Last Game of the Week

One of our neighbors has been off all week. His accounting firm looked at the Tuesday Fourth of July holiday and the congressional calendar and called it a wash. That worked out great for me and Heidi since AJ joined us for pickleball every day. He was more than willing to play for a couple of hours with us on the empty courts, deserted by all those who were either at work, out of town on vacation, or put off by the heat and humidity of July in the DMV. 

We ruefully tapped paddles at the end of our last game on Friday, sorry that our week of fun had ended, but when the thunderstorms let up late this Sunday afternoon, I turned to Heidi. "How about some pickleball?"

She nodded. 'The courts will probably be open," she said.

We quickly changed our shoes and shirts for a sweatier occupation and headed out the door. On the way we passed AJ's place. The door was open, and Heidi knocked on the storm window. She pointed her index finger inside and then at the paddle in her hand. "Are you in?"

"My friends are going to play pickleball," we heard him call to his fiance, "and I'm going to join them!"

Why I Need a Barn

I've got a bumper crop of shallots and garlic. From the bulbs I planted late last fall, I've harvested several pounds of both. My trouble is in the step that comes next, curing the alliums. For that familiar papery skin to form before storing them, members of the onion and garlic family need to be laid in a single layer in cool, dry conditions for 2-4 weeks. 

My first thought was to find a place in the house, which we keep air-conditioned to the low 70s in the summer. I did not take into consideration the pungent odor of my crop. Heidi is tolerant of almost all of my wacky pursuits, but having our house smell like onions was not going to fly. As an alternative, I placed them in a single layer in some shallow cardboard boxes and put them in the guest bathroom. We were going out of town for a week, and I figured that would be time enough to cure most of the smell away.

Upon our return, the odor was gone, but there was a curious infestation of fruitflies, just one or two, here and there. We could not figure out where they were coming from, but the mystery was solved a few days ago when I finally got around to checking on the shallots and garlic. I quickly shut the box and took it out on the deck. 

I had had some good luck pre-curing the second harvest of garlic by leaving it on a grate in the garden for a few days. After that, I was able to brush the outer layer of soil and grime off, revealing a pretty purple and white skin beneath. My idea was to give the other bulbs the same treatment, but out on the deck. 

Unfortunately, we have had a stormy week, and the shallots and garlic have not dried at all. If anything, they are moister than before. So I spent a good 40 minutes or more this morning going through my bounty, trimming the roots, peeling the dry skin, and laying them on racks in the kitchen. "What's that smell?" asked Heidi when she got up.

Back to square one, I peeled the smallest of the shallots and pickled them, and I packed the rest in brown bags and placed them in a covered bin. So far? The smell and the fruitflies are gone. 🤞

No Buy July

When I took my car in to get serviced yesterday, the shop informed me that I needed new brakes. I did a little research and found that 50,000 miles, 5 and a half years, with mostly in-town driving, was a reasonable lifespan for brakes, and so agreed to the extra work. The job was going to take extra time, too, so rather than have me wait, as I had been planning to, my service advisor offered me a free loaner. 

This convenience is one of the benefits of taking my car for maintenance and repair to the dealership where I purchased it, and I have enjoyed tooling around in a new Subaru several times over the years. Yesterday was no exception; when they pulled a 2023 Outback with only a couple thousand miles around to the front and handed me the keys, it was a little thrilling to climb behind the wheel. I savored the newness of the vehicle as I adjusted the automatic seat and mirrors and paired my phone easily with the huge display. The trip home was fun: the car was familiar, but the ride and the handling were smoother and more responsive.

Oh, they know what they're doing over there at the dealership; I'm sure more than a few courtesy loaner customers come back with a hankering for a new car, and I might have, too, were it not the 7th month of my "holidays" from things I might over-indulge in sometimes. This time? It's purchasing anything that is neither consumable nor a gift. Brakes fit the description, a new car does not.

Or does it?

Not Just a Kernel of Truth

I picked four little ears of silver queen corn from my garden and cooked them for dinner. The kernels were small, but tender and sweet, and based on our satisfaction with them, I already consider the corn-growing enterprise a win this year. 

I don’t grow corn every year; and I can’t say that it’s ever been a very successful crop in our garden. I’ve done three-sisters planting a few years, and while the beans and squash did pretty well, the corn has always been a little disappointing: weak stalks that tumbled in the wind, ears too small or too buggy. 

I did harvest a half dozen promising ears four years ago. It was near the end of July, and we were driving out to stay with my mom in Minnesota, so I packed the corn in a cooler for the 2 day drive. When we arrived, I offered to make dinner and eagerly put corn on the menu. 

Unfortunately, the kernels on those ears were starchy and tough. I did not consider the dish a total loss, though, since I had cut the corn off the cob and sautéed it with fresh lime beans for summer succotash. When our meal was over, I asked my mom what she thought. “Did you like the corn?” I said.

She looked a little stricken at the question, and I could almost see the wheels turning behind her widened eyes before she gave up trying to find a tactful reply. “No!” She shook her head.

I laughed. “Thanks for your honesty, Ma!”

Pick of the Season

Oh summer vacation and its choice choices! 

Today I spent my morning playing pickleball and my afternoon picking vegetables in my garden. Maybe next I'll pick a movie to see tomorrow.

Rings a Bell

After seeing the trailer yesterday for the latest Mission Impossible movie, Heidi declared that we should watch the previous six before catching the seventh on July 12. Why not? I thought, but as I searched our streaming options, I proposed that we watch number six first, and then work our way backward.

"I don't think we've seen that one," I said, "so there's that."

Heidi agreed, and as we watched the opening scene, I was certain I was right: there was nothing familiar about the primitive cabin Ethan Hunt was holed up in, or the messenger who came to his door. And I undoubtedly did not recall any of the exchanged codewords or the mission description on the reel-to-reel tape which predictably self-destructed in five seconds.

But when, in the next scene, the deal for three orbs full of plutonium went sideways because Hunt would not sacrifice a member of his team, a tiny neuron in the back of my memory fired, and by the time Angela Bassett and Henry Cavill were on screen, I knew we had seen the movie, and I even recalled several vital details about the plot. 

Soon I was recalling a hot summer day, and a third person with us at the theater, but when and who? Conveniently, my movie theater rewards membership keeps a record of all the movies I have seen in their theaters, and it didn't take much to scroll back several years to July 30, 2018, when we saw the movie at noon. Next, I clicked through the archive of this very blog to find that it was Josh who went with us. He was still living in the area, and having a flare-up of his chronic IBS, so we got him to come to stay with us for a week so that we could nurse him back to health.

I think I dozed off not long after that, secure in my refreshed five-year-old memories, but a little bored by the movie whose novelty had been negated.

Been Away Awhile

I struggled to manage my expectations as I slid into my swanky recliner seat in the Dolby-equipped theater. We were there to see the new Indiana Jones movie, but first, of course, there were the trailers. In the next 15 minutes or so we saw Tom Cruise destroy a train that he had built for just that purpose, Captain Marvel and a couple of her colleagues destroy several things, and lots of horror previews, replete with screams and jump scares. Each trailer boomed through the theater, shaking our seats.

"It's soooo loud!" I shouted to Heidi, who was sitting next to me.

"It's the movies, Babe," she answered with a smile and returned her attention to the screen.