Dr. B.

I received an email invitation to join Jill Biden in a virtual celebration of teachers yesterday. Curiosity and residual Inauguration warm fuzziness spurred me to join, and so at 6PM I followed the link, prepared to hear our newly minted first lady and the presidents of the NEA and AFT deliver some rah rah remarks. But my cynicism, forged through years of listening to non-educators in such positions of influence and authority oscillate between patronizing and dismissive and hostile, faded slightly with the strong and authentic voices of these three women. And when Jill Biden issued her closing call to arms declaring, "Educators this is our moment! Because we know how to turn chaos into something beautiful. We do it every day in our classrooms." I knew I was listening to a real teacher.

Boom Boom Boom

As the Inauguration celebration on TV was nearing its end, I went upstairs to see if I could make out the two columns of light being projected from the National Mall. 

When I stepped out onto my balcony, what I saw instead was a blaze of sparks and the vibrant glare of rockets and bright streamers bursting in the sky! The broadcast must have been a few minutes delayed, because there were no such pyrotechnics behind Katy Perry when I left the couch. 

I opened the door to call down to Heidi just as she shouted up to me: "They have fireworks!" And so enthralled we watched them together as they lit up the sky, even brighter than the moon, moon, moon.

Buh Bye

I confess that I stepped out on my balcony, stood on tiptoe, and craned to catch a glimpse of Marine One as it departed the White House this morning around 8:20. It would not have been impossible-- the tip of the Washington Monument is sometimes just within sight to the northeast, through the tall Virginia Pines and over the ridge-- but today as I stood under a pale blue sky in the thin January sunshine, I saw nothing but a few puffy clouds. 

He was gone, and I could barely contain my glee.

HOPE

Call me a wimp, but I have found the coarse and confrontational tone of our national politics unpleasant for the last, oh, four years or so. Think less of me if you must, but I much prefer dignity and inclusive rhetoric and symbolism to crass displays and hateful words. Perhaps I am naive to believe that such things matter, much less signal substance and change, but please! 

Let me enjoy it for a day.

Smaklig Måltid!

In an expansion of my sourdough repertoire, yesterday I baked a dense rye bread, similar to the Scandinavian staple that is often the base of those open-faced sandwiches so common to that region. It was a heavy dough, fortified with stout and laced with almonds, pumpkin seeds, and flax meal, that I turned into my pullman pan to rise. The recipe called for baking it for over 2 hours, but the direction that the internal temperature should reach 208 was helpful guidance. Once out of the pan, the block of bread was to be wrapped in a clean towel for at least 24 hours. This morning, it was at last ready to slice, and I was ready to top it. We've had butter, avocado, and smoked salmon, tuna and egg, poached shrimp with lobster mayo and dill-- all hearty and filling in an unmistakably Nordic way.

Not for Granted

This is the time of year when we are usually in our Oscar mode. With the holidays behind us and a long dreary winter ahead we turn our attention to the movies and eating out. We are typically joined in this diversion by my brother and sister-in-law and my two nephews, now adults in the mid 20s. We try to see as many of the movies that may nominated until the nominations, and then we double down to see all of the nominees. While we're at it, we plan meals for after the show at restaurants we've been wanting to try. It all crescendos with a weekend at the beach spent together to watch the Academy Award Ceremony.

That is so not happening this year. The six of us lamented the situation as we sat outside visiting around the fire pit this afternoon. "Maybe we could have raclette and do an outdoor show?" I suggested.

"I don't even know what's in contention," my brother said.

"Me neither!" I answered, "When do the nominations even come out?"

It turns out that the actual ceremony has been pushed all the way to late April, so the nominations aren't until March 15.

"By that time," I said, "maybe we can actually see some of the films at the movies! And possibly go out to eat."

"It might be too soon," my brother said, "but I hope not. You should have seen the rapture on your face when you were imagining it."

Grumpy Cat

Lucy hasn't been entirely herself lately, and we haven't been able to figure out why. 

Closer observation has revealed that our cat, Milo, formerly of placid and somewhat slow disposition, has come into his own as the only male and the house. Now, when he is displeased not only does he swat and charge our other cat, Tibby, but he also blocks Lucy from stairwells and doorways, swatting and charging at her as well. Although he is only a quarter of her weight, he does have claws, and Lucy seems to be taking his aggression pretty seriously. In fact, he recently growled at me because I was cleaning something from Tibby's fur and she was fussing. So, maybe I should start again...

Milo hasn't been entirely himself lately, and we haven't been able to figure out why.