Small Round Things

I was reading an article in the Times about today's solar eclipse, which will be visible in the far south of South America, the Pacific, and Antarctica, when my eye caught a headline in the related article column. Is Pluto a Planet? It asked. And what is a planet, anyway? Test your knowledge here.       

Well, I clicked over right away because I have some feelings about the topic, and I love a good newspaper quiz. I was never truly on board with Pluto's demotion to a dwarf planet back in 2005. The loss of that oft-repeated mnemonic, My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas, alone convinced me it was a silly change. (Although I did laugh recently when I heard the updated version where the very excellent mother serves naan. Go ahead, say it.) 

For several years, my sixth-grade English colleagues and I used the picture book A Place for Pluto by Stef Wade as a model text for the type of children's story we taught our students to write in the fiction unit. Not only does that text have a crystal clear plot chart, but it also has a solid curriculum connection. It was in the liner notes at the end that I learned the details of Pluto's redesignation. (I also realized that none of my students were even alive in the days that Pluto was a planet, but that's another story.)

All of this is just to explain my eagerness to read the article and take the quiz. Anyhow, there were five questions, starting with Do you think Pluto should be considered a planet? (of course, I chose Yes.) and including Do you think our moon should be a planet? (For which I gleefully selected No! What part of moon do you not understand?). 

My results called me a sentimentalist, maybe because I refused to extend planethood to Eris and Ceres, but I can live with that. Because sometimes? My very earnest mind just stays up nights, pondering.

Oh C'mon

I'm pretty sure it has rained every day since I retired.

Am I right?

Fine Dining

We were sitting down to a delicious dinner of Arctic Char, tabouleh, and roasted rainbow carrots that my brother had prepared when Heidi's phone dinged. A friend had foraged an enormous puffball mushroom near her cabin in W.V. and wondered if we wanted to try it. 

Feeling fortunate to have not only one but two offers of a meal in one evening, Heidi thanked her and explained where we were. "No problem," she answered. "This thing is HUGE! I'll bring you some in the morning." 

True to her word, our friend delivered a grocery with a bowling ball-sized piece of the mushroom and a fried cutlet from the night before. I had watched a video she'd posted of her preparing the dish when we got home from dinner, and I was eager to try the steak-sized slabs of mushroom. They were delicious: mild and tender, like a soft version of white button mushrooms, and I could think of so many ways to serve them.

This afternoon, it was my turn. After a bit of research, I peeled my portion, sliced it, and used a rolling pin to compress the marshmallowy texture. Then, I roasted the sheets in the oven with a little olive oil and seasoning. Next, I layered them in lasagna with a marinara sauce, ricotta, basil, and fresh mozzarella. 

The results were delicious: earthy and tangy and light, and Heidi told her friend that we'd be happy to take some puffball anytime she has extra!

Shoulder Season

I walked through the farmers market in the rain this morning. Despite the inclement weather, I was by no means the only shopper, although I did make quick work of the excursion. It was a bittersweet shopping trip: I bought a half dozen of the last peaches of the season, and it was clear that the corn and tomatoes will be gone soon, too. The greens and apples are plentiful, though, as are the staples of the market, like eggs and meat. Winter squash and sweet potatoes were sporadic, but soon, they will take the place of their summer brethren, right on schedule for October.

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!"