Rumspringen

In PA Deutsch, that's the verb "to run around" (wikipedia tells me). You probably know the noun in association with Amish teens before they've joined the congregation.

I've decided that's a good description of my days of "stay-vaction" (shudder, word hate). I am on vacation, The Husband is not, but since his work schedule is flexible (and his busiest week starts Sundsay), I have had the pleasure (mostly) of his company and he has shown the good grace to tolerate me invading his daily space.

Plus, you know, it has the word "spring" in it. To match the weather and my mood.

Our running around yesterday, on my first day of vacation, took us to SuperTony's (the best international market in our neighborhood) and all-American supply houses like Sam's Club and Dominick's. We ate Americanized empanadas in the next 'burb and made a "run for the border" ...twice. I ate my first Nachos Bell Grande.

Today, Day 2, we leaped from bed at the crack of 10:15 to dash to McDonald's -- too late. So we drove to the strange land of Hinsdale and puttered around the fish market while waiting for freshly made lobster rolls. Ahhh, a little taste of Stonington. Kinda.

Then, lunch al fresco, for the second day in a row, this time at Graue Mill, where we saw such sites as a three-legged dog, fold-able wooden kayaks and a super-sparkly shiny shirt.

Now, this. Ben is working in the kitchen on work stuff and then doing something dandy to pork. I am avoiding, apparently, the very purpose for my vacation, what I've looked forward to for, lo, these many weeks -- quilting.

But running around must be done. You must get it out of your system. And then you can settle down and focus.

The joy in existence without which the Universe will fall apart and collapse

From Madeleine L'Engle in "And It Was Good" 

"A young reader knowing of my love of new words sent me a beautiful one: namasté: I salute the God within you.

"The words which have taught me most richly come in logical progression: ontology: the word about being; ousia: the essence of being, that which is really real; ananda (also sent me as a gift by a reader): that joy in existence without which the Universe will fall apart and collapse. And now, namasté."

Mrs. Blackwell

I should feel bad, a small part of my brain keeps insisting, judging the clothes of beautiful women. Me with my sagging couch, cluttered living room, college sweatshirt at 23 older than some of the women on screen. There's even chip dip involved.

And I have opinions. Opinions about strapless dresses that look like swimsuits and skirts that look like minky craft fabric. I have opinions about ponytails and brown office shoes worn with gowns and about the need for a little more sparkle at the neckline and and a little less make-up.

It started with 30-second clips of "Fashion Police" at the end of "The Soup" and by now I'm trolling the internet for celebrity dresses after an awards show.

Let's go back to feeling bad about judging the clothes of beautiful famous women. No, let's shorten that sentence. I am judging women based on their appearance. Which is wrong.

But, sweet lord, some high-waisted ruching or a blue that compliments red hair...woman, she is beautiful.

I've never cared much about clothes or fashion. I liked Calvin Klein jeans in 8th grade because they fit my ass. I had a red dress coat because...well, come on, it was a red coat.

Left to my own devices, my ideal outfit is cords, long-sleeve tee and polar fleece vest, with an occasional guest appearance by a Cookie Monster t-shirt. Some of this ensemble worn, perhaps, in excess of three consecutive days, perhaps, in fairly recent memory. 

But I have opinions about fashion. I am amazed and a little proud.
 

Happy new year

New year's resolutions

#1:  More writing, more blog posting

#2: Sewing weekly

#3: Healthful eating

#4: Exercise 3x a week

#5: Cooking at home

Off to take the folks some black-eyed peas and greens for luck in the new year. Only an hour late.

2011 annual odes to autumn

Sunday

In the throes of a sinus infection and cough, so we've decided to breathe our germs all over Starbucks in Clarendon Hills today. The Husband finished off his Z-Pack this morning. I'm hoping to call the MD and get drugs for myself in the morning. Not that he's much better.

We like this store -- older staff on Sundays with a mellow music selection. Although we did hear a vaguely disturbing cover of "My Heart Belongs to Daddy."

Started the morning with brunch with my folks, who were heathens today and didn't go to church. We were a hot aural mess, with Mom and the two of us suffering ear-stuffing cold stuff, and Dad with his standard can't-hear-despite-the-hearing-aids condition. Lots of shouting over restaurant noise followed by hacking.

Favorite moment at the restaurant: The high-maintenance customer at the next table encouraging us to ask for a bowl of mixed berries too, then complaining about the lack of service. 

And question of the day: Why is someone else's cold "just a cold," but your own is the end of life on this planet?

Kitchen

I used to cook a lot, had friends over and fed them, took dishes to their houses, baked a stewing hen to feast my family and honored guests. Then I moved into an apartment and The Husband arrived on the scene.

He is a better cook than I. He is creative and cares about the science and thinks through the process. He has a sophisticated palate, is a self-described gourmand and has had more time in the past few years.

He is also an unbelievably messy cook and of the school of thought that if one person cooks, the other should clean up. So we eat out. A lot. WAY too much.

Then our family Father's Day lunch found me in the kitchen, opening cans and bottles and throwing their contents together. I remembered how relaxing kitchen work can be.

I had high hopes for the baked beans. I started with this recipe from Bush's site and quadrupled it. Even thought I left the sugar the same as the original, adding a can of Trader Joe's chunk pineapple made it super sweet. (I also used TJ's BBQ sauce and organic ketchup.) My folks loved them, and my dad doesn't often enjoy family meals. Since it was Father's Day, score!

Caprese salad: tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, basil,
salt and pepper, olive oil and balsamic vinegar

The caprese salad was a little bland because I under-dressed it. I really liked TJ's mixed cherry tomatoes and heritage cherry tomatoes, and the 2:1 tomatoes-to-mozzarella ratio.The tomatoes tasted amazing, like garden-grown.

So many memories in the kitchen. My friend Jerry and I used to play a "what's it need?" game with our cooking. His comments brought a rain of protests one night from other dinner guests who didn't know about our ongoing conversation. 

I remember his kitchen lessons and our food adventures. The quest into the mountains for rhubarb pie. Sneaking baggies into the all-you-can-eat buffet. One time, he made griddled corn cakes and, as a pinch-of-this cook, spent an afternoon measuring pinches for me. Another friend reminded me of the fun day we spent together when he made green chile for my party that evening. It was a long, wonderful, memorable, delicious night.

As I dashed around another time at a BBQ, he taught me a valuable lesson. He made me sit by him on the couch and he promised someone else would do all the last-minute things I was going crazy over. "Just watch." And he was right. People pitched in and no one minded.

The lesson in the kitchen -- and in life -- was not to rush around trying to do it all. Sit, savor the view and a visit with a friend.

And his gravy-making advice has a good life application too: Don't fuck with it.

So, this is me, cooking with cans and TJ's supplies and waxing nostalgic about food and friends.

Each meal a new story, each friend a new adventure. Each memory as sweet...as Father's Day beans.