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?