In case you were wondering, Wally's back home, and his family is much relieved. His "mom" had cried so long and hard that she had broken blood vessels in her eyes, He - lucky for him- lived in a close knit neighborhood, and one of his neighbors spotted his picture on the flyers my daughter had posted and called his owners. His name was Tobey (not as good as Wally, in my opinion) and he had zipped out of a hastily closed gate that didn't latch. He took with him, on his return, two luxurious dog beds, one he had occupied while visiting, and one for his "sister," a couple of chicken toys and a bag of tennis balls.
He had charm to spare and was hard to part with, but it was the right thing to take him home, especially to an obviously loving family. If his home had not been kind, I think Wally would have mysteriously disappeared. I am definitely not above that.
It was an odd weekend, food wise. Saturday started off unusually early, and I was starving when we stopped for breakfast at a biscuit joint favored by my family. Somewhere between the banjo band and the picnic table in the gravel parking lot, I ate a heavenly, freshly made, buttermilk biscuit topped by an egg, further topped by runny, gooey cheese. I didn't order the cheese, but hey, that's how it came and that's how I ate it. Sunday night brought my husband's grilled burgers and baked beans, and just let me say that he is the best burger maker in the Western hemisphere, at least the Southern part of the Northern part of that hemisphere.
I was feeling rather smug, because for the first time in my memory, my weight on the bathroom scale matched the weight on my driver's license. And that was a pretty old license, since they let you endlessly renew, using the same data.
Of course they tell you to update your info, but who does that? I haven't had to show my driver's license in twenty years, except when I bought beer at the ball park, and really, who takes that seriously? So, my weight dipped below that number, probably a little white lie originally, but only for a precious moment, because this morning it was a pound above. So I hoofed it through my neighborhood with renewed vigor, and I intend to have the pound erased by my Wednesday weigh-in day.
Unfortunately, tomorrow night is dinner with an out of town (do Hong Kong and London qualify as out-of-town in the true sense?) colleague of my husband's. As are many in his TV related business, she is preternaturally thin and blond and we are going to a semi-chic spot frequented by other thin blondes, male and female. The good part! The menu includes "small plates," which I thought meant tapas, where you order several small plates of food that add up to a dinner, but I think in this case, they may just have really small china, aimed at a trendy, thin clientele who want to stay that way and aren't in to leftovers.
I'll let you know, if you're interested, or even if you aren't.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Friday, July 26, 2013
He nonchalantly scratched his left ear...and strolled over to pee on the hydrangeas. "Mom, meet Wally."
He had ridden shot gun all the way cross town, his long legs folded into the coupe's little seat, and when he awkwardly stepped out onto the gravel driveway, he stumbled. He scratched his left ear nonchalantly with his long hind foot and strolled over to pee on the hydrangeas that lined the driveway as if to say, "I didn't really stumble. I meant to do that all along."
"Mom, meet Wally," my daughter said. A half an hour earlier, she called on her cell to tell me that she was bring a "temporary guest" home whom she had found running on a busy road in the heat, obviously in need of assistance.
"Wally?" I asked. "Is that his name?"
"Probably not. No tags, of course. I went by the vet to see if he was chipped. No luck. But doesn't he look like a Wally?"
When she called and told me she was headed home with a friend in tow, Where's Waldo immediately popped into my mind, red striped shirt and all. Wally was wearing a collar with red striped tape wound around it.
"I kinda thought he was a Waldo," I said, "but Wally's good." I come from a long line of animal whisperers, and more than once have rescued a nameless, tagless dog whose owners have claimed it and called it by the same name I had assigned to it, or something very close. And not run of the mill dog names like Fido or Spot, either, but Margaret, or one time, Larry.
"I'll advertise for his owner tomorrow. It's too late today," my daughter said. Wally sat. He climbed the front steps, went straight into the den and lay before the fireplace. He politely ate the food he was offered, although he was obviously hungry, drank water like he was dying of thirst, and took a nap. Later, he picked up a Croc garden clog and when offered a chicken dog toy, made an effort to stuff the chicken into the shoe, presenting the shoe and chicken gift package to my husband when he came to check on the visitor.
We have a long history in my family of having sad, lost canine visitors become permanent residents when they were unclaimed, and inevitably they turned into treasures we could not imagine life without. Wally looks a lot like Greta, snatched off a dangerous road in a snowstorm. Wet, starved, freezing and unable to walk, that leggy black dog was wrapped in blankets and carried into our warm kitchen to breathe her last. A couple of years later, a very elderly Greta did indeed breathe her last, but not until she had gained enough life and breath to dance like a circus stiltwalker when she saw one of us come down the steps in the morning.
So tomorrow we will see if the signs with Wally's photo yield any results, but anyone who calls will face some stern questioning. Wally will not go to anyone who can't identify his odd little markings, his distinctive collar and other attributes. He may have dropped in on us at a woefully inconvenient time, but he didn't plan it that way. And the blessings of fate are seldom conveniently timed to fit into our plans.
"Mom, meet Wally," my daughter said. A half an hour earlier, she called on her cell to tell me that she was bring a "temporary guest" home whom she had found running on a busy road in the heat, obviously in need of assistance.
"Wally?" I asked. "Is that his name?"
"Probably not. No tags, of course. I went by the vet to see if he was chipped. No luck. But doesn't he look like a Wally?"
When she called and told me she was headed home with a friend in tow, Where's Waldo immediately popped into my mind, red striped shirt and all. Wally was wearing a collar with red striped tape wound around it.
"I kinda thought he was a Waldo," I said, "but Wally's good." I come from a long line of animal whisperers, and more than once have rescued a nameless, tagless dog whose owners have claimed it and called it by the same name I had assigned to it, or something very close. And not run of the mill dog names like Fido or Spot, either, but Margaret, or one time, Larry.
"I'll advertise for his owner tomorrow. It's too late today," my daughter said. Wally sat. He climbed the front steps, went straight into the den and lay before the fireplace. He politely ate the food he was offered, although he was obviously hungry, drank water like he was dying of thirst, and took a nap. Later, he picked up a Croc garden clog and when offered a chicken dog toy, made an effort to stuff the chicken into the shoe, presenting the shoe and chicken gift package to my husband when he came to check on the visitor.
We have a long history in my family of having sad, lost canine visitors become permanent residents when they were unclaimed, and inevitably they turned into treasures we could not imagine life without. Wally looks a lot like Greta, snatched off a dangerous road in a snowstorm. Wet, starved, freezing and unable to walk, that leggy black dog was wrapped in blankets and carried into our warm kitchen to breathe her last. A couple of years later, a very elderly Greta did indeed breathe her last, but not until she had gained enough life and breath to dance like a circus stiltwalker when she saw one of us come down the steps in the morning.
So tomorrow we will see if the signs with Wally's photo yield any results, but anyone who calls will face some stern questioning. Wally will not go to anyone who can't identify his odd little markings, his distinctive collar and other attributes. He may have dropped in on us at a woefully inconvenient time, but he didn't plan it that way. And the blessings of fate are seldom conveniently timed to fit into our plans.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
The Butcher of Church Street Has My Number
I've mentioned before that my friend Kay has been urging me to visit her plastic surgeon. First of all, if you can get the words "my," "plastic," and "surgeon"into the same sentence, you have way too much time and money on your hands and need to find a better hobby than yourself. Nevertheless when I was visiting my dermatologist The Butcher of Church Street today, I looked in a hand mirror to check out what he and his comely assistant were doing to my neck, and I thought of Kay.
"Butcher, honey, can you do anything about these lines?" I asked, pointing to the parentheses on either side of my mouth. "Something non-invasive?" The Butcher sprang to life, and as if by magic whipped out a needle befitting a horse vet. His eyes popped out even more than usual, and he said "You would be perfect for a little filler," and he produced some brochures showing women looking like Droopy Dawg in one photo, transformed into cravasse-free starlets in the follow up picture.
" 'Filler' " sounds a little, well, like landscaping," I said. "Dirt. Backfill." The Butcher chuckled and pursed his lips.
"Not at all,' he chuckled. "It lasts a couple of years, no lumping or clumping, and the bruising goes away in forty-eight hours. Seventy-two at the most."
"Seventy-two, hmmm?" I could feel myself pondering. That's just what the landscaper said, minus the part about the bruising, and in the first hard rain, half the terracing washed right down into the street. Would this filler run down into my chin, making me look like Jay Leno's sister?
"Come in for a consult," he said. "I know you would love it." Snip snip, he continued to cut off the tiny moles and skin tags that gave my neck that lizard-like glow.
"I'll be gone for a couple of weeks," I said. Just like buying a house. They say when you think about where you would put your furniture, you've as good as bought the place.
"Do it when you come back from your trip, you'll look 15, even 20 years younger for your reunion."
Ba-zinggg! We had discussed upcoming reunions earlier, his 40th and my 50th, and now he was playing me like a violin. It was like using insider trading to rack 'em up on the big board.
"I'll think about it," I said, sounding unconvinced.
"No charge for consults," he countered.
"You shouldn't write about this stuff," Kay said later. "Now, everybody will know."
"First of all, 'everybody' does not accurately describe my blog readership, and what do I have to hide? I don't care if people know."
"Not about you, about me, Dummy," Kay huffed.
"I never used your last name in my blog," I said. "Anyway, even your husband didn't notice your lift."
"The dog did. She barked at me for a whole day. It's beginning to need a re-do. Been almost five years."
If I had a lift like Kay's that cost as much as my last car, I would want to shine it up and take it for a spin around the block so everyone could admire it. The best that we do is go to IHop once a month so she can get the "Two,Two,Two,"or rather the "Dos, Dos, Dos," since she prefers the IHop on Buford Highway. And a five year life-span? No. Absolutely not. How many trips to Europe would that be?
But filler? I'll have to think about it.
"Butcher, honey, can you do anything about these lines?" I asked, pointing to the parentheses on either side of my mouth. "Something non-invasive?" The Butcher sprang to life, and as if by magic whipped out a needle befitting a horse vet. His eyes popped out even more than usual, and he said "You would be perfect for a little filler," and he produced some brochures showing women looking like Droopy Dawg in one photo, transformed into cravasse-free starlets in the follow up picture.
" 'Filler' " sounds a little, well, like landscaping," I said. "Dirt. Backfill." The Butcher chuckled and pursed his lips.
"Not at all,' he chuckled. "It lasts a couple of years, no lumping or clumping, and the bruising goes away in forty-eight hours. Seventy-two at the most."
"Seventy-two, hmmm?" I could feel myself pondering. That's just what the landscaper said, minus the part about the bruising, and in the first hard rain, half the terracing washed right down into the street. Would this filler run down into my chin, making me look like Jay Leno's sister?
"Come in for a consult," he said. "I know you would love it." Snip snip, he continued to cut off the tiny moles and skin tags that gave my neck that lizard-like glow.
"I'll be gone for a couple of weeks," I said. Just like buying a house. They say when you think about where you would put your furniture, you've as good as bought the place.
"Do it when you come back from your trip, you'll look 15, even 20 years younger for your reunion."
Ba-zinggg! We had discussed upcoming reunions earlier, his 40th and my 50th, and now he was playing me like a violin. It was like using insider trading to rack 'em up on the big board.
"I'll think about it," I said, sounding unconvinced.
"No charge for consults," he countered.
"You shouldn't write about this stuff," Kay said later. "Now, everybody will know."
"First of all, 'everybody' does not accurately describe my blog readership, and what do I have to hide? I don't care if people know."
"Not about you, about me, Dummy," Kay huffed.
"I never used your last name in my blog," I said. "Anyway, even your husband didn't notice your lift."
"The dog did. She barked at me for a whole day. It's beginning to need a re-do. Been almost five years."
If I had a lift like Kay's that cost as much as my last car, I would want to shine it up and take it for a spin around the block so everyone could admire it. The best that we do is go to IHop once a month so she can get the "Two,Two,Two,"or rather the "Dos, Dos, Dos," since she prefers the IHop on Buford Highway. And a five year life-span? No. Absolutely not. How many trips to Europe would that be?
But filler? I'll have to think about it.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Is That a Fractal in Your Guacamole?
Why do I always think that a busy week will yield a calmer weekend, and I won't be struggling at the last minute on Sunday night to write my blog. This past week had three things I like best: visiting with my daughter, this time antiquing and eating, two other things I like a lot; opera and dinner with my husband; and attending my son's ice hockey game, followed by more eating.
I have tried to be disciplined about my eating, so as not to backslide, but as anyone knows, that's anything but easy. Most of the food was pub stuff, and even the salads were pretty hefty. The post hockey game meal was at a chain restaurant that sort of intrigues me. Chipotle's Mexican Grill. No kitchy pseudo-Mexican decor. Wood, cement, stainless steel, and a pass-on-down the line kind of service.
And in a disposable bowl (it could have been edible, for all I know) the biggest heap of...things... that could loosely be associated with Mexican cuisine. Very loosely. Rice. Brown and white (?) Corn that looked a lot like canned corn to me. Red and black beans. A very liquid sour cream. Several interpretations of beef, some chicken, salsa, chopped lettuce, and the brightest green guacamole I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a St.Patrick's Day take on guacamole. Each ingredient was piled atop the one preceding it by a cheery young person wielding an ice cream scoop, until it was all topped with a mountain of guacamole.
I'm not saying it was bad. First of all, it was cheap, and I was starving and numb with cold, having spent the previous two and half hours, or more, sitting in a freezing ice arena that apparently was relying on the air conditioning system to keep the ice from melting.
No, it wasn't bad. I read recently that chopped salads, such as Cobb salads, are all the rage now, and this was sort of a chopped salad take on ...something or other. It also wasn't Mexican. And I have to admit that there is probably a place for non-food like Chipotle serves. I just wish that customers wouldn't go away thinking they had eaten Mexican food, that this is what Mexican food tastes like, and that the belly up to the trough approach is good enough for an ancient and wonderful cuisine we are popularizing right out of existence.
When I was thinking through this blog last night, my wakeful three a.m. brain somehow connected what I had eaten with the Fibunacci sequence, that series of numbers that some physicists see has the hand of God in the universe, creating the whorls in the center of a sunflower, which are repeated in the pattern of galaxies and pine cones and endless other things, but tonight, I can't really see the hand of God in that bowl full of indistinguishable stuff. Now maybe Cobb salad and fractals have a connection, but I won't let it keep me awake.
I have tried to be disciplined about my eating, so as not to backslide, but as anyone knows, that's anything but easy. Most of the food was pub stuff, and even the salads were pretty hefty. The post hockey game meal was at a chain restaurant that sort of intrigues me. Chipotle's Mexican Grill. No kitchy pseudo-Mexican decor. Wood, cement, stainless steel, and a pass-on-down the line kind of service.
And in a disposable bowl (it could have been edible, for all I know) the biggest heap of...things... that could loosely be associated with Mexican cuisine. Very loosely. Rice. Brown and white (?) Corn that looked a lot like canned corn to me. Red and black beans. A very liquid sour cream. Several interpretations of beef, some chicken, salsa, chopped lettuce, and the brightest green guacamole I have ever seen in my life. It looked like a St.Patrick's Day take on guacamole. Each ingredient was piled atop the one preceding it by a cheery young person wielding an ice cream scoop, until it was all topped with a mountain of guacamole.
I'm not saying it was bad. First of all, it was cheap, and I was starving and numb with cold, having spent the previous two and half hours, or more, sitting in a freezing ice arena that apparently was relying on the air conditioning system to keep the ice from melting.
No, it wasn't bad. I read recently that chopped salads, such as Cobb salads, are all the rage now, and this was sort of a chopped salad take on ...something or other. It also wasn't Mexican. And I have to admit that there is probably a place for non-food like Chipotle serves. I just wish that customers wouldn't go away thinking they had eaten Mexican food, that this is what Mexican food tastes like, and that the belly up to the trough approach is good enough for an ancient and wonderful cuisine we are popularizing right out of existence.
When I was thinking through this blog last night, my wakeful three a.m. brain somehow connected what I had eaten with the Fibunacci sequence, that series of numbers that some physicists see has the hand of God in the universe, creating the whorls in the center of a sunflower, which are repeated in the pattern of galaxies and pine cones and endless other things, but tonight, I can't really see the hand of God in that bowl full of indistinguishable stuff. Now maybe Cobb salad and fractals have a connection, but I won't let it keep me awake.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
One Things Leads to Another
Today was glorious, sunny and nearly cool, a day to be out doors, so of course the t.v. programming had to be at odds, broadcasting the only things I want to see during the day. The morning started with the Tour de France, an amazing climb over the Pyrenees, and picked up at noon with a Jane Austen marathon on Ovation. Oh agony! Tues., the Tour heads to the Alps for more amazing athleticism and scenery, and I will have to be there, since it is only three weeks of the year.
If you want to read some great writing, just go to page 7 of the New York Times Sunday Sports , 7/14/13 by James Dao on the Tour, byline Lyon:
What a gorgeous country. The little villages, with their creamy stone and twisting streets... They bring back wonderful memories of "barging" with our children on the Yonne River and canals in Burgundy many summers ago. Their barges are river boats, nicely fitted with bedrooms and small but very adequate bathrooms, a galley kitchen, sitting area, and best of all, an open deck with a dining table and chairs, and bicycles. Hitting the land amounted to only pulling over to the shore, pounding in a stake and tying up with a rope and throwing down a wide plank - we literally walked the plank every time we wanted to visit land.
The children biked down beautiful tree lined lanes into villages to buy fruit, bread and yogurt for breakfast, and we visited markets along the way to find fresh vegetables and dinner. No matter that the children did not speak French. Everywhere, they were treated with such generosity and kindness that they gained confidence in their language skills.
This was not the luxury barge that comes with a captain. We "drove" it, children included, at a grand five miles an hour maximum, and learned to navigate locks, usually with an attendant. Passing through locks was a requirement that kept me terrified after our son fell off the boat into the icy water, with tons of barge drifting toward him and the stone walls. In the rain. In the almost-dark. Drenching completely his only heavy, warm sweatsuit. He brags about it to this day. Tie up time was 7 p.m., but the cloud filled skies and driving rain the first day or so made early evening feel like late night.
And then, in the morning, the sun came out and the fishermen returned to the river to provide a catch for the close by inns, snails crept over the paths to town (dinner, perhaps?) and the evenings were long and light filled. No electronics. Only us and the river and the beauty all around us.
Thanks for letting me reminisce. And an hors d'oeuvre I might suggest: Buy a head of endive lettuce, pull off the individual spear shaped leaves, wash and gently pat dry. Make a couscous (plenty of quick cook or mixes in the store)and add raisins and small peanut halves, some finely chopped fresh tomato and parsley. You may want to make the couscous a little wetter than you would ordinarily. Pack it into the endive spears and refrigerate. That's all there is to it, and it is wonderful. A magazine on sale right now, the August volume of Real Simple, has a great selection of kebabs, miles away from the tired steak/onion/something or other kebabs that are usually part of the grilling vocabulary.
And Happy Bastille Day !
If you want to read some great writing, just go to page 7 of the New York Times Sunday Sports , 7/14/13 by James Dao on the Tour, byline Lyon:
They are among the most dangerous 200 yards in sports, a rolling scrum of carbon fiber
machines carrying men wearing nothing nothing nothing but Lyrca at speeds greater than
forty miles an hour (me: they hit 60.) Shoulders bump, tempers flare, handlebars knock. When
crashes occur, they are skin-tearing, bone crunching affairs."
What a gorgeous country. The little villages, with their creamy stone and twisting streets... They bring back wonderful memories of "barging" with our children on the Yonne River and canals in Burgundy many summers ago. Their barges are river boats, nicely fitted with bedrooms and small but very adequate bathrooms, a galley kitchen, sitting area, and best of all, an open deck with a dining table and chairs, and bicycles. Hitting the land amounted to only pulling over to the shore, pounding in a stake and tying up with a rope and throwing down a wide plank - we literally walked the plank every time we wanted to visit land.
The children biked down beautiful tree lined lanes into villages to buy fruit, bread and yogurt for breakfast, and we visited markets along the way to find fresh vegetables and dinner. No matter that the children did not speak French. Everywhere, they were treated with such generosity and kindness that they gained confidence in their language skills.
This was not the luxury barge that comes with a captain. We "drove" it, children included, at a grand five miles an hour maximum, and learned to navigate locks, usually with an attendant. Passing through locks was a requirement that kept me terrified after our son fell off the boat into the icy water, with tons of barge drifting toward him and the stone walls. In the rain. In the almost-dark. Drenching completely his only heavy, warm sweatsuit. He brags about it to this day. Tie up time was 7 p.m., but the cloud filled skies and driving rain the first day or so made early evening feel like late night.
And then, in the morning, the sun came out and the fishermen returned to the river to provide a catch for the close by inns, snails crept over the paths to town (dinner, perhaps?) and the evenings were long and light filled. No electronics. Only us and the river and the beauty all around us.
Thanks for letting me reminisce. And an hors d'oeuvre I might suggest: Buy a head of endive lettuce, pull off the individual spear shaped leaves, wash and gently pat dry. Make a couscous (plenty of quick cook or mixes in the store)and add raisins and small peanut halves, some finely chopped fresh tomato and parsley. You may want to make the couscous a little wetter than you would ordinarily. Pack it into the endive spears and refrigerate. That's all there is to it, and it is wonderful. A magazine on sale right now, the August volume of Real Simple, has a great selection of kebabs, miles away from the tired steak/onion/something or other kebabs that are usually part of the grilling vocabulary.
And Happy Bastille Day !
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Why Losing Weight Is Not Like George Clooney
I decided to divide this blog into two parts because as I wrote it in my mind, it grew longer and longer until even I didn't want to read that much of my writing at one sitting
This has been a busy week (I count weeks from weigh in to weigh in, or Wednesday to Wednesday.) I was fearing the worst, since I had that Margarita and strawberry shortcake on my son's birthday, and I am still expecting the other calories to drop when I get on the scale in the mornings. There was enough sugar in those strawberries and that shortcake to give a moose a diabetic coma, and I did attempt portion control, but you know how that is. And the Margarita was small, but the guacamole and chips that went with it weren't really all that small, even though they were heavenly, so I expected to pay.
If I am going to pay, it's down the road, I guess, because I have lost two more pounds and those two pounds crossed me over the great divide between just barely having lost half my intended weight and being on the path to having it all behind me, so to speak. Of course it will never be over. This much weight, and at my age, writes my story for me. Every day and every day....
A friend of my approximate age lamented her failure to lose as much as she had hoped after she did everything Weight Watchers asked of her. In fact, a couple of times she gained. That's the hard sad truth of losing when you are dealing with something as complicated as the human body, complicated still further by age. Weight loss is not a descending line on a graph, although that's what the W.W. graph indicates. It is more like the spiral used to explain learning.
And it is learned. The body is learning how to use fewer calories, how to process exercise, how, in fact, to think differently. Would you be upset with yourself if you took up a new language, had to master grammar, vocabulary and syntax, and then couldn't immediately write the story you want to tell? I want to tell her she is writing her new story, in a new language, and it demands all of her skills, so she can be proud even if she hasn't lost as quickly and easily as when she was twenty-five. Who among us can do anything as quickly and easily as we did at twenty-five? And if we thought about it, we probably wouldn't want to, either. Well, maybe we would, but that would make for a boring life.
We'd have to hang around with George Clooney and the other Peter Pans of the world, which would definitely be fun at first, but, as a legion of lovelies can attest, even that gets old, just like George.
This has been a busy week (I count weeks from weigh in to weigh in, or Wednesday to Wednesday.) I was fearing the worst, since I had that Margarita and strawberry shortcake on my son's birthday, and I am still expecting the other calories to drop when I get on the scale in the mornings. There was enough sugar in those strawberries and that shortcake to give a moose a diabetic coma, and I did attempt portion control, but you know how that is. And the Margarita was small, but the guacamole and chips that went with it weren't really all that small, even though they were heavenly, so I expected to pay.
If I am going to pay, it's down the road, I guess, because I have lost two more pounds and those two pounds crossed me over the great divide between just barely having lost half my intended weight and being on the path to having it all behind me, so to speak. Of course it will never be over. This much weight, and at my age, writes my story for me. Every day and every day....
A friend of my approximate age lamented her failure to lose as much as she had hoped after she did everything Weight Watchers asked of her. In fact, a couple of times she gained. That's the hard sad truth of losing when you are dealing with something as complicated as the human body, complicated still further by age. Weight loss is not a descending line on a graph, although that's what the W.W. graph indicates. It is more like the spiral used to explain learning.
And it is learned. The body is learning how to use fewer calories, how to process exercise, how, in fact, to think differently. Would you be upset with yourself if you took up a new language, had to master grammar, vocabulary and syntax, and then couldn't immediately write the story you want to tell? I want to tell her she is writing her new story, in a new language, and it demands all of her skills, so she can be proud even if she hasn't lost as quickly and easily as when she was twenty-five. Who among us can do anything as quickly and easily as we did at twenty-five? And if we thought about it, we probably wouldn't want to, either. Well, maybe we would, but that would make for a boring life.
We'd have to hang around with George Clooney and the other Peter Pans of the world, which would definitely be fun at first, but, as a legion of lovelies can attest, even that gets old, just like George.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
The South of France - It's Yours, and You Can Have Your Strawberry Shortcake, Too
I haven't shared any holiday recipes with you because, other than Thanksgiving, I'm not really into holiday cooking all that much. For the Fourth, I believe in corn on the cob and lots of strawberry shortcake (below) and that is about it. Corn on the cob should have an unhealthy amount of butter and salt.
There is only one way to make shortcake: You follow the recipe on the back of the Bisquick box, which makes a good, unsweet, warm on the inside and slightly brown on the outside, short bread-like cake after about 12 minutes baking time. It should be baked in a round cake pan and sliced ( Count on four servings per pan, after seconds. It's that good.)while still warm. Put a piece of shortbread in an individual bowl and pour on an absurd amount of chilled fresh strawberries and their juice that you have mashed (potato masher works best)in a big bowl (you'll need several quarts of strawberries) with white sugar, until you have undone all the merits of the fresh fresh fruit. Do not dilute with ice cream, whipped cream, or anything else. Sink into a stupor and watch the fireworks from an Adirondack chair in your back yard. If there is any shortcake and strawberries left over, it's great for breakfast, very cold. Then you can return to your diet. It's a great country.
We aren't having strawberry shortcake on the Fourth this year. We are waiting for two days and having it, instead of a cake, for our son's birthday two days later, when our family will be together. Our son is not into cakes. Growing up, he wanted tiramisou(which I may have misspelled here,) which is pretty easy to make, but this year, we are back to shortcake.
Tomorrow, many people from around here will run in the Peachtree Road Race. We used to turn out to cheer, and it was fun, but this year I have a truly hedonistic pleasure to start the day. I am a huge fan, a glutton for, The Tour de France, as it is televised (daily for 3 fabulous weeks) on NBC Sports, which is something like Comcast Channel 45 and 845 in Hi-def, which is what Hi-def was made for.
I am not a fan of cycling. The rules are complex and beyond my knowledge, it is a sport much abused in the name of money, and frankly, I don't care who wins or how. What I care about is the t.v. cameras poking into the fields of hay being harvested by teams of horses, the village cheese fairs, and then in a swoop, up above the intricately tiled rooftops of a sixteenth century chateau by helicopter, then down again into fields of lavender and sunflowers, and once again up and over a fourteenth century basilica as the peleton of two hundred flying, colorful riders snakes past on a winding road.
Through several mountain ranges, along seasides, and through villages and cities, it's a dream of motion and color. Tomorrow, it begins the day in the countryside of Vincent Van Gogh, Aix-en-Provence. The first three days (it began last Saturday) covered the mountains and coasts of Corsica. As always, it will end in Paris, this time (the 100th race) as the lights come on at twilight on the Eiffle Tower.
I hope you join me.
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