely averse to sugary tastes, they simply don’t call my name very often. As I said in the paragraph above, I enjoyed the carrot cake immensely. Salt, which I’ve often referred to, has my name in it’s speed dial directory, however. So, I am not a perfect being, simply very close. lol

On Sunday of this week, our last entertainment commitment for this holiday, we are cooking at Richard’s. Turkey is once again taking the lead on the menu, because it was requested by our guests. That being said, I may not eat turkey again until 2024, and even then it might be iffy. Looking around at the ingredients on the table, I asked Richard about the stuffing. Offhandedly, he said the most incredible thing to me, “oh, I usually don’t make stuffing”. Wha………? Stuffing is the only reason I show up on Thanksgiving. To me the bird is only a greasy vessel in which to contain the delicious buttery bread mixture, and not the star of the show. Had he told me he was dying his hair chartreuse and joining a punk rock bank I couldn’t have been more shocked. “No way”, I told him and grabbed my purse and headed to the store. No stuffing indeed. Never heard of such a thing.

At any rate it is all good. I try to immerse myself in the holidays as they come and go in the blink of Santa’s eye, so have all my decorations for Christmas at the ready waiting to be put up and enjoyed.

Hope your day is full of laughter, family, friends, good food, and gratefulness for all those blessings. I think of people less fortunate and wish for them a better 2024.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

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We, are definitely, amused…..

Wednesday was my birthday. Yup, added another candle to my cake. Pretty soon, there will be more candles than frosting. It’s a weird sensation to reflect on having more years of living behind you than statistically you do in front of you. We all secretly harbor a belief in our deepest moments I think, we alone are invincible and will somehow unravel the secret to eluding the grim reaper before our name comes up on the list. Truth is, no one, no matter how powerful, how wealthy, how strong in spirit or body, has thus far (at least to my knowledge) been able to avoid the inevitable. To my mind, that being the situation, it is up to us to enjoy every moment and concentrate on living fully, because that is all we’ve got that is certain in this wonderful, and most mystical world.

But, enough birthday reflections, it was a fabulous birthday filled with love and family and friends. Can’t ask for more than that. In spite of the fact I had whispered in Boo’s ear, I wouldn’t turn down breakfast in bed, Boo, the Queen of Cats, didn’t even make me a card. This, after all the treats and extra care I have extended in her direction for the past nearly twenty years. Cats can be an ungrateful lot, go figure.

Richard took me out to a restaurant I’ve been dying to try for a long time as a birthday surprise. As I’d hoped, it did not disappoint. Located in the Old Town Sacramento area, it is called the Fire House. The name, because originally that was what the lovely old building was used for. Without disclosing where we were going, I was instructed to clean myself up appropriately and be ready to roll at 5:00. “Aye, aye Cap’n.” I was most excited when I realized where we were headed once we drove into the parking structure next door to the restaurant. The restaurant has an excellent reputation in this area for providing its customers with a fine dining experience as well as great food. Richard picked it, aside from the fact I had expressed a desire to go there, because it, a) had lamb (yum yum) and, b) if you ordered it ahead of time, you could end your meal with a Grand Marnier souffle. Oh boy. My taste buds were literally doing a tap dance in my mouth as I anticipated what yummy delciousness that lay before me.

Richard had told me there was dress code, so it was a sport coat and tie for him. I like to get a little dressed up now and again, and it was a special occasion, so would probably have gone the extra mile even if there hadn’t been one in place. Walking inside the door, the first thing that struck me were the beautiful vintage chandeliers suspended from the ceiling providing light to the two rooms ahead of us. The first room held a good sized bar with a fair amount of bar seating, and the second, housed the main dining room. Checking in with the maitre’d, we were told it would be about a half an hour before our table would be ready. The bar it was then. Telling the bartender it was my big day, he put extra olives in my drink and as he placed it on the cocktail napkin in front of me, he said he bet I was excited now that I was old enough to vote. Yes, yes, you will get a nice tip anyhow, flattery or no flattery.

Gathered from our bar stools when our table was ready, we were seated at a lovely half round booth that faced out into the dining area. Our reservations were fairly early, so many tables were still unoccupied, leaving us with nearly the room to ourselves. First, a waiter brought us an amuse-bouche. Amuse-bouche translates literally from French to mean “mouth amuser”. It’s simply a little spoonful of something something to whet your appetite. In this case, the little something was a small round of crisp cucumber, topped with goat cheese, a curl of red onion and sprinkled with something incredibly yummy. Richard, luckily for me, can’t abide cucumber, so my mouth got to be amused twice, rather than just the one time. Yay for my team.

Next on the agenda, came a basket of assorted breads, followed by our first course which was orange braised beets resting on baby arugula, topped with a goat cheese mousse, a sprinkling of hazelnuts, and finished off with an orange-white balsamic vinaigrette that was plainly and simply out of this world. My taste buds were now doing the macarena in anticipation of the rack of lamb that was coming out once this course had been completed.

While waiting for our entrees, the room had filled up nicely. If there had been a dress code in place, either nobody bothered to adhere to it, or it had been abandoned for the sake of entertaining paying customers. The three men seated across from us were dressed for a round of golf. One guy was in orange plaid pants that would have served him well as a crossing guard, and the other two wore shorts and Polo shirts. All three were wearing ball caps, which remained in place throughout their entire meal. My grandmother would have rolled over in her grave at that one. In her house, you removed your hat at the doorway. Certainly, you didn’t have it on your head while dinner was being served, or you would have been politely handed it and shown your way back out the way you came in before you got to insert a bite in your mouth.

I’m a bit of a people watcher, as you may have picked up if you’ve read my previous blogs. While observing the goings on around me, I found a family interesting that came in around 7:00. There were five in the party, consisting of what I assumed to be mom, dad, plus three little ones, the youngest most likely around a year and change. I found myself thinking it an odd choice of eateries for ankle biters. My guess was there wasn’t anything vaguely resembling a kid’s menu lurking at the front desk. It wasn’t the sort of place like Chucky Cheese, for example, with games and characters popping out of the walls, or other kid friendly restaurants where they have a basket of toys or crayons to entertain little ones. Also, with the prices they were asking, I got to thinking it would be an expensive meal. The food really wasn’t geared toward children’s palletes either. Not too many children would be delighted to find foie gras placed before them (I wouldn’t either to be honest), nor have any interest in cioppino. I didn’t notice a grilled cheese or a PB&J under the entree selections. I actually thought the parents very brave. My kids went to fast food joints, coffee shops, perhaps even a dinner house or two in their formative years, but nothing on this level. As long as we were there, I have to say, other than a couple of bursts of rather adorable giggling squelched quickly by their parents, they weren’t disruptive in any way whatsoever.

There were two other couples who also dressed up, so we weren’t standing on the edge of the plank by ourselves. Personally, it doesn’t matter to me what anyone wears or what anyone thinks about what I wear, these are just observations. I got to wondering if anyone got dressed up at all anymore. I suppose in Hollywood, or possibly New York or Washington D.C., there were still very dressy occasions where cocktail dresses were still expected, but I sure don’t see them anywhere up here anymore. Casual is the rule of the day, and super casual in some places. I know it has become commonplace to see people grocery shopping in their PJ’s and fuzzy slippers in my neighborhood. Nothing much actually surprises me anymore.

The lamb was simply mouth watering, sweet and tender, cooked to a perfect pink in the middle. They served it on a bed of excellently prepared garlic mashed potatoes with a swirl of mint sauce I could happily have bathed in. All in all, as touted, a fine dining experience.

Just when I was starting to feel larger pants were in my future, the waiter arrived with the Grand Marnier souffle. Puffy and light, it sat before us like a poufy chef’s cap in it’s ramekin. Custard was then poured in the center, followed by raspberry sauce. Man oh man, I’m not a sweet eater but that, even for old non-sweet me, was too much to resist.

Most of us in the 99% bracket can’t afford to indulge in such a meal very often, I know we can’t. Truth be known, if you ate like that every day, most likely it would become routine and you’d find yourself standing at a take-out window at a greasy spoon somewhere ordering a burger and fries for a change of pace. All things, as they say, in moderation.

As we walked back to the car down the nearly deserted streets of Old Town, there were a lot of homeless people lingering in the shadows. I was struck by an overwhelming feeling of sadness for these lost souls mixed in liberally with a huge sense of gratefulness. With all the turmoil in the world these days, it is sometimes hard to break out the joy and find a smile firmly set in place. There are a lot of people struggling to survive, and here I was overly full from a decadent meal. In that situation, all you can do is be sure to be thankful for all you have and hope and pray, if that is your practice, that people going through stressful times right now will find lighter days waiting for them not too far down the road. I vowed to myself I will look for a way to help contribute to the solution, but for now hold the hope the world will mend it wounds and find it’s footing once again.

So, sitting here looking out my window at the beautiful colors of fall, I am full of grateful joy I am here again today to enjoy the world around me.

Happy Saturday!!

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By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea…..

Continuing the discussion of our recent trip to Carmel I began in my last blog, would bring us to day two of our three day trip. The first day, as reported previously, the weather was mostly about rain, clouds, and overcast skies. Though we held out hope for good weather, we presumed if the forecasts of late here in Northern California prevailed, cloudy days would likely remain the case for the remainder of our time on the road. To our complete delight and surprise, we awoke the next morning to see sun streaming in through the slats in the windows, and bright blue skies overhead when we went to the car to head out for breakfast. Yay.

Like you might notice in many European towns, visitors to Carmel also often choose to get where they want to go on foot. This, I would presume, not only because it is a lovely setting for a stroll outside, but also it is a very popular tourist destination. Parking during peak season, can be at a premium. Many times I’ve circled the town ad nauseum waiting for a spot to open up, with people jockeying for position like competitors in a game of musical chairs. This day, however, we were going to take the scenic route around 17 Mile Drive to do some sight seeing, and then on from there into Monterey to visit the aquarium. I have been along 17 Mile Drive many times over the years. The first time I ever saw this unique and gorgeous span of coastline, was the day after I married my first husband. Three days of our honeymoon were to be spent at the Del Monte Lodge, located about at the center point along the route of the drive itself. The lodge today, is known more familiarly as The Lodge at Pebble Beach, and is touted as a five star luxury golf resort. Back when we got married, the room rate was $68/night. I was nineteen and my new husband but twenty-two, so for us $204.00 was a big splurge. I still have the cancelled check tucked away in my yellowing memories album to remember it by. Today, $68 is less by half than the rate you would be charged by the hotel for the privilege of having your cocker spaniel spend a night with you in the same establishment. Woof. Well it is not the same establishment as it was when we were there. Though the view is unchanged, still spectacular, and the basic look, outwardly at least, remains much the same, the price tag for a night’s stay has gone up considerably. A room overlooking the garden were you to book it today, begins in the $1,000+ range, with rooms offering a view of the golf course or an ocean view increasing exponentially from there. You will not find my name written in their guest book any time soon.

I have actually stayed at the hotel twice, the second time was with my second husband and my two children. I don’t remember what the bill was for the second stay, but I know we had secured two rooms for a three night stay. I guarantee, if it had been $1,000 plus a night for each room, I would have remembered the details most vividly. There were several things that stood out about the hotel at Pebble Beach, aside from the magnificent cliffside view of the Pacific. First, though not necessarily remarkable, a porter loaded our luggage in a golf cart once we’d checked in. When all baggage was on board, he conveyed us, along with our bags, to our room (Hotel 6 does not offer this perk). When we arrived everything was then offloaded and carried up the stairs. Well not us, of course. I believe we managed the stairs without any help, thank you very much. Our hanging clothes were neatly tucked away in the closet, and each bag was opened and placed on a luggage carrier. After that, the porter explained the amenities to us, such as ice machine locations and pool hours, and provided us with restaurant information should dinner in their lovely dining room be in our plans. There was a nice tip involved for all his helpfulness, naturally. The rooms, I must say, were bright and spacious and beautifully appointed. Each room had a sitting room with a settee, two end tables, lamps and an easy chair facing a fireplace. A fire was laid in the grill waiting to be lit by a hotel employee each night if the room guests desired them to do so. The big thing for me, was along with the expected room phone sitting on the writing desk, there was an additional phone located on the wall in the bathroom alongside the commode. Interesting. Perhaps more business is conducted from that particular vantage point than I’d previously realized.

I guess “you get what you pay for” may well apply to the above paragraph. For $1,000 plus a night and an additional $140 for my dog, I want to get a lot. As I said, our little inn had a lot of quaint wonderful things about it, but none of them included carrying any of our bags up the two flights of stairs to our room, nor was there an elevator available if it happened you couldn’t mount the two flights yourself. What you would do in that case, I have no idea. I would assume either book a room on the lower level, or commandeer a hotel employee to help you move in and out. However, my feeling is that I don’t go on vacation to live in my room. If I did, perhaps $1000/night would seem less prohibitive. I suppose if money is no object, and that concept doesn’t live in my world, than whether the room was $150/night or $3000 a night would really be a moot point. I do have to say, like flying first class, all the delightful little spoiling touches are most welcome. A whole bar of soap, for example, and, yes, a phone by the commode for those calls that simply can’t wait. I do not require such a high level of spoiling as a human being regularly, though I do not reject the pleasure of indulging in them from time to time.

Approaching the entrance to the Aquarium, a young woman stopped us asking if we were members. To be honest I didn’t know they had members, but we both shook our heads no. If not a member, she told us, tickets must be purchased on-line as there is no longer a ticket booth on the premises. Really? I looked up the site on my phone, clicking on tickets. Entrance to the Aquarium now costs $60 per adult. If either Richard or I had never been before, I would have just booked it. Since both of us have been numerous times, $120 seemed a lot of money. Talking it over, we decided we could probably put that money to better use during our trip, so we decided to pass. Leaving the Aquarium to another trip, we wandered over to the Cannery Row area. Steinbeck coined the phrase “Cannery Row” in his book of the same name, and it is today officially the name given to it. There are no operating sardine canneries along the wharf anymore, of course, just rows of touristy shops and restaurants, anchored by the Aquarium at one end of the street. One shop pretty much looking like the next, most selling tee shirts, sweat shirts and touristy items with “I Visited Monterey” or “Monterey is calling, and I must go” emblazoned across the front. We took a walk along the beach, and made our way along the boardwalk, ending up at the pier. Walking along the pier had sort of a carnival feel to it. Gulls hopped about on the well worn wooden planks, grabbing up a piece of discarded caramel corn here and there, or scavenging for a handout from someone walking by. In the distance, the steady barking song of the seals on the rocks across the marina provided background noise. Vendors were busy stocking their display cases with cooked crab, shimmering oysters, and other seafood offerings. Had it not been for the fact I had reached my capacity at the restaurant earlier, I might have signed up for some crab on the half shell accompanied by a chunky slice of sourdough bread. Docked on one side of the pier were two boats each bearing signs on their sides advertising whale watching tours. People were lined up in front of the designated boarding areas waiting to be let on. Have to admit, I was curious about the tours. I might have gotten in line but for the fact though the sun was shining, it was chilly out, so decided to reserve that adventure as well for another trip when warmer weather prevailed.

Having our fill of store hopping, we collected the car and headed south towards Carmel again turning right at the roundabout and following the arrow towards the entrance to the 17 Mile Drive. Paying the $11 requested by the guard at the gate, we began the drive following the arrows as we drove along. So many trees were down from the recent storm. There were huge root bases evident on both sides of the street everywhere we went. Tree and stump removal trucks could be seen all along the route with massive cut pieces of trunk lying around them. A local told us the crews were concentrating on clearing the streets of debris first and moving on to the side areas for clearing and cleanup as time permitted.

As always, when in that area, I was struck by the incredible opulence of the homes nestled among the trees. Some of them appeared to me like palaces fit only to be dreamed of by kings or titans of business with vast coffers from which to draw. Many were built right on the lip of the ocean, perched high on the edge of the rocks so close to the sea they looked as if they could easily slide off only to disappear into the frothy surf. Those homes with uninterrupted views of the ocean, cost more than most of us will ever see in a lifetime. Though I have never been invited in for tea, I imagine these palatial estates to be vast showplaces for beautiful art such as is displayed in the many art galleries available for viewing in downtown Carmel. It would be fun to be able to peek in a window here and there and see what surprises lay inside the walls. I’m quite sure there are laws covering such behavior, so we stayed beyond the fences in our own world, satisfying ourselves with simply observing the beauty of our surroundings as we wound around from one curve to the next.

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There are many opportunities to pull over along 17 Mile Drive and take pictures, some which we availed ourselves of. Most of the pullouts had signs posted offering up a brief history or some background information about the view you were looking at. I will include some photos with this writing, though they could never convey the breathtaking beauty we were experiencing. At Bird Rock, we stopped so I could grab a few shots of, well, the birds. The birds in question, according to the sign posted in the parking area, were cormorants. Large numbers of these mid size grey/black birds could be seen perched on the rocks not far beyond the wave line. According to the sign writer, cormorants are coastal birds, as would be obvious by where we were standing viewing them, known for their impressive diving capabilities. A young man was standing not far from us holding controls guiding a drone as it swooped down low above the rocks. Manipulating the controls, he brought the drone back to where he was standing. Curious about what he was doing, I struck up a conversation. Michael was his name, he told me, and he was Canadian. “Good day, eh”, had already given him away as one of mine, from Toronto. The drone was being used, he told us, in the filming a documentary he was producing about the western shoreline and it’s inhabitants which he had hopes to promoting to a studio or television station in Southern California. After a moment, he asked if I’d be interested in previewing some of the footage he had just taken. Peering into the lens it was amazing some of the images he had captured. Chatting for a bit longer, we parted ways, wishing him success on his venture.

When the afternoon began to wane, we turned the car back towards Carmel. Not wanting a big meal such as we had enjoyed the evening before, we went into Carmel proper in search of a good old greasy cheeseburger. Mulligan’s Pub was where we ended up. Mulligan’s was definitely a local watering hole. A lovely crackling fire was blazing in the corner of the bar and we sat at a table close by to soak up some of the warmth. Two cheeseburgers with fries were ordered and we sank back in our chairs to take in some of the local color. People came and went mostly calling each other my first names. Though we were not part of that band of travelers, they were fun to observe. The cheeseburgers arrived, and were absolutely delicious. Leftovers boxed and put in a bag, we walked the half a mile or so back to our lodgings and called it a day. More in my next blog about our last day in town. That’s all for now. Have a lovely rest of your weekend.

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In high clover…..

Remember the good old days when you actually had a software library? You paid a one time purchase price, got a CD and Instruction Book, and had the CD until the software was either outdated or no longer useful. Remember those days? I do. Being a graphic artist, I use Adobe Illustrator nearly every day. These days, I pay a monthly fee for the usage privilege but never actually own the software. Sort of like leasing a car you never intend to buy. This could be quirky old me, and others possibly think it far more convenient. For my part, I am a fan of receiving tangible objects for my money. Take books, for example. I prefer to read actual books you can hold and turn the pages. Just me.

My first experience with Illustrator was in 2000. I was working for a start-up company in the Bay Area. The company had lured me out of my previous job with promises of much higher wages and valuable stock options once the company, supposedly on a rocket trajectory to success, went public. My shares were stored in my safety deposit box along with my dreams of trips to exotic locales, a villa in the south of France, and a glorious donation to my children’s bank accounts to remember me fondly by upon my demise. Not to be, my friends. After nearly two years of nearly making that office my home, the technology the company was developing turned out to cost more to make than they could market it for. Duh and double duh, the CEO and CFO might have figured that out prior to getting the investors on board, I’m just saying. With no IPO forthcoming, the company laid off it’s nearly 100 employees, and closed it’s doors. My ten thousand or so shares went up in smoke along with my lofty dreams of world travel, in a ceremonial fire on a local beach after downing a couple of nice bottles of chardonnay with friends. Ah well.

At any rate, nowadays, I pay a monthly premium for the “use” of Illustrator every month. Several months ago, I decided I wanted to also learn to use Indesign, another Adobe program popular with designers. I went online and added it to my list of “rental software” which also added another monthly premium. Sigh. Learning virtually isn’t always the best option for me. I found the on-line instruction confusing, and wasn’t making much forward progress in wrapping my arms around Indesign. I decided to cancel. Not so fast, Bubba, says Murphy. My first roadblock, Adobe is very difficult to reach. They do not make it easy to get to a customer service rep. When I went on line, the system informed me if I cancelled, I would be held responsible for $140 in early cancellation fees. Whoa. Sooooo, I ended up on a “chat” with a representative most likely in Mozambique or points south. Turns out, after learning I wished to cancel, he now was offering me three months free if I stayed til the end of the subscription. I said I would take that offer, on the condition he would ensure me it wouldn’t be automatically renewed. That idea didn’t even get off the ground. Apparently, it is up to me to catch the reminder email awash in the copious sea of emails I receive every day. If not, it will, in fact, renew automatically. Fine. I have noted the exact day on my calendar, and I will catch it, but the experience reminded me once again to research thoroughly what I am signing up for before I go all it. In turn, I am reminding you. That being said, I am by God going learn that program since I am dishing out the money for it. Maybe this is the universe’s way of saying, “get off your lazy behind and just do it”!

This has been a hugely busy couple of weeks. A friend came up from the Bay Area over the weekend and I took a much needed sabbatical to spend time with her. We mostly ate, shopped, went to the movies, and ate again. Oh, did I mention we ate? My next scheduled meal should be breakfast, June 8, 2023. I believe I have enough calories stored to carry me through until then. It was great. I am totally blessed with the ladies who populate my life. Many of my friends I’ve known for years, and I value them all. Each one brings something special to my table making me a very lucky girl in so many ways.

Well rather than describing myself as lucky, more accurately I would say I am blessed, for I do not consider myself a lucky person. By that, I mean I am not lucky in games, drawings, or anything really involving chance. It must be written somewhere in my chart, “Susie will work for what she wants and needs. Luck will have no part in her story”. I would like to write an addendum to that notation, to apply to my remaining time on earth. If the universe is listening, I’m totally on board with this concept. Have your people contact my people. Truthfully, if I was you and had a chance to bet on a competition I was participating in, I would definitely put my money on my opponent. I can sit at the same slot machine for three hours and never hit a jackpot. Should I get up and move to the one directly next to it, in short order someone will sit down at the same machine, pull the handle once, and every light in the place will go off. Intellectually I know it is not me, but there is a nagging thought echoing deep inside my mind yelling, “Nope, it definitely is you”. Can’t help it, sometimes I actually think that damn voice has a point.

My therapist and I are working on the timbre of my inner voice. Your “inner voice” is the little voice inside your brain proclaiming loudly when you trip over the hose in the front yard, “well, that was stupid”, or reminding you when you are trying to open someone else’s car door with your key in the grocery store parking lot, “this is not your car, genius”. You know the one. My little voice has a wicked, wicked mouth at times, and I’m trying to teach it how to speak more kindly to myself and with love. Nameste.

Therapy is a journey of discovery. Uncovering what makes you tick, can be both very rewarding, and at times endlessly tiresome. Wouldn’t it be great if you simply bought those decadent shoes you didn’t need, brought them home, and wore them and enjoyed them? If you put them on your feet without ever questioning if you bought them because you were depressed, your boyfriend left you for the barista at Starbuck’s, or the shoes simply looked more than fabulous on your feet. But, nooooooo. Instead you have to nag yourself about them, reminding yourself of the recent budget you crafted sitting in your excel folder that did not include extra funding for the lovely black heels with red soles. Then, when you wear them and a blister forms on the back of your heel, somehow that voice is snickering and gloating, telling you this is your karma for being a bad, bad girl. Not. I will not listen. Bad shoes are what keeps Johnson & Johnson bandaid division in high clover. If women didn’t insist on wearing uncomfortable poorly fitting footwear they might have to lay off thousands of employees. If you look at it that way, we’re actually performing a public service. Your welcome.

I am hoping that cooking will begin to peak my interest again soon. It makes me sad I seem to have temporarily put a “closed due to lack of interest” sign on my kitchen door, abandoning my utensils and cookware to a life of boredom and decay. I know it is just part of the grieving process, but still it is odd for me not to be chopping and humming by the kitchen sink. This too will pass I’m sure, and my pots and pans will once again come out of retirement. For now though, I have enough leftovers for a week, so “good on you” I say.

Happy Monday! Hope the week treats you well and high clover is but a field away.

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Monday, Monday…..

We are coming to the end of another odd year. I thought last year with all the COVID concerns was to be the odd one, but have to admit this year went ahead and really outdid itself. As I’ve said, I had COVID, and obviously survived. As of last month, I can also say I have had both vaccinations plus the indicated additional booster. Now, they are saying there’s a new variant more resistant then it’s predecessors. Whew. It’s like climbing the side of a steep precipice. You can see the top of the mountain from your vantage point, but no matter how high you climb, getting there always seems just out of reach. At some point, you have to say to yourself, “I have done what I can to keep myself and those around me safe. Now I have to let go, and let God (or whoever you believe is in charge).” At times it feels like no one is in charge, though I don’t really believe that. However, lately some days it does seem as if the ship is sailing through rough waters with nobody manning the oars.

The holidays were looming in front of me ominously after Dale passed away October 22nd. It’s odd, though it’s been only a little over a month, it feels like a lifetime has gone by since he last sat in my living room. I’m managing to get through each holiday as it shows up on the calendar, and find myself enjoying my time with friends and family. Perhaps because this is my second immersion in the grief process in three years, I have learned to traverse the minefield without leaving any limbs in my wake. Sometimes the pendulum reflecting my mood leans far to the right. During those darker periods, lifting my heavy feet to walk seems an impossible task. Then, as quickly as it leaned right, it will move dramatically to the left side. When resting there, my toes are happily tap, tap, tapping to a song I’m listening to, or I find myself humming contentedly while fixing vegetables in my sunny kitchen. Grief is such an individual undertaking (sorry that pun was unintended), and each person must in the end make their own way through it however works best for them.

I have begun my shopping for this holiday season. Once I have watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and Santa and Mrs. Claus have driven their sleigh down 34th Street and flown home to help the elves prepare for the big day, I generally get into the swing of things as far as gifts are concerned. I am nothing, if not a creature of habit.

Now that we’re all emptying our bank accounts for the sake of maintaining Santa’s reputation, I’d like to offer a piece of sage advice. Be careful when you order anything off the ads that pop up on social media, particularly when you have never heard of the company. At the very least, check them out on some of the verifier sites before ordering anything. Twice now I’ve been suckered in by a really cute picture only to end up with something not resembling that item in the least. This time I ordered two. Please, I know. Don’t judge me. I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face. “Let the buyer beware” is really a mantra I should have been saying, quite possibly out loud. If it was physically possible, and believe me it is not any more, I would be kicking my own behind. Duh.

When I contacted the seller he responded, or she, I needed to peel the protective plastic sheet off the item to improve the look. Hmmmmm. It would take more than that I’m afraid. Number one, the original item looked to have dimension and the one I got look like a photograph of that item glued on to a plastic backing. It looks like that because I’m quite sure that’s exactly what it is. They made one, took a picture, threw out the fishing line and waited to sink the hook in some suckers lower lip. I was kind enough to stop by and offer them mine. Number two, the plastic protective sheet was glued or stuck on the plastic and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I reported them on a site I go to report such things. Should have read some of the comments about this company I found there before ordering anything myself. Each comment echoed how I felt. Cheap, poorly made, not representative of the item they had shown a picture of. Check, check, and check. Ah well, another lesson written on the board. I wonder if I’ll graduate one of these days, or if I’m just one of those students who is perpetually sitting outside of the principal’s office?

Thanksgiving turned out to be a lovely celebration at my daughter’s house with her family and a few of her husband’s relatives. My mother joined us, and after a bit of a health scare earlier in the week, we were feeling especially thankful to see her face a the table. Dinner was a fusion of vegan and carnivore, and delicious on all counts. Not being a sweet eater usually, I really enjoyed the pumpkin cheesecake which was totally a vegan recipe. Yummer. I was spending the night, so I thought to pack a pair of “after dinner pants” with a flexible waist. I highly recommend this. Hah. Gave all that dinner a little room to settle into the loose spots. When staying over night at my daughters, I sleep on the couch. Quite often I have one or the other of the two cats in residence join me during the night. Heather, my daughter, is a very creative being. Like her mother, she loves the holidays and her well decorated house reflects her passion. All across her ceiling in the family and living rooms she hangs snowflakes from fishing line. Each snowflake is strategically placed and hangs at a different length on it’s invisible tether than the one hanging next to it. Lying there in the dark before closing my eyes, I watched as the air currents moved the snowflakes in circles like a lovely choreographed winter ballet. Life really is magical, whatever age you are.

Yesterday, my son and his girlfriend drove up from the Bay Area for a quick lunch with my daughter and myself. It was so nice to have both my chicks together. We ate a local restaurant and again I was faced with dishes full of amazing calorie laden food. OMG. Where were my “after dinner pants” when I needed them? For an appetizer (I KNOW, WHAT?) we had baked brie. After tasting it spread on the garlic toast points they provided on the side, I considered for a moment face planting in the center of the serving dish. Soooooo good. It was bubbly brie, topped with caramelized onions, and then finished off with a perfectly cooked fried egg on top. When the yolk was broken, it oozed over the whole caramelly oooey gooey cheesy deliciousness. “Stop”, my stomach cried out to deaf ears. “You’re killing me.” Did I listen? Nooooooooo. I forged on, following up the amazing brie with a plate of eggs Benedict served on crab cakes next to a mountain of home fries. I can feel the acid building in my nether regions as I’m writing this. To begin with, years ago I lost my gall bladder. I didn’t misplace it, though lately that wouldn’t surprise me, but I had it surgically removed. I lost an organ with each marriage, a testimony to the sacrament, and this one was sacrificed during my third. I barely show up on an x-ray any more. Seriously, I can’t afford another marriage with any hopes of remaining erect. I had no after affects worth mentioning after my gall bladder was gone, except for a high sensitivity to garlic. The pungent little bugger will repeat on me for hours once I’ve consumed it. Not a pretty thought I know.

So, today I am taking a cleanse of sorts to right my ship again. When I get off course, I try to correct it and get back in the shipping lane again as soon as possible. The only exception would be spending a week on a cruise ship There is no way to get away from the incessant parade of delicious food there unless you actually jump ship or stay behind in one of the scheduled ports, but I digress. How on earth I got on cruise ships I have no idea. Anyhow, this morning it was oatmeal and fresh fruit followed by a brisk walk, and a salad with micro greens for lunch. No matter how I write that it will never sound anywhere near as enticing as my description of that baked brie. I’m just sayin.

I would guess a lot of you were out and about over the weekend shopping or picking up a tree to bring home and decorate. Have a lovely Monday. Talk soon.

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A day in the life of…..

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Today I could really see through a clear lens, how distracted I am at the moment. The indicators of this lack of concentration became obvious early on in the day. For some reason, I seem to have accumulated a plethora of uncooked vegetables in the refrigerator. Though food isn’t high on my priority list right now, I hate to waste it. Particularly, with what they’re charging for everything with the supply chain issues at the grocery store. Also, my mother and grandmother drilled me well on the dire situation in China with all the starving children there when I was young and wouldn’t eat my Brussels sprouts. However, the truth is there are people who don’t have something to put on their plate right here in the good old U S of A. Knowing this to be a fact, there’s something terribly selfish to me about tossing food out in the trash. My ex husband grew up in a poor family in backwoods Arkansas. Their finances improved greatly when he was a teen, but his mother really scraped the bottom of the barrel to put food on the table when he was grade school. Often, with nothing much else to give him, she would give him beans and biscuits in his lunch. Kids can be really miserable when they smell vulnerable prey. If there is anything different about you, be it clothing, accent, looks, hair color, or in this case food choice, they pounce on you like a rat on a piece of ripe cheddar. At the noon break, he was teased regularly about what was in his lunch box. Where most kids had peanut butter and jelly or bologna and cheese and a bag of chips, David might have sorghum on rice or rabbit stew. Sometimes he went without eating to avoid scrutiny and his mom said he regularly got off the bus after school sporting a black eye or bruises on his hands from defending himself from bullies. Some days he would ask her to give him two biscuits in his lunch bag. She never knew why. Later he was to tell her, he would eat one and then go over to the trash can and toss the other one to prove to his tormentors his family had enough food to waste. There are so many children in the U.S. without enough food to eat, it is sad to me to casually throw something out because you don’t make good use of what you have. Just my opinion, but it’s a strong one.

At any rate, surveying my bounty and thinking Peter Rabbit would be right at home in my vegetable bin, I took out the bags and cleaned and trimmed my veggies. The cauliflower and broccoli could be steamed together. The rest of the vegetables I decided would work perfectly in a vegetable soup. I have to pay attention to my eating while going through this time of mourning. When you are being a caregiver, quite often self care gets puts on the back burner. Meals get skipped, or something is hurriedly consumed while standing at the counter. Then, after the person being cared for passes away, you enter a grief period where you really don’t want to eat. A double edged sword of sorts. Blessed with my mom’s rapid fire metabolism, it won’t take long for the pounds to begin to melt off if I don’t pay attention. I looked at a photo taken of me not long after Rick had passed away. I’d gotten so thin the only thing visible indicating I was in the picture were my big feet.

Being in the kitchen is cathartic for me. Standing there peeling and chopping it almost felt like a normal day in the life of. Settling the steaming tray in the bottom of my pan, I dumped the cauliflower and broccoli in and secured the lid. Turning on the burner, I went off to take a shower and get ready for the rest of my day. This would’ve been excellent except for the fact I forgot I’d left the vegetables cooking on the stove five seconds after exiting the kitchen. This is not easy to ignore, as both vegetables emit an odor when cooking I liken to elephant gas (not that I’ve ever actually experienced this phenomenon firsthand) to remind you they’re on the stove. Somehow, I managed to circumvent the signs, and pretty soon the smoke alarms loudly reminded me of my oversight. Darn. Aside from the cat losing a life or two, I managed to ruin a relatively new pan and reduce my veggies to a black gelatinous blob in the what was left of the bottom. Sigh.

Beyond the humanitarian side of food waste, it costs a lot to eat these days. In an effort to defray the flow of cash moving steadily out of my bank account, I have begun to watch for coupons. This is something I used to do routinely, but sort of phased myself out of over the last twenty years. The other day I was in the pharmacy picking up some toiletries. I pulled my cart up behind the only other shopper in line standing at the only checkstand with it’s light on. In the “baby basket” as I call it, the woman had what looked to be a wedding album sitting alongside her purse. Kay. Though her cart was not filled to the brim, there were a generous number of items resting inside the basket. I have learned to relax into those situations. Getting all impatient and wound up, at least I have found, doesn’t make the line move forward any faster. Unloading her purchases on the conveyor belt, the woman opened her book. Now I was not being nosy, but I could clearly see it was bulging with plastic covered pages lined with all manner of coupons. Well maybe a little nosy. This woman, apparently, had created the Bible of all coupon books and as I stood there she went through what felt to me to be every single one. By the time she was done, I had meditated three times and begun doing Tai Chi in the aisle. I believe this is called “extreme couponing” and I am here to tell you I don’t have either the time or the patience to pursue such an endeavor, but God bless her for doing it. While I’m still on the subject of the pharmacy, why is it one pharmacy in particular (if you’ve been there you’ll know which one) insists on rewarding your patronage by giving you a receipt long enough to write a legal brief on the back of it. If you walked into the Amazonian jungle and dragged this receipt behind you to leave a trail to follow you wouldn’t run out of paper until you hit Columbia. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I realize these are all store coupons printed on the receipt but in my experience every time I’ve tried to use one of them it had either expired or couldn’t be used for whatever item I was buying. I’m just sayin.

Once I had put out the fire both literally and figuratively in my kitchen and disposed of he charred remains, I went outside to pick up all the twigs strewn around my yard from the last storm and put the trash cans by the curb. While standing by the bin, my neighbor wandered over to ask if Dale had passed. Telling her he had, though we speak frequently over the fence, I suddenly struggled to remember this woman’s name. I knew it had something to do with the TV show Bewitched. I set up little reminders in my tired brain to trigger a response for names. I am terrible at remembering them. Sometimes I have to look at the name embroidered in my underwear to be able to write a check. A light went off. “Tabitha” that’s it. Proud I had conjured (pardon the pun) up the correct name, I applied it liberally during our conversation. Before leaving, she turned and said, “Oh, and Susie, my name is Sabrina not Tabitha”. Drat the luck. Close but no cigar. At least I didn’t call her Darrin.

I’m trying hard to deal with the emptiness in the house. It hits me every time I leave to do something away from home and then come back into the front door. Dale was such a large presence in my world, it is hard to fill up the empty spaces, so I don’t even try for now. Easy to laugh, he was always already chuckling before telling a joke, and his hearty guffaws could be heard at the other end of the house when he was talking on the phone to one of his friends about something that greatly amused him. Boo, the Queen of Cats, though a sparkling conversationalist on most days, really hasn’t exhibited much of a sense of humor.

Feeling a bit antsy after cremating my innocent veggies, I decided to take myself to the store to get some more of the same and start the process again. Damn the torpedoes and all that. This time, I would cook them with my eye on the clock and the stove. I bought a few extra groceries while there, you never get exactly what’s on your list, and pushed my cart out into the parking lot. Pushing the trunk release on my remote, nothing happened. Really? Now the remote and/or the car is not working. WHAT IS GOING ON!!!!!! I pushed it again, and then again. Why do we do that? It is obviously not working. Perhaps it’s our mind way of coping with the situation. I gave the door handle a jiggle. Nothing. Suddenly a man came up behind me. Fine, now I’m being accosted in the parking lot. “Excuse me”, he said politely. (I thought he was going to offer to help). “Yes”, says I? “You’re trying to get into my car”. “What”? Looking in the window I realized I did not leave a gym bag in the back seat nor did I purchase the Starbucks coffee sitting in the cup holder. “Oh”. Insert red face here. Quickly I apologized for the mistake and located my car two rows over. Hello?

After that I just came home. I entertained the thought of going in the closet with the bottle of Gray Goose and some fiery Cheetos but decided to tough it out and cook my vegetables instead. This time without nearly setting the house on fire. Another day worked through and I’m still here. Hugs from me.

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Misty, watercolor memories…..

I had a discussion with a young parent the other day I found interesting. She told me she asks her children what they would like to eat before preparing a meal. Things really are different then when I was growing up. I can honestly say I was never consulted about a meal really. What was put on my plate and served to me, I ate. If I chose not to eat it, my grandmother, at least to my recollection, never got up from the table and went in the kitchen and whipped me up something else more to my liking. Sometimes at breakfast, my grandmother did ask if I wanted my eggs poached, scrambled or fried, but other than that, what showed up on the plate was generally what I was expected to eat.

Now that I think more about it why shouldn’t children have some choice in their menu plan? They aren’t old enough always to make all the choices but I do think after they have tried a food several times and still have a strong distaste for it, perhaps they shouldn’t be made to eat it? This does not mean they can exclude every vegetable, fruit, or meat and substitute ice cream or candy bars, but within reason if there is a food they really do not like perhaps they need not be made to eat it? My son, for example, could not stand peas. His father, thought children should eat what was placed in front of them, and not waste food. The “starving children in China” script was pulled out often when food was left uneaten on their plates. This particular meal, the peas remained intact on my son’s plate and like the elephant in the room did not go unnoticed by my husband. “Eat your peas before leaving the table” was put out there. The gauntlet had been thrown. Dishes done, I came back to find my little one still staring at his plate. Stubbornness is definitely genetic. After a while the fork was lifted to his lips and he took a big bite of the dreaded little green bullets. The face was too much as the chewing commenced. Shortly, as quickly as they had gone down the chute they made a return visit all over my tablecloth. Having had enough of both men in my household, I scooped up my son and headed for the bathtub and handed his father the cleaning utensils to clean up the mess. Peas were no longer an issue at our house.

I never had to be forced to eat. I liked just about everything my grandmother put in front of me except for the dreaded liver and onions or the god forsaken beefsteak and kidney pie which were both my kryptonite. Ewwwww. Food was where she and I totally bonded. So many of my warmest memories of my younger years were created in my grandmother’s sunny kitchen. Sometimes, one of those memories will pop up in the most expected location. The other day while waiting for a doctor’s appointment, I had some time to kill. When driving into the complex parking lot I’d noticed a “Grand Opening” sign on a sandwich board in front of a new antiques and collectibles store. Antiques not really my decorating style, I decided it still might be interesting to take a look and see what they had to offer. On entering the store, it gave off that same musty, dusty smell most stores of that genre seem to have. Since the store (at least according to the sign out front) had only been open a couple of weeks, it got me to wondering if that scent actually came in a spray can, like new car smell at the car wash. Perhaps it’s the Moldy Oldie fragrance collection by Air Wick or the Granny’s Attic grouping by Fabreze. At any rate, while looking at the eclectic assortment of oldies but goodies for sale along the cluttered shelves, I came across four little china egg cups. Seeing them on the shelf took my mind immediately to childhood breakfasts in my grandmother’s family home on the hill in Halifax. The main focus of the room, was the lovely picture window looking out over Halifax harbor. Always I loved being in that kitchen with my grandmother. I can see her busy at the stove, apron in place, and if I inhale deeply I can almost smell all the delicious aromas wafting through the air. Our evening meals were usually taken in the formal dining room replete with all the bells and whistles. Breakfast, however, was served with far less fanfare at the little formica table by the window in the kitchen.

My grandmother woke up precisely at 6:00 every day. If asked why in later years why she still got up so early when she could have languished in bed, she said “you have plenty of time to sleep after you die”. Before coming out to greet her day, her nylons were in place neatly secured to her undergarments beneath one of her house dresses as she referred to them. These were cotton dresses all cut from the same pattern in varying fabrics, with short sleeves and a parade of buttons marching down the front. Specifically they were worn for working around the house to keep her good clothes from getting soiled. Up until she was in her eighties, when my mother finally convinced her pants on women were not the work of the devil, did I ever see my grandmother’s knees covered by anything other than a suit, skirt or dress.

The first order of business each morning was always to prepare my grandfather’s breakfast. A urologist, his days often began quite early. Breakfast was served to him on a tray each morning in bed, accompanied by his morning paper. Very health conscious, and dealing with some health concerns himself, the menu was shredded wheat with berries, a glass of juice, one half a grapefruit and a slice of whole grain toast. A small vase with one flower from the garden was added during the summer months next to a colorful little china pot filled with Gammy’s delicious homemade marmalade. Once my grandfather had opened his paper and begun to eat, she tended next to the needs of the smallest member of the family, namely myself. Eggs were often on the menu breakfast. They came dressed up in a variety of ways, my favorite to this day being Eggs Benedict, basically poached eggs perched atop a split English muffin then smothered with buttery Hollandaise sauce. Yum. These days no one has time to whip up homemade Hollandaise, or at least I don’t. Back then, there were no packages to buy at the store to add water to. If you wanted Hollandaise, you dragged out the double boiler and whipped up a batch yourself. Another way I loved eggs was soft boiled and served in an egg cup. The shell was left on with the top sliced through (it’s hat, as my grandmother would say) and you lifted it’s hat, and dipped your toast in the gooey yolk.

Funny how smells, tastes, sounds and pictures can trigger an immediate memory of perhaps an easier time or those you particularly enjoyed. Of course, these sensory reminders can also be of traumatic or unpleasant experiences, but I’m trying to look at the bright side of the moon at the moment so let’s stay there for a while. My memories are often associated with food it seems. Always I have loved to be in the kitchen. Although I have to admit these days I do find myself tiring of coming up with new dishes to tantalize my guests. As I’ve said before they need to introduce a new meat, or at least a new vegetable for those of us who love to cook to play with. Perhaps they’ll just create a new one. My granddaughter, a vegan through and through, says other than organic vegetables and not all of those, you don’t know anymore if the vegetable you’re eating is real or was created in a lab somewhere. I think we need a new blue something, something. At the moment blueberries are kind of holding down that fort all by themselves.

I bought the little egg cups as it turned out. Did I need them? Nope, not in the least, but want won that argument and they are sitting in my china cabinet waiting for a soft boiled egg to bring them back to a useful life.

This has been a rough year. I thought last year was full of potholes but that was just the preliminary match, and, unfortunately, this year seems to be the main event. I am working on my grateful self. I am grateful the virus seems to be getting under control. I am most grateful it got a hold of me and my partner Dale, and then threw us back relatively unharmed. I am grateful all my family and his, and my friends and his, are still here to talk about what a strange year it truly was. I am simply grateful for so many things.

On the downside of things, Dale, my partner and companion, has cancer. Being asked to be grateful about this is certainly an uphill climb. Rick, my partner in crime for nearly twenty years, as I’ve mentioned many times, passed away nearly three years ago from lung cancer. In a stroke of synchronicity even I find hard to grasp, Dale has been given the same dire diagnosis. The oxygen compressor is once again humming in my spare room and questions without answers are swirling and twirling about in my head.

So, I pull up some happy thoughts and fond, fond memories of being young and free and unaware of all the sadness that life insists on being peppered with. Memories, I always feel, are tucked away to be pulled out perhaps when you need a hug and don’t have one handy, or are feeling blue and want to remember the pure joy of laughing out loud. Memory really is such a gift, and probably one we take for granted. One of the hardest things for me is to watch my mum slowly loosing her grasp on all those wonderful mental highlights she has stored away over the years. I am her memory these days and I’m okay with that. Again, I lean to the side of gratefulness and remind myself she remembers my face and that alone is money in the bank.

Sorry if this post is a bit of a song with sad lyrics. Usually I am upbeat, but even a stand up comedienne has days when he or she can’t pull a joke out of the hat.

Have a good one. Remember to not put your “I love you’s” off until a better day, there is never a better day then today. Talk soon.

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Holy holidays, Batman…..

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My heart goes out to those overworked healthcare care workers practically begging us not to travel to friends and family over the holidays. Good news, all but 84 million of us paid attention to the warnings. Sigh. We really can’t deny ourselves. Even with the vaccine on it’s way to relieve some of the stress the virus has placed on our country, people will do what people want to do.

Aside from all the Covid saturating the news, the less than peaceful transition of power looms heavy in the headlines. For those of you who have ever ridden a jet ski and fallen off, that’s what the end of this year with our government feels like to me. No rider at the controls and everybody going around in circles. “Jet ski”, you say? A jet ski, is essentially a water motorcycle. Not all, but some, manufacturers have a built in function wherein if the driver falls off while the jet ski is in the water the vehicle will turn to the right and circle so the rider can swim to retrieve it. Just so you know.

Speaking for myself, I’m starting to believe we should do a clean sweep in Washington and start from scratch when it comes to our legislators. Some of these old dogs need to be moved out to allow room for some new blood and fresh ideas to take their place. The government, like my house after my taking a month off to recover from the virus, is in need a serious deep cleaning.

I am steadily regaining my pre-Covid stamina and my brain fog seems to be lifting. Always I have been a being of high energy and having lost that for a while was disconcerting. I seem to find myself in the kitchen a lot these days. After Rick passed, hard to believe it was two and a half years ago, I lost interest in cooking. However, my enthusiasm has been rekindled since finding myself restricted the house for so long during 2020. My size 2 pants gathering dust in my closet, will testify to the fact I haven’t been missing any meals of late.

Too many people out there are struggling this holiday season. I feel immensely grateful to be here celebrating the passing of another year and to have leftovers in my refrigerator from my Christmas dinner, and a roof above my head to keep the rain off.

Over my lifetime like most people, I have experienced times of peaks and times of valleys. At the time they felt more like insurmountable peaks and bottomless crevices than blips in the road. Always though, when it was darkest, the clouds parted allowing shards of sunlight to shine through. This year has definitely been a deep dip on the chart, but I hold on to the knowledge at some point somewhere down the road life will be bright again. Spring with all its glorious rebirth and rejuvenation has always followed a brutally cold winter.

Someone asked me the other day why there has to be so much human suffering. Why anyone might suppose I hold the key to this door I can’t imagine. The answer, or one I’ve heard proposed often, is without suffering how would we recognize bliss? Yin and yang. Balance in all things in nature. I try not to stay too long on that train of thought, because once I hop on board, I find it difficult to see a destination in sight. There are so many unanswered questions in this world. I would hazard a guess after populating this planet for hundreds of years the things we don’t know still vastly outweigh what we do. If you wade too deeply into this pool, you will end up under water. There is no Alex Trabeck standing by the board to reveal the answer once you have posed the question. Sadly, there is no Alex Trabeck in the picture at all, at least in his physical being. I shall miss him.

There are many questions I would ask at the end of this eventful year. For example, why are our highest elected officials (and I emphasize the word elected here- serving at the will if the people) out on the golf course whining about their lot in life while so many citizens across the country are going to bed hungry? I liken it to while watching your house burn to the ground while you draw your 9 iron out of your bag and hit it to the green. Lack of understanding as to why you put in a place of high authority in the first place. Basically, to PROTECT and SERVE, and this does not mean yourself. Nero had nothing on these folks with his fiddling while Rome incinerated. At least he was crazy, although that piece of the puzzle may fit in some instances in this puzzle as well. It does seem a bit like the world has gone mad. I’m just saying.

We managed to pull Christmas out of the hat at our house in spite of the many roadblocks. One after one, all the splinter groups in our family checked in virtually. We shared present opening and some much needed laughs. Though unspoken, I think all of us were missing being able to reach out to one another for a hug or two, but at least we were as to together as the situation safely allowed. I pared down my usual prime rib to filet mignon served with sautéed mushrooms, twice baked potatoes, hercot verts and cheddar and apple pie for dessert. It was delish, if I do say so myself, and apparently I just did. So many families were facing an empty chair at their holiday tables, so I will be thankful again and again all my faces were accounted for.

One thing of note about these trying times I have noticed, has been the kindness and generosity people have extended to one another. Even on a personal level, I have seen this over and over and heard similar stories from friends and loved ones of simple acts of kindness. It is heartwarming. Truly, or sadly depending on your point of view, we humans are at our best when at our worst.

I hope your Christmas was a success. One more week and we can put 2020 officially to bed, yay. That, is definitely a reason to break out the fireworks!!

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Coupling 101

Sometimes I find myself studying couples and wondering what on earth brought the two of them together. I’m talking about those couples who outwardly appear so completely mismatched you wonder how they ever found a common path. We’ve all seen such unlikely pairs. He may be very tall with lanky dimensions, slightly balding, with a quiet, almost shy demeanor. She, a diminutive woman of generous proportions with masses of wild ginger hair and vibrantly colored lips which never stop moving. Yet, somehow like the smooth ocean waves caressing the rough edges off coarse grains of sand they pair together in a perfect dance.

The mating dance in some form or another occurs in all creatures on earth except those who produce asexually such as starfish and sea anemones. Thankfully, with humans, it takes two to tango. And, whether we tango or foxtrot, in nearly every species it is the male tasked with making the first move. For some creatures, such as the male black widow spider, this privilege may come with questionable rewards. Once the deal is consummated, the object of his affection then kills and eats him. To my mind not much incentive to be in a hurry to fill a spot on Saturday night.

For me, one of the more magical of these mating displays are fireflies. I saw my first firefly in the backyard of my home in St. Albans, West Virginia in 1991. Spring had merged into summer in the Mountain State. Humid in that part of the country, the new season brought with it hot sultry days followed by restless sweat filled nights. The ceiling fan pushed the hot air around in the kitchen while I finished cleaning up after dinner. Thankfully there was a window over the sink allowing a breeze to sift in through the screen. The kitchen was situated towards the rear of the building facing the back yard. Beyond the house the lawn faded into an alleyway where a line of scruffy shrubs separated the alley from the railroad tracks. Fascinated I watched as a sea of  twinkling lights began to flicker above the shrubbery like a thousand Tinkerbells signalling for Peter Pan.  I called my husband. Growing up in Texas he was somewhat amused at my reaction because because fireflies were a familiar sight for him. This lovely display, he explained, was the male insects signalling they had their tap shoes on and were ready to dance should a so inclined female be in the area. Absolutely one of the most enchanting natural phenomena I have witnessed. Never, in the three years I lived there did I tire of seeing these tiny beacons as the sun settled down for the evening.

As I said in the first paragraph, the interesting part for me is not that we pick partners. We are, after all, programmed to procreate. Rather I am fascinated by the partners we pick. Sometimes in the logical scheme of things on the surface our partnering seems to make perfect sense. Beautiful runway model marries equally beautiful football quarterback, or a doctor elopes with his nurse. You’d think when like meets like, it should create a perfect pairing. However, look how many of these perfect pairings end up seated next to their high priced lawyers arguing over who is going to get the Lamborghini in their property settlement? Perhaps our need to mate coupled with our inability to delineate the right person from the wrong one has to do with the high divorce rate in this country? Most of us spend more time researching the best vehicle for our needs before driving it off the lot then we do choosing people we are planning to commit a lifetime to. Certainly I am guilty of this. You don’t get married four times if you’ve chosen well the first time.

My last relationship, undeniably my best and longest, was with a man I had little in common with. Rick and I met on Matchmaker.com. My profile was number 227 on his list of compatible ladies. After attempting several meetings with the more probable candidates that lit no fires for the parties concerned, he told me he kept returning to look at my profile again.  After our first date which was a hockey game and video arcade we were rarely apart. During our twenty years together we looked forward to seeing each other every day, enjoyed lively conversations about everything, laughed often, and rarely shared a harsh word.

Conversely, sometimes a pairing that outwardly seems not to be working, might actually be moving along swimmingly for those involved. Take the couple married forty years who haven’t agreed on anything since they said “I do”. Some people communicate best when bickering with one another. For me, I enjoy a little spirited debate though constant arguing would have me running for the door. “One man’s meat is another man’s poison”.

Rick and I were as unalike as Kim Kardashian and Mother Teresa. He was born in Cairo, Egypt, while I was raised in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Rick’s palate leaned toward heady exotic foreign flavors whereas I was weaned on orange marmalade, New England style boiled dinners, and poached salmon. Over the years each of us bent toward the other, learning to embrace what each brought to the table. One night a month we celebrated “eeewwee night”, a night where each of us cooked our own meals featuring something the other didn’t enjoy eating. For Rick it was usually organ meat such as liver or kidneys which I prefer to pass on. For me scallops or a fat juicy hamburger which weren’t on his list of favorites.

Food issues can easily be compromised. However, there are some key areas that absolutely need to be discussed before prior to booking a venue for the nuptials. Areas like children, yes or no?  If one player wants a big family where the other prefers living life footloose and fancy free this can create huge roadblocks down the road. Making a decision on whether or not to have offspring is not like saying one prefers abstract paintings in the living room while the other is partial to country chic. Deciding whether or not to have children affects your life now and in the years to come. For the partner who wants children but denies themselves the opportunity, this could build resentment, as it may as well for the partner who has children without having the desire to do so.

Religious preferences could possibly also be a touchy area, as well as political differences. Politics can be difficult if you sit on opposite sides of the fence because it often reflects an ideology that is totally different from the other person. I have even heard of couples breaking up over which football team they supported.

It always makes my heart sad to see couples probably together for many years, seated across from one another in a restaurant not exchanging a single word. Being a communicator myself, this lack of sharing would drive me over the edge of boredom and far far away. I often wonder if they simply have run out of things to say to one another, though God knows the world offers up a vast array of things to discover together, or if at some point they simply stopped caring enough to try. At that point I believe I would either do something proactive to change the dynamics, or throw in the towel and go down to the local shelter and adopt a kitten. I would most certainly prefer my own company and an occasional lonely moment. Nothing more miserable than being lonely together.

So I continue to explore the coupling experience. At this stage of my life I find I am very clear on what I want and what I do not. Rick, who passed away last September, will always be in heart and memories and for now that is enough. Each person who touches your life leaves a bit of their story with you and you with them. Should someone come along as I continue along my way then we shall see then how my story ends.

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