In which Sisiggy leaves the state -- all by herself

I don't get out much.

This is not hyperbole; and when I say "out," I mean beyond the country road that runs between my house and the farm where I work. It's a beautiful drive and I consider it one of the perks of my job that I get to see a bucolic panorama on my way to work everyday instead of, say, freeway overpasses, strip malls and fast food restaurants. But I can go months and never leave the road where I both live and work.

The reason for this is partially logistic. We are three adults with two vehicles going three different places. At any given time, someone has to stay home while two are at work/school.

I've come to realize, though, that the other part of this is that it's just easier to stay home and I've found I'm susceptible to the easier path -- not very rewarding, but safe. So here I found myself at the end of a summer with my world shrunken to a 10-mile stretch of road.

So when my friend (and former co-worker at the farm) Susan suggested I come and visit her at her new apartment in Maryland where she and her husband moved last July, my knee-jerk reaction was to politely say, "Yes, we must do that sometime;" and if she pressed me with a specific date, there was always the answer, "Dirtman is working that day and needs the car and Heir 1 has school..."

It's not because I don't want to see Susan and Larry. In my head, I'm constantly updating her on what's going on at the farm and in my life. But her invitation brought me to the realization that I had not driven myself anywhere (other than work) in over a year and I was actually having anxiety over something that I usually never gave a second thought about.

It is always easier to give in to the anxiety than it is to overcome it and I've been spending way too much time on the easy path.

Dirtman and Heir 1 were very cooperative about juggling rides when I announced that I intended to drive to Maryland on a Saturday afternoon (really, only about an hour-long trip) and meet up with Susan and that I was going to do this all by myself (was that an attitude of relief I sensed?).

I was, of course, rewarded for my bravery. It was wonderful to see my friends again and, of course, Susan cooked a terrific meal; and we talked...and talked...and talked...

Oh, and did proper homage to Brandy. How can one not do proper homage to Brandy?

And then, without a second thought, I headed home...with a bagful of homemade cookies for my very own...and we all promised we'd do this again sometime soon.

I mean, it's not like it's a big deal or anything...

Dinner and a show!

Short post, so...

...sorry...had to go get groceries tonight (or, in New Jersey-ese: had to go food shopping).


And now Wuthering Heights is on.

Smell the heather!

In which a little of my bitterness shows through

So I'm flipping around channels last night*, hoping against all hope that there might be something of interest on the television. There wasn't, of course; but during the search I happened upon one of those home and garden shows that follows a family looking to buy a house.

I have to wonder what others looking at our culture think when they see people walking through a perfectly acceptable, immaculate house turning up their nose because the huge living room isn't huge enough or the appliances in the kitchen are three years old. What do they think when a woman looks at a perfectly serviceable stove top and wrinkles her nose with disdain because it's "so dated."

And are people doing strange things in their bathrooms these days that they have to be the size of a ballroom?

Nobody knows better than me that sometimes you just want luxury and, if you got the money, I say go for it. But won't a simple statement of preference suffice without claiming, "I can't live with that Formica counter." You can't live with an abusive person; you can't live with rabid dog; but a granite counter top?

Okay, I'll admit, compared with the caliber of houses Dirtman and I look at, these houses are palaces. A Formica counter would be an upgrade (in the last house, any counter would have been an upgrade).

The ironic thing is, I'll bet I turn out more meals for bigger crowds of people from my tiny circa. 1960s kitchen than any of them do from their football field size rooms. (Though I do miss my kitchen from The House That Shall Not Be Named. Two ovens really made big dinners run smoothly and it was nice having a dishwasher). No one cooks anymore; they just watch Food Network and promise themselves that they will one day.

So I've sworn off home and garden TV, leaving me with TCM and only TCM. I can relate to the kitchens on TCM.

*An unfortunate side effect of my Lost Summer.

Oh, she may look all sweet and cuddly...

...but she's just dreaming of ways to turn the entire house upside down.

Phoebe is perhaps the one animal not well-documented during Linguini's five-year existence. This is because Phoebe is our resident recluse.




She's the oldest pet around here, evidenced by how young Heir 1 is in this photo.

The reason Heir 1 is looking so happy is that when this was taken, Phoebe had just been pulled from the jaws of death with the aid of copious amounts of cash two-weeks worth of torturous (to me) pharmaceuticals supplied by a now very wealthy vet and administered to every orifice of her body. And I have the scars to prove it.

Phoebe proceeded to live her life as she pleased, sleeping either on the front porch or Heir 2's bed and taking a two-week vacation every summer. Each year she would disappear at the end of June and then, just when we were ready to write her off as having gotten lost or hit by a car or picked up somewhere, she would show up on the front porch looking for breakfast.

As she got older, though, Phoebe became a hermit and never ventured outside Heir 2's bedroom. I think this is because he was the only one brave enough to pet her; she had a tendency to clamp onto his hand so he couldn't pull away until she was good and ready.

When Heir 2 went off to college and Heir 1 moved into his room, it was with the understanding that Phoebe came with the room. It wasn't exactly a match made in heaven. Phoebs did not approve of the change in roommates and she and Heir 1 could be heard arguing with each other long into the night.

It seems that whatever item was important to Heir 1, Phoebe adopted as her own. If Heir 1 wanted to work on the computer, Phoebe wanted to lay on the keyboard; if Heir 1 wanted to play a video game, Phoebe wanted to lay on the console. She would rub herself all over his clean clothes -- never on the dirty laundry (I suggested the radical idea that perhaps putting the clothing in a drawer might solve this particular problem...what was I thinking?).

The battle escalated until one day Heir 1 flung Phoebe into the office where she's been ever since (seems laying on the gaming console wasn't quite getting the message across -- so Phoebe peed on it.)

So the office has become a sort of nursing home to Phoebs -- who we are convinced has a feline form of Alzheimers. For awhile she slept in her litter pan and relieved herself in the dog's water bowl. Now she sleeps ... well, wherever she damn well pleases -- she's Phoebe, after all.

She loves to argue. You would think a cat with a face that sweet would have a delicate little "mew." Think again. She's sounds like she's been smoking a pack of filter-less Camels for 40 years and she uses her lung power to let you know that her food bowl is empty, you have blocked access to her favorite perching spot (the dining room table) or her personal bidet is in need of cleaning.

And -- for the love of God -- don't pass her without scratching her head or patting her back. She will hunt you down and kill you in your sleep nag you until you acknowledge her or stuff treats in her mouth.

Whenever Dark Garden sees her he suggests we "put her out of her misery." I keep reminding him is would be more like putting her out of our misery.

When Heir 2 left for Roanoke this year, he was quite sure he was saying goodbye to Phoebe for the last time. But she's like one of those aging relatives who uses their illness to manipulate the entire family -- she just keeps going and going and driving everyone crazy...

I gotta admit, for all the trouble she is, I'm kind of pulling for her to hit the over-20 mark.

Home, Creepy Home

I suppose it is a sign of returning stability that Dirtman and I have begun casually searching for a house to buy.

Okay, maybe "searching" is too strong a term. Considering the rare alignment of circumstances, moods, cash flow, planetary alignment and moon phase that have to be in place for us to be able to become homeowners again, we stand about as good a chance of finding someone willing to float us a mortgage to buy a house as we do standing on the front lawn waiting for one to fall on us.

Let's say we're waiting for a house to call to us. One that the owner is willing to do the financing; a very trusting and understanding owner -- to take pity on us. Ironically, with rents as high as they are right now, it's infinitely cheaper per month to pay a mortgage and who couldn't use a little loosening of the ol' cash flow?

Oh, we're well aware that we are in the "fixer-upper" category in terms of what we are willing to go into debt over.

People don't do "fixer-uppers" anymore, though. They just tear down and build new. So "cheap houses" are sold for the land value and, around here, a property with a septic site goes for about the same amount as a "fixer-upper."

And then there are the "fixer-uppers" that are just beyond our abilities -- such was the case today. It was one of those creepy houses that the previous inhabitants, while dead, haven't quite abandoned yet.

This one would have had Dark Garden running out the door screaming.

Don't believe me, DG? Well, in the bathroom (the one with exposed pipes, no ceiling and hole-pocked linoleum) situated over the commode, was a sticky note that said "Don't forget to replace Mrs. Schneider's teeth in the morning."

Bye, DG...

Yeah, this place was special, all right. There were still canned goods in the pantry, covered with cobwebs and nailed to the wall in one of the outbuildings were instructions on what to do in case of a nuclear attack. And then there's that smell we who frequent abandoned houses all know -- that lovely blend of kerosene and mouse droppings.

Actually, it would be a dream come true for a person really interested in serious restoration. Because underneath the layers of linoleum and lime green plastic bathroom walls and tacky, cheap paneling was a 19th century log cabin. Gutted and restored, it could be a beautiful old house.

But I'm no Bob Villa.

So I had to be content with exploring the remnants of outbuildings that dotted the property while Dirtman pretended to still be interested in where the drainfield was located and how much trouble it would be to hook up to public water.

"It's morning, John! Bring me my teeth!"

Crisp WeatherorWhy I Baked Apple Cake

We were talking about it being autumn and what that meant. (Frankly, even at 53 years old, I still think I need to buy new saddle shoes in September.)

Heir 1 brightened up and said excitedly, "Fall is crisp weather!"

I felt a tinge of guilt. He wasn't talking about the cool autumn temperatures. He was referring to apple crisp.

Heir 1 loves crisp -- any crisp: peach crisp, blueberry crisp, cherry crisp...even the time I made a strawberry crisp that everyone else was rather ambivalent over. Heir 1 would rather have crisp than pie. He was ecstatic one year when, as a Christmas gift, I gave him a "Crisp-A-Month" for his very own -- Dirtman was not permitted to hijack Heir 1's crisps for breakfast.

Alas, Heir 1 has watched season after season go by this year and nary a crisp in sight. He has even had to endure The Promise of Crisp, only to find that the next day I had neither the energy nor inclination to bake one. To make matters worse, it was left to him to comfort me as I lamented the fact that I was such a loser of a mother that I couldn't even manifest a crisp for my first born child.

So last week I made a huge apple crisp with apples from our local and beloved Rinker Orchard, picked that day. And I would show you that crisp, only it came and went very quickly.

So this weekend rolled around and I was going to make another apple crisp when I remembered that each year I go through apple season making crisp after crisp and, when the local season is over, remember I've been wanting to make an apple walnut cake for myself.


That's right. For ME. I made a totally selfish dessert in spite of the fact that I had abused my first born with promises of Crisp Abundance while languishing in my pajamas watching TCM -- for month after month.

I suppose my punishment was that for the first time in a long time I attempted to take a photo was the first time in a long time that the sky over Shenandoah County clouded over with the threat of rain. The photos stink, but the cake was good and even Heir 1 was not too disappointed that it was not, in fact, crisp.

Only Humpty Dumpty looks like he has evil plans for the apple cake; but, then, he's been a disapproving Dumpty my entire life...

...but it finally rained!...

Out of the Woods

I will always think of the summer of 2010 as the Lost Summer.

I don't say that glibly, as if time just "got away" -- which it did, only that's not why it was lost. I think, perhaps, I was the one who was lost; when all your old standby survival techniques fail you, that's a pretty good indication of being lost.

Looking back now, I think I more fully understand the nature of depression and how easily it can become a way of life. I mean I didn't realize I was lost until I was most thoroughly in the middle of a dense, dark forest, afraid to take another step.

I'm not going to elaborate on the circumstances, since it really is not my story to tell. But it's best I was not communicating during the summer because I probably would have said something I'd be regretting right now.

I relate this because I went to download some photos of the farm where I work from the camera and on it were photos from May and June of a family gathering and of Dark Garden's twin's graduation. It had been that long since there was anything to photograph around here; that long since we all got together for something other than "helping Sisiggy hold it together."

We do, on occasion, take normal family photos

And so here I emerge at the end of September and find Blogland pretty much desolate. Seems no one wants to read anything longer than a Facebook entry. I would probably agree when referring to entries -- such as this one -- totally self-absorbed and self-serving.

I will continue nonetheless, if only for myself; for the same reason I still use a metal drip coffee pot and prefer to write with a fountain pen. If there is anyone left of those who used to read Linguini, you might find me slightly changed -- the forest was rather brutal -- but I'm really just the same old Sisiggy with the same old quirky family.
...same old quirky Heir 2

I like to think I kept the best part of myself and left the rest back in that forest...

I don't know why this photo cracks me up...

In which I blather about books

I love books.

Yes, I love to read. But that's not the same thing. I think everyone "gets" that I love to read and, if they haven't, it would be a subject for another blog entry anyway.

I love the books; the physical board, binding and pages that make up a tangible Thing you hold in your hand and read.

New books are okay. I'm a terrible book defiler -- I make notes and underline things because I'm positive I'm going to reread this book someday and want to leave myself a message about where my head was the first time I read it. I am a book collector's nightmare because book collectors only like pristine copies.

Me -- not so much. I would love to buy a used book filled with notations from someone who obviously has the same literary tastes -- kind of like a book club you don't have to bake cookies for...or wear pants.

Which is why my favorite books are used books...and library books. I'd rather browse ABE than Amazon any day.

Book sellers and librarians are pretty diligent about cleaning up the books in their care, but every now and then something slips by them and my day is made.

They're pretty good about leaving inscriptions alone. These speak to the romantic in me. I want to think the book really was given with love from Winston to Melva. I want to believe that the only reason the book is in a used bookstore is that Melva finally died after 12 years of mourning the loss of her beloved Winston and their alcoholic, good-for-nothing son sold every possession he inherited to fund a wild bender in Vegas with his future fifth ex-wife. Or something like that.

One library book I took out had exclamation points in the margin throughout the book, I assume next to passages some reader had liked. I found a cookie recipe written at the end of a chapter in a book I bought at a used bookstore (a mediocre snickedoodle-type thing, but still...).

I remember reading a string of similar library books for awhile and coming across editing marks on a regular basis. Typos in books are rather common, so that didn't surprise me. That someone would feel it necessary to mark the mistakes, as though there would be points off if he let it just slide by, is a little compulsive. Okay, maybe he was majorly compulsive because he felt the need to list the errors and page numbers on the back flyleaf. I'll bet this is the same type of person who, when you were 13 and had to go to school with a giant zit on your nose, felt they had to point out to you that you had a giant zit on your nose.

But what amazed me was that I was obviously checking out the exact same books as the person with this compulsion.

The best, though, is finding a cache of used books before a bookseller or thrift store employee has had a chance to rifle through them. That's when you find the little bits of this and that people mindlessly stuff in between the pages and forget about. Newspaper clippings, receipts, notes -- I have an old copy of The Big Sleep with a faded note in it that says merely, "Tommy, Eat! M." I love that note; it tells me Tommy liked to read Raymond Chandler, but wasn't a big eater and he had a...mom?...that was concerned about that and she wrote with a pen with blue ink in it.

The note is still in the book, which for now I intend to keep. But who knows where it will wind up when I'm gone.

I kind of hope Tommy outlives me.

In which The Heirs eat elsewhere

When it comes to trying new foods, I'm pretty adventurous. I always thought this was a good thing, since Dirtman loves to bring home the "new products" that come into the produce department at work.

There really hasn't been anything too disturbing; usually a fruit hybrid accompanied by some bizarre, disturbing description: "It tastes like a grape, but has the consistency of an avocado." You have to wonder how boring things get around the horticulture lab that someone suggests "Ya, know what might be good? Let's cross a potato with a watermelon and see what we get."

Anyway, the grocery store chain Dirtman works for has corporate offices out of state and, from there, they sometimes get it into their heads to send entire cases of expensive, exotic vegetables alien to this area, expecting customers to take it on faith that they taste good.

This is how I ended up with a bag of fiddleheads in my kitchen.

Fiddleheads are not completely unknown to me -- they grew wild in my native Pine Barrens of New Jersey. And, while I have been known to avail myself of wild greens in places far, far away from road beds (where vegetation is regularly sprayed with chemicals), it never occurred to me to injest a fiddlehead. Turns out that was probably a smart move, since the Pine Barren variety were probably toxic.

So Dirtman brought home a nice, safe bag of fiddleheads and I followed package directions and boiled them for seven minutes and tossed them with lemon juice, butter and salt. The package claimed the taste was a "cross between asparagus and green beans."

Were we ever in need of a vegetable with a flavor between asparagus and a green bean?

Certainly that was the opinion of the Heirs, who saw no need in their lives for an asparagus/string bean flavor blast, though they were delighted with the fact that holding them upside down turns them into little yo-yos and prompting me to wonder how long after a child has passed his eighteenth year you can stop reminding them not to play with their food.

So Dirtman and I were the only ones who actually ate the fiddleheads, our reaction to which was..........................................................

"Meh."

They tasted like...a vegetable; nothing unique or outstanding. They are, however, visually interesting.

So the next night I decided to put the leftovers into a frittata, figuring I would artfully arrange the coil of the fiddleheads around sliced mushrooms and then pour the egg mixture on top. This way, when I turned the frittata out, the bottom would be the top.

The Heirs, of course, chose to dine elsewhere.



Well, that was the plan anyway. When it came to actually doing it, I remembered that my nonstick pan isn't oven-safe (which is where you finish off a frittata). So I had to resort to my iron skillet where I artfully arranged the fiddleheads and mushrooms and poured the egg mixture on top, at which point I realized that the reason you finish a frittata in the oven is so that the cheese you put on top melts. This was a frittata, not an omelet, and no one was going to see my artfully arranged fiddleheads coiled around sliced mushrooms.

So much for my career in food styling.

The frittata was wonderful, though. Okay...it was wonderful so long as you kept your eyes closed. The fiddleheads turned the eggs gray on the inside. And, again, not a strong flavor.



The final verdict: If I need a conversation-starter at dinner, I'll serve fiddleheads. If doctors discover that fiddleheads cause you to suddenly drop your weight by 10 pounds every week, I'll serve fiddleheads. If fiddleheads go on sale for a dollar a pound, I'll serve fiddleheads. Otherwise..............

Meh.

A Mother of a Day

As some of you already know, I have this love/hate relationship with Mothers Day.

On one hand I'm thinking: "Hell yeah...I spent 596 hours popping you out; you damn well better bring me weak coffee, burnt toast and a wilted flower in bed this morning."

On the other hand I'm thinking this is a sort of life style choice and no one else gets an entire day to honor their lifestyle choice (except, you know...fathers). You know who deserves a day? People who clean public toilets in bus stations. Now those are people who deserve a free dinner.

I am of the firm belief that no one's job is more important than anyone else's and income in certainly no reflections of a task's function to society; otherwise those annoying Kardashian people would be living in a van down by the river. (Why are those Kardashian people creeping out of the sewer of inane cable television into places like the Washington Correspondents Dinner? Shouldn't someone set out traps or something to prevent such infestation?)

That being said, I never feel entitled to too much hoopla when it comes to Mothers Day because I'm a little reluctant to celebrate merely doing my job. Mothers Day is like saying: "Hooray! The human relegated to your care isn't dead! Good job!"

So, I'm always happy with whatever is planned in my honor on Mothers Day, lest someone find out I'm not quite as saintly as Hallmark would have you believe. So I have a few confessions to make:

• My kids always had a consistent bedtime, not because I was a good mother, but because I was tired.
• I listened to audio books and knitted during Little League games.
• If we were in the pediatrician's office, there had to be a limb dangling or someone's brains seeping out of their ear; I couldn't see paying a doctor to tell me "it's a virus that's going around."
• All while my kids were growing up I told them that Disney World was a huge, poorly-run amusement park where people stand in line all day long for a thrill lasting a cumulative half-hour; I told them Disney spends all it's money on marketing, which is why everyone thinks it's this great place to go. (In short -- I told them the truth.) Consequently, they not only have no desire to go to Disney World -- they have an active dislike of anything related to it. That's right -- I stole Mickey Mouse from my children.
• I ate some of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, I ate a lot of their Teddy Grahams. Okay, so a few times I ate so many of their Teddy Grahams that they were forced to have toast for a snack (hey -- I put cinnamon and sugar on it...).

So there you have it. And through it all, I still received this yesterday from Heir 1 (it's good to have a kid who works for Panera):



And this from Dirtman (this is one of six):



And was treated to dinner and a movie by Heir 2 (accompanied by Caisee, who was treating her mom, Carol, too!) and a trip to The State Arboretum at Blandy Farm by Dirtman.

Lunch

All this in spite of everything.

So I'm not even angry that I woke up this morning to a sink full of dirty dishes. Well, not too angry...

Gnorm hates spring break

While Heir 2 was home from school, he was pretty involved with getting caught up on homework. So I left him to his own devices.

However, something about Heir 2's presence stirs up Ungnome and gnome-like activity in general.

Target Practice

Hung by the Gneck

Ungnome gets his

Gnomes on a toot

Unfortunately, Heir 2 didn't get quite as much done as he should have.

The gnomes, however, were exhausted.

Curmudgeon Alert: Who are these people and what are they doing on The Oscars?

I rarely watch The Oscars. Dirtman runs it in the background so, if I’m dying to know who won what, I need only listen in.

Given an unlimited budget, I’d be in line for every first run movie. I do love the films themselves. I just wish the people who make them would be a little more low-key. The rest of us somehow muddle through our jobs without a seven-figure salary and an annual televised pat-on-the-back; why can’t they?

This year I sat in front of the television and watched – and even paid attention to – The Oscars. This was no small feat – there wasn’t a whole lot to capture my attention. If I hadn’t had such an emotionally-depleting weekend, I would have opted for something a tad more interesting – like doing my taxes or balancing the checkbook.

Now I realize, as a middle-aged person, most of my curmudgeonly griping will be written off. I also realize I’m not exactly the trendiest of middle-aged people (as my sons remind me on a regular basis). And so I do have a few questions:

Who are these CHILDREN the Oscars are passing off as established actors? And why, if they have impressed the industry so much with their performances, can’t they manage to read a teleprompter without looking like Ben Stein on Seconal?

Another thing: is there some sort of collaboration between gown designers and set designers to see how many vacuous ingénues they can force to walk to their mark looking like they have a load in their thong? If so – good job! It provided the only excitement of the evening.

I must say, it was good of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin to keep their jokes so lame and stilted that they made the rest of the show look almost riveting by comparison.

The only genuine moments came from the group around the movie Precious. They probably didn’t imagine they’d ever make it to the Oscars – well, at least not until their fairy godOprah waved her magic wand. I was kind of pulling for them, though it’s good to know Oprah doesn’t call the shots on everything in this country…yet.

I have to insert here that, other than Inglourious Basterds (Heir 2 brought his DVD of this home for spring break), I saw none of the movies up for awards. So it’s purely personal when I say I had to be happy that The Dude won for best actor (when researching for my job I came across Jeff Bridges’ website for his foundation for hunger in the U.S. – so he immediately jumped a few pegs in my esteem. And…he’s The Dude!).

I was trying to think of a clever way to end this, but I’ve decided to just let it stop, like how The Oscars end with a bunch of people just milling around on the stage.

Trolling the Past

Heir 2 is home from Roanoke this week (leaves today, as a matter of fact and THAT’S JUST SOMETHING IN MY EYE, YOU HEAR?) and has been cleaning out the storage unit – the one where we tossed everything we had time to salvage during the exodus from the House That Shall Not Be Named.

Needless to say, a lot of bittersweet moments came and went as we unearthed things I thought were gone forever and didn’t unearth things I thought surely had been saved. For the sake of my sanity, we’ll focus on what we kept rather than what we lost. It’s the credo by which I live.

My hardcover copy of Dr. Zhivago with an inscription from John Boy – saved.

My trolls (c. 1966) – saved.

This piece of garbage egg carton and these rusted beach chairs – well, thank God we saved those.





Barbie’s Dream House – saved, if you don’t mind the fact that it’s been providing bedding for mice for the past two years.

THE Tiara – saved. (I KNOW. This is important to a lot of people. It is one of the most important representatives of Linguini silliness.)

The set of Bobbsey Twin books from the 1910s Dirtman found for me – SAVED! CHICK TALK ALERT! ALL GUYS SKIP TO NEXT PARAGRAPH! See, the Bobbsey Twins, Good-n-Plenty, my flannel pajamas and a cat on my stomach is the only known antidote to severe PMS (which I think is totally unfair to still have – you shouldn’t have to be 52 with a reproductive system that thinks it’s 1985).


We haven’t gone through all the boxes yet – most are full of books.

I still hope to unearth the rest of my Barbie dolls. Ken seems to be peculiarly absent – we found his carrying case – filled with trolls and Barbie’s ballerina costume, yet no Ken (which, I guess, would explain why he split from Barbie). I sense Dark Garden’s hand in this, but he may have been too young at the time to remember. I do remember Ken taking a leap out the window with GI Joe – but I’m pretty sure he survived.

It’s been suggested that I can put some of this stuff on E-Bay and make some cash. Anyone want to buy a dusty egg carton?

Mastering the Art of American Whining

I’m probably the last female on the planet to see Julie and Julia.

First-run movies are, for the most part, out of the Linguini budget and anything even approaching a “chick flick” is certainly destined for the very bottom of the Netflix queue. However, Dirtman, in an obvious ploy to get on my good side, allowed this to rise to the top of the list; or maybe it was that it was the one movie I put on the list that depicted people familiar with indoor plumbing.

For the record, it was a good movie. Meryl Streep playing a beloved icon; lots of food shots; Paris and make-believe Parisians being all warm and inviting – what’s not to love? And that’s what I kept saying to myself while I was watching it, “I love this but…”

… you have to put up with that annoying, insipid side story about a morose 30-year-old who is in desperate need for some real problems in her life since, obviously, complaining is her hobby – even more so than cooking. (I apologize in advance to any morose 30-year-olds. But, I’m sorry: When Julie says that “Julia saved me,” I wanted to ask, “From what? TOTAL self-absorption?”)

Up against Julia Childs’ rich and varied life, Julie Powell is nothing but a spoiled, whining Gen-Xer (or whatever Gen she is part of – I sure lost track of which is which). That may not be the truth in reality, but Movie Julie deserves a good ol’ Cher slap on the face and a, “Snap out of it!”

Honestly, though – I really liked this movie.

I will admit to catching just a hint…a whiff…of condescension. Yes, that’s it: condescension. Perhaps it’s just me, but I sort of winced at the movies’ incredulity over the true love affair between Julia and her husband Paul. Almost as if director/writer/producer Nora Ephron were saying, “Isn’t this INCREDIBLE? Two middle-aged people without movie star looks, absolutely besotted with each other! What a hoot!”

I overlook it though, if only for all the nifty vintage eye candy.

And then, of course, there is Meryl Steep’s lovingly elegant performance as Julia Child. I’ve read critics who defend Amy Adams’ inane performance as Julie Powell, saying she didn’t stand a chance when juxtaposed with Streep’s experience. But, let’s face it, this isn’t Adams’ first time performing with Streep, though she faired considerably better the last time.

Stanley Tucci and Jane Lynch (Childs’ husband and sister, respectively) are always treats in every movie I’ve ever seen them in.

A movie completely on Julia Childs’ life would have satisfied even more. Ephron could have spared us Powell’s whiney grousing, paid her some sort of “reminder’s fee” for highlighting Childs’ career, and allowed us to revel more deeply in the story of a strong, vivacious, powerful, inspiring woman.

Animal House

In my mind, I live in a lovely little cottage with a tidy husband, two doting sons and six sedate, well-behaved, quiet dogs. This cottage is draped with all kinds of personally-made items like doilies, sewn ruffled curtains, knitted pillows and crocheted afghans. When you walk into this cottage you are greeted by either the scent of sage, cinnamon, lemon or lavender, depending on the season. In this cottage you never have to check the chair before you sit down to see if there is a soggy, smelly sock toy nestled into the cushion.

Also in this cottage, there is a massive mud room where those six dogs, muddy from romping in a melted-snow drenched yard, are happy to curl up and nap until they are dry and all the dirt has fallen miraculously from their paws and fur. Then they calmly join me in front of the fireplace and sit or lie down calmly in front of my large stone fireplace while I knit; and it never once occurs to them to form a semi-circle in front of my chair and stare me down in some sort of mind control laser-gaze designed to force me into flinging Kraft Singles at them to make them stop.

Did I mention that in my mind, when I'm in this cottage I'm a size 8 and all my clothes are made of fabrics that drape like melted chocolate?

Just so you know how very far from reality is the inside of my mind.

I enumerate all these disparities between what is in my mind and what it in my reality because late winter is the exact time when those two manifestations are the farthest apart -- like the sun is from my hemisphere of the earth.

It's not the snow -- it's the remnants of the snowstorms. It's the mud, the slush, the tire gouges that fill with water; it's paw prints everywhere and it being too hot for the fireplace, but too cold not to run it.

C.S. Lewis called it "this nothing time."

Then there's that whole decor issue. There's been plenty of handmade doo-dads around here. One particular set of pillows served to snuff out a wood stove fire that occurred when Someone wasn't watching Someone Else who thought the fire embers could be revived by opening the stove door and "giving it some air" -- all while the Someone Who Knows to Watch Someone Else Like a Hawk was at choir practice (and we all know the identity of the only person in this household who would have any chance of being in a choir). Turns out Someone Else was right, to the extent that the "embers" began spewing out of the stove and the only alternative seemed to be to smother them with my carefully knitted and cabled -- let me repeat: cabled -- throw pillows...cashmere -- did you hear me? CASHMERE.

Then there was the crocheted afghan that made it to the emergency room during one of Dirtman's many bouts with MSG, but never made it back. Then there was the filet crocheted table cloth meticulously unraveled by a newly-adopted Jack Russell Terrier who had suddenly become "too quiet" while I was in the kitchen trying to master making homemade pasta in bulk.

I said it once, five years ago and I now reiterate: I live in a frat house.

The perk to this is that those I live with ("My Three Sons," as they are locally referred to) are perfectly happy with the way things are. They keep my "prideful" side in check. I've tried on occasion for a candlelight supper (al a Hyacinth Bucket) and spent the meal watching Dirtman and Heir 2 reheat their meat over the candle flames while Heir 1 did his Ray Charles impression.

See what I mean? Frat house.

I just want you to know, though, that in my head I live in that really cute cottage that smells like gingerbread and all the books on the shelf are at least 50 years old (though, sorry -- they still have my silly pencil notations in them because, ya know, I have to have the last word...).

And I know what you're thinking: But -- yes, I would still have six dogs; but they would all smell like cookies.

St. Valentine's Day XXIII

When you're married to a guy who works in a supermarket produce department, any meal he cooks for you inevitably features an abundance of...roughage.

No complaints.

And he's so cute when he fusses in the kitchen. I often wish I still had my old reporters' mini-tape recorder to document the sounds of a man who rarely sets foot in a kitchen trying to put together a romantic meal surrounded by four dogs who are just waiting for him to turn his back on that steak he has sitting on the counter. (By the end of the production, three of the four had been kicked out into a snow drift. Only Zsa Zsa Goody-Two-Paws remained.)


Unfortunately, Dirtman was called into work last minute and our romantic evening was moved up to a romantic lunch and I was the only one drinking wine. Romance is all well and good, but there is nothing romantic about the lights going out when you're not the one who shut off the electricity.

There was time enough, though, even for dessert.

A Large Swath of Insanity

I'm still not apologizing for my love of snow.

Yeah, we got almost 2-1/2 feet, I've had to rely on the kindness of strangers (Well, the kindness of neighbors, anyway. Hardly strangers.) to help plow my driveway and I'm ultimately going to suffer financially for working at a farm that is unreachable during such weather.

I will admit to a bit of a negative attitude last Thursday when the power went out and I hadn't made coffee yet. I can lose my house, declare bankruptcy, endure joblessness, be threatened with homelessness and shed ne'er a tear; but take away my first cup of coffee in the morning and I dissolve into a sniveling, sniffling basket case requiring every dog in this house to circle the wagons. If they'd had opposable thumbs, they would have made my coffee, a danish and supplied me with my own personal rawhide to gnaw on. But all they could do was sit in their signature semi-circle, facing outward, and look noble and protective (except for Zsa Zsa, whose antidote to everything is to lick my knee).


Eventually, though*, Heir 1 woke up (it may have been the wailing) and immediately shoveled a path to our gas grill outside, turned on the gas, lit it and, thumping his chest, declared he had made fire. Finally, thanks to a mortar and pestle (Note to self: place a few pots-worth of ground coffee in freezer, for just such an occasion), I got my coffee and Heir 1 (who, by the way, was in the throes of the flu) had tea. Thanks to a propane fireplace, we had heat. I had plenty of Britta water and, thanks to the abundance of precipitation, we had enough water to flush toilets (not as easy as you would think -- a spaghetti pot of snow yielded barely a pint of water. This was an on-going project. There are those among you who understand why this would be a priority).

Once I got the coffee in me, I began to enjoy myself. I made homemade chicken soup for dinner (with some -- though not as much as this time -- garlic) and snuggled in with my knitting and several books. Power would come back on and promptly go out again, just when you were in the middle of something, so I learned not to take it for granted.

After awhile, I developed a routine and it was almost with disappointment I realized that the power hadn't gone out in quite awhile and it seemed the "storm" was over.



I've yet to get back to work, but I can't help loving how pretty everything is. Dark Garden will probably have something to say about this -- he does not winterize well. In fact, I rather annoy him with my preference for cold weather (you should see the view from his front window). He is counting down the days until he can move as far south as possible; I lament that I will never be snowbound in some wilderness.

Well, I guess this winter is as close as I'll ever get.



*Dirtman spent this entire time at work, sleeping wherever and helping to keep the store open -- hoping against all hope that his diligence will lead someone in the organization to promote him to a Real Job with Real Benefits and a Real Salary. I won't turn this into a commentary on the sloppy work ethic of younger generations and those whose minds are numbed by the philosophy of union dogma, but I am often flabbergasted by the laziness of aforementioned workers who manage to hold on to their positions. Just saying.

You fly back to school, Little Starling. Fly, fly, fly...

Starlings.

They're considered pests around here. Their flocks can be huge and noisy. Sometimes they chase other, more delicate birds away from the feeder. On a cloudy day they are very ordinary-looking; a black bird with a yellow beak like so many other black birds with yellow beaks. They don't sing prettily.

Let the sun hit their feathers, though, and they show every color of the rainbow for those willing to look.

I can relate to the starling. In fact, I think I come from starling-esque stock. Noisy, scrappy, infinitely durable. We shove each other around and bring on the vapors in those of a more delicate constitution. You can try to scare us away, annoy us away -- some have even tried poison; but we keep on.

And in a certain light we show every color of the rainbow.

Be careful what you wish for

On Dirtman's side of the family, the New Year tradition is to eat black-eyed peas on New Year's Day. On my side of the family, the tradition is that the first thing you eat in the New Year has to be herring ("Many different herrings.").

Up to this time we have ignored both these traditions. In fact, I don't believe we even have a New Years tradition. Now that the kids have social lives of their own, we pretty much stay home and stone cold sober in case we are needed. So far, we never have been.

This year we figured, ya know, flying in the face of tradition hasn't gotten us very far; and who are we to argue with hundreds of years of fish and beans? So I sent Dirtman to work with the directive to collect these bizarre talismen.

Well, we are apparently not the only ones falling back on susperstition this year. There was no herring to be found -- sold out, both the herring in wine sauce and the herring in sour cream. He was considerably more successful with the black-eyed peas -- and we didn't even have to resort to dried or canned.

So this morning I went on line to find the least painful black-eyed pea recipe and decided -- in for a penny, in for a pound -- on Hoppin' John.

"Ya know," I pointed out to Dirtman as the recipe emerged from the printer, "if this works and we have a good year, it means every New Years Day for the rest of our lives we're going to have to choke down black-eyed peas."

"We've never had black-eyed peas on New Years Day before?" he asked.

"Nope. I haven't had black-eyed peas on New Years Day since the New Years before I met you," I said casually.

Then I said -- because the realization took me unaware and I blurted it out before I knew what I was saying: "Oh no! I think you are the result of the last time I ate black-eyed peas."

I'll spare you his response.