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.