food fit for the weather.

[A rare double-post day]

OK, so here's the backstory: We invited Mom, Bill, Grandma and Hans for a Christmas visit, the centerpiece of which was to be a leisurely, multi-course dinner. I was just thrilled at the thought of having my loved-ones at our dinner table, so I started menu-planning early. Because Bill had prepared a killer beef tenderloin at Mom's over Thanksgiving weekend, I wanted to do something different.

Cue MarthaStewart.com, where I found a recipe for a roasted pork shoulder. We ordered one from Eckerlin, picked it up a few days before Christmas and ...

When we got it home, Rob realized the thing was less than $2 a pound. Hm. He looked at me and said, "I don't want to freak you out, but ... how confident are we in this recipe?" Learning that the cut was cheap, and deciding that it didn't even look like what was pictured in the recipe, I answered, "Not very." So we went to the grocery and picked up a lovely pork tenderloin roast, and the meal was terrific.

Which left us with a 4 pound pork shoulder in the freezer.

Fast forward to today: At Bill's instruction, we rubbed the thing with a mix of coriander, cumin, paprika and S&P, browned it, and then slow-cooked it in the Dutch oven under a mess of pureed roasted peppers, garlic, onion, tomato and jalapeno. It smells amazing.

That, a good red wine and the Packers game are our evening plans.

a sip of scotch.

After more than a month (during which time, I kept thinking of posts I wanted to write, about our fantastic Christmas Day and day-after meals and that kind of thing), here we go.

Dad called late in the day yesterday to let us know that Granddad had passed away. He went to sleep and just didn't wake up. Which is how you want to go, I suppose. Grandmother passed earlier this summer and it seems that Granddad, for all the fractiousness in their decades-long relationship, was lost without her. He was 90. My most recent visit with him was when Dad and I spent several days in L.A. about 3 years ago; I felt sad that we didn't see more of G&G, but distance made that difficult. And really, I wanted to preserve my impressions of them—Granddad in particular—as vibrant, lively people. I always thought he was neat. I can trace my love of boats and the water directly through Dad to him, much as I can trace my green thumb straight to Grandma. I will forever associate Brach's butterscotch candies with him, and I think we have him to thank for exposing me to the concept of happy hour—I remember peanuts and, for the grownups, cocktails or cold beers around 5:00 on the boat trips we took with him. I took a certain amount of pride growing up that my grandfather spent his early retirement years in Florida windsurfing with men half his age. He notoriously broke his ankle—shattered it, actually—while skateboarding downhill on our street, a ride that ended in a collision with a mailbox.

I have very fond memories of my grandparents individually; as a couple, their bickering could make them difficult to be around. They were both hugely present in my childhood; we'd often have dinner at their home before they moved to Florida during my teen years, and I spent summer Saturdays with Grandmother, who was a costumed interpreter at Conner Prairie (I loved my little pioneer girl dress). After they moved south, we spent spring breaks with them, and they'd make too-long visits in the summer. And then, as they got too old and infirm to live on their own in Florida, they went to California—and we became less a part of each others' lives. Still, I know they're both important parts of my make-up. I'll sip a Scotch to their memories.

doofus brother.

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

reality show.

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

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

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

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

'tis autumn.

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

because it works, that's why.

Why does The Dog beg?

Because it works, that's why.

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

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

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

pancakes for everyone.

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

dining in good company.

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

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

Righteous.

blessed are the hairy.

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

when life gives you squash.

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

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

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

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