For Christmas this year, Fred got me a “pedometer.” Not my first, but it could well be the last. It is probably the fifth or sixth device of this type that I have owned in the past 30 years, and in my estimation, it is clearly the best. All the previous iterations of this device that I have owned have been duds. Price seemingly had no bearing on functionality. Five dollars or fifty, they all were abandoned within a week or two, because, for the most part, they were too friggin fussy to figure out. A couple of years ago I ask a geeky young friend (perhaps that is redundant) to help me get one set up and working. He assured me that he would sort it out and provide me with a tutorial in a day or two. When he was likewise stymied, I threw the device in the trash and decided to just forget about it. Really, if they can put a man on the moon, you’d think that someone could invent a pedometer that didn’t require the user to hold down two buttons at once, while advancing a third! Who are they making these things for? Monkeys? Well, I have news for you. Finally they have.
Fast forward to Christmas, 2010, and my OMRON, Pocket Pedometer, Model HJ-112, and I have arrived at statistical nirvana. I drop this light weight device into my pocket first thing in the morning, where it rides around keeping track of me until the last thing at night, when I remove it, record the day’s results and then smugly trundle off to bed. If I happen to don something without pockets, such as the skirt I will be wearing later on today to a funeral, there is a clip that attaches the pedometer to my waist. It makes me look a little like a physician on call, but that’s not all bad, especially since I am neither. There is of course the risk that someone will spot me in the church parking lot, assume I am a doctor and expect me to get someone breathing again.
In the course of the day my pedometer records every step I take and then separately keeps track of the number of aerobic steps and the time in which those steps were taken. For example, yesterday I logged in 11719 aerobic steps in 100 minutes. Speaking of yesterday, it was something of a record day for me and the pedometer. My tally for steps of any kind was 19,250 which equated to 8.50 miles. My average daily mileage for the past 30 days is 6.76 miles. Are you asleep yet?
If not, there is more and it gets worse. This device also tells me how many calories I have burned along with kilograms of fat. Yesterday, the day I logged my all time high mileage, I managed to burn a measly 580 calories and 41.3 grams of fat. I bet I shot through that number with the first fistful of cracked pepper kettle chips and glass of wine, including the few extra calories expended getting the darn chip bag open. How depressing!
So, who cares about this kind of information? I mean, who else other than me? Even I don’t delude myself with the thought that when a neighbor stops me on the road and asks what is new that they are really wanting to know which “step” I am on at the moment or where I was at this time yesterday, “stepwise.” I think that in order to have information like this matter, you have to possess the C chromosome. Never heard of it? Well, that would be C, as in competitive. And, competitive in this context may simply be code for compulsive. Neither of these qualities is intrinsically bad in and of itself. Indeed, there are situations where it serves a useful purpose. A friend of mine who has an estate and tax planning law practice says that what she is really looking for when she interviews a potential hire is some evidence that they are just a little OCD. Unfortunately, she has yet to figure out a question that would elicit the desired response without being sued for discrimination.
So, why does all of this keeping track really matter? Am I really a better person because I know how many steps I took on any given day? I am certainly more boring but is that a necessary component to improved cardio-vascular health? Probably not but it does tend to be a motivator. Keeping track, that is; not being boring. My friend Mary Ellen got a pedometer for Christmas as well. Hers features a touch screen, which I am sure would frustrate me no end. But then, Mary Ellen is a higher tech than I am. Once a week, we meet at Capitol Lake and walk and talk and discuss our data. Well, of course we do talk about other things – books and food and the dogs we are walking. But at the end of the walk we compare our numbers. Her pedometer always says we have walked further than mine which may be the pay off for being able to operate a touch screen, I don’t know.
We have agreed that there is a point of no return with all this keeping track. If I walk 8.5 miles one day, do I walk 9 the next? And then, set a goal to double that in three months? So, if I walked 47.32 miles last week, how hard would it be to walk 50 this week and if I am going to walk 50 miles in a week, why don’t I just walk to Seattle and be done with it? After that, maybe I will walk to the Canadian border and see Jane. And, if I did make it to British Columbia, would I burn enough calories to add a slice or two of salami to my chips and wine? This is crazy making and I seem to be a willing actor in the drama.
Right now I need to end this circular discussion so that I can get my walking shoes on and get out the door. After all, if I intend to best yesterday’s record and get back in time to clean up for the funeral, I need to get going. On the other hand, St. Michael’s church, my destination for the funeral, is only about nine miles from here, so maybe I should just walk there!
If you read in the paper about a befuddled middle aged woman found wandering around muttering to herself and counting her steps, well it just might be me. If the article goes on to say that she was arrested for accosting the officer who tried to take her pedometer away, BINGO! Until that happens, to paraphrase Rick Steves, I guess I will just keep on tracking!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Mitered Corners
For many years, I have made napkins for friends and family members when occasions such as weddings or birthdays called for a gift. When we were first married and I had considerably more time than money, I regularly sifted through the remnant table at fabric stores looking for suitable material. Generally, I chose remnants that would produce at least two nice sized napkins to be part of a set of six or eight. If possible, this collection would be related by color or pattern. That someone might prefer a set of napkins that all looked alike never crossed my mind.
Through the years things changed including fabric. The advent of polyester in the seventies made finding nice 100% cotton cloth difficult. It also seemed that an emphasis in color over thread count came along as part of the craft movement. On my end, there was a realignment of resources. I now had more funds in my checking account than time on my clock. As a result, a soup pot frequently replaced a set of mismatched napkins as my standard wedding gift.
A few years ago I got back into the napkin making business. This shift was inspired by the discovery of a great fabric store in Saint Maries, the closest metropolis to our cabin in Idaho. Whether I am making curtains or mending jeans, the cabin is my favorite place to sew. My mother’s wonderful Bernina is there and the fact that when I am at the cabin, there aren’t really many other claims on my time, makes sewing over there a real delight.
Every summer I make a pilgrimage into Mrs. Sew and Sew in Saint Maries looking for fabric. Most of her customers are quilters and her inventory of high quality cloth is amazing. I get excited when I come upon a bolt that seems to have a friend’s name written on it. One such find featured a pattern of black berries that were nearly identical to my friend Coke’s china pattern.
Making napkins is not a particularly challenging undertaking. It pretty much requires cutting, pressing, and sewing in a straight line. At least, that is all it required until my friend Julie – and the word friend is used advisedly as you will see as this unfolds – told me about someone she knew who always mitered the corners on the napkins she made. Mitered corners – incredible! I could only imagine how impressive they might be.
Contemplating it, however, sent me into a tailspin. On the one hand, napkins with mitered corners would be something to really crow about. On the other hand, now that I knew better, what should I do about all of those “fold over corner” napkins I had blithely gifted in the past. Should I send out a recall notice? Maybe sneak into friends’ linen closets while their backs were turned and take them back? Suddenly, my little hobby had become a knotty moral quandary.
Even though I had never actually mitered anything before, I knew what a mitered corner should look like and felt confident that I could figure it out. Still, I found that visualizing the end product and sorting out how to get there was an exercise that taxed my spatial reasoning skills to the max. The most difficult part was calculating the angle and the number of stitches required to produce a folded corner that would lay flat once it was sewn. Folding - pressing-clipping – stitching – cursing! The results improved as I went along so that the final two or three were something I could actually be proud of. Still, it was a Sisyphean exercise every time I started on a new batch.
Everything changed for the better this summer when I engaged in a bit of “strategic whining” in the presence of a professional seamstress. After I explained my frustration to Loraine, she tore off a square of paper from a post it note pad and folded down two of the sides a quarter of an inch. Then she opened the paper back up and folded the corner of the square toward the middle, producing an isosceles triangle with side angles of 45 degrees. This triangle was clipped off along the base, and then folded toward the center one quarter of an inch. She refolded the sides along the original crease and then folded the paper a second time. Have I lost you? Very possibly as this is truly a case of pictures surpassing words. Trust me. The napkins produced using the pattern are the ones I have been dreaming about for years. It should come as no surprise that when not in use, I keep this pattern in my safety deposit box!
I experienced another one of these “mitered moments” the day before Thanksgiving when I was preparing to make the pies. The crusts, which I had mixed up the day before, were waiting to be rolled out in the fridge, four plump discs wrapped in waxed paper. As I placed the can of pumpkin and the two cans of evaporated milk next to the mixer, I glanced at Cook’s Illustrated which was open on the counter. Recklessly, I wondered if they had anything to say about pumpkin pie. Of course they did. If you have ever consulted Cook’s Illustrated you know that have something to say about just about everything culinary.
For starters they nattered on about the fact that the traditional method of preparing pumpkin pie invariably resulted in a soggy crust. Of course, I had to agree but since I’d never known anything different – my mother and grandmother and I all followed the directions on the Libby can – I didn’t consider it an issue. Well, it doesn’t have to be soggy and if you are willing to add the few extra steps required for prebaking the pie shell, you can serve up pumpkin pie with a crisp and flaky bottom.
Though it adds a little more time, this step isn’t all that complicated. It requires lining the crust with foil and weighting it to keep the crust from shrinking, then baking it for about fifteen minutes, then removing the foil and weights and baking the crust another ten minutes or so. Fussy as all this sounds, I was willing to go the extra mile because from my perspective, the crust is the pie. The filling is secondary at best. I have unapologetically served any number of runny berry or peach pies through the years, confident that the crust would carry the day.
Nonetheless, convinced as I was that the true test of the pie, or let’s be honest here, the pie maker, was the crust, I plunged ahead and considered their suggestions for the filling. Under their tutelage I heated the pumpkin puree in a sauce pan with brown sugar, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and salt. Once that concoction bubbled, I removed it from the heat and added the dairy. When I say “dairy” please note that we are now talking about heavy cream and whole milk. (Just take those cans of evaporated milk to the food bank.)Well beaten eggs are added last. Since I was more or less doubling the recipe, I ended up with seven large eggs!
Try as I might to follow their directions to the letter, I fell down when it came to “making sure to pour the filling into the pie shell while it is still hot!” My shell had cooled for about fifteen minutes before I got around to filling it. Obviously, those “laboratory cooks” don’t ever have to go to the bathroom, or answer the phone or throw the ball for a dog!
When I did pour the filling into the shell, there was considerably more pumpkin than the shells would accommodate. The directions contemplated this and calmly assured me this was nothing to worry about. Once the pies had baked for a “few” minutes in a 425 degree oven and the filling had begun to set up, I was directed to open the oven door, stick my head into that 425 degree oven (think Hansel and Gretel) and add the surplus to the partially baked pie. Well, as it turns out, I could also add it to the floor, the bottom of the oven, and my apron! Fortunately, I had put off doing the floors until after the pie preparation.
Of course, the seminal question floating out there is, does all this produce a better pie. Well, yes, damn it, it does! The crust is better – crisp and flaky and frankly, the filling tastes better as well. Of course, with whipping cream, whole milk and twice as many eggs, it should taste better – we are talking calories after all! Will I do it again next year? Need you ask? Of course I will. The obvious lessons that a more reasonable person might take away from all this, are lost on me. I am defenseless against the siren song that merely suggests that harder might be better; any assurance in black and white that it is so , and I’m a goner. Once you’ve mitered a corner, there is no turning back!
Through the years things changed including fabric. The advent of polyester in the seventies made finding nice 100% cotton cloth difficult. It also seemed that an emphasis in color over thread count came along as part of the craft movement. On my end, there was a realignment of resources. I now had more funds in my checking account than time on my clock. As a result, a soup pot frequently replaced a set of mismatched napkins as my standard wedding gift.
A few years ago I got back into the napkin making business. This shift was inspired by the discovery of a great fabric store in Saint Maries, the closest metropolis to our cabin in Idaho. Whether I am making curtains or mending jeans, the cabin is my favorite place to sew. My mother’s wonderful Bernina is there and the fact that when I am at the cabin, there aren’t really many other claims on my time, makes sewing over there a real delight.
Every summer I make a pilgrimage into Mrs. Sew and Sew in Saint Maries looking for fabric. Most of her customers are quilters and her inventory of high quality cloth is amazing. I get excited when I come upon a bolt that seems to have a friend’s name written on it. One such find featured a pattern of black berries that were nearly identical to my friend Coke’s china pattern.
Making napkins is not a particularly challenging undertaking. It pretty much requires cutting, pressing, and sewing in a straight line. At least, that is all it required until my friend Julie – and the word friend is used advisedly as you will see as this unfolds – told me about someone she knew who always mitered the corners on the napkins she made. Mitered corners – incredible! I could only imagine how impressive they might be.
Contemplating it, however, sent me into a tailspin. On the one hand, napkins with mitered corners would be something to really crow about. On the other hand, now that I knew better, what should I do about all of those “fold over corner” napkins I had blithely gifted in the past. Should I send out a recall notice? Maybe sneak into friends’ linen closets while their backs were turned and take them back? Suddenly, my little hobby had become a knotty moral quandary.
Even though I had never actually mitered anything before, I knew what a mitered corner should look like and felt confident that I could figure it out. Still, I found that visualizing the end product and sorting out how to get there was an exercise that taxed my spatial reasoning skills to the max. The most difficult part was calculating the angle and the number of stitches required to produce a folded corner that would lay flat once it was sewn. Folding - pressing-clipping – stitching – cursing! The results improved as I went along so that the final two or three were something I could actually be proud of. Still, it was a Sisyphean exercise every time I started on a new batch.
Everything changed for the better this summer when I engaged in a bit of “strategic whining” in the presence of a professional seamstress. After I explained my frustration to Loraine, she tore off a square of paper from a post it note pad and folded down two of the sides a quarter of an inch. Then she opened the paper back up and folded the corner of the square toward the middle, producing an isosceles triangle with side angles of 45 degrees. This triangle was clipped off along the base, and then folded toward the center one quarter of an inch. She refolded the sides along the original crease and then folded the paper a second time. Have I lost you? Very possibly as this is truly a case of pictures surpassing words. Trust me. The napkins produced using the pattern are the ones I have been dreaming about for years. It should come as no surprise that when not in use, I keep this pattern in my safety deposit box!
I experienced another one of these “mitered moments” the day before Thanksgiving when I was preparing to make the pies. The crusts, which I had mixed up the day before, were waiting to be rolled out in the fridge, four plump discs wrapped in waxed paper. As I placed the can of pumpkin and the two cans of evaporated milk next to the mixer, I glanced at Cook’s Illustrated which was open on the counter. Recklessly, I wondered if they had anything to say about pumpkin pie. Of course they did. If you have ever consulted Cook’s Illustrated you know that have something to say about just about everything culinary.
For starters they nattered on about the fact that the traditional method of preparing pumpkin pie invariably resulted in a soggy crust. Of course, I had to agree but since I’d never known anything different – my mother and grandmother and I all followed the directions on the Libby can – I didn’t consider it an issue. Well, it doesn’t have to be soggy and if you are willing to add the few extra steps required for prebaking the pie shell, you can serve up pumpkin pie with a crisp and flaky bottom.
Though it adds a little more time, this step isn’t all that complicated. It requires lining the crust with foil and weighting it to keep the crust from shrinking, then baking it for about fifteen minutes, then removing the foil and weights and baking the crust another ten minutes or so. Fussy as all this sounds, I was willing to go the extra mile because from my perspective, the crust is the pie. The filling is secondary at best. I have unapologetically served any number of runny berry or peach pies through the years, confident that the crust would carry the day.
Nonetheless, convinced as I was that the true test of the pie, or let’s be honest here, the pie maker, was the crust, I plunged ahead and considered their suggestions for the filling. Under their tutelage I heated the pumpkin puree in a sauce pan with brown sugar, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and salt. Once that concoction bubbled, I removed it from the heat and added the dairy. When I say “dairy” please note that we are now talking about heavy cream and whole milk. (Just take those cans of evaporated milk to the food bank.)Well beaten eggs are added last. Since I was more or less doubling the recipe, I ended up with seven large eggs!
Try as I might to follow their directions to the letter, I fell down when it came to “making sure to pour the filling into the pie shell while it is still hot!” My shell had cooled for about fifteen minutes before I got around to filling it. Obviously, those “laboratory cooks” don’t ever have to go to the bathroom, or answer the phone or throw the ball for a dog!
When I did pour the filling into the shell, there was considerably more pumpkin than the shells would accommodate. The directions contemplated this and calmly assured me this was nothing to worry about. Once the pies had baked for a “few” minutes in a 425 degree oven and the filling had begun to set up, I was directed to open the oven door, stick my head into that 425 degree oven (think Hansel and Gretel) and add the surplus to the partially baked pie. Well, as it turns out, I could also add it to the floor, the bottom of the oven, and my apron! Fortunately, I had put off doing the floors until after the pie preparation.
Of course, the seminal question floating out there is, does all this produce a better pie. Well, yes, damn it, it does! The crust is better – crisp and flaky and frankly, the filling tastes better as well. Of course, with whipping cream, whole milk and twice as many eggs, it should taste better – we are talking calories after all! Will I do it again next year? Need you ask? Of course I will. The obvious lessons that a more reasonable person might take away from all this, are lost on me. I am defenseless against the siren song that merely suggests that harder might be better; any assurance in black and white that it is so , and I’m a goner. Once you’ve mitered a corner, there is no turning back!
Monday, November 22, 2010
Talking My Walk
It is with no small degree of trepidation that I launch myself into this topic, knowing full well that it might come back and bite me in the future as “Exhibit A” in a commitment proceeding brought by Fred and Kate as a last but necessary resort in dealing with the old lady. Still, it is what is currently in my craw, so I will foolishly rush in, quivering angels be damned.
Even though we all may not embrace the concept with equal dedication, we all know that exercise is good for us. It is a difficult bit of information to avoid knowing since the message is ubiquitous – on line, in print, and long ago replaced astrological signs as an ice breaker at parties. Often after a numbing comparative analysis of the aerobic benefits of one form of exercise or another, the author concedes that walking is the best choice for most people. It is easy and doesn’t require a lot of fancy equipment or a membership in gym. People can walk in all sorts of places and in all kinds of weather, provided they have the right clothing. Where I live, gortex is de rigueur about six months of the year.
Dr. Fay tells me that walking is good for my heart and my blood pressure. My jeans tell me that it is good for my fanny as well. Not surprisingly perhaps, it turns out that walking is also good for dogs. Cesar Milan, the “dog whisperer,” observes that to be healthy, happy, and well behaved, dogs need three things: exercise, discipline, and affection. When I read that, I concluded that his prescription for dogs pretty much covered my needs as well and I embraced his admonition with the obsession of a zealot. Dogs not only add companionship to the daily slog, they bring guilt to the equation, which goes a long way to making sure I hit the road every day.
As a consequence, I now look upon these daily dog walks as my job, something that must be done, rather than a choice I make if there isn’t anything else going on. All things considered it is “nice work if you can get it!” Where else might I find employment that I can wrap up in a couple of hours spent out of doors in the company of pleasant co-workers. This walking time also is prime talking time and the dogs provide a nice foil for this. If a passerby catches me gesticulating to emphasize a point, I simply point to the dog. None of the locals would assume I was schizophrenic. In my neighborhood, you are suspect if you don’t have a dog and I am pretty sure most of my friends enjoy similar canine conversations. For sure, they are missing out if they don’t.
After a couple hours of chatting myself up, I can’t help but marvel at my brilliance. How insightful, how witty, how amazingly astute! From time to time I break this scintillating silence to confer with the dogs in order to discern their opinion. Invariably, they signal their concurrence with a wag while fixing me with an expectant look. That is my cue to turn the conversation to something they particularly enjoy with a remark like – “Aren’t you the best dogs in the world? Don’t you think you have a treat coming?” On cue, they sit and look at me, and I dig a little something out of my pocket, once again confirming that we are in total accord.
Then we set off again. Walk. Talk. Talk. Walk. By the time we get back to the house, the dogs are ready for a nap and I have the tough choice of deciding whether to sit by the fire and read, or clean up the kitchen. We are relaxed from the exercise and rejuvenated from our long mutually satisfying conversation. Is it any wonder that it never occurs to me to pick up the phone and call someone for a chat let alone drop by for visit? Some of my friends have suggested that my failure to do so indicates that I am becoming a reclusive, antisocial crank – well, no one has used those exact terms, but I can read between the lines. “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, what have you been up to?” “Has your phone been out of order?” “I swear we saw more of you when you were working!”
I was starting to think that there might be some truth to that reclusive crank assessment until I realized that after spending a couple of hours every day talking to myself, I didn’t really need to talk to anyone else. Been there. Done that. Besides having experienced the joy of talking to myself, conversing with another person would surely tax me. First of all, I’d have to let them talk at least some of the time. I can’t think of a single friend who wouldn’t demand equal air time. Then there is the very real possibility that they might not agree with me on all points, resulting in some inevitable relationship angst. Finally, as if all of this isn’t enough, there is the certainty that they will want to talk about something other than me – themselves or their children or their own dogs, for crying out loud. Who needs that?
We are pretty happy with things the way they are, so for now we are sticking to our present regimen. Provided, that is that I quit being a slacker and get a move on. Indeed, at this very moment, if I am interpreting their wags and wiggles correctly, they are admonishing me to turn off the computer, get off my fanny, and, in a word, walk my talk!
Even though we all may not embrace the concept with equal dedication, we all know that exercise is good for us. It is a difficult bit of information to avoid knowing since the message is ubiquitous – on line, in print, and long ago replaced astrological signs as an ice breaker at parties. Often after a numbing comparative analysis of the aerobic benefits of one form of exercise or another, the author concedes that walking is the best choice for most people. It is easy and doesn’t require a lot of fancy equipment or a membership in gym. People can walk in all sorts of places and in all kinds of weather, provided they have the right clothing. Where I live, gortex is de rigueur about six months of the year.
Dr. Fay tells me that walking is good for my heart and my blood pressure. My jeans tell me that it is good for my fanny as well. Not surprisingly perhaps, it turns out that walking is also good for dogs. Cesar Milan, the “dog whisperer,” observes that to be healthy, happy, and well behaved, dogs need three things: exercise, discipline, and affection. When I read that, I concluded that his prescription for dogs pretty much covered my needs as well and I embraced his admonition with the obsession of a zealot. Dogs not only add companionship to the daily slog, they bring guilt to the equation, which goes a long way to making sure I hit the road every day.
As a consequence, I now look upon these daily dog walks as my job, something that must be done, rather than a choice I make if there isn’t anything else going on. All things considered it is “nice work if you can get it!” Where else might I find employment that I can wrap up in a couple of hours spent out of doors in the company of pleasant co-workers. This walking time also is prime talking time and the dogs provide a nice foil for this. If a passerby catches me gesticulating to emphasize a point, I simply point to the dog. None of the locals would assume I was schizophrenic. In my neighborhood, you are suspect if you don’t have a dog and I am pretty sure most of my friends enjoy similar canine conversations. For sure, they are missing out if they don’t.
After a couple hours of chatting myself up, I can’t help but marvel at my brilliance. How insightful, how witty, how amazingly astute! From time to time I break this scintillating silence to confer with the dogs in order to discern their opinion. Invariably, they signal their concurrence with a wag while fixing me with an expectant look. That is my cue to turn the conversation to something they particularly enjoy with a remark like – “Aren’t you the best dogs in the world? Don’t you think you have a treat coming?” On cue, they sit and look at me, and I dig a little something out of my pocket, once again confirming that we are in total accord.
Then we set off again. Walk. Talk. Talk. Walk. By the time we get back to the house, the dogs are ready for a nap and I have the tough choice of deciding whether to sit by the fire and read, or clean up the kitchen. We are relaxed from the exercise and rejuvenated from our long mutually satisfying conversation. Is it any wonder that it never occurs to me to pick up the phone and call someone for a chat let alone drop by for visit? Some of my friends have suggested that my failure to do so indicates that I am becoming a reclusive, antisocial crank – well, no one has used those exact terms, but I can read between the lines. “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, what have you been up to?” “Has your phone been out of order?” “I swear we saw more of you when you were working!”
I was starting to think that there might be some truth to that reclusive crank assessment until I realized that after spending a couple of hours every day talking to myself, I didn’t really need to talk to anyone else. Been there. Done that. Besides having experienced the joy of talking to myself, conversing with another person would surely tax me. First of all, I’d have to let them talk at least some of the time. I can’t think of a single friend who wouldn’t demand equal air time. Then there is the very real possibility that they might not agree with me on all points, resulting in some inevitable relationship angst. Finally, as if all of this isn’t enough, there is the certainty that they will want to talk about something other than me – themselves or their children or their own dogs, for crying out loud. Who needs that?
We are pretty happy with things the way they are, so for now we are sticking to our present regimen. Provided, that is that I quit being a slacker and get a move on. Indeed, at this very moment, if I am interpreting their wags and wiggles correctly, they are admonishing me to turn off the computer, get off my fanny, and, in a word, walk my talk!
Monday, November 8, 2010
On A Roll
I made a trip to the cabin the last week in September. Fred wasn’t able to go so I invited a couple of girl friends to join me. Bonnie and Linda were promised several days of rest and relaxation, punctuated with long walks along the river or on forested logging roads, ample quiet time to sit and read by the woodstove, along with food and beverage in abundance, though not gourmet. You can tell that I got my marketing ideas straight out of the Personal Ads. Well, they bought it and realized too late that all of this was just code language for come on over and I will put you to work and maybe if you are lucky offer you a cold beer at the end of the day.
Buoyed by my recent triumph behind the dryer and the piano, I added the cabin to my cleanup agenda. The cabin purge began with a large storage area which is accessed by a ladder going up to the second story from a deck on the back side of the cabin. Next to the door is a large wooden sign placed there by my father, which reads “Odds End.” I smile whenever I think of it as it is so quintessentially my parents. More than anything else, they enjoyed a play on words, and “Odds End” qualifies on many levels.
The cabin itself is pretty much a collection of odds and ends, from the initial structure to the recycled cupboards and furniture. Just as it was the end of the line for much of what comprises the structure as well as the furnishings of the cabin, so it was the final place of fun for a pair of “odd ducks” like my parents. (Their self description, not mine.) As it turned out, it is also the final resting place for their ashes, and though I doubt that they considered it at the time, I am confident that the cabin is where they would most like to be.
The “Odds End” storage area is a place that I had never really ventured into before. Of course I knew it was there and I recall climbing up and taking a quick peek upon occasion but I know for certain, I never before garnered the courage to go face to face with the spiders and wasps that I assumed had claimed it for their own. Whatever was up there could simply stay as far as I was concerned. After all, “out of sight, out of mind” had worked pretty well so far.
What prompted me in September to abandon this laissez- faire attitude and embark on an unprecedented foray into the unknown, was the vague belief that an extra screen door might be lurking somewhere in the detritus of flotation devices, extra plywood, and discarded mattresses. The new closed in sleeping porch that was under construction needed a screen door and the options I had checked out in town the day before were a little too upscale for the cabin. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer – no screen door emerged. No real surprise there. But in the course of confirming this, I decided a purge was called for.
My parents weren’t exactly pack rats or “hoarders,” at least not in the pathological sense that we hear about these days and that I often witnessed among my clients as well as a few relatives that will remain nameless for the time being. Since we share a common gene pool, I prefer to think of them as pioneer recyclers. Dad never encountered a piece of wood that he didn’t think he might use in some fashion or other later on and mother could never let go of a piece of fabric that might prove useful in a quilt or a rug. Mom didn’t stop at making rugs from fabric as I discovered when I opened a large black garbage bag and found a collection of colored plastic bread bags and a two foot oval rug that was a work in progress.
Having competent and energetic help at the ready, I started pitching things out of the door at a feverish pace. My friends, waiting below, hauled and sorted stuff into two piles - one destined for the burn pile and the other for the dumpster. Richard the resident handy man was then deployed to dispose of the collection, which he did with admirable dispatch. Before you let yourself feel too sorry for my friends who I readily admit I hookwinked into this project, you should know that they are both closet “neatniks” and I suspect felt as if they were saving a soul by doing the heavy lifting for this undertaking. Two “treasures” Bonnie and Linda insisted had to be salvaged from this purging included a “bathinette” and a wooden shipping box for Black & White Scotch whiskey.
The “bathinette” is a baby bathing device undoubtedly acquired in 1940, in anticipation of my brother Peter’s arrival. A pink tag was still attached which read: “The BATHINETTE of course! Your friends will look for the name like sterling on silver.” The rubber bathtub, which by the way is more than “hospital” rubber attaches by a hose to the sink water supply as well as the drain. Once the baby has been bathed, the tub converts to a changing table. By simply by stepping on a foot pedal a sturdy cotton cloth stretched between two dowels comes up and locks into place over the tub. The freshly bathed infant is placed on the changing table and for added security, a strip of fabric about five inches wide with holes for his arms can be fastened over the child, so that there is no chance the wee one will fly off the table while the changer is looking for a safety pin. Disposable diapers were as remote at the time of the “bathinette” as a landing on the moon.
I had seen the Scotch box before and was delighted to find it still intact. Frankly, I have a bit of a thing for boxes myself and confess to having trouble parting with them, especially if they are made of wood. The fact that scotch had originally made its way across the Atlantic in the box coupled with an inherited fondness for the stuff, moved this treasure into the keeper category. It is now screwed onto the wall in the kitchen, next to the old wooden telephone, where is serves as a mini bar. There are wooden dividers at both ends that accommodate and secure six bottles. In the center, there are removable slats with rounds cut out the size of the neck of a bottle that slide into the middle of the box to hold them in place.
While I was occupied cleaning out “Odds End” at the cabin, Fred was busying himself at home cleaning out the garage. Now this is a task that I have been talking about for a good part of the 43 years we have lived here. And though he has never outright denied that a good cleaning might be called for, whenever I brought it up as a possible activity for the weekend, he chose instead to characterize it as a “rainy day” project thereby putting it off for some yet to be identified time in the future. Given that we live in “rainy day country” you might suppose that the rainy day list, no matter how extensive, would be completed in any one season. In Fred’s case, he manages to be gone during a great deal of the rainy season, so what appears on the surface to be a legitimate effort to prioritize work, has evolved into a great avoidance technique. Oh gosh, fooled me!
Though at 6:00 a.m. on a very rainy Sunday when I left for the cabin I didn’t know of his plan to tackle the garage, I did learn about it during the day, somewhere east of Ephrata. While I was stopped in a wheat field to give the dogs a run my cell phone rang. Fred was calling from the land fill to advise me that he had just dropped off 600 pounds of stuff that up until that morning, one of us at least didn’t think we couldn’t part with. He confessed that he was motivated more by the fact that he had decided to jump start a weight loss resolve by fasting and drinking only water that day than by the encroaching clutter at the work bench. Staying out of the kitchen and staying busy made this resolution easier to keep.
With those inroads made in the garage area, I came home and threw myself into the potting shed and greenhouse. What a pig sty! The potting shed was a virtual maze of buckets and wire, cluttered with countless discarded plant pots and overlaid with a patina of filth! You will be spared the details largely because I have some embarrassment about publicly acknowledging them. Suffice it to say that it is a project that I am still working on; despite the fact that I keep moving the “finish” date back, great strides have been made. So far, in addition to sorting and cleaning and culling the pot collection down to a manageable number, I have scrubbed the greenhouse with a bleach solution, tackled the fly nests and spider eggs, and placed a moratorium on Fred’s penchant for stopping at garage sales on the lookout for something that he might use as a planter or a tray.
We are on a roll around here that I am determined to keep the momentum going. Really all this getting rid of stuff is pretty heady. Fred managed to lose some weight in the process and I feel lighter, just knowing I have gotten rid of a lot of crap. Still, don’t expect to see a photo montage of either the garage or the potting shed with the Christmas letter. Nor should you anticipate being entertained there any time soon. These areas may be clean and tidy by “Gentry standards” but that is several notches below anything that might pass inspection with the health department let alone meet the hospitality level worthy of our friends.
Buoyed by my recent triumph behind the dryer and the piano, I added the cabin to my cleanup agenda. The cabin purge began with a large storage area which is accessed by a ladder going up to the second story from a deck on the back side of the cabin. Next to the door is a large wooden sign placed there by my father, which reads “Odds End.” I smile whenever I think of it as it is so quintessentially my parents. More than anything else, they enjoyed a play on words, and “Odds End” qualifies on many levels.
The cabin itself is pretty much a collection of odds and ends, from the initial structure to the recycled cupboards and furniture. Just as it was the end of the line for much of what comprises the structure as well as the furnishings of the cabin, so it was the final place of fun for a pair of “odd ducks” like my parents. (Their self description, not mine.) As it turned out, it is also the final resting place for their ashes, and though I doubt that they considered it at the time, I am confident that the cabin is where they would most like to be.
The “Odds End” storage area is a place that I had never really ventured into before. Of course I knew it was there and I recall climbing up and taking a quick peek upon occasion but I know for certain, I never before garnered the courage to go face to face with the spiders and wasps that I assumed had claimed it for their own. Whatever was up there could simply stay as far as I was concerned. After all, “out of sight, out of mind” had worked pretty well so far.
What prompted me in September to abandon this laissez- faire attitude and embark on an unprecedented foray into the unknown, was the vague belief that an extra screen door might be lurking somewhere in the detritus of flotation devices, extra plywood, and discarded mattresses. The new closed in sleeping porch that was under construction needed a screen door and the options I had checked out in town the day before were a little too upscale for the cabin. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer – no screen door emerged. No real surprise there. But in the course of confirming this, I decided a purge was called for.
My parents weren’t exactly pack rats or “hoarders,” at least not in the pathological sense that we hear about these days and that I often witnessed among my clients as well as a few relatives that will remain nameless for the time being. Since we share a common gene pool, I prefer to think of them as pioneer recyclers. Dad never encountered a piece of wood that he didn’t think he might use in some fashion or other later on and mother could never let go of a piece of fabric that might prove useful in a quilt or a rug. Mom didn’t stop at making rugs from fabric as I discovered when I opened a large black garbage bag and found a collection of colored plastic bread bags and a two foot oval rug that was a work in progress.
Having competent and energetic help at the ready, I started pitching things out of the door at a feverish pace. My friends, waiting below, hauled and sorted stuff into two piles - one destined for the burn pile and the other for the dumpster. Richard the resident handy man was then deployed to dispose of the collection, which he did with admirable dispatch. Before you let yourself feel too sorry for my friends who I readily admit I hookwinked into this project, you should know that they are both closet “neatniks” and I suspect felt as if they were saving a soul by doing the heavy lifting for this undertaking. Two “treasures” Bonnie and Linda insisted had to be salvaged from this purging included a “bathinette” and a wooden shipping box for Black & White Scotch whiskey.
The “bathinette” is a baby bathing device undoubtedly acquired in 1940, in anticipation of my brother Peter’s arrival. A pink tag was still attached which read: “The BATHINETTE of course! Your friends will look for the name like sterling on silver.” The rubber bathtub, which by the way is more than “hospital” rubber attaches by a hose to the sink water supply as well as the drain. Once the baby has been bathed, the tub converts to a changing table. By simply by stepping on a foot pedal a sturdy cotton cloth stretched between two dowels comes up and locks into place over the tub. The freshly bathed infant is placed on the changing table and for added security, a strip of fabric about five inches wide with holes for his arms can be fastened over the child, so that there is no chance the wee one will fly off the table while the changer is looking for a safety pin. Disposable diapers were as remote at the time of the “bathinette” as a landing on the moon.
I had seen the Scotch box before and was delighted to find it still intact. Frankly, I have a bit of a thing for boxes myself and confess to having trouble parting with them, especially if they are made of wood. The fact that scotch had originally made its way across the Atlantic in the box coupled with an inherited fondness for the stuff, moved this treasure into the keeper category. It is now screwed onto the wall in the kitchen, next to the old wooden telephone, where is serves as a mini bar. There are wooden dividers at both ends that accommodate and secure six bottles. In the center, there are removable slats with rounds cut out the size of the neck of a bottle that slide into the middle of the box to hold them in place.
While I was occupied cleaning out “Odds End” at the cabin, Fred was busying himself at home cleaning out the garage. Now this is a task that I have been talking about for a good part of the 43 years we have lived here. And though he has never outright denied that a good cleaning might be called for, whenever I brought it up as a possible activity for the weekend, he chose instead to characterize it as a “rainy day” project thereby putting it off for some yet to be identified time in the future. Given that we live in “rainy day country” you might suppose that the rainy day list, no matter how extensive, would be completed in any one season. In Fred’s case, he manages to be gone during a great deal of the rainy season, so what appears on the surface to be a legitimate effort to prioritize work, has evolved into a great avoidance technique. Oh gosh, fooled me!
Though at 6:00 a.m. on a very rainy Sunday when I left for the cabin I didn’t know of his plan to tackle the garage, I did learn about it during the day, somewhere east of Ephrata. While I was stopped in a wheat field to give the dogs a run my cell phone rang. Fred was calling from the land fill to advise me that he had just dropped off 600 pounds of stuff that up until that morning, one of us at least didn’t think we couldn’t part with. He confessed that he was motivated more by the fact that he had decided to jump start a weight loss resolve by fasting and drinking only water that day than by the encroaching clutter at the work bench. Staying out of the kitchen and staying busy made this resolution easier to keep.
With those inroads made in the garage area, I came home and threw myself into the potting shed and greenhouse. What a pig sty! The potting shed was a virtual maze of buckets and wire, cluttered with countless discarded plant pots and overlaid with a patina of filth! You will be spared the details largely because I have some embarrassment about publicly acknowledging them. Suffice it to say that it is a project that I am still working on; despite the fact that I keep moving the “finish” date back, great strides have been made. So far, in addition to sorting and cleaning and culling the pot collection down to a manageable number, I have scrubbed the greenhouse with a bleach solution, tackled the fly nests and spider eggs, and placed a moratorium on Fred’s penchant for stopping at garage sales on the lookout for something that he might use as a planter or a tray.
We are on a roll around here that I am determined to keep the momentum going. Really all this getting rid of stuff is pretty heady. Fred managed to lose some weight in the process and I feel lighter, just knowing I have gotten rid of a lot of crap. Still, don’t expect to see a photo montage of either the garage or the potting shed with the Christmas letter. Nor should you anticipate being entertained there any time soon. These areas may be clean and tidy by “Gentry standards” but that is several notches below anything that might pass inspection with the health department let alone meet the hospitality level worthy of our friends.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Blind Luck
Monday, Barley and I spent the better part of the morning in the offices of Penni Cooley, DVM who specializes in pet ophthalmology. She didn’t have an eye chart for him to read, but otherwise the lights and lenses that she used to examine his eyes were similar to what my eye doctor relies upon. After she finished examining him with her sophisticated equipment, she threw cotton balls in front of his face to test his response. Finally, she had her assistant create a maze between the examining room and her office out of a series of waste baskets and other plastic containers. I stood at the far end and called him. This exercise was repeated with the lights off. With the lights on, he was able to knock over the waste basket that was directly in front of him and wind his way to where I stood. In the dark, he didn’t even try.
No use beating around the bush. Barley is going blind. There – I have said it. His condition is known as “progressive retinal atrophy” or, PRA, and is a result of a defect in an enzyme in the photoreceptors of the retina that prevent damage from light. In case you don’t have an anatomy book in front of you, the retina is the cup like structure that forms the back of the eye. The photoreceptors die over time, with the rod cells that are responsible for dim light vision or night vision the first to go followed by the cone cells leading to complete blindness. The cells simply atrophy or shrink. It is classified as a recessive gene disorder for which there is no therapy or treatment.
I don’t know exactly when we first noticed that he didn’t seem to see as well as he should but I’d bet that it first became evident when someone threw a ball and he missed it. As in any condition that is finally ‘out of the closet’ and given a name, I have been thinking back to when the last time was that he could catch a ball on the fly. Did he ever do that? I think so but now I’m not so sure. Certainly, last summer he could be counted on to chase the ball to earth no matter how far down the driveway it was lobbed. From time to time, he would have to spend extra time running it to ground, but he always found it. When did the exception become the rule? Certainly, this summer no fly balls have made their way into his glove. He often runs in circles around the ball before locating it. “Silly dog – it’s right there!” we say, not comprehending his condition. When he does locate it, I suspect he has “sees” it first with his nose.
With shorter days, our first and last walk of the day is now in the dark and that has brought about several noticeable changes. For starters, he doesn’t charge down the driveway full bore as he does during day light hours; instead he stays close to me, proceeding with a tentative gate. Also, he bumps into or stumbles over structures that are well known to him. A couple of weeks ago, he walked right into the neighbor’s pile of beauty bark. Since it had only been delivered the day before I tried to dismiss it as something out of the ordinary. The next night, he collided with the curb by the garage that has been there forever. Denial was no longer an option.
Over the past five months, Kate and Micaiah’s dog Malbec, has stayed with us off and on, often for two to three weeks at a time. Initially, he wasn’t much interested in chasing a ball. After all, he considers himself primarily a guard dog and a lover. But once he saw that it was a fun game with the anticipated rewards of praise and petting, he threw himself into it. He is powerful runner, so at first he often overran the ball, necessitating doubling back to pick it up thereby giving Barley a second chance at getting the ball in his mouth first. Unfortunately, Barley was rarely able to take advantage of Malbec’s fumble. As the game wore on, Barley’s expression changed from eager anticipation to one of decided frustration – after all, he was the retriever! Didn’t he own this game? Malbec, the Boxer/Ridgeback meritage was an interloper of the first order!
Frequently once Malbec had the ball in his mouth, he dropped it, often right in front of Barley. One likely explanation of this behavior is that Malbec is either intimidated by Barley or that he simply lost interest in the ball once he had it in his mouth; however, I prefer to think that he dropped it intentionally to give Barley another chance. Malbec is smart and sensitive and fully capable of recognizing Barley’s limitations as well as his psychological need to be first. Despite the fact that Malbec could clean Barley’s clock if he were so inclined, he accepts Barley as the pack leader and defers to him. Besides, for better or worse they are family now and family looks out for one another.
So where do we go from here. For starters, I have to get over feeling sad about it. Barley is his same cheerful hardy self and doesn’t need a maudlin mistress for company. Invariably he “comes to play” with an enviable energetic focus at the mere hint of a ball game or the mention of the beach. Being congenitally inclined to live in the future rather than the present I can learn a lot from him about living in the moment. Heaven knows I will need a mentor to navigate the maze of compromised skills and abilities, which will require adaptation and acceptance.
I don’t consider myself a total control freak but in all honesty the hardest part of all of this is recognizing that there is nothing I can do about it. I can’t even justify a good guilty wallow. No “if only” or “why didn’t I?” in this scenario. I really have no option but to buck up, act like an adult and as AA teaches, accept what is, correct those things I can correct and accept those I cannot.
So there you have it. Blind luck. Not the unexpected good fortune often associated with that phrase but on the other hand, luck is just that - luck. This morning on our long walk, we talked about it and decided that all things considered, when it came right down to it, mainly we had good luck and we had it in abundance. After all, we did have each other!
No use beating around the bush. Barley is going blind. There – I have said it. His condition is known as “progressive retinal atrophy” or, PRA, and is a result of a defect in an enzyme in the photoreceptors of the retina that prevent damage from light. In case you don’t have an anatomy book in front of you, the retina is the cup like structure that forms the back of the eye. The photoreceptors die over time, with the rod cells that are responsible for dim light vision or night vision the first to go followed by the cone cells leading to complete blindness. The cells simply atrophy or shrink. It is classified as a recessive gene disorder for which there is no therapy or treatment.
I don’t know exactly when we first noticed that he didn’t seem to see as well as he should but I’d bet that it first became evident when someone threw a ball and he missed it. As in any condition that is finally ‘out of the closet’ and given a name, I have been thinking back to when the last time was that he could catch a ball on the fly. Did he ever do that? I think so but now I’m not so sure. Certainly, last summer he could be counted on to chase the ball to earth no matter how far down the driveway it was lobbed. From time to time, he would have to spend extra time running it to ground, but he always found it. When did the exception become the rule? Certainly, this summer no fly balls have made their way into his glove. He often runs in circles around the ball before locating it. “Silly dog – it’s right there!” we say, not comprehending his condition. When he does locate it, I suspect he has “sees” it first with his nose.
With shorter days, our first and last walk of the day is now in the dark and that has brought about several noticeable changes. For starters, he doesn’t charge down the driveway full bore as he does during day light hours; instead he stays close to me, proceeding with a tentative gate. Also, he bumps into or stumbles over structures that are well known to him. A couple of weeks ago, he walked right into the neighbor’s pile of beauty bark. Since it had only been delivered the day before I tried to dismiss it as something out of the ordinary. The next night, he collided with the curb by the garage that has been there forever. Denial was no longer an option.
Over the past five months, Kate and Micaiah’s dog Malbec, has stayed with us off and on, often for two to three weeks at a time. Initially, he wasn’t much interested in chasing a ball. After all, he considers himself primarily a guard dog and a lover. But once he saw that it was a fun game with the anticipated rewards of praise and petting, he threw himself into it. He is powerful runner, so at first he often overran the ball, necessitating doubling back to pick it up thereby giving Barley a second chance at getting the ball in his mouth first. Unfortunately, Barley was rarely able to take advantage of Malbec’s fumble. As the game wore on, Barley’s expression changed from eager anticipation to one of decided frustration – after all, he was the retriever! Didn’t he own this game? Malbec, the Boxer/Ridgeback meritage was an interloper of the first order!
Frequently once Malbec had the ball in his mouth, he dropped it, often right in front of Barley. One likely explanation of this behavior is that Malbec is either intimidated by Barley or that he simply lost interest in the ball once he had it in his mouth; however, I prefer to think that he dropped it intentionally to give Barley another chance. Malbec is smart and sensitive and fully capable of recognizing Barley’s limitations as well as his psychological need to be first. Despite the fact that Malbec could clean Barley’s clock if he were so inclined, he accepts Barley as the pack leader and defers to him. Besides, for better or worse they are family now and family looks out for one another.
So where do we go from here. For starters, I have to get over feeling sad about it. Barley is his same cheerful hardy self and doesn’t need a maudlin mistress for company. Invariably he “comes to play” with an enviable energetic focus at the mere hint of a ball game or the mention of the beach. Being congenitally inclined to live in the future rather than the present I can learn a lot from him about living in the moment. Heaven knows I will need a mentor to navigate the maze of compromised skills and abilities, which will require adaptation and acceptance.
I don’t consider myself a total control freak but in all honesty the hardest part of all of this is recognizing that there is nothing I can do about it. I can’t even justify a good guilty wallow. No “if only” or “why didn’t I?” in this scenario. I really have no option but to buck up, act like an adult and as AA teaches, accept what is, correct those things I can correct and accept those I cannot.
So there you have it. Blind luck. Not the unexpected good fortune often associated with that phrase but on the other hand, luck is just that - luck. This morning on our long walk, we talked about it and decided that all things considered, when it came right down to it, mainly we had good luck and we had it in abundance. After all, we did have each other!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Zucchini Season
Fall is upon us - the season known for longer nights, cooler mornings, and garden bounty. This time of year, if the motion light goes off in the wee hours it is more likely my neighbor, Peter, than a would be prowler. He dashes around at dawn in his striped bathrobe, leaving grocery bags of zucchini at the door, like May baskets. Our own garden history with zucchini is decidedly mixed. This year, we seem to have just about the right amount though I am reluctant to publish that information, because, well if the word gets out to Peter and he shows up in his bathrobe, I will have more than enough.
With the advent of my new planter boxes that run the along the back of the deck next to the house, I turned the raised bed over to Fred to grow dahlias, with the request that he plant squash around the perimeter. Winter squash seems to benefit from running out along the warm river rocks between the raised bed and the deck. Fred and I are not of one mind when it comes to squash – I love it, especially winter varieties, like Butternut and Delicata. He tolerates it but prefers the summer types, like spaghetti squash, which in past years has been the dominant crop. I have little patience with spaghetti squash, so most of it ends up in the compost pile.
This summer, only four squash plants made it into production mode – all of them zucchini. One produces the slim green variety routinely sold in the grocery store and the others are bulbous and variegated. They are extremely fast growers; what at first light is about the size of my fist morphs into garden clogs by dinner time.
I didn’t grow up with zucchini. My parents, particularly my father who was in charge of planting, didn’t believe in growing something that had to be “doctored up” in order to be “gotten down.” In later years, once they no longer had a garden of their own but relied on the bounty of their neighbors, they discovered that zucchini could be used to make “watermelon pickles,” and they preserved great quantities of the stuff despite the fact that the only time a jar made it off the shelf was at Thanksgiving.
I suspect that there are more recipes for what to do with zucchini than just about any other vegetable. For one thing, if you have any you generally have a lot. Further, no matter how dedicated one might be to eating their veggies, there is a limit to how much a family can consume in one sitting, raw or otherwise. A favorite recipe of mine, Pasticcio di Zucchini, was given to me by my friend, Diane, who is equally gifted in the kitchen and the garden. Thinly sliced squash and tomato are layered in a dish with mozzarella cheese, fresh herbs, and bread crumbs and then bound together with a few beaten eggs. One week in August, I prepared this a half a dozen times, for home consumption as well as sharing at neighborhood potlucks. It is versatile; equally good hot or cold, it can be served as the entry or as an hors’doeuvre.
Rainy days are often baking days for me and since we have had quite a bit of rain lately, the bread pans and muffin tins have been in constant use. In the past couple of weeks, I have produced several loaves of zucchini/carrot bread with whole wheat flour and bran, at least four dozen zucchini/pineapple muffins, and three loaves of zucchini/chocolate bread. I confess that I had to overcome some bias no doubt acquired in my childhood to try out that recipe. Chocolate is something to be found in cookies, pudding and cake but not in bread! Well, I am glad that I finally loosened up on this as the results are great. I confess that I am not all the way cured of my bias as the other day I served some to my neighbor and called it ‘cake.’
My all time favorite zucchini recipe, however, is for zucchini patties, found in Volume II of Joan Moody’s cookbook, Pantry Patter, published in 1978. For many years, Joan wrote a weekly column in the Daily Olympian called “Joan’s Pantry Patter.” The hallmark of most of her recipes is that they are easy to follow and rely upon ingredients that are readily available. If she did include something exotic, like “slivered almonds” she always suggested a low cost substitute or gave permission to leave it out entirely. Her cookie recipes routinely produce 8 – 10 dozen while her casseroles are hearty and flavorful, and come with an admonition to make two - one to bake now and one to freeze for later.
Joan died a few years ago, after what is often referred to in the obituaries to as a valiant battle with cancer. Certainly if cancer could be driven off by sheer force of will, Joan would be here today. As it was, she experienced many periods of remission during which time she seemingly bounced back to her characteristic high level of performance. When I contemplate the legacies that a person might leave for family and friends, a series of great recipes is pretty hard to beat.
Zucchini Patties
The following proportions make four patties about three inches in diameter. I generally cook these in a small electric frying pan, but any frying pan would work equally well.
Ingredients:
1 cup grated zucchini
1 cup coarsely crumbled crackers. (Use crumbled saltines, not prepared bread or cracker crumbs.)
2 tablespoons chopped onion
1 beaten egg
½ teas salt
Garlic to taste
½ cup parmesan cheese
Oil for skillet (2 tablespoons)
Directions: Heat skillet with oil on medium heat. Combine all ingredients in bowl. Spoon into the hot oil and pat out flat. After 2 -3 minutes, check to see if underside is brown. If so, turn patties and cook until brown. Sometimes I turn these a couple of times, particularly if I have the skillet at a lower temperature. We think these go well with just about anything. Last night I served them with pork medallions and mushrooms to rave reviews.
There you have it. Next time the motion light goes off, just relax and go back to sleep, knowing that you can fix Zucchini patties for supper!
Friday, September 10, 2010
A Scary Place
A couple of days ago, I went where no man has dared to go before, at least no man in this house. Well, to be honest, no woman either. I got behind the clothes dryer!
For several weeks, months actually, I had noticed that whenever I had the dryer on, the temperature in the room rose to levels required for an egg incubator. It occurred to me that I might do well to get some fertilized eggs and hatch out a clutch of chicks in on the washing machine. Well, it was a passing thought; off the table before it really got traction.
Of course, I had peered over the back of the dryer to see if it was venting to the outside and it looked okay. I even asked “Mr. Fixit” if he would check it out, explaining that sometimes it got so hot in the room that the smoke alarm came on. “Looks fine to me.” He pronounced following his inspection. With this cursory investigation behind me, I felt justified in mentioning it to an electrician who had come out to give me an estimate on a small rewiring project in the living room. He promised to thoroughly examine it when he came back in a few days and I began to fantasize about a new dryer.
Barley eats in the laundry room. A week ago, after I fed him, I turned the dryer on, shut the door, and then wandered outside where I became engaged in a conversation with my neighbor Kim. By the time I made it back into the house, Barley was barking frantically while the smoke alarm did its thing – emitting an insistent cacophony, at once irritating and frightening.
Having stressed out the dog, I was now galvanized to get serious with this dryer situation. I explored some more exotic explanations for what might be ailing my dryer – a faulty thermostat as an example. Finally, I concluded that the most obvious explanation was that the machine wasn’t properly venting. First I tackled cleaning out the vent from the outside and replaced the existing trap with a piece of panty hose. Then I moved inside. I pulled the dryer all the way out from the wall and discovered that the duct tape was not doing its job. Appearances are so unreliable.
What a scary place the backside of a clothes dryer is, particularly one that has been the final resting place for bleach bottle lids, clothes pins, gum wrappers and old tooth brushes, all cocooned in enough dryer lint to fill an ottoman. This odd collection of detritus can be understood only if one accepts that my laundry room/pantry is the place of last refuge for many items that originally lived someplace else in the house. We don’t brush our teeth in the laundry room but I never throw away a used tooth brush because they are the perfect tool for reaming out crud filled crevices. Of course, as long as they are hanging out under the dryer, the crud continues to accumulate. Regrettably, none of the mates to the solo socks that I am holding onto made an appearance.
Once I shimmied under the utility sink, cleaned off the floor and the back of the dryer, it was clear that there was a gaping wound in the duct tape, allowing heat and lint to escape into the room at large. I cleaned it out, found a wire spring loop to put over the pipe and the outside vent, and then wrapped new duct tape around the connection. I moved the dryer back in place, put in a load of towels, set the dial for “heavy duty/all cotton” and watched with some trepidation to see if my “fix” would hold.
Well it did and the accomplishment made me giddy! Buoyed by my success, the next day I moved the piano away from the wall in the living room. It was so dark back there that I needed a flash light to really appreciate the collective horror the move revealed. What kind of slob lives here, I asked myself as I probed with the vacuum cleaner, sucking up dead Christmas cactus blossoms, fly carcasses, tooth picks, and other stuff I didn’t bother to catalogue. Now I peek behind the piano whenever I go into the living room and, when I sit down to play, I am convinced that it even sounds better, though that may be the product of an over active imagination coupled with my “exceptional hearing.”
There are other scary places just waiting for my attack, I am on a roll now and plan to tackle a few more before the winter lethargy sets in and the motivation is lost. I have to watch myself, however, as cleaning behind the piano is the very sort of task I tend to take on when I know that guests are on the way and what I really should be doing is plumping up the sofa pillows and clearing off the coffee table. Still, I live by the motto to “do it now” because even though the mess will be there tomorrow, I know that the impetus is ephemeral.
Be advised. If you come to see me, don’t take offense if I entertain you in the pantry or seat you behind the piano. Right now, they just happen to be the most pristine places in the house. On the other hand, if you show up and can’t find me, try looking under the sink. It’s next on the list for reconnaissance.
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