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!