CWords

Con

2010-09-13T20:06:00.000-07:00

I was leaving the parking lot tonight after a haircut appointment when a middle-aged guy in a new-ish number 34 Packer's shirt flagged me down, looking a bit desperate. I rolled down my car window and he said "do you live around here?"

"Why?" I asked and he rushed on to say, "do you know where Wisconsin Rapids is?"

"Well, vaguely..."

"The thing is, I live in Wisconsin Rapids and I got a call that my daughter was in a car accident 4 hours ago, and I just grabbed my grandson and my wife, and, well we got here but have no gas. I am about to sell my wife's wedding ring. I have collateral up the wazoo, but..."

I usually have no idea what is in my purse, but having temporarily lost my work ID this morning, I had gone through the entire thing searching for it. Since then, I had spent $2 for organic eggs from our medical consultant at work. I knew I had a $20 and a $1, and I knew right where they were. Leaving my purse on the passenger seat, I told him "I don't have any cash except for some emergency parking money." I pulled out a bill and handed it to him. He took off, as I cruised slowly from the parking lot. I waited to catch a glimpse of him getting into the car with his wife and grandson. Instead, I saw him grab a bicycle and wheel it away from the wall where it was leaning. I totally believed him...but at least it was only a dollar.

Commie Pinko Plot

2010-05-29T18:07:00.000-07:00

I still remember the night that I was cruising down Monroe St. on my bicycle---long hill, after midnight, really moving--when the dreaded red and blue lights started flashing behind me. Of course my first thought was, oh no, (or something like that) SPEEDING. Well, it actually turned out to be riding without a bicycle light, but my point is, I considered myself to be equal to other vehicles on the road and perfectly capable of being pulled over for exceeding the posted speed limit. That is actually the way it works legally for bicycles, who are otherwise second citizens on the tarmac. Like many other bicyclists, I have had cars turn right into me as I waited to proceed though a green light at an intersection, and I have had passengers in moving cars reach out to touch me in the bicycle lane because they thought it was funny. In those cases I can perhaps excuse them for inattention or ignorance, but what can one say to excuse Wisconsin State Representative Steve Nass for his recent remarks?

The city of Madison recently piloted an idea from Europe in a couple of intersections. Simple really, a red box was painted in front of waiting vehicle traffic for bicycles to sit and wait for the light to change. Steve Nass is not actually a resident of Madison, although he frequently visits, apparently just to stir up trouble. This is what he had to say about the bike boxes.

"It's basically about liberal extremists in Madison who hate cars and think everyone should bike to work."

Really? I thought it was more likely to be about road safety. I guess I just fail to see how creating bike boxes forces people to ride bikes instead of driving their cars. I actually intend to continue driving my car, but I am also glad that when I ride my bike I will be just a little safer from those drivers who are looking left, and turning right. And God forbid we should bike to work, unleashing ourselves in a small measure from dependence on petroleum products, while simultaneously working on the national obesity problem.

No, this is too obvious. I must be missing something, and I suspect it is the fact that he bike boxes originated in Europe and they are RED. Of course! In the state that produced Senator Joe McCarthy, we have grown complacent---this shows all the signs of a Commie Pinko Plot. I understand that Mr. Nass intends to use his remaining time in the Legislature introducing a bill to ban the boxes. I am sure he will be able to make a really good case, especially if he has had first hand experience riding a bicycle in Madison. In fact, he can borrow mine. I will show him how to ride it and let him use my helmet, although I have to wonder if there is actually anything left there to protect.

Concha

2010-04-26T17:59:00.000-07:00

Sometimes there is nothing better than a reconnection. Concha was a close friend of my mother's who, in 1996, hosted a three-generational trip to Ecuador for my daughter, my mother and me. It was wonderful in every respect. For me, It was a return to Ecuador, a country I love. For my mother, it was a trip with her daughter and granddaughter to see old friends while in remission from the cancer that would be her nemesis. For my daughter, it was her first, but not her last, exposure to another culture.

We have so many stories and so many ties. I still make the Ecuadorian recipes I collected that summer. Concha told me that her youngest son has three children now. He was a baby when we first met, and I have a little silver christening cup favor in my china cabinet to commemorate the day. My mother had a deep and abiding envy of Concha's ability to swing a scarf around her neck and have it look just right. On the other hand, they shared the need for tweezers always at the ready when they traveled by car together one summer. Neither could abide the molestia of a stray hair for even a minute. I also reminded Concha of the story I have told so often; when her children were young, they were all assigned to a piece of pre-Columbian art to shield in the event of an earthquake. They all survived and so did the Pre-Columbian art, now housed in a museum, presumably left to it's fate in the event of a tremor--no small children in pajamas to keep it whole.

I was sad to hear that the political situation has made it impossible for them to continue living in Ecuador. It is hard to imagine the country without them there to welcome me back. Nevertheless, I was so happy to talk to her again, as if no time had passed. A cliche, but like many, repeated for the truth it holds.

Conditioning

2010-04-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

Oh how I hate it. I always have--even at my peak of physical prowess at age six or so. It seems unfair to put this much effort into building muscles and still not be able to run like a gazelle, or run at all, for that matter. Jesse, the trainer I work with, seems like an affable guy, but today he told us that he had experienced his first fatality in his training classes. Well, that gave me pause. Even after I realized that he had meant to say casualty, his description of the blood and facial swelling confirmed that this is not a benign activity, and that I was right to refuse to jump on the squishy ball.

Most weeks, my goal is to try to keep up with my fellow trainees, one of whom kickboxes in her spare time and does push ups on her toes instead of her knees. Last week I mentioned that I would like to have enough aerobic capacity to talk on the phone while working out. The group, while usually supportive of my efforts, turned on me as one to tell me that if a person can talk on the phone, that person is not actually "working out" and should pick up the pace. I took that as permission to be too breathless to talk while doing any kind of exercise.

Here is what I hate: crab walking, bear walking, imitating animal activity in general, doing 100 push ups right after lunch, and being unable to raise my arms above my shoulders for the next two days afterwards. Here is what I like: draping myself over a large exercise ball and letting my body go limp.

What keeps me coming back? The satisfaction I feel when it is all over and I don't have to feel guilty about exercising for at least two days. Pathetic, yes, but who knows? If I keep it up, someday I might be able to jump on the squishy ball while talking on the phone.

C-Rations

2010-04-11T16:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, we ran into our neighbors at the local bakery. They were buying baguettes and handing out fliers for a charitable effort they were organizing for Haiti. I have a fair number of friends who volunteer for worthy organizations, put on events of various types, and I generally try to participate. This one, though, was on an alarming scale. The goal: a half million meals for Haiti in three days. It seemed too big to succeed, but I figured I would do my part so I could at least hold my head up at the Memorial Day block party.

It was a bit unusual in a genius sort of way. Participants had to make a donation AND volunteer time--90 minutes, to be exact. This ensured that the cost of material would be matched 1:1 to the effort to assemble said materials. To be sure, one could donate money or time independently and the two would be united by the organizers. Like most people, I chose to do both.

I showed up at the site at my appointed hour in some remote industrial park. The place looked like an airplane hanger. Once inside, I was relieved of my $25 donation and ushered to the glove and hairnet station. It is a look that is a great equalizer, trust me. Seconds later, I was assembled into a team of eight people and we were each handed a cardboard box into which meals would be packed. We were led to our very own trestle table and given our instructions. By virtue of where I happened to be standing, my job was to hold a bag under a funnel while four fellow volunteers added soy, dehydrated vegetables, a scoop of vitamin powder, and a dollop of rice to each bag. Then to the weigher who added or subtracted rice, the heat sealer, and finally the packer. We may not have been the fastest team in the building, but we were pretty good. We finished our allotted 1700 meals fifteen minutes early, due in large part to the fact that we had no children on the team. (We did have some seniors, one of whom, as he was prompted again for the rice, admitted he was daydreaming about fishing.) As we exited the building, I was tempted to circle back around for another shift.

Alas, I could not, as we were expecting dinner guests. So, on to Whole Foods, where I spent the equivalent of 1000 meals for Haiti on appetizers, salad, and dessert ingredients. The worst part is that I did not even appreciate the irony at the moment. It is all well and good to participate in charitable drives, and I am glad I did. The hard part in amending one's behavior and learning to think on a global scale every day. I'm still working on that one.

In the meantime, Meals for Haiti exceeded the goal of 500,000 meals. Each meal feeds six--dinner for over three million people. Bon Appetite Haiti.

2010-03-26T19:44:00.000-07:00

Canada, Oh!

2010-03-26T18:18:00.000-07:00

Tonight we got an email from our son, who is proposing a trip along the north shore of Lake Superior with his girlfriend Rebecca. This is, I suspect, primarily a re-creation of a trip he took with his father in 1996, but that trip was itself a re-creation of a trip his father and I took in 1979. He probably owes his existence to that trip.

I had taken a contract job in St. Paul that year and was having a great time in the twin cities. Tom remained behind in a house we shared with friends in Madison, and I commuted home on the Greyhound bus every other weekend. It was a hellish trip and I resented having to make it. In between, I made calls from a phone booth on 7th Avenue in St. Paul--Tom would leave messages with the operators to ask me to call. It was all a bit more personal in the pre-cell phone days, even in a phone booth on the 3M plant-side of the tracks in St. Paul ( the whole neighborhood smelled of Scotch tape).

By the time he arrived to pick me up in St. Paul at the end of the contract, our future was a question mark. We spent the next two weeks, meandering along the north shore of Lake Superior, moving and re-pitching our tent every night. We got good at it--it became less of an ordeal and more of a smooth process. We learned a little something at each stop.

We (I) learned that you can lose a lot of money playing gin rummy for double or nothing, especially after many Amaretto shooters. We had the opportunity to mine amethysts and learned that you can't pay rent with the proceeds. We spent time in a town with the largest incidence of twins in North America, and learned that they don't walk around arm-in-arm for the benefit of tourists. We learned that a small chipmunk can make a very large dent in a pot of macaroni, and that it is never a good idea to engage in a tug-of war with a skunk over a loaf of bread. We learned that baby moose are still plenty large and that border guards (even then) don't appreciate humor that involves weapons. Somewhere between Thunder Bay and the Mackinac bridge we also found our future again.

So yes, my son, you can borrow the tent, the stove, the lantern and the cooler. You are on your own for the Amaretto.

Congressmen

2010-03-22T18:29:00.000-07:00

Oh my. Say what you will about the health care reform bill (pause for editorial comment, "it is about damn time, and I am sure it would have been better if everybody had been participating instead of obstructing"), the political rhetoric has been astounding. Let's start right here in my home state where Congressman Ryan had a lot to say. As it turns out, so do I.
CR: This bill does not reduce the deficit.
Me: I thought the purpose of all was to provide affordable health care to average citizens.
CR: What kind of country will we be in the 21st century?
Me: Hopefully a healthier and more prosperous one.
CR: Do we want the government having a bigger role in making personal decisions?
Me: No, that is why it is a mistake to criminalize abortion, regardless of who pays for it.
CR: Our rights come from nature and nature's God, and not from the government.
Me: Are you referring to Gaia/Mother Earth--and is the Republican party okay with this view?
CR: When the government creates rights and is solely responsible for delivering these artificial rights...
Me: Wait, are we talking about guns now? Let's not go there.
CR: This bill is condescending--more Americans will have to depend on the government than themselves.
Me: You mean like those people who can't afford to retire after a lifetime of work because they are too young for Medicare and can't pay for health care? Those people? Or maybe it is the elderly at the end of their lives who watch their life savings disappear into the nursing home until they are on their last dime and can finally apply for Medicaid? Or perhaps you mean the people who would like to return to school and retrain for more relevant employment who are held prisoner by their employer-paid health insurance. "Let freedom ring" has a whole new meaning with affordable health care.

And Congressman "Baby Killer" Neugebauer? You should be ashamed of yourself. Bills don't kill babies, poor health care does.

Now sit down and shut up. There is serious work to be done.

Confession

2009-10-31T18:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, deep breath, here we go..I mailed something for a stranger today. I can almost hear the collective gasp, the thought--how could she? Well, it started innocently enough. I was crossing the street to my car with a flat rate package under my arm, when an approaching car slowed, and then stopped. The window rolled down and a middle-aged woman leaned out. "Do you work for the Post Office?" she asked. "No," I responded, "I am just on my way to the Post Office." "Well in that case," she said, "would you mind mailing something for me?"

I hesitated. "You mean like a letter?"

"Some birthday cards."

"Well...okay."

She pulled them from her dash and handed me three Hallmark-like envelopes, waved, and cheerily sped off.

I looked at them--her return address from two blocks from my house and one of the cards was going to a Very Reverend somebody in Milwaukee. I took them to the Post Office. I mailed them.

What kind of person entrusts their mail to a total stranger? Well, Constance somebody from down the street. What kind of person accepts mail from a stranger? Apparently me.

What does this mean? Well, I think it means that the terrorists haven't won. Unless they have. In which case, I know nothing.

Carry-Out

2009-10-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

I really like good food, and I have come to realize that, for me, it is often a reward after a difficult day...or week..or month. I am working with a dietician and I am currently confounding her with yoyo swings of gain and loss. She refers to me as her "wild card." Today I I facetiously brought up the idea of "mindful eating" with the idea that one watches what one eats and then lets those thoughts go with return to the breath. In other words, I am watching myself eat peanut M and M's and the observation is neutral as long as I continue to breathe. She embraced the concept and actually gave it substance with further exploration. This is why I continue to see her--she puts positive spin on my sarcastic output.

But back to the reward aspect of this. I have had a hellish week in many respects, doing what I least like to do--making people unhappy (even if I am absolutely correct in my methods and conclusions). My husband was out playing cards tonight and I was on my own for dinner, so I went to a restaurant I love, that he is lukewarm about. I usually get carry-out there and I don't always tip, though I was feeling a bit guilty about that. I decided I would tip tonight, just because I like the owner as well as the food.

I was glad to see that it was so busy that I had to sit on a chair in the hall, rather than at a table,while I waited for my chicken shwarma. Teresa, the owner, brought it out to me there. When I reminded her that I still needed to pay, she told me that she was buying me dinner for being a loyal customer for the past six years. I was stunned. She has nothing to gain from this gesture because I am already a loyal customer and business is clearly booming. This was reward for the business I had already provided, rather that anything I might provide in the future. The opposite of lobbying, and completely unexpected. What a lovely gesture and one that put the rest of my week in perspective.

And the chicken shwarma? Delicious, as always. Thank you Teresa!

Coincidence

2009-10-20T18:55:00.000-07:00

I am sure there are many ways to describe and quantify coincidence. There are those things that happen when we expect them to--that may be coincidence, but it may also be that the reason we expect them to happen is that subconsciously we know they are likely to. So, not so much coincidence as the result of subconscious analysis. Then there are the small world, six degrees of separation stories that I love to collect. Finally, there is probability and coincidence from the mathematical standpoint. What are the odds that your favorite number coincidentally turns out to the same number the lottery picks as a winner?

I think we are talking about the third category here. Last Saturday, we got a somewhat agitated phone call from an attorney who works at the Dept. of Agriculture, Trade, and Consumer Protection. She apologized for not calling back sooner, but she had been tailgating at the football game and had her phone off. Nevertheless, a call on Saturday from my husband, the Risk Manager at DATCP, could mean only one thing: activation of the emergency phone tree.

There was only one problem. He hadn't called her. In fact, we hadn't called anyone all morning. Nevertheless, she was certain. Caller ID gave his name and the call back number was certainly our home number. There was a garbled message, something about "Did you turn off the phone?" Suddenly the light dawned. Tom's brother had stopped by earlier in the day and asked to use the phone before he left. He had to make a call about his daughter, but he misdialed, hung up, and dialed again.

We live in a metro area of 350,000 and the number of people who can be reached by calling a local number is certainly greater than that. Here is a story problem for all of you mathematicians out there. What are the chances that a wrong number would reach a person who both recognized the name on the caller ID AND had a potentially legitimate reason for getting such a call on a Saturday?

It is enough to make me want to buy a lottery ticket.

Contraband

2009-09-28T19:26:00.000-07:00

I heard a story the other day that I thought was pretty funny--though probably not for the people who lived it. Nevertheless, I am prepared to laugh at their expense. This concerns a group of guys who do an annual fishing trip to Canada--rent a cabin, stay a few days, drink a lot of beer and commune with nature. At the border crossing, they were asked if they had any produce. Well, knowing full well there would be no problem (and probably to divert attention from the amount of alcohol they were bringing along) they declared the potatoes destined for the steak dinner on the first night at the cabin.

Oops.

The potatoes were enough of a red flag that the Canadians ran checks on all of them for prior vegetable smuggling convictions. It turned out they were first-timers with the vegetables, but one of the guys had a prior DUI--an automatic felony in Canada. And this from a country that shares a border with Wisconsin--they must be more foreign then they seem. Anyway, they would not admit the poor sap into the country and in a three musketeers gesture, his companions refused to proceed without him.

So they turned back, only to find that their nongrata status in Canada had all the alarms ringing on the US side of the border. In short, the US border patrol couldn't say exactly why, but they really didn't want them back. Not if Canada didn't want them. Caught in no-man's land with a sniper pacing the roof between the two borders, they spent an additional few miserable hours trying to smuggle their potatoes back into the land of their births.

And as I listened to this story, I couldn't help thinking about how times have changed. I remembered the time we crossed from Canada into the US with a car full of chaotic and muddy camping gear and the guy asked us if we had any guns. We invited him to check for himself, and though he didn't laugh as much as we thought he might, he didn't arrest us either.

And the sniffer dog who went into high alert over my carry-on bag which contained a large sheep's cheese from Italy--well I lied to the dog as well as his handler and they looked at me and my two young nervous cheese-smuggling children and let us all walk.

Would that happen now? I am not so sure. A kilo of declared Italian dried herbs (and yes, a kilo of dried herbs does connote a certain something, as well as being a really impressive amount of herbage) did walk through Chicago customs a few years ago, but the reindeer jerky from Norway did not. Apparently there is a ruminant virus in Scandinavia and we don't want to catch it. No, we would rather hold the fort at chronic wasting disease, a prion disorder that I prefer to call mad deer disease. I explained that I had no intention of eating the reindeer jerky or feeding it to other deer, but only wanted it to stuff the Christmas stockings of my (adult) children and claim it came from Rudolph. Maybe I got what I deserved...or maybe the customs guy thought that was an excellent idea and confiscated my jerky to distribute himself.

Either way, the fun is certainly going out of crossing international borders with food, one of my favorite souvenirs. And don't even think of taking anything with dirt on it into New Zealand. Kiwis may seem very happy-go-lucky, but those customs people can be quite severe. Trust me, I know.

I think it is only a matter of time before we are dumping not only our shoes, but all of clothes, into those little gray bins. Then naked through the showers before seeing the sidewalks of any other country. Mark my words.

Compulsion

2009-09-03T18:45:00.000-07:00

No, not that depressing French movie--I am referring to behavior that began last Friday when I discovered Bejeweled Blitz, one of the applications on Facebook. Henceforth, I will refer to it as the Devil B, so as not to add to the allure.

Not since Tetris was new have I wasted so much time. My friend Mary warned me, but I see she is posting a score of over 59,000 points in the current tournament, so clearly she is not taking her own advice.

I have been playing Lexulous for a few weeks now and it is fairly sedate. Much like Scrabble, the game it imitates, there is a board, there are letters, and everyone takes turns. Sometimes several days go by between turns, unless you have three players on three computers in the same house. Then it gets raucous with much yelling and thundering up and down the stairs and the neighbors might complain. In short, everyone's idea of good family fun.

The Devil B is a totally different animal. This is the kind of game that causes eye strain, weight loss (or gain) and repetitive stress syndrome in the mouse hand. And all since last Friday. It has all of the ingredients of a good game: it takes less than a minute to learn, but I am still working out the strategy. My scores keep going up, but it feeds me just enough stratospheric success that I want more. The shapes, colors, and sound effects provide enough multisensory cues that I know when I am doing well, and I always want to do better. I thrive on the sound of jewels glissading into patterns of 3, 4, and 5, exploding into thousands of points.

I was talking to some friends recently about keeping the brain active--the goal, apparently, is to keep laying down neural pathways. I am sure I have, but all of my new pathways are causing me to see pink triangles and discs that look like Werther's Original Toffees whenever I close my eyes. I am not at all sure this will protect me from dementia. In fact, could this be causing dementia. At the very least, I am short on sleep.

It has also occurred to me (as I am sure it has to you) that this may be one of the alien plots to subjugate the human race. The first step, after making everyone play this game compulsively, is to withdraw the game. I am getting an error message as we speak. Although my friend Mary is merrily ramping up her scores, I CAN'T GET IN!!!!

I think may need a Devil B exorcist. Either that, or a flight to New Zealand where the jewels cascade, free of error messages.

Currency

2009-08-12T18:23:00.000-07:00

Last fall I was out to dinner with a friend. In the usual settling up of the bill afterwards, she gave me a dollar with a stamp on it, directing me to www.wheresgeorge.com. I might not have even noticed, but she told me I should check this out--it was an interesting site. I actually meant to tuck it into a Christmas stocking as a novel (and cheap), activity, but I forgot. Then, afraid I would accidentally spend it before logging on (a shrewd move as it turns out), I stashed it in a galaxy far far away in my purse. There it sat.

A couple of weeks ago I got a second bill with a similar stamp. This caused me to remember the first one, but in the meantime I was craving popcorn, so I noted the serial number and fed it into the snack machine at work. Then I logged on to the wheresgeorge site and my eyes were opened.

I found out that the site is supposed to track the natural life of the currency. I think it is a bit ironic that the natural life of the currency was interrupted by my curiosity about the site itself. Nothing else would have made me hoard a dollar bill for 8 or 9 months. In addition, it turns out that this is a major hobby for some people, like scrapbooking or gambling. There are people who have set loose $20,000 or more in currency, just to see where it goes. There are blogs, chats, opinions. etc. There is also vocabulary. What I had in my possession was a "Wild" and it has a "parent" named Denny. I don't feel as special about it since discovering that Denny has a lot of Wilds out there. Does this suggest anything to you? Or is it just me who feels like I just became a stepmother while wondering about all of Denny's other offspring? Denny must be feeling disappointed about this particular offspring since it was last seen at a Walgreen's in 2008 and hasn't done much with its life. Never fear, Denny, as of yesterday, this dollar bought a cookie and is on the move again.

And the other dollar? I honestly answered the question "Is this note now in your possession?" with a "no"and I got a lecture. Apparently that is a very big rule violation because it might lead to notes being entered out of order. I figured with the Swanson's vending machine company I had a few days of grace, but wheresgeorge did not agree. And this from a site that tracks dollar bills into and out of all sorts of places I would rather not know about. If you happen to see me about town receiving change in my surgical gloves, cut me a little slack. I may know more than you want to about where your money has been.

Cheese of the Goat

2009-08-02T18:12:00.000-07:00

They say the best classroom is life itself, and I have to agree. For example, we have all learned a lot about economics in the past few years, especially the economics of oil. We used to think that prices were set at the pump, and having gas stations on four corners of an intersection was bad because it drove gas prices to unreasonably low levels. We now know that gas prices respond to major economic factors such as a hurricane, a leak in an oil refinery tank, or Labor Day weekend.

So you can imagine how alarmed I was to read that, in the past week alone, over 100 goats were stolen from area farms. The response has been a big snicker--from lardhappus: "That'll make a lot of gyros" and abcd: "I'll bet that really got his goat." They are missing the point. We are about the see an unprecedented rise is the price of goat cheese. Based on what I have seen in the oil arena, I would say that it will happen immediately, never mind that not all of these goats were producing milk yet. They represent goat milk futures--so cheese prices will rise today, tomorrow, next weekend.

Being the prudent consumer that I am, I stocked up on goat cheese as soon as I heard the news. But being a consumer, I am sorry to report that the goat cheese has itself been consumed. It was delicious. I am now left at the mercy of rising goat cheese prices just like the rest of you---but don't say you weren't warned.

Children

2009-07-25T08:45:00.000-07:00

I was in the grocery store a few weeks ago and a little girl looked at my cart and declared in amazement "Mommy, that lady has a LOT of yoghurt." Her mother looked a little embarrassed--well, it wasn't like they were bottles of bourbon (different aisle), so why the reaction? It made me think about all of the times I tried to stifle my children's opinions, at least in public. While it is true that children can say the darndest (and most mortifying) things, it is usually the truth, and nothing more.

And if actions speak louder than words, children are the living proof. Bored? They will let you know. Wanting your undivided attention? They have their little ways. So as a parent, taking children out in public is always fraught with danger. We don't necessarily want those truths let loose willy nilly. Lately though, I am finding it delightful to be around other people's children, at the grocery store, in their party clothes running rampant at weddings, or simply finding new uses for the flower-girl basket.

Lighten up parents--at least until one of your cherubs crawls under my table at a restaurant, double-dips at the buffet with a finger, or makes a loud and truthful comment about my person. I have my limits.

Chili

2009-07-23T17:10:00.000-07:00

I was feeling inspired last night, so I cooked two batches of chili: one for my mother-in-law and one for us. Here are the ingredients for the one we ate. Some of the ingredients are very local, but substitutions are always possible.

Brown:

3 lbs ground chuck
1 onion

Add:

2 large cloves garlic mashed with sea salt
1 yellow pepper, chopped
2 fire-roasted red peppers, chopped
2 serranos, seeded and minced
Medium chili powder from Penzey's
ground chipotle peppers
Adobo seasoning
Chicago steak seasoning (Penzey's again)
dried epazote

Stir a bit and add:

1 large can Rotel (tomatoes and green chilis)
1 large can hominy, drained
a Tupperware container of red beans with liquid, cooked Salvadoran style by daughter Emily

Cook until it looks like a whole rather than the sum of the parts.

Serve with grated cheese and steamed zucchini.

Cairn II

2009-06-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

It is instinct that causes us to find partners and breed (or not), but a driving force is certainly the inclusion of our DNA in future generations. I am not sure what it is that causes us to befriend other species and make them part of our families. It does not seem to favor our chances of survival, so I have to conclude that there is a human need to love, whether it be our own kind or others.

Take dogs, for instance. Or one particular dog--the hearth, the pivot point of our family for 15 years. How does this happen? One day you are bringing home a puppy with large uncertainties and no manners, who is basking in the wind of the car vent, and the next, you are curled around the bed of a very sick dog, with the fan trained right on his face, because he always liked it. Is that a suitable final hour of his life? I would like to think so.

His last week was spent in a place he loved, with our undivided attention, because we did not have to be at work. Within eight hours of our arrival home, he was too sick to stand and the prognosis was grim. We could find out exactly why he was sick, but we would not be able to do much to make him better. We made the hardest decision of our lives, and yet it felt right.

We will miss you Bailey--we signed on voluntarily for this sorrow but that does not make it any easier to bear right now.

Cost

2009-06-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

I was amused a few weeks ago to read about a small revolt in which the consumer appears to have been the victor--at least for now. I can only imagine the discussion about market priming and timing that took place before Amazon offered a Kindle version of a new release by a popular writer at hardback prices. The Kindle consumers of popular literature (which until then had cost them less than $10 per download), said no, no, we won't go. And didn't.

Good for them, I say. We have been sheep too long, which was made very clear by the rationalization for upping the price. Apparently, it is not cheaper to provide an electronic version of a book. No, the cost is all in the marketing and promotion, and advances to the authors, etc. The paper and ink, and the expense of transporting them are very nominal costs. The reason that Kindle downloads have been so cheap is that they have been subsidized at a special introductory price to support a new market.

Wait a minute. The cost is in the content and not the materials and shipping? Then why is a "pocket" paperback $10, the larger trade version that used to be reserved for "literature" $15, and the hardback around $25? I wondered this the other day when searching Border's for a book that I found in both pocket ($10) and trade ($15). Hmmm, what to buy? Were there fewer words in the cheaper version? Key scenes left out? No, of course not. But I did kind of assume that there were different costs for the printing, the paper, the shipping, etc. Now I find out otherwise. And where does that leave audiobooks at $50 or $60 per set? If the difference between print and audio format is pocketed by the narrator, that is one fabulous career choice that I wish I had considered.

And now I read that piracy of electronic books is proliferating. The authors certainly deserve their copyrights, but based on what I know now, the piracy has been going on a long time and it is consumers who have been walking the plank. Another recent article bemoaned the fact that audio rights were going unpaid when electronic devices read the electronic versions. I don't even know what to say, (and I am a little afraid that I might have to pay someone to say it.)

Do you suppose Johannes Gutenberg had to deal with these kinds of issues? I can hear it now--"But everyone will have access to written materials at a fraction of the cost. The monks who are currently producing books will have no livelihood and the masses might learn to read. We don't need no stinkin' European Renaissance."

Stick to your guns Kindle readers--we sheep are depending on you.

Courageous

2009-05-17T17:52:00.000-07:00

Last fall we finally built the kitchen garden that has been in the planning stages for the past ten years. Yes, ten years, since we ripped out the old raised bed, relocated the perennials that lived there, and repeatedly discussed the replacement. Last fall, Tom moved more than a ton of stone, a task especially onerous when one is coerced into an extra layer even after the neighbors have weighed in with their opinions. (Just remember, opinion counts for nothing when set against vision).

Last fall, I planted bulbs and a few perennials and was gratified when the squirrels didn't plunder all of them. This weekend, I added almost four flats of herbs and color in the form of both perennials and annuals. I know I will love raiding this bed for dinner all summer long--rosemary, oregano, fennel, arugula, parsley, savory, chicory, thyme, cilantro. These plants will be watered and lovingly tended.

But my favorite plant in the garden today is the volunteer viola I found growing in the brick patio. This was no nursery plant, carefully fertilized and watered. This is the bloom that had a rough life and beat the odds. I will cut and eat the bounty from my kitchen garden all summer, but this is the plant I will remember.

Cliches

2009-04-24T20:03:00.000-07:00

I have a love-hate relationship with cliches. On the one hand they embody the trite, the unoriginal, the shopworn. On the other hand they are linguistic shortcuts, the common currency of our verbal interactions. Imagine if we had to laboriously explain cliches each time they were spoken and you get an idea of how much time we save by using them.

Proverbs are cliched notions that have wormed their way into a folksy vernacular: "A stitch in time saves nine," "Don't count your chickens before they are hatched," etc. I don't really have problem with these; they have stood the test of time (another entry in the cliched phraseology hall of fame). They are so familiar, in fact, that we don't need to produce the whole sentence to convey the idea. Simply stating "don't count your chickens" is enough. Maybe someday we will evolve to the point that declaring "chickens!" (or texting dcyc) does the trick. But I digress.

The cliches that cause me indigestion are the newer ones--those that meet the trite test but are not time-tested (can all those T's be accidental?). New enough that they are often uttered with the air of having hit on a new idea, a clever turn of phrase, but old enough to make me wince inwardly when I hear them. I think in this age of constant and instant communication, this plague of cliches hits harder than it used to--original thought is under constant threat.

Specifics you say? Well okay. How about thinking outside the box? I simply don't anymore. I will think everywhere BUT outside the box. So there.

Can we agree to disagree? No, we can't. What that says to me is "I am right, but my time is too valuable to waste arguing with you." And that just makes me want to short-sheet your bed. Also argue about this topic and any other that comes to mind. You lose either way, believe me.

What goes around comes around. Perhaps, but not as often as it should.

It is what it is. Technically this is a sentence but I think it should be downgraded to a punctuation mark, along the lines of a period. Why? Because it doesn't actually add meaning, other than symbolic, and it will stop a conversation cold.

I could go on, but I think you catch my drift. One of the biggest problems I have with cliches is that they are so seductive. My efforts to avoid using them probably gives my speech a somewhat halting quality, like a reformed stutterer. It is not that I am trying to not repeat myself--I am trying to not repeat myself and thousands of others. That is why I like analogies. Ideally, they are composed on the fly and the most successful are both unexpected and apropos. I keep trying for the bullseye in this extreme linguistic sport.

So, finally, this latest thing of asking questions and then answering them? Talk about total control of the conversation. Do I think this is really lame? Yes, I do. Have I caught myself doing this? Sadly, yes. Did I hate myself in the morning?
You know I did.

Chickens

2009-04-10T17:41:00.000-07:00

It seems fitting to write about chickens three days before Easter, and about eggs as well. (My favorite philosophical question has to be the chicken/egg conundrum and I invoke it frequently in a work setting, but this is about chickens and eggs in a very real sense.) It is actually, specifically, about the eggs in this photograph. You may not be able to tell from looking at them, but these eggs came from happy chickens. At least this is what I am told by the man who should know.

Who is this man? Well, he has a place on my list of good people to connect with should the shit ever hit the fan in a major way. Not because he is an attorney (though he is) but because he is also a doctor, and a chicken farmer. Yeah, I know, but no, I am not going to share his name or the location of his farm.

So this is a person who provides both medical advice and eggs, and mostly I take advantage of the eggs. Eggs from happy chickens do add complications to any baking activity. For starters, and I probably don't even have to say this, the ugly eggs get broken and used first. That sometimes makes for hard decisions. The pretty eggs get transferred from one box to the next until finally I feel compelled to crack them into something--an omelet, a pan of brownies, wherever their fate takes them. In addition, each egg must be broken into a separate container--I learned this the hard way because even though they are nature's perfect package, eggs still have a shelf life. (Especially the fertilized eggs which I like to think came from especially happy chickens.)

I like the green ones best and when the green-egg-laying chickens were swept away by the Spring 2008 floods I felt the loss very personally. Fortunately a new generation has matured to take their place and I can once again count on green eggs amongst my dozen. Every once in awhile, I save pieces of shell because they are exactly the color that I want to paint my bedroom walls. For some reason these are eventually determined to be cooking refuse and are thrown away by someone (who coincidentally wants white walls in every room).

Never mind--there are plenty of eggs and shells to take their place--and all of them from happy chickens.

Happy Easter!

Charter

2009-03-27T20:22:00.000-07:00

How do I hate them? Let me count the ways, or the whys. Perhaps it was the time they disconnected our service because the automatic deduction of their bill from our credit card failed. You know how you get a new expiration date every two years? Well, that baffled Charter. Or may be it was when they cut off our service the second time AFTER we had corrected the information about our automatic deduction to our credit card. Or was it the fact that both times they tried to charge a reconnection fee even though it was their error that interrupted our service?

Perhaps it is the wasted Saturday mornings on speaker phone waiting for answers, or at the very least, a human voice.

It wasn't the hours our service was out during the Emmys last year--we don't care enough about them to mind that too much, though I did use that as a reason for not handing over our phone service. What would we have done with the time the Emmys were unavailable if we had also lost phone service, I ask you?

No, finally it is about a company that enjoys a virtual monopoly with lousy customer service and yet, does not seem to be able to run a business without going bankrupt.

Did I mention that my niece's husband was expecting to receive some $25,000 as the result of a suit regarding shady overtime practices that Charter recently lost? Hmmm, class action suit, loss, bankruptcy. Could there be a connection?

No, I am seeing things--must be time for a medication adjustment.

Community Supported Agriculture

2009-03-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

We love to eat our veggies and we eat them all the time
So I signed up extra-early for our CSA on line.

It was then I saw the check box for a rebate on our dough,
A family health plan kick-back for two years in a row.

Imagine our excitement when we found out it was true.
A prize for buying local, green, and organic too!

But how to spend the windfall? For stimulate, we must.
Obama said we should and in the President we trust.

We thought about more veggies and decided we could not.
A body has it’s limits for kohlrabi and what not.

So, we visited our farmers and sought their sage advice.
What worthy thing could match our rebate with it’s price?

Dave pondered our dilemma as he poured another beer.
It was just the proper temperature, unpasteurized and clear.

Then Tom had an epiphany—he knew what he should do.
He researched all his options, and when that phase was through,

Informed me that that by end of March, and certainly no later,
We’d be toasting to our health from a brand new kegerator.

“It will pay for itself in no time—even faster if we drink more beer.”

CPAP

2009-03-07T16:08:00.000-08:00

Everyone who has ever shared a bed or a wall with my husband knows he snores. Since that can sometimes be the symptom of somewhat serious issues, he had a screening in 2003 for sleep apnea. We never heard back, and when Tom asked, his doctor did not seem concerned. All good, right?

Fast forward to 2009. We were talking about the snoring and the screening, and decided it might be a good idea to take another look. "Hmmm," said the sleep study technician of the 2003 screening, "if we had seen this, we would have had you in here right away. You know Reggie White died of untreated sleep apnea. We'll want you in here for the full study."

So, last Sunday, Tom checked into Hotel Electrode. By 1am, his breathing had stopped long enough to kill a small mammal on a couple of occasions, so they slapped the CPAP mask on his face and wished him sweet dreams--REM dreams that is---something he had apparently been deprived of for a long while.

I was a little apprehensive about the whole thing--would it be like sleeping with a coma patient on a ventilator every night? You know the sound I mean--the whoosh thump of someone who is breathing by machine. Tom, on the other hand was elated. A surprising reaction for someone who would soon resemble a fighter pilot at the edge of the atmosphere as he tucked himself in. It was actually easier than I thought it would be and a little harder than Tom expected. The machine noise is more like distant surf and I lull myself to sleep every night by imagining I am at the beach. When the air escape valve is pointed at me, I simply modify the imaginary beach scene to include a stiff ocean breeze. Tom, on the other hand, was disconcerted by the "blowfish effect"--this is when he wakes up with his cheeks puffed out and dried into position. He is learning to keep his mouth shut with practice.

It is the daytime hours that make the minor discomforts worthwhile though. Both of us are experiencing better quality sleep without the snoring and gasping, and Tom has noticed that he has a lot more energy in the evenings. I have also noticed that he is--how to put this delicately?--less grumpy, cranky, ornery, well, you get the idea.

Sleep is such a mysterious state and it is not very well understood. What is clear is that if you don't get enough of the right kind, including REM sleep, it has bad effects on the body, and on other bodies in the vicinity of yours. In addition, if you stagger through life feeling like you have "iron poor blood," it may be oxygen poor brain cells instead. Not breathing is bad for your health (100% of doctors agree on this), but the solution is pretty simple. The mask is your friend.

Coraline

2009-02-25T20:37:00.000-08:00

This movie has gotten a lot of attention and it deserves it. I am a little leary of ruining this for anyone by overhyping it, but you can always stop right now if you don't want to be a victim of overhyption...overhyperation...hyperventilation? You know what I mean.

Here is the really important part: SEE THIS MOVIE IN 3D.

I thought this might just be a marketing gimmick to get people to see the movie in the theater. A good gimmick too, for a movie without action scenes and panoramic special effects, but really, wear those little paper green and red glasses like you just left the opthamologist's office? Well, it was a surprise to receive, for only an extra three dollars, some sturdy and stylish 3D glasses that you can wear again and again.

And it was a real thrill when the screen instructed the audience to don the glasses. They have some nifty little special effects to give you a taste of what 3D is all about, and then the movie starts. Well, all I can say is that it is a whole lot of fun for something that is 100% legal, and it has a plot too. Stay all the way to the end of the credits for the visual finale.

Cabin

2009-02-20T21:14:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I spent a long weekend (3 nights, two full days) in a lovely log cabin in Northern Wisconsin. In addition to being relaxing, it was an interesting experience for a couple of reasons.

The first thing was attending the dog sled races. They were held in Land O' Lakes (which is fine for the name of a butter but as I type it, I realize, very awkward for the name of a town). This was a very local event but should attract more tourists than it does. The mushers came from as far away as Canada (not too far) and Alaska (very far) and the teams were made up of anything from the traditional huskies to hounds. The mushers were as young as three in 50-yard mutt dash and a whole lot older for the longer races. I took several pictures of empty space on the racetrack--these guys moved faster than my shutter speed--but I did better at the finish when everyone was tired. There were dogs for sale, but I didn't even look--I will never in my life need as much exercise as those dogs require.

The inventory of what three women bring for amusement to a cabin in the woods is also worth noting: 44 CDs, 8 magazines, 3 newspapers, 6 games plus a deck of cards, 13 books, 2 extra books borrowed from the lodge, and three knitting projects (the latter all mine). That is indoor amusement--there were also three pairs of snowshoes and, in a different category, about 40 pounds of food. I would argue that our supplies for three days would have been identical to what we would need for three weeks. The main difference is that we might have played more of the games and CDs if we had had more time. I might have also read a book or learned Norwegian--I am not being facetious--the "Learn Norwegian in Three Months" program was tallied on both the CD and book counts.

I think this is practice for eventual retirement--we assembled all of the ingredients for a life without work, but we just ran out of time.

Color

2009-02-18T19:12:00.000-08:00

I have been knitting a baby blanket since June. It used to be for a particular baby, but she kept growing while I kept knitting, and now it is for a different baby who can't be born until I finish it. I am estimating 2011 at the moment but it could be longer. I like the pattern, but failed to notice that it is knit on needles with the girth of toothpicks. The other problem is the color--or lack thereof. It is a lovely cream, and as December turned to January, I couldn't stand the absence of color in my world a minute longer.

In a fit of color deprivation, I logged on to Virtual Yarns and ordered the yarn needed to knit the lovely Alice Starmore baby bonnet featured on the cover of Piecework magazine last month. I had to hunt around for the colors, which are arranged by categories of nature--plants, birds, water, etc. The prices were in pounds, so I knew it wasn't local, but I was unprepared for the package that arrived less than a week later.

It was wrapped in brown paper with a faint stripe like packages of yore, before bar codes became popular. It had a Royal Mail of Scotland sticker and a customs sticker signed by M. MacLeod of the Isle of Lewis. It made my husband nervous, as do all packages that bear customs labels and finish our address off with "United States of America." I was unable to reassure him as I still haven't done the pound to dollar conversion, but I have to say, it has been worth every shilling, ha'penny, etc. I went right to work on winding the skeins (Mara, Golden Plover, Kittiwake, Poppy, Red Rattle, Whin, Witchflower, Sundew, Summer Tide) and a few days later finished the bonnet. I found out that Alice Starmore achieves her effects by using several hues of a color that are gradually added and subtracted from the pattern. The process is addicting with both "one more row" and "one more color" keeping me going.

It was the perfect antidote to the cream knitting project that never ends, and the perfect project for the middle of winter. And whoever will end up wearing this bonnet can go ahead and be born--I'm ready for you!

Communication

2009-01-23T19:23:00.000-08:00

It is almost too much of a good thing these days. When I was young and living overseas, the only practical mode of communciation was by letter. Telephone calls were saved for emergencies and bad news. When I was stranded alone in the Miami airport for three days at the age of 13, my parents were reduced to calling Braniff pilots for insider information on flights and passenger manifests. These days it would be infinitely easier to access flight information via the internet and probably impossible to find out if a minor child was aboard any of those planes. Of course, losing a minor child for three days is probably unthinkable for the airlines now, no matter how tall she is. Times change.

Anyway, back in the day (other than for emergency situations), one had time to reflect, to choose one's words, to limit the message to a narrow audience. Today the communicative landscape has changed so dramatically that we are drowning in words and pictures. Don't get me wrong: I am very happy that I can call my daughter in El Salvador and my son in Minneapolis and not think twice about either call. I can email them, and the rest of the family, at multiple email addresses, layered one on top of the other to escape the spam bandits. I can, as one connection who I have never met put it, "passively spy on my friends" (as well as their friends, to some extent) through Facebook. I have connected with high school classmates, with the interesting person I met on a flight to Madrid in 2003, with my children's friends, and with my peers and relatives. Never mind blogging, IM, Gmail Chat, and telephone texting and email interface--who has the time--and the manual dexterity--to keep up with that? Oh, and did I mention that all three phones in the immediate household work, until they run out of batteries?

This week I accidentally spilled news on Facebook, and my daughter emailed more news that prompted my son to leave the following status on Facebook: "Chris--Oh you didn't know?" I think really, the status should read "you didn't know immediately?"

Again, don't get me wrong. I love communication and there are individuals out there who will attest to that. But I think we are losing the subtlety, the exclusiveness and the individual tenor of our communications. We can stay in touch with everyone within three degrees of separation but we are becoming more generic in order to do it.

Here is the last bastion of individual and idiosyncratic communication. I am looking at a note, in handwriting, on the desk. It says:

The roots of love
What becomes of the broken hearted
Dr. Vu Tues 4pm??

What can I say? Excuse me, while I check my email and Facebook for recent updates.

Cheney

2009-01-20T19:21:00.000-08:00

I didn't see this myself, but I understand Dick Cheney was in a wheelchair for the inauguration. Rumour has it he was trying to establish a Worker's Compensation claim before leaving office...

Christmas

2008-12-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

Every year, my plan is to get all of the holiday activities finished early so I can sit back and actually be present in the moment for Christmas week. Every year I fail, so it has actually become my quest to simply fail less than in previous years. I was doing very well this year until I got sick, but it helped that my daughter was here with a Christmas fire in her belly after two holidays spent abroad.

This is how this year stacked up:

Avoid malls after mid-November: I actually exceeded my goal here and did not set foot in a mall after the first week in November. That one was easy since that last time it was a little scary how people kept trying to spray fragrance on me and examine my hands for dry skin all over the mall.

Buy 4 pounds of butter, or cause 4 pounds of butter to be bought: Check.

Buy fifth pound of butter after an unfortunate accident involving glass in the cookie dough.

Make English Toffee--this year we were blessed with the spontaneous manifestation of the miraculous toffee parakeet (see photo). We may be putting it on EBay, so stay tuned.

Pick out a Christmas tree from Dean Mueller's front yard and stash it in the garage until my daughter, the Christmas slave, (she prefers elf) was home home to decorate it. Yes.

Get all presents wrapped and mailed on time. Sorry Mark.

Finish all knitting projects. Almost. It is difficult when pairs are involved. The hat was done, the scarf was done, but only 1.5 socks, and 1.8 slippers were finished.

Make and eat several really large meals in the days leading up to Christmas. (Ring in the New Year with leftovers, and more leftovers.) Despite well-meaning advice to go for restaurant take out, once the fridge was full, there was no choice but to empty it.

Play games with the family. This year it was bridge, food trivia, and Rock Band 2. We could have played more of all of them, but the need for sleep kept interfering.

Avoid seeing commercials where couples give each other a Lexus with a big bow on the roof and it is a surprise. Especially the version where the small child is in on it. First of all, this woman has emptied the family bank account or taken out a very large loan and her husband is oblivious. Then she tells the kid what she's up to and he apparently doesn't spill the beans to Dad five minutes later. I succeeded for the most part, but I am clearly still bearing the scars of having been infuriatated during previous years.

Listen to just nice Christmas music and nothing annoying. This is extemely challenging and remains a goal for next year.

Get and give presents that can be folded into the household possessions within 24 hours. I need help with the edibles this year. Chocolate anyone?

The ultimate goal, of course, is to make the holiday less commercial and more fun. The very best part his year was having both the kids at home...second best was probably the butter.

Contagion

2008-12-22T10:07:00.000-08:00

I have had a flu shot for the past eleven years and it has been at least that long since I have been really sick. I was starting to feel complacent and apparently this may have caused my biological guard to drop. Whether it was that, or the possibility that the flu shot manufacturers missed the slow boat from China this year, I am here to tell you, there is some nasty stuff going around. Should you be so unlucky, here is a bit of advice for getting through it at home, surrounded by your loved ones.

First of all, if your loved ones are surrounding you, make them wear surgical masks at all times. The holiday photos will be memorable. In case you are wondering why the patient wouldn't be the one wearing the mask, it is because you will be having enough trouble breathing without the extra interference.

It starts with a sneeze and sudden nose congestion, as if you had just been exposed to something that makes you allergic. At this point you have about 36 hours to complete your holiday preparations and lay in supplies before an alien takes up residence in one of your sinuses (yes, just one, but that is more than enough) and your nose starts to run.

Here is what you will need: chapstick, aspirin, or the equivalent, lots of Kleenex (I recommend the kind with lotion--this is no time to pinch pennies) and lots and lots of liquids. Don't worry about food--you won't want to eat. Nor should you, for reasons that become clear on day three. Charge up your phone--it is an excellent way to summon your caretakers from other parts of the house, though they may not fall for it a second time. Attire: Docker drawstring men's pajamas and a really old Tshirt are just the items you need to transition from day to evening, and straight into bed, if you aren't there already.

Forget reading anything more involved than Dick and Jane, catching up on correspondence. etc. You won't have the energy and your feeble attempts to accomplish anything will only make you feel worse. On day four I attempted a Humphrey Bogart movie, but the suspense regarding who killed Maria, and why, (and what was the deal with the cousin?) continued even after the final credits rolled. It was simply over my head. I had more success with CaddyShack, and watching it twice helped me pick up the subtle plot nuances that I missed the first time.

The good news is that by day six, you will once again be able to leave the house with a portable Kleenex supply small enough to fit in a purse or several pockets. You may even be able to operate heavy machinery, such as a car. One final note--to our friends who invited us for a lovely dinner on day two--if I had known I was going to get that sick I wouldn't have exposed you to me. Or at the very least, I would have brought surgical masks for everyone.

Chow Chow Chow

2008-12-12T20:30:00.000-08:00

Today productivity was back up, but morale took a hit. Buddy got too hungry for his own good--or maybe it was a tranquilizer hangover--but either way he went after some food in one of the traps and ended his little adventure. One of the security guards spotted him last night and called Animal Services so that he didn't have to spend another night in the bitter cold.

We missed him today. No doggie drama to update, no big red dog to spot out the window, cruising through the parking lot. I actually heard someone suggest a visit to the animal shelter, just to say hey.

I'd like to think that the next time he escapes (and I'm sure he will) he'll head back our way. I think he had a pretty good time with the whole episode. I know we did.

Chow Chow

2008-12-11T18:30:00.000-08:00

Buddy's story continues to fascinate three office buildings and significantly slow productivity. It appears that it is not true that the owners tried to lure him home, nor is the next rumor accurate: the owners are away and he escaped from "doggie daycare." Well, actually it turns out that the owner is away in a sense--he is in jail and Buddy escaped from a relative's house. This version I have from credible sources--our security personnel whose job it is to know these things and also to chitchat with the animal control folks all day long.

The other true facts are these: he has been on the loose since December 2nd, and one reason that he has eluded his captors for so long is that a group of animal lovers at one of the office buildings has been feeding him and provided a shelter of sorts. This seemed shortsighted when I heard about it, but I am beginning to wonder if Buddy would rather freeze to death than surrender, in which case they are prolonging his life.

Yesterday Buddy flaunted his foxy tail all over the upper parking lot until a small army of animal control cars staked out the area. Then he was nowhere. This morning we were updated at the quarterly all-staff meeting, so everyone knew the plan was to drug his food today and slow him down enough to catch him. I heard several people around me mutter "Run, Buddy run!" and I realized that this is a dog who is rapidly becoming some sort of folk hero.

I am also beginning to wonder if there isn't some sort of supernatural element to all this. Buddy ate his hot lunch laced with tranquilizers and, although he was a little disoriented, he still managed to recognize and elude the enemy with a dose on board that should have caused a serious nap at the very least. And then there are the cars--he seems to have some rudimentary reading skills and will not approach any of the vehicles emblazoned with "Animal Services." It is as if he has decided that he does not need any kind of "service"--not even from the attractive female Chow that was brought in yesterday for friendship and maybe more.

Buddy is smart, and he is wily, and he is rapidly running through every Animal Service trick in the book. Given the manpower invested so far, I would not be surprised to see the ultimate bait out in the parking lot tomorrow: a guy in a County blaze orange jumpsuit with cuffs around his ankles.

Chow

2008-12-09T15:26:00.000-08:00

The woods around my office building are full of wildlife. I have see deer, rabbits, a fox, wild turkeys, and (you may recall) the area was even home to cougar for awhile. This week the local fauna was joined by a chow. When we originally got the email, it was termed a "stray" dog, but this is clearly not the case. This dog is a runaway.

Today he was out of the woods and in the employee parking lot. He is a beautiful dog with a fox-red coat and a tail to match. He will approach humans with a curious, friendly air as long as he is not too close and they pretty much ignore him. They were trying to ignore him today, but it was clear that many people felt uneasy about turning their backs on him while cleaning their cars in the parking lot. At about 2pm, the animal control guy showed up and tried to entice the dog into the back of his jeep. There ensued an OJ-like chase around the parking lot with the dog trotting briskly up and down the rows of cars and the animal control jeep in hot pursuit at five miles an hour. Very amusing to those of us watching the "Buddy" show. That is, apparently, his name.

We know this because his owners showed up a day or so ago and tried to get him to come home, but he would have nothing to do with them, preferring to fend for himself in the wild. Now teenage runaways--that's sad, but everyone knows that teenagers are volatile and unreasonable at the best of times. A dog, though, Man's Best Friend, that's just plain embarrassing. Especially a dog named "Buddy."

At this point the place is littered with traps and food in the hopes that Buddy will get hungry. After watching him outsmart the animal control guy, I think it is more likely that they'll end up with a fox, a raccoon, or maybe a carnivorous turkey in those traps.

Lots of possible outcomes here--I'll keep you posted.

Chilly

2008-12-08T18:04:00.000-08:00

Almost no work got done today, between discussions of the impending storm, and plans for tomorrow, when we are getting possibly 12 inches of snow. This year is shaping up like last year, with snow every other day, beginning December 1st. The first reaction is weary. Already we (I use the term loosely) are tired of shoveling, but we need to also remember the beauty of this season: fresh snow in the moonlight (we don't really see the sun after daylight savings kicks in), the fresh scent of dry air at 10 degrees F, and the sparkling jewel that was my car in the parking lot tonight, encased in a quarter inch of ice.

All afternoon there was the nostalgic stream of school closings. My children used to tune in to the local radio stations, waiting (usually fruitlessly) for the Madison Schools to close. The few days this happened were legendary and wonderful; time home with walking errands only, all activities cancelled, the drama of major weather occupying every thought. Today at work, I could feel the yearning. If the office doesn't close tomorrow, there will be some 500 severely disappointed adults. We might have to all just call in sick.

Complexity

2008-12-03T19:36:00.000-08:00

I was desperate and had only one place to turn. There I was, home alone, with the power to choose the evening's entertainment on television and I could not make it work. All three remotes with half-remembered successes from past TV viewings were not jelling into both a picture AND sound experience on our home entertainment center. So, I made the dreaded call. "Honey? You are forgiven for leaving home with all of the turkey and stuffing leftovers after Thanksgiving. I can't work the TV. Can you help?"

"Okay, Mom. Are you looking at all three remotes? Pick up the longer black one and look for the red button on the upper right that is labeled 'source.' Press it twice."

I did, and it worked. I was amazed at the fact that my son was able to visualize the remotes in a house he doesn't even live in anymore and diagnose the problem that quickly. I do feel a need to defend myself--I am not a complete moron, but every time I master the home entertainment center, the components change. Our most recent acquisition doesn't even HAVE buttons on it and required yet another remote to be added to the array.

It made me think about that age-old question. What is complexity? For me, it is three remotes with a total of 157 buttons and a differing pattern of button-pressing needed to watch a DVD, watch TV, play a CD, turn the speakers on in the kitchen, see a picture that corresponds with the sound, etc.

So what if we were to translate 157 buttons into a different idea? A party, for example, with 157 guests, a combination of friends and family with food, drink, mingling, etc.? I don't want to single out any one gender, but just for example, let's talk about men. Would a man be able to separate those he has met from those he has not? Distinguish between work related guests and personal friends (ooh, that was an embarrassing story that may get shared at the office!)? Will he know who is a daughter/niece and who is a trophy wife? Will he know not to launch into cute baby stories with the woman who is struggling with infertility? Will he tell that hilarious anecdote with unfortunately recognizable characters--"oh my God, Sandy, I didn't recognize you--didn't your hair used to be a different color?" You catch my drift.

Stop and consider--if we admit that complexity comes in many forms, let us contemplate that the same individual who could help me operate the TV over the phone was unable to negotiate the ethics making off with most of the turkey and all of the stuffing from the family refrigerator. This was apparently more complex than visualizing and understanding 157 buttons on three different remotes. Complexity and gender: dolls and trucks are only the tip of the iceberg.

Cowgirl Creamery

2008-11-24T18:22:00.000-08:00

Three or four years ago we made a trip out to California for the wedding of a niece. It was one of those first trips without expensive and opinionated children along and we had a great time. On our final morning in Sebastopol, my sister-in-law helped me shop for a travel picnic at Whole Foods. I was simultaneuously introduced to two cheeses: Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove and Mt. Tam from Cowgirl Creamery.

Later that day, as the airline staff passed out revolting and inedible sandwiches (not just my opinion as it turned out), I unpacked my picnic and was soon the center of attention and envy of at least seven rows of seats in each direction. That it replaced airline food was only one of the factors that made that picnic indelible--the other was the cheese.

Back in Wisconsin I rushed to my local WF for more, only to be told that Mt. Tam is only shipped in cold weather so that it arrives in good condition. Starting in October I pestered the cheese staff about every two weeks, and at least some of them seemed just as anxious to lay hands on some Mt. Tam as I was. The Humboldt Fog became an occasional treat and source of mystery--how do they get it to ripen backwards from the outside in?--but Mt. Tam was never available. Eventually, like a best friend breaking the news about an old boyfriend, the cheese staff told me there would be no Mt. Tam for Wisconsin cheese junkies. I moved on, but I did not forget.

If this seems a bit melodramatic for the subject of cheese, I only want you to understand why, last week at WF, the sight of a cake of Mt. Tam (MT TAM!) actually caused my heart to speed up, and even more significantly, caused me to pay an outlandish price in these lean economic times, to take some home with me. I am babying it a bit--making sure it gets to the right temperature for eating. I did have to taste a wedge to determine that it was not at peak ripeness yet. My husband pointed out that it doesn't look good enough anymore to set out at Thanksgiving. I laughed and laughed--what made him think I was going to share? In fact, didn't the death threat if I were to come home and find it gone tell him anything?

I look at it this way--whatever I paid for it is still cheaper than the plane ticket to California would have been, had it come to that. Although I did go on the website, and the creamery tours look mighty tempting---plus we have relatives in the area. I am sure we are overdue for a visit.

Cooking

2008-11-16T16:03:00.000-08:00

The antidote to many things, cooking is the perfect activity on a cold November weekend. My usual approach is to make a recipe more or less as written the first time unless there are obvious flaws, like ingredients I don't like. I tried a couple of new things this weekend with mixed results. Our CSA bestowed many sweet potatoes this year and I am not a huge sweet potato fan unless someone else has deep fried them to crispy crunchiness and provided some sort of tasty dip. I was on my own with the sweet potatoes this weekend, so I researched the cookbook library. The next best thing to frying, which I don't do well, was cooking several pounds of SPs whisked through olive oil on cookie sheets in a 500 degree oven, with a corresponding pan of five red onions, cut into rings. The result was supposed to be golden puffed SPs with a complementary melted onion component. I should have been suspicious when the recipe specified that the onion rings should not touch each other more than necessary. That many onions (4 actually--I was already anticipating the problem) were more of a heap than a layer. Total cooking time was to be 25 minutes on a side and the first 25 minutes went pretty well, although there was no puffiness to be seen. I flipped everything and slid the pans back in the oven exactly as specified (flip SP pans top to middle, and back to front, leave onions on bottom rack). I set the time to 20 minutes and it should have been 10. When the timer went off, I pulled out a really burned mess. Unless the final five minutes is when the sweet potatoes separate from the carbon char and puff up into golden slices, this recipe was a failure. To add insult to injury, the house still smells faintly of burned sugar.

The other recipe was one I got out of Friday's newspaper and it was totally worth stealing the paper out of the lunchroom before the workday was quite over. I won't bore you with the details, but it is a soup that involves sherry, brandy (I used pear brandy--necessity being the mother of invention--"didn't we have anything cheaper?" asked my husband), 30 cloves of garlic, potatoes, gorgonzola and 2 cups of heavy cream. I served it with micro greens as a garnish and fresh wheat bread on the side. Oh My God.

Tonight we had the antidote, and this is an improvisation:

Drizzle a tablespoon of sesame oil in a non-stick 9x 13 pan. Place a 2 lb salmon fillet in the middle, skin side down. Surround the salmon with a bunch of lancinate kale, de-stemmed and shredded. Smear 2 teaspoons each of freshly grated ginger and garlic on the fish and drizzle Tamari over fish and greens. Cover with foil and bake at 350 for 20 minutes. While the fish is cooking, make white rice (sticky rice would be good, but I didn't have any). Uncover the fish and add 2 cups of fresh spinach, and salt and pepper. I am partial (okay, addicted) to Penzey's Roasted Szechuan pepper salt blend, but it is not essential. Re-cover and bake another 10 minutes. Remove from oven, flip fish and remove skin. Add 2 cups fresh arugula and cooked rice to whatever proportions look right to you. Mix everything together (fish will break up and rice will soak up pan juices). Serve with more Tamari at the table.

I am hoping this will help scour last night's meal from my arteries.

Confidence

2008-11-14T20:31:00.000-08:00

It is such an elusive quality, confidence. It isn't aggression, or bravado. It is really hope, in its strongest form. We overuse it these days--"give us an estimate and then tell us your percent confidence in what you just said." It is nothing but a wish transformed into numbers--10% confidence, 75%, how certain are we that our prediction will come true? On Sunday I projected a wish to a friend, with 100% confidence. I told him that I was certain (and I was) that he would see another Wisconsin Spring. I told him that he could contribute a guest blog entry to my CWord blog because I would not presume to write about the reality of living with Hepatitis C.

Last week he voted. This week he is dying. All of my confidence cannot float his lifeboat to May and make my prediction come true. I wish it could.

Cinema

2008-11-14T18:47:00.000-08:00

I don't like repetition and seeing a movie once is generally enough. I made an exception tonight for "The Professional" which I have seen a couple of times. That is one fine movie in a genre I don't usually watch the first time. Natalie Portman is great, and the supporting cast is flawless.

Combo

2008-11-12T18:51:00.000-08:00

It is such a fifties word, "combo." As in jazz combo, not a band, but something else, more casual. I thought of this word on Monday night down at Mickey's Bar. This is not a place we go often, but with new ownership and a promising chef, maybe we should. Anyway, Monday is a bad night to go out, and a good night to stay home in the "leisure wear," watching what there was no time to watch on TV over the past week. We were out because our friend the painter (profession), guitar player (hobby), and former cab driver (source of actual money) is playing a regular Monday night gig at Mickey's and we said we would show up. To make sure we did, we arranged to meet mutual friends, and that worked far better than the Monday night notation on the calendar for the past three weeks.

The band set up in a corner of the bar, chatting with each other and customers. Our guitar-playing friend walked over the to table to acknowledge that he learned valuable guitar lore from my husband, in addition to how to shave. Apparently that made a whole new look possible at age 22. The place was pretty full for a Monday, I thought, but what do I know? I am usually at home in leisure wear at that hour/day of the week.

The line-up was interesting: in addition to our friend, there was the documentary filmmaker on keyboard, the guy with a past (and a voice) on harmonica, and the attorney on stand up bass. And then there was the music--blues, French cafe music, folk standards. The guitar player's landlady was tapped for some harmony, and (lead by our table, I think) the whole bar joined in for The Sloop John B. The musicians seemed to enjoy the singalong, though I noticed they trotted out some original stuff immediately after. We didn't know the words, but it did not prevent some from humming along with the chorus.

We left reluctantly, but still past our Monday night bedtimes, and as we walked home, my husband said, "what did you think of the combo?" I was stunned that he had pulled that dated word right out of my head. So it made me wonder, "what is the difference between a band and a combo?" It must be that corner of the bar, remembrance of shaving lessons, singalong, multiple genres, fun, casual musical experience that makes us think of a combo. Maybe also the fact that they have no name, as well as no record deal, and no cover charge. No more bands for me--from here on out, it is combos all the way.

2008-11-03T18:03:00.000-08:00

Crossroads

2008-11-03T17:25:00.000-08:00

Pre-election jitters--how to manage? I really don't remember ever being this nervous before. Of course, in retrospect, I should have been at least this nervous last presidential election, but I couldn't believe we (as a population, as a citizenship) could be that stupid. We were.

I am taking nothing for granted this time--especially the political where-with-all of my fellow citizens. The unfortunate thing is that I still have only one vote, and one voice, and not too many venues to exercise it in. This is one, but I suspect I am preaching to the choir. In the case of my blood relatives, I had better be preaching to the choir.

So, what I am doing to manage pre-election anxiety:

Took two sick days last week and laid on the couch catching up with two weeks of newspapers--also started a couple of books. Watched no TV.

Thought about the possible places I could move to if things don't happen as they should on Tuesday. I have had a number of spontaneous offers, but I believe all of the potential hosts don't really think we can elect a Republican again, so they feel safe making the offer. I hope I don't have to disabuse them of that notion by showing up at the door with a suitcase.

Ate bacon. 'Nuff said.

Watched my husband move 3000 pounds of stone for a raised kitchen garden in back of the house.

Made three cakes in one week.

Thought about a vacation in Norway with my Republican aunt--that's how much I love her!

Donated money for pizza for the Obama workers during the last four days.

Made mac and cheese with a whole head of roasted garlic in it, along with a pound and a half of good Wisconsin cheddar.

Reviewed the hate mail being generated by the Republicans in the final days, took Tums to combat the outrage--sad to say it was ineffective.

Let's get this election over with, let's make history, let's do the right thing, let's move forward. And for God's sake, let's do it before I move up a clothing size.

Candidate II

2008-10-16T21:35:00.000-07:00

We don't tune into the Letterman show every night, but often enough to have caught Letterman repeatedly skewering McCain after McCain stood him up for an interview with Katie Couric instead. So tonight McCain appeared on the show and I have to give him some credit for guts. I am sure his aim was to bring the constant one-sided badgering to an end. I am sure he thought he could handle anything after all this time on the campaign trail. I am sure he thought he could dangle a future appearance by Sarah Palin out there and Dave would go easy on him. I am very, very sure that he misjudged this move completely. For those of you who haven't seen the show yet, I don't want to spoil your fun, but Dave was the clearest debate winner we have seen to date.

Catastrophe

2008-10-10T17:51:00.000-07:00

Two true stories from one week: A couple is walking in San Francisco and they hear a horrible screech and a thump. They turn in time to see the body of a bicyclist hurtling through the air. The man runs to assist while the woman calls 911 on her cell phone. As the man reaches the victim, she is clearly in shock. He starts to reassure her that help is on the way, but she clutches him and repeats over and over "I can't afford this--I can't afford this."

A woman teaches for many years and then become disabled. She is fortunate to have an insurance policy that guarantees her 90% of her salary, with annual cost-of-living increases. She also qualifies for Social Security Disability benefits and Medicare, not to mention a mention a pension fund based on her years of work and pay-in to the state retirement fund. All of these were earned benefits. Her last retroactive cost-of-living increase went to the attorney who is handling her bankruptcy. Why is she filing for bankruptcy? It is the cost of her medications, or more specifically, the copay for her medications. This runs to $1200 a month, give or take a few bucks. When her copay exceeds $5000 in a given year, she qualifies for "catastrophic" health cost assistance. The problem is that year after year of waiting to qualify for assistance with her copay have taken a financial toll. This not the result of compulsive gambling or shopping--this is the result of living with chronic illness in this country DESPITE years of productive, tax-paying work and contributions to the systems that are supposed to provide protection.

We have heard for years that we can't afford a universal health care system in the United States. Our citizens travel to the "third world" for medical procedures that they can not afford at home. Every discussion of this important issue includes horror stories from England or Canada detailing the waiting periods for a CT scan. There is no discussion of what Canadians or the British (and many others) have, that we don't--basic health care for all--and how much that saves everyone over the long haul in health care costs. There is no discussion of systems that combine public and private health insurance. There is no discussion of what the bail-out of Wall Street and the short-sighted car manufacturers would have bought us in basic health care for our citizens. There is no discussion of the fact that --in the face of rapidly rising health care costs--most insurance carriers are operating on a for-profit basis. Who generates the profits?--not hard to guess.

Hurricane Katrina--catastrophe? Yes. Fallout from Hurricane Ike in the form of torrential rain and flooding (pictured above)? Well yes, in some areas. Rising gas prices? Maybe. Health care delivery in this country? Yes, Yes, Yes!

Cats in Costume

2008-10-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

Cruel or cute? All I can say is, judging from this cat's expression, revenge will be taken.

Cancer

2008-09-21T16:49:00.000-07:00

This isn't what I intended to write about at all, but I am frankly frightened by what I am reading during our final weeks leading up to the election. The serious press seems to be at last waking from the dream/nightmare of the last eight years. As they groggily shake their heads to clear them, they are beginning to lay bare the truth behind some of the propoganda being promoted by the McCain campaign, the "Roveian" tactics that have been so incredibly effective for the Republicans. (The not-so-serious press is too busy rolling in the delights of a VP candidate with a photogenic face and accessories, but more on that later.) It is hard enough to watch the ads that claim Obama will raise taxes--not true for the vast majority of Americans--or see how ridiculously easy it still is to use scare tactics and disseminate falsehoods--- "repeat a lie ofen enough and it will be believed" It is even more difficult to contemplate those subjects not being discussed.

So let's talk about cancer. In particular, let's talk about skin cancer. There are a couple of kinds that most people know about: Basal cell carcinoma is the kind that lots of fair-skinned northern European types get once they hit middle age. The dermatologist removes it in an office procedure and it is a pain, but not generally deadly. Melanoma is the other one. It can affect anyone, and it can show up anywhere, not just in areas that have been overexposed to the sun. It spreads aggressively, to the point that some surgical procedures call for mapping the downstream lymph system and removing it along with the mole in question.

My half-sister was diagnosed with melanoma on her shoulder blade at the age of 34. She had spent a few years living in Arizona and was a real outdoors type. She was fortunate enough to have excellent health insurance and she was successfully treated. In October 1999, 10 years after she was declared "cancer free," she decided to move from Arkansas to Colorado. Her doctor gave her a thorough check up to serve as a baseline for her new medical providers in Colorado--in the course of this, a nodule was discovered in her lung. It was just sitting there quietly, causing no symptoms yet, and we all felt that she was extremely lucky to have had this diagnosed by happenstance, much earlier than it would have been otherwise. Also on her side was her otherwise good health, and excellent health insurance and access to care. Needless to say, treatment was aggressive. Eight months later, at the age of 45, she died of metastatic melanoma to the brain.

This is a sad story, but in the case of my half-sister, there were no national implications. Her death did not impair the running of a nation or result in a stunningly unqualified politician taking up the reins of our government. While some of you might argue that we have had a stunningly unqualified person at the helm for the last eight years and nothing too bad happened, let me remind you that plenty of bad things happened. Even so, as much as I have been unable to watch our President in action (can anyone forget him getting the giggles when the mayor of Hamburg, Germany referred to her people as Hamburgers?) it could be far, far seriously worse if Sarah Palin gets keys to the White House and the code to the direct line to the Kremlin--(howdy neighbor!) among other things.

I suppose I could be accused of using the same scare tactics that have been so effective for the Republicans. I have a couple of things to say about that. First of all, some of you may not find this scenario scary ("kind of a babe" in the White House!) but you should. The second is that everything I say here is true, and has nothing to do with spin. Finally, (alright, three things) this is a reason to NOT vote for McCain. There are plenty of reasons to vote FOR Obama that have nothing to do with the McCain/Palin ticket. Check them out, use your healthy brain, and vote.

Candidate

2008-09-06T19:29:00.000-07:00

We can deny the fact that global warming is not caused by man. The question is can we take that risk? Palin seems to be an intellient woman but, is misguided if she thinks, she can take on congress as VP.I think she is being used by the powers in the Republican Party, Boy what a chess game.!!!!!
Lillie, richmond, USA
Not sure bout bears, and warming. But i do know that i had my first child at 16 and I raised 4 by myself & my mother is a wonderful person! Stop bashing Mrs. Palin for her kids! Does anyone know the politics of raising kids? Obviously not! Shut up until you have been in her shoes!
Robin , Munford, USA
Palin is radical and not qualified to be President but neither was George Bush. If that's the kind of leaders the idiot Republicans want to put in power so be it. George Bush couldn't even spell the word science let alone understand it. Palin can't understand it either. Obama all the way for me.
Paul S., Cary, NC, USA
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/environment/article3987891.ece

Dear Robin,

I am confused. When you say I should shut up until I have been in her shoes, exactly what do you mean? I have raised children, and there weren’t politics involved. It was more about earning a living and providing them with an education and the kind of family values that are talked about a lot in Republican circles but not always carried into action. I am very proud of my children—one of them is a Peace Corp volunteer and the other teaches the children of single mothers who are furthering their education.

I am sure your mother is a wonderful person, but is she qualified to be Vice President of (one of) the most powerful countries on earth? I have no interest in bashing Ms. Palin for her kids—how many she has and what kind of parent she has been is not really the issue. Her political experience and the opinions she holds that can affect my life as a citizen and the trajectory of this country are the issue. Frankly, Robin, I find her lacking in experience and I find her political views revolting. If I understand you correctly, I may not have the authority to speak on this since neither I nor my children were parents at the age of sixteen, but I hope you will reconsider here. After all, she slashed funding to programs aimed at women just like you.

And Robin, I am sure you are a busy person, but please check into the bears and warming at some point before you vote.

Sincerely,
Melissa

Chiles

2008-09-01T21:48:00.000-07:00

It was just a matter of time before this C word got posted, and what better time than the annual harvest of chiles from my garden? This year has yielded a pretty good crop but I again failed to label my plants. I thought I had, but either I was wrong or evil garden gnomes are laughing at my efforts to identify my produce. Today I grilled and peeled an assortment of peppers that included either New Mexico chiles or Italian frying peppers. Both delicious, but with a real difference in heat and recipe application. At least in my own garden I know better than to plant anything I wouldn't eat. I can't say the same for peppers acquired at the farmer's market.

Yes, yes, I know, free will, and all that, but here is what happened. I was looking at a basket of jalapenos and wishing they were serranos, when I spied a basket of long wrinkly members of the capsicum family. When I asked about them, I was told they were too spicy for me. Too spicy for me???? Of course they are, but what self-respecting person walks away from that sort of challenge? I am not sure because I am confident that no one I know would do anything but plunk down two bucks to buy the lot and that is exactly what I did. Now I have a problem. I have no idea what these are or what I should do with them. I went entirely through my Chile Pepper Encyclopedia by Dave DeWitt and I did not see anything that resembles my unidentified capsicums. I did find the following entry though, which is worth sharing:

"In Guntur, as in other worldwide hotbeds of chile consumption, those who do not eat chile are viewed with concern, if not suspicion. The people of Guntur attribute the abnormal avoidance of chile to several causes: the offenders have lived abroad, are from out of town, or have married someone from a less fiery state."

Guilty on all three counts and, I have to say, there is no state less fiery than Appleton, Wisconsin.

But back to the problem at hand, is there anyone out there who can tell me what it is I bought at the farmer's market? Extra bonus points if you can provide a recipe that uses them in some edible and delicious manner.

Conscience

2008-08-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

I will admit from the very start that I am not a regular reader of the Catholic Herald, so I am indebted to local columnist Bill Wineke for putting me on to this. A few of you are glazing over already--Catholic Herald? Bill who? Stick with me here--I am about to break open a sex scandal of major proportions. But first, let me back up.

Apparently, on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of Pope Paul VI's Humanae Vitae position paper upholding the Catholic stance on contraception, Bishop Robert Morlino wanted to say a few words. He initially said them to church staff members, but his speech was published in the Catholic Herald on July 24, 2008, just in time for the anniversary.

According to Bishop Morlino, the trouble with moral decay in the Catholic Church began with the decision of many Catholics to follow their consciences instead of the edicts of the Pope. Once that Pandora's box opened, it was only a short step for church leaders to follow their "own consciences in terms of sexual misconduct." So, essentially, the consciences of some church leaders, in the absence of listening to anything the Pope might have to say, lead them to believe it was okay to molest children. Disagreement with the Pope's opinions on birth control was just the first step towards pedophilia.

For those of you who believe I am sitting on the skinny end of a tree branch with this, let me quote Bishop Morlino...

"Once bishops, priests and others decided they could use conscience to excuse them from obedience to the truth, as taught by the Church-when bishops and priests started giving conscience the authority to determine moral truth, rather than obey the truth as taught by the church, it is not surprising that some priests and some bishops started to follow their own conscience in terms of sexual misconduct.

The rejection of the Natural Law and reason, in the rejection of Humanae Vitae because of a misunderstood notion of conscience has lead to all of these terrible consequences and on top of it all too, the sexual misconduct scandal with some priests."

Bill Wineke has his opinion about this when he says "Dismissing it (the clergy abuse/bishop cover-up) as a manifestation of a contraceptive mentality is to do a disservice to the priests and the people in their pews." I agree with him completely, but he has ignored the larger question here--who is ultimately responsible for the sexual misconduct scandal in the Catholic Church?

I think some of you already know the disturbing answer to this question: Jimminy Cricket, guilty right down to his shiny little spats. The evidence is overwhelming. Who kept saying "let your conscience be your guide?" The Blue Fairy. And who was the conscience? Jimminy Cricket. Who was reaching the masses at just the right time? Exactly! Have we had priest sex abuse scandals before or since? This is the smoking gun here...not only were some priests ignoring the Pope, they were listening to Jimminy Cricket and the Blue Fairy instead. Not since the Teletubbies scandal have such supposedly benign characters warped our sensibilities so severely. I hope we can find it in our hearts to forgive, but Disney has a lot to answer for on this one.

Corked?

2008-07-18T16:33:00.000-07:00

We were tired when we pulled into our no-frills motel--it had been long day of travel and we had had a late lunch instead of dinner. Plus, after sitting in the car for many hours, I wanted to walk. We "discussed" our current needs with each other, and I approached the desk clerk to asked if she could (ha ha) recommend a place within walking distance for both ice cream and wine, She barely paused before pointing us to a Perkin's Restaurant with a full bar. I was stunned.

Although there was indeed a bar, it was smokey, so we opted for the restaurant tables. We sat waiting for service for so long that I was able to eventually master the solitaire game left on each table. (The solitaire game should have been a clue to the average wait for anything on the premises, but it had been a long day.) Pretty soon, after awhile, after time had lost all meaning, the hostess came up and apologized for the waitress who was apparently overwhelmed by the duties of socializing with two other tables of local folks (how did we know? by their police uniforms).

Anyway, the hostess offered to get us our drinks and we ordered. This was not difficult as there was only one option in white wines. After a very, very, very long time (okay, time had not completely lost meaning) she returned with a soda and a glass of cold Chardonnay. She apologized for the time it had taken and told us that she had really had some problems opening a new bottle (where was the bartender? I wondered). She went so far as to remark that it seemed as if the bottle was mocking her--we all laughed. The wine was no worse than I would have expected at Perkins and I was comforted by the fact that the bottle had had a cork.

Some five or ten minutes after I toasted my Solitaire triumph with my cold Chardonnay, the hostess approached and asked for my glass of wine back. It seemed "there was something wrong with the bottle." Corked? Tom snatched up the glass and wafted it under his nose. While I tried to explain to both of them that the wine seemed fine, the hostess insisted that she needed to remove my glass and would bring me another. I sent it off, still a bit bewildered, but sure enough, back came another Chardonnay.

Some time later, when the waitress came to take our order we asked her what the problem had been. She airily informed us that the hostess had broken the neck off the bottle of wine when trying to open it. She looked at me. "I knew what had happened, but didn't realize that she had served you out of the broken bottle," she explained.

Wow. There we stood at the exact intersection of honesty and stupidity.

I feel fine so far, though my attorney says I am not out of the woods yet. I'll keep you posted.

Camping

2008-07-16T19:32:00.001-07:00

Camping can be a wonderful thing. For me it is about preparing and eating food in the open air, the smell of the campfire, the wind in the pines, an interface with the natural world that is a little closer than the one I experience from from desk at work, or my urban backyard. It is also about adventure, since nature is always a bit unpredicatable. The last time I went camping we had a tornado evacuation from our tents in the middle of the night, and two visits from bears. When you are in a tent, a visit from a bear can be pretty terrifying, even if said bear is more interested in bacon grease left on a grill than in the contents of said tent. You just never know.

This year, three couples and an extended family headed north into the depths of the Hiawatha National Forest in the upper Penninsula of Michigan. Experienced campers all, we were ready for anything—or so we thought.

We arrived on Saturday on a gorgeous, sunny day and set up our tent and screened picnic table shelter. We were a little nonplussed by the small village next to us, populated by a dozen people and a dog, and anchored by a huge RV and a large pickup truck, but they kept to themselves. We had a plan for locking our food in the car each night, but bears and other wild creatures were no problem at all, for reasons that slowly became clear. The campground faced a small blue sparkling lake marred only by the motorboat that pulled tubers (not potatoes, the other kind) in a tight circle for several hours. Nevertheless, we found our friends in scattered sites and, over the constant whining from the motorboat engine, we had fun sharing beers on the small beach on the lakeshore.

The next morning we were surprised to find that the entire neighboring village had decamped without even waking us in our tent. By the end of the day, we would miss them, desperately.

Around noon, a new group arrived—an RV and several trucks in the adjoining site, other groups scattered around the campground, with all of their teenagers clustered together in a site adjacent to ours on one corner. Within minutes of their arrival, Megadeath and their ilk boomed at top volume from the teenagers’ powerful car speakers, and continued until we asked the parents to intervene at 11:30 pm.

The next day was spent away from the campground in an exploration of the beautiful National Lakeshore. Shortly after our return at 7pm, Megadeath started up again with an effect not unlike having teeth drilled without novacaine. At 10pm, the hour when all audible electronic music was supposed to stop, we asked the parents to quell Megadeath, and requested that the camphost make an appearance to enforce the rules at site 28, equally loud, though in a different genre. The camphost made one slow circuit in his Pinto, the music dying on his front bumper and swelling at his back. Shortly after his ineffectual patrol, I wandered over to site 28 and asked them to turn off their music. The volume level of the music pouring from the open doors of the pick-up would have resulted in a police call in any more urban area. They irritably turned it down a notch but would not turn it off. Our friends who abutted their campsite reported that it played all night—again. Sleep-deprived, they planned to pack up and leave a day early.

We enjoyed a relatively quiet evening, turned in, and planned to leave a day early with the last of our friends. When we woke up on Tuesday morning, it was to find that we had ignited a campground war of sorts. Campsite 28 made his displeasure known by means of a two-fingered salute and slow rotation in view of our friends, We did not have a direct view, so had invectives hurled at us as we broke camp. Site 29 had not spoken to us since apologizing for the attack of their three dogs as Tom walked the path to the latrine. They were clearly trying to stay out of the line of fire.

Our next door neighbor at site 31 amused himself by standing at the edge of his site with a pugnacious stance, radiatating anger and staring at us for almost three hours—from the time we woke up to the time we drove away. When Megadeath started up again at 10am or so, we asked the teenagers to turn it down. He screamed at them to turn it up—because we might leave faster—and then screamed that we were unwanted, should leave, and never return. Damn—I was all set to book another Hiawatha camping vacation! Then, in a classic Bre’r Rabbit move, Mr. Site 31 decided that the teenagers were not annoying enough and he cranked his own music to everything his truck could produce. His taste in music was much more bearable to us, and once Megadeath was drowned out, we were able to continue breaking camp without screaming, though we did have to lipread as we coordinated our efforts. Tom noted that he played “Now You’re Messing With a Son of a Bitch” no fewer that four times—a subtle move that was lost on me.

The fantasy ending to this story: Shortly after we pulled out, a forty foot RV rumbled in to take our place. A bunch of burly retired law enforcement types spilled out of the huge pick up and unloaded a couple of cords of wood before firing up the generator on the RV. Popping the tabs on their beers, they opened the doors of their pick up, cranked up their sound and started in on 8 hours of the best of international opera, until precisely 10pm.

The real ending: We drove away with one more stop—the campground dumpster. We drove slowly down the road and hadn’t spotted it yet, when we saw a woman walking towards us. We stopped to ask for directions to the dumpster, but before I could open my mouth, she introduced herself as one of the women camped in Site 31, and tearfully apologized at length that her husband and his immature friends had ruined our vacation, not to mention serving as horrible role models to all of the teenagers camped with them. I thanked her for her words, but as we drove away I felt nothing but sadness for the fact that we could drive away, but she could not, or had not.

Fantasy ending number 2: For Ms. Site 31, this is the last straw. She has had it with Mr. 31’s anger at her, at their kids, at the world. She can’t stand his friends and she secretly longs to camp in a tent instead of an RV. She leaves him, takes the kids, and ends up with a really nice guy who owns the Ace Hardware store in Munising.

Now that really is a fantasy.

2008-07-03T20:58:00.000-07:00

Crambe Cordifolia, Chapter II, June

Consumer Credit

2008-07-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

Two "C" words--how could I resist? Although this is a serious problem for many, and never more so than when the economic bubble bursts, leaving soap on all of our faces. Credit is how we give up our free will and indenture ourselves to the companies that provide convenience at a terrible cost. Credit comes in many forms--there are the loans that make big dollar purchases like cars and houses possible. There are the unexpected catastrophes like your house being ripped in half by torrential rains with no flood insurance, or a medical emergency with inadequate coverage. And then there are the small luxuries that add up and up and up.

After a recent conversation regarding the family credit card bill (I would like to pretend it was a conversation I was having with myself, but that would be a lie) I decided I would pay more attention to what went on the credit card. I left the house for a round of errands with the following items on my list: 2 yards of silk ribbon for baby booties, a present and card for a couple having a joint surprise birthday party, the book for my book group, a half gallon of milk, and a loaf of bread. Here is how it actually went:

First stop for silk ribbon--I bought one yard instead of two. (Disclosure: there was only one color available that I liked).

Second stop: kitchen supply store where I did not buy anything, but arranged to bring all my knives in for sharpening next Saturday.

Third stop; Penzey's Spices for the birthday present and a jar of "Barbeque of the Americas" (jar was empty in Arcadia--must be good).

Fourth stop: Borders for multiple birthday cards (we all know what the price of gas is these days--better stock up), my book club book and a book for my Aunt who is celebrating a major milestone birthday. I resisted the current issue of "Selvedge." but made note of the next issue which is all about Indian fabrics--a must have and due out any day.

Fifth stop: Whole Foods, always a knee-weakening experience at check out. Here I bought artichoke spinach dip because I like it and my party guests last weekend snarfed it all before I got any, two loaves of bread (couldn't decide) some Roman tuna salad ( I was feeling really hungry by then) and the very necessary gallon of milk. I did not get a pound of the grilled chicken Cobb salad. (Disclosure: they were out of it, even after I made the deli guy check in back.)

So, this is how it happens on a small scale, in my house, every weekend. It all adds up. How can I fault the consumers out there who were lured by the granite kitchen counters as opposed to the formica, the in-ground pool and 2 acres instead of the urban apartment rental? Well I can't really--I know it feels, I know what they are thinking. I know how easy it is to talk yourself into whatever it is you desire. But there is one important difference--what I want is not outside my purchasing power. These tugs of war are between savings and earnings, not earnings and debt.

It is easy to take the moral high ground when you have means, and I am not saying anything new if I point out that our culture is skewed towards the material, but I would like to say that these internal battles can be fought on a more modest scale than where they are fought by many. We need to keep joy in our lives, which is difficult when there is also debt, but joy can be cheap if we can free ourselves of cultural expectations.

.

Credo

2008-05-18T20:59:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs one or two and this is a pretty good one, from Mary Oliver's poem "Sometimes." I have to also include part three of the same poem though, because it is so beautiful.

3.

Later I was in a field full of sunflowers.
I was feeling the heat of midsummer.
I was thinking of the sweet, electric
drowse of creation,

when it began to break.

In the west, clouds gathered.
Thunderheads.
In an hour, the sky was filled with them.

In an hour the sky was filled
with the sweetness of rain and the blast of lightning.
Followed by the deep bells of thunder.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lightning brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Crambe Cordifolia--Giant Colewort

2008-05-10T18:47:00.000-07:00

Three or four years ago, my friend Joe asked me if I would be interested in a sprig of a Crambe Cordifolia--Giant Colewort, or maybe he offered it as a Giant Sea Kale (same family). Of course I said yes, without hesitation. Joe is in the business of raising flowers, and he likes to experiment with unusual varieties of cut flowers--in fact he may well be the source of the term "cutting edge." Anything Joe grows, nobody else does, and it is always interesting.

In this case, by interesting, I mean like something out of a science fiction movie. Not since I ended up with a Torch Tithonia in my very first seed pack of "garden mix, " have I been so impressed. My little sprig grew to well over five feet tall and produced an umbrel of white flowers the first year. The second year it dwarfed my perennial bed and I realized that it needed more space--like an open prairie. Lacking one, in the middle of the city, I did the next best thing and moved it into the neighbor's yard. They don't garden, and we do, so we get to use the extra space. It obligingly grew in the new place, but also in the old place. I turns out even a smidgen of root will produce a plant of giant proportions the very first year (apparently my gardening ability had nothing to do with it). So, every year, I look for a new recipient/victim in the gardening community to host my Crambe Cordifolia.

This year I thought I might have the perfect answer--the Perennial Exchange Party. It is a wonderful event that brings together neighborhood gardeners to exchange cuttings and divisions of favorite plants. I have been attending the party for several years but have become increasingly demoralized by the lack of interest in my offerings. This is due, in part, to the rule that each plant must be identified, and I have only a vague idea of what is in my garden. Rather than bring a division of some fabulous plant with no name, I fall back on the familiar. This year I decided to bring my volunteer Crambe, though of course this necessitated an emergency call to Joe an hour before the party. Even though my call reached him at the grocery store, he was still (bless his heart) able to come up with the botanical name of a plant he gave me several years ago. I labeled my healthy-looking Crambe and headed out. When called upon to describe my offering, I gave it my best shot, though in retrospect the "science fiction" allusion was perhaps not a big selling point in a neighborhood of compact yards. Nevertheless, a guy with a "what the hell" gleam in his eye picked it up in the second round of selections. It is the best I have done so far, so no complaints there. Now, I am worried about next year, when the same guy shows up and tells me that his yard is nothing but Crambes. Actually, that will realistically take two years and I just can't worry that far ahead.

Cougar

2008-04-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

This was the email that was broadcast to the entire company this past Friday afternoon:

"The Town of Madison police just informed me that there was a confirmed sighting of a Cougar in the early morning hours today (1:30 to 2:00 a.m.) The sighting was South of the Coyier Building near the pond on the Old Holtzman Property. I recommend that you not walk the walking path for a few days. Hopefully, it has moved on. When walking on the path, I recommend that you do not walk alone. We will follow up with the Town of Madison police next week for future updates."

I was a little disappointed at the lack of buzz generated by this message--after all, it is not the usual Friday afternoon email. Besides, I had some follow up questions. First of all, who was lurking near the pond on the Old Holtzman Property at two in the morning? How reliable can a person be who is engaged in that kind of lurking behavior? Second, what constitutes "confirmed?" If there is photographic evidence, it should have been attached to the email. That way, with curiosity satisfied, no one will be tempted to walk the walking path to get a glimpse. And, on the subject of the walking path, when choosing a companion, what is the best approach? Someone large and burly who could intimidate the second largest cat in the Americas? Or someone small who could be thrown to the feline in case of an emergency? I have a small friend but she already won't walk the path because of snakes. It is highly unlikely I could talk her into it when there is a cougar stalking and ambushing in the area. (Never mind the obvious question of what kind of friend I am to even contemplete such an idea.)

I plan to stay off the walking path, but I read up on cougars so I would know what to do if I met the critter in the parking lot. Playing dead is a bad idea, and so is running, although outrunning a cougar is not something I ever realistically had in my survival toolbox. I think it comes down to looking menacing and waving a weapon, and I think I could do that--at least if the cougar can't tell the difference between menace and complete panic, and if I could use my car keys in some lethal manner.

It turns out that cougars (or Animalia, Chordata, Mammalia, Carnivora, Felidae, Puma Concolor)don't normally live this far east, so it is exciting to have one move into the area. I really do hope I get a chance to see it--as long as it can be done from a glassed in conference room overlooking the pond on the Old Holtzman Property during normal business hours.

Cobbler

2008-04-19T19:10:00.001-07:00

If I ever find myself living in a science fiction movie--the kind where everyone has to survive on their wits--I am heading straight to Peg's house. She can grow food, cook it, spin dog hair into yarn, drive a dog sled, and make shoes from scratch. She also used to be an attorney, and you just never know when that might come in handy. I am not sure what I would bring to the table in a survival situation other than the ability to knit the dog hair yarn into itchy sweaters, but that might be enough.

Anyway, Peg is a person who took a sharp turn in her career and became a shoe repair apprentice. That is apparently the only way to learn the trade these days. It is a bit of a dying art, which may be one reason she has been so successful since starting her own shoe repair business. It is really surprising how many directions "shoe repair" can go. This week one of her jobs is a leather motorcycle racing suit that took the brunt of the damage in a crash, sparing the driver. Before she gets to that, though, she has a whole box of shoes that date from the twenties and thirties that need repairs. They are being worn for the filming of "Public Enemy" and have been too fragile in some cases for the demands being placed on them. New heels, new elastic, glue for peeling soles, but no polish or refurbishing that would make them stand out in the movie.

I wondered initially why a film company wouldn't just make fake period shoes with new materials. When I saw the shoes, it made more sense. Almost 100 years later we have a stylized idea of what shoes looked like in earlier periods--it would be hard to come up with the variety of designs that actually existed. Costume companies collect period garments and shoes--they are unique and totally authentic. Unfortunately they are also old and that's where Peg ("Cobbler to the Stars") comes in. She'll be working most of the weekend to get them done before next Tuesday when filming resumes.

So here are some of the shoes--consider this a little movie preview. I know I'll be looking for them when "Public Enemy" hits the big screen.

Chimichurri

2008-04-19T18:31:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to be able to get enough of this condiment/sauce/marinade lately. It is said to have originated in Argentina, but it has certainly spread all over since then. One version I really like came from my friend Mary in New Zealand. I don't know where she found it, so I can't attribute it beyond that, but it is delicious and worth passing on. It is good on fish, or pork, marinated and then baked, or as a condiment to grilled food. It is also very good mixed into rice.

1 large bunch cilantro
1 large bunch flat leaf parsley
8 cloves garlic, crushed
1 t sea salt
1 T ground cumin
1 T crushed dried red pepper
1 T sweet paprika
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice

Mince the herbs, and add the rest, or do the whole thing in a food processor. If using for a marinade, heat gently before pouring mixture over whatever is being marinated. This is a good mixture for kitchen experimentation--whatever you make with it will taste good.

Compensation

2008-04-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

This is a big subject and one that I probably shouldn't tackle without knowing more about economics, but really, these days I have to wonder if anyone knows anything about economics. Even in a capitalist society, you have to be willing to feed society at large, because if you don't, who will be able to buy the products and services from which you expect to profit? And you are selling products and services, right? Wait, maybe not--maybe the big profits these days are made in the virtual shell games, not unlike the guy in Times Square with the walnut shells--damn my luck, why can't I EVER win at that?

But I digress. What has really set me off is an article in USA Today about Executive Compensation in 2007. Now, you can call me naive, but I always thought that kind of money was made by the people who had ideas, founded companies, took risks, and worked hard to make them pay off. Every company was founded by somebody, right? I don't begrudge those guys their fortunes. Or take the Nobel Prize winners, the innovators, the maverick geniuses who changed the world. By all means, retire in luxury, and thanks for the big ideas.

But these CEOs--I don't get it. Why are they so special? What makes their MBAs better than the average MBA? Why are they worth millions in a society where almost everyone else is worth so much less? Why are they paid a fortune for walking in the door of someone else's going concern and keeping it going? (Or not-this does not actually seem to be a problem when it comes to collecting bonuses, stock options, and whatnot.)

This is what I have been thinking about. I have approached this from a few different angles to see if I can begin to imagine why pay packages of up to 83 million dollars per year are justified, and I keep hitting dead ends. Here are some of them.

Leadership: Well, 4 of the top 10 CEO packages are for heads of financial institutions (Merrill Lynch, Goldman Sachs, American Express, JP Morgan Chase). If you have picked up a newspaper in the last several months, I don't think I need to elaborate here. One of the headlines in this same USA Today section of newspaper reads "Some firms eye performance-driven pay plans." This rendered me speechless (and temporarily unable to type). What a concept, eh?

Consequence of error: This is something businesses use to figure out the relative responsibility and corresponding pay packages of positions within their companies. I think that the consequence of error for someone who is being paid 83 million dollars PER YEAR would be annihilation of the entire planet. We are still here, so he must be doing a bang-up job. Thank you John Thain.

Risk: This is a somewhat related area. If you are willing to shoulder an entire large company and assume all of the risk of the decisions being made, you should be compensated accordingly. I believe that means the people who really deserve compensation are the shareholders, who have taken it on the chin in a big way while those who fed them to the flames suffered not at all. No, wait, not fair. G. Kennedy Thompson of Walchovia was docked almost 2.5 million from his 18.5 million dollar annual pay package. Time to tighten the belt at the Thompson household!

There are certainly other industries where people are paid large salaries and I don't want to single out business. Within reason, I can kind of see why this makes sense for sports. Athletes can have enormous talent and make a lot of money for a franchise. At the same time, their playing days are limited, their risk of career-ending injury huge. Because sports are for the young, they may have short-changed education and be ill-prepared for other careers. They may need to live on whatever they can earn in their salad days for a lifetime.

Entertainment is similar in terms of shelf life, and most entertainers pay dues for many poverty-stricken years. Those entertainers with star power and the grit and good fortune to make the big time , well I don't begrudge them a more than decent living.

But here is the thing--I can't be Meryl Streep or Brett Favre for a day, or even a minute. But I think I could be the CEO of any company for a day. I don't think the company would be any worse off, and all I ask is the prorated salary for that one day. That, and the name of a good retirement consultant.

Cairn

2008-04-10T18:19:00.000-07:00

Next week is the dog's 14th birthday. He is a Cairn Terrier (think Toto, but since he is a midwestern dog he is a little beefier). Although I have never confused him with our children (he does not have a driver's license and he is cheaper to feed), he has a definite personality and is a member of the family. I was reading an article recently about the ability of animals to communicate verbally or using signs. It is fascinating to think about what animals might tell us if we can figure out a way to remove the barriers to our communication.

A few years ago, I participated in a wolf howl. Some twenty of us drove out into the forest in a yellow school bus with a guide. We tiptoed out of the bus and stood in the road in the pitch black night. Our guide began to howl in a wolf-like manner. After several attempts in a few locations it was a thrill to hear a den of juvenile wolves return the greeting, though I couldn't help wondering if humans howl with an accent. If we ever manage to communicate with wolves we can ask.

Our Cairn is a pretty good communicator. A short sharp bark means he wants to come in from outside. A long volley of barks signals a squirrel or the mailman. The other night he sat at my feet and emitted a growling, groaning sort of sound that clearly said "I want to throw up and I need some help finding a good spot to do it." (We finally settled on a place outside by the fence). He has a greeting for when I come home from work which involves tail wagging and two figure eights through my legs. On weekends when I sleep in and he sees me for the first time, the traditional greeting is a touch of the nose to a foot. He is becoming an elderly dog and I will miss him when he is gone.

My daughter talks about bringing her young dog, Rayo, here from El Salvador, but I think the culture shock would be too severe. She says they have two types of dog toys in El Salvador--those that don't squeak (rocks) and those that do (chickens). I don't think a chicken chasing dog who is used to looking for fun with his dog posse in the quebradas would be happy in a country of licenses, crates, leashes, and brightly colored fake fur toys. The Cairn agrees with me.

Crocus

2008-04-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

It has been a hard winter here. We had record-breaking snows, alternating with sub zero temperatures from the first of December until very, very recently. The number of inches of snow has been exceeded only by the number of times I have complained about this winter to anyone forced to listen. And I am not alone. The collective sigh of release and relief whistled around the city this weekend like a March wind in April. This weekend the crocuses bloomed. Between Saturday when the color began to unfurl, to today when the petals opened in full display, we have been rapt in our appreciation of this Spring milestone.

So when my friend Annette described the devastation of her crocuses as "heartbreaking," I didn't think she was overreacting. There they were this morning, her favorite deep purple variety. This afternoon while she napped, unsuspecting, something snipped them off an inch from the ground. She thinks it might be the neighborhood rabbit that has been living on birdseed and (she admits) apples tossed into the yard when the snowfalls were especially deep.

Spring bulbs are an act of faith. They are like the little paper flowers I loved as a child--the shells that are dropped into water that produce a paper bloom, except that the payoff takes six months instead of six minutes. I raced home to make sure that my own crocuses were intact. They were, but as I stood there looking at them, I began to wonder if the rabbit didn't have a point. We plant them for beauty, the rabbit eats them for survival. Doesn't the rabbit have more of a claim? Did the act of tossing apples into the yard create a sense of entitlement? (just kidding here). The real question is, when we mess with nature by helping a rabbit survive the winter, we should perhaps not be too outraged when he eats our crocuses in the Spring?

Creativity and Constraint

2008-04-01T17:36:00.000-07:00

Blogging is a daunting idea. When you can write about anything, where do you start? In my case, nowhere. I have a lot of interests, maybe too many, and I tend to flit from one thing to another and then back again. The wide-open possibilities of blogging paralyzed me.

Many years ago I read an interview with an architect who had just won a major award for a small chapel. The part of the story that stuck with me was the architect's explanation for how he had come up with his design. The site was beautiful, but difficult, and the budget was small. The limitations imposed upon him allowed his imagination to take up the challenge and create something unique.

It took me no more than two minutes to find the details on the internet. The architect was E. Fay Jones and his chapel, Thorncrown, (http://www.thorncrown.com/index.html) sits in a forest setting on a hill in Eureka Springs, AK. It is as impressive as I remembered. E. Fay studied with Frank Lloyd Wright and that influence shows in the marriage of the structure and the site. The wood and stone were produced locally, and everything had to be small enough to be carried along a narrow track along the hillside. These constraints influenced both the design and and the actual methods of construction. According to E. Fay, none of this would have been possible had he been handed carte blanche and a big budget.

For me, the story of Thorncrown Chapel provided the catalyst to actually put ideas into print. All I needed, in fact, was a constraint. I am not sure why the letter C appealed to me, but once I limited myself, everything opened up. So, as silly as it seems, I will write about subjects that begin with the letter C. If there is something I want to write about, and I can't come up with a CWord to describe it, then I have failed the challenge I have set for myself. I will see how far I get without cheating. I do believe this is more than a gimmick--we need challenges to succeed, and cheating is an exercise in how we meet challenges versus manipulating the rules to suit ourselves. Contemplate that at whatever level it suits you.