You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Think of a food a child in your life refuses to eat. Or glance back to your own childhood. Something you, as an adult, now find heavenly as you anticipate that first bite.
I’ve long held a theory that there are certain items that should be made adults-only, you kiddies keep your hands away.
We could begin with asparagus, Brussels sprouts, clams and mussels. Coffee, beer, and wine are no-brainers. Maybe even lobster or lamb or Swiss cheese or spinach or salmon.
What would you add to that list?
A comment from Martha Schaefer got this ball rolling.
She was confessing that she never liked Brussels sprouts until her ex-husband, “an excellent cook,” introduced her to what happens when the tiny cabbages are cooked well. And, of course, that changed everything.
My, that could even get us going on a crimes-against-foods rant, considering how many vegetables, fruits, meats, and so on are abused in kitchens around the globe.
For now, though, let’s consider an overlooked aspect of broken relationships. Think of something positive you’ve carried away from an ex-spouse or lover. What were you introduced to that you now treasure or delight in?
A special place, perhaps, or food or beverage, music or art, literature or activity, friends or family, even (maybe most of all) lovemaking.
What comes to mind? Or your heart? Pipe up!
Vanity Fair magazine’s October 2010 article, Beware of Greeks Bearing Bonds, by Michael Lewis may still be the best perspective we have on the events finally crashing along the sunny Aegean and sending shock waves through the rest of the continent.
Events? Do we call them economic? Financial? Political? Social? Moral? Cataclysmic? Truly tragic, as in “taking on the gods and bearing the consequences”?
The Greeks aren’t alone in trying to make sense of money issues. Apart from monetary policy itself – a highly esoteric field – any discussion of money soon wades into emotionally laden assumptions regarding wealth, possessions, time, labor, even food or family or religion. These are the grist of my ongoing Talking Money series at Chicken Farmer I Still Love You. I hope you join in — the category can be found under the Contents tab.
One of the easily overlooked realities about money is that it is essentially an elaborate IOU – one that allows us to store excess productivity or labor over time and space. Eventually, though, any promises come due, and you better have something that will back the debt up. That’s as true for nations that print the bills or banks that move them about as it is for individuals. And that’s what we’re seeing in Greece.
As I write this, I have no way of anticipating what will play out. The lack of a single nation to enforce the necessary regulations that would back the euro had me skeptical of its success from the very beginning, though I’ve long admitted to being a neo-Luddite. Still, the history of state-issued currencies in the United States in the aftermath of the Revolutionary War illustrates the pitfalls of currency that is insufficiently backed up. Prudent Pennsylvania proved to be the big exception to the trend and maintained its value.
We watch the present drama, then, hoping the action remains confined to the stage in the amphitheater. There are no guarantees – no double your money back – for anyone as the plot thickens.
Any predictions? Or counsel? We’re all eyes and ears.
Have to admit to some envy for a young acquaintance who’s off to hike the Pacific Crest Trail.
It’s a strenuous trek, backpacking the 2,663 miles through Washington, Oregon, and California – the Western counterpart to the older, iconic Appalachian Trail.
And it’s bound to be a totally different experience than he had on the AT.
I became acquainted with Samson as one of our lifeguards at Dover’s indoor swimming pool. And now he’s away for the summer, starting just a few miles from the Canadian border and heading south.
He’s promised to update us on his blog, Samson PCT. (PCT is the in-name for the trail. FYI.)
Here’s an invitation for you to follow his progress, too.
Not bad for a kid from a little north of New York City. My, oh my!
Be wary of folks who seem to believe they’re better than the rest of us. (They’re likely to expect more than their share.)
Yes, respect superior skills and abilities, especially when they’re used for the wider good.
But see through the mask, as well.
(Oh, I hope I’m not wearing mine …)
So there we were a few days ago, finishing our Chinese dinners before dashing down the street to choir rehearsal. After cracking open my fortune cookie, rather than reaching into my pack for my eyeglasses, I asked my companion if he’d read my little slip to me. (Ah, the joys of getting older.)
After he recited my fortune, I replied, “You’re making that up, right?”
I was rather impressed, actually, and he does have a great sense of humor. Not bad for improv.
“No, here it is. You read it.” Which I did:
You are a lover of words someday
you will write a book.
Glancing out the dining room window this morning, I realized there was something my wife should see. So it was something like, “Hey, Honey, you need to take a look.”
There was no snow in our yard. None. Nada. The last of it had melted overnight.
Even by New England standards, this has been an exhausting winter. Usually, it’s either below-normal cold or above-average snowy. Not both, not like this one. I don’t remember this many single-digit and subzero nights, and here on the seacoast, our year’s total snowfall came to more than nine feet. Boston, as you may know, had the most in its weather history, beginning somewhere in the 1880s, I think.
And then there were all the Sundays when church services were cancelled — it was just too dangerous to get out on the slick roads. Well, I’m told we did have a few people show up on cross country skis to sit in silent worship.
New Englanders are usually a hardy lot and simply suck up to the weather. But for the past month, there’s been grumbling. Lots of it. This endless oppression really dampens the spirit. Do I want to write? Nah. Read, nah, except that I have read some powerful novels lately. I am finally swimming laps indoors, but that’s a big effort that leaves me ready to do … nah. As for the indoor house projects? Where’s the energy?
On top of it, this has been a winter of funerals for us. A few parents of high school students. Others my age or older — cancer, pneumonia, Parkinson’s, a brain infection. It’s not our usual experience.
I’ll have to check, but my memory suspects we had snow in November and I know there was more in early December, which unfortunately melted off by Christmas. But the pattern returned in January and just kept coming. Just as we thought we were seeing light at the end of the tunnel, three fresh inches hit us Wednesday and Thursday, which means snow’s fallen here in six straight months. And you thought winter was three?
As a matter of clarity, let’s remember the greenhouse warning was not “global warming” per se but “climatic instability,” which we’re seeing in aces. Many of our snowfalls had me wishing the precipitation was instead piling up in the Cascade Range of the Pacific Northwest, where it’s needed to sustain the orchards as irrigation water all summer. Those folks have solid reason to worry.
Here, spring’s coming late, contrary to some of the photos I’ve been posting — the one’s showing what would be happening in a normal year. The ones I scheduled based on past calendars.
Still, the warmth is returning. The sound of lusty birds greets the dawn, along with Harley-Davidsons through the day and early evening.
Two afternoons now have been warm enough to sit in the loft of the barn and curl up with a martini and a Paris Review — and look up through the open hay door to view a parade of dogs walking people past the end of our driveway.
At the moment, it’s mid-morning gray and drizzle — a reminder of Puget Sound, for me — with temperatures in the 60s. Good opportunity to run to the beach to collect seaweed for mulching the garden.
Now that’s a true sign of spring.
Barb Knowles of the blog saneteachers has nominated me for a Real Neat Blog award, and I thank her for the nod. If you’re not yet familiar with her site, let me tell you that anyone who knows what an Oxford comma is ranks high in my book — especially after all of those years as a journalist when I couldn’t use them on my paying job, contrary to my own standards. Here, though, things are different.
Allow me to confess, though, I’m of mixed mind when it comes to these awards. On one hand, WordPress (especially) is filled with marvelous bloggers who deserve wider recognition. On the other hand, I’ve found that trying to nominate others can be, well, embarrassing when you find they’ve already received that award somewhere in their past, even before coming up with fresh questions.
A while back I resolved to pass on these things, but then the temptation of participating can be fun. And then there’s that matter of time itself, which on this end will soon involve some major home and garden projects. Alas.
So here I am, looking at the seven questions, which I’ll tackle. But for now, I’ll wait before nominating others or coming up with seven new questions for them. Unless, of course, you’d like me to nominate you (go ahead, be bold and ask). After all, if you’re dropping by the Barn, you’re already cool — in all due humility. Any volunteers?
Here goes:
If you were alone on a deserted island with only one book, which would it be?
Make it the Bible. Not for the reasons most folks would assume — like what God’s trying to tell us. Rather, there’s plenty to chew on here about just being human, pro and con. And Wycliffe and Tyndale (those courageous early translators) do shape our English language, more than Shakespeare, actually. Your followup question would be which translation to pack, and there I’m stumped — I use many, each one adding nuances to the close-to-the-grain sources. By the way, are we to assume it’s a long stay on that island?
What is your favorite color and why?
Blue. Intense electric blue, the shade befitting Aquarius, the color of the clearest sky. Or its cousin, cobalt, the call of the North Atlantic on a clear day a few miles from where I live.
I like favorites, so what is your favorite song?
Since you didn’t ask about symphonies or sonatas or operas or chamber works, I’ll look at song as something that’s sung — in a form other than the traditional A-A-B-A musical form plus verses. (Bet you weren’t expecting that response!)
As a baritone in a choir, I’d put Sicut cervus, a Palestrina motet from the Renaissance, up there, along with a fuguing-tune anthem, Euroclydon, by the Colonial American William Billings.
Now you have me wondering about having the whole choir on that desert island. The plot thickens.
If you could make a memory, what would it be?
Our first grandkid. Leading to my learning to change a diaper. (I jumped in as a stepfather, later in the game.)
If you could join a TV show (present or past) and be a new character on that show, which one would you choose?
Mozart and the Jungle could use a third conductor. Maybe a sane counterpoint, mentor for Rudolfo? Or maybe just to send the older one back to Cuba?
What’s your ringtone?
Ringtone? Tracfones have them? Mine’s whatever I inherited back when.
Where were you born?
Ohio.
The sign at roadside yesterday still has us wondering:
WE ACCEPT
WHIPLASH
INJURIES
~*~
More snow. How much?
More deep cold. How far?
It’s scary, the winter weather we’re getting.
And none of the online forecast sites we’re looking at seem to quite agree. It keeps changing, seemingly by the hour.
Jnana's Red Barn 