Chow Chow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.