Dip It

Many memories can seem strange to us as we navigate a different environment than just a few months ago. Thoughts of tourist packed travel destinations with nary a mask in sight can catch one's breath now. Photos of holiday gatherings with several generations passing bowls of food around the table can be painfully raw in a wave of nostalgia. Concerts filled with ardent fans packed shoulder to shoulder in an enclosed venue feel strangely distant. Shopping in crowded stores with crowded aisles can feel like swimming in a petri dish. Watching my favorite polka show almost makes me weep as I watch a dance floor filled with smiling twirling elderly folks, social distancing of no concern.  

Perhaps an activity from my past that seems particularly anachronistic now is the classic fondue. My first (and only) fondue pot was a wedding gift my husband and I received in the 70's. This was the heyday of the burgeoning dip and eat fad in our country. The activity had been around for a couple of centuries in various formats, particularly in ski communities where warm goo was needed to keep cold participants happy. For reasons left to marketing and timing, fondue took off after a Swiss exposition at the World's Fair in New York City in 1964. Soon fondue parties were being featured in magazine ads selling cheese or fondue pots or both as a way to spice up the mundane. 

It is hard to do better than melted cheese in my book but my first fondue party featured bubbling oil and cubes of beef. The fondue pot was, of course, harvest gold. Other popular choices of the day were copper and avocado green. The fact that I had never seen or tasted a real avocado made that color all the more exotic back in the day. My sister and her soon to be husband and another couple joined my husband and me in our cold basement apartment for the big party. The space brightened up quickly as we used our tiny little fork wands to stab chunks of meat and jockey for a spot in the cauldron of oil. Having grown up in cattle country, none of us were concerned about the optimal temperature for cooked beef so the timing of the sizzle was quite arbitrary. Sometimes our little cubes were a wee bit crispy, but most often we were content with a quick dip and call it good. 

Our favorite part of the fried meat process happened during the follow-up, the sauces. I do not remember any specific recipes but I know we had fun dipping and analyzing. One particular sauce seemed to rise to the top as a favorite, so much so that my future brother-in-law declared it to be "good enough to eat on a napkin." We were giddy from all the fried meat and his comment made us choke with laughter. For years to come, we used that phrase whenever we were together and enjoying a tasty meal. 

My little fondue pot is long gone and sadly, I have no recollection as to its fate. Most likely I sold it on a rummage sale when its appeal started to fade. I do miss what it represented, though. For me, it was the ultimate in interactive cuisine. It was impossible to fondue without sharing many moments of camaraderie as chunks of food were either won or lost in the game of dipping. 

Fondue is certainly out of the question for now but there is nothing stopping us from enjoying melted cheese, chocolate or sizzling oil. Tap into your inner Gouda and stay inspired until we can unabashedly dip again. 

Neighborhood Noise

I am a card-carrying bird enthusiast. I stop short of calling myself an expert bird watcher, however, as I have so much more to learn. I also do not chase over hill and dale to add new bird sightings to an ongoing list. I am not opposed to such activity, but I am a bit too lazy to immerse myself to that degree, yet. The bulk of my bird watching happens through the windows of my home. I participate in a citizen science program called Project FeederWatch through Cornell University which involves recording backyard bird numbers throughout the winter months. I greatly enjoy having a purpose to my hobby and it forces me to identify the ubiquitous little brown birds. 

Recently, my mid-morning coffee break has been jostled by a clatter of squeaking chatter and whistles. A quick peek out the window reveals a flurry of activity. The leafless trees are filled with robin-sized birds conversing in their bird-like manner. The birds cluster together, at rest and in the air. And they are oh so vocal. 

Upon further investigation, my bird visitors are identified as European Starlings. I am not going to lie, starlings are not my favorite birds. I do not like it when they bully their way to the front of the line on my suet feeders. They have long yellow beaks and are able to pull apart a block of suet with surgical precision. And they are always en masse with all their avian buddies.

Despite my lack of wholehearted love for the starlings, I do enjoy watching their antics in my neighborhood. It is like watching a playground in the sky. The birds dip and dive as they chase each other from tree to tree. They form patterns when they move in rippling groups of roiling black shapes. They seem to have boundless energy and as quickly as they arrive, they can take off for the next neighborhood playground. 

Another bird that likes to hang out in groups at my feeders is the House Sparrow. Like the starling, they seem to enjoy flitting around with their fellow bird mates. They often jockey for the best position on my hanging tube feeder and they squabble back and forth while they enjoy their snacks. They are no less vocal than the starlings and it is easy to know when they have arrived.

Both bird species are classified as introduced species because they are not native to our country. The starlings were brought here by a group of folks that wanted America to have all the birds mentioned by Shakespeare. The House Sparrow was released in America as a way to control the ravages of a certain moth. Both bird species arrived during the 19th century and clearly, both species embraced their adopted home with vigor. It is tempting to blame them for making it more difficult for other native birds to thrive but I remind myself of the truth of the matter. I can enjoy them for their quirky antics and busybody ways or I can let them irritate me. For now, I feel it is best to enjoy my feathered friends and admire their plucky willingness to cohabitate with humans. 

All God's creatures. 

A few of my little brown birds.

 

Jammies

One would have to be blind to not notice the assault of Christmas goods poised and waiting to be put into shopping carts, in-person or virtually. The Halloween candy was barely stocked on the shelves when the Ho-Ho-Ho paraphernalia made an appearance. And it is full-on marketing now. I suspect many folks will feel the need to do more purchasing than usual due to the difficulty of celebrating the usual traditions of Christmas this year. 

One tradition that has always puzzled me is the matching pajamas phenomenon. It is difficult to pin down the origin story of this tradition but suffice it to say, it did not start with my generation. We were lucky to have a decent hand-me-down pair of pajamas much less nightwear that looked like the rest of my family of nine. We also did not have a camera that could take the perfect selfie for a social media post. Our cameras were point and shoot with a flash cube, if you were lucky. We had to wait for the roll of film to fill up and then it was taken to our local drug store. We would wait a couple of weeks for the photos to be returned in packets with our name on it. The photos usually contained a series of duds. Photoshopping was not an option. Our photos were real, red eyes and all.

If you are a matching jammies family, I apologize for my bewilderment and covert judgment. Some families say they love the tradition and continue it in a tongue-in-cheek sort of way. There is no amount of tongue-in-cheeking that could get me to  a) buy matching pajamas and  b) take a photo for the world to see. The photos I see of this craze often portray a lovely little family, giggling and frolicking in adorable reindeer printed flannel nightwear. Everyone seems to love their newly received pajamas and they all look cozy and ready for hot cups of cocoa, so very hygge. 

My utilitarian approach to clothing is perhaps the reason for my hesitancy to embrace this craze. I could probably set up a matching section on an exam for my wardrobe. My t-shirts that may or may not have a few stains or bleach spots on them are for around the house, daytime wear. My tees that have minimal stainage can be used for trips to the grocery store. My tees that are less than two years old fall into the category of coffee-out-and-about-wear. I have my creepy, grass-stained clogs for mowing the lawn, always a good look with my everyday capris. My sandals with a tiny bit of bling are saved for summer weddings and funerals. My birkenstocks that pre-date current trendiness are for the garden. And my fleece jackets are classified according to how pilly the fabric is, fewest pills make the cut for the public scene. 

Clearly, matching jammies are not on my radar. Pajamas are for the end of the day, ready for bedtime. Matching clothing for me will have to happen, well, never. Cheers to those of you who enjoy the jammy camaraderie. Forgive me if I order a new turtleneck instead.  

A Kiss

Many locales around the world are no strangers to maniacal weather changes and my location in the upper plains is no exception to such fluctuations. A couple of weeks ago, our neighborhood was abuzz with the sound of roaring snowblowers and scraping shovels as we dug ourselves out of our first official significant snowfall of the season. The snowfall was followed by a week of frigid temperatures setting record lows for high temperatures of the day. The sun took a break and hid behind the clouds, creating gloomy days. Our low temperatures sealed the deal on anything vegetal left in my garden. I had rose-colored glasses and hoped a few treasures would defy biology and hang on a bit longer. Silly me. 

Fortunately, the weather made another big shift this past week and kissed us with near record setting high temperatures for this time of year. The sun made an appearance in all its glory and the winds dialed back from turbulent to mild. Windows were flung open for a few days. Furnaces rested a bit before the siege of winter arrives in full force. Folks took their daily walks unencumbered by extra layers of clothing. Neighbors were outdoors tackling a few more tasks.  

As for me, outdoor tasks are always best taken in small doses but I felt a strange sense of urgency to finish a couple of things before the doors of winter slammed shut. I wanted to give a few of my windows a little cleaning, emphasis on the word little. Long ago I gave up on sparkly, squeaky clean windows. I've tried vinegar concoctions, newspapers, squeegees, expensive products, cheap products, specialty cloths and the results seem to be about the same. Lowering my standards has worked best for me and the price is right.  

My grill was also in need of a good scrubbing before it was put to bed. We have a small grill but the task always overwhelms me as I tackle the greasy goo that seems to build up despite my efforts to scrape it down between grilling events. I have no magic bullet for that cleaning task despite watching many youtube videos on "making the task easier." I have the best luck with the method that works for oil-slicked ducks, use good old-fashioned Dawn dish soap. A fair bit of elbow grease is also needed and once again, lowering my standards has been helpful. My conundrum was the desire to use my grill in the nice weather but not wanting to dirty it up again. The siren song of grilled food won out and I will have to put up with a little extra grease in the spring,

The final task was washing my vehicle. Yes, it is much easier to run it through a car wash but I told myself that when I retired, I would take on this task, at least occasionally. Truth to be told, I am afraid of car washes that require me to drive onto specified tracks. I have trouble with backing out of my driveway without incident so I tend to avoid other challenges if possible, especially in public. My husband had packed up most of the hoses and spray thingies so it took a little extra work to set up the process. But, the deed is done and considering how little I am driving these days, I should be good to go for a fair amount of time.

Not surprisingly, the weather is predicted to swing back to cold and the possibility of snow. It was good to have a little smooch of sweet weather before we dust off the parkas and mittens again. 

 

Preps

Apple Fermentation Bread

My state is home to a place with a unique and important role in the history of our country. It is a bit difficult to locate this place due to its remoteness. The official name of it was Black Hills Ordnance Depot. It was home to over 800 concrete munitions bunkers nestled into the prairie in a very unassuming neighborhood. Grazing cows and warbling meadowlarks are more likely to be seen than something as foreboding as a series of neatly aligned concrete domes. The bunkers were built during WWII as a way to increase our country's ammunition storage capabilities. A town named Igloo was built near the bunkers to provide services to those who were in charge of the operation. In 1967, the Depot was closed, the community was disbanded and the houses were moved to other locations. But the bunkers remained.

A resurgence of interest has occurred due to new ownership of the land and the bunkers. An organization dedicated to providing safe sites for humanity to flee to in the event of human or natural disasters is selling the bunkers as potential homes for those who share a philosophy of preparedness. A couple of years ago, my husband and I attempted to check out the place but the ominous, turn-back-now words spray-painted near the entrance rattled me. My husband was unfazed and was ready to keep driving forward. I threatened to jump out of the vehicle and because I have a history of doing so, he wisely turned around. The bunkers' website may be as close as we will get.  

Out of curiosity, I checked into the process of becoming a member of their community. They have an application form which includes a checklist of skills you can bring to the group. After reading through the list, it was clear that my husband would have an edge. He is a skilled carpenter. He knows how to hunt, fish and he is a master gardener. I, on the other hand, am a preparedness loser. Yes, I am a skilled talker and I can make a mean cheesecake but most of what I do would likely be considered a liability. 

In an attempt to bolster my self esteem, my daughter and husband remind me that I might have hidden talents that could be useful. My recent forays into food fermentation seem promising. I can bake bread without commercial yeast. I can take surplus vegetables and preserve them with just a container, potable water and some salt. My novice status in this process doesn't guarantee food safety, yet. But that might be the least of our worries if we are staving off a zombie apocalypse. Perhaps, I could entertain others with a tale or two around the campfire if preppers do such a thing. I can identify many birds of my state and I love bleach. Surely, that has to count for something. 

Despite my husband's definite tilt toward usefulness, I reminded him that we both have one big strike against us and that is age. I doubt the bunker community wants to commit to too many folks with impending health needs unless we can prove that we know how to forage our way to stable health. And, as I reminded my husband, I am not sure I want to stake my life on a community of folks who are more nervous about impending doom than I am. Seems like a skittish business to me. 

Apple Fermentation; Green Tomato Fermentation;
Pepper Fermentation

Noisy Fall

Rachel Carson, a renowned biologist, was accustomed to enjoying the chatter and singing of birds each spring while she enjoyed a cup of coffee and worked on her scientific research and writing. As the 1950's came to a close she noticed a curious trend. The bird voices she cherished were no longer a part of her morning. Instead she was hearing a disturbing sound, silence. Her observation forever changed the use of pesticides in our environment as she discovered the cause of the decline of the birds. The chemical DDT was making its way through the food chain and weakening the shells of bird eggs. Ms. Carson went on to write the seminal book, Silent Spring. 

In some ways, we experienced our own silent spring as current circumstances resulted in a time of eerie quiet shutdown. The world seemed to stand still as the familiar sights and sounds of humanity screeched to a halt. Gratefully, the birds continued to sing and provide us with a healthy dose of nature. Other than that, life seemed anything but normal.

In contrast, our fall is filled with some familiar noises again. At 7:08 a.m. I hear the chug chug of a school bus idling as it waits for an elementary student to board the bus on my street. Around 7:45, my neighborhood elementary school sounds its bell, alerting students to get ready for a new day. From 7:30 to 8:00, the sound of traffic increases as worker bees head to the hive for another round of duty. At 8:25, the muffled conversations of middle school students begin as they wait for their bus to arrive on the corner. Sprinkled throughout the day, the sound of children enjoying their recess time on the playground makes me smile as I imagine swinging, sliding and games of tag. 3:00 p.m. brings more chatter as school kids, laden down with backpacks like bipedal turtles, make their way home from another day of school. And periodically, the beautiful sound of a practicing marching band fills the air. 

The crack of bats and animated play-by-play coverage began again as professional baseball games worked their way to the playoffs after an abbreviated season. Sadly, the Twins did not make it as far as my husband would have preferred, but it is good to hear the sound of baseball in the air again. The sound of kids practicing sports at a park near our house also has a musical ring to it. Tailgating may or may not be happening yet but football is making attempts to happen as well. I am a certified sports idiot but I confess there is something soothing about the routine and rhythm of sports.

The evil C-19 continues to rear its ugly head and make life challenging for us and there is much debate as to what is right and what is wrong with our approach to the monster. I have no crystal ball to fill in the future blanks. I only know that I am grateful for the sounds of daily living, even when they seem a little noisy. 

 

Chain of Events

Our basement has a room I struggle to classify. We have a bedroom, a storeroom/office, a bathroom, a laundry room, a gathering room and the "other" room. The "other" room is a little room but it can make the difference between a good day and a bad day in a flash. It has been called everything from a boiler room to an HVAC room to a mechanical room to a furnace room. Or, in my case, it is the room with the furnace, AC, water heater, floor drain, hoses, filters and other stuff I don't know how to label. For the sake of this post I will simply call it the little room. 

Recently, my husband asked me if I was the one who re-positioned the AC condensate drain hose so it stayed closer to the floor drain. I gave him an I-don't-know-the-meaning-of-any-words-you-just-said look. And if I did, the answer would be a "no" as I never go into the little room. I know how to open and close the door to the room but that is the extent of my expertise. After we eliminated the possibility of an otherworldly entity we determined the hose whisperer was one of our recent house guests who is mechanically inclined and likes to make things work a little better. 

About a week later I decided it was time to introduce myself to our AC drain hose and check out the drainage situation. Indeed, the hose was stabilized over the drain and it was doing its thing properly as far as I could tell.  However, something else caught my eye. There was a puddle of water surrounding our sixteen-year-old water heater and a little pool of water settling on the far side of the water heater. The little room being a foreign land to me, I thought it best to run the situation by my husband when he arrived for lunch. It did not take long for him to say, "We've got a problem. The water heater is leaking." And I said, "We've got a problem. It is Friday afternoon and you know what it is like to get help on a weekend." 

As I resigned myself to a few days of paper dinnerware and cold showers, my husband was on the phone with his plumber buddy. The plumber graciously agreed to come right over and install a new heater if we could procure one. The next phone call solved that problem. The final hurdle was the need for one more pair of hands connected to a strong back so the heaters could be moved in and out of the basement. Bingo, my husband's nephew was available. All systems go. 

Within a few hours we were the proud owners of a brand new water heater, thanks to the generosity of others. Those who agree to help someone out on the cusp of a weekend are folks who deserve high praise. Perhaps the one who really saved us from having a full basement flood was the hose whisperer. If it wasn't for him I would never have peeked into the little room and discovered the potential disaster. 

All should be well but I reminded my husband that home equipment failures usually come in sets of three. Our dishwasher went out a few months ago, add that to the water heater and misfortune math says we have one to go. I ran the equipment replacement dates in my head and said, "Get the clothesline ready to go. The dryer is next." 

Awesome

 

A placard in my neighborhood asks the question, "Are You Awesome?" As I drive by it I ask myself, "Am I Awesome?" Hmm....Um....it depends on the factors involved with the question. Most likely, I would have to say, "Not so much." I wasn't raised to believe I was awesome and if I thought I was awesome I certainly wouldn't be allowed to state such a self-assessment in public. Pride goeth before a fall. 

The placard is really asking folks to consider applying for a job with our local school district's after school programs. I guess the usual "Help Wanted" signs aren't exciting enough anymore. That being said, I wonder whether I would want to hire someone who thought they were awesome. Here is a list of characteristics I would rather see in a new employee.

1) Are You Humble?--This doesn't refer to someone who is afraid of their own shadow. Certainly, we all need a bit of hubris to advocate for ourselves when we are searching for jobs. However, I find it much easier to work with a humble colleague than a cocky-can-do-no-wrong individual. Most work places require far more worker bees than queen bees.

2) Are You Honest?--Nothing disrupts a work environment more than dishonesty. Trust is broken and the individual in question will risk never being given credibility and co-workers will slowly start distancing themselves from said individual. Being honest is a better habit in the long run and your employer will take notice. 

3) Are You Kind?--The power of kindness can neutralize even the most difficult situations. So often our work time is consumed by challenging tasks and a certain amount of tedium. A kind word, a thank-you note, a favorite treat or a scraped windshield in the dead of winter can be just the encouraging moment many of us need when we are weary. I am forever grateful to the many kind colleagues I was blessed with over the years. 

4) Are You Responsible?--This is a biggie. I have little patience for those who don't follow through with given responsibilities. Every time the ball is dropped for a task, someone else has to add more to their workload. Bad math, for sure. If you are unable to hold up your end of the bargain, be mature enough to ask for help and work toward a solution. 

5) Are You Prompt?--Tardiness without a valid reason is rude. A tardy person sends a message that their time is more important than everyone else involved. My mother always set our main clock ahead so we always had a sense of urgency with our time. Of course, we knew that the clock was not accurate but the message was received. No dilly-dallying and get yourself out the door, pronto. 

I don't think any of my questions would make for a very catchy job-hiring placard. And I do really hope the school district can fill all their open positions. That alone would be really awesome. 

Veranda

My sincere hope was that I would not have to write this post. But, alas, here we are, seven months and counting and the big C-19 is still with us. It has changed our lives in unimaginable ways and continues to shape shift as all monsters do. The list of heroes continues to grow and at risk of offending any group who is toiling away in situations that require them to serve others in capacities that are uncomfortable to their own well-being, I simply say, "Thank You!". You know who you are and I am forever grateful to you for your unselfishness and courage. 

We have also added nuanced meanings to our vocabulary choices. Masks are no longer just related to Halloween or convenience store robberies. They are actually fashion statements and the stuff of daily commercials. Quarantine immediately implies 14-days, self-imposed or otherwise. Pandemic is not just a word from our history books. It is painfully real. Shortages are also painful and words like toilet paper and meat still make me wince a bit. Hoarding is no longer just a creepy, voyeuristic show on television. It is a choice we all grapple with. Bottles of hand sanitizers are chained down at many retail centers, encouraging customers to use before shopping but, please, keep the bottle out of your purse. On-line grocery shopping has been with us for many years but has exploded in the past few months to a level few would predict in such a short time. My grocery store has an entire parking lot wing dedicated to the pick-up of on-line orders as compared to a few parking slots just a few months ago. I have not taken advantage of the service as I am using my old tried-and-true method of arriving at stores when they first open. I usually have the grocery store to myself so social distancing is not a problem. And I am horrible at navigating the one-way aisle situation so I only have to apologize to the on-line shoppers. 

The term that I could have never predicted but has become a very real part of my life is "window visits". My ninety-two-year-old mother is being carefully protected in an assisted living home. It is no secret that she belongs to the most dangerous demographic and their group living status makes it even more precarious. Wisely, the residents are not allowed to have outside visitors which has, of course, changed how we take care of our loved ones. Gone is my ability to join mom in weekly church services and other facility activities. I can no longer drop by for a cup of tea and a cookie. I am unable to tidy up her piles of "I-might-need-that-someday" stuff. (Tidying is another way of saying "dump-when-she is-not-looking. Don't judge.) And a slice from a rhubarb pie I just made is not so easily shared with her. But, we do have our window visits now. Because my mom's room faces an interior courtyard she is required to meet me at a window that faces the facility's veranda. At first we found it awkward and uncomfortable. My choice of masks in the beginning confused her, especially if it was my Minnesota Twins mask. She thought I was teasing her with some kind of crazy writing on my mask (her eyes are not the sharpest). Now I only wear the standard blue disposable mask. We deal with weather's capriciousness by selecting days and times that are the most comfortable. The roof on the veranda provides shade and there is often a breeze that cools my sweating mask face. She enjoys the wafting of warm air on her arthritic knees and I enjoy the occasional blast of conditioning that reaches me. My mother's dementia helps her forget that we visited any other way. And I am grateful for a way to connect beyond the telephone. 

There is one term I will never adopt and that is "new normal." Folks, our current situation is NOT normal. I agree that we are making different decisions at this time, rightly so, but the configuration of relationships as they stand now should not be viewed as normal. My crystal ball has never functioned well so I have no prediction as to when we will be able to revert back to sanity but I know that we have to soldier on and take care of others in ways that make sense to us for now. And my heartfelt prayer is that we will have the patience and discernment to persevere. 

Carry on, dear friends. 

   

Repertoire

Most of us who cook have a rotation of meals we prepare on a fairly regular basis. Our choices can be based on time constraints, ease of preparation, number of folks around the table or simply what is on sale at the local grocery store. Seasonal availability often drives our choices as well. My garden is currently bursting forth so every meal includes a vegetable or two or three. I am not complaining. There is nothing better than a bowl of freshly picked green beans with a little (or a lot) of butter and a sprinkling of salt. Perfection. 

Most fresh vegetables need little intervention to be tasty but a variety of preparations can help avoid vegetable fatigue. Some vegetables lend themselves well to cooking or baking such as the ubiquitous zucchini. If you raise summer squashes you know that it doesn't take long before you are asking the neighbors if they like squash. Sharing is caring. I have several recipes I use to help manage the abundance of  squash. If I want a full meal with them, I make a zucchini dish with ground meat, fresh herbs and Parmesan cheese stuffed into little squash boats. I also like squash sliced thinly pole to pole, brushed with a little olive oil and grilled. Quick and easy. If my squash gets a little larger than I prefer, I slice them into coins, dip them into a beaten egg, roll them in Panko crumbs and saute in oil until golden and tender. Top with Parmesan cheese and they are better than french fries. Almost. I must confess that my all time favorite way to eat summer squash is straight up boiled until very tender, excess water drained off and a generous amount of butter added. Finish with salt and plenty of black pepper. My mother often prepared squash this way and I never tire of it.

Cucumbers are best just as they are, crisp and cooling but a few adjustments can be made for a little variety.  I often make a quick dressing of a little mayo, salt and a pinch of sugar. Great with any meal. Recently, I tried a recipe for smashed cucumbers with an Asian style dressing. It was an interesting change of pace but I am not sure it will be added to my regular repertoire. If you are facing down more cukes than you can eat and your neighbors are starting to avoid you, they can also be made into delicious refrigerator pickles (the cucumbers, not the neighbors). No canning necessary and pickles last a long time in the fridge. 

And then there is the tomato. A sublime gift from God, for sure. The first bite of a vine-ripened, freshly picked tomato wipes away the memory of all the sad, tasteless tomatoes eaten throughout the majority of the year in the upper plains. A plate of sliced tomatoes is good enough for any meal but the addition of bacon, lettuce and toasted bread doesn't hurt either. Chopped tomatoes, onions, fresh garden peppers, lime juice and cilantro make an unbeatable salsa. And tacos have an elevated level of taste when the tomatoes are fresh and juicy. 

I hope your meal repertoire includes plenty of garden fresh vegetables this summer. 'Tis the season. 

Worth It

"I'm going to put a $100 bill on the table if it means more of these," said my husband. I looked over at him to determine the source of such exuberance coming from a guy who is usually rather soft-spoken. We were just finishing our dinner meal and the mound of pits on his plate explained it all. Cherries, and not just any cherries. I had served Rainier cherries. They are golden yellow with a rosy blush and even sweeter than Bing cherries. And for someone like my husband who has a sweet tooth, they are certainly one of his favorite fruits. The only thing not to love about these cherries is the cost. They are often double or more the price of Bing cherries and are not always as readily available. 

My husband does not do the grocery shopping so he is at the mercy of my purchases. When Rainiers start appearing in the store I usually stall out when I see the price. Knowing how much he loves them, I eventually break down and purchase a few, hoping he will not push the issue. That never happens. He always asks for more and I always reply, "They are so expensive. They will just have to be an occasional treat." This dialogue has been going on for years until this year when he decided to remove all barriers and throw in the cash. No cash actually changed hands but I have been a little more generous in my cherry purchasing decisions. 

We are certainly enjoying the cherries but more than that, we are in the feast season of fruits. Apples and oranges will have to wait until the clutches of winter grab us again. Now is the time for the berries, melons, plums and other juicy goodies. 

Fruit also keeps us humble. We may think we know how to pick out the perfect watermelon as we thump them and listen for a hollow sound, check for a creamy yellow spot on the underside and feel the heft of the melon, only to cut into it and discover a pale flesh with lackluster taste. Cantaloupe can be even more deceiving. The sniff test is recommended as well as applying gentle pressure to the stem end, checking for a slight give. Sometimes this works but just as often the melon is either crunchy or so ripe it is ready for fermentation. 

Bright red strawberries can also lure us into a purchase with their ruby color and promise of juicy sweetness. Sometimes they are very good and other times, there are fuzzy babies hidden in the center of the container ready to contaminate the rest of their container mates. And some strawberries are just plain crunchy and will never be close to juicy. Raspberries are even riskier. It seems that I have a twelve hour window from their purchase time to eating time or I have a moldy mess on my hands. 

Yes, fruit can be risky business and expensive, too. But, for those of us in the upper plains, it is time to eat away. Soon enough we will be back to apples and oranges and of course, none of us wants a bad case of scurvy. 

Nine

Nine years ago this month I released my very first blog post. I think I gasped a little as I quickly looked for the "undo" option. If I had been smart enough to figure out how to unpublish posts at the time, I probably would have done so. I certainly didn't believe this blog would be much more than a flash in a pan moment. But here we are, two hundred and seventy-seven posts later, and my fingers keep tapping away on my keyboard. No predictions for the future and I am always just one post away from the final one. 

The teacher in me continues to look for lessons learned along the way and here are a few of mine. 

1) Just do it.--I am not a risk taker as is evident by the name of this blog. But, there are times when one feels the urge to jump into the pool despite an ill-fitting bathing suit, icy cold water and questionable swimming skills. Dog paddle your way to the other side and pat yourself on the back for at least trying something new. 

2) Don't take yourself too seriously.--My aspirations for blogging do not include reaching for the stars. I never saw blogging as an income generator so there is no pressure to be perfect or, heaven forbid, glitzy. Beige will always be good enough for me and the minutia of every day life will most likely continue to fascinate me.  

3) Be realistic.--If it becomes evident that a new skill is becoming more of a noose than a gift, give yourself permission to cut the cord. Most adventures have a shelf life, be it a few moments or many years. Give yourself a break if necessary and move on to something else when your still small voice begins shouting in your ear. 

4) Sometimes it is easy. Sometimes it is not.--There are times when my fingers can barely move fast enough to keep up with the flow of ideas clamoring to become words on a page. And then there are times when I stare at a blinking cursor taunting me to put a single word on the page as my mind feels uninspired to produce coherent thoughts. By setting deadlines for myself I am learning to push through the curse of the blinking cursor.  I also hearken back to lesson #2 and remind myself not to get bound up in doing things just right. Gratefully, I have a very forgiving audience.

5) Be aware.--I recently finished a book that included a chapter on Jack London's time in the madness of the Canadian Yukon gold rush. He never found gold in nuggets but he found gold in observations. It was a pivotal moment in his career as he went on to claim success as a writer and thankfully, he recovered from a bad case of scurvy. Most of us will never experience adventures to the level of Jack London, but that matters to no one else. Keep your eyes open and you will see things that will make you smile, laugh, cry and ponder. 

So, whether you are contemplating a recipe for making the perfect chocolate cake or you are considering learning how to play the accordion, go for it. Just keep me posted. I love cake and I am a sucker for a good polka. 

 

Cool Thoughts

As the heat and humidity of summer bear down with crushing decisiveness, many of us are looking for ways to stay cool. I am blessed with the option of spending most of my time in air-conditioned environments. I am also old enough to know that air conditioning is truly a blessed invention. My younger days on the farm often utilized "natural air-conditioning" to keep cool. Windows were opened at night in hopes of circulating cooler air throughout the house. Early in the morning, the windows were snapped shut in an attempt to hold the cooler air inside as the mercury in the outdoor thermometer soared. In theory, this was a good way to make the best of summer days. In actuality, there were many days of hot, sticky air that simply recycled itself around and around. We had large box fans strategically located throughout our house which gave some relief but hot air is hot air. 

My siblings and I came up with other ways to beat the heat. We didn't have easy access to a clear blue swimming pool but our farm was located a few miles from the Missouri River. Clear blue it was not but it was wet and it could potentially cool you off. When I was old enough to drive, it became possible for us to spend an afternoon at the "beach." We probably spent more time planning and preparing for our afternoon at the river than we actually spent on the beach but it was a good distraction and it kept us out of our mom's hair. We saw it as an opportunity to escape potential chore assignments and add a little adventure to our lives. 

Our supplies usually consisted of three items, towels, snacks and a jug of water. We had no cell phones. Sunscreen was not a thing. Bottled water was unheard of and a beach umbrella was for ocean people. Occasionally, we took a transistor radio (if you are young, you might have to Google it). We often spent more time trying to get a station on the radio than it was worth but we always hoped for the sweet spot on the persnickety dial. 

I don't remember my mom giving us very many warnings as we took off on the gravel covered, winding road to the river, but she did remind us to be watchful for snakes. The poisonous prairie rattlesnake liked to spend time in shady places along the river and one could potentially experience a nasty interaction with the reptile. My vivid imagination was sure that I was hearing the rattling of an angry snake with every step I took in the grassy areas. Our beach area was undeveloped so we had no walkways or "designated areas." 

Occasionally we shared the shoreline with a few cows, flicking their tails at the biting flies while they cooled themselves in the shallow water. The cows always reminded us that it was best to keep our mouths closed when spending time in the water. No chlorine or filters here.

We stayed at the beach until our interest and snacks waned. We packed up our soggy towels and empty water jug so we could wind our way back through the river hills and head home. We may not have sufficiently cooled ourselves but we always felt refreshed from an afternoon along the river. Cows and kids sometimes need the same thing on a hot summer's day. 

Missouri River Hills

 

A Date

(Warning: The following post contains more than my usual two photographs. If poor photography frightens you, avert your eyes after reading.)

A couple of months ago a friend texted me with an intriguing way of capturing wild yeast for bread baking. I was curious for many reasons. First, it was not the traditional sourdough method that everybody and their kitty cat is posting on social media. Secondly, it seemed less labor intensive than the sourdough method. And, best of all, it wouldn't demand a lifetime of sourdough starter guilt and babysitting.

That being said, there was certainly a learning curve for me as I explored the process with two steps forward and one step backwards, on a good day. The basics are relatively simple: water, a little sugar, a little salt and dried dates. Mix, shake and place in a warm place to let the magic happen. If all goes well, the wild yeast on the dried fruit will be activated and the yeast babies start munching away on the sugar in the water, thus creating fizzy bubbles (a.k.a. carbon dioxide) as a byproduct and voila, a leavening agent is born.

The development of the yeast water should have taken about ten days. Unfortunately, it took about a month for me as I killed the first round of yeast and had to start over again. In defense of myself, the directions for developing yeast water are difficult to pin down on the internet and I found myself mashing together information from multiple sites. The bulk of my information came from a leader in baking products, King Arthur Flour. The instruction that killed the yeast was "use tap water." As I faithfully waited for bubbles to form in my bottle of date water, it became clear that all I had created was a bottle of murky water with chunks of dates floating in it. Not a pretty sight or very effective. 

In my second attempt I substituted bottled water for tap water and bingo, wild yeast action was born. I am assuming my tap water brought a dose of yeast killing chlorine to the party. Sorry, yeast babies. Ten days with my new mixture produced the coveted yeast water and the bread baking process could begin. If I thought making yeast water came with sketchy instructions, making the bread was like spelunking in a cave passage with a sketchy map and a finicky flashlight. King Arthur suggested using a sourdough recipe, substituting yeast water for the usual sourdough starter. After three rounds of that process, it was clear that I needed a lot  more practice and perhaps a little bit of hand holding for any hope of complete success. It wasn't a complete crash and burn, however. The resulting bread was usually tasty with just a hint of fruitiness. My struggle was in the correct ratio of flour to yeast water and most of all, shaping a round loaf. Sourdough recipes involve linen towels, fancy baskets, parchment paper, pizza stones and bread slashing tools. My bread baking has always involved one tool, a loaf pan.

I will spare you the gory details but suffice it to say, towels were ruined, embedded parchment paper had to be dug out of dough blobs and a piece of my favorite stoneware needed to be scrubbed for an unspeakable length of time. Call me crazy but I am too stubborn to pour my precious yeast water down the drain. And thus, I persevere.

The good news is that I stumbled on a video about yeast water that was posted fairly recently (Mary's Nest). The perky little homemaker in the video has a personality that is part kindergarten teacher and part cheerleader, goading us all onward to a more "traditional kitchen". She provides step-by-step instructions for creating yeast water and most importantly, making bread from said water in a far more streamlined manner. The bad news is that the ratios didn't work out for me and I am back to the drawing board.

Thankfully, I have been able to salvage some of the bread along the way. We eat a little bit of it fresh and the rest goes in the freezer. The sturdy bread makes crispy, crunchy toast for breakfast and delicious french toast for any time. My yeast water lives on and lessons continue to be learned.

Cast of characters

Repurposed plastic vinegar bottle. Misshapen due to a nitwit move on my part.

Brownish colored yeast water with date floaties.

Miracle moment when yeast water and flour produces a bubbly leavening after 16 hours.

I loved this towel. Past tense. 

This beauty had the heft of a door stop and the texture to match.  

     

Pockets of raw flour after parchment incident. Good grief.

   

Lots of bubble action from the yeast babies. 

Beluga whale or a case of over proofing? Answer in next picture. 

     

A small child could get lost in this air pocket.

   

Tasty. 

Bottle It

Those of us living in the upper Plains are accustomed to the vagaries of weather. One moment we are bundled up in sweaters to combat a chill in the air. Later in the day, we are digging in our closets for a T-shirt as the weather turns warm and balmy. The next day we are checking the rain gauge as precipitation accumulates. The winds can be ferocious or gentle. We are prepared for wild swings between below freezing weather and toasty warmth. And, once in a while, we are treated with a Goldilocks Day, a day that is just right.

As I write this post, it is just such a day. My windows are wide open in an attempt to capture the goodness. The humidity is low so the breeze is not bringing wilting air into the house. The temperature is in a comfortably cool range so the air conditioner does not have to run and the furnace is not needed. The sun is shining which gives an energizing boost to plants and people alike. We've had a few spring rains so our trees are now in full foliage and the lawns are plush, no sprinklers required.

Open windows give access to full sound. The birds are oh so active in the spring, flirting with each other and singing their intricate songs. The black-capped chickadees call and respond with their distinctive fee-bee, fee-bee vocalization. Their repertoire also includes the chickadee-dee-dee sound that lets me know they are munching at one of my bird feeders. The ping, ping sound on my pan feeder signals the arrival of a larger bird with a sturdy beak pecking away, such as a blackbird or cowbird. The delicate chip-chip of the little chipping sparrow always makes me smile as they bounce along on my deck, pecking at stray seeds. The scritchy scratchy sounds on the bark of my front yard tree usually means a couple of squirrels are playing tag up and down and all around. The most entertaining song of all is that of the handsome cardinal. Scientists believe cardinals have about sixteen different calls but the most recognizable is their robust birdie-birdie-birdie song. They can also belt loose with beautiful warbles that would be difficult to put down as notes on a piece of sheet music. They are a choir director's dream with their strong projection and perfect pitch.

Open windows also mean full fragrance. The blossoming trees and bushes release their perfume in ways that can be pleasant or pungent. Lilac blooms have a sickly sweet smell to me, albeit their colors are stunning. Flowering crab trees display their pink flowers with a more delicate fragrance. Freshly cut grass lends a herbaceous note to the mix. And as the day wanes, the smoky smell of the neighbor's fire pit signals the start of an evening worthy of sitting outdoors (for my neighbors, not me. I'm more indoorsy). The relative absence of pesky bugs makes it a perfect night.

I wish I could say the upcoming forecast is just as glamorous as this day but it looks like we are in for some summer heat, not my cup of tea. This is also the time of year for turbulent weather patterns which can result in violent storms, also not my cup of tea. It would be nice to bottle up the good days and release their contents as needed. Lacking that option, it is best to drink deeply when you can and savor the moment.

One Year

Approximately one year ago I was cleaning out the last of my career detritus as I closed down thirty-one years of teaching. It was a heady time filled with cleaning decisions, farewell decisions, employee exit decisions and am-I-doing-the-right-thing decisions. Fortunately, I was distracted enough to keep myself from crawling too deeply into my head. One step at a time and just do the next thing.

Now that I have had a little time to process the process, here are a few things I learned.

1) It is okay to not have an exit plan.--I can hear financial planners and forward thinkers choke on their coffee with this one. When I retired, I didn't have an encore career ready to go as my next step. I didn't have elaborate hobbies in the wing. Yes, I enjoyed reading and cooking but somehow that seemed less respectable than activities such as woodworking, quilting or gardening. I wasn't training for marathons. I wasn't preparing to care for grandchildren three times a week or ever, I only have granddogs and grandcats. I wasn't producing sassy old lady Youtube videos about sassy old lady things. I was just retiring, plain and simple. And I am still retired, without any grandiose plans, and glad for every minute of it.

2) Paperwork never stops.--Most jobs come with a fair amount of paperwork and teaching is certainly no exception. There were student assignments to correct, grades to record, and forms, forms, forms and more forms to complete.  I certainly do not have that volume of paperwork any more but I am still filling out forms. Leaving the safety net of a full time employer forces one to jump through lots of hoops for pension payments, insurance changes and status adjustments, all of which involve more forms. My husband just turned 65 so the world of Medicare became another mountain of forms to decode. Most forms are online which is good and bad, depending on the day. The good news about the forms I complete now is that I have the luxury of time. Gone are the days of completing paperwork while eating lunch. Sorry, kids, for all the coffee stains and crumb spots left behind on your papers.

3) Friendships are golden.--When I am asked if I miss anything from working full time, I immediately respond, "I miss my friends." There is nothing like working side by side in the trenches with great people. Good days, bad days, dull days and crazy days are all made better by the folks who have your back. I was blessed to be surrounded by a group of people who saw the value of beginning the day with interesting conversation, lots of coffee and laughter, sweet laughter. We may not have agreed on everything but we always gave each other support and respect. If we are truly honest, we spend more time with our work friends than we do with our own families. That is not a fault, it is just a reality and it is okay to treasure our work friends as the gifts they are to us.

I am still learning retirement lessons and my exit plan is still not noteworthy. In light of recent events, maybe that is okay. For me, being present in the moment has been enough.

Dem Bones

"Your ankle bone's connected to your shin bone. Your shin bone's connected to your knee bone. Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk around." And so goes a popular song enjoyed by kids and adults alike. The intent of the song ranges from understanding Biblical theology to teaching kids about our skeletons. I am not going to dive into either meaning. That seems like too much for quarantined mush brains. My reference is simply that everything is connected. And that fact is evident more than ever with the shopping habits of folks during the past couple of months.

It all began with the hording of toilet paper which led to a spike in sales for paper towels which led to a spike in sales for Kleenex tissues. My elderly brain remembers the Sears & Roebuck catalog as a back up in any self-respecting outdoor toilet years ago. The thought of paying for toilet paper when there was a free catalog available was often the rationale. My family did not have an indoor bathroom until I was about ten. Many memories of my youth are fond, but the outdoor toilet is not one of them.

The next shopping challenge was hand sanitizer which led to a shortage of disinfectant wipes which led to a shortage of hand soap which led to the shortage of any product with the word disinfectant written on it. Fortunately, I usually have a ready supply of good old fashioned bleach on hand and I was able to make my own solution of bleach spray. Long before hand wipes and sanitizers were invented, my mother would soak a wash cloth in soapy water, put it in a plastic bag and use it to wash our hands when we were traveling. I put one of my bleach sprayed cloths in a ziploc and carried it with me when I thought I might need a moment of disinfecting while I was out and about. No fancy sanitizer needed.

Another shortage was yeast. I don't know if there ever was a shortage of ready made bread in the stores but folks went crazy over the need to knead bread on their own. Social media was full of sourdough bread projects and ways to capture wild yeast. Those of us who have dabbled in the "starter" world know that it is a full time babysitting job that takes on a sense of moral obligation. I took my chances with the yeast I already had on hand and I also found plenty of bread on the shelves of my local grocery store. That being said, I was intrigued by a friend's suggestion of using raisins to create "yeast water." I liked the experimentation involved in the process so I went for it. I am on my second attempt as the first attempt was an epic fail. Time will tell if I am on the road to success as I am several days away from actually baking a loaf of bread. I suspect the vast majority of baker wanna-bes have already shifted back to purchasing bread and our yeast supplies will get back to normal.

Our latest potential shortage is meat. This is the only shortage that rattled my husband's cage. He loves his vegetables but meat is king. I don't think it helped when I told him I have plenty of tuna on hand. Fortunately, grocery stores have learned a few lessons along the way and are now limiting meat purchases as it has become very clear that folks tend to go berserk and buy up everything in sight whenever there is a whiff of shortages. My niece mentioned that it might drive people toward vegetarianism and I pointed out that there would then be a run on beans and lentils which would lead to the next shortage. 

And so it is. I cannot predict the next shortage but I do know that my rhubarb plant looks like it is going to keep me well supplied with desserts and that will take the edge of any crazy day.

Super Value

Throughout my years of teaching I had the opportunity to be a part of many different committees. I would be lying if I said I enjoyed every meeting, every agenda and every committee member. What is true, however, is that I learned something from each gathering for the good or the bad.

One particular challenging committee I served on had the objective of reviewing whether the needs of gifted students were being met at the middle school level. Before I go any farther, it might be best if I come clean with my bias. I hate the word gifted as it implies that one child is superior to another based solely on one criteria point. Such a premise is a slippery slope, in my opinion.

Our committee was comprised of teachers, parents and district administrators. One of the committee members was a particular contentious and vocal mother of a student in the gifted program. She, of course, believed the needs of her little Einstein were not being met and it was time for a change. I am no stranger to such rants but her personality and unmitigated demands rubbed me the wrong way. My vow to keep my mouth shut and do my time was not long lived. I eventually spoke my piece, more than once, I'm afraid. Mama Bear had no time of day for me as I was "just a regular teacher" so I knew I was wasting oxygen speaking to her but it made me feel better. During one particular heated moment, Mama Bear made the statement, "Why is this district spending so much time on the regular kids. Everyone knows they will never save the world." Suffice it to say, I practically levitated from my seat.

Fast forward to today. Who are the folks we are asking to risk so much for us? Surely, we need scientists and researchers in a desperate way but it is also very clear that each person who shows up at an essential service job is putting their health and well-being on the line. The HVAC worker who fixes a furnace in a cold home, the grocery clerk who works with hundreds of people throughout the day, the nurse who takes a deep breath and goes in for another shift, the FedEx driver who faithfully delivers packages so we can shop from home, the caretaker at a senior living center who works with an extremely vulnerable population, and on and on it goes. I do not know their IQ levels but it doesn't matter one iota to me whether they are Mensa or not.

I may never cross paths with Mama Bear again but there is a part of me that feels justified after all these years. If we learn anything from our current world crisis, perhaps one lesson is to honor the value of others, regardless of an IQ rating, a prestigious job, a fat bank account or a lucrative sports career. I think Mr. Rogers got it right again when he said, "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping'".

God bless the helpers and may we all be one of them.

Thanks to the folks at the greenhouse who are making sure we can
 dream of gardening days ahead.

Life on the Ledge

I am positioned in a way that is well suited for our newly quarantined world. I do not have little ones to care for. I am retired so I don't have to think about e-learning lessons. I am no longer on lots of committees so Zoom sessions are not necessary. I have a good supply of toilet paper thanks to my youth hostel operation. And Mother Hubbard's cupboard is still not bare.

And yet, I find myself slipping out on the ledge. I am a professional fretter and despite my head saying, "Stop It!", I allow myself to play mind games. Every little cough or sniffle, I talk myself into impending doom. Every phone call from my mother makes me worry about her well-being now that I cannot visit her in person. Each time I go to the grocery store I feel like I am playing a game of plague. I have no solutions to my excessive stewing but I am stumbling my way through a few strategies. Here are a few of them.

1) The Great British Baking Show (Netflix)--I have no intention of replicating any of the baking challenges given the contestants, but there is something very distracting about watching home bakers work their way through the challenges of constructing "show stoppers" and critical judging. The judges and moderators are fun to watch and, let's face it, British accents are entertaining for those of us living across the pond.

2) Geography--No, I haven't gone completely daft. Yet. I am, however, using an on-line game to help me brush up on my geographical knowledge. It is very humbling to say the least. I started with the United States and quickly discovered my knowledge deficit of states on the east coast. Where the heck is Delaware, anyway? I am not allowing myself to move to a new region until I have 100 percent accuracy. So far I have marched my way through the U.S., Canada, Central America, South America, Europe and Africa. I am ashamed to admit how pitiful my pre-tests are for each region. I am now working on Asia and getting stuck on all the "stans" and sovereign city-states. The whole process is just demanding enough to keep my mind distracted and I feel like I am accomplishing something without having to clean a closet.

3) Birds--No surprise on this one. I have to get my bird fix every day whether it is watching and listening to my neighborhood bird friends or watching my favorite nest cams from Cornell Labs. Currently, Cornell is featuring an osprey nest in Savannah, an osprey nest in Montana, an albatross nest in New Zealand, an owl nest in Indiana, two petrel nests in Bermuda and a hawk nest in New York. (By the way, I can find all those places on the map now.) I am also participating in Cornell's FeederWatch program so I turn in bird counts from my backyard feeder each week. And if I get really desperate, I could resurrect the Albatross dance my colleague and I used to torment others with. Look out TikTok.

One other strategy for my sanity is that I have stopped watching/reading the news. My ability to grab on to a nugget of doom and nurture it like a dung beetle with its treasure was not helping me cope. My husband is in charge of filtering any pertinent information my way. I now stick my head in the sand and do my part for the greater whole to the best of my ability.

Stay safe and be well, my friends.

This is what making a face mask looks like when sewing terrifies you: dishtowel, elastic from underwear waist band and gobs of fabric glue...enough to get your fingers glued to the project, several times.