Fine Dining

We were sitting down to a delicious dinner of Arctic Char, tabouleh, and roasted rainbow carrots that my brother had prepared when Heidi's phone dinged. A friend had foraged an enormous puffball mushroom near her cabin in W.V. and wondered if we wanted to try it. 

Feeling fortunate to have not only one but two offers of a meal in one evening, Heidi thanked her and explained where we were. "No problem," she answered. "This thing is HUGE! I'll bring you some in the morning." 

True to her word, our friend delivered a grocery with a bowling ball-sized piece of the mushroom and a fried cutlet from the night before. I had watched a video she'd posted of her preparing the dish when we got home from dinner, and I was eager to try the steak-sized slabs of mushroom. They were delicious: mild and tender, like a soft version of white button mushrooms, and I could think of so many ways to serve them.

This afternoon, it was my turn. After a bit of research, I peeled my portion, sliced it, and used a rolling pin to compress the marshmallowy texture. Then, I roasted the sheets in the oven with a little olive oil and seasoning. Next, I layered them in lasagna with a marinara sauce, ricotta, basil, and fresh mozzarella. 

The results were delicious: earthy and tangy and light, and Heidi told her friend that we'd be happy to take some puffball anytime she has extra!

Shoulder Season

I walked through the farmers market in the rain this morning. Despite the inclement weather, I was by no means the only shopper, although I did make quick work of the excursion. It was a bittersweet shopping trip: I bought a half dozen of the last peaches of the season, and it was clear that the corn and tomatoes will be gone soon, too. The greens and apples are plentiful, though, as are the staples of the market, like eggs and meat. Winter squash and sweet potatoes were sporadic, but soon, they will take the place of their summer brethren, right on schedule for October.

Just How I Imagined Retirement

The piney tang of rosemary scented the heavy, humid air in the garden yesterday afternoon and reminded me of a dish from my first cooking job way back in 1985: store-made angel hair pasta with fresh tomato sauce. The sauce was simply crushed tomatoes, garlic, and rosemary, simmered briefly and finished with butter. I had a half dozen imperfect late-season tomatoes in my basket, and the rosemary was plentiful, so all I needed was the pasta. 

Once I got home, I pulled out my ancient hand-cranked pasta machine, threw a couple of eggs in some semolina flour, kneaded the dough briefly, rolled it out, and cut it into angel hair. Then, I skinned and seeded the tomatoes, ground them coarsely, and made the sauce with my rosemary and garlic.

It was sublime.

YOL9

"Why does Milo have to scratch me when he sits with me?" Heidi demanded for the hundredth time.

I shrugged sympathetically.

"Why does Milo love that box so much?" Heidi wondered. "It's too small for him!"

I nodded sympathetically.

"Why does Milo hate it so much when I kiss Lucy?" Heidi mused. "He doesn't even like it when I kiss him, but he looks so grumpy when I kiss her."

I raised my eyebrows sympathetically. 

"I think we've established over the last seven years that he's just an oddball," I answered, thinking of some of his other quirks, such as eating super slowly, or crying at the door whenever Heidi leaves for a moment before dinner, or flipping out whenever Tibby smells like the vet, or running to find me the minute he hears my meditation.

"Let's roll with it," I suggested.

Soggy

Today's dewpoint was 71 degrees, which equated to about 95 percent humidity. You know it's muggy when the cardboard boxes in your UPS delivery are damp, even though it's not raining. "This must be what living in a rainforest is like!" I told Heidi. "I'm still waiting for that crisp fall weather!"

Another One Bites the Dust

For the second day in a row, I witnessed one of my fellow pedestrians take a tumble. 

Lucy and I were in the same area but in a slightly different location when we approached a tall man and an adorable toddler playing. The little boy, unsteady on his feet, as toddlers are, turned to run away from his dad and went down. 

He lay sprawled silently on the sidewalk, stunned for a moment, until the man scooped him up. Then he started crying, but his father gave him a little hug, checked for damages, brushed him off, and set him on his feet. 

By the time the boy drew his next breath, indignantly prepared to keep on crying, Lucy and I were there. Seeing the dog, his face instantly changed from stormy to sunshine, and he reached for her. 

Like yesterday, I made her sit. "I saw you fall down," I told him. "But you got right back up! What a tough guy you are!" 

He lurched forward. 

"Do you want to pet my dog?" I asked. Lucy sat as still as the canine good citizen she can be, and he tentatively touched her back. "You are very brave!" I said, and he ran back to his dad. 

"Thank you," the man said.

"You're welcome," I answered, thinking how better that went than yesterday.

The Bystander

As always, when Lucy and I were on our midday walk through Shirlington, I scanned the sidewalk ahead of us to see who we might meet. My eyes landed on a woman perhaps a few years older than I and then flicked to see who was behind her. At that moment, she disappeared from my peripheral vision, and I looked down to find her sprawled on the uneven bricks ahead, her phone, keys, and purse strewn around her. 

"Oh no," I said as we approached, "are you okay?"

She waved me off, and I made Lucy sit. We stood a couple yards away, and she got to her knees and then stood. I was unsure of what to do; it seemed clear that she did not want me to touch her or her stuff, but there was no one else near us. "How can I help?" I asked.

She slowly gathered her belongings and then limped forward. "I'll be okay," she grimaced. 

I was relieved to see that her phone screen was intact. As she passed me, she paused to look at it, and I crossed my fingers that she would call someone.

"I hope your day improves," I offered as I continued on my way. 

It was the best I could do.

No Comparison

"I'm making zucchini spirals and soba for dinner tonight," I told Heidi when I picked her up from school.

"Yay!" she cheered, as I knew she would because this dish with fresh tomato sauce, olives, and basil is one of our favorites, and we haven't had it recently. 

As excellent as it is at the peak, or even end, of the summer season when the squash and tomatoes are vine-ripened and fresh, it is also a fair midwinter offering since the olives and lemon perk up any subpar produce.

Whenever I make this dish, I am reminded of a time in early March a few years ago when we ran into a friend at the store after school. This particular grocery had recently opened, and it was expansive and well-stocked. They even had a bar and a take-out counter. "Did you know they do a lobster dinner here on Thursdays?" our friend asked, gesturing to a couple of bags steaming in her cart. "It's such a deal!"

We nodded in appreciation. 

"What are you all having tonight?" she asked.

"Zucchini pasta," I answered. 

Her face fell. "I'm so sorry," she shook her head.

The level of dismay in her expression made me laugh out loud.

"We're not sorry!" Heidi, the person who eats lobster every night in Maine, reassured her. "We LOVE it!"

Wordle as Metaphor

I was a little bleary and waiting for the coffee to brew when I pulled out my phone and launched the NYTimes Games app. First up was Wordle, and I punched in my usual starting word, TEACH. It took a moment to register that all the tiles had flipped to green. "There it is!" I whispered to myself when I realized today was my Wordle-in-one day. 

My elation dimmed a bit later, though, when I was confronted with a familiar conundrum: if not teach, then what?

Scofflaws

The sign was clear: Construction! Trail Closed. Violators will be prosecuted.

"Maybe we should turn around," Heidi suggested pragmatically.

"What construction?" I shrugged. The trail was a paved bike path through a sparse forest, and there was no construction in sight. True, there were no other hikers, either, a fact that struck us as odd when we parked at the trailhead.

We forged on, emerging into a vacant parking lot with beautiful new picnic pavilions and an empty visitors center. My trail app gave no indication we shouldn't continue.

"It's so weird," I said in a hushed voice, "and soooo nice." The facility was gorgeous. Bleached wood and glass all opened on a view of the woods and the reservoir beyond. We made our way down a wide path carpeted in pine needles that led to a new boardwalk. A little beyond was a dock with an empty boat rental office. The afternoon sun sparkled off the water.

"You're just going to keep going?" Heidi asked archly. "This place is giving me major creeper vibes."

I knew what she was talking about, but to me, it was so inviting. We walked to the end of the pier, reading the signage about water conservation and cleanliness. A shiny new pump stood by the railing, its spout emptying into a series of descending hammered copper sluiceways. I lifted the handle and pumped. A thin stream of water spilled into first trough and began its journey back to the reservoir. A hawk screamed above.

The solitary vibe of our visit was broken by the sound of voices. We looked south and saw some paddleboards and kayaks coming our way, then headed down the dock and back to the trail for the rest of our forbidden hike.

They're Baaaack

My eyes popped when I saw the featured recipe headline in the Times: Grape Jelly is the Secret to These Throwback Party Meatballs. 

That dish was the specialty of our former principal, who brought it to every staff potluck and party. She delighted in watching the reaction of anyone who complimented the meatballs when she informed them of the secret ingredient. Truth be told, the meatballs were pretty good, even if the sauce was a little sweet to my taste.

That principal retired over a decade ago, after more than a decade of service (and serving meatballs!), so you have to figure the recipe is at least 25 years old. And now it's back-- can peanut butter soup be far behind?

Works for Me

Recently Heidi has expressed an interest in doing a little of the cooking around here. To be clear, I rarely find that task to be onerous; in fact, I love to cook, and I usually find it very relaxing. Even so, or perhaps therefore, I understand where Heidi is coming from, and I'm happy to help.

A few months ago, I received a special offer to subscribe to Cook's Illustrated. Although I don't recall the details, I do know that it was incentive enough to make me sign up for a year, especially since it was for both the online and print versions. I also remembered how I used to love the bimonthly delivery of that elegant publication with its clear prose and sharply defined graphics. 

When my November/December issue arrived today, I confess to being slightly dismissive about the lead time. "It's still September!" I complained to Heidi as I opened the magazine. But what I found there reminded me how Heidi loves the Baking Illustrated book she was gifted years ago. "You should take a look at this when you get a chance," I suggested. "I think you'll enjoy all the tips and recipes."

A moment later she was paging through, reading the highlights and showing me the pictures. It wasn't long before she picked a pasta with broccoli sauce recipe to try for dinner tonight, and it sounds delicious!

Why We Can't Have Nice Things

"We don't have any handbaskets," a grocery store employee reported when she spotted me scanning the self-checkout area.

"Wow," I replied, "it doesn't even seem that busy this afternoon."

"Oh, it's not," she informed me. "We literally have zero handbaskets in the store."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Corporate came for a walkthrough," she shook her head. "We had started with, like, 400 baskets, and we were down to forty." She raised her eyebrows. "People were stealing them, so they just took them all away."

"That's awful," I said as I grabbed a small cart.

"Mm-hmm," she agreed. "Watch out, though," she gestured to my cart. "We don't have many of those either."

Cholesterol Highs and Lows

"Your good cholesterol is crazy good!" the PA told me at my physical. 

I may have puffed up a bit, because she continued, "That's good genetics." 

And when I deflated, because I hadn't actually accomplished anything, she added, "You could have genetically bad cholesterol, though, and you don't."

She did recommend a baseline cardiac plaque CAT scan, which I had the next day. And when I got those results back, zero percent, perhaps one of the few tests in the world where that score is the best, I wondered if I could take any credit for that!

Target Market

Target was nearly empty as I was shopping today, making me an easy mark for the phone upgrade people often stationed near electronics. Rather than be rude, I smiled and shrugged. "I can give you two minutes," I said firmly.

"Can you give me five?" she countered. "It could save you a thousand dollars."

"We'll see," I replied.

She was a very nice young woman, but our conversation may have rattled her a bit because she was having trouble logging on. "The reception is terrible back here," I commented as we waited for the slow circle on her screen to stop turning. "I don't know how you get anything done."

"Do you have any discounts on your account?" she asked, perhaps to pass the time.

I nodded. "We have an educator's discount."

She laughed. "I knew you were a teacher!"

I tilted my head. "How?"

"My mom is a teacher," she explained. "And you are a lot like her. Very direct and clear about what you expect, but nice and supportive, too."

"Thanks," I said. "You're five minutes are up, though."

Her face fell. 

"I can give you five more, though," I shrugged. 

Oh, Hello Punkin!

Yesterday afternoon, I made a quick run to one of the specialty groceries nearby, and I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of pumpkin products!

In addition to pumpkin spice coffee, cold brew, tea, chai, and hot chocolate, there was also pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin brioche, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin pasta, pumpkin gnocchi, pumpkin protein bars, pumpkin butter, pumpkin sheet cake, pumpkin spice chardonnay, pumpkin ale, pumpkin ravioli, pumpkin cider, pumpkin bagels, pumpkin croissants, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin English muffins, pumpkin oatmeal, pumpkin pretzels, pumpkin dog treats, pumpkin body scrub, pumpkin bisque, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin yogurt, pumpkin samosas, and several varieties of pumpkins.

And that's just what I saw in my 15 minutes of shopping and 5 minutes of waiting in line to check out.

Get on deck, Peppermint. You are up next, and the bar is very high.

Supporting Role

Heidi had two old friends in town for a memorial service this weekend, and my being retired has really come in handy. Each of the three women was understandably feeling anxious: in addition to grief for their loss, there was traveling, hosting, preparing to speak at the service, self-consciousness for the changes that the years have brought, and dog logistics. 

Fortunately, I had all my time and attention to lend to making those things easier. The house was clean and ready, the shopping and cooking managed, my sympathetic ears were open, and I am currently dog-sitting a couple of neurotic pups. But it has been lovely. The ladies will be back soon, the weather is grand, the house is scented with (gluten-free) apple crisp, and there is actually a playlist of music purportedly composed to relax dogs.

It all works.

Missed Opportunity

"Where do they do the screening?" I asked when my doctor recommended a baseline cardio-plaque CAT scan.

"It's down in Shirlington," she told me.

"Oh! I know the place! Is it right by the car rental?"

She nodded. 

"Oh my gosh!" I continued. "I can't believe I'll finally be able to park in one of those reserved spots!"

"I know, right?" she laughed. "Whenever I'm down there, it's a battle to find parking, and those six spots are usually empty."

But? As excited as I was? In the end, I just walked down for the scan. It seemed silly to get in the car for such a trifle.

Perks

I never gave getting my COVID booster at the doctor yesterday a second thought. And when I had some leg aches on the injection site side later in the afternoon, I didn't make a connection. But when I woke up with chills, aches, and a splitting headache at 2 a.m., I started to suspect side effects. 

A dose of ibuprofen and another of acetaminophen a little later have taken the edge off, but I still don't feel good. Current situation: sitting on the couch with a blanket and a dog, sipping seltzer water and streaming TV shows on my laptop.

Boy, was I glad I didn't have to go to work this morning! 

>60

"Oh, good!" said the nurse practitioner conducting my annual wellness check when I mentioned that I was recently retired. "Maybe getting these screenings done won't be too inconvenient for you."

Her list was extensive: mammogram, bone density, thyroid, dermatologist, eye doctor, and colonoscopy, with an optional CAT scan for plaque. And really? Are any of those tests ever actually "convenient"? However, I can schedule them without delay or consideration for conflict.

"Just think!" she added. "Your wellness can be a retirement project!"

In-N-Out

I read today that the summer TikTok trend of "very demure, very mindful" has run its course and is over.

Well.  

I'm glad I met it on its way out the door.

Leave It

Judging from how much sniffing Lucy and Lady were doing up on the hill this afternoon, I reckoned that something big had recently gone down in the canine community. 

And when we saw the disembodied squirrel tail, I knew what they were on to, and we hastily made our way past the scene of the crime.

No Drama

"There's throw-up in the slide!" Charlie reported to his mom. "We can't go down it!"

He was high over our heads on a rope bridge in the enormous play structure by the farmers' market. Kids of all ages began a mini-evacuation to the ladder at the other side of the structure. They filed through the rope and wood tunnels in a perfectly orderly way, then took turns climbing down the ladder. Even though no adults were with them, there was no pushing, yelling, or tears.

"Let's go play on the other one!" Charlie said when he made it down, and that is what they did.

Canine Connection

Ordinarily, Lucy is a stay-a-bed. When I am the early riser on the weekends, she usually snuffles and sighs before cuddling up to Heidi, who is still sleeping. I'm okay with it. On these days, I enjoy the solitude of the kitchen as I unload the dishwasher, make the coffee, and prepare breakfast.

Today, though, Lucy hopped out of bed the minute I was dressed and practically danced down the stairs as I made my way to the kitchen. After quickly assessing whether this was exuberance or a bathroom emergency, I made myself some coffee before snapping on her collar and leash.

On the stoop, Lucy raised her nose before setting off purposefully up the drive. Having seen this behavior in the past, I fully expected to run into one of our dog-owning neighbors, but the complex was quiet. Even so, this didn't stop Lucy from leaving little breadcrumbs of pee along our route. 

When at last she had pooped, and we were on our way home, I spotted one of her favorite people with her oldest doggie friend way down the parking lot.

AJ was sleepy but awake enough to turn his back to an excited incoming Lucy. This time, though, she was all about the dog. Lucy and Lady greeted each other as if it had been weeks instead of days since last they met. "Wow!" said AJ, "that's the most energy I've seen from her in ages."

It was true. 14-year-old Lady was leaping and play bowing in circles around us, and Lucy matched her enthusiasm.

"She woke me up from a sound sleep to come out here," AJ told me.

"Lucy has been looking for someone for the last ten minutes," I replied. "It really seems like she knew you guys were going to be out here."

"Dogs," he shook his head. "How do they do that?"

I shrugged.

"I'm going back to bed," he said.

And when we got home? That's exactly what Lucy did, too.

And That's What You Missed

"I want to watch Glee," Heidi said early last spring.

I reluctantly agreed. It seemed unappealing to me to re-watch something that didn't seem that far away.

That was 120 episodes ago. Tonight, we watch the series finale, which originally aired on March 20, 2015. More than anything else, I have been struck by how much has changed since the show started 15 years ago. Politics, social norms, the lives of the cast, and our lives, too, are all in much different places now. Some things have evolved, others have regressed; there have been gains and losses, successes and failures. But I still love Burt Hummel, although I'm only now realizing that Kurt is the heart and soul of the show. 

Overall, Heidi was right. It's been a worthwhile six months, and I will miss it.

Reba's Reflections

As I was sorting through boxes yesterday, I found a mini-memoir written in brief chapters by my grandmother's youngest sister. Aunt Reba was born in 1917 and passed away in 2001, the last living sibling of 14. The typed pages I found were copies of some recollections she had written for her grandchildren, which told stories of her childhood. 

I remember hearing about these tales, and maybe even seeing them once at my mother's house, and I'm sure she gave them to me before she died, part of a thick stack of photos and artifacts. I'd never read them, though until today. 

I was charmed and absorbed in her stories of the huge pecan tree outside the family home (it thrived as soon as they put the outhouse under it), her mother's center table, which was in the parlor and served as the altar for three of her sister's weddings, the first snow she ever saw: it fell three days before Christmas in 1928, and the birth of her youngest brother, when her mother was 48. 

She also tells how the first of her line made their way from South Carolina to Collins, Mississippi, and hints at the dark changes that the depression made in their lives. She mentions tenant farmers, camellia trees, magnolia blossoms, and the big, beautiful oak table that came to her via one of her siblings and a German doctor's estate in Wisconsin.

Last week, as I cleaned out my closet,  I listened to a recording of Anna Quindlen reading her book-length essay, Write for Your Life. In the piece, she advocates for journaling, letter writing, and any other form of personal expression that gives all of us the chance to record our lives. She argues that this type of writing serves both the writer and any future audience, whether known or intended, who may just treasure it.

Aunt Reba's reflections are certainly a testament to that notion.

Of Course It Is

One of my early retirement projects is to go through all the miscellaneous boxes and files we have stowed in various locations around the house. For me, starting in the guest room/home office/exercise studio/etc. space was a no-brainer. Although I "see" them every morning when I do my yoga and meditation, I recently realized that I haven't actually looked at the banker boxes we have stacked on the high shelves in there for years.

Lifting the lid on one of them, I found a recipe archive spanning 1989-2008. It had folders and binders filled with clippings from the NY Times, Fine Cooking, Cooks Illustrated, and Saveur, as well as printed pages from the early days of internet recipe searches, some handwritten gems, and some photocopies from cooking demos I had attended (and taught) over the years. 

While not exactly a treasure chest worth preserving as a whole, the collection did seem to me to merit a look at each page before ultimately relegating 85 percent of them to the recycling bag. Most were dishes I had never cooked, just recipes that seemed promising. Many still looked pretty good, and I was charmed to see some of the signature ingredients from that time featured so prominently: lamb shanks, cod, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, bacon, and all manner of gratins and souffles.

There were also some original copies of recipes that we have loved over the years, which, of course, I kept. And I also kept almost anything that I had actually made before.  And when I was through with the the task, not only did I still have at least 50 recipes, but I also had a short list of follow-up chores, such as organize and file them and actually cook them or get rid of them.

All of which tells me? This project is bigger than I originally thought.

Maybe Not So Bad

The day dawned clear and cool, with lots of sunshine and blue skies. My to-do list included baking bread and an online ukulele lesson. And when, at midday, I paused sorting through several banker boxes that had been gathering dust for nearly a decade to step out into the glorious weather and take Lucy for a walk? 

I finally got a glimpse of what this retirement stuff might be cracked up for.

Authentication Failed

It finally happened.

When I tapped on my phone's email icon yesterday, September 1, I received an error message and a direction to re-enter my school mail password. Which I did, but without success. It soon became clear that I no longer had access to any of my school accounts.

I let go a heavy sigh, and then?

I let go.

Time to look forward.

Searching for a Silver Lining

"So what was your favorite part of our "baseball experience"?" I asked Heidi this afternoon, air quotes included.

She tilted her head in thought, and I laughed because, in truth, it hadn't been very fun. The weather, overcast and muggy all weekend, had turned hot and muggy as we arrived at the ballpark. Our seats, usually high enough to catch a breeze from the river, were sweltering. The section, often sparsely populated, was packed with Cubs fans sweating right next to us. And, the park itself, which I would have guessed would be pretty empty given the holiday weekend, was full; lots of families were taking advantage of the double promotions of kids eat free and Ruiz catcher jerseys for kids. Oh yes, and the team lost 14-1.

"Mine was the Metro ride there," I told her. "Going to the new Potomac Yard Station and seeing all the above-ground stuff was cool, and I liked paying the fare with our phones. The train was nice and new and not too crowded, too," I added.

She still had nothing.

"My second favorite part was when we stopped at the railing on our way up to our seats to watch Ruiz bat," I continued. "There was a light breeze, the bases were loaded, the Nats were ahead, and it seemed like it could be a great afternoon."

"It did," she agreed, "but it wasn't. I guess my favorite part was when you drove me home from the Metro, and the whole thing was over!"