Better Safe than Sorry

All weekend I've been hearing and reading coverage about the damage the shootings in Aurora, CO might have on our collective national psyche-- how a single gunman can take a place of escape like the movies away from all of us.

To be honest, I've only been listening to that part of the story with half an ear, if that. Although this event was unsettling, eleven years after the September 11 attacks we in America are fortunate to live mostly with a solid sense of security. Unlike many other places in the world, attacks on civilians here are so rare that, even here in the capital of our nation, we might only give that kind of threat a second thought when the line is so long at the airport that we might miss our flight.

Psychologically? That's where I thought I was.

That is until this afternoon when we decided to see the 4:10 IMAX show of Batman: Dark Knight Rises. I got the seats-- up high and right in the middle-- while Heidi got the popcorn. As the preshow drabble rolled across the screen, I was checking my email and playing Words With Friends in the nearly deserted row.

Right before the lights dimmed, a couple came up to sit three or four seats to my left. They were young, casually dressed; he had a beard, and she was wearing a head scarf. They also had a suitcase with them. The rolling type that will fit in the overhead compartment on a plane, something you don't often see at the movies. When Heidi came up with our snacks, they politely moved it out of her way so she could pass.

Even now, I get a little choked up thinking about it. All of a sudden, everything came crashing onto me-- what movie it was, the weirdness of the suitcase, the age and ethnicity of those people, and at that moment, my sense of danger was so high I couldn't stay there. I whispered my worries to Heidi, and we decided to leave those seats, and when we got to the exit row, I kept on going straight out the door and to the counter, to turn in my tickets and tell someone in charge about my concerns.

I got a shrug, a refund, and a hell of a lot to think about.

Her Story

I've been doing a bit of genealogy research this summer. I like it because it's like a puzzle or a scavenger hunt-- search the records to find the connection and fill in the family tree! Some branches of our family have been in America a looooong time. (I would be more impressed except for the fact that there are tens of millions of people living in the U.S. today who are descended from the Mayflower passengers and crew alone, and we are not among them... so far.)

Those folks are relatively easy to trace, both because they've created a lot of records in all the time they've been around and they have a lot of descendants researching them. The same can not be said about my ancestors who came here later. All of them so far have come from Ireland, and there is a certain commonality of both surname and first name that make them tough to pin down.

For example, when I began all I knew of my father's mother's mother was that she was named Margaret. Through some digging, I found that Borrie may have been her maiden name. But wait! A few records later, it turned out that Borrie was probably a mis-transcription of Bowler. Her mother was Helen Bowler. That made sense-- my grandmother was Helen, too-- but who was Margaret's father?

Scouring the records, I hit dead end after dead end, and I was just about to give up when something made me search for Maggie Bowler. That was the breakthrough. I found Maggie in the census at 2 and 12 and so forth, and even though her mother was variously referenced as Ellen Bowler, Helen Borrie, and Mrs.Thom Bowler, it was great grandmother Maggie who helped me piece together the story of a couple of young Irish immigrants who married in America, moved to Upstate New York, and built a family before Thomas died of consumption at only 39, leaving Helen with five children ages 15 to 2.

The 2-year-old was Margaret, or Maggie, my grandmother's mom.

Postcard

It was cool and rainy here today, which was really a blessing after the dry, blistering heat we've had. There was no need to go to the garden and we decided to do the Sunday farmers market, so we hung around and read all morning.

Still, at around 2 PM a restlessness struck me that could not be denied. I need a purpose and I wanted some activity, so I proposed a walk down to our local olive oil shop. (Yes, I know what that sounds like, but sue me-- we have a local olive oil shop, and damn it, I'm glad.) Anyhoo, we leashed up the dog, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out into the soft weather.

When we got there, Heidi waited outside with Isabel while I went in to do the shopping. Soon enough, one of the proprietors pushed open the door to invite Isabel in (what a great place!). She also offered her a sample of their bacon-infused olive oil, and it is here that the story takes a little jog to the unexpected. Much to the dismay of all of us, our dog literally turned up her nose at such an extravagant treat.

Why I'm not sure, but her disdain did not stop me from splurging on a couple of nice bottles of the evoo, and when they were safely wrapped in plum tissue paper and placed in a fancy handle-bag, the three of us headed back into the mist and home.

1001 Reasons

I am not a big fan of the Olympics, which will come as no surprise to anyone who's ever had to hear me moan about the blind nationalism of the games.

I acknowledge that that's quite a few of you, considering that there have been about 900 days of Olympic competition in my adult life alone. Add in all the pre-game coverage, and that's well over 1,000 opportunities for me to complain, both in person and in writing.

Well, here's yet another reason: This year the games fall during Ramadan, the Islamic holy month of fasting. There are over 3,000 Muslim athletes competing in London, where the average length of each day will be 15 hours and 12 minutes with no food or water for the observant. How is that sporting?

Not only that, but this is a major Islamic holiday season, which is often celebrated with all the trimmings of parties and gifts. It is a time for families and friends to gather and rejoice in their faith.

Imagine scheduling the Olympics in late December. Wouldn't happen, would it?

Recipe for Summer Break

Go to the garden.
Go to the gym.
Go to the movies.
Go to the pool.

Toss with some good books and a few magazines.

Repeat.

Quite Contrary

June 3

July 18

It's been a tough year in the garden: we were late getting it in; we were gone for two weeks; there was a derecho, and it's been very dry.

All in all, I can't complain. Although there aren't silver bells and cockle shells, there are pretty tomatoes all in a row.

The Soul of a Chef

When people find out that I used to work as a chef, they often ask what my specialty was. It's a question that stumps me, because any chef will tell you that their specialty is the dish the last diner loved. 

Even so, on the path to find the perfect dish for someone else, you must pursue what you like as well. Most chefs will tell you that they started cooking because they wanted something to eat that they knew they couldn't get anywhere else. Mother Necessity exercises her considerable influence again.

Let me give you an example. A friend of mine posted this about her 4-year-old on fb today:

So Isaac just made himself a sandwich, but he needed help gathering ingredients. He said, "Mommy, I will need the ham. And peanut butter. And mayonnaise and jelly. And ketchup." 

I asked what flavor jelly? Cherry, peach or grape? 

He said, "Whichever one you think is the best for my sandwich." 

Raised eyebrows and knowing nods all around, right?