The Blast

Even by upper Midwest standards, our weather was cold this week. Very, very cold. Actual air temperature plunged to the negative 20's and beyond. Factor in a burly wind from the north and exposed skin didn't stand a chance. Schools were closed and some businesses cut their hours.The  Midwestern statement, "It could be worse," was not uttered much for a day or two. Meteorologists dubbed it "The Polar Vortex".

The sights and sounds of polar air attacking an environment are unique. My trek to the parking lot after work had a squeaky, scrunchy quality as I squashed frozen rivulets of snow and ice. The smell of exhaust was in the air as cars, started by remote starters, belched out their white plumage. My gray icicle of a vehicle (no remote starter in my purse) beckoned me with all the protection of a meat locker. The door squealed in a high pitch screech as I pulled it open. My face was non-pliable and I braced myself for the rock hard car seat. Moments of panic niggled my brain when I fumbled with the key, hoping against physics that my vehicle would start. The familiar errr-errr-errr was followed by the whoosh of the engine starting. Instinct told me to crank the heat but experience reminded me that a blast of cold air is not advised. My vehicle's tires crunched over the parking lot tundra and a chilly drive home began. My vehicle was warm when I pulled into the garage. Perfect timing.

A quick trip to the grocery store revealed the fashion statements of tundra people. Parkas with fur-trimmed hoods were bound up by bulky scarves. Mittens punctuated the ends of coat sleeves. Boots clomped along in the aisles and store employees were dressed in layers as the outdoor air followed us like strong perfume. There is probably a reason the Midwest is not known for elite fashion runways or trendy attire. I cannot help but smile when I see folks dressed for the weather rather than the latest fashion forecast. (My apologies to those who are stylish and live here.)

Comfort food takes on a utilitarian meaning when the temperatures plunge. Salads are lovely but nothing says survival like fat. Bring on the hearty soups, laden with potatoes or cream or both. Pass me another round of meatloaf and white bread. Drink another cup of hot chocolate, no skim milk allowed. And eat bacon. Several slices, if need be.  I guarantee it will take the edge off. Cold weather is a fight to the finish and I prefer to win.

My Florida sister apologetically shared that they were also a little cool this week at 60 degrees. I told her not to apologize. I reminded her that all regional locations have an upside. Our frigid temperatures are freezing the bejeebers out of damaging larvae lurking in our trees and mold spores snoozing in our gardens. Alligators and venomous water snakes are also less likely to join our ranks. No complaints here.

The really good news about a polar vortex is that it won't last forever. In fact, meteorologists are predicting a fifty degree swing upward for a day or two. Even from negative twenty, that is not bad. The parka hoods will be flipped back. The mittens will go back in the closet. And our cars will breathe a sigh of relief. We will miss our beautiful sun dogs but we are survivors. Bring it on, weather.

Brain Food

Don't be afraid. This is not a post hawking a wonder food that is guaranteed to sharpen memories and increase neuron connections. I will leave such claims to the marketing experts wearing snake skin boots. My claim is based on the power of food and memories.

A recent discussion with a few of my colleagues at work resulted in just such a connection. We shared  plans for our evening meals and the subject of Tater Tot Casserole came up. Three questions were raised: "What vegetable is used?" "What sauce is used?" and "What type of topping is used?" We went back to our youth and the components were quite similar with some variations. The veggie was either corn or green beans (french style for some, cut style for others). The sauce was good old-fashioned cream of mushroom soup. And the topping was tater tots, of course.

Our discussion took a detour when we delved into deviations we've experienced from others. Some cooks throw a handful of shredded cheese on the tater tots for a little extra punch. Some change up the geometry of the potato topping by using diced potatoes, potato crowns or hash brown rectangles. The mushroom soup can be replaced with cream of chicken. And the veggies could be a medley of peas, corn and carrots. Nothing wrong with deviations, but we agreed that our classic memories were the most comfortable for each of us.

Next, we meandered into internet land and discovered attempts to "modernize" the classic recipe. Apparently, a can of cream soup is the demon of the culinary world as many recipes substitute bechamel sauce for convenience of the can (so sorry, Nicolas Appert, inventor of canned goods). One of the pin-me-follow-me-hashtag-me bloggers suggested a recipe with soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, milk, sour cream and fresh parsley and thyme. Good grief, no wonder tater tots are added to that hot mess. Why else would you eat it?

My friends and I concluded that we eat casseroles for two reasons: convenience and comfort. Each of us was blanketed with warmness as we remembered the Tater Tot casserole of our youth and the kitchens and potlucks where we enjoyed humble meals with others. None of us felt the need to adjust the ingredients too far from our original recipe. We wanted taste to match memory. Done deal.

Sheri Castle, renowned Southern cookbook author, states, "Casseroles are for the the hungry and heartbroken. If you don't know what to say, let a casserole do the talking." Feeling sad? Whip up a hotdish. Need a quick meal for weary travelers? Pop in a casserole. Getting ready for a potluck? Load up a 9x13 dish with love.

Celebrate some brain food this week and make a dish that takes you down memory lane. Use a can of creamed soup if you wish. Throw in a veggie of choice. Skip the fresh parsley if you live in the upper plains. Casseroles don't judge. They just warm the heart.

New Year

Time to turn the page to a new calendar year. As usual, a new year means aggressive advertisements for fitness clubs, fitness gear, fitness machines, weight loss potions and all things healthy. January screams, "Do something. Now." Many heed the call and others, myself included, plod along with less lofty aspirations. This year, I have the following goals.

1) Bake bread. I dabble in the world of yeast, water and flour, but I do so infrequently. Bread is the universal language of sustenance and the ingredients are quite simple. However, the process can be a speed bump for me. I own a hefty mixer with a dough hook so I have no excuses there. Time is the  primary challenge as bread needs several hours to complete the kneading, proofing and baking steps. Experience is another hurdle. My mother baked loaves and loaves of bread each week and I never saw her use a recipe. I am tethered to a recipe when I tackle bread. Bread dough also senses insecurity so my plan is to march onward with determination. The fragrance of a well baked loaf of bread is a sweet perfume, indeed.

2) Read. I love to read but I confess that I often participate in mindless activities rather than read. It is all too easy to flip my way through seemingly endless choices of TV shows and Netflix picks and never really settle on anything that is worth my time. It takes no effort to scroll through pages of social media posts and not be any the wiser as the minutes or hours ebb away. Whenever I finish a book, I feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. My mind has been soothed, challenged or tickled in some way. And I earn another trip to the library, one of my favorite places to be.

3) Starve the guilt gibbon. Those who know me, know that I like to feed the guilt gibbon who rests upon my shoulder. I never write enough thank-you cards. I adore potato chips. I throw away cheese because it gets away from me. I allow vegetables to languish in my crisper drawers. I make bad purchases for clothing because I hate to shop. I don't make jam. I fail to check my cellphone in a timely manner. Years of stuffing my guilt gibbon's face means this is one goal that will most likely remain dormant. Again.

4) Laugh. I am blessed with colleagues who love a good chortle or two or more. Sometimes, we get a good laugh from a video clip about the humorous side of teaching. Sometimes, a dog or cat meme tickles our funny bone. Sometimes, it is an old-fashioned Ole and Lena joke that gives us joy. But, our best laughs come from the foibles of daily life. Everything from student quips to failed science experiments to compression hose is fair game. Bellyachers are a dime a dozen but a good belly laugh is priceless.

Happy New Year, my dear friends! And may your Cheeto bags always be full.

Tale of Two

My early Saturday morning ritual of completing my grocery shopping before the break of dawn has wobbled of late. My primary shopping happens at a fairly large grocery store (Big A). It has a cheese and deli section, a bakery, a coffee shop, a restaurant, a meat department, a pharmacy, a wine and spirits department and aisles and aisles of everything from avocados to zwieback. Now there is the new kid in town (Little B). Due to a number of reasons, not the least of which is my mushy brain of forgetfulness, I am darting over to Little B after my first grocery run so I can pick up a few more items.

Little B muscled its way into the neighborhoods of some pretty big players in our city's grocery world. On paper, Little B should be tucking its tail between its legs and leaving town by now, beaten into submission by the Alpha dogs. Not only has that not happened, Little B is thriving. The two stores I visit are radically different in tone and philosophy.

Big A is open 24/7, humming away with hordes of worker bees. I recognize a few of the early morning bees but for the most part the ever changing crew is busy doing their thing as they rub the crudlies out of their eyes and hope the next shift arrives on time. The produce department is often just starting to clear out the overnight detritus when I arrive. I make it a point to check the temperature of the grapes. Warm means stay away, cold means purchase. The produce guy is a bit of a grumpy cat and prefers to focus on banana purging and leafy green placement. The personal shoppers scurry around with their beeper guns, loading carts with groceries for others. The ends of the aisles are stacked up with boxes, ready to be unloaded for the next big rush. The checkout counter is usually manned by one lone teenager who drew the short straw for shift assignments. Said teenager often struggles with identifying produce as I give him tutelage on pear varietals and the difference between a shallot and an onion. I feel like I hit the jackpot when there is someone to pack my groceries. If I start packing my own groceries, a manager sometimes steps up to the plate for a mercy packing.

Little B is open from 7 a.m to 9 p.m. and steadfastly closed on Sunday. When I arrive at Little B, promptly at 7:00, the front checker chirps out a cheery hello. The grapes are always ready and cool to the touch. The meat department is an open concept with butchers bantering back and forth as they prepare meat for the day. When I want a soup bone, they know what I mean and I am rewarded with a nice beef shank. Checkout is usually with the cheery one and she asks me if I am making soup when she sees the shank come through. She immediately calls for assistance if someone needs help taking groceries out to the parking lot. And then she thanks the assistant for helping out up front. I admit that I cannot help but smile when shopping at Little B.

One would think that Little B is my grocery store of choice. And it is for the small town feel it gives me and the warmth of service it provides. But, I also appreciate Big A for all the shopping options it offers. The beauty of having two grocery within a few blocks of my house is that I have choices and I am not forced to choose one or the other on a regular basis.

And the best part of all is that I don't have to face the bleary-eyed teenager at Big A again when I realize I forgot something during my first shopping go-around. I just head to Little B and they think I have my act together.

Glaze

The word glaze usually conjures up visions of cakes and cookies enshrouded with a thin blanket of sweet goodness. Those of us living in the upper Plains have another meaning for glaze and it is not quite as comforting as its culinary counterpart. Glaze can also be a meteorological term which is (and I quote) "a thin coating of ice that forms when super cooled liquid precipitation falls onto exposed objects whose temperature is below or slightly above freezing." We have another term for such a weather event  around here and that is "Yuck."

Our local TV meteorologists are in the midst of training all their viewers on the latest terminology for winter weather events.  We now have Winter Storm Watches, Winter Storm Warnings, Winter Weather Advisories, Blizzard Watches, Wind Chill Warnings, Ice Storm Warnings, Blizzard Warnings and Freezing Rain Advisories. Adding to the mix we have live Doppler, European weather models and American weather models for forecasting said events.  It is no wonder why many of us want to curl up in a ball and eat bacon for the rest of the winter.

Unfortunately, we experienced the dreaded "Glaze and Winter Storm Warning" this past weekend. There is a general rhythm to such events around here. It begins with hordes of people descending upon the grocery stores to pick up milk, bread and copious amounts of snacks in preparation for impending doom. Hardware stores are flooded with requests for Ice Melt products, shovels and snow blowers. Cell phones ping away with weather warning information. Frothing TV meteorologists share the latest radar updates. And TV reporters with the least seniority are sent outdoors to shiver and shake their way through reports on deteriorating weather conditions.

We learn to live in the moment with weather events. The ping-ping of ice crystals scratching away on our window panes is a sure sign we will have to change travel plans or experience white-knuckled driving (not advised). Whooshing winds remind us to beware, especially if snow and black ice are added to the mix. Dimply ice coatings on our windshields require sturdy ice scrapers and defrosters running full bore. Our feet send weather messages to our brain as we navigate various sidewalk coatings. Slick sidewalks require the penguin walk. Snowy terrain can be crunchy, fluffy or sticky, all demanding specific foot work for safe movement. High winds cause us to "turtle up" as we scrunch our heads down into our parkas and keep our hoods tied up snugly. Stinging nasal passages let us know the wind chill factor is dropping.

I am grateful for the advances in meteorology and weather prediction techniques. One just has to read The Children's Blizzard to be reminded of the alternative. I am also grateful for something in our lives that we cannot completely control. It reminds us of a power greater than ourselves and it is okay if we need each other to help us survive.

My weather advice for all is simple. Stay aware of your surroundings and above all, make sure your glaze recipes includes cream. And lots of butter.

Full Hearts

'Tis the season for all things excessive and unsettling. Wild-eyed shoppers scurry around on Black Friday, hoping to score the perfect gift at the perfect price. Beleaguered cooks trudge behind squeaky grocery carts, picking up enough items to feed the masses. Worried grandparents peruse wish lists, praying the selected gifts will forever please the grand recipients. Guilt-ridden hosts and hostesses absorb Pinterest suggestions as if their very salvation is dependent upon such things. And Amazon smiles all the way to the bank.

Despite our tendency to gravitate toward shiny objects of desire, there is still goodness to be found. Teaching in a middle school affords me the opportunity to peer into the worlds of my students. Most afternoons, after the final bell rings, a gaggle of students rendezvous in my room. They chatter amongst themselves about school, music, friends and all things teenage. They allow me to eavesdrop on their conversations, providing me with greater insight into their lives.

Luis is often one of the group members. He is round-faced with a pair of glasses perched upon his chubby cheeks. He has a kind heart and loves to show his appreciation by sharing a quick hug and a thank-you. At the start of football season, he told the group that his family didn't have enough money to purchase the kind of shoes he needed for the games. The other group members nodded their heads in commiseration with Luis. They know all about trade-offs and what it means to go without. They don't wear the newest clothes or carry the latest smartphones. They walk home rather than wait for big SUVs to pull up and give them rides. They don't spend time at a lake cabin in the summer and they certainly don't take a week off school in the winter for a trip to Turks and Caicos. By the standards of some, they are not part of the cool crowd.

If we are perfectly honest with ourselves, we probably all have times when we yearn for a membership in the cool club. Marketers know all about this. Pop-up ads remind us of the new jacket that could be ours with a click of a button. Fitbits are replaced by smartwatches. Jeans go from bootcut to skinny to faded to ripped, depending on the year. Spinach loses out to kale and chip dip slides over for hummus. The voices in our head scream, "Not enough, not enough."

When the group asked him what he was going to do about the shoe problem he told them that it had already been taken care of. He said, "My dad sold his music CDs so he could get some money to buy me new shoes." And then he proudly stated, "And that's how I know my dad loves me."

Perfect gifts, meals and decorations be damned. All it really takes is someone who cares.

Disaster

Two weeks ago, to the day, a disaster struck my world. It was not a tornado, no little dogs were whooshed into the air. It was not a blizzard, no toes lost in the process. And it was not a broken hip, no surgery needed. It happened in a split second and in that moment there was no turning back. "Oh, noooooo!" was audibly gasped. (There may or may not have been other vocabulary words used, but I have no proof.) Needless to say, my blood pressure spiked and heart palpitations ensued.

My disaster was the loss of all my cellphone contacts. The context for such folly is neither here nor there. Suffice it to say, I am an idiot and my quest to clean up another tech problem with my phone resulted in a bad move.

As I tried to console myself with possible "it-could-have-been-worse" scenarios, I realized I am moving into a world of fewer and fewer hard copy lists of people, places and phone numbers. Gone are the days of a phone book. My tattered, battered and stained address book (my lifeline years ago) is used less and less. The memorization of phone numbers has gone the way of the spelling bee. Physical calendars are replaced with digital organizers capable of sending reminders to us, electronically of course.

And yet, my feet continue to plod along in the old world, too. I still have a family calendar posted on my refrigerator. It serves as a visual beacon for upcoming events such as recycling pick-ups, Schwan's deliveries and dentist appointments (clearly, my life is free of glamour). I have pads of paper and little notebooks scattered throughout my house and work spaces just in case an idea or reminder needs to be taken care of. I copy recipes from the internet for three reasons: I am too cheap to buy a new printer; sticky, greasy fingers and digital devices do not mix and writing down a recipe forces me to commit to its execution. I have a landline because I prefer to hold something that fits the shape of my gripping hand when I am talking to my friends and family. I tell the sweet little clerk at my local retail center, "No, I don't have your app. Just, well, just because." I like to touch a blanket in a real store before I purchase it. I look at clocks rather than look for my phone to check the time. I prefer to let music bathe over me in a room rather than use little pluggy things in my ears. And I am not sure if my only friend needs to be Alexa.

All that said, I am committed to having a cellphone and I need my contact list. Fortunately, I kept my previous dinosaur of a cellphone and was able to do a phone-to-phone transfer of my contact list. I am sure the average 10-year-old could have completed said process in ten minutes. I will spare you the agonizing details of how long it took me. Just the same, I am patting myself on the back for an electronic disaster being thwarted and note to self, look before you leap.

Address Book, circa 1976