In the bleak midwinter

This afternoon I drove to meet some friends in Oakland, and as I drove I listened to a Chanticleer CD. As I drove and watched the various scenes around me -- storm clouds gathering in the patches of sky between the sky scrapers, commuters and old people waiting at a bus shelter, a street person lurching across Broadway, business people on their phones -- all backed with transcendent harmony, it seemed as though I was driving through a beautiful, heartbreaking movie. I remembered a time when I was 19 and riding my bike along the ocean-front boardwalk in Santa Barbara, on my way to class. A storm was gathering that morning, also, and the sunrise set the clouds off from the ocean and the sky between them in a striking syncopation of grays that transitioned into the beautiful gold and green of the beach and cliffs. I stopped my bike and took it all in, and it occurred to me, there at 19, that I had only a few short days of life on this earth, and that I would miss it once I had gone. There are times when my world already echoes with my former presence, with who I was, what I hoped to accomplish. I wonder who I will be, what I have left to do, what difference I have yet to make, and for whom. The Christmas season always reminds me that I need to be thankful -- that I must be present and grateful for every humble moment, and not be fooled by mundane afternoons. 

In other news, holiday candy making is finally done. That cold I posted about turned into a mild case of walking pneumonia, which delayed me a week. But after a five-day course of antibiotics, I bounced back into the kitchen and promptly ruined two batches of lavender caramel. It was the weather -- way too humid. We don't have air conditioning, and so I gave up on caramels and made lavender truffles instead. The Hunky Scientist deemed them "interesting," but I liked them just fine. Then I candied some orange peels, dried them, and dipped them in semisweet chocolate, shaped some marzipan and did the same with it, made some almond clusters, then half-dipped some dried apricots. Very pretty. We've given most of it away, but have about four pounds left here at the house to disperse. As a Christmas gift to myself, I bought a big book called "Chocolates & Confections: Formula, theory, and technique for the artisan confectioner." The editor in me can't stand that prissy subtitle, but the candy maker in me is inspired. I can't wait to test out some of the recipes next year. For now, I've put away my dipping forks. There's just enough chocolate left for my husband to use in my birthday cake in January.

Now it's Christmas time.

It never feels like Christmas until I start making chocolates. And I started yesterday in a big way. I had four friends over for a chocolate-making hands-on tutorial and production-fest. We made:

• Semisweet fruit and nut bark
  
• Milk chocolate walnut bark with golden raisins
  
• Mocha truffles enrobed in milk chocolate
  
• Lavender caramels enrobed in semisweet chocolate
  
• Cointreau truffles (that's still in my refrigerator waiting to be enrobed)

I think we probably made about 25 pounds of chocolates in total, and we hummed Christmas carols for part of the time, until we realized that Jason, one of our kitchen-mates, has to listen to treacly carols all day at his job at Costco. Still, the Christmas season began for me. The day began at 7:30, when I got up to start the coffee beans steeping in hot cream for the mocha truffles. Then I did the same with another batch of hot cream, but added lavender for the caramels. Then I poured all the ingredients for the two barks into staging bowls, so I wouldn't forget to add anything (it's happened before). My four friends showed up at 11, and we began a full day of work. We used every mixing bowl in the house, and every dish towel. There was melted chocolate everywhere. My co-chocolatiers had never made barks before, and when they plunged their hands into melted chocolate to mix in the nuts and fruit, the "I have both my hands wrist-deep in chocolate!" look on their faces was priceless. We broke around 2 for some pizza, and the last two die-hards went home around 6. I finished cleaning up at 8:30.

I've decided it's a lot more fun to make chocolates with friends than it is to make them by myself, which is how I've done it in years past. Bob helps me with barks, but usually I do all the other candies myself. It's much more efficient to have more hands in the kitchen -- we got two days' worth of production done in one. The only downside is that my friends made off with most of my inventory, so I need to do a couple more batches of things, caramels in particular. But they paid for the cost of ingredients, it's just out the time. That's not a big deal -- time seems to just slide by when I'm making candy; it's never a chore.

In other news, I have a raging cold. I was just achy and a little sore-throaty yesterday. But last night it was full-on congestion, which meant very little sleep, and today I feel like a cable car hit me. I slept in until 10 this morning, which meant no church and no visit with my elderly friend Betty. She doesn't need a cold from me, anyway. Neither will there will be any chocolate making. It's a lie-around-and-drink-tea kind of day.

Sweet holiday fun

Some people make fruitcake at holiday time. Others make cookies and trade them like baseball cards. I make chocolates. Chocolate making was my first profession, and it's stayed in my blood. So each year instead of joining the Black Friday crowds at the retail emporia, I head for my old place of employment and buy pounds of semisweet and milk chocolate. Usually I've been thinking for weeks about what kinds of chocolates I want to create. I settled years ago on two kinds of barks (now called "tablets" by the chichi chocolatiers), so I have the ingredients list for those memorized. I also make at least one kind of truffle, and at least one other type of confection. This year, I'll make mocha truffles; perhaps a star anise or sweet curry one (if star anise, I'll make a fennel toffee to top it with); and for certain some lavender caramels enrobed in dark chocolate. Also, I've invited four friends over to join the fun, learn chocolate making, and take home a few pounds of our creation to enjoy or give as gifts. So far my acquired ingredients include (in random order):

• 30 pounds of chocolate (milk, semisweet, bittersweet)
  
• 10 pounds of sugar
  
• Culinary lavender
  
• Star anise
  
• Sweet curry
  
• Pecans
  
• Pistachios
  
• Almonds
  
• Walnuts
  
• Golden raisins
  
• Dried cherries
  
• Crystalized ginger
  
• Cocoa
  
• walnuts
  
• golden raisins
  
• Dried apricots
  
• Espresso-roast coffee beans

I still need to pick up a gallon or so of heavy cream. First we'll need to make the centers -- the caramel and the truffle bases -- and set them aside to cool. Next we'll make the two types of barks. Then we'll shape and enrobe the caramels and truffles. After it all sets up, we'll set about packaging the candies for storage and gifting. Bark-making is really the most fun for newcomers, as it involves getting their hands into the warm, tempered chocolate to mix in the fruit and nuts and then spreading the confection into a thin layer to set. There are few sensations more glee-inspiring than that of velvety warm chocolate spread up to mid-forearm. And with four people getting in on this action, it should be quite a production. The date's been set for next Saturday. Expect a recap.

Yellow moon, shining in the same big sky

Tonight while I was working out at the gym, 'Yellow Moon," by the Neville Brothers, started playing on my iPod. As is my habit, I focused on the bass line, and when I did, it immediately stood out in my mind, a fluid orange-red line spiky with thumb-slapped syncopation, and I thought of an old friend who played bass like that. Once you start leaning on the bass line when you listen to music, you can never stop. The bass line is the canny guide that'll show you the back alleys, the local haunts of music that tourists who hear only the drums or melody will never know. I haven't heard from this friend in a very long time. One of the last times we spoke, he said he takes comfort in knowing the same sky arches over us both, each in our worlds on this earth. And I know the same horizonless sea of sound swirls around us too, waiting to be distilled and momentarily ordered into composition.

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I'm in the second week of following a program aimed at retraining my physical and mental rhythms, so I'll get back to sleeping normally. I kept a sleep diary all last week, which showed I was snoozing an average of five hours a night. Least number of hours was three, and then I got one night of a miraculous eight. Anyway, So this week's strategy is to schedule six hours for sleep, with a target daily wake-up time of 7:30 a.m.. I have a half-hour buffer on either side of that. This means I have a target lights-out time of 12:30 a.m., and I must set an alarm for no earlier than 7 a.m. and no later than 8, with an optimal wake time of 7:30. If I can't sleep, I must get up after 20 minutes, stay up for 30 minutes, then try sleeping again. If I have a rough night, I can nap the next day, but only for 15 - 45 minutes, and not at all after 3 p.m. After a little while on this schedule, the scheduled time for sleep will be increased to 6.5 hours. I'll report on any success or lack thereof. First report: I slept 6 hours last night. Woo! Right now I'm sipping some red wine, after having enjoyed a light cheese-and-apples dinner post-gym. 

Damnit. I got m'amed again.

I've been called "m'am" three times this week. The last time was a half hour ago, by the guy who handed me my pizza to go at the shop that's a block from my home. Being called "m'am" means you are officially no longer hot, if you ever were, except perhaps to French men, who are said to appreciate older women. Most days I feel attractive, and so the "m'am" thing doesn't bother me. But today, after getting only 3 hours' sleep last night, I do feel rather un-hot. Rather rampled. Slightly haggard. Ugh. 

I remember calling women "m'am" when I was in my 20s, and being sharply reprimanded.  Sheesh, I'd think. I was just trying to be polite. So I didn't snap at the young and handsome pizza guy tonight. I just smiled and took my box, turned on my heel and left, musing that I thought I'd been rather hiply dressed when I walked out of the front door to get dinner. 

The other night my husband saw a trailer for Brooke Shields' newish TV show, and he remarked "She looks really good, for her age." He nearly bled from the look I shot him. "What?" Then his face softened. "Ohhhhh. Yeah." Mmm-hmm. Not the best choice of words when you happen to have a wife who's seven years older than you are. He apologized with a hug, which I appreciated. But I did not feel kindred. As a man, my husband will not be faced with this particular issue until he's well into his 60s. Men are considered attractive years longer than women are.

It's lonely business mourning youth.

Struggling to sleep

I've been struggling with severe insomnia. Lack of sleep makes doing just the normal minimum each day a challenge. It also tends to change a person's personality. I've been a bit short-tempered, sometimes weepy, often frustrated by the mental fog that steals in during afternoons after near-sleepless nights, slowing down my thought processes and response times. An admission that I'm dealing with insomnia brings out the advisor in everyone. "Are you stressed out over something?" No (seriously, no). "Is it that your mind won't turn off?" No, I'm not obsessing over anything at work nor at home. "Try drinking warm milk!" I have. It tastes good. It does not help me sleep. "I took melatonin and I haven't had a problem since." I'm so happy for you. Wish it had the same effect on me. "Benadryl. Take Benadryl." Oh yes, my pal Bennie. It does knock me out. But then I spend the rest of the night in agony as my brain tries to fight its way back awake through the drug haze. It's worse than being fully awake. And I'm not keen to take strong sleep meds, because this can result in dependency issues.

Once in a while I get so exhausted that I do sleep eight full hours. And then the cycle begins again: stay awake until 1 or 2:30 a.m., then go to bed because I ought to, lie awake (sometimes with the added fun of restless leg syndrome. Woo!), get up after half an hour because that's what the sleep hygiene folks say you should do, wait until I'm even more exhausted, and try again. Sleep for 3-4 hours (if I'm lucky, 5). Then get up in time to drink some coffee and get to work. Last week my employer launched a new Healthy Lifestyle Program component that's supposed to help people overcome insomnia. So I signed up. I read the first chapter of the material, and I'm filling out a 1-week sleep diary. After that I can continue with the rest of the program. Wish me luck.

Catch-up time...

I haven't posted in a bit. This is because my friends keep having babies. Really, it is. They keep having babies, which means I keep having to knit things for the new little humans. Right now I'm knitting a tote bag for a pal who will need something to carry baby gear around in. I'm knitting it from yarn another friend of hers made. Next I finish up some Christmas things I'm knitting for a relative who will remain unrevealed and then comes a sweater for the inimitable Truman. In between all this knitting, I have writing to do and books to read, volunteerism to be trained for, and work to do -- oh, and before all that, I have to be an engaged partner. Woo! Anyway, new: I scheduled my second bunionectomy, this one on my right foot. Looking forward to it, but ... argh ... also not so much. It'll mean no driving for six weeks, minimum. I'll be stuck in my condo unless my sweet husband cares to ferry me about, or I care to crutch myself up to the subway or bus line. I'm not sure yet how I'll maintain my fitness level, but I will need to, as working out is one of the tools I use to avoid insomnia. Anyway, that whole journey will start sometime in mid-January. I'll take two weeks off work immediately post-surgery. I should be able to stop the pain meds after three days. And then I will have loads of time in which to write. Yay! Finished Poem No. 1 and I'm quite pleased with it. I must break a promise and not post it here. If you care to see it, comment and I'll send it to you. I've started Poem No. 2, and continue with Short Story No. whatever, with a hard deadline of the end of this month, as I owe it to my writing group. And now, I'm off to make a quick batch of chocolate-chip cookies (with pistachios), because my husband has asked for them. It's his opinion that chocolate-chip cookies taste better when someone makes them for you, and who can argue with that?

Immediately Post-Workout II: Toasted

I am again a victim of The Libinator. Tonight it was a delightful little 45 minutes of aerobic shadow boxing, mixed with calisthenics I haven't done since high school: jumping jacks, mountain climbers (still just as evil), pushups. OK, I've done plenty of pushups since high school. But not jacks, nor mountain climbers. As Madeline Kahn says so well in Blazing Saddles, "I'm tired." Knackered, pooped, wrecked and toasted. However, my silhouette continues to dwindle, and so the classes (and all the free-weights and plyometric work I've done over the last several months) are worth it. Tomorrow afternoon at 2, I'll be in the pool doing some other form of extreme torture.

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One happy outcome of all this working out is that I sleep like nobody's business. I hit the sack and boom: Asleep. Which is good because lately my mind has been wandering back to horrific images of my mom's decline, along with a weird background dread of cancer, and that's not a welcome little relapse. My brother's visit this weekend should help jolly things along. He's a lion of a tourist. Brings his long shorts and binoculars and everything. I think I'll get him a cloth bucket-style hat to wear, and then he'll be positively iconic. He's got all his usual record stores in mind for plunder, and we may take him bowling, or to an amusement park. It's his birthday celebration, and he's bummed about being 51, so we have to pile on all his favorite things. I may even bake him a chocolate cake with coffee in the icing -- mom's secret touch. 

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In other developments, my Greek lessons are going well. I've started back at the beginning (phrases like "The little boy is jumping," and "The car is red. No, the car is not red. The car is white."), which is tedious. But I think a refresher will help me build a more solid foundation for launching back into the intermediate realm. My short story is also coming along. I owe it to the fiction group on Sept. 30 so I have a little hustling to do. And I've begun another poem. It's in the "throw a bunch of words on a page and stick to a specific theme" stage. Time to wade in and start refining. But first, I've got to get some sleep.

Immediately post-workout. Famished.

I took an hour-long aerobic weightlifting class this evening. I took my own dumbell sets because there are seldom enough to go around. The instructor, a monster in the guise of a tiny powerhouse of a woman, whupped us all good. Then I took my two sets of dumbells and hoofed it home, forcing myself to walk to the beat of whatever fast song was playing on my iPod. Result: I am exhilarated, exhausted, and starving. We have not grocery shopped. So I broke out some freezer stashes of Trader Joe's cioppino and started it simmering. Food was not happening fast enough, so I made up a small bowl of olives and various pickles, and am snarfing them down. Please don't be harsh with me, but I think pickled okra (Talk O' Texas brand) is one of the better brine-preserved foods around (second only to anchovy-stuffed olives from Spain). And lucky for me, my husband won't go near okra. Which means that whenever I stock up on jars of salty okra goodness, I get them all to myself. mwah-hah-hah...munch munch munch...

MMMMMmm...vodka

It's autumn in San Francisco, which means that we finally have our summer. It was in the 90s here in the city today (oh: and we had an earthquake last night, proving once and for all that my mother was right -- there is such a thing as earthquake weather). Our loft does not have air conditioning, so around 12:30 we gave up and walked downtown and took cool shelter at Westfield Center. Which is probably spelled Westfield Centre, but since we are not in England, and since I'm doing the spelling.... Anyway: we shopped. We considered a movie, but decided against it. We at summery salad. We shopped some more. My husband is a champion shopper. It was fun watching him try things on. We'd disappear together into a dressing room, and I'd inwardly titter at the "God I hope they don't get out of line in there" looks we'd get from the attendants. We did not get out of line. He got four shirts, three pair of pants, and a sweater. I got a sweater. It was not my day for finding Fall wardrobe additions, which is a pity because I'm getting pretty low on clothing that fits. (This is good. Ballast ditching is working.) Anyway, then we walked back home with a stopover at our local, The Chieftan, for a Stella Artois. We were on a roll once we got home, so we graduated from beer to vodka and cranberry juice with a splash of orange juice, which goes down frightfully easily. I am violating my "don't drink and blog" rule. MMmmm. Vodka.

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I have a churchly conundrum. Next weekend my older brother is visiting me, and that Sunday a new priest is being ordained at my church. Greek Orthodox ordinations are pretty special, and it's not often one comes along, so I 'd like to see this one. Plus, the emergency backup priest, Fr. Pete (we call him Pete to distinguish him from the main priest, Fr. Peter), is super-cool. Example: during our recent Greek festival, I found myself serving him coffee from the Greek Coffee Bar and talking to him as if he were a regular Joe. And he was responding as if he were a regular Joe. I kept zooming outside myself and observing "You're having a normal, offbeat conversation with this guy, and he's a priest." It was pretty cool. And because I like this guy, I'd like to attend his ordination. However, my brother -- who is slightly autistic and comes to visit me for no other reason than to indulge his obsessive record collecting -- would be bored silly. So, I have a choice to make. Eat pancakes with my brother, or let my brother sleep in and eat pancakes alone while I go to the liturgy and ordination. Hmmm.

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Speaking of Greek things, I didn't dish about the Greek festival. It was fun! This is probably because I worked only one day of the three. I sold jewelry from noon until 4, and then went and sold Greek coffee until 8. I had the most fun selling coffee. Whenever anyone came up and ordered Turkish coffee, I'd say "Excuse me?" and when they ordered Turkish coffee again, I'd point emphatically toward the door and say "Out!" Actually, I like Turkish coffee much more than Greek coffee, and I stand by my opinion that Greeks can't brew coffee to save their lamb-loving asses. To get a decent cup of coffee or espresso in Greece, you must climb on a ferry or airplane and go to Italy. Anyway, it was incredibly busy. There were lines outside the door for our Greek dinner offerings, after which (of course) people streamed in for dessert. And the desserts were many and tooth-achingly sweet: baklava, melomacarona, galactoboureko, kourambiethes, koulourakia. It's impossible to eat these without something to wash them down with, and so we were inundated with coffee requests. Time and again, I'd spoon powdered coffee and sugar into the briki, add water, stir, then hold the briki over the heat until it foamed up, let it subside, heat it again until it foamed, them pour it into the tiny cups, making sure each one had a topping of "cremaki" (a little foam). For $1 extra, we'd add a shot of Metaxa. One guy kept coming by and ordering Greek coffee and Metaxa, then asking us to hold the Greek coffee. After my shift, I headed out into the still-crowded plaka area to buy some souvlaki and giro to take home for dinner. I hung around the back of the booths like a hopeful puppy until someone took my money and thrust warm, foil-wrapped packets into my hands, and then I shouldered my way through the human swarm, walked a few blocks to my car, and made my peaceful way home. 

Catching up

I wrote about the anniversary of Women's Suffrage here in the states, and then got really busy and then got kind of sick (headache, fever; the fever's gone), and missed posting about Dr. King. So, I'll refer you to what my cousin had to say. She's good with the words.

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No, reading my blog does not substitute for giving me a call or sending me an email. Remember: I want to know what's happening with you, too.

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Sarah Palin? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh. *whew*. That was a good one. But wait. Those guys are RIGHT. I have ovaries therefore I must vote McCain-Palin, because I have to stand up for my own kind and get a woman--any woman--into the White House. It wasn't about Hilary, it was about sisterhood. Yes, I really am as ignorant, sheep-like and tractable as the McCain camp assumes I am. Um...not. If I wasn't still laughing so hard, I'd be insulted. Instead, I'm just bitterly amused.

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I'm off soon to work at my church's annual Greek festival. I'll be there, hawking jewelry and Greek coffee, from 11 a.m. to 8 p.m. For my labor, I will pay myself with good Greek food. Yum. 

Suffer the women to vote

My dear women family members and friends: On this day in 1920, women gained the right to vote in these United States. According to today's Writer's Almanac, "Secretary of State Bainbridge Colby signed the proclamation that morning at 8 a.m. at his home. There was no ceremony of any kind. ... Colby just finished his coffee, and signed the document with a regular, steel pen." With that, half of America's population was freed to help determine their own destiny and that of their families, their towns and cities, their counties and states and their country. For suffrage we have a long list of people to thank. And we can thank them by voting, at every opportunity afforded to us; by teaching our nieces and our daughters to vote; by encouraging our jaded and wearied friends to vote; by hosting a polling station. We all are fortunate to be able to determine our own governance. We fought for that right in the Revolutionary War. But women had to battle twice, and they won their fight on August 26, 1920. I care deeply about who becomes our next president, who will sit in our Senates and Houses, and what are new laws will and won't be. But for whom and what you vote doesn't matter to me so much as I am concerned that you cast your ballots. Now, while there's still time to research candidates and issues, arm youselves with knowledge. And please, on November 4, vote.

Breaking for Dessert

Poetry writing is much harder than short-story writing. (It's also more satisfying--though I don't see myself dumping short stories in favor of poetry. More likely, I'll combine them somehow.) But writing a title for a poem I've been working on is turning out to be even tougher. I nearly gave my latest effort a title way too similar to that of one penned by Robert Frost. Erk. Thank GOD for Google. I find myself working on a short story and a poem in alternate cycles of sweat and research and muttered cursing. I like them both, which is a nice change of pace. I'm down in the weeds, hacking away and I'm hoping what comes out of all this is two decent efforts. 

Enough about writing. Back to procrastination! I must tell you about possibly the best dessert you could ever have on a summer evening. You need two things (besides a bowl and a spoon):

1. Very good-quality coffee ice cream (Turkish is best. Don't tell my Greek relatives I said so.)

2. Chocolate port (Recommended brand: Stanley Lambert's Choc-a-Bloc. It's Australian.)

Put two scoops of ice cream (one if it's late evening and you are sensitive to caffeine) into a cup or bowl and drizzle chocolate port over to taste. I use a jigger full. This is not a float; it's a sundae. But you won't need any whipped cream or nuts. Just the ice cream and booze. This is so good I do a little dance just thinking about it. I hope you like it as much as I do.

Researching instead of blogging

I haven't posted in a little while because my blogging time has been taken up with research. I'm writing my first short story that requires some earnest digging around. So I've been reading up on WWII info, particularly on battling in and around Huertgen Forest in Germany. On top of that, work has been particularly involved lately. I'll get back here and post again soon. I've got to catch you up on the weekend trip to the Reno area we just came back from. But right now I've got to get on the freeway and get over to Oakland for a work-related class. Joy.

Carb coma

I made macaroni and cheese tonight using a recipe from epicurious.com. I haven't made mac and cheese in so very long. This one had intense cheese flavor, just the right creamy texture, and a decadent crumb-cheese topping. Really, I wanted to just put it on the floor and roll around in it. But because I detest mopping and was famished after a monster weight workout, I ate a bowl of it instead. And now I am pleasantly sleepy. Mmmmmm.

Speed bag! Right cross! Front kick! Wait. What?

In an effort to mix things up a bit at the gym tonight, I went to a kick boxing class. The class was taught by a woman named Libby. Libby has a negative percentage of body fat, the enthusiasm of a cheer leader squad captain, and the energy of a chihuahua on speed. Plus she has a perfect tan. She is a tad frightening. Kick boxing class isn't all about just kicking and shadow boxing. No. There is line dancing involved, too. I could never line dance. I was always the person looking around and going "Wait. Which arm should be I be pointing with? What direction? Oh crap, now everyone's going the other way." This distresses me mightily. Anyway, I staggered through through 45 minutes, sweat like hell, and didn't kick anyone or barrel into any walls. For this I am to be commended. 

Perked coffee and random report-out

The other morning, THS got up early and made some coffee to take to work. The stuff they have there is crap, and he just wanted a good cup of jo for once. I stayed in bed, dozing, and the smell of the coffee brewing brought back the most amazing memory: I was a pre-kindergarten child again, waking up to the sound of my mother's CorningWare stovetop percolator and the rich scent of coffee. There was no sense of needing to start my day. I was so young that there was no reason to get up, except maybe to go see if mom was making pancakes for breakfast, but I was still tired. So I stayed cozy under the covers, dozing and listening to the gurgle of the percolator. I am so happy I remembered this. It's such a comfort.

THS has the ability to get up 15 minutes before he needs to leave the house and be dressed and ready with five minutes to spare. He doesn't even need caffeine. This amazes me. I'm so not capable of that. I need a minimum of 90 minutes: 30 to get up and make coffee; 30 to stumble around sipping the coffee and waiting for the synapse ports to re-align; and 30 to get dressed and get my things together. THS learned a while ago that if I'm rushed out of the house in the morning, it's best that he does the driving.

Sudden Topic Change Alert! This week I learned how to knit cables. This makes me very pleased and smug, but also kind of skeeves me out because now I'm really one of those women who knit. It's one thing if you get down stockinette stitch and whap out a few scarves. It's even OK if you throw in some moss-stitch edging and move along to caps or little things for babies. But learn to cable and you've truly gone over. I'm afraid that's what's happened to me. I've grown rather obsessed with knitting, and this puts me in the awkward position of wanting to knit something for everyone I know. If I were you, I'd be nervous. So here's the deal: If I ever make you something that you feel you need to hide and only wear when you know you'll be seeing me (at your house and not in public), you have my permission to give it back and ask me to never do that again. 

Another new experience this week: I took a Pilates class yesterday. It was grand. I felt very tall and centered and strong and graceful for an hour afterward, and then I was just flipping SORE all over for the next 12 hours. And tonight I went to the gym to meet my trainer and he put me through one of the harder workouts of my go-meet-the-trainer career. It was brutal. Right now I feel like reanimated day-old roadkill. I believe I will need more than the required minimum amount of time to get up and moving tomorrow morning.

Song for You Far Away

Now and again I mourn for dear ones who are no longer near, whom I can no longer see, and the ache is deep and keen. When loved ones die, we mourn as well, but differently, usually with some kind of resolution. Those who still live, but at remove, leave a longing that's more difficult to resolve. For me, it's not a pining, but more like an open ticket: I wonder where they live. If they have love. I hope for their happiness. I miss them, and miss them, and miss them. This grief for the living lies below the ground of my day-to-day, and over time I've integrated it. When it springs to stream, I look up and draw comfort from the encompassing sky. If I'm in public, I hum; if I'm at home, I sing aloud the songs that remind me of the ones who've come to mind. Sometimes it's Joni Mitchell's "Black Crow." Sometimes it's Ella's "Blue Room." Often it's James Taylor: This is a song for you, far away, far away. This is a song for you, far away from me. 

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We sold my blue Subaru yesterday and bask in the warmth of Mr. Gore's smile. I tend to attach memories to things, and so I was wistful to see it go. It was the first car I bought on my own. I drove my sweet dog around in it--in fact, I got that model because I had a dog. The Forester moved me to Los Angeles and back, and carried me on long road trips to see and care for my mom. But I gathered those memories to me as I vacuumed the gray upholstery, fished flotsam from under the seats, and wiped down every surface so the new owner could have a clean car to drive. Then I closed the door and turned over the keys. 

I've never shared a single vehicle. I'll drive it the most during work days, since I have meetings to get to at so many different facilities. But there'll also be days when I work from home and THS takes the car, and weekend days when we have different plans. But I'm sure we'll be just fine. We live in a metropolitan area that has a rapid-transit system, an electric bus system, the famous trolleys, and a commuter rail. Plus, in a pinch, there's Zip Car. It's a compact city, and I love walking to do my errands. The final benefit: our bank account will be $400 richer every month. Ka-ching!

Making Al Gore Happy

A little while ago, THS and I decided to become a one-car couple. Because we both commute, and because we'd both been single for so long, we hadn't thought about how car-rich we were. But THS found out he could take BART to a shuttle, which would take him right to his company's front door. We figured out that our weekend plans would seldom require us to have two cars--and that when it were to happen, we'd be able to rent a ZIP car. So, which car to get rid of? It made sense to offload the one that has the most miles, which is my Subaru Forester. I've had it since 2001, and I've put 138,000 miles on it. Fortunately my average weekly mileage won't be nearly the same going forward as it was over the last five years, so THS' Outback won't suffer nearly the abuse. I don't have to drive for work as much, and I'm making very few trips down to Santa Barbara these days. Anyway, one of THS' coworkers is going to test-drive my car tomorrow. We're hoping he'll grab it, since that'd be the easiest possible scenario. 

In other news, I just made a tasty Italian soup and posted the recipe, along with my comments and a photo, over in Loretta Cooks! 

Oy vey. That is all.

Really. It's just been an oy vey last couple of weeks. The Hunky Scientist is taking his sick foot into his primary care physician on Friday. I didn't tell you about his sick foot. It's been festering for a few weeks now, and (a) he could not solve it himself using a needle and a bunch of hydrogen peroxide; also (b) it finally started bothering him enough that he decided to seek real medical help. Thank the pantheon. Work has been too worky for my liking. Way too much tedious stuff-I-can-d0-sleeping and not enough challenge. I love my job, but I've grown into it. I love my boss, but she's gotten so harried she may just leave before I do. And my department, though wonderful, is not what it used to be (reason my boss is harried). Promotions have been rumored for a while, but have not materialized. I'm hoping this will all be resolved this calendar year. If not, I'm going to have to start job-searching within my company. Lastly, we decided this last week to rent my mother's house to my niece and her pal, who'll share it with my older brother. The girls are starting college and need somewhere reasonable to stay while they look for work and get themselves settled into living on their own for the first time in their lives. I'm all for this and glad we have the place to offer and the means to offer it to them on the cheap. However: it means that for the first time ever, I am homeless in my own home town. Oy.

On a lighter note, I've posted anew (brief, but worth reading) in Loretta Cooks. See link at right.

Holy Shmoly. Nobody else die for a while, OK?

At the end of this three-day holiday weekend, I'll be flying to Ontario, then driving to Palm Desert to attend the funeral of my cousin's husband, who died this week after a long battle with ALS. I found out about that two days ago. Yesterday I found out my step-grandfather died in Santa Barbara. We've been estranged for more than 20 years, but I'm sad that he died. I do have some good memories of him from my childhood. It'd be awkward to attend that funeral, but I'm sore in my heart for my aunt, who's having to deal with losing her dad, and her kids, who lost their grandfather. This afternoon I found out a close colleague's father died yesterday. I made a note in my calendar to sit down and write her a condolence letter the morning after I get back from the funeral in Palm Desert. Then I packed up my computer and notebook and left work. On the way home, I saw a male mallard standing beside his mate, who'd been hit and killed by a car, nudging her desperately with his bill. Mallards mate for life, so when I saw this, it just topped everything off and I dropped into a dreary funk. Hey out there. Everyone I know? Yes, you. No more dying for a while, OK? Just cut that out.

Don't pick up

OK, my first cranky-ranty post. One thing that really yanks my chain is when I call someone and they pick up the phone just long enough to tell me they can't talk. They're on the train, or they're with friends, or they have someone else on the other line, but they can' t talk with me now. And rather than just let the call go to voice mail, they somehow feel the need to interrupt whatever they're doing or whatever convo they're having just to say, basically, "I don't have time for you." (This has happened to me about a zillion times just this month, so if you're a culprit don't think this blog has been written just for you. It's for everyone I know.) Every time it happens, I hang up the phone and think "OK, why did they even pick up?" And If I'm meeting with a friend and they actually pick up the phone and say "I can't talk with you, I'm with a friend," I always think crankier-than-Ms.-Manners thoughts.

So, for those of you who know me, if I show up in your caller ID, and you don't have time to talk, you have my permission to let my call go to voice mail. That's why it's there, after all. It's much more pleasant to leave a message and think of nice future chats than to hear "Hi! Sorry, I can't talk right now." Can't talk right now? Then don't talk right now. 'Nuff said.

More kitchen blather, plus caffeine regret

My second food-blog post details my failure at making mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. To learn from my failure, click on "Loretta Cooks!" at right. Yes, I am up late. Make that early. This is because I drank a Coke Zero before my weight workout last night--an idiot move that gave me a jolt of macho-girl endurance on the bench, but that will make me a zombie at work today. Argh...

Knitting for other people's babies

I didn't get a chance to have babies of my own. Revision: I had many chances to become a single mother and decided not to go that route. Now that I'm finally married, I'm pretty sure conceiving a child is not something I'm capable of doing. And it's not likely we'll adopt. SO....  I get as much time with my nieces as possible, and I knit for other people's impending children. Right now, I'm knitting a little sweater for my pal Liz's baby. We don't know yet if it will be a boy or a girl. Revision: I know it's going to be a boy; they prefer not to know nor guess. Anyway, since I'm not supposed to have any idea of this baby's sex, I chose a nice light-green yarn and I've been knitting off and on for a few weeks.  I was four-fifths of the way through before I figured out the pattern had some serious mistakes, and I had to rip out half my work. I Googled the book's title, and found (bingo!) the author has posted multiple pattern corrections. I printed out the new sweater pattern, began work again, and am now nearly where I was when I had to rip back. Whew! A few days ago I met another friend, Shannon, who is also expecting a baby. She's a gorgeous pregnant lady (she's beautiful when she's not pregnant, too). She handed me some yarn a friend of hers had spun and asked me to make something--anything--from it. It's pretty chunky yarn. Too thick to make baby clothes out of. I'm going to haul it into my favorite yarn shop and ask their advice. Maybe it'll make a nice baby sling, or a nursing pillow. We shall see. It's a gorgeous purple color, and I can't wait to get something started with it. Meanwhile, some other friends, Lisa and Erich, have a brilliant toddler boy, Truman, who really needs a sweater for this coming fall. I'm thinking stripes, but I need to go ask him what his favorite colors are before I start work. Maybe something in green, blue and orange, with little donkey and elephant buttons, to celebrate the success of his daddy's book.

Poetry of sorrow

Today is a crying day. I haven't had one in such a very long while. Years, really. What's frustrating is that the thing that actually got me crying is not the thing I was crying about. It was a bastard coworker who started the waterworks. He was being the world's worst listener and the planet's foremost controlling jerk. Luckily, it was a phone meeting and I held it together long enough to (a) make my points, (b) promise follow-up, and (c) not let my voice quaver. Then I hung up and cried and cried. BASTARD. I was furious. Good thing I'm working from home today. I went up, cried some more while taking a shower, and then came downstairs, made a snack and a vodka on the rocks and drank during work hours for the first time EVer. Yes, I'm that much of a dork.

But what really started me down that weepy path was a phone convo I'd had a half hour earlier with my second cousin, Deb, whose husband, Joe, is dying--right now--from ALS. He's at home, and she and their other family are around him. He's been actively dying for about a week now. It's a strange term, "actively dying." What you're doing is living, until you're not anymore. But, whatever. It could be any moment, and I feel so awful for her. And the phone conversation really connected me powerfully with how I was feeling when my mom was dying.

Anyway, I stopped after that one drink, and kept working. It's Friday. I won't have to deal with that wretched person again until Monday, by which time my bad-assedness will be back in full force.

A couple of days ago I started writing a poem about those who stand watch as their loved ones pass. Eventually, we're all on one side or the other of that little scenario, so I suppose it's a poem for everyone. When it's worth letting anyone else see, I'll post it.

Happy weekend.

On my own

My husband is away visiting a close friend who's graduating from a Ph.D. program at long last. So for the first time in a long while (and the first time since we married), I have several days on my own. I've been away for two days at a conference in San Jose. This afternoon on the way back, I stopped and bought summer clothing at the Stanford outdoor shopping center Palo Alto. Turns out on Thursdays in summertime there is live jazz starting at 5 p.m. People bring low-backed folding chairs and picnics. Since I didn't have anyone at home expecting me (except possibly a hungry cat), I picked up a sandwich (my favorite kind; baguette with a little meat, a little cheese, a swipe of butter and no condiments) and an iced tea and sat by a fountain and listened and ate an early supper. The weather was balmy. The band was skilled. Small children chased each other around and older people smiled at the good fortune to be where they were at that particular moment, and they tapped their feet in time to the music. After a while I collected my bags, finished my drive home, brought in the mail, fed the creatures and let the feathered ones out to flap their wings a little. Now I'm catching up on my reading and I'm sipping a little dessert wine. The birds have their heads tucked back under their wings. Outside the city makes its downtown noises. Here inside, the house is quiet. 

Cooking Side Blog Commences

I started my latest side blog. It's called Lavender Basil Vanilla Thyme. The link is below right (Loretta Cooks!). Inaugural recipe: sugar cookies. Life is good. I have more to write about, but I'm too busy baking and eating sugar cookies (with a tall glass of milk) right now. I'll catch you up soon.

Happy Birthday to THS!

It is Memorial Day. I am remembering and memorializing. I am also cooking my husband's (The Hunky Scientist's) birthday dinner. It's his birthday today. It's been a birthday weekend for him, starting with a little barbecue and friend Donna's house in Friday. Another pal, Wayne, was there, which made it even more fun. We had steaks, baked sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. For dessert, Donna served Bob's favorite ice cream: Coffee. she put a candle in his. Sweet! Then on Saturday night we went to Masa's here in S.F. It's one of the swankiest and expensivest in town. We met more friends, Susan and Peter, there and had a great time. Sue and Bob got a wine pairing to go with the six-course tasting menu we all ordered. Peter and I were designated drivers and so we made do with water and little swiped sips of wine. The food and wine were wonderful (we loved their sommelier) and the service was outstanding, as it should be. Yesterday was a prep day for today. I made pasta in the morning, and went grocery shopping. Today cooking began in earnest. I started with a squash soup and mint-parsley pistou. They're now cooling in the refrigerator. Then I cleaned all the salad greens and sliced and bagged some cucumber for green salad. The fresh-grown tomato I'll leave until last to slice and add. I just finished prepping all the prep-able ingredients for the lasagna. It's time to start making the sauce. Then I'll pre-cook the noodles and bag and refrigerate them. I'll assemble the whole thing an hour in advance and put it in the oven a half hour before guests are due. I'll serve the soup in cups with a little pistou swirled in as Bob's pals arrive, and we'll have crackers and dips out for appetizers. Then I'll serve lasagna and salad. Friend Arthur is on his way over and we're going to make cannoli for dessert. It's what my sweetie requested instead of cake. And so he shall have it. All this food writing reminds me to inform you that shortly I will start writing a food blog. I'll link to it here as soon as I post the first entry.

Mother's Day Review

Mother's Day passed well and without trauma. I'd gone to my hometown to celebrate the birthdays of my older sister, her husband, and my younger brother, who were all born on May 5 and 6. We had a wonderful beach barbecue, flew kites, and ate luscious homemade birthday cake (made by family friend Ellen E.). It was a gathering so like the family parties my mom and dad used to orchestrate. We brought bottles of soap solution for the kids to blow bubbles with, and at the beach my 4-year-old niece sat while we scooped sand over her legs and feet to make a mermaid's tail. Then she'd burst up, run to another location, sit down and demand we do it again. That was Saturday of Mother's Day weekend. That evening, my brother-in-law offered to watch the little ones while my younger sister and I went out for a sisterly visit. We hadn't had that luxury--just her and I, alone to do as we pleased--in probably 10 years. We went up to a nearby restaurant and ate strawberry shortcake on the back patio and talked and talked. Sunday, Mother's Day, I got up and ate breakfast with her and the girlies, then drove north 15 minutes to see my younger brother's new apartment. I stopped again in Santa Barbara proper to visit my older sister in her bookstore, and then drove up to San Luis Obispo to see Jim and Ellen. I hadn't had my Jim and Ellen fix in too long, and it was a balm to see them. We watched golf and drank wine and ate crackers, olives stuffed with anchovies, and smoked oysters, all of which made my Greek blood hum in my veins. I got to read the latest, and final, draft of one of Jim's short stories, which he's submitting to a few contests (good luck!), and found he had polished it to a lovely shine. Too soon, it was time to hit the freeway for four more hours of driving. I did think of my mom quite a lot over the weekend, and my dad as well, but never in grief. I'm grateful.

Conclusions

Today I went and chatted with the guy who's trying to recruit me. As I expected, the job would be way too broad. They need someone to write fact sheets and other informational, do the VP's speeches and powerpoints, do high-level strategic thinking, link different departments and processes, project-manage, be on-point for the media, and about a zillion other things. That's so 10 years ago, in terms of my career history. They do not foresee being given the budget to hire the headcount they really need. I no longer take pride in doing the work of six people. I want to do the work of one person, and do it very well. I'm a strategic thinker, a finder of best practices and greater efficiencies, an adviser and a doer. I do not want to be pigeonholed as a glorified copygirl. They can keep that job and come back knocking when they have the job I'm looking for. I'm not happy to be unable to step up to the department that's luring me. It's the place where everything's happening. It's a place from which I'd be able to do much good. But it's also a place that's not ready for me. Beyond all that, I love the department I'm in now, the people I work with now, and the work I do now. Here I have the room to do great work and to make a difference. So, I'll stay put for now and enjoy my good fortune.

One last Easter service to go..

Went last night to "The Service of the Murdered God," as my pal Andrew calls it. "Lamentations" is what Holy Cross calls it, and it's one of the most beautiful evening services of Easter Week. I qualify it because I have never attended a morning or afternoon service during Easter week. One year (maybe next year) I'll take the whole week off and attend every service, just to see what they all are like. Bob and I were invited for a Pascha dinner at my godparents' home. My godmother is going all-out: lamb, spanakopita, and all. I'll bring three appetizers. I can't wait. It's been two years since I was able to celebrate an Easter Sunday.

Because of Pascha I have not written all week. At our last writer's group meeting I turned in a partial effort, but I'm not happy with that start and may let the whole idea lapse. Meanwhile I found a story I began years ago and then lost (that was 3 computers ago, the file is gone forever, and I thought I didn't have a hard copy--well, I found a hard copy two days ago, to my delight). I still like that fragment a lot, so I'll begin fleshing it out and will probably just abandon the other one. It's just not going anywhere.

Today (make that yesterday) I was head-hunted for the first time ever. The exact quote was "What do I have to do to get you to come work for me?" It would mean a lot more money, but I love my current job. So I listened but didn't leap. Neither did I decline. I'll need to do some interviewing and investigating before deciding if I want to take the offer, but it was flattering to get the call.

Holy Week: It has me

It's begun. Actually, it began on Sunday, but I didn't go to that evening service (fourth mortal sin). I did go tonight, for the second of three "Service of the Bridegroom" services. It was short, as Holy Week services go, and as my friend Andrew says: "They just keep getting longer from here." They're gorgeous, mainly. But I always find myself praying at about the midway point for the creaky old head cantor to just hurry it up a little. He does tend to linger over his words--in Greek because they are so pretty, and in English so he can (a) parse it out, and (b) lose everyone who's trying to sing along with him. He's cranky that way. It starts pissing off the other cantors and then we end up listening to a very subtle struggle going on back there in the balcony. A younger cantor will pipe up and stomp on the end of the head cantor's line as he dwindles it down to a period, and then the second cantor will just take off from there, less in-tune but much more up to speed, which brings relief to all of us down below. We humans are all so weak. I will need to skip tomorrow's service, the last of the "Bridegroom" series. After that it's Holy Wednesday--a really good one because we receive the Sacrament of Holy Oil on our faces and hands. It's a strict-fast week, which is good from a temporal reasons also, as I continue my quest to ditch the ballast. I've lost 15 pounds since I began my training regimen (that was last July). I have 20 and change to go. My quest will get a one-day suspension on Easter Sunday, as THS and I have an invitation to a Greek Easter dinner (!!). I hadn't anticipated an invitation, and we were just going to do a reasonable little Greek meal--some lamb chops and salad, with baklava for dessert. But now I just have to make a Greek appetizer to bring to my godparents' house. Alleluia.

It takes a year, and then some

In two-ish hours (around 3 a.m.), it'll be 1 year since my mother died. Today is also the beginning of Holy Week, and I expect it will be a more emotional seven days than other Paschal weeks have been. I'm doing OK tonight, though over the last two, I experienced a resurgence in the insomnia I suffered last year, and I found myself weepier and touchier than normal. I don't plan a special memorial for tomorrow. I've been remembering my mother all year long. I'll go to Palm Sunday service, where I'll light a candle for her as I do each Sunday I'm in church, and then I'll go see my nearly-100-year-old friend, Betty. And then I'll go home for a while. I may go to the gym, as I usually do on Sunday evenings. Somehow it seems as though living well and happily this day would be the best way to honor my mother, who worked so hard to get me born, grown and launched, and who was my friend. And so at least right now, this significant day is sitting mostly peaceably with me. Yes, I'm up writing at 1 a.m. instead of sleeping, but at least I'm not sobbing as I type. The next impending holiday, Mother's Day, does bother me, though. Last year I barely noticed Mother's Day, because I was so engulfed in grief. But this year, I inwardly flinch at every ad that begins "Get Mom a..." or "Mom will LOVE this...". It's the same when "Dads and Grads" ads start popping up in June--and it's been eight years since my dad died, so I suppose I can't expect to be inured. The sharpness of grief has left me, and I have regained my balance. What remains is a deep longing to talk with both of my parents. I wish I could dream of them, but it doesn't happen. So all I have is photos. Now and again I'll get one out and stare at it, and imagine their voices, their laughter, the way they moved as they spoke. And sometimes, a little, that helps.

Off my fast

I fell off the Lenten fast when I went to Boston for a week. Really, I would've had to have been a saint to stay on it: My aunt put together a fabulous dinner reception for THS and me and invited all our aunts and uncles, second cousins, and others who couldn't fly out to our wedding. She even got a little wedding cake from a local baker. It was all so tasty. Then of course there was the famous Abe and Louie's steakhouse downtown. I mean, once you've started so thoroughly down the pike, why not just get into a Ferrari and speed yourself along? So now I'm not going to fast again until Holy Week, which is at the end of this month. Gah! Hey, at least I have something recent for confession. If I go. Getting back to Things Food-Related: I'm considering joining The Daring Bakers' Blogroll. The Daring Bakers are a bunch of cooks who all agree to bake a chosen recipe each month, and then blog about their experiences. The Blogroll just lists the blogs of all the bakers. I realize that joining the TDBB would be a be quite in keeping with the mission of this blog, which is to distract me from writing. And so what likely will happen is that I'll decommission the wedding blog (because hey, I'm married) and instead write a food blog. You wouldn't believe how many food blogs exist. Some of them are so graphic and sensual that they make Nigella Lawson look like nun. Anyway, that's the noodling I'm doing right now. I just got back from the gym and I'm completely worn out, which keeps me from dwelling on "hey, it's nearly been a year since my mom died"-type thoughts. Which is good, as I have writing to avoid. The writing I'm currently attempting to avoid is a story that's due to my writers' group on Tuesday. Hrmmm...

Tomorrow it's fish!

Tomorrow is Annunciation, which means we Orthodox folk can eat fish. Mmmmm. I'm meeting my pal Andrew for a sushi dinner. It's a long way 'til April 27, and my dear husband has been a trouper about lenten eating. Probably this is because I have been cooking from the Moosewood Low-Fat Favorites cookbook. Cook from Moosewood, and you're pretty much cooking vegan, which is pretty much the whole dietary idea of lent, but it's darn-tasty vegan cooking and that makes all the difference. We don't feel as deprived. But the whole idea of lent is to deprive yourself of pleasures that connect you to the world, so you have less distracting you from focusing on your spiritual health. As I understand it, Catholics get to choose what they give up for lent. For Greeks, it's prescribed: no meat, no dairy, no olives nor olive oil, and no wine, for 40 days. Loads of Greeks do not fast. My aunt, for example, teases me about my adherence, saying that converts are the worst.

Right about now in the lenten timeline I start questioning the whole effort anyway: One thing I'm not so good at is formal praying; giving up pork chops and cream puffs is probably not going to make me a better supplicant. A healthier wanna-be is more like it. Also, most people who do follow the fast end up making indulgent meals anyway. For example: lobster is allowed. All shellfish varieties are allowed. I don't know about you, but where I come from, lobster, scallops and abalone are considered delicacies. And wine is disallowed, but if you interpret the dietary law most narrowly, and many fasters do, that's the only alcohol that's prohibited. So you can go out and have a steamed lobster preceded by a martini (twist, no olive), wash it down with strawberries dipped in melted chocolate, and tell yourself you're being penitential. This is the line of thinking (and practice) that makes me want to throw up my hands and order cheeseburgers to be delivered to the entire congregation post-liturgy. But I have digressed horribly. Tomorrow, it's fish. I may have a tuna sandwich at lunch, for good measure. I can't figure out a way to get fish into breakfast. There are no trout streams nearby, and freshly-caught trout is the only decent fish to eat first thing in the morning.

Baking bread. Mmmmmm.

I baked two loaves of bread last weekend using our Kitchen Aid mixer, and they came out pretty good. But because we received a spiffy Le Creuset 6.5-quart dutch oven as a wedding gift, I'm now able to try out the "Almost No-Knead Bread" recipe from the Jan-Feb 2008 issue of Cooks Illustrated. I'm so excited. I've been wanting to try the recipe since we first got the magazine in our mailbox.

Cooks Illustrated is one of my new husband's favorite things. When it arrives, he grabs it, goes to the couch, rips off the plastic covering, and looks at the back inside cover to see the photos of the featured recipes for that issue. Then he thumbs through the magazine, commenting on the bits that interest him and slotting recipes into the next week's menu plan. It's delightful to watch.

I'll post a review of the recipe when the bread comes out of the oven and is cool enough to cut. Meanwhile, Happy Friday.

Lent+hunger=creativity in the kitchen

It's lent, and for the Greek Orthodox who observe it, that means no meat, dairy, olive oil, or wine for 40 days. Our Easter is on April 27, so I have a way to go. Tonight THH (newly-created acronym for newly-created reference to my husband--he used to be The Hunky Scientist; now he's The Hunky Husband) is away at a Golden State Warriors game with one of his pals. So I was on my own for dinner. When I bach it, I often just head down the street for a slice of pizza. But the no-cheese lenten thing nixes that. So I foraged. I found a sweet potato, pierced it and put it in the oven at 375F. Forty minutes later, I thawed some spinach and squeezed it dry, then minced a large clove of garlic. I heated up some canola oil in a small skillet, added the garlic and sauteed it a little while, then added the spinach and sauteed it a little longer. I added some pepper and salt, then for a spicy kick I added a squirt of sriracha hot sauce. Once the sweet potato was baked and had a crispy skin, I pulled it out, cut it open and fluffed it up. Then I topped it with the spinach mixture. Oh boy was it good. And I have a healthy-eating halo over my head, too. Yes, I'm smug. I wonder if lenten-cooking smugness needs to be confessed before Easter communion.

Sweet life

Today I felt happier than I have in I don't know how long. I was buoyant, and couldn't stop smiling. Everyone I spoke with noticed, and most said that if two weeks away from regular life did that to me, they want a vacation right now. It's more than the two weeks away, though: it's also feeling so well-married, along with getting back my creative spark. It's just permeating everything I do. Right now, though, I'm sitting on my couch, bird on my shoulder and cat at my feet, nose buried in my laptop because I just made the frosting for a German's sweet chocolate cake. The three cake layers are cooling on their racks, and the frosting is also cooling, but it beckons from the saucepan. I adore that frosting, cake or no cake, and am liable to consume it by the spoonful if I'm left unminded. The hunky scientist has gone to the gym, so I'm vulnerable to the pecan-laden, coconut-caramel come-hithers issuing from the kitchen. I practically have to lash myself to a mast and stopper up my ears. Soon my husband will be home and we'll consider dinner. He'll take over the cake construction (it's for one of the guys who reports to him at work), and then I'll be free of the frosting temptation.

New energy!

I'm sorry to have left the last post up for so long. Wedding prep, then being married and honeymooning, took up all my time. But I'm back now, and full of the vigor that only two weeks of sloth and gluttony (along with other sins) can bring. A wonderful bit of awesomeness: my creative well has filled with sweet water again. No more drought. Whew! Another bonus: I didn't gain a pound while we were away, despite our having eaten gourmet dinners nearly each night. I found this out tonight at the gym, when I climbed up on the scale pre-workout. I stepped down and did a subdued happy dance--subdued because other gym-goers were walking past and blocking my groove. Heh. Anyway, I'm composing a wedding and reception recap, complete with photos, for my dear ones who couldn't attend. I'll post that over on the 1+1 site as soon as it's done.

Sick, and tired of it.

It's exactly one week until I become a married person. I've been doing a lot of prep work, which you can read about on the wedding blog (link at right). It hasn't helped that I've been sick with an intestinal bug since late Wednesday night. It's kept me awake on the hour these last four nights and I'm a bit drawn. If things don't clear up by tomorrow, I'm going straight to the doctor. Enough is enough. Today I really wanted my mother here, and not only because I'm sick. It's just too strange to be heading into marriage without my parents. My dad I'm accustomed to having lost. I miss him, but I'm used to it. I'm still not used to being without my mom. It's helped immensely that since July I've been seeing a counselor at Kara, a non-profit grief support organization based in Palo Alto. If not for that, I'm certain I'd still be really deep in the weeds. I go weekly. After I'm done and have been away from it a while, I'll go back, get training, and become a peer counselor myself. It's something I feel a strong pull to do. In this world, grief is not given its due. It's weird enough that nobody talks about dying and death. But it's even stranger that those of us who are grieving are pretty much doing it alone. And we're expected to do it quickly--at least here in America we are. Six months is considered the outer limit of time allowed. Mention any feelings of loss after that, and we're considered mentally ill and in need of medication, or at best self-indulgent. And so you swiftly learn to just not talk about it. Not even with family and friends, at least not in any detail. And so thank God for Kara. I think every town and city should have one.

Underdogs score big.

We threw Super Bowl Chilifest III at our house this afternoon, and 24 people showed up. That meant a triple batch of meat-only chili, which called for 11 pounds of pork, 42 pasilla chiles, 16 onions, several cans of tomatoes, and a small VW-full of spices. Bob did the cooking while I cleaned the house and then caught up on wedding crafts (for details, see 1+1, my wedblog; link at right). He also made two pans of cornbread and four ricotta-spinach pies, along with two pans of raspberry bars. We had a 'fridge full of sodas and beer, and at 3 p.m. people starting streaming in the door, bringing with them enough drink to float the Queen Mary. It was spectacular. Except, of course, for the fact that New York took the trophy home. My entire paternal domestic line is now officially in mourning. We host a pool and give away prizes at each quarter. This year, newcomers took the first-, second-, and third-quarter prizes. A 12-year scotch as the fourth-quarter prize, and our neighbor from across the hall won that. It's fitting, as he and his wife run a wine shop and are always bringing us bottles to try. We cleaned up within an hour, and now I'm sipping some red and catching up on my browsing and blogging.

meme-o-rama (from my cousin's blog)

I want to know 36 things about you. I don't care if we never talk, or if we already know everything about each other. It can be as long or as short as you like. Be honest! Answer in the comments and then repost in your own journal so I can respond.

**You can answer what you're comfortable with**

1) Are you currently in a serious relationship?

2) What was your dream growing up?

3) What talent do you wish you had?

4) If I bought you a drink what would it be?

5) Favorite vegetable?

6) What was the last book you read?

7) What zodiac sign are you?

8) Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? Explain where.

9) Worst Habit?

10) If you saw me walking down the street would you offer me a ride?

11) What is your favorite sport?

12) Do you have a Negative or Optimistic attitude?

13) What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator with me?

14) Worst thing to ever happen to you?

15) Tell me one weird fact about you.

16) Do you have any pets?

17) What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly?

18) What was your first impression of me?

19) Do you think clowns are cute or scary?

20) If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be?

21) Would you be my crime partner or my conscience?

22) What color eyes do you have?

23) Ever been arrested?

24) Bottle or can soda?

25) If you won $10,000 today, what would you do with it?

27) What's your favorite place to hang at?

28) Do you believe in ghosts?

29) Favorite thing to do in your spare time?

30) Do you swear a lot?

31) Biggest pet peeve?

32) In one word, how would you describe yourself?

33) Do you believe/appreciate romance?

35) Do you believe in God?

36) Will you repost this so I can fill it out and do the same for you?

Stark-raving pissed off. Oh, and writing.

A coworker is driving me barking mad (arf!). Just barking. She's obsequious, disingenuous, self-serving. Her time-management skills mock the term. She was witless enough to alienate her department's admin within a week of her arrival nearly a year ago. She makes promises about my services that I can't keep (not only because her promises are ill-informed, but because they are usually ridiculous). She calls in me and my services as though I were her gifts to offer. Her products. And I'm not even a member of her department. It's clear that in a company whose internal motto is "We are here to make lives better," my coworker is here only to make her portfolio better. I rant, I know. But I seethe. She's been making me nutters for almost 12 months. I've tried talking with her, coaching her, baldly saying what she needs to know. I've tried different approaches, saying the same thing many different ways in case she has an unusual way of learning. All to no avail. She just keeps getting upset when I don't fulfill the promises she makes in my stead. It's unbelievable. So today I sent an incendiary 360 review form to her boss. I feel bad, but only marginally so, and that only because I have to deal with her now. (We work on the same floor of the same building, she in Public Affairs on the north side of the building and me in my little cube hosted by Public Affairs on the south side of the building. Which makes me hope her boss even marginally agrees with my assessment of her, because otherwise I may be out of a seat. No matter. I can work from home and other remote locations.). I heeded the advice of my longtime friend and dear mentor, J.H., and didn't put anything in the review that I haven't said to her face. Still, I'm certain she'll act shocked and hurt, probably even betrayed. That's because no matter how many times or how many ways she's told something, if it doesn't fall in line with her own objectives or perceptions, she doesn't retain it. It's kind of like talking to a brain-damaged person who has no short-term memory. I have to keep repeating myself. Now, I'm one of the most forgiving, mentoring, second-chance-ing, patient people I know. But once I've been crossed too many times, my patience runs out and then I am not a supportive person. No, not at all. So I'm starting with the negative review. We'll see where it goes from there.
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I owe fiction at our next group meeting, 2/12. Eeep! I have some pretty raw stuff and now I have to sit down and hold it against the shaping and buffing wheels for a while. Wish me luck.

Holidays' end

Our first Christmas tree met an undignified end on Sunday night: we unhooked the ornaments, unwound the strands of lights, hauled it out to the balcony and pitched it over the rail to the sidewalk below. Once we got the tinder-dry pine out onto the balcony, I threw on a jacket and went down to the metal-cage security door that opens out onto the sidewalk on our busy SoMa thoroughfare. I looked both ways, then shouted up an all-clear and ducked back behind the steel mesh. The tree hit the sidewalk sideways, rustling on the way down. Then my fiance came zipping downstairs and dragged the sad castoff to a pile of windfall across the street. The city is scheduled to come by, saw up the all the trees that fell in the big storm last week, and take the pieces to the mulch yard. We figured that'd be a better use for our Christmas tree than being chucked into a landfill. Still. As much as I love the fragrance and cheer of a live tree, I really regret having a dying plant in our home and using it as a symbol for renewed life. I'd much rather have an aluminum tree and funky silver ornaments. But my fiance doesn't have a retro molecule in his body so that's never going to happen. Ah, well. More news over at 1+1 (see link at right).

Demon-free for another year

Today Theophany was celebrated in the Orthodox Church, complete with the Blessing of the Waters. Along with an uncommonly long commitment of TIC (time in church), this involves being sprinkled with holy water, which feels pretty good, particularly when the guy doing the sprinkling is His Eminence Metropolitan Nikitas of the Dardanelles. I got to take communion from him, too. Nikitas is a cool metropolitan. He mentioned during his little chat exhorting parishioners to stay after liturgy for the whole holy water to-do that he's a Florida Gators fan, so he understands the die-hard commitment of waiting in the rain and snow until the end of a close game. Any priest who brings football into his preaching is OK in my book. After the liturgy and blessing of the waters, everyone was free to pick up a vial of holy water from a tray in the narthex. Cool. Tap water that through the power of 20 minutes' blessing can safeguard my home, car, spirit, bodily health* and even allegedly my peace of mind. I nabbed a bottle and left almost immediately afterward, DFH (dear future husband) in tow, to meet friend Andrew for lunch. Andrew, a wit and fellow convert who now attends an Orthodox church a bit south of mine, said they celebrated theophany/epiphany at his church, too, and that "nobody had burst into flames so it was all good. No vampires." Then he allowed as to how the whole sprinkling with holy water thing was handy, as once a year it allows the priests to check their congregations for demons. One thing I really appreciate about Andrew is that he's a churchgoer with a wicked sense of humor.

*The whole bodily-healing thing really had me going there for a while. But I tried it on my mom multiple times. Either holy water just works on the Orthodox, or I wasn't enough of a believer. Or it wasn't in God's plan. Or maybe it's just that nobody gets out of that final train ride and my mom's car was at the blasted station. Whatever. It didn't do anything for her bodily health and even though I find holy water charming, I'm also still a little bitter about that.

Whew!

Much better now. Being inside and cozy while a huge rainstorm is blustering outside has added substantially to my now-much-lighter mood. We woke up this morning to see many trees split or downed in the tree-lined alley across the way. Huge limbs blocked both ends of the alley, and a good 40 or so cars were blocked until mid-day when the city showed up with big power saws and cleared the way. Power was out until 2. I'm happy my good spirits are back, and not even the prospect of a party-less birthday (my birthday is tomorrow!) is getting me down. Our friend Arthur, who was going to make dinner for me and dear future husband and a small group of friends, came down with a bug. So that's probably off. But now that the power is back on, my sweetie can make the cake he was planning to bake, so there will (if the storm gods are with us and don't take the electricity back out) be sweet chocolatey goodness on the morrow. Bonus: my older brother sent me a present and it arrived by FedEx today. I love getting packages in the mail.