a meal to remember.

Last night, Rob and I went out for a fantastic dinner at a Fancy White-Tablecloth Place. (Actually, the tables were dressed in lovely terra-cotta French Provençal linens.) Jean-Robert at Pigall's is probably Cincinnati's top restaurant -- its name a combination of the top chef and one of the city's finest old establishments. Back in the 1960s, Cincinnati somehow produced three of the 10 exclusive Mobil Five-Star restaurants in the country, and Pigall's was one of them.

It was an amazing meal and a terrific evening.

We started with cocktails at the lounge next door, then moved into the dining room. The space was gorgeous -- an inviting, long, low-ceilinged space with interesting decor and the above-mentioned linens. From the moment we sat down, the service was perfection -- proper and professional but warm and unpretentious.

And the food. OMG, the food.

We opted for the three-course menu, though the five-stepper beckoned. As a couple of fairly accomplished home cooks, we're always awed when a restaurant takes things that we prepare at home -- in this case, roast chicken and roast sea bass -- and turns them into something we could never possibly accomplish in our own kitchen.

We started with a lovely amuse bouche -- three of them, actually: a warm potato soup, a duck-confit salad and a phyllo purse of sauteed red cabbage and cream cheese.

First courses were, for me, a composed crabmeat/avocado/cucumber salad with a perfect scoop of cider-vinegar sorbet; for Rob, gorgeous duck ravioli with an intensely flavored duck/wine sauce. They were as different as can be, but both were just perfect.

Second courses: for me, the roast sea bass, which sat atop a bed of roasted fennel, sauteed shiitake mushrooms (which gave a creamy, earthy quality), orange segments and blue potatoes, and which was doused in a gorgeous orange butter sauce. I was amazed by the little garnish on top of the fish -- I thought it was shredded carrot, but one bite produced this intense, velvety flavor of candied orange peel. Rob had the roast chicken, which was topped with a wine sauce and sat alongside a sort of potato/cheese/mushroom croquette.

Dessert, as if we needed it, was for me a cheese assortment and for Rob an amazing dark-chocolate molten cake that was elevated to sublime with a scoop of pumpkin ice cream. The first and last entries in my mild-to-strong cheese plate were both Basque sheeps-milk cheeses that tasted similar but impossibly different.

All the way home, we talked about the individual flavors and tastes like we'd dissect the scenes of a complex movie. Every single dish was built from a pantry-full of ingredients, and you could taste each and every one of them individually. You could tell that all the elements had been prepared separately, seasoned minimally, and composed like instruments in an orchestra.

It wasn't a cheap night out, but it wasn't a bank-breaker, either. And it (obviously) left quite an impression. We'll most definitely go back.

more food. really, i need to stop.

Some wise person, I'm not sure who, once said, "It's not Christmas without a cheese ball." So here we are. Actually, this is more of a log than a ball, but the spirit is the same. I spotted this recipe on the blog Homesick Texan, and I doctored it a bit, swapping in walnuts because I love the combination of walnuts and blue cheese.

8 oz. cream cheese
4 oz. blue cheese (I used Maytag, my favorite)
2 Tbsp. Worcestershire
1 clove of garlic, minced
1 cup of toasted walnuts, coarsely chopped

Blend the cheeses until smooth, blend in garlic and Worcestershire. Form into a log, then roll in toasted walnuts. Chill.

too funny.

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

department of food.

On NYTimes.com, columnist Nicolas Kristof has a piece about how President-elect Obama should revamp the Department of Agriculture and rename it the Department of Food. He cites Michael Pollan, noting that U.S. agricultural "policy" subsidizes the production of cheap calories (i.e., high fructose corn syrup) instead of real, healthy food. Here's a bit:

The Agriculture Department — and the agriculture committees in Congress — have traditionally been handed over to industrial farming interests by Democrats and Republicans alike. The farm lobby uses that perch to inflict unhealthy food on American children in school-lunch programs, exacerbating our national crisis with diabetes and obesity.

But let’s be clear. The problem isn’t farmers. It’s the farm lobby — hijacked by industrial operators — and a bipartisan tradition of kowtowing to it.

Can I get an 'amen'?

cookie baking, part 1.

Yesterday was Cookie Baking Day 2008; I mixed up four different kinds (some of which I'll share with my delightful co-workers during our annual homemade gift exchange this week). I'll wait to post the recipes for the ones I'll be sharing (so the HOWgirls don't know what's in store), but there's one batch I. Most. Definitely. Will. Not. Be. Sharing.

No, no. These are mine. They taste like Mom's crunchy caramel frosting--nutty, buttery, caramel-y. I used sea salt, and the coarse grains didn't dissolve and integrate into the dough, so you get this delightful pop of salt in random bites. They definitely require a glass of milk, though they were just as nice with an espresso for our dessert last night.

Brown Butter Shorties from Smitten Kitchen:

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter

1/2 cup packed brown sugar (preferably dark)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt (flaky salt would be great in these)
Demerara sugar (Sugar in the Raw) or sanding sugar for rolling (optional)

Cut butter into four or five pieces and cook butter in a small heavy saucepan over medium heat, stirring frequently, until it has a nutty fragrance and flecks on bottom of pan turn a light brown, anywhere from 4 to 7 minutes. It helps to frequently scrape the solids off the bottom of the pan in the last couple minutes to ensure even browning. Transfer butter to a bowl and chill until just firm, about 1 hour.

Beat together butter and brown sugar with an electric mixer until pale and fluffy. Beat in vanilla, then mix in flour and salt at low speed until just combined. Transfer dough to a sheet of wax paper or parchment and form into a 12-inch log, 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Chill, wrapped in wax paper, until firm, about 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350°F with rack in middle. Unwrap dough and roll it in coarse sugar, if using, and press the granules in with the paper you’d be using to wrap it. Slice dough into 1/4-inch-thick rounds, arranging 1 1/2 inches apart on an ungreased baking sheet. Bake until surface is dry and edges are slightly darker, 10 to 12 minutes. Let sit on sheet for a minute before transferring to a rack to cool.

a cold night.

On my way home, I debated going to the gym vs. taking a walk and decided I'd see how eager Wrigley was to get outside when I got home. Turns out, OHF had a huge case of The Puppies, so out we went. It was a cold night, and as we walked toward Hyde Park Square, I heard the bells at Knox Presbyterian chiming one of my favorite Christmas carols, "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." And we spotted a show in the sky: the conjunction of Venus, Jupiter and the Moon. It was a beautiful sight on a brisk almost-winter evening, and I'm glad I didn't miss it. The gym can wait until tomorrow.

last saturday in november.

Following an unconventional yet fun and satisfying Thanksgiving weekend (we visited Dad & Ellen and Grandma, but missed seeing a sick-y Mom), we're home on a cozy Saturday evening. While Rob played golf this afternoon, I napped and puttered -- the latter including putting up some outside lights and baking a pumpkin pie. Inspired by Ellen's use of candles and seasonal decor on their front porch, I picked up some artificial greenery and some huge red candles, which I assembled on the front porch using the pots that held summer flowers and fall mums, and the huge Ball jars I use for candles on the side porch. All in all, it looks pretty.

For dinner, we hopped into the Wayback Machine and dragged out the February 1997 issue of Bon Appetit. I subscribed to B.A. for years until I stopped (which makes publishers like me crazy), and I saved years' worth of issues and created my own index to recipes we'd tried and loved or dog-eared for future reference. Tonight's dinner is one of those oft-made recipes:

Fettuccine with Sweet Pepper-Cayenne Sauce
Bon Appetit February 1997 (marked with a handwritten note on the page: great!! 1/97)
3 Tbsp butter
2 large red bell peppers in strips
3 minced garlic cloves
3/4 tsp. cayenne
1 cup whipping cream (hi, Mom!)
3/4 cup chicken broth
3/4 cup shredded Parmesan
12 oz fettuccine
1 cup frozen green peas
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil

holiday baking.

I'm planning a bit of time off in advance of Thanksgiving, during which I aim to do some baking. I have an apple tart to take to Dad & Ellen's, and I made a batch of savory parmesan-hazelnut biscotti today to have with some wine pre-dinner at Mom's on Friday. I haven't had much luck with biscotti before, but this recipe caught my eye and it was a real success. They'll be lovely with the nice bottle of white wine I bought to take to Mom. I'm really looking forward to our holiday visits this coming week. I haven't spent much time with my family in the past 2 months (thanks, icky work schedule!), so this will be fun.

the best list.

Here's a new feature on mooth: the best list. The best of the best of the best of the best ...

Herewith, the first entry (we'll add more to the new list on the right-hand side of the page):

On the Best List/Music:

"More Than This" by Peter Gabriel

a very ordinary evening.

Rob is away for the evening on business (hi to you in Minneapolis, B!), so it's just me an Wig and the sucky Bengals game on TV. After a pretty tasty dinner (scrambled eggs, topped with the remains of my lentil stew and 2 pieces of toast), I've been paying bills, balancing my checkbook and feeling a bit sleepy around the edges. A tough workout and flurries outside the window are largely responsible for that.

Yay. Tomorrow's Friday, and I'm taking a half day off to putter (following a godawful H.R. meeting in the morning). On the menu for tomorrow when Rob gets home: Ina Garten's lemon roasted chicken and Moroccan couscous. Yum.

By the way, I did end up picking lettuce on Tuesday evening, after a hard freeze. That morning, it looked sad and frozen and I was afraid I'd lost it, but by the time I got home the sun had perked it up a bit and I cut the whole batch (about a row and a half of mixed variety) to bring in. We had some for dinner that night, and it was still sweet, crunchy and delicious.

blustery.

Lots of snow flurries today, and a cold wind. Lettuce is still thriving in the garden (for now); I should have picked when I got home, but it was too dark and cold. The orchid that enjoyed its summer days on the side porch is now on my office window ledge, where it's sending up its third (!) bloom stalk of the season.

november 16.

We woke to the faintest dusting of snow on the roof and a morning of freezing drizzle. It's the perfect day to stay indoors, make some soup (Lively Up Yourself Lentil Soup) for this week's lunches and watch football. Hardy Bengals fans next door got an 8 a.m. start heading for tailgating downtown; they were bundled up against the cold, but probably not against another loss. The flowering crabapple has nothing but the little red apples on its branches; the weeping cherry has wept its yellow leaves all over the yard. The lawn needs raking today, but the weather says, "Stay indoors, you."

mmm.

Rob just opened a bottle of Beaulieu Vineyard Georges de la Tour Private Reserve Napa Cabernet 2001. Oh. No. He. Din't.

one thing i've learned about myself.

I suppose that a growing sense of self-awareness comes along with adding more candles to the birthday cake. As I get older, I have a deeper sense of what makes me tick, how I respond to certain people and situations, what stresses me out and what makes me happy. So I've become increasingly aware of this fact: I. Simply. Can't. Sit. Still.

I don't know if I've become hardwired by years of working on deadlines, or if my need for order and organization compels me to keep a to-do list, or what. But I have this primordial need to be busy. Having an hour or three with nothing to do makes me batty. Sitting idly makes me nervous. While lots of people are totally content to just "hang out," I get a bit stir-crazy.

(See the post about taking a day off to putter as a case in point. I mean, really: Who takes a much-needed day of R&R and spends the whole time vacuuming baseboards and sweeping the garage? I needed a massage AFTER my day of rest.)

Yesterday, I spent three hours on the couch reading the Sunday New York Times, working the crossword, watching football, talking on the phone (and, yes, napping).

You know what? I kinda liked it.

wrigley's warhol moment.

At HOW's Creative Freelancer Conference back in August, I met a designer and illustrator named Kristin Bowen, who has a side gig called DogHouse Custom Pet Portraits. When she handed me her business card, I knew I'd have to work with her on Wrigley's portrait. I got a proof this week and was thrilled; we're having a print made to frame and hang alongside all our other poster art at home.

things are good.

I took Friday off to ... putter. I puttered around the house as if it were my job. Having lost several weekends to travel lately, my putter gauge was on E. So I puttered. The house has never been so orderly.

This morning, we took Wrigley to Findlay Market for probably the last time this season. EVERYONE wanted to make friends with him, and lots of other market regulars stopped by to scratch. The Apple Guy forked over a bit of his blackberry scone for Wigs, and a nice lady offered up a bit of her fresh bread after the boy stuck his nose in her market basket.

Today was a gorgeous Indian Summer day, perfect for a round of fall golf. Now, we're well into a bottle of wine and a hearty fall dinner: roasted pork loin with roasty apples and red onion and (my fave) mashed potatoes.

I love Rob and Wrigley.

the finish line.

Since August, I've looked at this weekend as the finish line. This has been an extraordinarily busy stretch of time at work, culminating last week with a big, week-long annual project. I knew it was going to be hairy, and I checked off the to-do list day by day, with an eye toward October 25. At one point on Friday afternoon, I found myself feeling, almost literally, that last surge at the end of a race, my arms outstretched, head back, crossing the line.

Friday evening felt terrific, what with being home at week's end for the first time in a couple of weeks, a great dinner, the best company and the satisfaction of having made it through.

This weekend, we polished off 5 bottles of wine with our very great friends Doug & Sandy, made a killer dinner from a favorite cookbook (and Team Doug/Bryn scored 2 Euchre wins). So it's all good.

why food (really) matters.

I'm a huge fan of Michael Pollan, though I've only read his magazine articles and not his books (including In Defense of Food). Mostly I'm a fan because I buy into what he's saying 100%. His simple philosophy: Eat moderately, mostly local foods, and mostly plants.

So I devoured (pun intended) Pollan's lengthy article in a recent NYTimes Sunday Magazine, written as an open letter to the next president. He cites some jaw-dropping statistics:

• It takes a staggering amount of fossil fuel to produce the U.S. food supply; food is second only to cars in terms of fuel usage.
• As the cost of food has cheapened, what we spend societally on healthcare has gone up by the same amount. Cheap food = less healthy food = a less healthy society.
• Food production used to be fueled by the sun. Now it's fueled by petroleum, from petrochemical fertilizer to the diesel that runs the trucks that carry California strawberries to New Jersey.
• Food production used to be local. Small, independent, regional meat processing outfits that prepared and distributed (locally) the meat raised by small farmers have been replaced by huge contained feeding operations (like the godawful Fair Oaks Farm that dominates both sides of the landscape along I-65 in Northern Indiana), which require the use of antibiotics on the animals (they're kept in such close quarters and fed unnatural feed so they're prone to sickness) and which produce unmanageable amounts of waste.
• Speaking of which, food production used to be a closed loop: Cattle graze in winter on grassy pasture, keeping weeds under control and naturally fertilizing the earth; come spring, the pasture is plowed under and vegetable crops are planted, which need less fertilizer and weed control because of the land's winter activity. Rinse, repeat. Now, massive animal operations and monoculture (i.e., corn-only) farms misuse this natural cycle—the confined animals create a huge waste problem (there's no natural outlet for the manure) and the huge cornfields require fertilizer (there's no grazing). It creates two massive and linear problems of infertile land and enormous waste—no closed loop anymore.

I could go on. But instead I'll sit here and feel smug that we shop at a local market, buy local meat, bread and produce, and support our local agriculture.

Read Pollan. He's way smarter than I am.

goodnight, moon.

Last night, after I'd showered and put on my jammies, I realized that the moon was full and bright and gorgeous, and so I went outside to have a look. Moon and I have quite a thing; Rob sends the moon to be with me while he's away, and I've always loved watching its changing phases, colors and position in the sky. (Last night was the full Hunter's Moon, if you're interested.)

I sat down in the driveway and had a chat with my friend Moon.

"Moon," I said, "I'm tired and stressed and feeling pressed for time and out of control. I'm too busy at work and I've been away from home too much.

"It's hard, Moon."

And Moon said, "You know, you really don't have it so bad. You have a husband you love, and a dog and family who love you in return. You're healthy. Your home is a haven, not a place of tension and anger. You have money in the bank and a roof over your head.

"Imagine if your home life were troubled or if you were sick or fearful of losing your job."

Moon said, "It's not really so hard."

"You're right, Moon," I said.

Today, Moon is not out and it all feels hard again.

Tonight, Moon. Let's talk again. Same time, same place.

i wonder ...

I just finished The Art of Racing in the Rain, a novel about a wise dog (who serves as the storyteller) and his family. Enzo is left at home during the day with the TV to keep him company, and so he learns about the world and about his people from what he sees on television. The story was simple and sweet and fairly predictable, but I loved that it's told from Enzo's point of view. From watching the National Geographic channel, Enzo learns about dogs in Mongolia, who are gradually reincarnated into men after they've lived out their dogness. Wise as he is, Enzo is very close to human already.

The book's opening and closing pages had me in tears, because there's a dog who's close to my own heart. Mostly I think Wrigley isn't the brightest pup in the kennel -- he doesn't listen well (perhaps that's my fault, after all), he thinks entirely with his stomach (that might be on me, too) and he gets into stuff he shouldn't (I'll take no responsibility for that). But then there are occasions when Wrigley seems all too human (or nearly so), when he connects with people in a very warm way, when he cocks his head as if he understands what I'm saying to him, when he senses that Rob is away and so sticks close by my side to keep me company.

Enzo did us all a favor by translating dog behavior in human terms: tail wagging, sniffing, playing with his stuffed toy. Sometimes I wonder ... does Wrigley have his own story to tell?

wonder dog.

Long story short: Wrigley is a silly, happy, healthy dog.

Long story long: It wasn't always so.

For about 6 months in the spring/summer of 2006, The Boy Wig was maddeningly, awfully sick: first with a liver disease that was never (and still hasn't been) diagnosed despite blood tests, major surgery and ultrasounds. Just when we thought things were looking up, we took Wigs in May to Martha's Vineyard, where he helped himself to a snack of goose leavings in the backyard, which launched a bacterial infection in his already-compromised digestive tract, which then led to malnutrition and then to open sores on his paws.

It occurred to me recently that I'd not kept a diary during that time as a way to help sort out my fears and emotions. And that I didn't have a record of the whole episode—aside from the stack of vet bills that equaled the cost of a small car. Since Wrigley is so healthy now, it's hard to even imagine that time when he was so sick.

Earlier this week, our company's technology department sent out a message urging people to purge their e-mail in advance of a system upgrade. Our system keeps a copy of every sent message, and I'd been less than diligent about deleting old sent messages. As I was scrolling through and deleting my old sent mail, a number of messages from April, May and June 2006 caught my eye. They were messages I'd sent updating friends and colleagues about Wrigley's ill health. Taken chronologically, these messages function as a sort of diary of that time.

To Rob, July 26 (right after our move back home):
Good morning, B -- I’m just feeling so good about OHF [our hairy friend] right now. He’s doing the Happy Food Dance and trotting around with a spring in his step. He did well on our walk yesterday (we’ll try that again tonight after it cools off — it’s good for BOTH of us!). We played a bit of tug with the tennis-ball-on-a-strap. He hopped right up into bed with me last night, and slept soundly (he twitched and grunted a bit, but I’m used to that from you!). He seems more and more like his doodle-self every day.

I am blessed to have both of you guys. I can’t wait to get you home on Friday, Buddy, so we can have a great weekend! I’m thinking much grilling will need to happen!

P.S. I have my new sparkly on, and it feels kind of like you’re right here with me.

I LOVE YOU!!!!!


To my colleague Sarah, June 21:
Sarah -- I totally appreciate your call and good thoughts yesterday. We’ve had 3 or 4 really hard days over the past 2 months, and that was one of them. I was just so worried about the boy.

Things have settled down now, though. We (all) had a good night’s sleep. I have (another!) antibiotic to give Wrigley, and we’re using a medicated solution 3 times a day for the poor foot. It’s looking better than it was, and he’s clearly more comfortable. He’s been interested in dog food again — yay! And we have a new Rx to try; the vet suggests that there MAY be a lingering case of pancreatitis; if that’s the case, this will help. I THINK, although I’m not sure, that some of the ongoing symptoms may have eased a bit (jaundice, swelling in the belly & feet). We’ll get test results on a whole bunch of things tomorrow.

So, thanks for your concern.


To Rob, June 20:
Well, I had an all-too-abbreviated conversation with Dr. Straus just now. The rundown:
• the abscess in his paw most likely is totally unrelated — maybe he stepped on something or got something stuck in his paw pad. Dr. Straus seemed to dismiss this as not a big deal.

• the leg weakness is part & parcel of his underlying disease

• the drug Dr. Bev suggested sounds quite difficult to administer (it’s a nasty-tasting powder and needs to be sprinkled on food, which of course is a problem)

• I want to talk more with him about the diarrhea/stomach upset. He was kind of short with me and I didn’t get a chance to ask more about this. He’s testing to see if there’s some kind of bowel disease that’s kicked in — i.e., the goose poop was just a coincidence.

I’m to call back at 2:00 to get more info. If his fever breaks, we can take him home later today.


From Rob, June 20:
Hello jeep, I’ve got my paws crossed for our hairy buddy. He needs us to help him through this, and we’re gonna do it!

Love,
B.


To Rob, June 7:
Hi, B!

Just back from the vet — Dr. Straus is understandably concerned, but we’re taking some action:
1. cutting the prednisone dosage in half (muscle weakness & swelling?)
2. 1/2 tablet of immodium 3x per day
3. adding 1 capsule of metamucil to help, er, solidify things
We need to get him eating again; he’s lost weight and feels bony. I’ll keep trying ...

Dr. Straus extracted a poop sample (Wrigley: “Yikes!”) and spotted something he couldn’t identify (um ... Doodusness?). So that’s gone out for testing; we’ll know tomorrow afternoon.

No word from Cornell — he doesn’t expect to hear anything definitive anyway (duh), but was just wanting to exhaust all possibilities.

Bottom line, we don’t know if the ongoing diarrhea is related to the liver disease or to the crap-snacking episode. Probably, the poop test will shed some light on that.

I’m back at my desk, so call whenever.

I LOVE YOU!!! AND WIGGY!!!!


To my colleague Sarah Whitman, June 6:
Ugh. I’m worried about the boy this morning. He’s experiencing some weakness in his hind legs, and a bit of swelling in his ankles. I’d like to think it’s a side effect of the prednisone, but I don’t know. Plus, he’s still poopy, and his appetite is spotty. On the upside, we got him out for a walk last night and he did OK.

I tried all day yesterday to get a hold of the vet, and he returned my call late last night and we missed it. He’s very hard to reach, and I’m concerned. Sigh.


To HOW forum member Dave Hollenbeck, May 30:
Hey, Dave -- Thanks for asking! It’s been quite a roller coaster. Things were going well until Wrigley helped himself to some goose droppings in the yard while we were on vacation this weekend, which has wreaked havoc on his system. TMI, probably! We still don’t know what’s been making him so ill, but he seems to be improving. Until this latest thing ...


To Rob, May 10:
We love you too, guy! We just had a little bit to eat — 3 meat sticks and part of a can of Eukanuba. (Actually, I’m having cereal.) So that’s good. Or, as someone hairy would say, “It’s delicious!”


From Rob, May 10:
B & Wiggy,

I love you guys! Thanks for taking care of each other. See you in a little while.

Love,
B.


To my HOW team, May 8:
Well, we had a better weekend than we’ve had in awhile. We're still dealing with the underlying and very mysterious liver/pancreas problem. But the vet started him on cortisone on Friday, and within about 3 hours of my giving him the first dose, it was like he was a different dog. His appetite improved, his tail started wagging, his disposition returned to something closer to normal. All last week, he refused to eat and just hid under the dining room table or in a dark corner of the downstairs hallway.

This weekend, we took him out to breakfast with us (an outdoor table at the local bakery that's our Saturday morning habit), and got him out for a walk. We're not counting our chickens, but it's really encouraging to see him perking up a bit. I have to believe that feeling better and eating better will improve his chances of recuperating from whatever is going on with his insides. I’ve got a call into the vet this a.m. to see where we stand for the time being. He’s still a bit jaundiced, and we expect that it’ll be awhile before we see any changes in his blood chemistry related to all of this. But it was nice to not shed any tears this weekend.


To my friend and business collaborator Sam Harrison, May 8:
Thanks, Sam. Our boy Wrigley has been in tough shape these past 3 weeks, with some kind of liver malfunction that's defying veterinary wisdom. After 3 biopsies, 2 ultrasounds, a bunch of blood tests and exploratory surgery, we're still not sure what's up or what the long-term deal is. I've been see-sawing between tears and bright optimism. He's not been eating (which is a real indicator) and has obviously been feeling poorly (hiding under the dining room table, not wagging his tail). The good news is that we started on cortisone on Friday, and within about 3 hours, he was a radically different dog. So we're riding that wave of optimism, hoping that the renewed appetite and morale will help his insides recuperate as they need to.

It's funny ... He's "just" a dog, but he's such a wonderful companion and dear part of our little family. You're a dog person; you can probably relate.

Thanks for the good thoughts. Give your canine friend(s) extra scratches today!


To my HOW staff, May 2:
It makes me sort of smile that the dog, who’s lying at my feet, just farted rather stinkily. Surely that must be a good sign.


To HOW forum member Dave Hollenbeck, May 1:
Thanks, Dave. Wrigley's been dealing with this for going on 3 weeks now. We've done blood tests, two ultrasounds and a round of exploratory surgery. First, we heard it was liver disease (the poor boy is jaundiced), as the blood tests reveal off the-charts liver enzymes. They biopsied his pancreas and liver last week and found pancreatitis, but we don't know if that's the entire problem or if there's something else at work here. (We're going to have a bake sale to raise funds for Wrigley's medical bills!) Right now, I can't get him to eat, and he's just laying low. Got yet another call into the specialty vet we saw last week to find out what we can do for him. It's just awful watching a beloved companion be so sick and not being able to fix him.

Anyway, fingers (and paws) crossed! Thanks for your message!



To my friend and business collaborator Peleg Top, April 17:
Well, things are hopeful with the Boy Wig ... It was a weekend of ups and downs, and I’m still so anxious about him I’m literally shaking. Here’s the long story:

Friday morning, we knew that he was having a liver problem of some kind; that evening, got a call at the end of the day from the vet; they’d done an ultrasound and a biopsy of his liver and the best guess was that he has chronic hepatitis, which he’d been carrying around for a long time and which finally manifested as a malfunction of his liver.

Saturday morning, things were stable, so we went about trying to have a normal day and not dwell on this too much. Saturday afternoon, we got word that a follow-up blood test was concerning, and the vet described his condition as “guarded.” Tears and nervousness ensued.

Sunday morning, we went to Easter sunrise service and both totally cried. It was lovely and much needed, but also hard. We were really worried about him. Sunday mid-day, we had a message from the vet that Wrigley was eating and had tons of energy and personality (he was “bouncing off the walls”). Whew. Felt much better.

This morning, had word that he was “excellent” overnight, eating more and doing well. We’re awaiting results of another blood test around noon and results from the biopsy. Hopefully, the blood work will tell us that the treatment he’s been getting is starting to kick in, and the pathology results will confirm the hepatitis diagnosis. That is treatable long-term with meds and special food.

Still no word on when he’ll be able to come home. It sounds like his temperament and energy levels are really great — you might not know he’s really sick except that he’s extremely jaundiced.

I miss having him around today, and I’m still worried. But the latest news is hopeful and we’re focusing on that.

All of this for a silly $30 dog. But how I do love him!

restoration.

I'm slightly wasted. Rob is snoozing in a chair on the patio. It's all good.

Friday was an epically horrible day at work. The worst I've had in many years (probably dating back to my awful tenure with I.D.).

An ordinary Friday devolved into a fire-drill that had all of us scrambling and feeling pretty crabby about it. But we rose to the occasion (as we HOWgirls do), and (fingers crossed) it's looking like the problem is working itself out.

So when I pulled into the driveway (well later than I'd anticipated) on Friday night, in spite of my internal declarations that I wouldn't, I broke into tears. Rob, too, had had a rough week at work in a similarly corporate bullshit sort of way. We laced up our shoes, put Wrigley's lead on, and took a walk to clear our heads.

And so here we are, 24 hours later, feeling better. Today was a gorgeous late-summer day. A fine trip to the market (where Wrigley greeted all his fans) was followed by a productive day of inside and outside chores. That, plus better news on the work front (gotta love calls from the new boss on a Saturday) and, most important, an amazing dinner, have us all feeling better.

I think this house is protected by a Protego Totalum charm. In the Harry Potter series, the Protego Totalum charm keeps a dwelling safe from outside harm or influence; it's the charm that keeps the Weasleys' house safe and snug (it's called, fittingly, The Burrow). Our Protego charm encompasses our entire yard and home; once you cross into the driveway or step into the yard, you're safe. I can literally feel its effects.

And so, after we took a mind-clearing walk Friday evening, we crossed that threshold and were immediately under the charm. And noticeably, if gradually, the spell is working its magic and we're feeling happy and satisfied and safe.

Of course, a bottle of Rafanelli zinfandel, a pair of grilled filets and a batch of fried green tomatoes do nothing to kill the mood. Here it is at nearly 10:00 p.m., a day before the fall equinox, and the candlelight, wine, sleeping boys (both of them) and music make me feel like nothing—absolutely NOTHING—outside our Protego charm ... means shit.

thanks, ike.

Holy falling tree limbs, Batman! What's left of Hurricane Ike (and there was a LOT left in Ike's tank) blew through Cincinnati yesterday afternoon. We had about 4 hours of sustained tropical storm-force winds (gusts were recorded above 75 miles per hour). There's a remarkable number of trees, debris and power lines down in our neighborhood; streets are closed and traffic signals are out. We lost power at 2 p.m. Sunday and it just popped back on about 10:00 this morning; apparently, 90% of homes and businesses in the city lost power. I'm at home today, as work is still without power and closed. (Snow day!!!)

The wind velocity yesterday was eerie. The huge trees in our neighborhood shook and swayed like we couldn't believe. After we lost power, the house got really warm, so we sat on the side porch and watched the massive oaks across the street rattle to their cores. I'm surprised the big lodge-pole pine on the corner opposite our house is still standing (I raked bagfuls of its needles out of the front yard this morning).

Here's what's weird: Rob and I figure Wrigley knew the storm was coming before it hit. He was unusually clingy yesterday, and he begged not to be left behind when Rob and I both left around noon. I hopped in the shower just as the wind started to kick up around 1 p.m. yesterday; when I got out, I found Wrigley in our bedroom closet -- the front door had blown open and it startled him so much he went into hiding.

We made the most of it: We grilled dinner and then dined on the side porch, drank a bit too much wine, listened to sports on the transistor radio, went to bed early. Wrigley and I went for a long walk and then discovered that the coffee shop just up the road was one of the very few businesses in this area that had power. They were packed.

Naturally, the local TV news has already branded this "Blackout 2008." I'll have to get the T-shirt.

it's not really soup weather.

Except that it is. I scoped out a recipe for Late Summer Minestrone as I was perusing the NYTimes.com Wednesday food section, and it sort of begged to be made this weekend. So I did. A few minutes' worth of chopping (including our own beans and tomatoes), a few minutes' worth of simmering ... and voila. We won't have this for dinner for another night or two -- soup always needs time to develop. I'll put a bunch of it into the freezer; it'll be amazing come January.

dinner with doofus.

I spent most of the past week in Chicago, hosting-slash-attending a HOW conference for freelancers. It was the first event we've done for this group, and by all accounts a home run.

Friday after the conference wrapped, Bill picked me up and we spent a fun weekend together. He introduced me to Algerian crepes and to Vietnamese food that afternoon and evening, and then we hit a neighborhood spot Saturday morning for brunch. The place bills itself as featuring coastal southern cuisine, and it was all grits-and-gravy goodness.

We hit two (count 'em) farmers markets on Saturday morning and stocked up on items for an all-veggie dinner: a rainbow's worth of cherry tomatoes, some fingerling potatoes, some local broccoli, arugula, goat cheese, beets, bread ...

quite the menagerie.

Among the creatures that inhabit 645 Kroger Lane are, for a few weeks in late summer, a colony of Walking Sticks on the Side Porch. We first spotted a pair of them two summers ago; last year there were three and now there are six. They change color and shape over the course of the season, going from a sort of soft and "unripe" state to more stick-like. Perhaps they like to call this house home, too.

things don't change.

Here we are on a gorgeous August evening; we're cheating fate because the weather is stunning, and the moon is nearly full, and we're satisfied and nicely buzzy.

We're two days away from our 18th wedding anniversary, and in toasting the occasion with a freakin' amazing bottle of Italian red (complemented by an equally amazing dinner, which I'll get to in a second). We're recalling those late-summer days when we were newly together, when meeting up back in Bloomington for the school year was an exciting prospect.

I remember the early days of our relationship (does he like me? will he call? will he call AGAIN?) and then I remember that we settled into a comfortable togetherness that was easy and effortless early on, as it is now. I've always felt a rush of excitement on seeing him (like running into him "accidentally" when I knew he'd be studying in the Union), and that translates today, 20 years later (plus a few months). I felt that again on Thursday when Wrigley and I watched and cheered as Rob ran a 5K in the neighborhood. I'm still smitten.

The thing that constantly amazes me is that our home life, as uncomplicated and routine-oriented as it is, is so close to what we envisioned during those early days when we talked about our dreams of a life together. And our vacation time is so close to our everyday life, too. What's more, it doesn't feel like we're working particularly hard to achieve it: Our silly little contented life comes naturally. Something tells me that we might be onto something.

So on our 18th anniversary (and on Wrigley's 10th birthday, and Henry's 13th), we're all feeling content and happy. Which is, I suppose, how it should be.

Oh, so about dinner: A recipe from Beaulieu Winery for fennel-spiced steak: A rub of toasted and ground fennel seed, peppercorns and coriander dusted heavily over a steak, which is grilled, sliced and served atop thick slices of summer tomato. The tomatoes came from our garden, and they tasted like the sun that was shining when I picked them today. It's one of our very favorite recipes, perhaps mostly because it's so rare. It just doesn't fly in February.

Happy anniversary, B. I love you more than I can say. But then, I think you have a good godd@&m idea.

otherwise.

On our very first trip to Martha's Vineyard in 2003, we discovered one thing about the island: Pie is as much a part of Vineyard life as field-cut flowers. Drive anywhere on the island, and you're sure to find a sign advertising home-baked pie with local fruit just as sure as you'll find a little roadside stand with charming bouquets of flowers for sale.

On our first visit, we stumbled across Pies and Otherwise, a little gazebo in front of a house where the husband was out front selling blueberry, peach, apple and mixed-fruit pies that his wife had baked. On subsequent trips, we've always been sure to have a pie on hand for dessert. This year, we ran across Pies and Otherwise rather late in our visit (after we'd, ahem, purchased a pie elsewhere). Nonetheless, we stopped, and I bought a couple of raspberry squares -- sort of a pie in brownie form. Delish!

Only the next day did we read in the Vineyard Gazette that the baker, Eileen Blake, had recently passed.

When we returned home, I determined to try to replicate the raspberry squares. I managed a decent attempt just today. I used 2.5 pounds of mixed red raspberries and blackberries, and doubled up on the amount of cornstarch called for in the recipe, in hopes of duplicating the deeply intense, thick fruit filling we'd enjoyed from the Pies and Otherwise fruit squares (I suppose these qualify as 'otherwise').

Here's the thing: After a tremendous (but simple) dinner of burgers and corn risotto and excellent wine -- and a lovely August evening where we've got the house wide open due to the cool weather -- I feel just as blissed out here as I did on vacation.

last day.

Our last day on Martha's Vineyard is waning with a light shower, which seems a nice way to end the visit. We managed to squeeze in a morning at Espresso Love and another big canoe trip before the skies clouded over. Just now, we're back from town, where we grabbed a gift for the neighbors who are taking in our mail, a souvenir for ourselves and a dozen shrimp for tonight's dinner.

Rob is busy packing the car. I'm in denial.

for a slow day, a lot to do.

Yesterday (Thursday), the forecast called for rain. So we planned accordingly: Instead of a day of canoeing or golf, we figured we'd take advantage of gloomy weather and take a tour around the island. No matter that it turned out to be a beautiful day when the clouds lifted (sans rain) mid-morning.

We started with a drive toward Vineyard Haven and then headed on from there. We stopped in at Chilmark Pottery, where we'd picked up a couple of fun pieces (currently in use at home as salad bowls) on an earlier trip. We weren't in the market yesterday, so we moved on. We stopped at an adorable little farmstand called Fiddlehead Farm (cute!); they weren't yet harvesting much of their own produce (tomatoes are still a week off here), but they had a bunch of neat gourmet and imported items. From there, we wandered on to Martha's Vineyard Glassworks, which we'd also visited previously. We watched the glassblowers work and bought two "floats" -- brightly colored globes modeled on those used by Japanese fishermen to float their nets. They're super cool garden accessories (we have two at home in the bed by the front door) and these will go in the back by the patio. Nice souvenirs.

Then we moved onto Chilmark Store, which was insanely busy with the lunch crowd. No wonder: they make a wicked good New York-style pizza. We fueled up with a couple of slices (and a few bits of whole-wheat crust for The Hairy Friend).

Next stop: Morning Glory Farm for some lettuce and tomatoes for last night's dinner, and then to Edgartown Seafood for a slab-o-halibut. Rob grilled the fish on the charcoal barbeque out back; it was perfect, with a salty, peppery crust on top and nicely moist inside. If I never have fish again, it'll be OK. We topped it with a tomato/garlic/basil/balsamic/lemon/oliveoil combo, much like what Uncle Dave & Regina did last weekend. Awesome.

a two-hour tour.

Again yesterday, Wrigley donned his yellow Float Coat and hopped willingly into the canoe, and we enjoyed a couple of hours paddling around Edgartown Great Pond. We explored far and wide, going up into several coves and checking out the homes scattered along the shore. It was bright and sunny, an ideal day to be on the water.

Today is the opposite: cloudy, rainy and dark. Which is perfect: It gives us reason to do some on-land exploring. We'll hit Morning Glory Farm early for some produce for tonight's dinner, then maybe head over to Chilmark and other parts of the island.

Speaking of dinner, last night's was again epic: Fresh (!) scallops the size of my head, pan-sauteed and then served over a succotash of sauteed onion, corn and teeny green beans, with a butter/lemon pan sauce over the top. I will never have better scallops. Eating seafood out here completely ruins it for the stuff we get at home.

We just might not leave.

dear regina: sorry about the stove.

Since Rob and I both love cooking, it's a real treat to be able to do so on vacation, especially when we have amazing local ingredients and a gorgeous kitchen to work with. (I also love the provisioning part of these trips, making a list of things to bring with us and curating a collection of recipes to make.)

With the recent remodel of the house, Regina had installed a stunning six-burner AGA stove. It's a real beauty: a gleaming black cooktop and white enamel front, with three ovens (of different sizes and functions) and about a zillion parts that naturally all need cleaning after you've put the sucker through its paces.

Which we did last night. All due apologies to the nice girls who came this morning to clean.

Sea Bass and Confetti Vegetables with Lemon-Butter Sauce

For the fish
2 sea bass fillets (sprinkle with salt)
Heat olive oil in a large skillet; add fish and cook until it flakes easily when tested with a fork.
Remove from pan, place on a plate and tent with foil.
Add 1/4 cup white wine and the juice of a lemon to the pan; cook over medium-high heat 2 minutes. Remove from heat, stir in 1 Tablespoon chopped parsley and 1 teaspoon cold butter.

For the vegetables

Cut the kernels off 2 ears of corn; chop a tomato and a zucchini (two if they're tiny). Sliver a large handful of fresh spinach. Add corn and zucchini to pan, saute 2 minutes. Add tomato and spinach, cook 1 minute until spinach wilts.

Spoon the vegetables onto 2 plates; top with fish and pour butter sauce over all.

wrigley the canoeing dog.

On Saturday, while the whole crew was here, there was an Important Canoeing Adventure. Dave, Harry, Alicia, Rob, Wrigley and I launched two kayaks and a canoe onto Edgartown Great Pond and went in search of a specific target. We all (Wiggy included) wore the appropriate, Coast Guard-approved PFDs (that's personal flotation device, in Wrigley's case a.k.a. a Float Coat). The mission? Investigate a white buoy in the pond, to which on previous trips Harry had tied various items, including a plastic shovel. Today, we aimed to attach a plastic airplane, secured with a piece of twine. The goal is to see if what's been left previously is still there on subsequent visits. Wrigley was a huge HUGE sport about the whole thing. Note to family and friends: This will likely be the photo on this year's Christmas card.

too much of a good thing.

Perhaps inevitably, we woke to a bit of dog barf on the floor by the back door this morning on Martha's Vineyard. Inevitably, because over the weekend when the whole crew were here, Wrigley was the beneficiary of some dinner-table generosity. Several of the treats were willingly given (Uncle Dave's oyster, Grandma's bread); others not so much (the two chunks of english muffin snatched from Harry's hand at breakfast). So there was barfing. Easily cleaned up, and now Wrigley is hiding under the dining table.

speaking of terrific (and fitting) poems.

Our friends Doug & Sandy shared this one:

The Good Nights
by Joseph Mills

On the good nights
when the bottle's empty
we always want
just a little more,
half a glass,
a few sips,
a taste.
We know
this desire
can be dangerous
to pursue,
that it can make
mornings difficult,
so usually we
brush our teeth
let the dog in,
lock the doors,
but sometimes,
even as we say
We really should
get ready for bed,
instead of loading
the dishwasher
we will search
for the corkscrew,
all the while
shaking our heads
in wonder
at this willingness
to ignore the clocks
and the fact we have
to work tomorrow,
this irresponsibility,
this evidence
even after all these years
of the unquenchable desire
for each other's company.

this is very sweet.

On Martha's Vineyard today, Grandma pointed out to me this poem in a collection of children's verse compiled by Caroline Kennedy (who, coincidentally, dropped by to visit last evening).

from Falling in Love Is Like Owning a Dog
by Taylor Mali

First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.

Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.

Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.

Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.

But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.

Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.

more botanicals.

Below, a few snaps of the daylilies, including the newly named Herb, at left (short for Peaches & Herb, the very bad disco band whose name seems apropos for a flower that's a gorgeous double shade of peach) and Pickelson Slammer, right, whose purple petals and lime throat remind us of our house cocktail, which features Creme de Cassis and lime juice.

Speaking of cocktails, Rob has dubbed his new concoction The Recombobulator: it's a blend of blood-orange juice, Triple Sec, vodka and Galliano. 

His recent trip to the Milwaukee airport inspired the name: After progressing through the security checkpoint, Rob looked up to see a large sign reading, "Recombobulation Zone." Which seemed thoroughly appropriate given the discombobulation that one experiences upon entering said security zone. If the TSA is known for nothing else than a Mooth Family cocktail, they're batting 1.000.

botanical nomenclature.

My tendency to label and list things extends to the garden; if you walk through the yard, you'll see little plastic (in the vegetable bed) or metal garden labels marking everything from the 3 varieties of lavender in the herb bed to the potted Chardonnay to the particular kind of lettuce growing in the veggie patch. Yes, it's anal-retentive, and I embrace it.

The summer after we moved in, Grandma gave me a half dozen daylily bulbs for my birthday or Christmas, I can't remember. We planted them along the border in the backyard, and I carefully recorded the variety name on a little metal tag which I stuck in the ground next to each one. For four or five seasons we watched as they grew, sent up buds—and were thoroughly munched by the deer that roam our neighborhood. Seriously, the deer seemed oblivious to the plants themselves, or even to the flowers, but boy ... those flower buds must be tasty.

Fast forward to the two-year period when we were in Jersey. The landscaping company we hired to keep things while we were away completely obliterated my careful little plant labels.

Last year, Rob engineered a deer-proof system involving netting and stakes—for the first season, we had a fully blooming crop of daylilies. But we had no idea what their names were. So as they bloomed, we made up new names for them, and I made little metal labels. Like Ninety-Nine, which has a gold/orange/red scheme that looks like the sun on a very hot day. Or Jackson, which has a crimson and gold palette that reminded us of the colors of USC, whose football games Keith Jackson broadcasts every fall. Or Butters (the color reference is obvious), named after a South Park character. Or Pickelson Slammer, which gets its name from the house cocktail (you'll have to ask us about that one).

So our daylilies aren't exactly up to whatever formal botanical standard exists out there. But we know what they are.

mooths in the media.

A photographer from CinWeekly took a family photo during the Hyde Park Blast festivities on Saturday.

wrigley's big day. from wrigley's point of view.

So you've had two versions of yesterday's big fun. Here's how Wrigley saw things:

Guys! Guys! Get up. I'm hungry. Scratch. Scratch.

Gotta go outside!

Yay! Breakfast! It's my favorite! Yay!

Hm. Something's up. The guys are talking to me. They're taking out my leash. What's this bandanna thing she's tying around my neck? Feels itchy. Oh, well, I'm lookin' sharp. Yes, indeedy.

Oh, we're going in the car. We're going somewhere I know. I'm going to start singing in the back seat. Loud. Yes, more singing.

Hey, we're stopping. I'm getting out of the car. Ooh ... gotta pee on this tree! And this one! And this one!

I know where we are: the square. Hooray!

Wow. There's a lot of people around. Lots of them. They're all crowding in on me. I should bark. Loud. Yes, more barking.

Where did Scratch Boy go? He's way up ahead. OK, so I'll just trot alongside Snack Girl. Yes. We're in the groove now.

We're cruising along. Wait! I gotta stop! Snack Girl picks up after me, just like she always does.

We're walking, we're walking. Hey, we're going toward Carl's. Let's go. LET'S GO!!!!

Cool. There are lots of people around. We're walking. Hey, there's Scratch Boy. Hi, Scratch Boy!

Hey, Scratch Boy has something to eat. Something for ME. Pretzel! I love pretzel!

Wow, I could use a big slurp of water. Oooh, crunchy ice. I love ice! I love pretzel!

Yay!

It's a big day for ME! It's all about ME! People are asking about ME! They love ME!

A Day of Speed and a Matter of Trust

As Bryn mentioned in her post below, Saturday was the annual Hyde Park Blast 4-miler. Heading into this race, I was feeling pretty good about the training I'd been doing, the weather was OK, and I had no nagging injuries to deal with.

But, in the minutes leading up to the race, I was feeling pretty sluggy and needed some inspiration and focus. I joked with my buddy Jay at the starting line how we needed a motivational talk from Tom Browning. (Browning miraculously hauls his butt out of bed to emcee the annual Reds 5K, and bumbles through a send-off including such classics as "All you hot chicks be sure to line up on my side of the pack" and "OK, guys, you guys are the best, guys, uuuuh, good luck guys, I'll save a beer for you at the finish... guys.") Since Browning was not an option, I just told myself, "trust your legs." I settled into a comfortable pace, pushed the pace in the uphill parts of the race (of which there were many!), and finished strong for 12th, 1st in my age group.

But the big fun of the day was a trip to the Kentucky Speedway, and a slot in the Mario Andretti Racing School. The premise of this school was that you could drive 6 laps around the 1.5 mile Speedway in a real Indy car. No advance training, no specific experience - just a medical waiver and a valid driver's license gets you in. And 400 bucks. Would you be a little worried about this deal? My friends Jason, Mark, and I sure were. How the hell could they let schmucks like us take control of a car with a jet engine inside and turn laps on a pro track? How many people have perished doing this? Would we all drive like old ladies and get laughed off the track? All these questions were in our heads.

The school consisted of about an hour of verbal instruction and a couple trips around the track in a van to talk you through it. But the best advice we got was to "trust your car." That reminded me of what I'd told myself that morning at the race, and kind of put me at ease.

The idea is that you turn 6 laps trailing a professional instructor. If you stay within the prescribed 4-6 car lengths, your instructor will keep pushing the pace throughout. If you fall behind, your instructor eases up. Pretty simple. I told myself to follow the line and push it as hard as I could.

When you punch the gas on an Indy car, it's like nothing you've ever experienced. The acceleration is totally cool when you let out the clutch and hit the gas. I started out a little tentative, since the steering is just a little different from my Maxima, and you're going 90 mph just about as soon as you pull out of the access road onto the track.

Like everyone else in our class, I got a green flag the first time I went past the starting line, which means to "speed up." As I got more comfortable with the idea, I just told myself to "trust the car" and get into the groove of the track with my instructor. He kept pushing the speed, and I stayed on his tail. One thing I learned is that, when you go around an oval race track, you NEVER let off the throttle. Can you imagine what this feels like? NO, you can't! You've got these crazy G-forces pulling at you, the little steering wheel is vibrating, the engine is howling, and you are (almost literally) flying around the track. All I can say is, WOW!

I got the car up to 167 mph, which was the fastest in our group. But we all did really well. Definitely better than a bunch of old ladies! If you ever have the opportunity to try this, I highly recommend it. I'm working on Bryn for next year's session... Wanna join us? Trust me.

wrigley's big day.

Yesterday, the whole Mooth family participated in the annual Hyde Park Blast. It's full-day neighborhood festival that takes place around July 4: The day starts with a four-mile run/walk that we all did. Wrigley donned his official Hyde Park (make that Bark) Blast bandanna and looked quite snappy as he and I did the walk. With his red bandanna and lead, and my red shirt, we were such the team.

Wrigley had a pedicure on Friday; his nails had been too long and I could tell it was affecting how he walked -- with shorter nails on Saturday, he was very happy walking at a quick pace. Our first mile was the slowest (thanks to a business stop early on) and picked up speed each mile, including a super-speedy pace down Observatory toward Carl's, the neighborhood deli. Our pace always quickens as we approach Carl's. Always.

Rob was waiting for us at the finish line: He cruised to a 12th place spot out of more than 1,600 runners! He's awesome.

The post-race goings-on at the Blast are a high point of the whole experience, most especially the kegs & eggs. Nothing like a Bud Light and plate of eggs to refuel after a race. Wrigley scarfed some eggs and a few bites of soft pretzel, gulped down a lot of water and crunched some ice. A great morning for the Boy.

(In the afternoon, Rob and some friends headed down to the Kentucky Speedway, where they took part in the Mario Andretti Driving School and drove Indy Cars around the track. Perhaps I'll get him to post about that.)

Later in the day, we returned to Hyde Park Square, where they closed the streets down for a block party and series of bicycle races. We watched the cycling, enjoyed some good wine and had a bite to eat. The Wrigley Effect was in full force: Everyone wanted to know what kind of dog he is, and he was eternally patient when a little kid came up and played with his ears or his tail. He barked whenever the crowd was cheering on the riders (and sometimes just because). I find it funny that everyone assumes he's still a puppy. Perhaps it's his goofy look or his happy demeanor, but folks are always surprised when I tell how old he is. He's a good boy.

I love my little family.

(edit: Today, Wrigley wants to go EVERYWHERE with us. He's been following us around and was most disappointed when we left to go to Target and then to play golf without him.)

more on the neighborhood.

So we've run down the list of families from our house on down Coventry Way. I neglected to mention one other house on the street: Next to the Stevenses lived the Toombs. They had kids who were grown and out of the house by the time they moved in, so we collectively had very little to do with them.

They had an enormous dog, a doberman, we figured, named Duke. As they walked Duke, the Toombs allowed him to leave behind enormous piles of doo-doo. Apparently, it wasn't considered polite in the 1970s to pick up after your dog. Duke was, as I mention, enormous, and his leavings were commensurately huge. Every once in awhile, Dad would bump into a pile while cutting the front yard like he ran the mower into a boulder the size of a compact car.

All us kids talked repeatedly about collecting a paper sack of Duke's doo, dropping it on Toombs' front porch and lighting it ablaze. The closest we ever got was ding-dong-ditching them.

growing up. or not.

I suppose I've been moony about the bullet-train passage of these wonderful summer days in part because of my current reading material.

Recently, Mom gave me a copy of Bill Bryson's "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid" -- his memoir about growing up in Des Moines in the late 1950s. Bryson's laugh-out-loud reminiscences about kidhood really resonate with me; it strikes me that the difference between my growing-up in the 1970s and his in the '50s is much narrower than the difference between my childhood and today's kids'.

The book, plus these late-spring days (today is picture-perfect) have got me thinking a ton about growing up on Coventry Way, and about all the experiences that made up my childhood. Especially, all of our outdoor summer activities in the neighborhood. Which, frankly, I'd just as soon be doing still.

So let me paint a picture:

When we moved into our house at 3754 Coventry Way in, I think it was 1972, the street was still under construction. Most of the houses on our west side of the street were finished or nearly so; across the street there were several vacant lots and half-built houses that offered tempting play options, provided we could sneak over there without our moms knowing we were messing around on a potentially hazardous construction site. Most likely, someone stepped on a nail, and that was the end of our navigating shaky stairways and exploring open basements.

Our house had the first flat backyard at the crest of a hill. To our north lived the Hugheys (my classmate Debbie and her younger twin brothers). Beyond them on the cul-de-sac were the Webers, Todd, who was a year younger than me, and Tammy, who was Bill's age. I thought the Webers were a bit odd. Todd and Tammy were allowed to watch cartoons after school, which wasn't an option in our house. And Mrs. Weber made the WORST PB&J sandwiches: Jif peanut butter (we were a Peter Pan family) and Welch's grape jelly on Wonder bread. They were mushy and I thought they tasted sort of low-budget.

From our house going south down the street, you'd run next into the Chris Crowder's yard. Then on downhill to the McEneany's house, clad in blue siding. Tricia McEneany was a year or two older than me, and she was the first kid I knew to have her own record player in her bedroom, upon which we spun the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" until the needle broke. "S-A-TUR-DAY NIGHT!" The McEneany's lived there when we moved in, but the dad was transferred and the family moved away a year or two later. Then in moved the Joneses, with daughter Erin who was Bill's age.

Chris Crowder and Erin Jones were the only only children on the street; we thought either their parents couldn't have any more kids or, after Chris and Erin, didn't want to.

Next down the hill were the Grimms. Kirsten Grimm remains my oldest friend, and we're in fairly regular touch both in person and via email. Her brother, Adam, was the youngest kid on the block, and we hazed him for it. In addition to having a finished basement (including a very exotic-seeming wet bar and a square of linoleum tile that became the defacto dance floor), Grimms' house had a root cellar, which was accessible by a huge door on the back of the house. It was a sort of appealing and yet scary place, and it smelled damp and earthy and dark. I don't recall what was stored there; we'd open the door and go in for a few minutes before getting a bit creeped out and running back out into the yard.

Then came Eric Stevens's house. The Stevenses were by far the richest family on the street, as evidenced by a) the deep-pile white shag carpet in their sunken living room; b) the fact that they gave out full-size Hershey bars at Halloween; and c) the fact that they were probably the first family in the neighborhood to have cable, and most definitely the first to have HBO. I caught more than an eyeful of some R-rated movies (most memorably a bizarre scene from "Last Tango in Paris" that I still can't quite get past) late-night when I was babysitting Eric.

From our house down to the Stevenses', our backyards all connected in this sloping stripe of green playspace, edged all along the west side by a deep and wonderful woods.

About which I'll post more soon.

hmph.

(a clandestine at-work post, because I just have to get this out of my head)

To my dismay, I'm finding that I'm spending a lot of time when I'm not at work stewing about work. So it feels like I'm almost always working. Which in turn feels like time is just flying by.

One of my biggest causes of stress in life -- and you can ask Rob what I'm like when I feel rushed -- is not having enough time to do all the things that I want or need to do. That, plus the fact that my to-do list tends, even on weekends, to be quite long. My list of chores and tasks to do last Saturday morning before Dad and Ellen arrived for a Father's Day visit was really quite ridiculous, and I spent the first hour after they got here scurrying around trying to finish things up.

When I took the Predictive Index personality-type study a couple of years ago, I came out as a "High C" among the four drives: A=to dominate; B=to induce positive response; C=for stability; D= for certainty. Here are the likely behaviors of a High C: to be methodical, to do one thing at a time, to finish a task before moving on, to be patient, to be process-driven, to be persistent, to be a creature of habit, to be focused, to fare less well under pressure, to be reactive.

Yep, that's me.

So this constant fretting about work, plus a full calendar in the coming months (meetings and big projects for work, vacation, not to mention the things I want to do, like taking an afternoon by the pool and spending a weekend with Bill) are making my heart race and my shoulders crunch. My deep and abiding fear is that I don't have time for the things I want to do, and that these next few months -- summer, my very favorite time of year -- will slip out from underneath me.

This makes me extremely sad.

a terrific dinner.

Tonight, we made a dinner out of side dishes, and it was wonderful, the perfect thing for a warm evening. Both of the recipes came from Williams-Sonoma's "Grilling: New Healthy Kitchen," which Mom gave Rob last summer. Nothing we've made from that book has disappointed. Here's what was on tap:

Mushroom Bruschetta
1 lb. portobello mushrooms, cleaned and stemmed and sliced into 1/4-in slices
tossed with a couple of cloves of garlic, crushed
olive oil
2 Tbsp. lemon juice
salt and pepper

2 slices of country wheat bread (per person), drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt

Marinate the mushrooms up to 1 hour before dinner. Grill over medium-high heat for about 3 minutes per side. Grill bread slices for about a minute per side.

Arrange grilled mushroom slices on grilled bread; top with crumbled Feta and slivered basil.


Chickpeas with Baby Spinach
In a baking dish, toss a can of chickpeas (drained and rinsed), 1 thinly sliced tomato, a good glug of olive oil and salt + pepper. Broil about 8-9 minutes until browned on top. Remove from the oven and immediately toss with a big handful of sliced fresh baby spinach and the juice of a lemon.

Plus, I made a quick lemon-olive oil salad dressing and tossed that with greens just picked from the garden. It all tasted fresh, light and healthy. Delish!

yum.

In addition to 101Cookbooks, which I love, I've run across another terrific food blog called Smitten Kitchen. Mom, you gotta check this out! I think the potato pizza is on deck for this weekend.

a wager.

We're frighteningly fond of the 70s XM radio station. Aside from rebroadcasts of vintage Casey Kasem AT40 shows from the 70s (what's not to love?), we've started listening to "70s on 7" with alarming frequency.

For me, this music is totally nostalgic, reminding me especially of rides in Mom's Olds Cutlass Convertible, particularly up Keystone Avenue from Grandma's to home, or from the Brookshire pool. It's a total time warp for me. Rob, however, missed that whole era of music, since that sort of music wasn't deemed particularly appropriate listening in his church-going household.

So tonight, a bottle and some change into the evening, ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down" comes on. I've always been convinced that the chorus goes, "Don't bring me down, Bruce." Rob was convinced that it was "Don't bring me down, Groos." Whatever.

We bet $20.

I lost.

Turns out, this is a prime example of my new favorite word, mondegreen. A mondegreen is a commonly misheard word or phrase. Like in "Blinded By the Light." You know what I'm talking about.

Crap. Now I owe Rob twenty bucks. And I'll never hear the end of it.

Oh, and by the way, these are like crack:

recharging.

I came back from a super-dee-awesome HOW Conference with an empty gas tank, both mentally and physically. Which made conditions ripe for a cold to develop. Which it did.

I paid a quick visit to Carmel on my day off Friday for lunch with Grandma and Mom. It was great seeing both of them, and Mom's lunch was, natch, perfect.

We've made the most of this Memorial Day weekend, in spite of low energy and a scruffy throat on my part. Rob washed windows on Saturday (which no doubt foretold today's bit of rain). I sort of helped, but not really. But we put the screens in the front and side doors, and now the house is wide open to the warm humidity, which feels terrific. I hung in there for 9 holes today and put up a rather decent (for me) score of 41. We've made two morning trips to the Coffee Emporium, during both of which Wrigley scored dog biscuits. So it's all good.

We've been creative in the kitchen: Saturday, we did barbeque chicken and lime/thyme potato salad (my absolute fave), then finished with a slice of homemade pound cake topped with fresh local strawberries that'd spent some quality time in a bath of Cointreau. Last night, we marinated some scallops from Findlay Market in some fresh herbs, garlic and olive oil, then broiled them topped with buttered breadcrumbs. I reduced some orange juice, added chopped tomato and swirled in a bit of butter for a nice sauce. Yum. Tonight it's steak sandwiches and fresh asparagus.

who knew?

Turns out, Grandma has a Wikipedia entry

pick your dinner.

First salad picked from the garden, last weekend when Mom was here.

spring.

Cool, rainy weather this spring has lengthened the season; things bloomed in succession, like a parade of flowering trees and shrubs over the past several weeks. Here's from our yard:

can't wait for this.

Wow. I really need to get off my @ss and post all the photos of our spring-glorious yard that I took specifically to share here.

In the meantime, I totally can't wait for this show on PBS coming this fall:

ode on a grapevine.

I can't find the post, but somewhere along the line, I noted that I'd like to have a grapevine in a pot on the side porch. I'd linked to Napa Style, where you can purchase a vinifera vine for, oh, a hundred bucks or so. NOT. So I ordered one via Amazon for about $30. It's a Chardonnay. It came neatly boxed; I transplanted it into a glazed pot and stuck it in our west-facing window for a few weeks.

It's gone nuts.

I have some weird kind of affinity for my Chardonnay vine, and also for my Mission olive tree, which made it from here to New Jersey and back, and is absolutely thriving. I simply love it. Like, LOVE it.

I mentioned my recent grapevine purchase (with a kind of, "Yeah, I know it's silly" sort of sheepish look) at work recently, and my colleague Carmen exclaimed: "That's so Italian!"

Exactly. The grapevine reminds me of lovely times spent with Rob in California wine country, and the olive takes me immediately to the grounds of Toscana Saporita in Italy, where Rob and I visited Bill several years ago. Rob and Bill took advantage of a seasonal spring Tuscan day, I clambered up into an ancient olive tree on the estate, where I sat watching Bill and Rob play ping-pong on an outdoor table in the sunshine. Perfect.

feelin' groovy.

Several things are brushing away the gloom of this cold, rainy spring Sunday: A bunch of ranunculus I bought at Findlay Market yesterday, a batch of chocolate-chip-granola-butterscotch-chip cookies, and a sleepy dog.


Yesterday, I took advantage of my energy for doing round-the-house projects (and Rob's absence, since he went to help Team Major Taylor at the Little 500 in Bloomington), and got the side porch all put together: vacuumed cushions, washed the faux-wicker furniture, got out the rug, assembled my glass-jar-and-sand candles. It was nasty cold, and there's no chance of using the porch in the next couple of days. But the weather's due to turn nice later in the week, and I wanted to have it all ready.

ta-da.

ssh ... I'm posting @ work ...

Last night marked the opening of the Side Porch Cafe. While Rob ran the lawnmower, I sponged the winter crud off the bistro table and chairs, tied on the seat cushions, swept the porch and got out a few candles. That, plus a nice rose to mark the change of seasons, was a fitting debut for the SPC. It's a nice neighborhood spot, the food's good, the wine is excellent and the view is lovely. You should go. Except you'll never get a table.

an accounting of spring.

All of a sudden, things are starting to bloom big-time around these parts. Rob kept telling me that spring was really, truly on the way, and I was skeptical. Until now.

On the way in this morning, I spotted:

Star magnolias and those big, blushy purple ones
Rhododendron
Forsythia (ours are going nuts)
Flowering plum
Bradford pear (they smell like feet)

Our flowering crabapples are leafed out and ready to bloom, and the lilacs are about a week from blossom. Lettuce and radish seedlings are up.

Oh, and I took my first Claritin of the season last night.

Ah, spring.

food for thought.

Allison Arieff's By Design blog on NYTimes.com points out a program called Edible Estates: Attack on the Front Lawn -- it encourages people to turn their grass into garden (vegetable garden, that is). Whatcha think, Rob? ;-)

signs of spring.

Today is Opening Day, which is surely a good sign. I'm half tempted to blow off work and go downtown for the Findlay Market Parade. In spite of continued gray skies (which have seemed eternal all during February and March), I'm seeing tiny signs of spring:

• the faintest haze of green in the low brush along roadsides
• plum trees in bloom
• our forsythia are about to pop into bloom
• lots of bird activity
• the lawn is getting its green color back
• daffodils!