Silly Americans

"Have you ever taken your children to the aquarium in Atlanta?" I asked my hairstylist this morning. We were talking about her plans to visit her sister down there this summer.

"No," she replied. "Is it nice?"

"It's amazing!" I told her. "My niece and nephew are 18 and 20 now, but they have loved it all their lives."

She nodded. "We'll have to try it."

"In fact," I continued, "my nephew actually swam with the whale sharks in the big tank last month."

"Wow!" she said. "I would be much too afraid to do that!"

"He said he was afraid," I laughed, "but glad he did it."

"I'm African," she shook her head, "I would never."

I tilted my head and considered her reply. Yorda grew up in Ethiopia during a time of famine and civil war, and she often expresses her gratitude for the relative stability she has found here in the U.S. I guess maybe it is a privilege of Western society to take unnecessary risks for fun, even if they seem harmless. 

Five Little Monkeys

Now that both our cats and our dog are approaching the decade mark, there seems to be a consensus among them that all five of us belong in the same bed every night. Oh, they don't agree on territory, no, no, no; in fact, there is some competition, not always friendly. But at some point, every night, they each spend some time snoozing on the bed.

In general, it doesn't bother me. I'm a sound sleeper who contorts myself in my sleep to give the other four space. You might reasonably wonder, then, how I even know about their nocturnal habits. Well, Lucy grumbles when she is disturbed, and that does occasionally wake me, as does Heidi's yelps whenever Milo walks on her face. And just this morning, I woke up with white cat hair all over the navy tank I was wearing. Clearly, somebody (ahem, Tibby) had been cuddling up to me.

I may have to start keeping a lint roller on my nightstand.

Just a Little Something Sweet

"I don't suppose Z is here today," I said off-handedly as I passed a teacher in the hallway this morning. I had been scouring the school for a handful of elusive, test-avoidant students.

"Actually," she nodded, "he is! He's right over there." She pointed to a classroom down the hall.

I tapped on the door and walked in. "Is Z here?" I asked, and the co-teacher pointed at a young man seated to her right. "May I have him for testing?" I continued.

He was full of woe and sighs as we headed down to the testing office, but I refused to acknowledge his angst, choosing instead to engage in friendly chatter. His disposition did not improve as I set him up with a laptop and headphones and proceeded to read the directions for the test. "I can see your progress on my computer," I told him. "Let me know if you have any questions."

He worked steadily at first, but was quickly fatigued. Fortunately, it was lunch time, so I escorted him to the cafeteria. "You're going to have to have a working lunch," I said, and he nodded gloomily. "You're making good progress, though," I told him. "You're almost halfway."

What I didn't mention was that I was going to have to test him for reading tomorrow, and I was working hard to make this as painless as possible. After his second walk to the water fountain, I suggested we scour the cupboards for a cup so he could bring it back with him. There were no cups among the testing supplies, but there was some candy. 

Do your best on the test, you Smartie, read the package. "You're a smartie," I told him, "I think this must be for you!" 

That got a smile! And as he munched happily on what my brother, sister, and I used to call power pills, I broke the news to him that he would have to come back tomorrow. "Can I have more Smarties then?" he asked.

You betcha.

I'm Not Tired, You're Tired

Oh sure, I worked a ten-hour day yesterday to coordinate a staff of 75 to test 700 kids, overcoming internet outages, a visit from a state monitor, and last-minute call-outs. We even moved 100 kids to 3 locations when the session was through so that they could complete their untimed math assessment, and we got them lunch, too, all while keeping test security intact. 

And that was me in the library until 4 with the last of the last, and then down in the office setting up the makeup sessions for this morning, which I also ran single-handedly. I gamely laughed it off when the principal commented on how tired I looked around lunchtime today, and just headed down to unpack 50 bins of test materials. 

But to be honest, my proudest accomplishment over the last couple of days was calling a stranger at the central office and arranging to drop off paper tests at an unfamiliar location. This was a process I was unsure about, and of all the things, I felt most anxious about looking dumb in front of someone I didn't know. 

But? That was fine, too.

Now, to get a good night's rest—tomorrow is another day of makeups and retakes, and I don't want anyone accusing me of testing fatigue.

Shaggy Hair Story

A little more than two years ago, the stylist who had cut my hair for some time announced that she was retiring from the business. Not to worry, though, she had a referral for both Heidi and me, another skilled stylist at the same salon. We were disappointed, but eventually adapted and came to appreciate the talents of our new hairstylist. 

Then, last year, the first woman told us she was opening her own loft in partnership with the other woman she had referred us to, but she also asked if we would be interested in coming back as her clients. If that wasn't enough, a few weeks later, the two of them had a falling out, with each deciding to strike out on her own. Oof! I didn't know who should cut my hair! Heidi decided to stick with the second stylist, citing the first's unreliability, so I decided to split our business and go back to our original haircutter. 

To be honest, my every 8-12 week cut is nothing compared to Heidi's regular color and cut, but the two women continued to compete for my business. It's uncomfortable! And I haven't had my hair cut since January, both because I was fine with it growing out a little, and it was really awkward to choose one over the other. But now? I need my hair cut! 

I just don't know who to call.

Just a Pinch

This year, I have mostly foregone the showy flowers I usually plant in the hanging pots on my deck. Instead, I have a kitchen garden going out there. Along with my olive, black pepper, cinnamon, coffee, and lemon, I also have a chili arbol and some laurel, basil, lemongrass, oregano, rosemary, nasturtium, and mint.

When people discover that I cooked professionally for a few years in the now very distant past, they often ask whet my favorite thing to cook is (or was). It's a tough question, because my favorite thing is always what I'm hungry for, and so I have a robust pantry, a full freezer, and a penchant for grocery shopping even at the end of a long day.

So, having fresh herbs and aromatics at arm's reach all summer long? What more could I ask for?

Insta Stock

I love having homemade chicken stock around to cook with, but preparing it used to be a bit of a traumatic trial.

When rendering all the necessary bones and scraps, what is at first a delicious aroma becomes cloying and almost sickening after the hours of simmering that the broth requires. Over the years, I've tried several strategies to lessen the pungency-- cooking with open windows when possible, running the vent fan when not. I've even been tempted to let the stock simmer all day while we're at work, but that seems reckless and ill-advised. 

It finally occurred to me a few months ago to try cooking my carcasses in the instant pressure cooker. There, the concoction is sealed in by a steam gasket. Bonus? The whole process takes a fraction of the time and yields a concentrated, rich, and very flavorful product. Oh, there's still a hint of chicken broth in the air, but it's very tolerable, and the clean-up is fast and easy. And now I almost always have one of my favorite cooking staples on hand.