Hello? hello?
You know, I know I'm supposed to be writing this blog for myself, but a little feedback would really be nice. (I am not talking to you, Ben, although your comments are always appreciated.) One of the reasons my blog was a fail the last time was because I finally felt that I was sending it off into the void day after day. So, come on, guys, a little help.
Thank you.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I'm working through it
Okay, so, my yarn shop closed at the end of September. I don't want to mention the name here because I am still pretty bitter about it, but clever readers will find it easily enough in previous posts. I worked there for fifteen months, and absolutely loved it for the first twelve. Once it became clear to us that the owner would not be ordering new yarn or notions ever, it just wasn't fun anymore - for us or our customers.
The shop did not have to close. It was a small, narrow space, stocked to the gills with colorful yarn and beautiful hand-knit sweaters and scarves and baby things. People who came in for the first time sometimes stopped in the doorway, just taking it all in. The shop was in the upscale shopping area of a wealthy little community, and the local ladies just loved it. We held classes and helped customers who came in with a dropped stitch or a new pattern they couldn't quite puzzle through. We helped them chose yarn for new projects. Hell, we helped them chose the new projects.
We loved working there. We loved working with each other. All except for the owner. She came in less and less frequently, and finally, not at all, as she moved to another part of the country. We ran the shop without her, but could not make the purchases that needed to be made. We were hard-pressed to explain to our customers why we still hadn't re-ordered the yarn they needed, and, no, we couldn't special order it for them. In the end, the only thing we could think to do was quit. So we did. En masse. That's when she decided to close the shop.
She came back to clear out the store, and I heard her telling our surprised and saddened customers that it was the fault of the tough economy and the mean management company, but that wasn't the truth. She didn't care and she lost interest, and something that was unique and valuable to a lot of people is gone. Yeah, I'm one of them. But, hey, I'm working through it. I'll get over it.
The shop did not have to close. It was a small, narrow space, stocked to the gills with colorful yarn and beautiful hand-knit sweaters and scarves and baby things. People who came in for the first time sometimes stopped in the doorway, just taking it all in. The shop was in the upscale shopping area of a wealthy little community, and the local ladies just loved it. We held classes and helped customers who came in with a dropped stitch or a new pattern they couldn't quite puzzle through. We helped them chose yarn for new projects. Hell, we helped them chose the new projects.
We loved working there. We loved working with each other. All except for the owner. She came in less and less frequently, and finally, not at all, as she moved to another part of the country. We ran the shop without her, but could not make the purchases that needed to be made. We were hard-pressed to explain to our customers why we still hadn't re-ordered the yarn they needed, and, no, we couldn't special order it for them. In the end, the only thing we could think to do was quit. So we did. En masse. That's when she decided to close the shop.
She came back to clear out the store, and I heard her telling our surprised and saddened customers that it was the fault of the tough economy and the mean management company, but that wasn't the truth. She didn't care and she lost interest, and something that was unique and valuable to a lot of people is gone. Yeah, I'm one of them. But, hey, I'm working through it. I'll get over it.
Friday, January 8, 2010
it doesn't come in cans
Is there anything better than a steaming hot bowl of homemade soup on a winter day? I mean, if you have to live in Northeast Ohio in January, you should, at the very least, have something hot and tasty to eat.
I make a lot of soup in the fall and winter, big pots of it that only taste better with each re-heating. I make bean soup with ham and ditalini. I make lentil soup with chunks of kielbasa and lots of garlic. I make Ben's favorite, beef barley soup with turnip greens and a medley of mushrooms. New for this fall, I made up a recipe for stuffed cabbage soup. I downloaded four different recipes I found online, and took what I wanted from each. Not to brag, but that is damn good soup.
The best soup I make, however, is also the simplest and the one I have been making for the longest time - chicken noodle soup. When Julie had a cold she couldn't shake last week, I knew it was time to make some. I took a couple of roast chicken carcasses from the freezer, put them in the stock pot with onions and garlic and celery and carrots and filled the pot with water. Then I let it simmer all day. I swear, the smell alone is good for what ails you.
Once the stock has been strained, I add noodles and some fresh parsley, and that's all. Oh, I sauté some vegetables and chop up some chicken for others to add, but nothing else goes in my soup bowl. I am a chicken noodle soup purist.
For years, I have preferred extra fine egg noodles above all others, in spite of the fact that they generally slip off my spoon faster than I can slurp them up. I have, however, found a new noodle that is worthy of my chicken stock, and, I would go so far as to say, completes the soup in a way I didn't even know it was lacking.
Julie and I found these noodles in a little import store in a strip mall in Uniontown. The store sells mostly Eastern European food, and we found a whole shelf of Hungarian egg noodles. Now, I happen to know a little (well, very little) about Hungarian egg noodles, as I have a very clear memory of my Hungarian grandma rolling out noodles and cutting them into long strips on the big kitchen table in the basement of her house. I had never seen anyone do that before - nor since, for that matter.
Julie and I bought a couple of different shapes, but the ones I like best are called Csiga, and they look like little ridged horns. And I am telling you, they are perfect for my chicken noodle soup. They are eggy and delicious, needless to say, but what I really love about them is they stay on my spoon. I don't think I can overstate the importance of that.
So, if you're cold and hungry, give me a bit of advance notice and I'll cook up a big pot of soup for you. I don't think it will be chicken noodle, however, unless I have some Csiga in my cupboard.
I make a lot of soup in the fall and winter, big pots of it that only taste better with each re-heating. I make bean soup with ham and ditalini. I make lentil soup with chunks of kielbasa and lots of garlic. I make Ben's favorite, beef barley soup with turnip greens and a medley of mushrooms. New for this fall, I made up a recipe for stuffed cabbage soup. I downloaded four different recipes I found online, and took what I wanted from each. Not to brag, but that is damn good soup.
The best soup I make, however, is also the simplest and the one I have been making for the longest time - chicken noodle soup. When Julie had a cold she couldn't shake last week, I knew it was time to make some. I took a couple of roast chicken carcasses from the freezer, put them in the stock pot with onions and garlic and celery and carrots and filled the pot with water. Then I let it simmer all day. I swear, the smell alone is good for what ails you.
Once the stock has been strained, I add noodles and some fresh parsley, and that's all. Oh, I sauté some vegetables and chop up some chicken for others to add, but nothing else goes in my soup bowl. I am a chicken noodle soup purist.
For years, I have preferred extra fine egg noodles above all others, in spite of the fact that they generally slip off my spoon faster than I can slurp them up. I have, however, found a new noodle that is worthy of my chicken stock, and, I would go so far as to say, completes the soup in a way I didn't even know it was lacking.
Julie and I found these noodles in a little import store in a strip mall in Uniontown. The store sells mostly Eastern European food, and we found a whole shelf of Hungarian egg noodles. Now, I happen to know a little (well, very little) about Hungarian egg noodles, as I have a very clear memory of my Hungarian grandma rolling out noodles and cutting them into long strips on the big kitchen table in the basement of her house. I had never seen anyone do that before - nor since, for that matter.
Julie and I bought a couple of different shapes, but the ones I like best are called Csiga, and they look like little ridged horns. And I am telling you, they are perfect for my chicken noodle soup. They are eggy and delicious, needless to say, but what I really love about them is they stay on my spoon. I don't think I can overstate the importance of that.
So, if you're cold and hungry, give me a bit of advance notice and I'll cook up a big pot of soup for you. I don't think it will be chicken noodle, however, unless I have some Csiga in my cupboard.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
full disclosure
My dad, who will turn 83 next month, was recently diagnosed with mild to moderate Alzheimer's disease. As it turns out, this diagnosis came as a relief to him, as it confirmed what he had suspected for some time. Needless to say, Dad can't continue to live by himself. This is something he realizes, and this realization has driven our current search for an assisted living facility. From the beginning, I wanted him to go to Wesleyan Village, and it now looks like that is where he will end up.
I will be writing about our journey here in the hope that it will somehow help me deal with my sorrow, anger, and frustration. As I said to a friend, this is a maze I had hoped to never enter, but we are in the thick of it now, and sometimes taking one step forward and two steps back, we proceed.
I will be writing about our journey here in the hope that it will somehow help me deal with my sorrow, anger, and frustration. As I said to a friend, this is a maze I had hoped to never enter, but we are in the thick of it now, and sometimes taking one step forward and two steps back, we proceed.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
going for a ride
I remembered a car trip on a summer day. Just my dad and me – my favorite way to travel. No little brothers to share his attention, no mother to doze and snore in the front seat, admonishing us all to shut up - just the two of us speeding along quiet country roads. In those pre-air conditioned days, all the windows were rolled down, letting a wall of hot summer air rush in.
Sometimes I sat up front, on the long bench seat next to my dad. If I got tired, I lay down and rested my head on his leg as he drove along, his freckled left arm turning pink, then red in the bright sunlight. Sometimes we sang together – but not the songs you might think. “’Twas a cold winter’s evening, the guests were all leaving…” we would begin, and we would sing one of his old college drinking songs with great gusto. My mother despaired that neither of us could carry a tune, but we liked each other’s singing just fine.
Although I liked to sit up front next to my dad, that day I had clambered over the seat, and lay stretched out on the back seat, my bare feet (a no-no when my mother was along!) propped on the open window. It was hot in the car and the air blew in the windows with a monotonous roar. I stared absently at my wiggling toes as the telephone poles rushed past, the wires between them looping quickly by. It was a moment of pure contentment that I have never forgotten.
I wondered at first why that memory came to me yesterday as I drove home through the fine, driving snow of a January afternoon. I had spent the day with my dad, trying to get some of the myriad tasks accomplished for his move to an assisted living facility a block away from the house where I grew up. We made several stops: the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, the bank. At each stop, the seatbelt in my car confounded my dad, as he pulled the wrong end of it or couldn’t click it safely closed. Each time I did it for him.
My dad drove me, and now I drive him. It’s really pretty simple.
Sometimes I sat up front, on the long bench seat next to my dad. If I got tired, I lay down and rested my head on his leg as he drove along, his freckled left arm turning pink, then red in the bright sunlight. Sometimes we sang together – but not the songs you might think. “’Twas a cold winter’s evening, the guests were all leaving…” we would begin, and we would sing one of his old college drinking songs with great gusto. My mother despaired that neither of us could carry a tune, but we liked each other’s singing just fine.
Although I liked to sit up front next to my dad, that day I had clambered over the seat, and lay stretched out on the back seat, my bare feet (a no-no when my mother was along!) propped on the open window. It was hot in the car and the air blew in the windows with a monotonous roar. I stared absently at my wiggling toes as the telephone poles rushed past, the wires between them looping quickly by. It was a moment of pure contentment that I have never forgotten.
I wondered at first why that memory came to me yesterday as I drove home through the fine, driving snow of a January afternoon. I had spent the day with my dad, trying to get some of the myriad tasks accomplished for his move to an assisted living facility a block away from the house where I grew up. We made several stops: the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, the bank. At each stop, the seatbelt in my car confounded my dad, as he pulled the wrong end of it or couldn’t click it safely closed. Each time I did it for him.
My dad drove me, and now I drive him. It’s really pretty simple.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
sing along
I love to sing. Unfortunately, I am not very good at it. I am so bad at it, in fact, that when I was a kid, my mother asked me to please not sing around her as my off-key singing hurt her ears. Now, as a mother myself, I can't really imagine that. When Tom and Julie were small, one of my greatest joys was to hear their little voices singing in that sweet, un-self conscious way that children sing. I couldn't tell (and didn't care) if they were off-key or not. As they got older, they became more self conscious and wouldn't sing around me anymore, although they still sang with each other. This made me more sad than I could ever tell them.
I have already mentioned my trip to New York City when I met up with Tom and Kristy in Chinatown. That night we went to a Japanese karaoke restaurant where we had a private room for several hours. I was delighted to hear Tom sing for the first time in probably twenty years. It was the highlight of my evening.
When Julie was home last month, she tried to entice us (well, mostly she tried to entice Ben - I am always up for a road trip) to drive to a bar in Aurora for a beer and a bucket of sliders. "Come on," she said. "We'll all sing in the car." Ben could not be persuaded, but in short order Julie and I were on the road. "I believe I was promised some singing," I told her. She dug the Neil tape - now safely transferred to CD - out of her glove box, and soon his plaintive whine filled the car.
I think I have mentioned the Neil tape before - it is my all-time favorite mix tape that Ben made for me. It is Julie's favorite, as well, I believe, and as we headed north in her car, we sang every song along with Neil. I heard Julie sing and sing and sing. We sang "Powderfinger". We sang "Southern Man", which we used to sing softly together as we wandered up and down the aisles of countless flea markets. We sang "King", which always reminds me of Bobo, and always brings a lump to my throat. We ate sliders and drank beer, then sang all the way home. I tried not to let Julie know how much it meant to me for fear I would somehow spoil the moment, but I am telling her now.
What an unexpected gift that outing was. Thanks, Jules. Let's do it again soon.
I have already mentioned my trip to New York City when I met up with Tom and Kristy in Chinatown. That night we went to a Japanese karaoke restaurant where we had a private room for several hours. I was delighted to hear Tom sing for the first time in probably twenty years. It was the highlight of my evening.
When Julie was home last month, she tried to entice us (well, mostly she tried to entice Ben - I am always up for a road trip) to drive to a bar in Aurora for a beer and a bucket of sliders. "Come on," she said. "We'll all sing in the car." Ben could not be persuaded, but in short order Julie and I were on the road. "I believe I was promised some singing," I told her. She dug the Neil tape - now safely transferred to CD - out of her glove box, and soon his plaintive whine filled the car.
I think I have mentioned the Neil tape before - it is my all-time favorite mix tape that Ben made for me. It is Julie's favorite, as well, I believe, and as we headed north in her car, we sang every song along with Neil. I heard Julie sing and sing and sing. We sang "Powderfinger". We sang "Southern Man", which we used to sing softly together as we wandered up and down the aisles of countless flea markets. We sang "King", which always reminds me of Bobo, and always brings a lump to my throat. We ate sliders and drank beer, then sang all the way home. I tried not to let Julie know how much it meant to me for fear I would somehow spoil the moment, but I am telling her now.
What an unexpected gift that outing was. Thanks, Jules. Let's do it again soon.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
post-election day musings
I decided to watch the election returns on MSNBC last night. It is my understanding that is the cable news network that conservatives hate the most - just right for me. The mood among the commentators and pundits there was barely contained jubilation, I thought. I wanted to share their optimism, but was just afraid of experiencing that same anger and disappointment that overwhelmed me when the last two presidential elections were stolen by the Republican Party. I just couldn't be confident that it wouldn't happen again.
Every time the television cameras panned the huge crowds filling Grant Park in Chicago, I looked for Tom and Kristy. I didn't even know if they were there or someplace else with a group of like-minded friends, but I looked for them anyway. I couldn't help it. I looked for my brother, as well, although I have not seen him in twenty years now. It just seemed like the kind of night he might be out and celebrating, watching history in the making.
Here in Ohio it was 11:00 p.m. when the polls finally closed on the west coast. Almost in the same breath, the closing of the polls was announced, along with the election of Barack Obama as the 44th president of the United States. I surprised myself very much by starting to sob as his name was announced. I hadn't wanted to care that much, but I did. I do.
Today is a bright, shiny, new day for the United States of America. Today I stand tall and face the global community as a proud American. It feels damn good.
Every time the television cameras panned the huge crowds filling Grant Park in Chicago, I looked for Tom and Kristy. I didn't even know if they were there or someplace else with a group of like-minded friends, but I looked for them anyway. I couldn't help it. I looked for my brother, as well, although I have not seen him in twenty years now. It just seemed like the kind of night he might be out and celebrating, watching history in the making.
Here in Ohio it was 11:00 p.m. when the polls finally closed on the west coast. Almost in the same breath, the closing of the polls was announced, along with the election of Barack Obama as the 44th president of the United States. I surprised myself very much by starting to sob as his name was announced. I hadn't wanted to care that much, but I did. I do.
Today is a bright, shiny, new day for the United States of America. Today I stand tall and face the global community as a proud American. It feels damn good.
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