I'm pleased to say that, yes, we can now find those big wide Thai noodles, with a spicy sauce, just about one mile from out house. On Macdade boulevard, right across the street from Macdade Nails and a defunct Halloween superstore, is Buppha Thai, with its pristine lavender and white dining room.
I took the boys there Tuesday when John was at class, thinking, how great can it be, it's on Macdade. It was lovely, though, and I wished he had been there to discover it with us. I got Drunken Noodles with Scallops, and the boys got dumplings and spring rolls. They weren't called spring rolls but that's pretty much what they were. Jack and Will thought it was great. Jack brought an A-Z Mystery to read and then he wanted to sit on my lap. He's a little big for that, but I let him anyway. Will demolished his spring rolls and made a big mess with shreds of food on the floor. I tipped well to make up for it.We were the only people in the dining room, but a couple people came in for take-out, at least.
There's an overpriced Thai restaurant on Baltimore Pike and a nice one in Media, but this is really close. Three cheers for Buppha Thai, a spot of hope on a tawdry, faded commercial strip. If you live near here, please patronize this oasis at 500 Macdade Blvd. If you don't, then think good thoughts about it . . . .
Sep 30, 2007
Sep 25, 2007
Castration Anxiety in the House
Last week I signed a form agreeing to have Zane, our new dog, neutered. The form used not the bland term "neutering," but rather, "castration." Gulp. There he was, sitting next to me at the vets, panting happily and waiting for more dogs or the vet's fat marmalade cat to saunter in to play with him and admire him. Such a happy, trusting pup. I am the one who feeds him, introduces him to the neighbor dogs, brushes him, talks to him in a tone of voice that irritates my husband, and gives him belly rubs. And now I've consented to have his balls cut off.
Jack asks me why can't Zane be a daddy almost every day. "We could just give the puppies to a breeder," he routinely suggests when I say there are too many unwanted puppies in the world. I minimized his impending surgery and said he would still be he same happy dog (perhaps not on the fateful day itself, Oct. 8, his half birthday). We went on:
J: Well, you're neutered, right?
L: I had my tubes tied after Will was born. I'm not neutered! It's different. Zane is a boy, anyway. He's having his testicles cut off. It sounds bad but it isn't. Sometimes men have vasectomies but that's nothing like having testicles cut off. Centuries ago there used to be castrati who had this done. I don't know why. So they could sing with a really high voice, I guess.
J: I can scream really super high. Want to hear me?
L: No.
J: OK. What's your point?
L: I don't know. I'm just going on and on about castration for no reason.
J: Yeah.
Jack asks me why can't Zane be a daddy almost every day. "We could just give the puppies to a breeder," he routinely suggests when I say there are too many unwanted puppies in the world. I minimized his impending surgery and said he would still be he same happy dog (perhaps not on the fateful day itself, Oct. 8, his half birthday). We went on:
J: Well, you're neutered, right?
L: I had my tubes tied after Will was born. I'm not neutered! It's different. Zane is a boy, anyway. He's having his testicles cut off. It sounds bad but it isn't. Sometimes men have vasectomies but that's nothing like having testicles cut off. Centuries ago there used to be castrati who had this done. I don't know why. So they could sing with a really high voice, I guess.
J: I can scream really super high. Want to hear me?
L: No.
J: OK. What's your point?
L: I don't know. I'm just going on and on about castration for no reason.
J: Yeah.
Sep 24, 2007
Happy Birthday, Christopher Zero
My church hosts a luncheon once a month for the local college students, and we went yesterday. My conribution was Spiced Sweet Potato Cake with Brown Sugar Icing (I doubled the spices and added a cup of toasted pecans). Will insisted on bringing candles, as it was Christopher Zero's birthday. Christopher Zero is one of his imaginary friends, you see. He used to be Jack's as well, but I think Jack, who is almost eight, wanted to distance himself from such a childish thing. So I brought a candle for Will's piece of cake, asked for a match from the hosts, and he got to blow it out. One of the students asked where Christopher lives, and Will said eastern Ukraine. Turns out it's an eastern Ukraine on another planet, and that also Christopher was with us in some special sense as well. He can "transport" himself at will. That kid has answer for everything.
Oh, by the way, Will is in kindergarten now. Lilian wondered if I was going to write about that. Since he's in the same Montessori classroom for the third year, it's not a momentous transition. First grade is the big transition for my boys, because that's when they start at the public school. We do, however, have Will take the bus in the afternoon, which he loves. That's his special kindergarten privilege. It gives me a little more time to work and it stops right where I wait for Jack. One of the other neighbor moms was a little shocked that he takes it, since it's a 45-minute ride . . . . I will do anything to avoid the school's gridlock at pickup time.
And Jack? He seems to really like second grade. We don't hear very much about it, actually. He won't tell us anything at all about the girls. I guess it's all pretty old hat after last year, sort of the elementary school equivalent of Sophomore Slump. Now that I think about it, we are all in school. Kindergarten, second grade, Master's in Technology Management, Master's in Fine Arts, and Puppy Kindergarten. All right, the cat is not in school. Maybe we can say that now that there's a dog in the house, the cat attends The School of Hard Knocks.
Oh, by the way, Will is in kindergarten now. Lilian wondered if I was going to write about that. Since he's in the same Montessori classroom for the third year, it's not a momentous transition. First grade is the big transition for my boys, because that's when they start at the public school. We do, however, have Will take the bus in the afternoon, which he loves. That's his special kindergarten privilege. It gives me a little more time to work and it stops right where I wait for Jack. One of the other neighbor moms was a little shocked that he takes it, since it's a 45-minute ride . . . . I will do anything to avoid the school's gridlock at pickup time.
And Jack? He seems to really like second grade. We don't hear very much about it, actually. He won't tell us anything at all about the girls. I guess it's all pretty old hat after last year, sort of the elementary school equivalent of Sophomore Slump. Now that I think about it, we are all in school. Kindergarten, second grade, Master's in Technology Management, Master's in Fine Arts, and Puppy Kindergarten. All right, the cat is not in school. Maybe we can say that now that there's a dog in the house, the cat attends The School of Hard Knocks.
Sep 23, 2007
Welcome to the Sourdough Lifestyle
It all started innocently enough on a summer's evening in July. My neighbor Hazel knocked on our back door just as I was taking a short break from our Sunday night family movie ritual. She thrust a plastic container on me, and said "Here's some sourdough starter. It's from the 17th century. Don't use bleached flour. You just add three cups of flour to it at night, then in the morning put one cup back in the fridge, add 2 cups of water, and__"
"Wait!," I said, "Let me get a pen!"
I hastily scrawled her recipe somewhere, the proverbial back of the envelope, and made the bread the next day. It was delicious. It is great for sandwiches and makes wonderful toast. And no crumbs! I've made it many times since, although more on the weekends now than on school days, when the bread machine is more convenient.
Hazel did not encumber her recipe with any extra verbiage, so I've added some basic instructions. I also added a little more salt. Here you go. If you live near me and want some starter, give me a holler. I can make some for ya.
__________________________________________
Good Neighbor Sourdough Bread
The night before:
1 cup sourdough starter
3 cups nonbleached flour (I get 10-lb. bags of King Arthur's from our local warehouse store)
Before you go to bed, mix starter and flour in a large bowl. Put a damp dish towel, wax paper, or plastic wrap over the top. Set out on your counter.
In the morning, take out one cup of this bubbly sponge and save in the refrigerator; it will last three weeks, according to Hazel.
To the sponge, add:
3 more cups of flour (I've used up to 100% whole wheat)
2 cups water
2 tablespoons sugar (honey also works)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
Mix it together with a large wooden spoon. When it's a big blob of dough, turn onto lightly floured surface. Knead for ten minutes.
Turn dough into lightly oiled large bowl, covered. Let rise for a while (1 1/2 hrs. or 2 hrs., depending on your time frame) until it has doubled in size or until you're tired of waiting for it. Punch down.
Punch down again after it's risen again, and put in one large loaf pan or two small ones. Let it rise enough that it crests a little over the top of the pan, and bake in a 375 degree oven for 40 minutes. (I use convection at 350.)
Notes:
The more whole wheat flour you use, the more dense the bread will be
.
To share starter, just add the flour the night before, just like you're going to make bread, and then just split up the sponge the next morning in one-cup portions to plastic containers or bags. Be sure to also distribute the recipe! And do save a cup for yourself.
Welcome to the sourdough lifestyle. May the Sponge be with you.
"Wait!," I said, "Let me get a pen!"
I hastily scrawled her recipe somewhere, the proverbial back of the envelope, and made the bread the next day. It was delicious. It is great for sandwiches and makes wonderful toast. And no crumbs! I've made it many times since, although more on the weekends now than on school days, when the bread machine is more convenient.
Hazel did not encumber her recipe with any extra verbiage, so I've added some basic instructions. I also added a little more salt. Here you go. If you live near me and want some starter, give me a holler. I can make some for ya.
__________________________________________
Good Neighbor Sourdough Bread
The night before:
1 cup sourdough starter
3 cups nonbleached flour (I get 10-lb. bags of King Arthur's from our local warehouse store)
Before you go to bed, mix starter and flour in a large bowl. Put a damp dish towel, wax paper, or plastic wrap over the top. Set out on your counter.
In the morning, take out one cup of this bubbly sponge and save in the refrigerator; it will last three weeks, according to Hazel.
To the sponge, add:
3 more cups of flour (I've used up to 100% whole wheat)
2 cups water
2 tablespoons sugar (honey also works)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
3 tablespoons vegetable oil
Mix it together with a large wooden spoon. When it's a big blob of dough, turn onto lightly floured surface. Knead for ten minutes.
Turn dough into lightly oiled large bowl, covered. Let rise for a while (1 1/2 hrs. or 2 hrs., depending on your time frame) until it has doubled in size or until you're tired of waiting for it. Punch down.
Punch down again after it's risen again, and put in one large loaf pan or two small ones. Let it rise enough that it crests a little over the top of the pan, and bake in a 375 degree oven for 40 minutes. (I use convection at 350.)
Notes:
The more whole wheat flour you use, the more dense the bread will be
.
To share starter, just add the flour the night before, just like you're going to make bread, and then just split up the sponge the next morning in one-cup portions to plastic containers or bags. Be sure to also distribute the recipe! And do save a cup for yourself.
Welcome to the sourdough lifestyle. May the Sponge be with you.
Sep 16, 2007
Raising Zane
There's nothing more boring in a blog than reading about why someone hasn't been posting. It took one email from one of my loyal fans for me to finally get AROUND to this poor abandoned blog. Instead of blathering about how I've been in some kind of fog for a few months, and probably a little depressed and menopausal, I'll just start writing. . . .
_____________________________
Poop. Pee. Teething. It's all happening again in our household. My youngest goes off to kindergarten and I get this urge to get the collie I've always wanted. Coincidence? I think not.
Anyhow, now we have a collie pup. Jack loves him. I love him. John and Will are slightly less enthused. His name is Zane and he is just lovely, a five-month-old sable and white. He is my buddy during the day, quiet mellow, and understanding. He's a great copyeditor and writing coach, but his familiarity with the Chicago Manual of Style leaves a little to be desired. So that, and trying to eat bacon frying in the pan, are his weak points.
Dog lovers, if anyone is reading this, comment away. Dog haters, not so much.
_____________________________
Poop. Pee. Teething. It's all happening again in our household. My youngest goes off to kindergarten and I get this urge to get the collie I've always wanted. Coincidence? I think not.
Anyhow, now we have a collie pup. Jack loves him. I love him. John and Will are slightly less enthused. His name is Zane and he is just lovely, a five-month-old sable and white. He is my buddy during the day, quiet mellow, and understanding. He's a great copyeditor and writing coach, but his familiarity with the Chicago Manual of Style leaves a little to be desired. So that, and trying to eat bacon frying in the pan, are his weak points.
Dog lovers, if anyone is reading this, comment away. Dog haters, not so much.
Aug 1, 2007
Transported
Here I am, dear readers, at Goucher College for the first residency of my MFA program. We eat and breathe writing. I am making new friends right and left, being mentored by talented and committed journalists, essayists, and storytellers. I'm exhilarated, sometimes tired, and almost always glad I'm doing this.
One exercise we had to do yesterday was to find snippets of dialogue, which we will combine for a group reading near the end of next week. Here is my small contribution, from a conversation I was party to last night at dinner:
Woman: So what do you do?
Man: I’m in insurance.
Woman: Oooh! I used to be on the insurance law beat! I love insurance!
Man: (pause) Are you okay?
Here is a quote I found in today's workshop materials that made me think, "YES!":
The divide is not between the servants and the served, betwen the leisured and the workers, but between those who are interested in the world and its multiplicity of forms and forces, and those who merely subsist, worrying or yawning . . . . The world is full of light and life, and the true crime is not to be interested in it.
from Elementals: Stories of Fire and Ice, by A. S. Byatt
While I'm writing snippets, here is an email from Will I got today:
i love a lot and
i mean it we
love you
mommy come back in 2 weeks
yeah and i mean it 123
This is what my time here is like, collecting treasures small and large. I'll try to share more with you as I go.
One exercise we had to do yesterday was to find snippets of dialogue, which we will combine for a group reading near the end of next week. Here is my small contribution, from a conversation I was party to last night at dinner:
Woman: So what do you do?
Man: I’m in insurance.
Woman: Oooh! I used to be on the insurance law beat! I love insurance!
Man: (pause) Are you okay?
Here is a quote I found in today's workshop materials that made me think, "YES!":
The divide is not between the servants and the served, betwen the leisured and the workers, but between those who are interested in the world and its multiplicity of forms and forces, and those who merely subsist, worrying or yawning . . . . The world is full of light and life, and the true crime is not to be interested in it.
from Elementals: Stories of Fire and Ice, by A. S. Byatt
While I'm writing snippets, here is an email from Will I got today:
i love a lot and
i mean it we
love you
mommy come back in 2 weeks
yeah and i mean it 123
This is what my time here is like, collecting treasures small and large. I'll try to share more with you as I go.
Jul 3, 2007
An American Vacation
Vermont is so very Vermont, and I wouldn't want it any other way. We stayed at a family resort there for a week, which smelled just like the Vermont inn I stayed at as a child. Fresh air and lake water, with a topnote of woodsmoke.
Jack and Will had a camp program every day until early afternoon, while John and I spent time together, hiking, talking, eating delicious grown-up food, kayaking, bicycling. Every afternoon we spent time with the boys, trampolining, riding the zip line, trying archery, or swimming. Early evenings we'd drop them off again, and then we'd attend cocktail hour, all fresh and ready for another relaxing evening of adult conversation and great food. Then a walk down by the lake before picking up the boys. Again. And again. For a week.
We were so relaxed and happy and in a completely different zone from everyday life. Re-entry is not easy. It's to-do lists and washing dishes and "I'm bored. What can I do?" and me saying, "I told you three times to wash your hands for dinner . . . Do you want your computer time taken away?" But still there's a happy vacation glow inside us, despite the heaps of laundry and piles of mail.
It was not without a cloud. We stopped by at West Point to visit the graves of my grandparents (my family is military, but that stopped with my generation). We saw that my grandfather Marvin (1929-1974, Colonel, US Army, West Point Class of 1925, WW II, Korea) and my grandmother Margaret have two new neighbors just to the right of them, Andrew Ryan Houghton and Phillip Neel. They were young men who had been killed in Iraq. Phillip's grave sprouted new pale green grass and a temporary gravestone. Phillip's gravestone slopes too much to accumulate anything like the pile of tokens left on Andrew's solid marble one. Smooth polished stones, one saying "Thank you," commemorative coins, and river pebbles line the top of Andrew's stone. Jack and Will added small stones to Andrew's grave, and balanced small pebbles on Phillip's. Said Jack, "I'm so sad."
After winding along Stony Lonesome Road to leave West Point, we went to Storm King Art Center nearby, where John and I had taken my Dad shortly after my mother had died. I was seven months pregnant with Jack at the time. We marveled that this time we had two boys with us, running up and down the hills with us looking at the huge sculptures. One of our favorites is a tilted, elongated cube with a similar shape hanging on it along one edge. The whole structure is about 25 feet high, and the hanging part seems so precarious; you just can't see how on earth it doesn't fall. Will and I stood under it for the picture John wanted. Jack didn't want to stand under the looming rusted metal, and said "I just want to go home."
So we're here, ready for tomorrow's bike parades, the town water fight, and a day off from work for John. My father (Lieutenant Colonel, US Army, West Point Class of 1950, Viet Nam) will come and we'll go out to eat. Then the sun will set on America and fireworks will go off in the night.
Jack and Will had a camp program every day until early afternoon, while John and I spent time together, hiking, talking, eating delicious grown-up food, kayaking, bicycling. Every afternoon we spent time with the boys, trampolining, riding the zip line, trying archery, or swimming. Early evenings we'd drop them off again, and then we'd attend cocktail hour, all fresh and ready for another relaxing evening of adult conversation and great food. Then a walk down by the lake before picking up the boys. Again. And again. For a week.
We were so relaxed and happy and in a completely different zone from everyday life. Re-entry is not easy. It's to-do lists and washing dishes and "I'm bored. What can I do?" and me saying, "I told you three times to wash your hands for dinner . . . Do you want your computer time taken away?" But still there's a happy vacation glow inside us, despite the heaps of laundry and piles of mail.
It was not without a cloud. We stopped by at West Point to visit the graves of my grandparents (my family is military, but that stopped with my generation). We saw that my grandfather Marvin (1929-1974, Colonel, US Army, West Point Class of 1925, WW II, Korea) and my grandmother Margaret have two new neighbors just to the right of them, Andrew Ryan Houghton and Phillip Neel. They were young men who had been killed in Iraq. Phillip's grave sprouted new pale green grass and a temporary gravestone. Phillip's gravestone slopes too much to accumulate anything like the pile of tokens left on Andrew's solid marble one. Smooth polished stones, one saying "Thank you," commemorative coins, and river pebbles line the top of Andrew's stone. Jack and Will added small stones to Andrew's grave, and balanced small pebbles on Phillip's. Said Jack, "I'm so sad."
After winding along Stony Lonesome Road to leave West Point, we went to Storm King Art Center nearby, where John and I had taken my Dad shortly after my mother had died. I was seven months pregnant with Jack at the time. We marveled that this time we had two boys with us, running up and down the hills with us looking at the huge sculptures. One of our favorites is a tilted, elongated cube with a similar shape hanging on it along one edge. The whole structure is about 25 feet high, and the hanging part seems so precarious; you just can't see how on earth it doesn't fall. Will and I stood under it for the picture John wanted. Jack didn't want to stand under the looming rusted metal, and said "I just want to go home."
So we're here, ready for tomorrow's bike parades, the town water fight, and a day off from work for John. My father (Lieutenant Colonel, US Army, West Point Class of 1950, Viet Nam) will come and we'll go out to eat. Then the sun will set on America and fireworks will go off in the night.
Jun 21, 2007
Bowl of Cherries
Jennifer has come and gone. The discussion and reading went very well, with a well-informed and inquisitive audience each evening. Jennifer taught Jack and Will how to play "Speed" and Jack taught her a new card trick. We all ate cherries fresh from the farm and spit the seeds out. Now Jennifer is on her train. And I'm tired.
Next adventure? Vermont. Tomorrow. To celebrate John's and my tenth wedding anniversary. . . .Talk to you in July, dear readers.
Next adventure? Vermont. Tomorrow. To celebrate John's and my tenth wedding anniversary. . . .Talk to you in July, dear readers.
Jun 11, 2007
Brain, Child Editor Jennifer is Coming Next Week!
I couldn't think of a more ingenious title than that, so I thought I'd throw in a exclamation mark just for the fun of it. Exclamation marks have no calories or fat! And they're free!
No, really, if you are in the Philadelphia area, please do attend the following events:
"An Evening with Jennifer Niesslein." Jennifer is a founding co-editor of Brain, Child, and writer of the newly published book Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help--and Back. We'll chat about her book, the magazine, her next project, motherhood, who knows.
It's at 7:30 on Wed., June 20, at Makin' Music, 5561 Pennell Rd., Media, PA. This event is sponsored by the Delaware County chapter of Mothers & More. Copies of the books are available at both events.
Also Jennifer will do a reading at Borders in Springfield at 7:00 PM, Thurs., June 21. The address is 1001 Baltimore Pike, Springfield, PA.
Brain, Child is a refreshing read, sharp and incisive and always relevant. And I'm about 2/3 of the way through the book. She maintains a delicate balance between hope and skepticism that I find engaging. You just want to sit down and have a cup of tea with her . . . no, make that an $8.00 cocktail.
No, really, if you are in the Philadelphia area, please do attend the following events:
"An Evening with Jennifer Niesslein." Jennifer is a founding co-editor of Brain, Child, and writer of the newly published book Practically Perfect in Every Way: My Misadventures Through the World of Self-Help--and Back. We'll chat about her book, the magazine, her next project, motherhood, who knows.
It's at 7:30 on Wed., June 20, at Makin' Music, 5561 Pennell Rd., Media, PA. This event is sponsored by the Delaware County chapter of Mothers & More. Copies of the books are available at both events.
Also Jennifer will do a reading at Borders in Springfield at 7:00 PM, Thurs., June 21. The address is 1001 Baltimore Pike, Springfield, PA.
Brain, Child is a refreshing read, sharp and incisive and always relevant. And I'm about 2/3 of the way through the book. She maintains a delicate balance between hope and skepticism that I find engaging. You just want to sit down and have a cup of tea with her . . . no, make that an $8.00 cocktail.
May 23, 2007
Lofty Thoughts
The boys are sitting quietly in the kitchen, reading and drawing.
Will: You know what my destiny is? Dunkin' Donuts.
Jack: Oh. . . . Well, my destiny is to save people from cancer.
Will: You know what my destiny is? Dunkin' Donuts.
Jack: Oh. . . . Well, my destiny is to save people from cancer.
Every Girl Remembers Her First Meme
As you've noticed, I haven't been blogging much. Ever since I got the MFA acceptance letter, I've been hoarding my thoughts for some future time when I will be forced to turn in reams of manuscript about . . . something.
Anyway, in trying to catch up with blog reading, I see I've been tagged for two memes, which is a shocking coincidence, since I thought everyone had forgotten about me. So shucks, SugarMama and Anjali, I can't refuse.
First, Anjali's is easy, just five things about me. You know, things.
1. I have been legally blind in my right eye since birth. For me, the biggest E on the vision chart is blurry. But I know it's always an E. You'd think they'd change the letter occasionally.
2. I am an Army brat, and attended ten different schools, not counting college. Public, private religious, private secular, schools for army kids, been there. I've received grade averages ranging from straight A (6th) to C/D (4th and 5th).
3. I was mugged in 1985. Even after the guy whopped me one on the side of my hard head, we played tug of war with my purse because I refused to give it to him. Then my neighbors came out with baseball bats and he ran away.
4. In eighth grade I had a very short male piano teacher who had body odor and wore pink shirts and lederhosen. We lived in Germany, but still.
5. In tenth grade, I was new, as usual, and two girls in my class asked me "Who are you writing your paper on?" and I said, "Sylvia Plath. She killed herself." So they said, "Ewww!" One of the shortest literary discussions, ever.
Anyway, in trying to catch up with blog reading, I see I've been tagged for two memes, which is a shocking coincidence, since I thought everyone had forgotten about me. So shucks, SugarMama and Anjali, I can't refuse.
First, Anjali's is easy, just five things about me. You know, things.
1. I have been legally blind in my right eye since birth. For me, the biggest E on the vision chart is blurry. But I know it's always an E. You'd think they'd change the letter occasionally.
2. I am an Army brat, and attended ten different schools, not counting college. Public, private religious, private secular, schools for army kids, been there. I've received grade averages ranging from straight A (6th) to C/D (4th and 5th).
3. I was mugged in 1985. Even after the guy whopped me one on the side of my hard head, we played tug of war with my purse because I refused to give it to him. Then my neighbors came out with baseball bats and he ran away.
4. In eighth grade I had a very short male piano teacher who had body odor and wore pink shirts and lederhosen. We lived in Germany, but still.
5. In tenth grade, I was new, as usual, and two girls in my class asked me "Who are you writing your paper on?" and I said, "Sylvia Plath. She killed herself." So they said, "Ewww!" One of the shortest literary discussions, ever.
May 7, 2007
Thoughts While Mulching
Jack helped me mulch for a while Saturday and Sunday, and we had lots of opportunity for conversation.
L: Jack, some day you'll be stronger than me.
J: And taller!
L: And I'll say "Jack, could you lift this for me?" "Jack could you please open this for me?"
J: And I'll say yes, because I could never say no to that!
I'm going to hold him to that one.
A few minutes later:
J: Mommy, you know what Luke said?
L: What?
J: He said that Joe said that he learned on the Discovery Channel that the ocean isn't made of water, it's made of horseshoe crab blood.
L: Really. Does Joe believe that?
J: Yes.
L: Do you and Luke believe that?
J: No.
L: Do you know what I think happened? I think he misheard, or heard part of an explanation and didn't hear the rest, or something.
J: I think their blood is blue, so maybe that's how he got confused.
I now wish I had said, "Tell Joe that the horseshoe crab's blood contains a unique clotting agent that the pharmaceutical industry uses to test intravenous drugs for bacteria. No IV drug reaches your hospital pharmacy without its horseshoe crab test. So if you or someone you love has ever been hospitalized, you owe a lot to the horseshoe crab." Since the internet hasn't been installed in my brain quite yet, I didn't say that. But I had no idea horseshoe crab blood was so valuable. Thank you, University of Delaware Sea Grant College Program.
L: Jack, some day you'll be stronger than me.
J: And taller!
L: And I'll say "Jack, could you lift this for me?" "Jack could you please open this for me?"
J: And I'll say yes, because I could never say no to that!
I'm going to hold him to that one.
A few minutes later:
J: Mommy, you know what Luke said?
L: What?
J: He said that Joe said that he learned on the Discovery Channel that the ocean isn't made of water, it's made of horseshoe crab blood.
L: Really. Does Joe believe that?
J: Yes.
L: Do you and Luke believe that?
J: No.
L: Do you know what I think happened? I think he misheard, or heard part of an explanation and didn't hear the rest, or something.
J: I think their blood is blue, so maybe that's how he got confused.
I now wish I had said, "Tell Joe that the horseshoe crab's blood contains a unique clotting agent that the pharmaceutical industry uses to test intravenous drugs for bacteria. No IV drug reaches your hospital pharmacy without its horseshoe crab test. So if you or someone you love has ever been hospitalized, you owe a lot to the horseshoe crab." Since the internet hasn't been installed in my brain quite yet, I didn't say that. But I had no idea horseshoe crab blood was so valuable. Thank you, University of Delaware Sea Grant College Program.
May 4, 2007
A Big Pizza Pie
Tonight we celebrated John's return from a business trip to San Francisco. Well, actually to San Leandro, but they did go in to San Francisco once. Or Berkeley anyway, good enough. As I was saying, tonight the boys picked a special drink from Mollie Katzen's Pretend Soup. It was delicious! And Mommy and Daddy each spiked their own with a jigger of rum, even better. Here is the recipe. I changed the name from the earnest "Homemade Lemon-Lime Soda Pop Recipe," multiplied Mollie Katzen's amounts by four, and included the rum option for grownups:
Fizzy Citrus Cooler
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1 1/2 cups apple juice concentrate (thawed), a whole can
ice cubes
1 quart seltzer or soda water
Mix in a pitcher. Adults may each add a jigger of rum to their glass if it isn't against their religion. Cheers!
We also had pizza, which we have every Friday. I have used the following pizza dough recipe since the early nineties. This makes a big hearty pizza that covers a whole big pizza stone. Or split it in half to make two small pizzas.
Lauren's TGIF Pizza Dough
Scant two tablespoons yeast
1 1/4 cups water
3 cups flour
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons salt
Special equipment: Mixer with dough hook, pizza stone. Or knead with your hands and cook it on a cookie sheet. Whatever.
Warm 1 1/4 cups water in a microwave for 30 seconds, until lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast over top, mix gently until it all gets wet, and let proof for 4 or 5 minutes until foamy.
While you're waiting, put the flour, olive oil, and salt in the mixer. When the yeast and water are ready, add them after you've mixed them a little. Turn the mixer on the lowest speed. In a couple of minutes, add more flour slowly if the dough isn't pulling away from the sides of the bowl. You may need to add up to 1/4 cup; do not fear. When it's looking truly doughlike, take it out and knead it a little yourself until it feels elastic, resilient and smooth. (If your mixer starts to smoke or you smell something burning, stop the thing, for gosh sakes.) When you press your finger it, the dough should puff back up a little.
Put a little bit of olive oil in a large bowl and roll the dough around in it. Cover the dough with a wet dishtowel and let sit for two or three hours.
After two or three hours, punch down the dough and roll it out on a pizza stone or whatever you have. I brush it with a thin layer of olive oil, minced garlic, and sometimes pepper if I'm feeling feisty. Then put a bunch of stuff on it, but don't overload it with a lot of wet veggies and sauce because it will be soggy. Going the simple, tasteful route usually pays off. If I do this as one pizza, I bake it at 475 for 16 mins. on the center rack. Watch it carefully through your oven window the first time. Prepare to have to turn off your smoke alarm if you use pepperoni, or if your oven happens to be crusty and filthy.
Remember, pizza dough is very forgiving, don't fret too much about it. Everyone likes pizza, and they'll especially like yours.
Fizzy Citrus Cooler
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup fresh lime juice
1 1/2 cups apple juice concentrate (thawed), a whole can
ice cubes
1 quart seltzer or soda water
Mix in a pitcher. Adults may each add a jigger of rum to their glass if it isn't against their religion. Cheers!
We also had pizza, which we have every Friday. I have used the following pizza dough recipe since the early nineties. This makes a big hearty pizza that covers a whole big pizza stone. Or split it in half to make two small pizzas.
Lauren's TGIF Pizza Dough
Scant two tablespoons yeast
1 1/4 cups water
3 cups flour
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons salt
Special equipment: Mixer with dough hook, pizza stone. Or knead with your hands and cook it on a cookie sheet. Whatever.
Warm 1 1/4 cups water in a microwave for 30 seconds, until lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast over top, mix gently until it all gets wet, and let proof for 4 or 5 minutes until foamy.
While you're waiting, put the flour, olive oil, and salt in the mixer. When the yeast and water are ready, add them after you've mixed them a little. Turn the mixer on the lowest speed. In a couple of minutes, add more flour slowly if the dough isn't pulling away from the sides of the bowl. You may need to add up to 1/4 cup; do not fear. When it's looking truly doughlike, take it out and knead it a little yourself until it feels elastic, resilient and smooth. (If your mixer starts to smoke or you smell something burning, stop the thing, for gosh sakes.) When you press your finger it, the dough should puff back up a little.
Put a little bit of olive oil in a large bowl and roll the dough around in it. Cover the dough with a wet dishtowel and let sit for two or three hours.
After two or three hours, punch down the dough and roll it out on a pizza stone or whatever you have. I brush it with a thin layer of olive oil, minced garlic, and sometimes pepper if I'm feeling feisty. Then put a bunch of stuff on it, but don't overload it with a lot of wet veggies and sauce because it will be soggy. Going the simple, tasteful route usually pays off. If I do this as one pizza, I bake it at 475 for 16 mins. on the center rack. Watch it carefully through your oven window the first time. Prepare to have to turn off your smoke alarm if you use pepperoni, or if your oven happens to be crusty and filthy.
Remember, pizza dough is very forgiving, don't fret too much about it. Everyone likes pizza, and they'll especially like yours.
May 3, 2007
Questions for the Internet
1. My husband pays $12.00 for his haircuts. Does that mean he should run for president?
2. What happens if you call that "How's my driving" number on commercial trucks? And what if you say "Your driver is doing great. You hired a winner!"
3. How many dozens of books will Rachael Ray write? And (bonus question), is it really necessary to display all of them at once, each one with her face on it, at a fabulous independent bookstore like The Cookbook Stall at The Reading Terminal?
4. Why do cheap toasters work so much better than expensive toasters?
5. Is it ethical for me to be explaining New Yorker cartoons to my seven-year-old?
6. What kind of a world is it where you can buy "meatless meatballs" and not think twice?
That is all.
2. What happens if you call that "How's my driving" number on commercial trucks? And what if you say "Your driver is doing great. You hired a winner!"
3. How many dozens of books will Rachael Ray write? And (bonus question), is it really necessary to display all of them at once, each one with her face on it, at a fabulous independent bookstore like The Cookbook Stall at The Reading Terminal?
4. Why do cheap toasters work so much better than expensive toasters?
5. Is it ethical for me to be explaining New Yorker cartoons to my seven-year-old?
6. What kind of a world is it where you can buy "meatless meatballs" and not think twice?
That is all.
May 2, 2007
My World, Your World. It's a Deal.
This is the way it works. I spend a little time in their world, then they spend some time in my world.
OK, so you want to go to Jumpers to jump on huge moon bounces, where grownups can't talk because of the loud rushing sound and the incessant radio? And where the grownups' energy is slowly but consistently being sucked right out of them? Fine. But then we go to my world, a coffee shop where I can reboot with a brownie and a cup of black coffee. You can sip your frozen bubblegum-flavored what-exactly-is-that-anyway while I recuperate.
So you want to go to the Wilmington Blue Rocks game when Daddy is out of town? OK, no problem. You want to sit there through nine interminable innings, whine for three of them about how you want a hot dog, and then whine for three more about where is your friend's Dad who got the hotdogs and did he get kidnapped? OK. But then we go to Iron Hill, and have the whole upstairs to ourselves, so Mommy can have her 10-oz. Ironbound and a salad, and you can have your mac and cheese and ice cream. But it's mainly for Mommy. Because it's only fair.
OK, so you want to go to Jumpers to jump on huge moon bounces, where grownups can't talk because of the loud rushing sound and the incessant radio? And where the grownups' energy is slowly but consistently being sucked right out of them? Fine. But then we go to my world, a coffee shop where I can reboot with a brownie and a cup of black coffee. You can sip your frozen bubblegum-flavored what-exactly-is-that-anyway while I recuperate.
So you want to go to the Wilmington Blue Rocks game when Daddy is out of town? OK, no problem. You want to sit there through nine interminable innings, whine for three of them about how you want a hot dog, and then whine for three more about where is your friend's Dad who got the hotdogs and did he get kidnapped? OK. But then we go to Iron Hill, and have the whole upstairs to ourselves, so Mommy can have her 10-oz. Ironbound and a salad, and you can have your mac and cheese and ice cream. But it's mainly for Mommy. Because it's only fair.
Apr 16, 2007
Two Trolley Geeks Ride the Rails
When I hear about other families traveling to Puerto Rico, Disney World, or the Rockies, I think "We don't get out much." As a family we have travelled to Indiana and Maine, and we've lived in Virginia and visited all the Mid-Atlantic states. Oh, and we're going to Vermont in June.
But let it not be said that we aren't a venturesome bunch. In our first two weeks living here, John and I took the 109 bus to the 69th St. Terminal. We were the only white folks on it, and the quietest ones. It was like a party. Laughter and gossip encircled us. For a whole hour. Yes, that's how long it takes to get to 69th St. from our house on the 109. The only socially acceptable form of public transportation for us white middle-class people to take is the Regional Rail. There's also the Route 101 Trolley, which is more multicolored than the bus, but decidedly lower class than Regional Rail. And cheaper than the train. Many of its passengers are people who can't afford cars, people who are weary, dusty, and hardened by life. When we looked at houses our realtor said we wouldn't want to take the trolley because it "travels through rough neighborhoods."
She has no idea what a rough neighborhood really is. I guess she never rode her bike through the Richard Allen Homes in North Philadelphia on her way to class at Temple University. (Yes, I know that was dumb, and after a rock and then a full soda bottle were thrown at my head, I went back to the good old safe subway. My head is fine; they missed.) What I'm trying to say is I'm not a public transportation snob.
Anyway, Will and Jack, as I've mentioned, are train buffs. Trolley geeks. Bus schedule savants. Will had been begging to ride not just the 101 all the way to the 69th St. Terminal, but also the creme de la creme, the Route 100 Norristown High Speed Line. So I promised him we would do this on Saturday. And lo, that is what we did. We rode the 101 all the way from Media to the Terminal, then got on the 100 and rode it all the way to Norristown. Except for a dissipated old guy in the back, we were the only white folks, again.
More than twenty years ago I had a job in Bryn Mawr and lived in Center City, and rode on the 100 every day. Riding the rails with Will reminded me of those days. Everything looked almost exactly the same, which was oddly reassuring. Will pointed out all the Market St. El cars resting in the sheds. (The line is being renovated.) Fleets of idled buses waited for repairs. As we moved farther from the Terminal, swim clubs, golf courses, Main Line mansions, ancient tiny rowhouses, the Villanova University Stadium, all passed by us. We saw a large quarry near Norristown, shortly before crossing over the Schuylkill River on a high trestle. At the Norristown Transportation Center we even got to see the R6 train at its station, and then rode on a really long escalator.
Then, back to the very same trolley to ride back. The driver had moved to what was now the front of the car, which had been the back. I love the compactness and efficiency of trolleys. They can stop on a dime. Half the seats face forward, half the seats face back, no matter which direction you're travelling. Then at the Terminal we got back on the 101 for another ride. (Each leg of our ride took about 30 minutes.) Will began to flag a little, and started sitting on my lap. Still, he was observant all the way. We drove past Monsignor Bonner High School and its sister school Archbishop Prendergast, and the huge dirt swath promising a new building. We hurtled past Drexelbrook Apartments, where Will's "girlfriend" from school lives, and stopped at the all-important Drexel Hill Junction. That's where you can take the 102 to Sharon Hill.
Finally we stopped at the Springfield Mall before hurtling under the Blue Route and through the woods of Pine Ridge, and then into Media, passing only a few yards in back of the Acme. Then we were at our stop. We got off, my back a little stiff from all the sitting. "Maybe he's gotten that out of his system," I thought. But the next thing I heard, as Will clutched my hand and jumped up and down, was "When can we ride the 102?"
But let it not be said that we aren't a venturesome bunch. In our first two weeks living here, John and I took the 109 bus to the 69th St. Terminal. We were the only white folks on it, and the quietest ones. It was like a party. Laughter and gossip encircled us. For a whole hour. Yes, that's how long it takes to get to 69th St. from our house on the 109. The only socially acceptable form of public transportation for us white middle-class people to take is the Regional Rail. There's also the Route 101 Trolley, which is more multicolored than the bus, but decidedly lower class than Regional Rail. And cheaper than the train. Many of its passengers are people who can't afford cars, people who are weary, dusty, and hardened by life. When we looked at houses our realtor said we wouldn't want to take the trolley because it "travels through rough neighborhoods."
She has no idea what a rough neighborhood really is. I guess she never rode her bike through the Richard Allen Homes in North Philadelphia on her way to class at Temple University. (Yes, I know that was dumb, and after a rock and then a full soda bottle were thrown at my head, I went back to the good old safe subway. My head is fine; they missed.) What I'm trying to say is I'm not a public transportation snob.
Anyway, Will and Jack, as I've mentioned, are train buffs. Trolley geeks. Bus schedule savants. Will had been begging to ride not just the 101 all the way to the 69th St. Terminal, but also the creme de la creme, the Route 100 Norristown High Speed Line. So I promised him we would do this on Saturday. And lo, that is what we did. We rode the 101 all the way from Media to the Terminal, then got on the 100 and rode it all the way to Norristown. Except for a dissipated old guy in the back, we were the only white folks, again.
More than twenty years ago I had a job in Bryn Mawr and lived in Center City, and rode on the 100 every day. Riding the rails with Will reminded me of those days. Everything looked almost exactly the same, which was oddly reassuring. Will pointed out all the Market St. El cars resting in the sheds. (The line is being renovated.) Fleets of idled buses waited for repairs. As we moved farther from the Terminal, swim clubs, golf courses, Main Line mansions, ancient tiny rowhouses, the Villanova University Stadium, all passed by us. We saw a large quarry near Norristown, shortly before crossing over the Schuylkill River on a high trestle. At the Norristown Transportation Center we even got to see the R6 train at its station, and then rode on a really long escalator.
Then, back to the very same trolley to ride back. The driver had moved to what was now the front of the car, which had been the back. I love the compactness and efficiency of trolleys. They can stop on a dime. Half the seats face forward, half the seats face back, no matter which direction you're travelling. Then at the Terminal we got back on the 101 for another ride. (Each leg of our ride took about 30 minutes.) Will began to flag a little, and started sitting on my lap. Still, he was observant all the way. We drove past Monsignor Bonner High School and its sister school Archbishop Prendergast, and the huge dirt swath promising a new building. We hurtled past Drexelbrook Apartments, where Will's "girlfriend" from school lives, and stopped at the all-important Drexel Hill Junction. That's where you can take the 102 to Sharon Hill.
Finally we stopped at the Springfield Mall before hurtling under the Blue Route and through the woods of Pine Ridge, and then into Media, passing only a few yards in back of the Acme. Then we were at our stop. We got off, my back a little stiff from all the sitting. "Maybe he's gotten that out of his system," I thought. But the next thing I heard, as Will clutched my hand and jumped up and down, was "When can we ride the 102?"
Apr 9, 2007
Easter Postmortem (So to Speak)
I always mean for Easter week to be more spiritual than it ends up being. I only read a handful of my Lenten readings. Could never decide what to "give up for Lent," or to do for Lent. Easter egg hunts don't help. The boys and I went to one at my Dad's retirement community. Let's just say my Dad and I differ as to whether one should give hints about egg location to crying five-year-olds. One of us believes that children should learn self-reliance, and should receive no help. The other of us believes self-reliance is grand, to a point, but that perhaps at Easter time we can teach cooperation and even a little compassion, eh? At the end we had to sit through a drawing for prizes, in which 28 children won giant scary chocolate bunnies. But we didn't win anything. The whole endeavor was decidedly unfun, I thought, although Will and Jack said it was fun later. Children can wrest fun out of almost anything.
Passover is such a coherent tradition, so unsullied by commercialism, whereas Easter has been taken over by that sinister bunny, littering the place with chocolate eggs and pastel-colored tschochkes (Did I spell that right?). We don't do Easter baskets at our house. Someone asked me if the Easter bunny visited our house and I said something like "No, but we went to church." Quite the conversation-killer.
Of course we also had a lovely meal, and here it was, served up for the usual suspects: the four of us, my Dad, my brother, his girlfriend, and two of her three children. Oh, and sometimes I just pick one cookbook to get all my recipes from, you can tell.
Shrimp and cocktail sauce, provided by Dad
Watercress Apple Salad with Peanut Dressing (Gourmet Cookbook)
Cheddar Grits Casserole (Gourmet Cookbook)
Fruit salad (provided by my brother)
Bread (ditto)
Pecan Spice Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting (April Gourmet)
John cut each of the two cake layers in two to form four layers, because he did it once before and so now it's his job forever. I decorated the cake with edible orchids, and the visiting children were shocked that they were REAL FLOWERS, not made of frosting or candy. My brother ate a whole orchid. He eats anything. Jack had one petal. The rest of the flowers were only admired from outside our bodies.
So there you have it, a typical Easter at the Dream Kitchen, served up with hope and love, and a sprinkling of guilt and skepticism thrown in. And not a little Passover Envy.
Passover is such a coherent tradition, so unsullied by commercialism, whereas Easter has been taken over by that sinister bunny, littering the place with chocolate eggs and pastel-colored tschochkes (Did I spell that right?). We don't do Easter baskets at our house. Someone asked me if the Easter bunny visited our house and I said something like "No, but we went to church." Quite the conversation-killer.
Of course we also had a lovely meal, and here it was, served up for the usual suspects: the four of us, my Dad, my brother, his girlfriend, and two of her three children. Oh, and sometimes I just pick one cookbook to get all my recipes from, you can tell.
Shrimp and cocktail sauce, provided by Dad
Watercress Apple Salad with Peanut Dressing (Gourmet Cookbook)
Cheddar Grits Casserole (Gourmet Cookbook)
Fruit salad (provided by my brother)
Bread (ditto)
Pecan Spice Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting (April Gourmet)
John cut each of the two cake layers in two to form four layers, because he did it once before and so now it's his job forever. I decorated the cake with edible orchids, and the visiting children were shocked that they were REAL FLOWERS, not made of frosting or candy. My brother ate a whole orchid. He eats anything. Jack had one petal. The rest of the flowers were only admired from outside our bodies.
So there you have it, a typical Easter at the Dream Kitchen, served up with hope and love, and a sprinkling of guilt and skepticism thrown in. And not a little Passover Envy.
Mar 29, 2007
Mar 24, 2007
Sweet Translations
Today a bunch of us from my mom's group went out the new Indian restaurant in Media, Shere- e-Punjab. I guess someone must have read my November blog post complaining of the dearth of Indian restaurants in Delaware County, and decided to take action. I am so powerful. Anyway, really good food, and they vary the buffet dishes enough to keep you from getting bored. For the desserts today, they didn't have my beloved golub jamun, fried milk balls soaking in syrup (!). Instead they had "Indian cheesecake." I wish they had left it at that and not included the Indian name, barfi. Quite the unfortunate nomenclature.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
Mar 21, 2007
I'm Enjoying My Lobotomy, Thanks for Asking
For Christmas my father gave me a $100 gift certificate to N**dstr*m's, a department store at the King of Prussia mall. "Dad!" I had said, "Thank you so much! But I never go to the mall!" "Guess you'll have to now."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
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