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.