Pie

Pie. A three letter word that speaks volumes. There are books, TV shows and diners devoted to this world of crust encased goodness. The recipes range from cream-filled to meringue-topped to fruit-streuseled to cream-cheesed to everything in between. Pie seems to be the Holy Grail of the dessert kingdom. Bakers go to their graves clutching stain-blotched recipe cards that hold the secrets to a perfect pie.

In reality, it is not about the pie filling, important as that is, it is about the crust. A silky smooth pie covered with mounds of sweet fluffy meringue can be toppled from perfection by a tough, tasteless crust. There is nothing more sad than a plate of disemboweled pie crust left behind like a piece of picked over carrion. Better to just eat a dish of lemon custard and call it a day. Ironically, there are also those who will leave a delicious crust behind to "save on calories." Good Granny. Order a dish of sherbet and stop insulting the cook.

My grandmother made delicious pies and I don't remember more than a crumb being left on any plate she served us.  Her meringues were always perfectly coiffed. The fruit pies were sweetened just right. And the streusel toppings had the perfect amount of crunch. But the best part of all was the crust. Flaky, tender and flavorful. Her secret? I believe it was lard. Yes, lard. Fat. A word that is poison to many but golden to a true baker. Lard was readily available for my grandmother so it made good sense to use it in her cooking. We were also part of a generation that recognized the value of fat in our diets. Putting in a full day on the farm could not be sustained by a plate of lentils and brussel sprouts (delicious as both are). Real labor needed all the food groups and a treat or two to make life interesting. Enter the pie.

Fast forward to today. Most of us probably don't need pie to sustain a physically demanding day but life without pie just seems wrong. We are no less obsessed with sweet treats than our ancestors, we just have to temper ourselves a bit more. I inherited my grandmother's love of a good pie but I don't think I will ever achieve her skill level. My pies tend to be hit and miss. I have experimented with everything from old cookbook recipes to store bought crusts. All I know so far is that a store prepared crust is okay in a pinch but a made-from-scratch, loved-by-a-rolling pin, ingredients-just-right crust can be a work of art. I think I have created just a couple in my lifetime. Most of my attempts are acceptable at best and a few never make it to a pie plate (case in point last week, disaster!).

So, if you are fortunate enough to enjoy a really good pie this holiday season, don't forget to thank the cook. And eat your crust!

Intruder

The crashing noise was unexpected and startling. It came from the direction of my deck. My brain quickly analyzed the possibilities. The fierce wind. A rogue squirrel. A broken bird feeder. A cat burglar. All seemed possible.

All were incorrect. One was almost accurate. No burglar, just a cat. A beautiful apricot and cream colored feline had knocked over my tray of bird seed. I imagine that she had miscalculated a leap for a little cheeper snacking on an overhead bird feeder. By the time I reached the patio door, she was doing what all cats do when they are caught in an act of malfeasance, sauntering nonchalantly away as if everything that happened was planned and perfectly normal. End of story.

I should be angry at the marauding tabby, but I am not. Of course, I am not happy about the upset tray of bird seed. And I would rather not have my bird feeding station become the Royal Buffet for cats and other perpetrators. But, cats are cats, birds are birds and people are stupid when they try to take sides. Tempting birds to visit my deck will inevitably tantalize other lovers of birds and seed, some with four paws.

Every day I watch a few portly squirrels munch their way through freshly stocked seeds. It is not my intent to feed them but investing time and money on dubious methods of resistance makes little sense. Their stubby little paws share space with the blunt beaks of their feathered neighbors. Selective feeding may work for zoos but not so much for unfenced spaces.

Growing up on a farm hammered the laws of nature home for me. We loved our cats, but we respected their place in the food chain. Mice and other vermin were fair game on most days and so was a favorite pet bird one disastrous afternoon. (Sorry about that, little sis.) We also knew that on any given day, our favorite cat might not return, a possible victim of a larger carnivore or a blundered attempt at jumping over a barbed wire fence. Not pretty. Just real.

As I watch my bird feeding station, I am reminded that it is not always wise to rewrite the scripts of nature. The unadorned, ubiquitous house sparrow is just as hungry for bird seed as is the brilliantly beautiful cardinal. The nose crinkling bunny rabbit is as interested in the tender shoots of garden beans as I am. The neighborhood cat is programmed to stalk and hunt. The chatty squirrels stuff their chubby cheeks in fear of lean days ahead. The sharp sighted hawk circles our backyards in search of bird, mammal or reptile.

And I know that a spilled pan of bird seed is just a sign of nature's bounty. Enjoy the goodness.

Bewitched

A popular TV series in the late 60's and early 70's was a show called Bewitched. The premise, like many hit shows, was a story line that most individuals might find silly and a bit weird. A good witch named Samantha marries a mortal named Darrin Stephens and together they build a life in suburbia. Hard to believe such a frothy fantasy was a top pick for millions of viewers and continues in syndication today.

When I was young, TV watching was a limited event due to the black and white behemoth that sat on the edge of the sitting room. Its reception was spotty and only a couple of channels were relatively reliable. Selected shows were based on a large family's compromises and prescribed bedtimes. Bewitched was certainly not a first pick due to its shady connection with possible witchcraft but somehow we managed to sneak in enough episodes to know that Samantha had a secret power that seemed oh so appealing. Imagine being able to twitch your nose and instantly have dishes go from dirty to sparkling. One more twitch and your messy room was clean and orderly. To this day, I secretly long for a way to go from grimy to glittery in minutes.

Clearly, I never became the power wielding Samantha Stephens but I'm afraid I did become a different character, Gladys Kravitz. Gladys was the curious, snoopy neighbor who was always on the edge of discovering the reason behind the aura of strangeness in the Stephens household. She would pop up at inopportune times in the Stephens house, seeing and hearing things that caused her face to scrunch up in pondering moments. She was only too willing to share her observations with her long suffering husband and anyone else who would entertain the possibility of miscreants in their midst.

My Gladys moments are a little less dramatic. For years, I have had a full on view of the neighborhood through my large living room window. Any time that I am perched on my couch reading or playing another game of Scrabble with my computer, I am also watching folks walk by my house. I can set my clock to the determined walking pursuits of many dog-walkers, stroller-pushers and I'm-going-to-get-fitters. I've developed stories in my head about the lives of my window actors. The cigarette puffing young lady, hand in hand with her older gentleman friend, is always being pulled along by an itty bitty dog. I've made her the second wife of a love triangle gone bad. The doggedly determined speed walker who goes by in the early evening hours has become someone who is scared witless to gain a pound, perhaps due to past taunts by thoughtless others. The portly gentleman, who walks by in calculated, measured steps, wearing a pith helmet during the heat of the day, has become someone who just received bad news from the doctor and is determined to turn things around. The lady with the swimmingly giant white coat is afraid to buy a size smaller because it might jinx good works that have already been accomplished. And the little dogs who no longer trot by with their owners have probably gone on to doggie heaven, leaving behind saddened loved ones.

All my Gladys Kravitz musings have come to a a screeching halt this month, however. We installed a new living room window with internal pleated shades that can be lowered, not raised.  It makes far more sense to lower the shades so we can let light in without compromising our privacy throughout the day and evening hours. While I love our new, sleek window, I must confess that I miss my sidewalk friends. No more story speculations and daydreaming inspirations and no more Gladys moments. Certainly, I can lower my shades completely and continue the novellas I have created in my head but perhaps it is time to let go, at least for awhile. Or, I can join the pavement pounders and become part of their stories.

On second thought, I'll just lower the shades a bit farther. Enough exercise for one day.

Math

Starting a new week is like beginning a math problem with positive and negative integers. Sometimes you move forward and sometimes you pivot the other way. Case in point. Our aging home is in desperate need of a few upgrades. Time and money are the usual roadblocks but we are determined to persevere and take one baby step at a time in hopes of maintaining a home we can sell before assisted living units start calling our names.

Last Saturday it was time to tackle the kitchen sink and the basement shower. My husband is a very skilled carpenter, but he knows that his expertise stops when it comes to the world of plumbing. He is also not one to watch eighteen YouTube videos in an attempt to learn how to install a garbage disposal from a guy with questionable credentials. So we hired a plumber to take care of the sink and shower details.

Oh my goodness, nothing says love like a garbage disposal that doesn't howl like a monkey and a kitchen faucet that doesn't leak and looks good at the same time. Three steps forward, for sure. Until I started up the vacuum cleaner. As I made a final pass over the hallway floor, the Suck-o-Master pulled in a chunk of a throw rug and began a horrific wheezing. I immediately shut off the machine and tugged the offending rug out of its mouth. All good. Maybe not. After hitting the start button, an acrid smell filled the air and no suction was evident. I've been down this road before. Time for a new belt. One step backward.

Next, the dishwasher. I ran my usual load of grubbiness in a machine that I'm sure is only two years old (which means that it's probably triple that number but who is counting). When the cycle was completed I unloaded the dishes and as I pushed the bottom rack back into place, I noticed a shimmering haze on the floor of the machine. Standing water. Drainage not working. One more step backward. It is the weekend so no service calls will be made without a serious hit to the bank account so suck it up and do the dishes the old-fashioned way. Another step backward.

Thanks to our plumber, the basement shower seems to be working without incident. A new shower head is still needed but we can install that ourselves. One step forward. Time to record a TV show for the evening. Good grief. One of the remote's arrow keys quit working. I attempted the usual interventions, new batteries, turning the TV off and on, banging the remote and willing it to work. One step backward. Finally, I forcefully pushed on the arrow key for several seconds and it chugged into a sluggish working order. Half a step forward. I'm quite sure this isn't going to cure the problem. We will be adding to our list of errands a trip to the cable service provider sometime soon. Another step backward.

I think I am on the deficit end of the number line this go-around, but it is best not to get too mathy about it all. Use the scientific method instead. My hypothesis is that our house and household appliances with eventually be in working order. Just not all on the same day.

Delicious

Days can sometimes trudge along with a sameness that dulls the spirit. It is not that we are incapable of seeing the goodness in our surroundings. It is more likely that we are entrenched in the tasks at hand and feel the need to stay focused. There is nothing wrong with that but it can lead to a string of lackluster moments. Fortunately, we can be snapped out of banality with bursts of deliciousness that come our way, planned or otherwise. I don't live a life of Facebook worthy posts or passport toting adventures so my delectable distractions come by softly. Here are a few that never cease to delight.

1) Glasses of ice cold water--I warned you. My life is dull. But I just cannot take a sip of icy cold water without sighing and feeling great relief as my thirst is slaked in such a pleasant manner. And the price is right. It's a win.

2)  Cardinals--The sight of this mild mannered, crimson bird always gives me pause. With their peaked foreheads, audacious coloring and imposing size, they have the potential to be tyrannical kings. They, however, maintain an air of humility as they flit quickly in and out of a feeding station, never bossing away the smaller peeps. In the dusky evening hours, when most birds have gone off to sleepier times, my cardinal friends stop by and chat for a few moments with their energetic bursts of chirping, reminding me that they have a voice, too.

3) Pianos--From the lowly, upright workhorse to the stately grand showoff, they all goad me to play a song or two. My skills are not Carnegie Hall worthy, but I know enough to to let my fingers match note to ivory key, allowing me to get lost in a cascade of tumbling melodies. Through it all, I am transported to places of rest and inspiration.

4) Hand-written recipes--I have cookbooks filled with more recipes than I could possibly execute in a century of days. My favorite recipes, however, are those that are handwritten with love on a recipe card or scrap of paper because they are recipes laden with memories. Some are cherished recipes from beloved relatives who are no longer with us. Other recipes are from friends I haven't seen in years but I can picture their faces each time I peruse my recipe box. Many recipes are now on stain splotched, faded cards. The sensible thing to do is enter them into a computer for safekeeping. That will not happen under my watch. Handwriting is going the way of the rotary phone and I want to preserve such relics for as long as possible.

5) The first day of a vacation--This is a moment ripe with the potential for goodness. The frenetic planning, packing and unplugging are left behind. The discovery of forgotten toiletries, missed off-ramps and over-priced tourist stops hasn't occurred yet. Life looks good through the lens of leaving town. Enjoy it with gusto.

6)  Autumn--I am always in desperate need of trading the suffocatingly hot and steamy blanket of summer  with the chilled blast of refreshing cold fronts. The trees join me with a nod of pleasure as they display their brilliancy. Lawns stop their incessant whining for attention and gardens beg to be put to rest. It is sweater time and I am not afraid to love it.

I hope your upcoming week is filled with much deliciousness.

Basil vs. Sage

Fall has been lifting its chilly fingers and scratching at our doors lately. For some, a sigh of relief is audibly present as the windows are flung open and cool breezes squeegee out summer's stale, humid air. For others, a cloud of mourning settles in as flip flops are filed away and pool gates are padlocked. My garden is echoing similar sentiments. When evening temperatures dip below 50 degrees, the basil plants sport new coats of curled leaves and brown spots, as if to say their work on earth is done. No more fresh pesto and  flavor boosting. On the other hand, the sage plants flaunt their silvery gray leaves in a bring-it-on manner. It will take more than a little frost to stop their life juices from flowing.

Our fair city is also in the midst of differing responses to seasons. For the past several years our school board has elected to begin school during peak summer days, two weeks before Labor Day. Many reasons have been given as to the validity of such a schedule, the primary one being that high school students will fare better in their semester tests if they finish them before Christmas break.

Recently, a group of school district parents challenged such logic and went to the school board, requesting an after Labor Day starting time for school. Not only was it denied, the board approved calendars for the next three years, all with start times in mid-August. Not to be deterred, the post-Labor Day folks gathered enough citizen signatures to push the issue forward to a public vote. Their premise is that precious summer days of swimming, vacationing and general outdoor activities are cut short by the early start date. Regardless of which calendar is chosen, the required number of school days will be met and compliance will be made with the state's regulations.

The real question is, "Are you basil or sage?"

If you are basil, you cannot bear to give up one summer day. Your leaves will curl in protest when the sun's heat is taken away. Cool spring days are a waste of time to you and there is little value in time spent indoors. Family time is about backyard barbecues, trips to the lake cabin and traveling with sports teams.

If you are sage, you welcome the shoulder days of spring and fall. You enjoy cool weather activities and recognize that vacationing can happen at any time of the year. You appreciate time spent together, inside or outside. Movies, popcorn, good books and birdwatching are not determined by a calendar date.

As a teacher in the school district, I  report to active duty whenever the calendar dictates. I am less worried about the loss of warm, cool, or temperate days than I am about the education of children. The taxpayers of our city will need to determine whether they believe one month is better than another for learning. My only observation is that students are just as anxious to see their friends in August as they are in September. They are far less joyous about gathering together after Memorial Day.

August or September, May or June. The final votes will determine how our garden will grow.

10 Things Not To Say To A Teacher

There are no dull moments in the world of classrooms, lunchrooms and playgrounds. Each new school year begins with the hope of great things to come. Questioning, discussing, writing, reading and computing bring about earnest academic progress.

Each year also brings on a few questions and statements that many teachers would rather not hear from their students. Here are a few.

1) "What time is this class over?" Not only is this question asked at the end of class but it is also asked as the students are arriving. Social skill number one: please don't ask about the end time of a class, no matter how much you hate learning about arthropods.

2) "I left my homework at home." This is the primary excuse from students who haven't picked up a pencil in my classroom since the beginning of the year. Logic defies believing such a response. I usually dig right into their binders and magically find the unfinished pieces of business. Busted.

3) "I can't get my locker open." This statement most often comes from incoming sixth graders. There is definitely a learning curve in the 20 to the right, 3 to the left and 7 to the right process. I have never been able to open a locker so the kids are on their own with this one. Time for a new smartphone app.

4) "I threw up all night but I think I'm feeling a little better." It is at this point that I take two steps backwards. There is usually a residual green glow still evident on their faces and I would prefer not to be in their target range.

5) "Do we have a test today?" This is usually asked after a week of review, reminders, study guides and website postings. I'm always baffled how such a detail can be missed until the day of the test. Fortunately, there are usually a few students who are only too happy to point out the error of the confused student's ways.

6) "I like your toes." A colleague of mine was the recipient of this response a couple weeks ago. It is a baffling statement and probably best left unanalyzed.

7) "Is your hair turning gray?" It takes a great deal of self control not to share my theory of where I think the gray is coming from. Fortunately, most students aren't interested in the why of my hair color. They just enjoy making observations.

8) "I'm going to be gone for two weeks and need all my homework by the end of the day." Sometimes I'm not even sure what I will be able to cover in class tomorrow, much less two weeks in advance. I appreciate the student's concern but I would prefer that extended vacations happen in the summer.

9) "Do you remember me?" Former students often ask this question, forgetting that they might look a little different from their middle school years (a fact most are grateful for). Let it be said that I want to remember the names and faces of all my students but my brain is packed with student files. Please introduce yourself so we can skip the name game and catch up on what's new.

10) "I don't have a pencil." I understand the occasional absentmindedness that results in a lost writing utensil, but when the same student asks every teacher, every day, I want to poke my eye out with a pencil. There is no way to win this war so I will continue to buy golf pencils by the gross.

Yes, another year of school is in full swing and a whole new crop of students are making their way through the teacher maze. We'll get along just fine, until you ask me why I have so many wrinkles.