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.

We All Scream

A couple of weeks ago, we found ourselves in Atlanta for my niece's graduation. There we spent a fun weekend with family, including my sister's mother-in-law, Lyn. As we wiled away the time between ceremonies and celebrations, our conversations meandered, as they do, around family news, current events, media, movies, and of course, food. 

"I love ice cream!" I declared at one point, even though there had been no ice cream on the agenda. "I don't know why I don't eat it every day!" I laughed. "Well, actually I do," I added, patting my stomach. "But a small daily portion? I would enjoy that!"

We moved on from there, and although I haven't added ice cream eating to my regular routine, the conversation has stayed in the back of my mind. And when Lyn kindly invited us to a simple supper to collect some of our forgotten belongings that she had brought back from Atlanta, I immediately offered to bring dessert. "So nice of you," she replied, "but please keep it simple."

Oh, I will.

Driveby Compliment

I parked out in the back lot this morning when I arrived at school, and I'm glad I did. First, the weather was glorious, and getting a few extra steps in while spending extra time outside was a great start to my day. 

And then, when I left a little before 4, a few 7th graders I knew whizzed by me on scooters as I trekked back to the car in the sunshine. "Hey, Ms. S!" they hailed me, and then turned around to scoot on back and give me some fist bumps. "Do you work here again?" they asked.

"I'm just helping out with SOL testing," I said, "but I'll be around until it's over."

"Will you be in the library after the test on Tuesday?" one wanted to know.

"I will," I nodded.

"Good!" he declared, hopping on his scooter. "'Cause I'm probably going to be there, and I'll need someone nice like you," he called over his shoulder as he sped away.

Angel Numbers

In the short time I've been filling in as testing coordinator, I have found that there are a number of slippery students who are masters of avoiding their testing. Today, though, I changed my approach; in addition to sending messages to them, their parents, their homeroom, and their first period, when they still didn't show up, I checked the attendance and finally found them in third period. Once the call was made, there was no wiggling out of the test today.

Kids are so funny, though (which, of course, is one reason I willingly spent three decades in middle school). Of these elusive testers, one kept putting his head down, pretending to sleep, although he was very good-natured whenever he was prodded awake. "I'm thinking," he would yawn.

Another kid banged her way quickly through her science test and then reported for her pass back to class. "Promise me something," I said as I jotted her name.

"What?" she asked.

"Come on time to your math SOL on Tuesday," I suggested. "That way you can avoid all this make-up stuff."

"What time would that even be?" she asked in horror.

"The usual time that school starts," I told her. "7:50."

She made a noncommittal face. 

"Say 'I promise!'," I insisted, and with a laugh, she complied.

I turned back to the pass, checking my computer for the time. "It's 11:11!" I said. "Make a wish!"

Her eyes widened, and she nodded.

"Did you wish that you would be here and pass the SOL on Tuesday?" I asked, "Because that's what I wished."

"No," she shook her head. "I wished for wings."

"I hope at least one of us gets our wish," I said as I handed her the pass.

"I hope we both do," she answered, and flitted out of the room.

Meh Stars

When a staff member asked our party to vacate our table right after we paid for lunch yesterday, I was a bit incensed. The six of us were still gabbing and finishing coffee, and the restaurant was not overly busy; the lunch crowd had cleared out, and no one was waiting for a table. So, when I got home, and there was an email asking for my thoughts on the place, I did not hesitate to report what had happened and how I felt about it. 

Even so, I don't usually think of myself as "that" patron. And today, when I entered the rental car office at my appointed time and found it deserted except for one other customer, I simply took a seat and waited for service. But when the phone kept ringing and ringing unanswered, and different guys with the same logo polo shirt sauntered in and out without making eye contact, I confess to wondering what on earth was happening. The din of construction right outside the window did not improve the wait, and I finally stood up so the next employee might at least acknowledge me.

As I paced, I considered where I could leave a review of this purgatory, until at last one of the polo shirts greeted me and courteously asked me to wait a few minutes. When he returned, he handled my business quickly and was so friendly that I forgot to be peeved anymore. I can't say I was one hundred percent satisfied, but I did put the cap back on my poison pen.