doofus brother.

I'm not sure, but I pretty much think that brothers are doofuses (doofi?), generally. Mine is, anyway. And I mean that with all due loving kindness, 'cause I really do think he's neat. Anyhoo, he just launched a blog.

reality show.

Oh sure, there's plenty to beef about: Stupid corporate projects that I'm required to execute but have no control over. People who walk yappy, out-of-control dogs on retractable leashes. Not being able to get a parking spot at the gym. Cellphones, generally. That kind of thing.

And then there are real problems. Like raising a family alone and struggling to buy a home. Or living in a barely intact house (if you can call it that) with untold amounts of trash, graffiti and stray dogs in the neighborhood. Our third annual Habitat for Humanity building weekend brought that home in spades.

There were about 80 of us building (thanks to Uncle Dave) in three groups; in two days, we went from concrete slab to framed walls to under roof and clad in siding. For a desk jockey who spends five days a week tied to a mouse and keyboard, the act of doing work -- real work, physical, tire-you-out-at-the-end-of the day work, work that actually amounts to something more than a few checked-off to-do items -- was incredibly satisfying. The to-be homeowner joined our group and hammered away, probably thrilled to be contributing to her own future. Wow.

The always-upbeat Heather Peterson once again organized the outing, and managed once again to feed us in quantity and quality. What a tremendous thing to be part of, and at just the right time of year.

'tis autumn.

Ahhh, the luxuries of a fall Sunday afternoon: a not-too-cold day (though the sun has disappeared behind an overcast sky), a fire in the fire pit outside, tired legs after a 90-minute walk through Ault Park with the boy, Rob with a late-season round of golf under his belt, the Bengals (losing, sadly) on the radio. I made a hearty seasonal salad today: Farro with Roasted Butternut Squash, courtesy of one of my fave food blogs, 101Cookbooks.com. Yum.

because it works, that's why.

Why does The Dog beg?

Because it works, that's why.

I've been more generous than usual with the snacks these past 24 hours, perhaps making up for my absence for the past week (and Rob's currently gone -- hi to Tokyo, B!). But Wrigley's making out like gangbusters.

We took a lengthy walk tonight, and The Boy was full of pep and energy -- he practically ran ahead of me the whole way. I think he must like this cooler weather. He's in great shape. We scored lots of scratches and loves from a poll worker outside Knox Presbyterian (Wrigley voted for all Dog Party candidates).

There's something nice about the sound of dog feet trotting through crunchy leaves on a cool fall night. My new BFF Debbie Millman says that dog feet smell like Fritos. She should know; she has eight of them in her apartment (dog feet, not dogs). I have to agree with her on that one. I like dog feet. Weird, I know.

pancakes for everyone.

It's a gorgeous Sunday morning, and we have a day full of around-the-house puttering on the agenda. So pancakes seemed an appropriate way to start the day. I made a small one for our friend.

dining in good company.

Rob is stirring the final bit of Parmesan into a batch of butternut squash risotto, made with squash purchased at the farmer's market today, thyme from our own garden and homemade chicken stock. To that, we're adding a perfect fall salad: endive, apple, Swiss cheese, chives and toasted walnuts.

Joining us for dinner this evening, in addition to Wrigley and the Fellas, are the Rafanellis (thanks for the Zin, guys) and Emmylou Harris and Mark Knopfler.

Righteous.

blessed are the hairy.

On Saturday, we took Wrigley to a Blessing of the Animals service held outdoors at Church of the Redeemer, an Episcopal congregation near our home. We'd done the same thing last year, and it was intensely emotional, given the boy's horrible illness during the first part of 2006. This year, I looked at the occasion as a time to just be thankful for the joy he brings us, and for the way he prompts smiles and chuckles from strangers we pass when we're out and about. The minister/priest/pastor (whatever) cracked up as he placed his hands on Wrigley and gave him the blessing. As he talked about the interconnection among all God's creatures, I reached down to pull a dog hair off my black skirt.

when life gives you squash.

I cannot get enough of this summer's zucchini. The plant is legendarily productive (Barbara Kingsolver writes in "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" of "zucchini larceny," a sort of reverse crime where neighbors clandestinely leave bags of the green goodies on your porch, which you really don't want because you have a glut of your own to deal with). We don't have zuke in the garden, but we might as well: We've been eating enough of it.

My very favorite preparation is this recipe with fregola sarda (a kind of large-grain couscous pasta that's nicely toasted, which we found at the wonderful Findlay Market shop Angelina's), zucchini, pinenuts, lots of parmesan, Herbes de Provence and a (very) generous sprinkling of coarse salt. And did I mention parmesan?

I also love the salad of fresh zucchini, mint, grilled chicken and shaved parmesan from Everyday Food. And I enjoy Heidi Swanson's salad of grilled zucchini and quinoa. Both make a healthy and satisfying lunch.

Tonight, I concocted another use for zukes, along with other summer produce: Spaghetti squash with a vegetable cream sauce. I sauteed (in a bit of butter) chopped garlic, then added diced carrot, red pepper (from our garden), zucchini, cremini mushrooms and sliced sun-dried tomatoes. I deglazed the pan with a bit of white wine, then poured in a cup of heavy cream and let the whole mess boil for a minute or two. In went the contents of a baked spaghetti squash -- the strands shredded with a fork. Salt, pepper, parmesan. Done. Delish.

domestications.

Someone, somewhere, flipped a switch that triggered an end to the record-breaking heat we've experienced for weeks (but not the drought) and brought on cool, clear, crisp weather for the weekend. Which was perfect for the two projects we undertook: canning and seeding.

Re: the latter—Lawn Master Rob was dissatisfied with the patches of weird grass scattered around the yard and so tackled his annual seeding project, first killing the offending grasses, then pulling up the chaff, laying down topsoil, scattering seed and then finishing with a top-dressing. Now, we water and wait for the seedlings to emerge.

I was unable to scratch my canning itch while we were living in New Jersey, and last fall the preserving project involved jelly, not tomato sauce. So I got about 30 pounds of tomatoes (romas and regulars) at Findlay Market on Saturday morning, scoured the basement for supplies (canning pot: check, jars and lids: check, Ball Blue Book: check) and started work. I ended up with 8 pints of tomato sauce and 5 pints of salsa (one of which didn't seal properly; oh well). Then I attempted tomato preserves, with so-so results.

Sitting outdoors at lunch today, I continued reading Barbara Kingsolver's "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," which I highly recommend. After our weekend activities, one passage really struck a chord:

Eternal is the right frame of mind for making food for a family: cooking down the tomatoes into a red-gold oregano-scented sauce for pasta. Before that, harvesting sun-ripened fruits, pinching oregano leaves from their stems, growing these things from seed—yes. A lifetime is what I'm after. Cooking is definitely one of the things we do for fun around here.

dog at the ballpark.

The Cincinnati Reds, in an effort to boost late-season-we-have-no-shot-at-the-pennant attendance, hosted a dog night at the ballpark on Wednesday. Natch, Wrigley took full advantage.

We met up with our friends Sarah and Kevin and their dog Gilmore. The Reds set aside a section of seating on the right field line, and hosted all kinds of silly contests. The biggest dog, a Saint Bernard, weighed in at about 180 pounds; the smallest, a teacup Yorkie, tipped the scales at just over 16 ounces. We walked in the Dog Parade around the warning track before the game, and then sat in the stands while the Reds played the Cardinals. Wrigley started barking when the crowd erupted as Ken Griffey snagged a great catch -- and then he continued barking pretty much the rest of the game.

The Wrigley Effect was in full force -- we fielded the usual "What kind of dog is this?" questions, kids latched onto him, and people sort of cracked up at his silly appearance. As we watched the game, all around us were dogs (and people) of every size, and overall the whole thing was a total blast!

how hard is it, really?

Today on "Today" there was a story about diacetyl, the "butter" flavor that's added to microwave popcorn and a whole bunch of other prepared and convenience foods. The whole idea scares the bejeebers out of me, especially since we've been trying to avoid preservatives and artificial anything in our cooking and eating Chez Mooth. Turns out, this stuff is killing the food-prep workers who make and handle it. And "Today" featured some guy who had a lung illness that was (somewhat sketchily) associated with the fact that he'd eaten two (!) bags of microwave popcorn every (!) day for years. Now, it could have been the diacetyl, or it could have been, you know, an overindulgence in junky food. But whatever.

Anyway, I bought a bag of Black Cat popcorn at the store recently, and I'm keen to make my popcorn the old-fashioned way: in a pan on the stove. It tastes great, doesn't take any more time (really) than nuking a paper bag and is so much better for me. (That, plus we don't have a microwave in the first place.) The NYTimes has a good recipe for stovetop popcorn.

this was fun.

Today I was in Indianapolis to record a StoryCorps interview with Grandma. We had about 45 minutes in a tiny but comfortable mobile recording studio, where I asked her about her life, from growing up in Linton, Indiana, to her adventures in Norway and Japan as Dave's Mom. She shared stories about not having electricity or running water until she was 11 or 12, about keeping a garden and preserving the produce, about how she felt empowered and proud that she supported herself after Grandpa died. We talked about the things that she's passed down to me (and to Bill) like our love of cooking and gardening. It was really neat!

notes for next season.

I keep meaning to make notes of what's working—and what's not—in the garden, so that next summer I'll repeat—or not—my planting plans. So here's my online garden notation (I'll need to remember this post come next April).

What worked:
• Lantana—it takes full sun and intense heat with vigor; this will be my workhorse for summer color in the front and back pots, in the window box and hanging baskets
• Midnight blue salvia—sturdy, with gorgeous dark-blue flowers; frou-frou likes!
• Yellow Million Bells—super hardy and heat-resistant; they love fertilizer
• On the side porch—another mix of interesting foliage; ferns have done well
• In the veggie garden—Heatwave Blend lettuce from Shepherds Seeds has been incredibly productive, even in this summer's nasty dry heat. Plant two crops of beans more than two weeks apart. Expect that sweet and jalapeno peppers won't bear until late, late summer. Forget mystery varieties of tomato; stick with the knowns. Try a zucchini again, and maybe baby cuke; let them wander through the veggie patch.
• Try another lavender.
• Plumbago—at the street end of the flower bed and around the red "tuteur" with the clematis. Holy smokes, that stuff's hardy!


What didn't:
• See above re: the weird heirloom tomatoes. Ick.
• Three different kinds of plants, max, in planters.
• Herbs don't do well in pots.
• The black-eyed Susan vine on the trellis (west side of the S.P.) is a little out of hand.

For next summer, Pipkin's Market is totally my source for all plants, including veggies. No sense ordering those from Burpee—I can get exactly what I want, and no more than I need, by buying locally; there are tons of choices these days beyond Beefsteak.

I really, really, really want a grapevine from Napa Style. (Rob?)

good things.

Today was noteworthy in a very small way: Finally, after God knows how many rounds, I broke 90 on the golf course. Seven pars over 18 holes. (We won't discuss the other ones.)

Rob is stirring at the stove, cooking up a batch of risotto. We'll brave the not-quite-too-hot temps and have dinner at the Side Porch Cafe one more time this weekend.

Things I feel good about:

Preseason football
Mixed cherry tomato salad
Eating locally
Cutting flowers from the yard to put in a tiny vase on the table outdoors
Sun on my face
A good wooden spoon with a hefty handle (ask Wrigley about that one)
Zucchini risotto
Pickelson slammer cocktails (rum, triple sec, creme de cassis, lime juice)
The sound of wine pouring into a glass
A healthy dog
Late afternoon naps ;-)
Laundry drying on the line
Frou-frou
A green lawn in the midst of a brutal drought
A sh'load of basil growing outside
89
Tomatoes lined up on the kitchen windowsill
Summer corn
Two- or three-shower days

we have way too much corn.

Thirteen ears, to be exact—purchased because the price of 10 ears (which we needed) was the same as a baker's dozen (which we didn't).

So Rob grilled all of it, and we'll use what we need for tonight's dinner: Grilled salmon, yellow potato & corn salad. The recipe comes from a nifty Williams-Sonoma grilling book that Mom gave Rob last weekend.

Oh, and we should mention the wine: J sparkler, in honor of our 17th (count 'em) wedding anniversary.

Exactly 18 years ago, Rob led me up the hill in Mt. Adams toward the Church of the Immaculata, which has an amazing view of downtown. Were ostensibly in Mt. Adams to have an after-dinner cocktail at the Blind Lemon, but Rob convinced me the view was worth a look. As we walked I remember noticing that he had his hand in his pocket, which was unusual. We got to the overlook, and he stood tight behind me, and as I leaned into his chest, I felt his heart pounding. He proposed right then and there, and I've never forgotten the moment.

I still think he's hot.

how hot is it?

It's so hot that we bagged on the Reds tickets we had for tonight's game. We're keeping things watered, so the yard looks none the worse for wear. The lettuce has probably crossed the line into bitter and tough, thanks to the heat. The cherry tomatoes are all splitting, so the ones I picked tonight are destined for a roasting pan with pressed garlic, olive oil and some dried herbs, and then probably on to the freezer.

It's so hot that the usual bird chatter that serenades our morning walk has been silent. So hot that Rob doesn't want to play golf. Oh, wait ... it's not THAT hot.

oh my goodness.

Rob just did something blog-worthy: He opened a bottle of 1997 Robert Mondavi Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon.

Oh, my.

We've just poured into our ginormous red wine glasses and are waiting for it to open up and settle before taking a sip.

Dinner tonight definitely merits this killer bottle: Grilled steaks over sliced tomatoes, sauteed green beans from the garden, crusty bread. Not to mention the unparalleled company of my two boys.

Years ago, when Mondavi was still an independent, publicly traded company (before it the family squabbled, sold the business and watched it lose some of its luster), we bought Mondavi stock. It was a fairly minor investment -- basically, just enough to score us a wicked discount at the winery and access to their VIP tasting room (which poured a hundred bucks worth of wines, easy, just at the tasting). We bought this bottle at the winery and stashed it away for a special occasion. Like an otherwise ordinary Saturday night @ 645.

The first sip: Unbelievable. It's brick red. Huge. Full-bodied, still a bit punchy on the tongue but smooth on the finish.

Oh my.

oh, beans.

We're looking at a bumper crop of green beans this year: I planted four rows (two rows at two weeks apart) and we've just now started picking. They're tender, tiny and incredibly flavorful. The first handful went into a saute of fresh corn, fresh sweet onion and summer squash. The next batch will get sauteed in lemon olive oil. Delish!

going left.

Monday through Friday, around 7 a.m., Rob and I take Wrigley on his morning constitutional. This happens pretty much without fail; it's become one of our (many) routines.

We walk to the end of the cul-de-sac, make a right, and walk up the hill and through the neighborhood, about a half-hour loop. Just enough to get, er, things moving in the morning.

If we're headed out on a longer walk—say, during an evening or weekend—we typically make a left, walk down the hill, cross the street, take the steps over to Ellison and go off on any number of routes: through Mt. Lookout Square and up to Hyde Park Square, perhaps up Delta Avenue and through the neighborhoods to the north and east of us, or maybe all the way to Coffee Emporium on Erie. On those routes, there are any number of spots where Wrigley can score a biscuit: at the fire station, at Carl's, at Sassy Boutique or Poeme on Michigan Avenue.

Some weekday mornings, in spite of the ingrained nature of our routine, Wrigley will tug on his lead and try to make a left turn onto Kroger Avenue. We tell him we wish we had more time to take a longer walk, but we both have to go to work and we need to take the quick route. So we steer him to the right and on up the hill.

But I think Wrigley's onto something. When it's a nice morning, and you've got a bit of energy, why not take a longer stroll? Why not enjoy the outdoors?

Why NOT go left?

coming full circle, part deux.

Since we've come home from New Jersey (nearly a year ago, officially as of July 7), we often marvel at the things that we've settled back into here that we really enjoyed.

Like the Hyde Park Blast.

It's a July 4 (ish) run/walk/community celebration that we really like. Today, Rob ran, and Wrigley and I walked. Rob finished third (hooray!) and looked mighty fine doing so. Wrigley and I made pretty good time, with the dog pulling at the leash the whole way and feeling good. One person (of the many folks who asked about Wrigley's breed) said he looked happy. He did. And does. It was such a joy to watch him trotting along, healthy and happy. We all scored some eats at the end of the race (and a Christian Moerlein, which tasted amazingly good for 9:00 in the morning).

Life is good. Ridiculously good.

Now, we're on the Side Porch, enjoying some fan-freakin'-tastic wine and some good tunes. Wrigley is cashed out. There are delightful summertime sounds coming from the pool across the street. A gentle breeze blows. The sun is setting behind a scrim of clouds, casting a neat glow through the lattice on the west end of the porch. A young cardinal chirps on the overhead power line. Fireworks pop in the distance.

Life IS good.

the wayback machine.

Prompted by a bit of summer nostalgia (and a bit of wine) last night, I headed to the basement in search of some old Gnaw Bone Camp memorabilia. All of the ephemera from my grade school-through-college days is sorted and stuffed into a plastic bin under the basement stairs. I didn't manage to get down deep enough into the bin to find what I was originally after, because I came across some old letters from Rob at the top of the pile. We wrote each other weekly, sometimes several times a week, when we were dating and apart during our summer breaks. The letter that grabbed me had a return address of our first apartment: 2200 Madison Road, #17, Cincinnati -- with a parenthetical note that read, "OK, so I'm not living here yet, but I will be in a couple of days." Rob wrote about "the place" (which we called the apartment; technically, it wasn't OUR place) and about how much fun we were destined to have not just the next time I visited Cincinnati, but in all the years to come. We hadn't, at that point, talked outright about getting married, although it was just a few months before our engagement (I'll save that story for another post!) and we knew we wanted to spend forever together.

Rob was right: things ARE great in all the years to come.

some things don't change.

Sometimes I like to play a game with friends where I ask them what they would be doing at that given moment when they were, say, 10 years old. It's particularly fun during the summer, when it's great to think back to those uncomplicated, unobligated days of summer vacation.

So let's play that game now:

It's 7:45 on a mid-June night. I'm 10 years old. Maybe it's a Tuesday, maybe it's a Saturday; it pretty much doesn't matter, because the days were the same. Chances are, Bill and I woke up around 8:00, had breakfast, dawdled a bit and then headed outside. (Having a brother just 3 years younger meant that together we were part of the larger group of neighborhood kids. During the school year, we may have never acknowledged each other in the hallway, but in the summertime we were content to play together.)

We probably met up with Erin Jones, maybe the Weber kids, perhaps the Hugheys (the whole lot of them), maybe Cris Crowder, Erik Stevens and of course my best pal Kirsten Grimm (and her brother Adam). We all lived on the same side of Coventry Way, our houses backing up against woods populated by old, big trees, not much underbrush and a trickly creek that wound around until it ran directly behind the Grimms' and the Stevens'.

The woods was the source of endless imagination: Days would begin with someone proposing, "Let's pretend that ..." and we were off. We'd carved out a whole village back in the woods, cleared spots that served as our "houses" and raked bare-dirt paths between them. My "house" had at its epicenter a rather largish boulder with a divot in the top that I imagined was the candle holder in my dining room table. We imagined that the disintegrated remains of downed trees was our food, we played in the creek, we used rocks and bark for commerce. We were outside all day, save for lunchtime (which, ideally, involved grilled cheese sandwiches and Lipton Noodle Soup, consumed with Al Pell's noontime farm report on WIBC as the soundtrack).

We spent entire days outside, running around, exercising both our bodies and our imaginations. I can't envision a better way to spend long summer days.

The thing is, as I approach 40 next month, I'm still pretty much hard-wired to spend days outside: playing golf, puttering in the garden, reading on the side porch, walking with my boys.

Some things don't change. I imagine my innate need to be outdoors never will.

Now that's an odd piece of cheese

Our friend Wrigley shows a special interest in the BBQ grill. Being the ingenious dog that he is, he noticed long ago that the square shape to a slice of cheese is not compatible with a round hamburger. (He's not only ingenious, he's also good at geometry.) I mean, why waste those corners of cheese to just melt and drip right off the burger? Wouldn't it be more responsible to just cut off the corners and share them with a hairy friend?

Yes, the dog has a point. And Wrigley, thanks for sharing your burger with me last night! Tasty stuff.

smokin'.

Two weekends ago—Memorial Day weekend—was smokin' weekend. Rob hauled out the charcoal-fired smoker and had that bad boy goin' all day, slow-cooking a couple of roaster chickens, a pork loin, a couple of onions and, finally, pasta. That's right: Pasta. We'll get to that in a minute.

In my mind, there's a uniform for smoking: a wife-beater T, jean shorts, tube socks and a trucker cap. Fortunately, Rob was wearing none of these. Although he tended the charcoal starter and fed Miller Lite and wood chips into the smoker like a real pro.

Tonight, we truly enjoyed the fruits of his labor: the Mooth house specialty: Smoked Chicken Risotto with Smoked Onions, Peas and Tarragon. Delish!

The smoked pasta is a recipe that comes from a cookbook that we've had forever: it's a ridiculous combination of cooked fettuccine, fontina, parmesan, wine, chopped parsley and cumin seeds. You toss the whole lot together, dump it into a foil tray of your own making and set it on the smoker for a half hour or so until it all gets this gooey, smokey, delicious character. The perfect foil for grilled or smoked seafood. Unusual, but really memorable.

peas be with you.

In March (on St. Patrick's Day, per Grandma's instructions), I planted peas: the English, shelling kind, in a variety from Burpee called Peas 'n a Pot. (Yep, I planted them in big pots.) Peas are one of those vegetables that are incredibly hard to find in their fresh state -- even the farmer's market vendors at Findlay don't have them. If ya want 'em fresh, ya gotta grow your own (or visit a you-pick farm like Grandma and Hans do every spring). So I grew 'em.

I envisioned a two- or three-week period where we'd have all the fresh peas we could eat: freshly picked, shelled, blanched and doused with copious quantities of butter and salt.

Not so much. Our whole crop -- two and a half months of growing time -- yielded just one dinner's worth. A nice colanderful of pods turned out to be two big spoonsful of shelled peas on the plate.

They were good. Really good. But I don't think I'll plant them again. Not that it was costly, or a whole lot of work, to grow peas; it was the harvest that was a letdown.

coming full circle.

Looking back to this point one year ago, we recall going through a tough patch: Wrigley was incredibly sick, with an undiagnosed illness that required major surgery, icky meds (which probably did him as much harm as good in some cases) and a ton of worry on our part. We were longing simply to get home, back to 645 Kroger Lane, our silly little home that holds such attraction for us. Rob told me at the time that we'd be moving back from New Jersey to Cincinnati in July -- and I didn't put much stock in the notion (knowing that corporate moves aren't entirely in one's own control).

On this day a year ago, I was just days from leaving for the HOW Design Conference, my major work event of the year, and I was terrified that something dreadful would happen ...

[Rob just came over to wipe off the grape mustache from my upper lip. True love.]

... to Wrigley while I was away. Taking care of him took such energy, patience, persistence, love, hope. It was trying.

And then, I came back to New Jersey from the conference in Las Vegas, and both my guys were waiting at the airport. It was one of the best days of my life.

So here we are, a full earth-around-the-sun rotation later, and things are indeed coming full circle:
• We're having dinner at the Side Porch Cafe
• We hit the local church festival this past weekend (viva Junefest!)
• We're enjoying Findlay Market in its full glory
• Our yard is lush and the vegetable garden coming into summer bloom
• We've patronized all the local spots we love: Carl's, Zips, Coffee Emporium

We are blessed. Things are good.

Bad music can be good

Wow, I just managed to expunge "Boogie Wonderland" from my sub-conscious and then I get called out on my vacation music selections... damn!

I suppose the whole point of vacation is to do things that you don't normally, so I chose a lot of really bad music for our trip to St Bart's. During that time, I developed a special affinity for Earth, Wind, and Fire. Was it the rum punch, or was that EW&F song really GOOD?

Other revelations:

No band makes up for bad lyrics with good production values quite like Chic. I mean, "Music never lets you down, Puts a smile on your face and it turns me in place"??? Ugh. But it sounded good in St Bart's.

Songs by Styx have aged about as well as an opened bottle of Kraft Thousand Island dressing left in a file drawer for a few months. I'll nominate Mr Roboto as a contender with "We built this city" for worst pop song of all time. Playing Styx songs nearly got me voted off the island. Literally.

Go ahead, try and find a song by KC and the Sunshine Band that does not use the word "boogie." I dare you.

Beware those who know too many Def Leppard lyrics by heart. When our friend (and euchre champion) Sandy launched into "Animal", we learned something powerful and dark about her!

Van Halen wins the "Ted Nugent Sensitivity Award" for the respectful lyrics towards women in "I can't wait to feel your love tonight." I'm not sure this one sounded too good in St Barts, but I'm pretty certain that it did in 8th grade.

D.M.S.R. ... Dinner, Moke, Smashball, Rum. That pretty much sums it all up.

incommunicado.

This poor blog has suffered from lack of attention these past few weeks, thanks to our being away on vacation and then dealing with the pain of re-entry into "real" life following said vacation.

First, the vacation: We spent a week with our great friends Doug & Sandy DeLor on St. Barts, where we did absolutely nothing. Except drink. And read, and cook and drink some more and play Euchre and Smashball (a silly pool game with oversized paddles and a rubber ball, something like ping-pong in chest-deep water). And did we mention drink?

Rob concocted a truly memorable rum punch with some mystery fruit juices (bought at the French grocery in Gustavia), pineapple syrup and Mount Gay. Doug and Sandy introduced us to the Beer Margarita, a mix of limeade concentrate, tequila and light beer. We sampled some fine French wines (we got to know especially a fruity Tokay from Alsace).

Rob's other contribution to the week involved a series of mix CDs of so-bad-it's-good music from the 1970s and 80s. Think: K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Foreigner, Michael Jackson (the early years: "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough") and Van Halen. I'll ask him to consider posting his playlist. Or maybe not. You might think less of us.

The week after vacation brought delicious weather to Cincinnati, so we've sort of continued the outdoor living theme with lots of dinners on the side porch, cocktails on the deck and walks with Wrigley. Last Saturday was the day of my dreams: We planted several hundred dollars worth of annuals, perennials and shrubs in the yard, in pots and in hanging baskets. I had an email yesterday from Burpee that my veggie order shipped, so that means more planting this weekend. Next up: Figuring out a good stake/trellis system for the tomatoes.

We'll post a gratuitous vacation photo soon.

cold-weather food.

Seems kind of strange (almost disheartening) to think of April as hearty-food weather, but there you have it. Rob found the perfect recipe for 35 degrees and rainy: A Basque-style chicken and chorizo ragout from one of our favorites, the Jimtown Store Cookbook. We roasted a chicken in the afternoon (its remains are in the stockpot now), then shredded the meat. We sauteed some chorizo, then a load of sliced onions and red peppers, poured in a glug of white wine and a can of diced organic tomatoes, then let the whole mess simmer for a bit. In went some Pimentón (a smoked paprika that's nicely spicy and wonderfully aromatic), salt, pepper and the chicken. A bowlful, plus a simple green salad, a wedge of crusty bread and Three Rings Shiraz, was the perfect foil for crappy weather. That, and thoughts of St. Bart's next weekend.

more art. more beauty.

Poet Billy Collins reads his work, accompanied by some really gorgeous animation and motion design.

missing out on something beautiful.

I blogged about this today for HOW, but wanted to post it here, as well:

Washingtonpost.com has an amazing—amazing!—article about beauty and art and how we so often totally miss out on experiencing both in the rush of our daily lives. The paper asked violin virtuoso Joshua Bell to pose as a street musician in a Metro station in downtown Washington, DC, playing, on his Strad, one of the most gorgeous and technically challenging pieces in the violin repertoire. To see if harried commuters, as they filed past, would stop for a listen, toss a buck into his violin case, even notice at all.

From the article: "The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother's heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too."

The writer cites two philosophical theories on aesthetics: one, that beauty is a quantifiable fact and two, that it is strictly opinion. The philosopher Emmanuel Kant has a third: That beauty is both fact and opinion, but furthermore influenced by the current state of mind of the observer. In other words, context is key.

It's fascinating to listen to the audio of Bell's performance, with all the low chatter, footsteps on concrete, opening doors and other background noise. Sitting here at my desk, even with the murky sound, the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. I wonder what I would have done if I'd come into that Metro station, on a crazy morning, coffee in my travel mug, facing a dayful of meetings and emails. Would I have stopped to listen?

whaaaaa?????

OK, so on Monday it was 80 degrees. Or thereabouts. On Wednesday, when we had tix to the Reds/Cubs game it was SNOWING. In the fourth inning. Flurries coming right down into the stadium. (The cold weather kept our beers nice and frosty. So there's that.)

Nonetheless, someone who shall remain nameless (Rob) talked me into purchasing a dumptruckful of mulch to be delivered on Friday. So we spent yesterday dodging the snow flurries and spreading 4+ yards of mulch throughout the landscaping. We especially enjoyed the company of a robin couple, who scrounged for worms as we were digging around in the garden beds. They were fearless. The whole yard looks awesome!!!

The shrubs we planted last weekend (back when it was, you know, above freezing) are faring so-so: The hydrangeas aren't at all happy, but the rhododendrons seem to be hanging in there. I'm told the dogwoods and lilacs should do OK. Here's hoping.

Today, we spent Easter Sunday reflecting back on last year, when Wrigley was in the Madison Animal Hospital with liver failure and Rob and I sobbed through the lovely outdoor Easter sunrise service we attended. We felt especially blessed to have all of our little family feeling good and happy. Cheers!

[edit: Hey, Emily from Titus Vineyards -- thanks for the visit!]

it's not really my job.

I am married to the Lawn Master—with a capital M. Rob has managed to completely eradicate even the most stubborn weeds (violets look pretty, but they're real bastards), fill in the patchy spots and create a really masterful yardful of grass. Already this spring, it's lush and incredibly green.

Rob's lawn-growing talents are the subject of some admiration in the neighborhood; our next-door neighbor has consulted him for advice on seeding bare patches. And they're also the source of some grumbling and eye-rolling; our neighbor two doors down, who fancies himself quite the green-lawn guy, sniffs when he sees Rob getting a head-start on outdoor chores. "Well, I won't put down grass seed for another 2 weeks," he harrumphed at me disapprovingly when Rob was scattering finelawn fescue a week ago.

Rob is also an accomplished mower of said lawn. When he was in Bangkok last week, I made a feeble attempt at running the evil machine over the grass—leaving scalped patches and uncut strips in my wake. I'm going to leave that chore to him. He's better at it anyway.

now showing.

It'll be interesting at this time next year to read these posts cataloging spring blooms. Things seem to be early this year, which may be due to this warmer-than-normal stretch we've had for the past 10 days or so. Everyone I know has Spring Fever--I've been approving more than the normal volume of days off for the HOW staff.

So here's what's going now:

Magnolias
Redbuds (love those)
Bradford pears
Purple plums
The weeping cherry in the front yard (just now starting)
Forsythia
Some kind of shrub with hot-pink flowers (I think it may be quince)
Purple azaleas

Coming soon:
Crabapple
Dogwood (the flower buds have just started to unfurl a tiny bit)
Azaleas
Lilac

hello, b.

A shout-out to Rob, who's on his way to Bangkok for business, via this lunchtime post. Hi, B! I figure your flight should be arriving at the Bangkok airport in about an hour (I checked online, and it's an 11-hour time difference from here to there). After this trip, you'll probably never want to set foot on an airplane again! (Except maybe for our upcoming trip to St. Barth.)

Things are super weird when Rob is traveling; I find that I don't much mind being alone, but don't particularly love it, either. I tend to not have wine with dinner, get a few projects done in the evening, and then go to bed early and read. Wrigley is funny, too -- he's more clingy than normal, he barks when he thinks a car is pulling into the drive (Is it him? Is it him? Is it him?) and seems to sense that something isn't quite normal in his little world. I suppose you could say the same of me.

seedlings.

Tiny lettuces: Burpee Butterhead and Four Seasons. They're liking this warm weather (hope it sticks around). As are the bradford pears, which are now in full bloom throughout Hyde Park and Mt. Lookout—which, as a result, now smell like feet. We're pretty much convinced that blooming bradford pears stink like toes.

tasting notes.

Friday evening, we went to the Cincinnati Wine Festival, an event that we missed the past two springs (although we did hit a smaller but comparable event in Madison, NJ). I scribbled a few tasting notes about some new wines and a couple we've previously had:

Whites
Stag's Leap Karia Chardonnay: bright and fruity
Mondavi Chardonnay: rounder and softer than the Karia; oaky, but not too
Zaca Mesa Rousanne and Zaca Mesa Viognier: both incredibly drinkable, lovely

Reds
Clos du Val Cabernet: dark fruit and leather
Pine Ridge Stag's Leap Cabernet: soft, big and full of dark, ripe fruit (blueberries)
Pine Ridge Oakville Cabernet: interestingly different from the Stag's Leap; brighter, with more fresh, red fruit (raspberries)
St. Clement Oroppa Cabernet: SGS (seriously good sh*t)
Titus Zinfandel: SGS
Provenance Rutherford Cabernet: SGS

now open: side porch café.

It's official: The SPC opened for the season yesterday. I spent the afternoon cleaning furniture and sweeping up five months' worth of crap and cobwebs. I got all the candles fired up before we sat down to dinner: Rob's famous burgers and grilled sweet potatoes. Perfect!

Last week was remarkable: You could see, day by day, the green-o-meter shifting to "High." The grass greened up, trees started showing that haze of chartreuse, and daffodils popped open. A warm and sunny weekend meant that the purple plums, magnolias and forsythia are going strong, and the bradford pears are in the on-deck circle. I have high hopes for a spectacular display from our lilacs and peonies. Oh! And there were plants for sale for the first time at Findlay Market on Saturday.

I've been snapping photos around the yard to document progress and chart the results of my landscaping plan. I'll post those soon.

the good lunch.

I'm a big fan of lunch, generally. But I need a good lunch: something light but tasty (and sustaining) in the middle of the day to keep me going. Especially during the workweek, having a good lunch is key; I've found that nothing wrecks my day like an unsatisfying lunch. On the weekends, especially when we're knee-deep in projects and time seems to fly, I can grab a granola bar and be sated, but when I've spent all morning at my desk, that won't do when noon rolls around.

Now Rob, he does just fine with a banana and a bagel every day. I need something different—not more, exactly, but more satisfying. If I do just a bagel or some other carb-laden snack, I'll hit a wall around 2:00. So I try to go for something balanced, with a bit of protein to keep me going.

For several months, I'd lapsed into the Lean Cuisine habit. But as we've been on a trend to eat more healthily—few processed foods, no preservatives or additives, fresh meats and produce, homemade bread, that kind of thing—the ingredient list on a Lean Cuisine box left me queasy. So I've lately committed to making some kind of salad on the weekend that I can take for lunch throughout the week. I've been fond of a corn and quinoa salad from Martha Stewart, shown above, (quinoa is loaded with protein) and of a hearty wheatberry salad that my friend Tricia makes all the time, which has smoked mozzarella, corn and cherry tomatoes.

This week, I've been enjoying a two-fer: roasted beet and goat cheese salad, and this one, which I sort of made up after having something similar at a catered event in the fall:

Carrot & Fennel Salad with Chicken
Shredded chicken
2 large carrots, peeled and julienned or grated
2 small or 1 large fennel bulb, julienned or sliced thinly
A few fennel fronds, chopped
A tablespoon or so of caraway seed
One or two tablespoons each of champagne vinegar and lemon olive oil
A generous grind of black pepper
A liberal sprinkling of coarse salt

Midlife crisis? Not a chance.

Last week was the big 4-0 for Rob. We both took the day off to commemorate the occasion. I elected to make the day special by going to the hardware store. Twice.

My 40th was, in many respects, a completely normal day. But that doesn't mean it wasn't eventful in some smaller ways...

First thing in the morning, I got my first 5-miler in as a member of the master’s division. My plan is on track to someday become the world’s fastest geezer. I’m sitting in my spider hole, waiting out the rest of my age group to blow out their knees, finally realize that running is stupid, or just croak. Then I will be the last one standing. Style tip to self: Go for sleeves if your skin is covered in liver spots.

Midlife crisis #1: Bryn is feeling like she’s dodged a bullet since midlife crisis #1 did not involve acquiring something that either squeals, roars, or explodes. No, my midlife crisis was to purchase a big-ass Little Giant ladder. This opens up a new range of projects for me to putter around with. And I’m finding all of my off-color references to “the little giant” are enormously entertaining. To me, at least.

I’m feeling good today because we had a great weekend enjoying the early arrival of daylight savings time. I’m feeling smug too, since those poor suckers in Hawaii, American Samoa, Guam, and Puerto Rico didn’t benefit from the extra 3 weeks of DST. Sweet revenge, folks.

Big Idea: This gets me thinking – shouldn’t we take this a step further and initiate “Monday Savings Time”. It’s simple. Turn back the clock an hour every Sunday night before you go to bed. You're loving life with that extra hour of sleep. Then on Monday afternoon at 4, turn the clock ahead an hour. Whaddya know - it's time to punch the clock? What are we waiting for?

Midlife crisis #2: I recently hit the new Nike Sumo 2 driver at the range. (You know, it’s that club that looks like a shoebox tied to a hockey stick.) When you hit the ball with that thing, it makes the strangest hollow knocking sound. Sort of like if you took a knuckle to the head of any member of the Bush Cabinet.

While the Sumo 2 was not for me, I felt like a new driver would be fair game for a little splurge on my 40th. So I’m sporting a new TaylorMade 580. Bryn lets out another “phew” as she dodges the bullet yet again.

this is what we've been waiting for.

Yesterday, the temp passed 60 degrees. It's kind of rotten that the first 60-plus degree day of the year is a workday, but there you go. We still managed to get out for a major walk with Wrigley, and then had the very first cocktail hour on the new patio. Hallelujah!

Today was supposed to be rainy all day, but it was mostly gray, and then things cleared off after lunch. I spent several hours making a to-scale plan for the landscaping we need to do, using grid and tracing paper. It was immensely satisfying to think out what we want to do in the back, mostly surrounding the deck and patio. The new plan includes some hydrangea, some dwarf evergreens of some kind, some rudbeckia, that kind of thing. We'll divide and move several things already in the yard. I'm super excited.

Rob, bless his heart, tackled two of the three ornamental grasses we need to dig out -- bastards! I did some pruning and cleanup. There's plenty to do. Next weekend: Peas, per Grandma, on St. Patrick's Day.

Welcome, Spring!

so fun.

When we took Wrigley to the Pet Suites last weekend while we went to Bloomington, the woman at the desk exclaimed, "He's a party in a dog suit!"

So true.

back in bloomington.

Spent a fun 24 hours or so in Bloomington, where we managed to hike all around campus and town in spite of some really cruddy weather Saturday night. We watched the (very good) first half of the IU-Michigan State game at Nick's. Nick's is awesome: It never changes. The waitresses are rough around the edges but sweet, the crowd is a mix of Bloomington types (was that Ralph Waldo Emerson in the front booth?), the food is consistently good for a college bar. We recalled spending many weeknights there in our senior year at IU, especially during basketball season, when pitchers of beer were cheap and the popcorn just this side of stale. Halfway into my second pound jar of Killian's, it occurred to me that there's a always a point during the evening when the beer starts to taste a bit sour. Thing is, that happens earlier than it used to. (Oh, and we watched the truly awful second half of the IU–Michigan State game from our room at the Grant Street Inn. And feel asleep. Not that we missed anything.)

pizza.

It's a rare occasion that we have something at a restaurant and think, "Gee, we should make that at home." Like, I'll have a really fabulous roast chicken at, say, Jean Ro Bistro, and there's no way we could replicate it at home. Unless we unplugged the smoke detector, cranked the oven to 11 and figured, what the hell: we'll just burn the place down.

A visit to our favorite little California town, Healdsburg, offered up one of those "gee" restaurant dinners. On a visit a couple of years ago, we stopped into the Healdsburg Plaza Farms, a little storefront collective of local purveyors (including DaVero and Scharffen Berger). Tucked in the back was a mostly takeout joint called Bovolo. They dished up a pizza that we've made countless times since. Including tonight. Here goes:

Pizza with Prosciutto and Arugula
Pizza dough (we like Trader Joe's)
Grated Fontina (or, we like the Quattro Formaggio blend from TJ's)
Prosciutto
DaVero Meyer Lemon Olive Oil
Fresh cracked pepper
Arugula

Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Roll out the dough and transfer to a baking sheet or pizza stone; bake for 10 minutes or so until lightly golden. Transfer crust to a baking sheet and remove from oven. Top with a drizzle of Meyer Lemon Olive Oil, a light coating of shredded cheese and a generous amount of cracked pepper. Return to oven for another few minutes until cheese is bubbly and starting to brown. Remove pizza from oven; top with prosciutto (torn into pieces). Top with a pile of arugula, then another drizzle of oil and more pepper.

There's no better pizza. No way.

file under: that'd suck.

I took a walk around mid-day; Wrigley made the wise decision not to go with me (we'd have had to stop every few steps to fish the ice/salt chunks out of the pawpads). Up the hill on Tweed Ave., I found a few folks who were none too happy with the weather.

Still, it was really beautiful.

It occurred to me, thinking of the tragic story of the 9-year-old girl in the city who was killed by a falling tree limb while walking her dog last night, that going outside may not have been the brightest thing to do.

I'll admit that the sound of tree branches crackling overhead like falling dominoes quickened my step. Still, I was out for nearly two hours (probably four miles, give or take), walking all through Mt. Lookout and Hyde Park.

Trudging over the rough sidewalks took quite a bit of exertion, so I got a healthy workout, even managed to keep my feet underneath me. Then I went home and took a power nap.

Yep, I love snow days.

snow day.

For the first time in memory, I have a grownup snow day. Like a schoolkid, I was glued to the TV this morning, watching the list of closings crawl across the bottom of the screen. There it was: F+W Publications: Closed. Hallelujah!

Rob left for the office a few minutes ago (boo!). So, what's on tap for the day? Let's see: Wrigley's upstairs having his post-breakfast nap. Giada's on the Today Show. I'm going to make Bill's Focaccia (recipe below).

A layer of ice (thanks to a full day of soaking rain yesterday, followed by below-freezing temps overnight) has settled over everything. The sun is just coming up, and the scene is right out of "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." The highest branches are sparkling, and the dogwood in my window is shimmering. Two female cardinals (out for coffee and conversation) just landed in the upper branches; they're all puffed up to keep warm (sorry, girls). Assuming I can get Wigs out for a walk, we'll venture out this morning with our camera.

But first, the focaccia needs to go in the proofing drawer for a couple hours. This is very simple to make, in spite of the complicated-looking directions.

Bill's Focaccia
1 package yeast, dissolved in about 1/2 cup warm (110 degrees) water with a pinch of sugar and flour
4 1/2 cups flour
2 Tablespoons olive oil
1 cup (ish) more warm water
salt to taste (I start with 1 teaspoon -- the dough should taste slightly salty, but not too much, because you'll salt the top before it bakes)

Dump the flour and olive oil in the KitchenAid (dough hook). When the yeast is bubbly in the water, add that to the bowl. Start the mixer; as the dough starts to come together, add the salt. Add the warm water carefully (not too much); the dough should be firm, smooth and just barely sticky. Knead it in the KitchenAid for 3 or 4 minutes until it's really smooth.

Take the dough out of the bowl, shape it into a round, and put it back in the bowl; pour a bit of olive oil over the top, turn the dough over in the bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise until it reaches the top of the bowl (a couple of hours).

Pour some olive oil into either a quarter- or half-sheet pan (depending on how thick and puffy you want it; I like using the quarter size). Dump the dough out into the pan and let it rest for 20 minutes or so. With lightly oiled fingers, press, push and stretch the dough to roughly fill the pan. Cover with oiled plastic wrap and put the pan in a warm place to rise again. Bill says the dough should be jiggly when you put it in the oven (this takes an hour and a half or two hours, depending on the warmth of your rising space).

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees. Before baking, gently dimple the dough with your fingers, then pour some olive oil over it (the oil should settle into little pools). Generously sprinkle with coarse sea salt and coarse-ground pepper (you can also top it with fresh rosemary, a sprinkling of Parmesan or whatever you please). Bake for about 25 to 30 minutes, until it's nicely golden.

a new toy.

Wrigley's new fleecy tug toy—that, and the Nylabone (thanks for the reco, Sarah), are big hits.

fine dining.

Last night, we opted for comfort food on a cold night (and with Mom here for a visit, that seemed apropos). So we did a little three-course dinner: fettuccine alfredo (nothing more than Italian panna da cucina and freshly grated parmesan), then veal scallops with a lemon-caper pan sauce, finished off with a bit of Madisono's gelato (the hazelnut is to die for).

Panna da cucina is a wonder: packaged in a little aseptic box and shipped over from Italy, it's an incredibly dense cream for cooking (hence, the "da cucina"). It takes heat well and doesn't separate, and renders a perfectly smooth cream sauce. Bill introduced us to it in Tuscany, where we stirred it into sauteed broccoli and dumped it over pasta. We've also used it to make a pasta sauce with dried porcini and canned tomatoes. We've found it at Italian markets in New Jersey and in Pittsburgh, but it's tough to come by. Too bad. (Tho maybe it's for the best.)

tangy tomatoes.

My favorite food blog, Chocolate & Zucchini, featured a recipe for a tomato-feta dip that writer Clotilde Dusoulier says she made after a fit of spring (a bit early, eh?) cleaning of her pantry. I tinkered with the recipe when I made it this evening: I doubled the amount of feta and reduced the tomatoes by about half, and I took her alternate suggestion and added an espresso-spoon full of capers in lieu of the anchovies (eew). I dumped it all into the container of my trusty stick blender (no sense hauling out its big Kitchenaid brother). When mom comes tomorrow night for a weekend visit, I'll toast up some pitas to go alongside, and maybe bring out some rosemary/spiced cashews that I made a couple of weeks ago and stashed in the freezer. Sounds like a tasty happy hour snack for a cold night.

<edit: this is really good!>

the best eggs in the world.

Really. They are.

DaVero, one of our favorite finds on our last trip to Wine Country, is a terrific source for olive oil and other goodies. And also recipes. They have one called The Best Eggs in the World: eggs gently scrambled in a pool of extra-virgin olive oil until they're just soft. We had them one Friday night of late—we stirred in some lightly sauteed cherry tomatoes and sliced mushrooms and did giant slices of crunchy, buttered toast on the side. The eggs were precisely as advertised; we loved the olive-y taste, which made them much more suitable for dinner than breakfast.

Today's New York Times food section has a recipe for eggs fried in olive oil, then served on a bed of polenta dusted with shaved Parmesan, with garlic-sauteed Swiss chard on the side.

We love breakfast for dinner!

the dog is smarter than we are.

These past few days, it's been bitterly cold. It's sort of put the kibosh on our morning walk with Wrigley—when we try to take him out, he just sits in the hallway and cocks his head, like, "You've got to be kidding." This morning, we tried again to get him out; ordinarily, he loves the snow, but today he stood in the driveway with his ears back and his tail tucked between his legs, shivering pitifully. So we sent him back inside, where he promptly did this:

the ultimate lemon drop cocktail.

After much trial and error, I've determined this is the best darn lemon drop...

This recipe makes 2 perfect lemon drops.

Juice of 1 Meyer Lemon (not a regular lemon, numbnuts!)
3 jiggers vodka
1/2 jigger sugar syrup (make sugar syrup with 2/1 ratio of sugar to boiling water)

Shake until slutty. Pour and enjoy!

biscuits.

Rob had the inspired suggestion to make Cheddar Cheese Biscuits from Grandma's cookbook for dinner tonight.

2 cups flour
1 Tbsp. sugar
2 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. pepper
1/2 tsp. baking soda
6 Tbsp. chilled unsalted butter, cut into chunks
1 1/2 cups grated cheddar
1 cup cold buttermilk

Combine dry ingredients; cut in butter. Mix in cheese. Stir in enough buttermilk to bind dough. Turn onto floured surface and knead until combined. Pat out to 1/4-inch thickness. Using biscuit cutter, cut into 3-inch rounds. Transfer to ungreased cookie sheet. Brush with an egg wash (egg mixed with 1 Tbsp. milk); sprinkle with poppy seeds. Bake in 400-degree oven for 18 minutes.

happy birthday, edgar.

Today is Edgar's birthday (for anyone who's not made Edgar's acquaintance, he's the Big Bear). In a bit of non-coincidence, Edgar's birthday always falls on Super Bowl Sunday. In celebration of which, we had pancakes for lunch.

it's probably too early ...

... but my order from Burpee came today: Peas 'n a Pot, Triumph de Farcy filet beans, arugula, three kinds of lettuce. The Farmer's Almanac says to plant the lettuce and peas when the lilacs show leaves. Grandma says to plant peas on St. Patrick's Day. That's about 6 weeks from now. Guess we'll have to wait.

looking sharp.

Wrigley took a much-needed trip to The Groom Room on Friday. Here's the Before and After:

hello.

We're not sure where this blog thing is going. But we think it'll be cool to share odds and ends that we come across: new wines, great recipes, connections, even Rob's golf scores. Welcome.