I feel a twinge in my shoulder as I slide out of bed. I chalk it up to an old mattress. And then I reconsider. Did I slide out of bed as a kid or jump up?
Each year in my 40s seems to offer up a physical mark of aging, final sale, no returns allowed. Knee pain kicked off the start of this illustrious decade, followed by physical therapy, and consequently my very short-lived running career was curtailed. The following year I recall looking at the thermostat while wearing my contacts and wondering who had shrunk the numerals. That decline seemed to have occurred between getting out of bed in the morning and turning in that night. And then about a year later my core body temperature seemed to drop. I wear scarves for warmth, not style.
Several weeks ago I overhead three women conversing over coffee at church.
Two clutched their canes, as one fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, saying “Oh I know, I have my operation scheduled for next week.”
“The doctor recommended I see a different specialist for my colon.”
“My husband sees Dr. Cohen too.”
“No she said, colon.”
“What did you say Betty? I think my hearing aid isn’t working again.”
The first woman turned to include me in her final remark, “You know the 70s are the best decade and we took them for granted—still healthy enough to travel, plenty of time, few responsibilities. Remember that.”
Focusing on the present is easier said than done.
Subway Turnstiles
“Please be aware of the gap”, was repeated at every subway station. If only there had been a ‘please be aware of the turnstiles.’ Thankfully New Yorkers can be friendly in a pinch—or at least when the only way they can move forward is to help you, or your luggage, out of a tight spot. I thought I was blending into city life—wearing mostly black, pulling my nondescript, black roller board quickly and efficiently through the subway station, appearing to know where I was headed. Okay, except for when I asked directions to the express subway track and the kind New Yorker pointed to the track beside me with hardly a condescending look. In retrospect that was a bit of a ridiculous question. As my daughter pointed out, “it wouldn’t be much of an express if the train were on the track behind the local, now would it?”But all in all I was looking capable as I scanned my metro card, moved quickly forward through the turnstile and then stumbled as my roller board failed to roll on behind me. I gave the handle a tug. No go. What was up? I turned around to see the handle caught cleanly over one of the turnstile arms. Unfortunately I had just used my last swipe of the metro card. Fortunately, New Yorkers can be more friendly than they are typically given credit for. As the subway arrived in the station below, commuters started pouring up the escalators heading for the exit turnstiles—also known as the entrance turnstiles—where I stood with my luggage trapped. Bracing for exhortations aimed at my incompetence, I was pleasantly surprised to have not one but two independent travelers stop and help jiggle, push and wrench the handle of my roller board until it snapped free of the turnstile. And I was on my way, once again, appearing competent, although feeling a bit less so.
Virtual Conversation in Silicon Valley
Walking by myself, but hardly alone, through the California foothills last week, I felt as if I were walking with an eccentric conversationalist. As I merged into the flow of walkers, joggers, runners and strollers on the paths of the park, I caught snippets of dialogue. The conversation skipped along like a pebble over a glassy lake, only sinking in the short pauses between groups of walkers.“So he barley makes it to the dome and he sees the cable and says, ‘I’m done’.”
“Oh my God, it must have been huge!”
“Unbelievable!”
Something in Indian
“My wife has actually broken her heel bone, so in the midst of everything else,”
”I can see what you mean.”
“Yeah”
Something in Chinese
Something in Indian
“The same thing happened to her.”
and then a bit of a non sequitur,
“really thinly sliced.”
Hmm, was the heel bone was ‘really thinly sliced’?”
Perhaps if I were bi-lingual I would have been able to make the leap between the heel bone and thinly sliced. As it was, I let the dialogue continue without comment.
During the short pauses in my virtual buddy’s banter, my ears tuned in first to the more distant human sounds like the hum of the highway, and then were drawn to the natural crunches and swishes close at hand. “swshhh,” as a small mammal skittered away through the underbrush. “Whhheet, whhee-eet”, from above.
As I looked around I realized that nearly all of the walkers must be enjoying the integrated natural and human dialogues. Here I was in the middle of Apple territory, and I spotted only 2 dazzling white iPod earbuds. A third walker wore her black earphones discretely obscured by her long dark hair as if she were reticent to admit she preferred her man-made music over the natural symphony now in full swing.
“ch-ch-ch-ch-chee”
“threeet!”
“because it’s upstairs”
“yeah”
“thrump.”
“I like it and even though I’m not, it’s great, I’m not practicing, but umm”
”I may be doing the same thing, you know.”
Something in Indian.
“I was just doing that.”
“driving me crazy and I don’t go up there”
Something in Indian
swish
“You know, so, um”
My dialogue partner was wonderfully tireless; my legs however were not, so I said so long to my virtual conversationalist and exited the flow of walkers.
Humble Pie Recipe Requested from Maureen Dowd
Dear Maureen,
Help! Your expertise could prove invaluable in maintaining civility at our Easter dinner table. My brother is taking his two high school age children to hear Ann Coulter in New York in March. I know I have no chance of reforming my brother’s decidedly insular perspective as a New Hampshire Libertarian, but I hold out some hope that I can offer his progeny a glimpse of an alternative perspective.
I am consistently unable to calmly counter my brother’s high volume, articulate, right wing debating points. I have learned to steer the conversation to safer territory like kids playing sports, oh oops, just ran into the special needs funding debate, in an attempt to avoid all-out conflict with the salad tongs. Along with salad tongs, I come equipped with logic, an understanding of how I need to debate with him and a supportive sister who can keep the emotional distress at bay. But I am decidedly lacking in facts to counter the points he will come with having just heard a stream of vitriol from Ann Coulter.
No doubt the Easter conversation will quickly skip from the benefits of being a locavore to the financial crisis, circling closer and closer to the drain of disastrous dinner table debate. I do not intend to be religiously exclusive in neglecting to mention how you could calm the hunt for the Afikomen, but in my experience with my in-laws we haven’t had divisive debates over the tax system after closing our Haggadahs.
Now I don’t want to paint my brother as an ogre. He is intelligent, can be counted on in a crisis and is an outstanding parent other than providing a limited political perspective to his offspring. So I want to work through this obstacle in our relationship, not to change his mind, but to give him pause and let in a chink of light that one of his children may see as they head out to change the world.
If you could write an opinion piece in the New York Times that counters each of the points Ann Coulter makes in her current East coast city tour, you would provide those of us with strong convictions and a ready sparring partner the facts we require to watch our brothers or mothers or uncles conclude their Easter dinner with a slice of humble pie.
Sincerely,
Help! Your expertise could prove invaluable in maintaining civility at our Easter dinner table. My brother is taking his two high school age children to hear Ann Coulter in New York in March. I know I have no chance of reforming my brother’s decidedly insular perspective as a New Hampshire Libertarian, but I hold out some hope that I can offer his progeny a glimpse of an alternative perspective.
I am consistently unable to calmly counter my brother’s high volume, articulate, right wing debating points. I have learned to steer the conversation to safer territory like kids playing sports, oh oops, just ran into the special needs funding debate, in an attempt to avoid all-out conflict with the salad tongs. Along with salad tongs, I come equipped with logic, an understanding of how I need to debate with him and a supportive sister who can keep the emotional distress at bay. But I am decidedly lacking in facts to counter the points he will come with having just heard a stream of vitriol from Ann Coulter.
No doubt the Easter conversation will quickly skip from the benefits of being a locavore to the financial crisis, circling closer and closer to the drain of disastrous dinner table debate. I do not intend to be religiously exclusive in neglecting to mention how you could calm the hunt for the Afikomen, but in my experience with my in-laws we haven’t had divisive debates over the tax system after closing our Haggadahs.
Now I don’t want to paint my brother as an ogre. He is intelligent, can be counted on in a crisis and is an outstanding parent other than providing a limited political perspective to his offspring. So I want to work through this obstacle in our relationship, not to change his mind, but to give him pause and let in a chink of light that one of his children may see as they head out to change the world.
If you could write an opinion piece in the New York Times that counters each of the points Ann Coulter makes in her current East coast city tour, you would provide those of us with strong convictions and a ready sparring partner the facts we require to watch our brothers or mothers or uncles conclude their Easter dinner with a slice of humble pie.
Sincerely,
Mid-Winter Car Wash Thaw
This has been one of those winters when I didn’t expect a mid-winter thaw to ever appear. And now that it’s here I keep thinking maybe this is an early spring despite the fact that the snow banks remain 2 feet high and encrusted with dirt intent on insulating them from ever melting.
Apparently I had ample company with this breath of spring as I waited behind a dozen cars at the car wash. Mid-way through the car wash with soap pouring down my windshield and my mind on spring, the car wash actually stopped—I don’t mean slowed down or even paused. I had time enough to say out loud (all be it to myself) “Oh my God, I’m stopped” and then to consider and act upon the most prudent course of action. Fortunately I determined that doing nothing would be ideal and at the moment of decision the conveyor restarted and transported me back to the smell of spring.
Coming out on the other side, the sun continued to shine. I even rolled down my window to let in the balmy 60 degree air. This was a moment to hold onto—especially as it was only early February and in the northeast that is a long ways before the equinox tips the balance in favor of sun light and heat over the darkness of night. I still have weeks to wait until the snowdrops poke through my garden soil.
So today I am content to smell spring, go out without a winter jacket and maybe chip away at the ice pack on my front steps without wearing gloves!
Apparently I had ample company with this breath of spring as I waited behind a dozen cars at the car wash. Mid-way through the car wash with soap pouring down my windshield and my mind on spring, the car wash actually stopped—I don’t mean slowed down or even paused. I had time enough to say out loud (all be it to myself) “Oh my God, I’m stopped” and then to consider and act upon the most prudent course of action. Fortunately I determined that doing nothing would be ideal and at the moment of decision the conveyor restarted and transported me back to the smell of spring.
Coming out on the other side, the sun continued to shine. I even rolled down my window to let in the balmy 60 degree air. This was a moment to hold onto—especially as it was only early February and in the northeast that is a long ways before the equinox tips the balance in favor of sun light and heat over the darkness of night. I still have weeks to wait until the snowdrops poke through my garden soil.
So today I am content to smell spring, go out without a winter jacket and maybe chip away at the ice pack on my front steps without wearing gloves!
Snowy Innoncence
Being early in the month and a snowy night, the soup kitchen where I was serving anticipated a low turnout. The kitchen managers are clearly experienced, as their predictions were indeed correct, we served only 100 dinners or so Tuesday night.
Cutting lasagna, dishing up salad, serving plates, refilling butter, ladling soup, wrapping silverware, drying dishes unfortunately left little time for interacting with the variety of folks who came in for a meal.
A small, brown, pigtailed face peaked over the counter as she stirred sugar into her coffee cup. I was caught between reaching out to the child and allowing her the dignity of personal space. Then she asked if there was more milk.
“Certainly,” I responded as I refilled the milk pitcher, “do you enjoy coffee?”
“No, it’s for my mom”, then “Thank you,” she offered politely as I gave her the milk.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?”
“Yes please!” and a smile brightened her beautiful face.
She took the hot chocolate and coffee back to her table and looking over I noticed that there was a second child at the table.
I requested two child-size dinner portions and one regular and took the plates over to the family. When I place the full plates in front of the family the girls offered their thank yous even as their mom was reminding them to be polite. I tarried just long enough for a brief exchange, learning that the girls were 9 year old twins and both loved hot chocolate.
The roomed teemed with adults— only 2 other children came in on that snowy evening. Most of the adults were fairly reserved and kept to themselves. One had clearly been drinking and as he loudly used inappropriate language both girls turned to stare at him. He was quickly admonished not only by the manager, but also by several of the other guests. One reminded him that there were ‘children and ladies’ present.
So it was not only those of us serving who were cognizant of protecting the young girls from, from what? From profane language when they needed to come to a soup kitchen to receive a free meal on a very cold and snowy night? Somehow by upholding the quality of the haven for children, did the guests in fact uphold their own dignity? Did each of us want to hold onto our own childlike innocence even in the midst of the harsh reality of poverty and hunger and cold?
Despite the moderate pace of the evening, I wasn’t aware of one of the girl’s departure until I took the dessert to their table—cookie packages—and asked where the child had gone.
“She went home,” her sister responded.
I looked outside. How close could home have been? As a suburban mom I wouldn’t have let even my 9 year old cross the slippery, dimly lit street with her sister let alone by herself. Was the child’s silent departure a sign of hoped-for innocence or recognition of hardened street smarts?
It was very cold. It was very dark. Yet the gently falling snow had for now softened the edges of dirt encrusted snow bank.
Crying Over Fresh Milk
Why can I no longer get milk to sour? I am not speaking figuratively here; I literally mean that the skim milk I buy at my local grocery store, the same brand I have bought for years, no longer turns sour. I have left milk in my refrigerator untouched for a week and returned to find the milk completely non-sour—not to say it doesn’t taste off, it generally takes on a bit of an unpleasant plastic taste, but it is definitely not sour. Ten years back my milk would sour to perfection within a week of the expiration date and even two years ago I could eventually get it to sour with a combination of a few hours on the counter followed by a week in the refrigerator.
You may think this is all sour grapes over sour milk, but in fact I need sour milk. I make outstanding oatmeal muffins. Outstanding that is if I start with naturally soured milk. I know that I can add a little vinegar to fresh milk, stir and let sit in a warm place for a bit and it will sour, but the final effect cannot be compared to using naturally soured milk. My oatmeal muffins have been slowly decreasing in quality over several years and I put the cause squarely on the unsourable milk.
Perhaps people who don’t bake with sour milk would think this inability to sour fresh milk is a benefit. However, even if my oatmeal muffins weren’t up to par, I would still find the fact that the milk doesn’t sour a bit of a concern. What could possibly be in the milk that it could stay fresh, only gaining an unpleasant plastic taste, a full month after the expiration date?
As I look over the label, the manufacturers of my milk claim the contents are Fat Free Milk with no artificial rBST growth hormone, Vitamins A, D and , what? Vitamin C? When did Vitamin C get into my milk? That definitely doesn’t sound familiar. Could Vitamin C be preserving the milk? I suppose I am unlikely to receive NIH funding or even FDA funding for a comprehensive study on the lack of souring ability in my milk. This is unfortunate as I doubt that I am the only cook lamenting the lack of suitably soured milk available. Unfortunately I won’t be crying over sour milk anytime soon, just fresh milk.
You may think this is all sour grapes over sour milk, but in fact I need sour milk. I make outstanding oatmeal muffins. Outstanding that is if I start with naturally soured milk. I know that I can add a little vinegar to fresh milk, stir and let sit in a warm place for a bit and it will sour, but the final effect cannot be compared to using naturally soured milk. My oatmeal muffins have been slowly decreasing in quality over several years and I put the cause squarely on the unsourable milk.
Perhaps people who don’t bake with sour milk would think this inability to sour fresh milk is a benefit. However, even if my oatmeal muffins weren’t up to par, I would still find the fact that the milk doesn’t sour a bit of a concern. What could possibly be in the milk that it could stay fresh, only gaining an unpleasant plastic taste, a full month after the expiration date?
As I look over the label, the manufacturers of my milk claim the contents are Fat Free Milk with no artificial rBST growth hormone, Vitamins A, D and , what? Vitamin C? When did Vitamin C get into my milk? That definitely doesn’t sound familiar. Could Vitamin C be preserving the milk? I suppose I am unlikely to receive NIH funding or even FDA funding for a comprehensive study on the lack of souring ability in my milk. This is unfortunate as I doubt that I am the only cook lamenting the lack of suitably soured milk available. Unfortunately I won’t be crying over sour milk anytime soon, just fresh milk.
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)