Christmas Eve – Not Chaotic

I’m not sure why we don’t shop like this every year.

D and I usually exchange gifts on the 25th.  Small gifts generally, things we think the other would like.  We were going to skip that this year in favor of something bigger but scrapped it and were left with nothing.  So we braved the holiday traffic and mobs to drive an hour to a place where there are a lot of shops crammed together.  A mall I suppose, but outdoors.  With a $50 limit, I was planning to buy a couple of smaller things and focus on not panicking in the crowds.

So, plans in place, we went to sleep last night excited about our plans.  And then I woke up at 3 with a splitting headache.  Sure, it was the same headache I’ve had off and on for four days but it had been gone for a few hours earlier and I was hoping I was off the hook.  Lies.  So I spent the wee hours wishing my ache away and watching infomercials.  As you do.  At 5, I fell back asleep, armed with advil.  At 8, she woke me up and my headache jangled around in one eye, trying to shred my brain.  At 10, we left to shop.  30 minutes in, we had to stop so I could buy sunglasses.  45 minutes in, we had to stop so I could toss my breakfast on to the side of the road.  When we arrived, I gave in and took the medication that might be causing rebound headaches but it’s christmas and I don’t care.

I was prepared to possibly die today in clouds of aftershave, pushy, last minute shoppers and screaming children.  In fact, the only crowds I encountered were in the tech heavy stores (along with overwhelming cologne – seriously guys, lay off in a public place) and the only kid that screamed had every reason to, being short one coat in the freezing cold.  D and I shopped separately, leisurely, and both had a wonderful time finding things for each other.  We capped it off with a visit to a pet store that miraculously had the special food our special dog needs and lunch with a queer server.  Talk about a christmas score.

So, tonight we’re celebrating with a gift certificate to an upscale Southern restaurant that our realtor gave us and tomorrow we’ll unwrap those gifts bought with love and leisure.  Who knew christmas eve could be so mellow?

The weather outside is frightful.

No, no shoveling yet.  And, regardless of whether you’re calling it snowmageddon or snowpocolypse, it really is a lot of snow.  My only experience with this much snow at once was in Chicago in 1979 when I was barely old enough to remember.  The national weather service says they got 18 inches that January, though this description might be more accurate.  There is a picture of me sitting level with the top of a stop sign that weekend after plowing and I haven’t seen such dramatic snowfall since.

It’s still snowing (though less) and we’re just shy of 24 inches.  24.  Two feet.  That doesn’t seem like so much when you’re just thinking about it, but it means that cars are suggestions in a drift and if you stand in a dip, you’re up to your waist.  Charlottesville is a Southern city unaccustomed to snowfall.  On the plus side – everyone seems to be staying in (unlike DC where thousands of uninitiated snow drivers take to the highways at the first flake and stay out there til they crash and die).  On the minus side – there aren’t actually any plows.  More…tractors with plow attachments.

Tomorrow – shoveling.

In the Family Way

Well, well, well.  Times have changed, haven’t they?  I’d say I didn’t know what caused it, but I do.  It’s all this pure countryside living.  Either that or the fertility clinic we went to this summer.  I know, I didn’t tell you it was coming.  Think of it this way, we didn’t really tell anyone.  Not even our parents.  Okay, ESPECIALLY not our parents. And now we’re in trouble, knocked up, in a delicate condition, pregnant.

D, in particular is pregnant, but isn’t that what you say?  We’re pregnant?  It’s amazing how early a woman’s body quickly belongs to the collective once she’s bearing a child.  I give myself a good mental smack every time I think it in an effort to psychologically give her her body back, but I’m thwarted at every turn.  For example, several people took the liberty of hugging us today when shared the news.  This is work folks, we are colleagues, we don’t hug.  Don’t even get me started on the way many pregnancy books manage to marginalize both the mother and any partner she has that isn’t her straight, American, husband.  Like I said, don’t get me started.

You might have questions.  How, in fact, did two hot, sexy women such as yourselves manage to conceive the miracle of life? We selected sperm from a bank, we shipped it to a doctor, he injected it into her uterus twice (once in August and once in September), she got pregnant.  Here’s what we didn’t do: we did not tell our other “trying” friends the number of our donor (I’ve heard that occurs), we did not take any fertility drugs and we did not tell people we were attempting to fertilize an egg.

Honestly, we’re still a little queasy about the idea of thwarting evolution at all, but have opted to become glassy-eyed with baby thoughts instead of considering the damage we’ve done to the human race by electing to use artificial means of conception.  Well, she’s queasy for entirely different reasons.  So, details: she’s 13 weeks, due in late June, we’re not going to find out the sex, and I won’t be numbing your eyes with baby chat here.

Two things – check out the page at the top titled “Plus One”.  If baby talk is your thing you can find me at Counting Chickens.  That’s it for this pregnancy public service announcement.

Points for not shunning me.

“Tina”

Stick it out til the end. It’s worth it.

Bucking the trend, we just got a subscription to the local paper.  There’s not actually much paper to speak of; a total of two sections with about 8 pages each.  The two sections?  The A section (including all local and national news) and Sports section (including local sports, comics, Dear Abby and the crossword).  As an aside, the crossword is an amateur event, involving questionable and repetitive clues. Since we decided to get the paper for the crossword and the coupons, I don’t know how long this paper subscription will actually last.  Wow, I just turned 92 while you sat here and watched.  Son, get me my bifocals and I’ll give you a quarter!

I tell you all that to tell you this, the obituaries hold a place of honor on the second page.   The second page.   I’m completely unable to read the paper without spending time pursuing the obits because of their startling placement. And there aren’t the obituaries I’m used to – tiny two-inch columns with a smiling black and white picture and the bare minimum of information.  These are the obituaries you spend time writing before you die.  The laudatory life list that remembers you not only to friends and family, but to complete strangers who tear up at your well-lived life.   Oh…that’s just me.

So in the morning we read about “Sassy” and Arnold “Tex” Stewart and Sue Elizabeth Sarah Moore Midgett.  I’m not sure where the Ted Johnsons and Alice Maxwells live, but it isn’t here.  We learn about where they’ve come from (Orange, Roanoke) and what they did (mechanic, Navy, cook). We find out what their quirks were (“visitors scuttled to the balcony to prevent being killed by a tower of books” – no, I’m serious) and where to send flowers.  The dullest part is usually the preceded in death by and survived by bit.  It’s the most mandatory though and the most common content. I usually skip over those bits when I’m reading about Sassy and Tex to my wife over cereal.

I skipped over them…until I got to Aubrey.  He had a list of precededs and surviveds and particularly caught our attention with the mention of his grandchildren: he apparently favored one, Stevie.  I’m not sure how the other kids will feel about that.  I almost moved on to the next obit until I realized that, not only was Aubrey survived by his wife of 25 years, he was also survived by his special bed partner “Tina”.

Oh yes, they did. I’ve attached the photo.  This is a cached version since, as you can imagine, the official obit was replaced the following day with one that didn’t even whisper the name Tina.  Sure, you could argue that Tina is a faithful hound, but I suspect that Tina is the special lady, nay, bed partner, who was responsible for faxing this piece of work in the first time.  I think we’ll keep the paper.

Acupunture? Go!

One of the benefits of acupuncture has been the decrease of migraines and nightmares.  I know!  Exactly what it was supposed to do!  I’m not at the point where I’m giving my first-born over to the gods of chinese medicine, but I’m pretty impressed at the steady decrease of symptoms.

Who wouldn’t be thrilled not to wake up screaming anymore?  No more bugs in the sheets, no more skittering on the wall, no more opening doors where there are none, no more shaking and crying.  Can you believe I’m such a joy to sleep with?  My wife, she’s a saint.  My dreams have still been vivid and often unpleasant but the midnight jaunts are down to a bare minimum.  I woke up in the kitchen a week ago, but that’s the extent of it.

The migraines are dwindling.  It’s okay to fall over dead.  It’s practically a miracle.  Maybe it’s just a good month, but considering I’ve had headaches every day in December for the last. two. years. I think I’m doing pretty well so far.  Acupuncture being holistic and all that, it wasn’t surprising when the practitioner asked me if there was something else happening around the holidays that might be causing it and truthfully, I just don’t know.  Maybe this season will be illuminating.

The sessions themselves have all been different.  Though she’s mostly sticking places on my feet and belly (and sometimes head) the sensations vary from floating – one of the best – to making my hands drip with sweat – one of the weirdest.  Sometimes it hurts for a second.  The day she pricked my third eye I felt like my face was on fire.  For a week.  Sometimes it’s like a deep ringing in my center.  Often I can’t feel the needles at all.  The feet?  Not so comfortable.  All you folks with ankle tattoos?  Impressive.

I’m going to stick with it for another month since it seems to be helping.  We could all use the sleep around here and I’m enjoying being able to see on a regular basis.  Who’d have thought?

Drip Baby

We realized sometime over the summer that we were getting HBO for free.  Well, not free exactly, since we had already given our first-born to the cable company in order to be able to have full access to AMC’s Hoarders.  What?  We have our reasons.

So, we’ve been enjoying our free year of HBO.  If, by enjoying, you mean sometimes remembering to see if any good movies are on, deciding there aren’t, hoping for a rerun of True Blood instead, and otherwise forgetting we even have cable.  But, we have it and with it we have access to semi-risque programming that involves scantily clad women.  As you can imagine, we’re all about scantily clad women.

This has led us to the early 90s wackiness that is Real Sex.  Have you seen this show?  Between segments on all manner of kinky indulgence (like phone sex, masturbation and mutual massage – the horror!) folks on the street are asked to give their opinion on topics relevant to the clips.  These are usually early thirties folks out for a night on the town, often tipsy, usually giggly, holding forth on everything from spanking to talking dirty.  Not a huge range. Especially not considering the favorite topic of Real Sex – getting messy.

Perhaps the producers were really into food and sex.  Or maybe they love the idea of women with whipped cream on their noses.  One way or another, episode after episode of Real Sex features beautiful women  in some state of food or paint related mess, often in a ring, or pool with chubby, messy men looking on.  Wikipedia describes this fetish nicely, though I wonder if there isn’t a more technical term for it.  Whatever it is, someone out there is fascinated by it.

That someone is shilling faucets.

Happy National…

Let me tell you people, November is one wacky month.  Today, for instance, is National Sandwich Day.  By the way, November is host to so many commemorative days that I’m bound to mention more than just this one.  But first, let’s talk sandwiches.

Fact one about sandwiches.  In my house we do not refer to them as sammies.  Oh no, my friends.  Just as the acronym EVOO does not cross my lips, neither shall the word sammies.  If you don’t know the horror from which these words come, I’m not going to enlighten you.

Fact two about sandwiches.  I do not like peanut butter and jelly to touch.  Not today, not ever.  Not within the sweet confines of a loaf and not outside of it.  Not jam, not preserves, not crunchy, not natural.  No PB and J.  It’s a flavor combination to kill for – me killing you, that is.

Fact three about sandwiches.  As a child, I begged my mother to wed marshmallow fluff and peanut butter.  She never did.  I had one sandwich, once, at a friend’s house that blended warm, toasted, white bread with a sleek layer of peanut butter and a thick, fluffy cloud of marshmallow.  I have never forgotten the beauty of that moment.  I’ve also never fixed such a sandwich for myself, preferring to let that sunbeam streaked kitchen and sticky little fingers keep the memory.

Fact four about sandwiches.  I really only like to eat them for breakfast.  My prefered breakfast (besides a hamburger and fries…but that’s another post) is a sandwich.  In fact, the best sandwich I can think of for breakfast is a hard roll with one slice of thinly cut ham and a slice of cheese, nothing else.  However, be warned, you’ll never get me to eat ham and cheese that have been touching at any other time of day.  I barely even tolerate ham.  But, in the morning, I fall into some mysterious twilight zone breakfast hole that renders most dairy, all eggs and whole grains kryptonite and installs the duel combos of ham and cheese and hamburgers and fries as my saviors.

Happy National Sandwich Day.  Have one for me.

Death Defying Loops

When is the last time you’ve ridden a roller coaster?  And how did you feel afterward?  Not just in the woohoo moments when the ride cruises to a stop, but in the day-after moments?

We’re all adults here, you can admit it if you felt like you might die.

D and I went to an amusement park this weekend to shake off some of the last month.  And shake it we did, on teeth-rattling, head-banging, gut-wrenching, twisting and twirling rides.

I didn’t grow up enjoying roller coasters.  I particularly hate the click click click of the cars going up for the first big drop.  The rattling, jostling ride of a wooden roller coaster is a recipe for a skull cracking headache.  But as an adult, I love the rush of the propelled coasters, the smooth steel tracks that zip under and over without the need for a slow initial rise and deep drop.  I love to laugh as the ride shoots through loops and curls and suspends me upside down for a perfect moment.

But let me tell you, we hadn’t been to a park in a couple of years and something about my equilibrium has significantly changed.  The first ride we went on featured a set of twists that just about sent my stomach onto the pavement.  While the rest of the day was terrific, I don’t think we ever really recovered from the nausea courtesy of our first trip.  I’ve definitely felt it in my bones for the last couple of days.  Ouch.

Even in the moment, I think we knew that our inner children had taken a beating.  When I was little, I remember running from ride to ride, insatiable for more excitement, thrilled as the park lights twinkled on and the lines got shorter.  It didn’t matter that we would race from one point to the next just to stand in line or even that we rode the same ride again and again.  It was a matter of cramming as much as possible into the minutes we had left.  It was always time to go too soon.  This time, we arrived shortly after the park opened (but not early enough to beat down the door) and left well before it closed, satisfied and happy, delighted to both have been there and to be wrapping things up.

I never thought I’d want to leave before the park closed.  But oh was I delighted to be home.  People, my bones might be too old for roller coasters, but luckily, my soul isn’t.

County Fair

Dear readers, you know that I have a long history of country fair attendance.  You’d think that now that I’m more rural than ever, D and I would have more to write home about.  So far though, the only notable fair commentary I’ve had is what puts the county in county fair.

Admittedly, D and I are particular about what sort of fairs we go to.  We tend to steer clear of the smaller, Ferriswheel-only type events.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re not in it for the rides. We have two, clear criteria.  Food and a demolition derby.  Yes, we have attended fairs without those two crowning glories (one fair with no food – NO food! – and another with no transportation more exotic than pony rides).  But what makes my summer complete is a bang up, hootin, hollerin, demo derby followed by something deep fried and delicious.  So we keep our eyes open for candidates.  You’d be surprised at how many fairs eschew the demolition derby demographic.

We thought, since moving to Charlottesville brings us into a decidedly more rural territory, that we’d have our pick of the (junk)yard.  We were wrong.  So far only one candidate has proven to meet our minimum requirements – the Madison County Fair.  And what a fair it was.

The Madison fair had all the standard fair features.  Cows and other barnyard 4H standards, blue ribbon arts and crafts, rides, games and food.  There was a even a tiny three ring sideshow featuring (if you believe it) a giant alligator, a Man Eating Snake of the Desert Nations and the SMALLEST HORSE IN THE WORLD.  Well, clearly, Madison County has got what it takes in the fair department.   They even have a demolition derby, bless them.

So off we went.  An hour north and $10 later, we were walking around the midway (and a wee one at that) admiring the hometown fun machine and the win-a-fish ping pong toss.  We skipped the WORLDS SMALLEST HORSE (pity) in favor of a fried twinkie and a corn dog and moved out to get a seat in the bleachers well in advance of the main demo derby event.  While our 30-some bodies practically fell apart after an hour on the hard wooden seats, we were glad we held them since it quickly became clear that this was the most happening thing going on Saturday night in Madison County.  Lawn chairs, bleachers, standing room only, there was no place to be if you didn’t have a place already.

We had local company just behind us in the form of a family of 20; mothers, nieces, Paw Paws and Aunt Sissy’s of indeterminate familial status.  Who knows if they were blood, co-workers or just benchwarmers like us, but they were friendly enough, if a bit invasive.  At one point, Maw Maw leaned over and whispered close in D’s ear, “You all wanna mint?”

Maw Maw was holding down her family’s chunk of the bleacher like an anchor dropped in sand.  Never budging an inch but taking up more and more, she spread and melted in the humidity.  Eventually, the clan formed around us into a swarming hive and we had to give up reclaiming our seats from the matriarch.   After all this, it was easy to tell they enjoyed the derby as much as we did (Ma! Ma! Did ya see that? did you?) and I got the impression they made us as comfortable as possible in the heart of the chaos.

That said, while I had already noticed that my accent was more newscaster and less rural, Maw Maw’s country drawl spotlit my yankee clang well enough to send me shamefully into whispers the rest of the night.   Or maybe I picked up a little seashore Virginian from D and called it a day.  I’m not telling, I mean, tellin.

Lettuce, I Cannot Live Without You

We joined a sort of CSA* this spring. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for years. In DC, the idea of a box of vegetables delivered to my doorstep was a temptation I couldn’t stop craving but also could justify paying for.  I won’t eat beets, who knows what else they might deliver, and why would I pay someone to gift me with a brussels sprout?  The answer?  I would not.   Sealing the deal was the effort going into getting those vegetables to me – gas for the truck, etc – vegetables that might well rot in the refrigerator in a wave of restaurant nights and lackadaisical cooking efforts.

It’s my downfall.  I’ll admit it to you.   I love the idea of vegetables, but not the reality of them.  Not the earthy flavor that creeps into some bites.   Not the wilted, wet blackening of lettuce.   Not the contortionist thinking when I try to determine what to do with something my mother never cooked.  I bring fresh veg home (and by this I mean only broccoli and green beans) and then I guiltily toss them after determining that we’re tired of tough broccoli or the black spots on the beans might be dangerous.  I know.   It’s criminal.

Charlottesville drew me in with the offer of a CSA drawing from multiple farms, offering a variety of pick-up spots (relieving me from the guilt of a door-to-door delivery) and providing a huge variety of produce.  After much debate (and by this I mean me telling her repeatedly I was going to do it and her nodding sympathetically), D and I agreed that we would commit.  Commit to eating our greens.

I’ve repented, mended my ways, found religion in this CSA.  I had no idea that rhubarb tasted good.  Historically, one bite of standard strawberry-rhubarb pie left me alternately scraping my tongue of sweetness and wondering why there was a slight vegetable taste.  My lettuce lexicon consisted of iceberg (ugh), romaine (bland), and arugula (bitter and not really a lettuce).  I’d never seen an actual beet.  It’s shocking, really, that my love of cooking and food could have resisted variety for so long.

Last week, we picked up spinach, beets, rhubarb, chard and red sails lettuce.  This was week three of spinach and so it went into a dip for a party (and by this I mean there’s a bodily limit to how much spinach a person can consume).  However, the generous addition of dip ingredients and crunchy bread made up for the side effects. The beets are awaiting a sweet potato/beet roast while the chard will be joining us in a parmesan prosciutto pasta.  We discussed the rhubarb at length (why does it look like celery?  Does it taste like celery?  Why are the leaves poisonous but not the rest?  What is it about strawberries? How can we avoid the sickly sweet berry/barb combination?) before tossing it into a rhubarb bread pudding.  In theory, this would be redeemable because D prefers bread pudding to even me and I prefer her happiness to everything else except yours.  It went into a bread pudding looking weird and celery-like and came out of the oven tasting delicious.  Horizons broadened?  Check.

The real star of last week’s haul was the red sails lettuce.  This beautiful cluster of tender, flavorful leaves trumped everything that had come before it (including both the apple butter and the honey).  We’ve eaten it as quickly as we could, testing the previous leafy limits set by the spinach.  I had no idea a lettuce could be anything so perfect.  Pretty, delicious, slightly sweet and useable all the way through.  I realize I was a hostage to iceberg as a child and only begrudgingly welcomed romaine into my life as an adult.  For having never met the red sails lettuce, I am deeply sorry.

Here’s to this week’s bounty.

*for local folks, we joined Horse and Buggy Produce a “local natural foods cooperative”