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pmwriter

Write a bit about life's little absurdities. Like to work with my hands to cook, to make things, to garden.

Spring in Her Step

Our pup Iko is a tad over a year. The little black fuzzball next to her is the neighbor’s Shih Tzu pup Delilah, not quite half a year. The big difference in weight class, currently 44 lbs and about 6 lbs, doesn’t hinder the scrum.

Iko and Delilah 2

Both being young and fresh, and reasonably well mannered, play time is everything. Now that the sun is out and the temps are just right, play dates happen frequently. Delilah is fearless, as is the nature of a young pup. And Iko is relatively gentle most of the time, always backing off when told or when there’s even the slightest yipe. Then the roughhousing continues, frequently with Delilah picking up a stick to instigate the chase.

After an exuberant 10-15 minutes, the play goes into an ebb and flow for another 15-20 minutes. By then the pups have run out of energy and the people/referees have run out of  conversation.

Iko green feet

Everyone retreats indoors with a happy little memory that lingers for the rest of the day. Like the grass stains on Iko’s paws.

5 + 2 = Hangry

jicama

Oh, that ugly little bit of dietary anti-heaven is making the news again! Fasting diets. Recommended as a way of life, this approach can, in the short term, make a person hangry.

More than two years ago, the hubs and I watched a BBC program on fasting diets. Very well done, seemed to make scientific sense even though we’re not scientists. So we decided to give 5-2 fasting a try. Eat normally five days a week, eat a very-low-calorie diet two days a week. We picked Monday and Thursday.

Stuck with it for about a year and a half, then all heck broke loose in our lives and that plan went by the wayside. The very-low-cal days became lower-than-usual-cal days. Cake was occasionally allowed.

With fasting back in our faces on the news, last week we decided to get back to it. I forgot how miserable fasting days are. Every minute has to be booked or all I’m thinking is Food, Food, Fooooooooddddd!

My hair stylist is on an unrelated diet, and she was extolling the virtues of jicama. Anything low cal to quell the hangries.

I’m not holding out much hope, but let’s see how the day goes.

 

Shopping isn’t a priority these days, but looking is still free! I found two clothing sites this week that have some oooohhh, aaaahhh items.

Reformation has clothes I love to look at however aren’t suitable for me.

The shoes at Veja are a different matter entirely. I’m saving up for a pair.

Instant Access to Memory

pants

The oft-cited example is Proust and his d@#m madeleines. Those sights/smells/things that sometimes unexpectedly but with surety when encountered emotionally transport one back to childhood in a flash.

Letting down the hem on a pant leg (yes, that’s what this odd picture is) recently triggered it for me. In particular the tell-tale white line of the old hem took me back without warning. My mother made dresses/jumpers/pants longer, anticipating an extra season or two of wear by letting down the hems. She covered the scar of the old hem with a trim. I remember a burgundy corduroy jumper with two rows of trim. Money must have really been tight because that hem was no more than a narrow turnback of fabric.

For an instant that fresh-faced child was looking at the ironing board. . . ironically a pair of glasses fitted with progressive lenses sitting right there. Past and present accounted for.

I’ll skip covering up that indelible white line with rick-rack. No need to get carried away with that reliving one’s youth business.

 

Ah, Savory Mystery of a Spice

A few months ago, I bought this. Several weeks went by before I opened it.

mystery spice 1

That’s when I discovered all is not what it appears to be.

This is what’s inside.

mystery spice 2

Doesn’t look like cloves. Doesn’t smell like cloves. Doesn’t taste like cloves.

Since we can say with surety what this isn’t, a second-rate parlor game around here is guessing  what it is: When there’s a lull in the evening’s conversation, out comes this little gem, conveniently stored on the counter.

By now I’ve asked pretty much the full contingent of people likely to stop by, thus the game is drawing to close. Only the neighbors kids think this game has legs. The best guess is that Tone’s was cleaning out the pipes, as it were, and this is some sort of savory sludge.

Time to season the compost bin. Even though we’ve not determined what this is, it has provided a reliable source of lively conjecture and a few laughs. I shall miss this little guessing game.

Brittany Stinson weighs in: “I don’t know if many applicants usually explore the mundane in their essays—that seems to have taken a lot of people by surprise.”

She was accepted to five Ivy League schools and her essay is on shopping at Costco with her mom. Quartz did a pretty darn good story about it.

Here’s what Original Thinkers do that leads to success. If only I could perfect procrastination I, too, might be original. And veja du (yes, that’s a real thing).

I’m always on the lookout for ways to access creativity; these five tips should help. However, beware of No. 3 (third one in the list; a numbering snafu lists it as 1. . . after 2. ), based on personal experience and Wednesday’s post.

 

Sighing Over Spilt Cream

Spilt cream
Thank goodness cooking doesn’t require a license. Based on recent performance, mine surely would have been revoked. Over the past week I’ve made a half dozen thoughtless errors from not having key ingredients on hand to messing up ingredients (wrong amount, added at the wrong time, etc.) to this unfortunate boilover. Emergency grocery store runs mid-recipe are almost commonplace. Sigh.

What’s with the distraction? Well, I’m in the midst of the third or fourth dozen “What am I doing with my life?” phase, and cooking is thinking time for me.

Phew. I better snap out of this before one of these distracted moments requires a call to the fire department!

Last Year’s Lavender

Lavender
Sunday’s warm weather inspired me to start an annual task that’s tedious but necessary, slightly sad but with the promise of joy: Cleaning the lavender bed. The yard drops off steeply along the front walkway so the bed gets lots of sun, has good drainage – a good spot for lavender. For years we were graced with an enviable abundance of fragrant blooms. Trimming back the faded first bloom ensured a second bloom.

As with most things, time hasn’t been entirely kind. The older plants are no longer as vigorous. The gnarled old growth at the base of those plants looks like miniature grapevines – ruggedly attractive but wholly unproductive. At the front of the bed, the oldest plants have a horizontal rather than vertical habit. The newer plants grow upward, balancing the overall appearance. Scattered gaps in the bed are reminders of varieties unable to withstand Midwestern winters. Perhaps the poor seedlings didn’t read the labels promising sufficient hardiness. They didn’t know they were supposed to survive.

This year I’m taking the task slowly, pruning with more thoughtfulness, kindness. The joy these plants can still give has to be coaxed out gently; trimming properly and, just as important, leaving well-spaced branches should reward us all in a couple of months.

After picking up the tools, I put the bin of trimmed branches in the garage, the pale scent of last year’s lavender filled the air.

 

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