Tripper, unfortunately, still spends more time getting into trouble when left to his own devices. Tonight I ran out to get Thai carryout, and when I got home, the paper towels I had placed over my bowl of tomatoes were shredded into pieces on the kitchen floor. Little fucker. (I love mint beef salad, so I order it with extra dressing, and pour the whole thing over two enormous tomatoes that have been cut into wedges. Nom.)
One of the things we’re remaining consistent with, as pertains to Sir Tripper, is keeping him in his crate at night. He loves to bark up an alarm at anything, so keeping him confined reduces his exposure to shifting light, shadows, the sounds of cats outside, etc. It’s bad enough before we go to bed that our reflections in the large dining room window send him into Freak The Fuck Out mode.
But.
There is this one thing he’s taken to doing, smack in the middle of the night, and it sounds like a small prison riot. We’re not sure exactly what he’s doing, or if he’s even awake while doing it, but as I crawled back into bed after one of his clangy outbursts, I had the funniest image in my mind: he’s performing a Phil Collins-esque drum solo out there. There’s banging and scrabbling and the sound of furious paws of fury (but no throat noises or barking), it lasts about two minutes (just enough to really wake you up) and then all is silent.
Maybe he’s having a Michelob Light, the night did used to belong to them…. At least now, when he wakes me up, I half-grin at the situation.
And, as a child of the 80′s, I have several heart-mind-humor associations with Phil Collins – but one of my favorites is a piece done by Starlee Kine. If you’ve never heard the episode “Break Up” on This American Life, go stream it and enjoy.
Let’s talk about office bathrooms. No, I’m not going to go there. Though the fact that our office is located on the first floor of the building, we do get a fair amount of SecretPoopers(tm) who come down to use our bathroom, so they can sustain the impression in their own office workspace that they NeverPoop(tm). Eye roll, please.
First of all, the facilities were remodeled to make them ADA compliant, and in losing one bathroom stall, we have one stall that is a Toilet Suite. Of course, the toilet is still smack up against the wall next to the other stall, and there’s just a giant expanse that even goes around a tiny corner, where a very slim, mean-spirited person could hide and give someone the surprise of their life, if they were to leap out screaming at the right moment. Let’s hope that never happens. I’ll even admit I give it an extra eyeball just to be sure nobody’s back there. However, I’ve often looked at that space and thought about how you could put a chair, ottoman, reading lamp and accent table, and still leave the stall feeling roomy and quite at home. The cleaning lady does kinda use it for her office, sitting in there, talking on her cell phone. (I say that jokingly, though she will just sit in there and yap, and I always wonder what the person on the other end thinks as the other toilet auto-flushes.)
But the reign of terror I’m referring to is the paper towel dispenser. When I started there, I found myself instantly at odds with the machine. It was an automatic one. You’d wave your hand under it, and sometimes, if the sensor was feeling generous, you’d get a towel. A small shred of a towel that was barely sufficient to dry one hand. Not two. I don’t know about you, but I wash both my hands as a general practice. So that necessitates a second hand-wave, which would often be more resistant than the first, because OMG no WAY you are OVER USING the TOWELS and you’d have to keep flailing your hand about until you got your second half-sheet. Or not. And for whatever reason, the effort to get the second towel would usually result in the machine jamming. Often times, the first attempt jammed, too. The small print on the machine told you to use the manual feed button if the machine malfunctioned. Oh rilly? What manual feed button? Because all there is on the side is a dummy button that has been put over the feed, to prevent the Johnson County Paper Towel Insurgency from stealing your precious paper towels by the yard.
Frustrated, one day, I discovered that I could just pull the whole front metal piece up! and pull down and tear off the towel amount that I needed. I felt scandalous and vindicated all at once. (Lookit me! Tear that mother UP!) Eventually, the machine malfunctioned so much, often a roll of towels would sit on the counter, for you to tear off. (Let it be noted that I never took anything APART, I just used my noggin to get at the towels.) While I was annoyed at this situation, it wasn’t until some maintenance was being done and the bathroom was closed, that I discovered on the second floor, the paper towel dispenser was NOT flawed, it distributed a generous amount of towel, and it had a working manual feed, and I felt that it was truly the curse of the first floor location and the higher traffic.
Finally, I asked my female co-workers if they carried the same annoyance level that I had towards the paper-towel machine, and that’s when I learned that we were actually getting a NEW machine in a few weeks. This one works so well, it often spits out a second towel for the next person. I haven’t even had to investigate the manual feed.
So, that reign of terror in my life is over. It really is the small things, sometimes.
As we hibernated indoors yesterday, away from the stifling humidity, most of our energies wound up in the kitchen. I had been wanting to make Peter Reinhart’s recipe for Casatiello, and Italian Brioche, studded with bits of spicy salami and gouda cheese. What I love about his book is the complete thoroughness of instruction; he describes the process of how the dough will evolve, and what to expect. This dough has a high butter content, and after the butter has been added, the dough is very sticky, and altogether messy, resembling cookie dough. His instructions tell you to work the dough for 12 minutes, for in that amount of time the butter will distribute evenly and your sticky mass of dough evolves into a beautifully smooth, tacky ball that cleanly rotates around the mixer bowl. It was definitely one of those angels-singing marvel moments as I watched it happen. I baked it in a square springform pan to make one loaf; you can bake it in bags and in smaller sizes more typical of Brioche, too. It’s delicious, and made me wonder about other cheeses and even adding snippets of fresh herbs, such as the French tarragon that is always looking for something to creep into…..
In-between my dough mixing and shaping, James took over the kitchen and used the mixer’s food grinder attachment to make an amazing tomato sauce. The food grinder is great, because you get all of the pulp and meat and juices of the tomato, while efficiently discarding the seeds and skin. We have almost all heirloom tomato plants, and the flavors of these tomatoes are out of this world. Describing a slice of Carbon uses similar language as describing wine… smokey, bold, strong finish. So when you mix all these robust, intense flavors together, and cook them down all afternoon, you have a sauce that literally sings to you. He also incorporated caramelized onions and banana peppers, plus some sauteed chicken tenders. As James put it: summer in a bowl. It was excellent.
So where’s dessert? Well, this is a good example of how mistakes happen – even to those of us who’ve been cooking and baking for over 30 years. We had leftover egg yolks, because earlier this week, James had made zucchini bread, and one of the most awesome ingredients he uses is candied nuts. He’d done both pecans and walnuts, and the candying process uses a bunch of egg whites. So, what to make with egg yolks? Well, certainly a custard comes to mind – and with the heat, why not ice cream? Sounded good to me. Some things you take for granted, some things you don’t think about, and sometimes, even when you’re standing right there at the stove, stirring your mixture of cream and sugar and eggs and bits of natural vanilla bean, you take your eyes off what you’re doing to talk to your spouse, and the next thing you know, you have bits of cooked egg separating rapidly from your liquid. Gah. I tried plunging it into a water bath, stirring madly, but there are chemical processes that just don’t reverse themselves. I pitched a fit, pissed-off with myself for forgetting how quickly chemistry can happen, and then had to decide what to do.
I decided to give it a try, anyway, because the flavor was amazing, and not eggy, but the big question was texture. I chilled the custard, then put it in my Krups machine that I’ve had for 20 years. And waited.
It never froze. I think it was the fact my custard was too warm, still. So what to do? This is when experience is a good thing, because it makes you more resourceful. Rather than focusing on the failure of ice cream, I focused on what was wrong with my dish, and what could I turn it into? I had it: Milkshakes. I strained the custard through a sieve, removing the bits of hardened egg proteins. Then I added frozen strawberries to the blender until it was completely full. I figured that if any of the egg had made it through the sieve, the texture would be masked by the presence of strawberries (and keep in mind, the mixture never scorched, and was utterly, vanilla-ey delicious, despite the overcooking.)
The result was stupendous. My husband declared it to be one of the top 5 milkshakes of his life.
What was leftover was poured into a dixie cup, popped in the freezer with a fork in it to make a makeshift ice cream bar. The texture on that might be a bit grainy, but at least we know it’ll taste good!
Now it’s Sunday, and I think I’d like to go out for brunch.
Go hook up with that buff dude, you don’t need this pasty little vampire boy. He made you a dream catcher!
Oh have some pride, bitch.
(Me: well, that was dramatic.)
Singing: “I can’t live….if living is without Edward…”
Time Passes.
Get OVER it.
So dramatic.
(Me: She has bad dreams.)
She’s got a fuckin’ dreamcatcher, get that out.
(Me: She does!)
It’s fuckin’ defective! Whip out the receipt, take it back!
Nyuhhhh
Did you see Scordo’s post on Anchovies? (hello, Mr. Distracted.)
You’re freakin’ her out man, quit it!
You gonna try to get in harm’s way…
(Edward: Turn around)
Sings: “Every now and then…”
Is she on the back of his bike?
RAWR he’s strong.
Edward you’re fucking with her, knock it off.
OHHHHHH the rock hit. You missed the rock hit. (I was on Ravelry)
AW YEAH. Blood.
Hell she do on her period? Shark week! Vampires all over her ass.
(Me (singing): So haaard)
Singing: Yeah yeah yea You know dis
Love spelled backwards is love????
…So, this is a long-ish movie, and I could continue to fill this entry with his commentary, but you get the drift. I hope the action picks up soon, like the last one did!
Look at the clock! Where did that time go? Let’s see… it’s now July 14th and I may have to kick this random-orts old school style.
1. Our washing machine committed suicide at the end of June. Dramatically, in fact. It decided to screech like a feral cat and imparted a burnt-rubber odor to the items being washed. We ended up getting one of those front-loader machines and the thing looks like R2D2 with about as many lights, choices, and buttons! So far, it seems pretty nifty and is very water-efficient.
2. There’s nothing like finding out disaster has struck again via Facebook. Husband posts something about finding out the hard way that pliers and a passenger window don’t mix. Followed immediately by a post “liking” Safelite Replacement. Yep. Because of the Honda windshield we replaced a while back, we got a frequent-customer discount! And another can of magic window cleaner. Woo!
3. Because bad things happen in threes (or more, who knows, it’s just superstition), our air conditioning slowly petered out on the holiday Monday after the 4th. The initial diagnosis was a coolant leak, that could go one of two ways – keep refilling it each year, or it would hemorrhage in a couple weeks and then we’d be looking at big bucks to fix it, as much as half the cost to just replace it. Yuck. But then! The technician couldn’t get it to load coolant, and he realized we had a clogged line – which was resolved by taking out the piston. Apparently particles from the wire can gather for a cocktail party, and once enough of them get together, it results in a kegger of microscopic particles, which form a paper-thin seal and the a/c won’t work. At that point, I would have been happy to kiss the receipt, because anything under $200 without the specter of a $3k bill on the horizon is a-ok with me.
4. I turned 42 the day we fixed the a/c. The day itself held little fanfare, though I did make my husband go into DQ and get me an ice cream cake. I love those things! We did have an early party – a whole bunch of the knitting crew and family met up over the weekend to celebrate, and I got some very lovely pressies and the enjoyment of being with my fiber-lovin’ brethren.
5. Tomato season has begun. Last night’s dinner was homemade French bread, goat cheese, and a garlic-basil-tomato bruschetta. Oh how I love the tomatoes! This year, I’m paying more attention to tasting them like I would judge BBQ or evaluate a wine – it’s kind of fun, and gives the master gardener of the house good feedback. There have been a few standouts, but the black tomatoes are far and away the kings of the fruit. Later this week, there will be fresh pico de gallo….
6. Speaking of bread, I am elevating my breadmaking skills by challenging myself to try new recipes. I bought The Bread Baker’s Apprentice, and my first recipe turned out beautifully. (We needed hot dog buns so I made them, along with hamburger buns, and they were utterly fantastic!) Yesterday’s French bread was an old recipe, because many of the breads in my new book require 2 days to complete them. It’s fun, and I’m going to get a sourdough bread loaf I’m happy with if it kills me!
7. We went to the lake this past weekend and had a good time – the dogs got to swim and retrieve a lot, including a mis-adventure with James, who had leashed them to a large, unwieldy, wrought-iron bench as he threw out the dummies. They were so excited, they ignored their leashes, and promptly dragged the bench straight off the concrete landing and into the water with them. I wish I’d been there to see that, but hearing about it was enough to give me the giggles. Of course, when I showed up, everything was soaked, including my husband, and it seemed a little early in the day for swimming…. but our driven dogs were going to haul that bench like a sleigh, so in he went to rescue them!
8. We came home from the lake about 6 hours after the microburst of storms went through, to a house with no power. Fun. After tending to the garden, we both showered and decided to high-tail it out of the sweltering house, to dinner and a movie. We saw Despicable Me, which is the must-see movie of the summer for the 8-year old set, and it was entertaining enough, certainly, but the fact that our power still wasn’t on was weighing on my mind. (We would keep trying the home number, to see if the answering machine would pick up.) On the drive home, we mulled our options – tough it out or call Momma Linda to get us a hotel room through Priceline, get dry ice in the morning for the deep freeze – and as we inched down our street, we felt a little bit of optimism creep up, and thankfully, as we crested the hill by our house, saw that the porch light was on. 12 hours of power outtage, we didn’t lose anything in the freezer. I feel bad for residents East of us, as even today they are still trying to restore power and the heat index is going to HOT PINK crazy, upwards of 110.
9. I had a comment on my Circle of Life post, from the Realist, who told me I was ‘thinking too hard and feeling too much, kid’, and it was phrased exactly the way my father would have said it to me. In fact, I read it on my phone, and it took my breath away a bit. Thank you for that comment, because it was not only true – the story of my life, in fact – but it reminded me in a wonderful way the pragmatic was delivered from my Dad over the years. I was his kiddo, and I miss him like crazy still. Feeling like pieces of him are still around me are surprising, unexpected gifts.
With that, I leave you for today. I have some knitting to share, and will take pictures of this next awesome-o bread I’m going to make. It has bits of hard salami and gouda cheese in it. Oh yeah.
I’m going to try to write a blog post today in the vein and spirit of an ad colleague I admire greatly – Mr. Sam Meers. He writes great observations on business practices, pulling from ordinary life experiences. I hope I do justice to his style today.
One of the things that has bugged my husband to no end over the years is when we’ll drive by an office building in the evening, and the automatic sprinklers are bursting out water…..in the rain. Or the day following a rain. He’s right, of course. It’s incredibly wasteful. My problem-solving brain ponders this every so often. I’ve wondered why these automatic sprinkler systems don’t seem to have some sort of moisture-content trigger, rather than a timer. Or at least an employee designated to switch them over to “manual” during periods of heavy rain (like we’ve had the past two weeks – 12+ inches!)
Today, I glanced out my window and saw that the shady side of my building was a congregation area for all the young punk geese who are unicolor and fluffy and awkwardly gaggling about while their parents keep watch and let them feed. I decided to get a closer look, and walked around my desk to stand right up against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I needed to see over the row of hedges, and indeed, there were a whole bunch of birds, some chilling out, some nibbling.
And then I felt it.
A burst of hot air.
From the baseboard heater that runs along the length of the windows.
It’s in the 90′s here. Fahrenheit.
Mind you, I have a thermostat in my office, and it’s set at the lowest setting possible, because I’ve noticed it just never seems to cool down. Gee. No wonder. So we have a call in to maintenance, and soon I’ll stop wondering if I’m going through early menopause every afternoon.
It made me think, though, how much money is wasted by such simple, common-sense practices. You don’t run a space heater at home while you crank down the a/c, do you? Because not only does it cost money, it’s silly. We’re grateful for the rain (in moderation), because it means less watering. This building has been paying for more electricity, because they don’t come through and turn the heaters off when the seasons change. The a/c works twice as hard, less effectively. Boy, I’ve had jobs like that. Doing something the same way as always, because a boss doesn’t want to question the client or the process or suggest a different way of doing things.
Contraindication is used mostly in medical terms, but it certainly applies to situations like I’ve described. It could also apply to a certain oil company who is under the microscope right now, and needs to portray an image of dedication to undoing the worst ecological disaster, ever. Such a visible leader/representative of the company might want to take a break, say, to watch his yacht race, but that would be contraindicated, because it sends the message, hey, I’m going to spend some time on a sport most of you cannot relate to AND I’m not spending time on the disaster that happened on my watch. Tony Hayward, I get it. I bet your life sucks really, really badly right now. You want your old life back. Guess what, it’s not going to happen for a long time. As long as there are tar balls and people wondering when their car’s going to get repossessed because their livelihood was taken away from them, you have to maintain at least the appearance of diligence. No fun for you until your chores are done, that’s how I was raised.
And as for businesses who cut staff and make the ‘survivors’ work harder, and tell them they’re expendable, while keeping spouses on payrolls? One place you might find some extra money is in your landscaping budget. Or your own pocket. Berating and punishing contraindicates a productive work environment. People are your greatest asset, and how you treat them during the bad times, when they want to hang on to their jobs, will serve you when the tide turns. Will you see mass exodus? Or devoted loyalty? The tides are turning in the job market, slowly but surely, and I’ll have my own schadenfreude moments when I see trapped friends finally able to burst free and go someplace new.
Me, I’m in a good spot, thankfully. Life is pretty darned good. Apart from the extra heat.
UPDATE: Since I started/finished this post, Tony Hayward got sacked from being the point person on this oil spill. Hope the new dude learns from his predecessor. I am available for common-sense consulting, should you need it.
Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole
Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound
But while you debate half empty or half full
It slowly rises, your love is gonna drown
- from the song “Marching Bands of Manhattan” by Death Cab for Cutie
Last Thursday, June 10th, I hit the four-year mark. I anticipated it, I eyeballed the date for days leading up to it. I felt the fluttering fingers of dread rise up in my stomach. Four years since I watched my father take his last breaths, four years that have seen changes and sorrow and laughter and joy and struggles and anger. Oh the mighty anger. In the beginning of those four years, it felt like being in a blender. Nothing would ever return to how it was, the very essence of who I was had been forever changed, and even intellectually you grasp that, of course not, there is a dividing line between Before and After. But you want Before like never before. And you fear After and that it will erase Before and you also find out who your true friends are. People will tell you you’ve changed (and not for the better) and they won’t understand that the faucet of grief doesn’t shut off in three months. That priorities shift and change. In fact, it seems to just be getting started, the grief, because everyone else has moved on and you are rooted in the new reality, confused. And you feel your love and your life will all drown. Your head goes under. Sometimes you think about staying under, too. Nights in the bathroom, on the back steps, crying. Sobbing in the shower, weeping in the car, how can so much sorrow live and thrive in one human’s space?
I miss my dad. Now, though, when I dream about him, it is a comfort. A friendly visit, even if the dream is crazy. His face, his voice, his laugh and the memory of his hugs are etched into my soul. That, I must say, is the thing for which I am most grateful. As I’ve aged, details and names and memories get muddied, blurred, fall away. I feared so badly my father’s memory would follow suit. My grief was my hair shirt, one coping mechanism of keeping him alive, assuaging any guilt I felt about having a laugh or a moment that resembled normal. Eventually I realized my grief became less paralyzing. And in the middle of the afternoon on June 10, last week, I was busy working, as I had been all day. I looked at my calendar on my desktop and frowned. I said the date out loud and then it hit me. It was June 10th. Here and Now. That Day. I felt an instant stab of guilt that I had spent half my day without realizing That Day Was Here Again. Then I thought, wow. All of you people who have walked this road before me were right.
It really does get better.
The poll from yesterday, as of 4:00 pm CST, had 26 votes cast – 15 (57.7%) picked a man as the driver; 11 (42.3%) of you said the driver was a woman.
I must say, the majority here is correct: the driver was a man! I had thought woman until I really, really, REALLY considered the giant Star Wars decal. Like I said, it was a real toss up!
Thanks for playing, polls are kinda fun.
I was delighted by all the things to look at on the car in front of me today. But I wondered: is this a dude or a chick, driving this mashup of statements? For on the left, there was a rainbow sticker. On the right, a vote Hillary sticker. Then there’s the big bike rack. On a Jeep. Oh, yeah, and the enormous “Star Wars” sticker. I really thought it could go either way, but I made sure to pass once on the highway, and confirm for myself.
Just for fun, I want you to vote and tell me what you think! And I’ll reveal tomorrow what the correct answer is.
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