DFW on Ice

by

Butterfly

I’m posting at nearly-midnight again, but this time it’s because last nights sleet and freezing rain turned into this morning’s widespread power outages.

Our power glitched for a minute or so around one AM, but our friends who live less than a mile away have been without power, and, subsequently, without heat, since four this morning.

As today’s high temperature was around 29 degrees, we invited them to come here. And so they are tucked upstairs in one of the spare rooms, with their younger son and dog. Their older son chose to wrap himself in all the blankets and stay home with the cats.

And so we had an old fashioned snow day, listening to music, each working on a project, drinking hot cider.

I wish I had the energy to write something more interesting, but I’m exhausted, and cold (must go turn heat up.)

Happy Birthday, Maximus

by

Max, age five

Oh, my dearest doggy, you are FIVE years old today. That’s middle-aged for a breed like yours, a breed we think is pointer/boxer, but could be most anything, really.

How well I remember that windy day in February, 2009 when we met your then-tiny little self. You were ten weeks old, and I kept telling Fuzzy we didn’t want a puppy, but he thought your black and white fur looked like your sister Cleo’s, and we knew Zorro didn’t have much more time with us.

I remember how Fuzzy snapped your picture through the bars of your crate at PetCo, and said, “Come see this puppy,” and I remember how the first time I picked you up you gnawed on my neck until you finally fell asleep in my arms.

I remember when you were so small you slept in a cat bed, and so tiny you couldn’t climb the stairs. You used to pick up Cleo’s leash and make her follow you around the house. You weren’t quite certain of what to do with Zorro, but he left us a week after you came. I think he waited to be sure you were right for us.

We didn’t always get along, my Maxi-taxi. You were my first big dog, and I had to learn a whole new language with you. It wasn’t until you were three months old that I knew we’d be alright. You’d escaped from your crate, and even though Fuzzy’s side of the bed was closer, you came right to me, and put your cold wet nose in my hand. I knew, then, that you were MY dog, just like Zorro and Cleo had been. Perry had joined us by then, but he’s never as obvious about who his people are as you always have been.

In the first year of your life, you ate rocks and razor blades, water bottles, entire pairs of Keds, and more paper towels than I care to count. Once, I even found you chewing on the side of the house! I was convinced something you’d swallowed would lacerate your esophagus or perforate your intestine, but except for allergies, you’re remarkably healthy.

And now you’re five years old, and the quiet gentleman of the house, except when you do your post-dinner show, roo-ing and galloping up and down the hall.

I love that you wake up half an hour before you really need to go outside, just so you can come into the bed with me and snuggle while Fuzzy showers. I love your raspy-tongued kisses, and the way you can eviscerate a squeaky toy in five minutes, then carry the empty fleece carcass around for months.

I love that every night when I go to bed to read, you come and curl up with me. I love that you’re patient with your adopted brother Tedasaurus Rex, even though he had the nerve to grow taller than you, and that you make the foster brothers and sisters who rotate through your life feel like part of the pack.

I love the way you, my 80-pound darling, can manage to get lost in our postage stamp of a back yard, and I love that you still think an empty paper towel roll is the best toy ever.

I love the way you’ll chase a ball til it stops, then turn around and give me that look that means, “If you’d wanted it back you should have adopted a retriever,” and I love that even though you’re a gentle giant of a dog, you have a basso profundo bark that makes me feel safe when I’m alone.

I love that you’re as happy to sit on the deck and just WATCH the birds and squirrels as you are to chase them, and I love that the last thing I hear at night is your deep, restful, doggy breathing.

So, happy fifth birthday, my Max.

You can’t really be called a Monster Pup any more, but in my heart you’ll always be my puppy.

Peeling the Eggplant

by

Lollypop Santa

We’ve all heard the story (possibly apocryphal, but it’s a good story so, who cares?) about the woman who was making a roast. Her daughter, watching her, asked, “Mom, why are you cutting the ends off the roast?”

The mother replied that she was doing so because it was the way she learned from her mother, but didn’t know why it made the roast better.
Together, they went to the other room to ask Grandma why the ends were cut off the roast, and the old woman replied that she’d HAD to do it that way, because it was the only way the roast would fit in the pan.

Similarly, those of us who grew up with grandmothers and mothers who peeled eggplant before using it, also peel eggplant. But the thing is, you don’t actually have to peel eggplant for most dishes. Sure, it feels rubbery when it’s raw, but it cooks down fairly well.

Holiday traditions are sort of the same way. Some of them, like the roast, or the eggplant, we do because we always have. I grew up with a butterfly at the top of the Christmas tree, and the first year I had my very own tree, I felt guilty for putting something OTHER than a butterfly up there. Then my husband and I found a lovely quarter-moon ornament and that was our topper in the first years of our marriage.

More recently, as our (fake, plastic, pre-lit) trees have become taller and taller, we’ve had to adjust the topper again. Currently, it’s an angel I bought at Cracker Barrel, but I picked her because she’s got this delicious smirk, as if she knows some great secret.

Sometimes, though, traditions have to be completely new. Since moving to Texas nine years ago (yes, that feels like forever to me, too) we’ve planned Christmas Eve to be our night. Sure, we might go to a Christmas Eve service (or two – because I love midnight mass, so even when we were at UUCOC, we’d still go), but otherwise, we keep the evening low-key.

Christmas Day, however, is all about inviting friends and “chosen family” over for brunch. Everyone gets at least one present to open, and we celebrate with laughter and good food.

I’m sure as we age, we’ll come up with some newer traditions even than those, but whether we spend Christmas with just ourselves, or with other people, whether we peel the eggplant, or not, the entire season will be full of fun and friends and fabulous food.

Today’s Santa: The very young child of a friend dubbed him Lollypop Santa, and the name stuck. He’s from Cracker Barrel. Seriously, sometimes they have great decor.

Holidailies 2013

This is Your Brain on Ice

by

Red Santa

I lived in Colorado for seven years (on and off) and I never learned to ski, but I did learn to ice skate, and ever since my booted-and-bladed feet first touched ice, I’ve been in love with the sport.

These past few Sundays have found me sitting on the bed folding laundry and watching figure skating competitions. I’m not sure who I’m rooting for, which means I don’t much care who wins, but I enjoy the skill and artistry, even so.

My own skates sit, idle and dusty, at the top of the hall closet, their blades covered in purple and turquoise guards bought eons ago from a rookie player from the San Jose Sharks who was doing his time in the pro shop.

My first skating memories, however, have nothing to do with rinks and music, and everything to do with funky metallic ‘thermal’ socks that made my feet itch and sweat, and snow-packed rolled-up cuffs of jeans, and water ripples frozen into the surface of the ice.

We skated outside, and stayed out til the ice and snow had frozen our laces to the point where my best friends Siobhan, Larissa, and I would seriously contemplate walking home on our skate-guards or attempting to skate down the road, frozen three feet thick with old snow and dirty ice.

That was in Georgetown, when I was seven, and The Town would turn the baseball diamond into an outdoor skating rink for the kids, so we wouldn’t take it into our heads to go all the way out to the reservoir. (Don’t tell my mother, but sometimes we DID go all the way out there on our bikes, but never to skate.)

So we would turn circles and try basic spins, and hope that our short and sassy Dorothy Hamill-esque haircuts looked as cute on us as they did on her.

I’m pretty sure they didn’t.

I’m not sure why ice skating is on my mind tonight, but it might have to do with the recent re-discovery of this ancient picture of me:

Skating in Evergreen

I don’t really remember the day, but the notes on the back, in my mother’s handwriting: January 1st 1977, Evergreen Lake, CO. Elevation 8,500 feet. Temperature 6 degrees. “If you take my picture I’ll scream.”

Today’s Santa: On my fireplace mantel, every year, stand a collection of Victorian-esque Santa Claus dolls. This one is one of the oldest, the red one.

(Hey look, doing Holidailies just before midnight…again.)

Bread

by

Gardener Santa

So here I am, once again writing my Holidalies post at 11:50 pm. This is NOT the habit I wanted, this year.

But this time I have a good excuse: I was at a meeting at church, part of the core group of people planning a new evening service to begin in February.

One of the things we talked about was how we wanted to handle communion, and the suggestion was made that actually breaking a loaf of bread, passing it and the wine from hand to hand, ministering to each other, might be a really lovely way to make that ritual more intimate.

It got me thinking, on the way home, about the other times I’ve shared bread with people. My friend Marcia is an amazing baker, and I have fond memories of a marathon session making hot cross buns in my kitchen several years ago.

My aunt Patricia is a baker as well, and it is her cornbread recipe that I follow, and have been following, for more than twenty years.

And then there’s my grandfather. He was a career Army officer, retired and worked in the civil service, retired from that and played gentleman farmer in his New Jersey back yard. He grew grapes and strawberries, composted everything, and baked the most amazing loaves.

I remember his thick fingers pushing through the warm, sticky dough as he kneaded it. I remember the crock of sourdough starter that had a special spot on the back of the dishwasher. I remember the way he would lovingly grease each pan and then dust it with cornmeal, and I remember the steaming bread, fresh from the oven, slathered with butter.

My own baking is aided by modern tools – a bread machine, a stand mixer – and, to be honest, I generally prefer to make batter breads, like the cinnamon swirl bread I baked yesterday, or the prune-laced soda bread I made for a friend on Friday.

We break bread literally and figuratively whenever we share our tables with our friends and families. Isn’t it only right that we should bake it, as well?

Today’s Santa: Gardener Santa is actually a candle I found at Big Lots (no, really) several years ago. He reminds me of my grandfather, though Grandpop didn’t have a full beard, ever, and he’ll never be lit.

Smells Like Anticipation

by

SeaSide Santa

Well, Hello, December!

It’s the first day of Holidailies and here I am typing as fast as I can so I can get this posted before midnight, and thus not fail on the first day, which would be really inauspicious.

It’s warm here today. Warm and muggy, and not Christmassy (Or Hanukkahy) at all, though the sky teased us with storm clouds that didn’t deliver. I don’t mind the warmth – it’s cool enough to not need a/c but warm enough to also not need heat – rare for Texas at any time of year.

But I miss that smell, that magical SMELL that comes when the night is crisp and cool, and the stars are particularly sparkly.

It’s the combined scent of chimney smoke and fallen leaves, damp earth and leftover turkey. It’s the fragrance of nutmeg and peppermint and crinkly tissue paper.

And when it’s this warm, this balmy, you just can’t smell it.

So I go through the motions. I take the plastic, pre-lit tree out, and let it rest in the house (because even plastic trees need to rest before you bedeck them with ornaments), and I open today’s door on the Advent calendar, which reveals, ironically, the image a star shimmering in the night sky, and I wait.

Because I know that soon enough the temperature will drop, and the skies will deepen, and that wonderful seasonal aroma, the one that smells like love and innocence and magic and anticipation, will ooze its way back into my perception.

And all will be right with the world.

Today’s Santa: I gave this to my mother four years ago. Purchased in Ocean Grove, NJ, October 2009.

Thursday 13: Falling for Fall

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Autumn Running from iStockPhoto.com

I haven’t been blogging lately – the need to do so ebbs and flows, and that’s okay – but I woke this morning to the sight of frost on the neighbor’s rooftop, so thought I’d share a list today in the grand old Thursday 13 tradition.

  1. Onomatopoetic Environments: Crunch! go the leaves beneath our feet. Creak! go the trees as they are pushed by the wind. Groan! go the pipes as hot water rushes through them. Hiss! says the heater when we cave in and turn it on.
  2. Sweater Weather: We’ve settled into the time of year when we can wear long sleeves or a light sweater during the day, and bundle into comfy cotton-flannel pajamas in the evening.
  3. De-bugging: Okay, we still have a few mosquitoes here in Texas, but there are fewer of them, and the stragglers are sluggish. If only the fleas would go away, as well.
  4. Cozy Mornings: Birdsong, soft light, whuffling dogs, fresh coffee, oatmeal with craisins, lingering over coffee…
  5. Guilt-free Baths: I might still take bubble baths in summer, but in fall I don’t feel like I have to justify the need to soak in steamy, sudsy, lavender-scented water. Also? I love the tingle on my skin, when I step out of my warm bath and into the chill air of the bathroom.
  6. Frost: Frost counts as a “weather event” here, and we’ve just had our first glimpse of it. I love the way the sun melts it away, oh, so slowly, as warm light replaces cold.
  7. Fall Produce: Yes, our modern society allows us to have squash and apples year round if we really want it, but food tastes best when it’s actually in season. Pumpkins, butternut squash, acorn squash, root vegetables, and apples – fall foods, all.
  8. Soups and Stews: Fall is soup weather. Rainy days, cool nights, and the need for easy lunches all mean that my crockpot gets a workout. A recent favorite? Chicken and sweet potato soup. So delicious.
  9. Quilts: I have no desire to step back in time and live on the prairie with the Ingalls family, but I do love the way a warm quilt doesn’t just serve a purpose, but is also a piece of art. I have books on quilting, and all the required materials, and yet, I never take the leap into making a quilt of my own. Must. Fix. This.
  10. Lamplight: This is a frequent theme with me, but I love the soft light of lamps, as opposed to harsh overhead lighting. I also love streetlamps, and fall is when you get to enjoy deep twilight and glowing streetlights in prime form.
  11. Figure Skating: I’m not a big follower of sports. I’ll watch the occasional baseball or hockey game. I like seeing soccer players in those tiny shorts. But the sports that I actually look forward to are horse racing (in spring) and figure skating. Skate France is on tv this Sunday. Guess what my plans are?
  12. Festivals: I’m a sucker for a good small-town festival, and fall is rife with them. Apple festivals. Pumpkin festivals. Craft fairs. Harvest fests. Even the state fair. Some are cheesy, it’s true, but it’s good to embrace hometown corn once in a while.
  13. Antici…pation: Even without the knowledge that Christmas is creeping ever closer (or we’re creeping closer to it, as the calendar is fixed), fall always fills me with anticipation. For holidays, for seeing family, for favorite foods. For the first local performances of Nutcracker. For the first time I see my breath when I take the dogs out in the morning. For the sense that all of the dying leaves and dwindling greenery isn’t an ending, but a Great Preparation for all the things yet to come in the next week, month, quarter, year.

For more of my thoughts on autumn, check out last week’s Sunday Brunch post, Sunday Brunch: The Light in Autumn over at All Things Girl.

Find a PetSitter, Help A Shelter Dog

by

CuddlyMax

This is quick and dirty because it’s Halloween, and I’m hugely busy, but I wanted to share this before the campaign ends tonight.

The folks at DogVacay, a site that helps you find a pet sitter, are providing a meal to a shelter dog for every new sign-up they get during October. They asked me if I’d mention it, and even though I haven’t used their site…yet…I think they offer a great service, and I’m a sucker for anyone willing to help an animal.

Max, Teddy, and Perry think this is pretty cool, especially since they were all shelter dogs, once upon a time, and are also familiar with what it’s like when their humans go away, and they have to stay with a pet sitter (or, more likely, have a sitter stay with them.)

We used to kennel Cleo (RIP) and Zorro (RIP) but switched to sitters years ago because it’s less stressful for the animals, and one less thing we have to remember.

So, check out DogVacay, and sign up today, and feed a shelter dog.

(I was asked if I’d write something, but there was no compensation for doing so…Happy Halloween!)

Sunday Salon: Henna and Holmes

by

Sunday Salon

I haven’t done a Sunday Salon post in the better part of a year, and when I have done them in the past, I’ve always hosted them over at my book blog, Bibliotica, but I felt like talking about what I’ve been reading, and I felt like putting it here.

Over the last month, I’ve re-energized Bibliotica thanks, mostly, to TLC Book tours and Pump Up Your Book. Both companies are women owned/women run, which is something that matters to me. Whatever are personal opinions about politics, religion, fashion, or the perfect espresso drink, I believe it’s important for women to support other women.

In any case, Bibliotica has at least three posts a week already scheduled through mid-November (and I’m booking December and January now).

I read quickly, and I find time to read in between doing other things, when I have to, because not-reading makes me cranky. I read in the bathroom, in the bathtub and during meals if Fuzzy and I aren’t eating together. I read in bed, I read out by the pool…you get the idea.

There are some books that I enjoy and never think of again, and some that stick with me. Of the latter type that I’ve read in the past few months, Michael Perry’s Visiting Tom: A Man, A Highway, and the Road to Roughneck Grace is a favorite, because Perry’s memoirs are always incredibly vivid and honest.

Dora Machado’s The Curse Giver was a beautiful, lyrical fantasy with a great balance of romance and action.

Painted Hands, by Jennifer Zobair is a great glimpse into the life of the modern Muslim-American woman, shows us that there is such a thing as Muslim Feminism, and taught me that some women hide their hopes and dreams in their henna tattoos when getting mendhi on their hands for weddings.

For the last week, I’ve been immersed in The Displaced Detective series by Stephanie Osborn, which gives us a new version of Sherlock Holmes, set in a time and place that is essentially our own (and includes references to Stargate, and the Eleventh Doctor, among other lovely details.)

Those books won’t be featured until next week, but they’ve not only kept me vastly entertained, they’ve also rekindled my ever-present-but-often-dormant love of all things Sherlockian, and a little more Holmes in one’s life is never a bad thing. (Actually, Tabz gets some of the credit for that, as well.)

Today, I’m finishing a book about having a healthy voice (that’s for tomorrow’s review) and puttering around the house. I might catch up on Project Runway. I might just play with the dogs or do some laundry. My eyes are still really tired – I scratched my right cornea early last week, and was essentially offline Wednesday and Thursday because I couldn’t see – and I’m trying to limit computer time on weekends, because there’s such a thing as being TOO plugged in.

I love puttery Sundays with no real plans, almost as much as I like soaking in the tub while listening to NPR on Saturday evenings, and frou-frou coffee.

Speaking of which, I talked about all of those things in this week’s Sunday Brunch, which is subtitled On Being a Fan.

Happy Reading, and Make it a Great Week.

We All Float Here

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Under the Tub It may be a first world problem, but for someone who styles herself The Bathtub Mermaid, it’s a personal tragedy: my bathtub is broken.

Early last week I was taking a bath, and I overfilled the tub. When I pulled the drain plug to let some water out, instead of just the plug coming up, the whole drain came out of the tub. Upon investigation, we learned that the elbow joint meant to connect the drain to the drainpipe was on the ground under the tub.

We called the home warranty company, and they sent a plumber who said we had to remove the ceramic tile step at the end of the tub. We tried, but there’s no way to do that without breaking into the actual floor. However, when we cut into the drywall half-wall at the back of the tub we saw that the pipe is NOT under the ceramic tile, but under the tub.

So now we’re waiting for the plumber to come back.

Meanwhile, there’s a gaping hole in the fake wall at the end of the tub (Fuzzy has put his dremel case in front of it, so a) I don’t have to see it and b) the dogs won’t explore it and c) no creepy-crawly things emerge from it) but I’ve clearly read too many Stephen King novels, because every time I see the expanse of exposed pipe, or catch a glimpse of the drain hole in my tub, in which the drain fixture currently is not, I keep thinking of Pennywise the Clown from It.

I’m really glad my neighborhood doesn’t have old-style gutters with metal grates, because, as it is, every time I enter my bathroom I hear a filtered version of Tim Curry’s voice growling, “We all float here.”