Of Murphy’s Oil Soap and the Patina of a By-Gone Era…

Used furniture 1
Today is a Murphy’s Oil Soap day. Today I am cleaning some brand-new used furniture.

This is how we came to buy it.

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“Solid oak table,” says the posting on Facebook. “Three leaves. Top shows mild wear. $25.00.”

It is exactly what I want for my dining room renovation project. I’ve been prowling on-line second hand sites, wandering through local stores–antique emporiums, junk shops, and re-purposers’ paradises. I’ve gotten lots of great ideas, but nothing has been the bargain I’m seeking.

I want a sturdy round table that can be extended for parties and holidays. I do NOT want the chairs that go with it–my vision mandates three pairs of chairs, different styles, maybe even different colors. One set will have arms and be, when the table is at its full length, anchors at the head and foot. The others, strong and comfortable, but in some yet-to-be-discovered funky, fun design, will slide up to the sides.

And I want it all, of course, for next to nothing.

Nothing too matchy-matchy, I tell Mark bossily. I do NOT want to go out and buy a ponderous dining room suite. I want something unique, something we assemble. I want something we can spin in our own special style, but something that, put together in a new grouping, has not just a history, but a future, of its own.

Mark rolls his eyes. (He has been known to ask, a little plaintively, “Do you think, someday, we could have bedroom furniture that matches?”) He is intrigued by the idea of the mismatched chairs, though, if we could just find the right pedestal table to anchor them.

And then the ad pops up on my FaceBook feed.

“What do you think?” I ask him. “Should we go and look?”

“Why not?” he says. I message the seller.

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We thought we were so organized. We took both cars. We’d cleaned out the trunks and folded some soft, old blankets into them. Mark carefully selected tools he might need for dis-assembly, and we were off, convoying to a set of storage lockers thirty miles away. Young James rode along with his dad to provide extra muscle.

The seller–we’ll call him Tom–was waiting for us. He was a big, bearish, youngish man with a broad, open face, glazed in sweat; he’d been moving furniture on that hot summer afternoon. The table was at the entrance to the storage pod; we inspected the pedestal and the top and the three leaves that would extend it. We looked at each other.

“Yes?” said Mark.

“Perfect.”

Money changed hands. We opened both trunks; Jim and I carried the leaves and slid them into mine. Mark removed the pedestal from the tabletop and angled it carefully into his back seat. Then he and Jim rolled the top itself to his trunk–his trunk being broader and deeper–and hefted it up to slide inside.

There was no way. They slid it back down and got the measuring tape. They looked at back seats and measured them. They rummaged in the toolbox.

Meanwhile, I was talking to Tom in the storage pod.

“I got to get rid of a lot of stuff by Wednesday,” he told me on that Monday afternoon. “I got a sale in Columbus, and I’m gonna need the room. Is there anything else you need? I got a nice dresser back there.”

Part of my dining room vision was repurposing an old dresser,–painting it, adding fun hardware, and then hanging shelves above it for plates–kind of, I thought, a home-assembled china cabinet effect. But the ‘dresser’ Tom referred to was, actually, a china cabinet. It had a glass door and three shelves and a drawer. Swirly bulls-eyes marched down the sides, and the carving was in mint condition: not a flaw or a chip.

It was gritty and dusty, but it was the perfect shape and the perfect size for the space I had in mind. I hesitated.

“Fifty bucks?” he said.

I thought of badly damaged cabinets I had seen in stores and on-line with tags that read, “Solid wood! $300. Great project!”

I bent to open the drawer, and Tom said swiftly, “Oh, that don’t open.”

But it did, revealing plastic place-mats printed with pictures of wine glasses, a deck of playing cards, and a child’s toy, unopened in its plastic bubble.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Tom, and he quickly scooped out all that treasure. He nodded at the cabinet.

“You want it?” he asked.

“I’ll talk to Mark,” I said.

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But Mark and Jim had determined, meantime, that there was no way the tabletop would fit into any area of either car, and that dis-assembly was beyond the tools and inclination Mark had brought along. Tom rolled the top back into the pod, and we drove off to reconnoiter at a Wendy’s we had seen down the street–to make a plan to get that tabletop moved and to talk about the cabinet.

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Friends are a wonderful gift. Sitting in the blast of air conditioning at Wendy’s, I texted Terry, and I asked if there was any way her patient husband Paul would have time to drive his truck and Mark out to those storage pods the next day. And Terry messaged back almost immediately: Sure. What time?

Mark and I discussed the china cabinet all that night; by morning, we had decided to buy it. So we messaged Paul that the load had just gotten a little heavier.

Tom was available at 3:30; Mark came home from work and changed, and Paul picked him up. James went along, too, which meant that Mark scrunched into the bumper seat behind the driver.

He had only twenties in his wallet, Mark did, and Tom did not have change. In the dickerings for the china cabinet, poor Paul, who was already donating his time and gas and resources, had to loan the boy ten dollars.

I was off that day on a wonderful road trip that is another story in itself. When I came home, the tabletop was leaning against the dining room wall and the china cabinet was perched in front of the fireplace. Mark was grilling chicken, and he and Jim were pretty pleased with how the whole day had worked out.

I’m not quite sure how Paul felt about everything.

 

Used furniture 2

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So this morning, I will get to know the newest members of our furniture family. I’ll fill a plastic bucket with hot water and sloosh in a glop of Murphy’s, sudsing it around with my fingers until it melts completely. I’ll take my little hand vac and clean out the china cabinet, suck the loose grit out of nooks and crannies of the table, and then I’ll wipe everything down. And then I’ll dip a soft, white cloth into the bucket of suds, and I’ll begin the long, slow, exploratory process of getting to know my new china cabinet and table.

I’ll work from the inside out, shoving the rag into the smallest corners and nooks, making sure any dirt and residue is washed away. We’ll talk to each other, those wooden fixtures and I, while I scrub and massage and polish.

The treasure Tom scooped out of the drawer already lends me some clues to the china cabinet’s past–that the folks who owned it were practical types who liked a place-mat they could wipe down instead of laundering and ironing; that there was a special child worthy of a new toy (I imagine a grandma seeing a little something she knew the five-year old would just love at the dollar store, bringing that gift home triumphantly, putting it in the drawer, and maybe, forgetting it was there–the right time never quite arriving to give that treasure to the little guy.)

That pack of cards had been well-used; I imagine the china cabinet overseeing long games of euchre at the dining room table.

Washing the cabinet will tell me more–the soap may draw up and wash away layers of tobacco gunk, for instance, and I’ll think of a home like my parents’, blue with cigarette smoke and loud with jokes and laughter. I will imagine card games and jokes and laughter, smoke-free, in this cabinet’s future.

The wear on the top of the table will tell its own tale, about meals and other projects. Did a woman drag out her portable sewing machine and load it onto this table, shoving the corded foot pedal underneath, mending knees of jeans and sewing curtains for the Florida room and whipping up a special dress for her sister’s youngest’s wedding?  Are there marks and indentations from years of kids wielding sharpened pencils, intensely doing homework or drawing epic scenes of imagined historic battles?

I’ll imagine someone’s joy in getting this piece of furniture new, a long awaited purchase made possible by her hard work at a weekend job. I’ll think of the china cabinet coming into, maybe, a young couple’s home, a gift from his parents, a gift that had stood for many long years in his beloved, and now-deceased, grandmother’s dining room. I’ll imagine that cabinet settling in and watching the young couple become parents, the children growing, and the years passing–passing into a time when the cabinet, loved but no longer needed, gets passed away itself into strangers’ hands.

And I will sluice away the grit and residue of recent postings. If these pieces were kept in dank basements or spider-filled barns, moved about from pod to pod–THAT, I don’t particularly want to know. I want to bow my head to the rich history the pieces exemplify. I want to wash away any storage unit past.

I love used furniture–love it, of course for its bargain-rightness (I do believe that, somewhere out there, just the piece I need is being sold at a fraction of its ‘new self’ price; my challenge is to track it down and bring it back to  vibrant life.) I love it for its workmanship–for the careful joinings, for instance, so different from the glue and staples of discount buys. I love it for the use it’s had and the care someone has taken and for the future it offers us in its new home. I love it for its environmental responsibility, for the re-use of a resource that will not have to be harvested and stripped for my vision to take fruit.

There’s a patina and there’s a promise to the right piece of used furniture, lovingly restored.

*************

Oh, we have projects. Before I buy the paint for the dining room, I need to finish up the details on the almost-painted car port, and then we need to get the drop-cloth curtains hung and the tables covered and the chairs arranged, and invite dear friends, and celebrate.

Before the painters come to start the house, we need to paint the garage and the long fence that delineates the way back part of our backyard. We need to cut back rambling neglected bushes. We need to root suckers from the lilac tree and buy some hydrangeas and sink them into sad, neglected garden spaces so that, in a year or three or five, there will be, henceforth from that time, an annual bloom of exuberant flowers.

There is a lot to do. But in there, in the near-enough-to touch future, we will be cleaning,  spackling, and prepping the dining room; we will be rolling on bold new paint color. We’ll be repainting the existing low boy. We’ll be treating the venerable wood floor, and we’ll be beating the dust from the heavy carpet.

And then I’ll be moving in the new pieces–new to us, but seasoned in their experience of dining rooms, bringing years of service to this new story we’ll unfold. New story for us, but new chapter for these venerable pieces, lovingly cared for, lovingly restored.

Used furniture–the right used furniture–brings with it a sense of past, a comfortable present, and a promise for the future.

And it brings a smile to my frugal face.

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Sleeping In

The alarm clock jiggles and dances at 6:28 AM, and I reach out and slide the lever down, turning it off. The dog, who knows that THAT particular alarm sound is aimed at Mark, whimpers a little, heaves herself out of her cozy dog bed, and ambles around to where Mark is shaking off the sleep.

“All right,” he says, resignedly, struggling into his snuggly robe. “Let’s go outside.”

They leave; I hear the ticky-tacking of the dog’s nails on the hardwood floors downstairs, and then, the opening of the back door.

And I consider: I could get up now. Normally, I’d have been up for at least an hour.

But it is Friday, and I don’t have to work. Last night, I had one of those energy surges, and I finished up all my little hanging obligations. The package is put together and addressed; the notes for the meeting are ready. Letters written, responses made–there is nothing calling me to my computer.

I have nothing that must be done until almost 1 PM.

And the bed is warm, and the room is dark, and I pull the blankets more firmly around me, rolling over and sighing. The dog nudges open the door and jumps on the bed. She circles around three times, then nests herself into the crook of my knee pit. We breathe a deep, contented breath in unison, and we drift back off to sleep, lulled by the sound of water thrumming in the shower.

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I wake up an hour later, feeling crystal clear and smelling the definite smell of carbonized toast: Mark’s favorite breakfast complement. The dog looks sadly up at me as I swing my feet over her head and out of the bed; she is comfortably situated. She could stay there all day.

I pull on jeans and a floppy shirt, brush my teeth, stretch, and head into the day. I don’t even make the bed–we change the sheets on Fridays. I have that wonderful, light-shouldered feeling of nothing immediate to do.

The dog and I shlep down the stairs, singing about burnt toast, and Mark pokes his head from the kitchen, where–blessed man–he has turned the coffee on to brew.

“I believe that you exaggerate,” he says, grinning.

I treat the dog–half a Beggin’ strip, a coin of frozen hot dog; she’s already been fed. She declines a rawhide chewy stick and takes her lazy self off to the couch. After a tough night, snuggled up, protecting Mom, she needs her rest.

Mark reluctantly gets up to leave for work. It is casual Friday; he wears his jeans and pulls his old Bills jacket–an anomaly in southern Ohio–over his nubby sweater. We talk about having a little blaze in the fireplace tonight (winter has returned; the high today will be in the low-enough thirties to give us some snow, and right now, it is pretty brisk outside.) He reminds me he’ll be home at lunch, to take Jim to an appointment outside of Columbus. And then Mark opens the door; he lets in a gust of cold, and he plunges into his workday.

And I pour myself a steaming cup of decaf dark roast, pull on my fuzzy, Wicked Witch of the West socks, and open up the local paper.

I remember feeling this kind of freedom–this temporary reprieve feeling–in college on the rare occasions I wasn’t scheduled to work at the supermarket deli at 8 or 9 AM on Saturday. The morning would stretch out, a bubble in a torrent of time, a safe spot to stretch and rest and read. If those mornings had a sound, they would sound like a whispered ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Of course, then as now, I know the bubble is due to shatter. There are worries, real worries, floating outside–I can see them as I sit and read what’s going on in my town–about St. Patrick’s day dinners and speakers at the library and high schools sports games. The clock ticks down for a dear, dear friend, who suffers in her last days. Other friends grasp hands and wait out the weekend, awaiting news that will shatter or heal. Health concerns, and financial decisions, and things that have to be done in timely ways, in and out of work: all these bob around me, bumping, gently this morning, against the bubble walls.

This blessed, respite morning is like a small step out of time.

I walk the dog. We meander in the cold sunshine, and she sniffs to her heart’s content. I pick up the Columbus paper from the lawn, and we come back inside to treats for her and breakfast for me. I split an English muffin on a red Fiestaware plate, put it in to toast, pour more coffee.

Then Jim gets up and asks about the shape and the weft of the day, and I feel the sides of my bubble thinning. Reality pushes.

And the toaster pops and I butter the muffin and I read the news from Columbus, shaking my head over the idea of de-funding libraries, de-funding the arts, and I realize the bubble’s sides have quietly melted. I’ll read my paper now, do my word puzzles, and I’ll slide, feet-first, back into the torrent.

And it is good to deal with things, to face the pain of loss, to check the email, to run the errands and strip the bed and have the conversations and take care of all the myriad details that weave the fabric of daily life. I do not want to shirk one thing; I want to be there, for the good and the bad and the things that wrench our hearts.

But it is good, too, every once in a while, to have that cozy, fleeting bubble descend, encompass me. It is good to turn off the alarm, to roll over with a sigh, and let the day start without me.

******

I will take care of business; of course I will. But I’ll do it better today because I have slept in.

GOT IT! (The end of my quest for the ultimate cookie)

peanut-butter-crinkles
It started years and years ago, when a visit to the Barnes and Noble in Erie, Pennsylvania, was a rare and wonderful getaway. My friend Sharon introduced me to the concept that, in the Starbucks snack bar connected to the book store, one could gather up a fat stack of glossy magazines from the well-stocked shelves, order up coffee and a treat, and sit and flip page after page without being accosted. And then, words and images and coffee treats digested, one could take those carefully handled magazines and put them back on the shelves.

And it was okay. In fact, the store management encouraged reading and browsing while snacking.

Those were days of diapers and tight budgets, of precious quiet personal time, and of limited opportunities for real vacations. A visit to the Starbucks cafe at B and N, an hour of paging through glossies that had no direct relation to mommyhood, a steaming cup of Italian roast coffee–that was a refreshing respite in itself. It didn’t think it could get much better.

But then, I ordered the Starbucks Reese’s cup cookie, and I heard the angels sing.

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The Reese’s cup cookie was big and flat and filled with chunks of peanut butter cup and chocolate chips. It had the perfect combination of crunch and chew, and I would savor it, breaking off small pieces, chewing them slowly, clearing my palate with a hot swig of rich, dark brew. I would slide the magazine across the little round table, making sure no crumb or drip sullied its pristine pages, and I would read about that year’s fashions or the best way to teach pronouns to middle-schoolers or how to make a tasty dinner from stale bread and leftover ham.

The cookie was big enough to last, if I was careful, for the life of the venti coffee. When both were gone, it was time to put the magazines on their shelves and head back into it.

The taste of Italian roast and Reese’s cookie began, to me, to mean treasured respite. But visits to the book store, an hour’s drive, were too few and too far between. I decided I needed to recreate that lovely, warm, restful experience in my own kitchen.

It wasn’t hard to master the coffee. I acquired my first coffee grinder, and I could buy Italian roasted beans at my local supermarket. Soon, I was sleepily brewing a wonderful pot of morning coffee, floating on its steam to a happy place before the day began to buffet me.

But the cookie. Ah. That was a different story.

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I thought perhaps I could adapt my traditional peanut butter cookie recipe, the kind that’s crisscrossed with fork tines. I mixed up a batch and stirred in chocolate chips and a handful of peanut butter cups, chopped; this was an activity that required stealth and the willingness to smack small grubby hands that reached insistently for the chopped chocolate treats. I  arranged one-inch balls carefully on the cookie sheets, and put them into a pre-heated oven, waiting for them to flatten out and become the chewy-crunchy discs I loved so much.

They never flattened. They remained candy-studded peanut butter golf balls. Although the boyos ate them willingly, I was not happy. And I was determined to get closer to the mark.

Thus began my quest. At least twice a year, I would try a new recipe for peanut butter cookies. I rummaged through library cookbooks in five different hometowns, finding, along the way, some wonderful dishes that we have woven into family cuisine. But I did not find a peanut cookie recipe that approximated the Starbucks treat.

I discovered the Reese’s cookies were only available in Barnes and Nobles Starbucks,–at least where I lived–, and I swerved the car when passing such places. I interrogated hapless baristas who had nothing to do with the baking of cookies; they looked nervous as I pelted them with cookie questions. I was a woman on a mission, but my goal seemed elusive.

I bought baking books. Their recipes did not include the one I sought. I scoured the Internet fruitlessly.

I tried chocolate chip cookie variations–“Omit the half cup of shortening and add 2/3 cup of peanut butter…”

I chopped peanut butter cups and stirred them into dozens of different doughs, sharing results with family and friends and colleagues. None of them objected to the cookies I slid in front of them.

But none of the cookies was quite the cookie I needed.

Years and years went by. I savored Barnes and Noble visits, learning, in every town we settled, the fastest route to the closest store whose cafe offered those sweet treats.

I began to despair, though, of ever finding a recipe to come close to my cookie ideal.

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Favorite recipes.jpg
And then, at Christmas time, I reached for my mother’s recipe book, a book that contains, in her own handwriting, essential holiday recipes–the shortbread cookie recipe, the directions for making chocolate fudge delight. And I noticed that recipe number two was for a cookie called ‘Peanut Butter Crinkles.’

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Did I remember my mother making peanut butter crinkles? The criss-cross tine cookies, yes, but there was no memory of this other. We had cookies we called molasses crinkles; they were a favorite, and they flattened into the same kind of chewy crunch I sought.

I had a chocolate crinkle recipe, too; they yielded the same result.  Could it be…??

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I went ahead with my Christmas baking, stirring up the fudge, rolling out the shortbread, shaping dollops of clove-scented chocolate dough into Italian chocolate cookies.

It was all good; we ate and shared, and then when the holidays treats were gone, I pulled out the little recipe book, chopped up a package of Reese’s peanut butter trees found in my Christmas stocking, and mixed them into the peanut butter crinkle dough. I added, because I had them, a handle of white chocolate chips and a scoop of mini semi-sweet morsels. I shaped the candy-studded dough into 1-1/2 inch balls, and I rolled the balls in sugar. Then I put them on lightly greased cookie sheets, flattened them gently with the sugared bottom of a juice glass, and slid them into the oven.

They spread out beautifully, and the edges cracked and got crunchy. After ten minutes or so, I took the first tray from the oven, wielded my spatula, and spread the first twelve hot cookies out to cool. And finally, after an agonizing wait, I tried them.

And they were, as Goldilocks said so long ago, JUST RIGHT.

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Last night, Jim took the last of the Reese’s cookies from the cookie jar. But I know how to make more.

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I felt triumphant for two days after those cookies came out of the oven–triumphant and sated with my dream cookies. And then, a little reaction began to set in.

For there’s a cost, I’m discovering, to achieving a long-sought goal. There’s a vacuum. The quest is a thing in itself, powered by passion and possibility and the delight of the search.

And when the mission is completed, that power is gone. Now I have to say to myself, the quest for the Reese’s cookie recipe was a thirty-five year chapter in my life. And that chapter is now complete.

It’s a little unsettling; it’s a little…final.

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But still. I have my recipe! And I found it, of all places, in a book that’s been sitting patiently on my cookbook shelf, a little book that’s traveled with me over hundreds of miles and through five different kitchens. There’s a message there to ponder, kind of a Wizard of Oz wisdom-byte, about the things I need maybe being in my backyard all along.

There are other cooking quests to get serious about. I have my new pasta maker; watch out, ravioli. And this is the year I’ll finally learn to make a buttery delectable biscuit.

I’ll still treat myself to a Reese’s cookie when I visit my favorite Barnes and Noble store.

And every so often–but not too often–I’ll make myself a batch of Reese’s cookies. In the quiet of the morning, I’ll French press myself some smoky brew, pull over the magazine that arrived in yesterday’s mail, and serve myself a cookie on a dessert plate. I’ll savor it, making it last until I’ve poured the last steamy froth from my coffee pot, turned the last page of that magazine. I’ll savor the triumph, too, of finally achieving my goal–silly and frivolous though that goal might seem.

And then…well, then, I’ll  face the future, bravely embarked on a mighty new mission.

And fueled by a hefty dose of Reese’s candy-laden peanut butter crinkles.

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peanut-butter-crinkles

Wandering Back

They were three deep in the line–a lunch-time line; she looked at her fellow shoppers and concluded they were all using a scant lunch hour to make their purchases. A plump grammy-type lady had a basket full of little girls’ socks and sweaters; a twitchy gentleman in a long, expensive looking topcoat jiggled a trendy, bullet-shaped blender. Dell herself had the counter-top convection cooker that was her stepson’s number one wish this Christmas.

At the register, a young mom (bespectacled, no make-up, hair pulled back severely, her sleeping baby in a car seat in her shopping cart) fed baby toys onto the belt.

The cashier was a pretty young thing, pale of skin and startlingly black of hair–her lips and nails a vivid matching crimson. She languidly pushed the toys under the scanner with one hand.  The other hand held her smart phone, into which she was tittering. Tittering over, she’d fling her head back and listen, hand poised on an item to check out. The process was taking a long time.

The grammy sighed; the coated man twitched, and the young mom anxiously rocked the sleeping baby back and forth as she waited.

Back at the end of the line, Dell pulled out her own smart phone.  The store was Berger’s; the local owner, Freda, was famously imperious and impatient with her help.  Dell punched in her own office number, and, as her recorded message began, she started talking, loudly.

“Freda?” she crowed, and the cashier’s head jerked up.  “Yes! I’m waiting in line at the store. It looks like it’ll be at least 15 minutes so I thought I’d call you back.”

The cashier muttered a quick ‘gotta go’ and put her phone down.  She flashed an abashed apologetic look at the mom and began quickly shoving toys into bags.

Dell paused–her mission was accomplished, but a  demon had possessed her.  “Name?” she asked.  “No, Freda, I can’t see her name, but I can send you a picture!” She held her phone up, snapped a photo of the startled young cashier, and texted it to herself.

The grammy guffawed; the coat turned around and bestowed a pale smile.

By the time Dell got to the the register–which didn’t take long at all, considering–the cashier was leaking tears.  Dell paid in silence and lugged her hard-won bounty to the car.

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There was a message on her machine, she saw as she flipped on the office lights, and she listened as she booted up her laptop.  Oh, lord: Mary Carole.  A former young colleague, MC had returned to grad school and now she was suffering agonies of indecision about next steps.  She called Dell and used her as a sounding board.  “I could do this,” she’d say, “but then I’d lose this and that!  But what if…”

Dell would listen patiently, interjecting a caveat or two. She’d learned, Dell had, to give a caller like MC ten minutes to vent. Then she took control of the conversation, soothed and encouraged, pleaded meetings and obligations, and promised to touch base again soon.

Which was not an empty promise, because the caller always called back.

But today, she wasn’t going there. She deleted the message and grimly moved a thick stack of files front and center. When MC called again–twice more–, she let the calls go through to voice mail.

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On her way home, she stopped at that stupid three way corner with only two stop signs. One never knew if the approaching traffic was making a right or not,–fewer than half the drivers bothered to signal their intent–so people sitting where Dell sat had to be wary.  But the oncoming traffic cleared, and Dell waited while the car at the stop sign to her right, which had been waiting before Dell pulled up, made the turn.  Behind that car, a woman in a battered mini-van split her flat face into a wicked grin and made the turn in front of Dell, cutting her off just as she started to accelerate.

“Bitch!” thought Dell, and she laid on the horn.  FlatFace turned and waved gleefully.

Dell waved back, but she only used one finger.

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At home, she checked messages.  Martin, who was away visiting family, had called to see how her day had gone.

“Well, let’s see,” Dell mused. “I made a cashier cry.  I ignored a plea for help from a  young friend. And I gave a stranger the finger.”

She turned on the flame under her teapot, and went into the living room to turn on the tree lights.  It was December 17th.

“Merry freaking Christmas,” Dell thought.

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She woke up in the dark hours of the very early morning with the sense that something was terribly askew.  It was 4:12, and sleep was gone.  She got up, pulled on her warm, fluffy robe, let the dog follow her down the stairs of the quiet house.  She stood, the cold air bathing her ankles, on the back porch as Sheba ran into the yard to transact urgent business.  There were stars in the clear black sky, pinpoint diamonds.

Dell thought, with great clarity, “The thing that needs to change is ME.”

When the sky began to lighten, she called her boss and took a personal day.

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That day, she sat down with her journal and made a list of all the things she loved about Christmas.  And then she clipped the leash on the dog and bundled up. They took a long walk; they meandered for over an hour.  When she got back to the house, she felt clear and centered; walking was Dell’s best form of prayer.

Martin was home in time for dinner, and they grilled veggies and sliced cheese and took rolls from the freezer. They constructed sandwiches and submitted them to the panini maker.  And they talked.  They cracked a bottle of wine, and they talked and talked and talked.  The talk deepened and turned into laughter; they sat on the couch in the living room and lit the gas fire and fell asleep by its glow.

The next day, Saturday, Dell made phone calls.  She called each of the boys, who normally woke up at 5:30 or 6 AM on Christmas to open gifts with their families before heading off to the in-laws for a full slate of festivities.  Then, late in the afternoon, they’d come to Dell and Martin’s for another full meal–rib roast and mashed potatoes–another round of tearing paper and mayhem, before taking their tired, cranky, overwrought kids home to bed.  Dell offered them Christmas off.  What if, she asked, they got together the next day?  Or, even, the day after?

The boys were shocked, but then thoughtful, and both asked to call her back.  She imagined earnest conversations with their harried wives, a little surprise, and then a realization–how much easier that would make things.  What do you think?

They both called back and asked if they could come the day after Christmas, and Dell agreed a Boxing Day celebration would be a wonderful thing. She passed the phone to Martin, so the boys could check in, make sure this wasn’t just some passing whim of Mom’s–let’s make sure Dad is good with this, too.  Martin’s calm laughter and easy tone assured them.

*************
She called Mary Carole and let her talk for half an hour.

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Dell got on Facebook and posted a note to all her friends.  “One of my joys at Christmas,” she wrote, “is sitting down to write cards to all of you, to touch base in writing, with time to reflect and savor.  But the days leading up to the holiday are so rushed that I usually plow grimly through the task.  This year, I’m taking time over Christmas to really enjoy the process.  So if you don’t receive a card from me before the 25th, know that it will be coming after Christmas–maybe even early in the New Year.  That will give me time to remember and anticipate and think about how important you are to me…and try to get that all into writing before I mail off my card to you.”

Seventy-two people pressed ‘like’ and three of her friends messaged what a great idea that was–and that Dell might just get a fat greeting a little later than usual, too.

****************
She gave up any more trips to big box stores and bought gift cards at the supermarket instead.  Then she made special trips to small, local shopkeepers.  She bought hand-dipped chocolates and wooden toys, kaleidoscopes and candles.  She picked out bottles of local wine and beautiful chunks of cheese at a dairy in the country.  She found the most incredible ruby-red sundae glasses at an artisan’s shop in a little village twenty miles away.

She bought a wonderful painting of their town for Martin from a local artist. She bought hand-crafted necklaces for the daughters-in-law, and plump, whimsical animals for the littlest grands.

She took her time with the shopping; she didn’t always get out of the shops in fifteen minutes, but she had wonderful conversations with talented, original people.

She took the long way home from work, avoiding the three-way stop corner completely.

And she created fabulous stockings for Martin and the boys and their families. She even, because it was something she loved and not something Martin did easily, put a stocking together for herself.  It seemed silly at first, but she found herself anticipating pleasure of re-discovering those tiny treasures.

She did not make cashiers cry.  She did not give fellow travelers the one-fingered salute.

****************

On Christmas Eve, because it was important to her, Martin went with her to the candlelight service at their church, and she soaked the soaring, hope-filled carols in through her pores.

On Christmas Day, because it was important to him, she watched “The Christmas Story” with Martin.  They snuggled in their old, comfy PJ’s, ate eggs and toast, and roared at Ralphie’s antics.  They didn’t dress until 2 PM.  Martin took a nap; Dell and Sheba went for another peaceful meander.  They ate chili for dinner and cracked open one of those bottles of local wine. Their phones burbled throughout the day, and they sat down and had relaxed conversations with the lovely persons on the other end.

On the day after Christmas, the boys and their families clamored in around 1:00; Dell and Martin passed out little boxes with the gift cards inside and the stockings, and they spent an hour unwrapping, exclaiming, and playing. Dell had called their favorite pizzeria, who delivered three huge  pies and dozens of  chicken wings  and they grabbed and ate–kids disappearing to play video games in the sunroom or toss a ball in the unseasonably sunny green weather or play on the carpet with tiny cars.  It was a carefree, relaxed celebration, and both boys thanked her, wondering if maybe THIS could become their new tradition.

She and Martin cleared up after they’d left, the silence pronounced after the whirlwind, and they agreed it had been a wonderful day.

*************
Dell let her thoughts wander during the sermon the next day, sitting next to Martin, who needed an occasional nudge; he was inclined to indulge in a little nappy time as Reverend Cass plowed on, exploring her theme.  She thought about how rested she felt, and how that hadn’t been true two days after Christmas in any of the years gone by. And she realized how far she’d wandered from her core, obeying what she’d felt were society’s imperatives.  But who, really, had she been making happy?  Not Martin, not the boys, not her friends and extended family. Certainly not herself.

She had found herself turning into a shrew, a politely-veneered virago, and it had been time for a change.  A return to her beliefs; a return to her desires; a return to a true thoughtfulness about those dear to her.

And, in returning, a wonderful holiday.

Today she and Martin would go home and  frost the shortbread stars she’d cut out and baked in the quiet, calm of the house, post-family, yesterday.  Dell loved those cookies, had to taste them at Christmas, and today they had the leisure and the energy to do them justice.  And today, they’d decided, they would sit down and think, really think, about their time and their gifts and the way they could use them to help their community in the year to come.

It was simple. It was rich.  It had meaning.  Centered and grounded, Dell felt, for the first time in many, many years, the peace and hope of Christmas seep into her bones.

62 Years of Sauce

This year, my mother-in-law Pat gathered her grown children around her Thanksgiving table. They came from small cities and villages within her western New York county; they came from the west coast and from the Midwest.  They came to eat the first Thanksgiving dinner not cooked up and served up under the discerning eye of their father Angelo; he died in the dawning of 2015.

Ironically, Pat and Ang’s 62nd anniversary fell on Thanksgiving day itself this year.  The marriage spanned 61 years of growth and change, war and détente, peace, turmoil and resolution, births and nurturing, work and respite, loss and renewal–in the world, and in their lives.

That’s a lot of years together.

That’s a lot of spaghetti sauce.

**********

I ate spaghetti, growing up, and I liked it, but my Scottish mother’s version was not like ‘regular’ spaghetti. The sauce was thin enough to be translucent. Early on, she rebelled against shaping meatballs; instead she’d brown a big chunk of burger in the sauce pot.  One of my brothers had an aversion to the texture and sight of any kind of stewed veggies, so Mom would clamp the big metal grinder to the countertop and run an onion through it.  The grinding reduced the onion to mush; Mom would stir that into the cooking beef.  (She always cleaned out the grinder by running stale bread through it, behind the onion; often there’d be ground bread in the sauce, too, which didn’t bother anyone.)
She would pour cans of tomato sauce and tomato paste into the pot.  She would double the bulk with water, and stir in oregano and basil flakes.  She would simmer it all together and cook up two pounds of thin spaghetti.
We ate it all with no complaints; it was hot, flavorful, and filling.

It wasn’t, though, traditional Italian spaghetti sauce. When I married Mark, I would really begin to learn the intricacies and variations involved with cooking a wonderful, thick, bubbling pot of what his family called, in Italian, “soukup.”

*****

Angelo was the son of Sicilian immigrants Joseph and Mary–called Ma and Pa by their children and extended family. They married in the States in the early part of the twentieth century; they built a life in western New York, where they had seven children and Pa worked on the railroad. Ma was a stay-at-home mom; on Saturdays, Ang recalled, she would cook up a huge pot of sauce and bake enough bread for a week. Ang was always interested in cooking; he learned the secrets of sauce by watching Ma and helping her.

He brought those secrets, those tasty techniques, into his marriage with Pat, who was not Italian, but quickly learned the ins and outs of Italian cooking.

Sundays were family dinner days.  In the early years of their marriage, Ang and Pat lived in an apartment above Ma and Pa, and, after church, they would gather downstairs around a huge and groaning dining table. Several of Ang’s siblings would arrive with spouses and kids; a special table would be set up for the young ones.  Bowls and platters of pasta and sauce would emerge steaming from Ma’s kitchen, and the family would dig in with gusto.

When Ang and Pat bought their own home, that big table came to roost in their dining room, and the tradition of Sunday pasta dinners moved with them, too.  They had five children in all, four active boys, and then, ten years after Thomas, the youngest, was born, the lovely surprise of a baby girl.  Mark and his brothers brought friends home on Sundays; leaves extended the table to its utmost. Extended family might drop in. When the boys began marrying and grandchildren arrived, the practice of the children’s table had to be reinstated.

But the wonderful quality of the sauce never wavered.  When I first knew Pat–I was in college and we worked together at a bookstore–she canned tomatoes and tomato sauce, and the pasta sauce was simmered from ingredients mostly home-grown and hand-preserved.  A long simmer, the right seasonings, a little sweetness to cut the acid…attention to detail and patience were the most important qualities.  Spaghetti sauce was a delicious and inexpensive way to feed a hungry mob.

The sauce that Pat simmered up in the kitchen of her lovely hundred-year-old home was far different from my Scottish mother’s.  Pat and Ang served sauce that was thick, rich, and fragrant.  (Their sauce was to my mother’s what robust stew juices are to thin soups–both valid, of course, but mightily different.  I understood after first tasting Ang and Pat’s pasta why some Italian families call their red sauce ‘gravy’.)

Unless it was a Friday, or Lent, the sauce could contain many different kinds of meat–usually an abundance of meatballs, often Italian sausage, and sometimes pork or chicken.  My father-in-law was partial to putting pig trotters into his red sauce; I didn’t doubt that they sweetened the sauce. Those seemed, though, blatantly anatomical steaming on the plate of meat which Ang would strain from the sauce and place in the middle of the table. He and Pat would put little bowls of sauce at intervals; there would be grated cheese and crusty bread and greens to make a salad.  And two huge bowls of pasta with scoops could be easily reached from all seats.

A lot of sauce was ladled at that table; the sauce fueled conversation, discussion, and camaraderie.  As years went by, Pat’s methods changed; the proliferation of good, economical, high-quality canned sauce made the hard work of handpicking, peeling, juicing, and canning tomatoes unnecessary.  But the canned sauce was only a base for the magic that Pat and Ang worked in their kitchen.

Along the way, Ang discovered a recipe in his local newspaper; it was Dom Deluise’s mother’s meatball recipe, it was darned good, and we use our adaptation of it to this day. I imagine the sauce being shared around tables for generations to come–feeding hungry families, complementing joy and struggle.

So here, in honor of Ang and Pat’s long partnership, and of the first anniversary, just past, they’ve spent apart, here is the method for that long simmered sauce….

*************

We use (to feed 4-6 people):
–one 6-ounce can tomato paste
–one 8-ounce can tomato sauce
–one 24-ounce can of spaghetti sauce, traditional or meat flavored
–a portion of a recipe of Dom’s Mom’s meatballs
–three links of Italian sausage
–one onion
–one clove of garlic
–olive oil
–oregano
–basil
–rosemary
–a bay leaf

–one quarter cup of sugar

Coat the bottom of a heavy stock pot with olive oil, and heat that over a medium flame. In it, sauté chopped onion until almost translucent, then add the garlic clove, crushed.  Stir until the veggies are sweated and soft, then add the tomato paste and sauce and spaghetti sauce.  Fill the empty sauce jar with water, twice, and stir into the pot.  Add the spices and sugar and bring to a simmer.  We cook and stir, simmer and steep, for at least three hours.

Meanwhile, bake the meatballs (recipe follows) and parboil the sausage. At least an hour and a half before serving–and you can do this well before then–add the meat to the pot and let everything simmer so the flavors will meld and blend.

As the acid bubbles to the top of the sauce during the early simmer, skim with a flat spoon.  You can sweeten the sauce in several ways.  We usually add at least a quarter cup of sugar; I know people who add a cup or more. We have a good friend who peels a carrot and halves it and throws both halves into a steaming sauce pot. Pork bones also seem to add sweetness and cut the acid; we save the bones and leftover meat from a roast, and in they go.

Chicken, also, cooks down into tender strands in the sauce and adds a wonderful flavor; I don’t recommend putting pieces of chicken in the pot with bone intact, though.  The tiny bones come unglued and separate into the sauce, and unsuspecting diners crunch down on bits of hard bone.  Much better to remove the flesh from the bones and throw just the tender meat into that simmering brew.

We like to serve this with a tossed green salad, grated parmesan, and a loaf of crusty bread.  Of course, a bold red wine goes nicely too.

It’s easy to double or triple this method for a crowd, and you can be daring with add in’s.  We love the sauce with fresh zucchini cooked into it, for instance. And in Lent, Mark’s dad always omitted meat and added sardines and chopped hard-boiled egg.  In those times, instead of topping the sauce with cheese, Ang would heat olive oil in his cast iron skillet, and brown up  a big batch of bread crumbs. The family would use them in place of parmesan, and Mark still loves his sauce topped that way.  And of course, vegetarian possibilities are endless, too. A neat trick Pat taught me was to add dried fennel to the sauce; its taste evokes Italian sausage, even when there’s none to be found in the freezer.

Leftover, this sauce makes a dynamite base for a thick, spicy chili.

********

Our version of Dom’s Mom’s Meatballs

2 lbs. ground chuck
1/2 lb. ground pork (ground turkey works, too, as does ground chicken…)
2 cups Italian flavored bread crumbs
4 eggs
1 cup of milk
1 cup of fresh parsley, chopped (or–I often use 1/4 cup of dried parsley)
1/2 cup grated cheese–our favorite is a romano/parmesan blend
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 garlic cloves, chopped fine
1 minced onion
***Optional: 1/2 cup pine nuts

Mix all ingredients; let stand for 1/2 hour.

Shape into meatballs.

Fry gently (to brown), or bake on a cookie sheet at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

Add cooked meatballs to sauce and simmer.

Snow Day

Snow day essentials

At the very end of our meeting, just as 5:00 tolled its happy “Go home!” peal, Shelley got a text from a student.

“Hey!” said Shelley, “There’s a rumor the College is closed tomorrow.”

We packed up to go, and we all snorted variations of “Yeah, right.” And then we saw Kevin, the custodian, right outside the conference room door, and he confirmed the rumor.

“None of us are to report tomorrow,” he said.

Thursday: A snow day.

The can’t-shut-up-, blah-blah-blah,-no-filter, voice in my head shouted, “Oh NO!  Not a snow day!  There’s stuff to be done tomorrow!”

I thought about collecting apples and bananas for our breakfast sale on Friday, thought about following up on RSVP’s for next week’s event, thought about paperwork to do and calls to make, classes that would not be taught and meetings that wouldn’t meet…But then, slowly and thoughtfully, that other voice, the wise and patient one, spoke up.

It said, “Yo! Blah Blah! Shut UP!  It’s a SNOW day!”

Oh, man.  A snow day.

****

I grew up along the southern shores of Lake Erie, where on clear days, I could see the roof peaks and smokestacks of Hamilton, Ontario, poking up far over the horizon on The Canada Side. The Lake, when clean enough–there was a period back there in the late sixties, early seventies, when it was not advisable,–was our summer playground.

In the winter, lake effect snows crowned us ‘The Snow Belt.’

When snow threatened, the plows came out, the trucks dredged salt up and down the thoroughfares, and, for the most part, life went on.  Cars might move a little more cautiously (except for the occasional eejit; I hear an echo of my father’s voice from behind the steering wheel on a blustery day, as some adventurer passed him going 45 in a 30 mile zone.  “What a yi-yi,” he would say in disgust, but if the foolhardy speeder wound up in a ditch, Dad would be the first to stop and offer help.) The world might sound a little muffled, with a dense layer of snow to absorb harsh noise.  There might even be sculpted drifts four feet high on either side of the roadway.

As long as the snow was steady and gradual, the road crews controlled things, and schools and businesses met as usual.  But, at least once a winter, we could count on perfect timing: an after-midnight, rapid snowstorm, when six inches to a foot of snow fell quickly and thickly.  The road crews couldn’t keep up, and the schools would have to close.

There was no greater joy than waking up at 7:00 to find out I could crawl back into my still warm blankets and sleep until 10 AM.  Sometimes it would even mean a dreaded test would be postponed or an incomplete assignment had 24 more hours to put itself together.  And sometimes there was nothing outstanding, no unfinished work hanging ominously, like a bulging water balloon, over my recalcitrant head. Sometimes, it was just an unexpected gift–a day with no obligations.

*****

I feel like I have met and mastered snow days. Over twelve years in the Snow Belt school system, I must have accumulated, given the Blizzard, the Ice Storm, and other truly major weather events, a backlog of over three months of ‘inclement weather’ days. I even remember a couple of snow days at my college, to which I commuted, but which was mostly a residential (hence, seldom closed) campus.

I have had a lot of snow day practice.  I have come to realize that, while there has to be an individual spin and interpretation of each event by every lucky participant, there are four essential components of a really good snow day.

Here they are:

  • something freshly baked,
  • a wonderful cozy book to read,
  • an intrepid adventure, and
  • a hearty, stick to the ribs, supper.

Today, I am doing my part to stick with the program.

*****

Gone are the days, alas, when I can deftly sleep in till 10 AM, or 11 AM, or noon.  I’m up this morning at 7:30–which is 90 more minutes of Z’s than usual–to find Mark scuffing around in his long, snuggly bathrobe and woolly-lined slippers.  When he hears me get up, he calls the dog downstairs and lets her out–she will not budge until my feet hit the carpet.

I perform the requisite ablutions and come down. I look at him expectantly.

“Are you closed, too?” I ask.

“No,” he says, sadly.  “Just moving a little slow…”

He schleps down to the basement to iron a shirt, and I pour my first mug of steaming coffee, which that blessed man was nice enough to brew for me. As Mark trudges upstairs to dress, I suck down coffee, write my morning pages, and read the paper.  I do my daily newspaper word puzzles.  Mark comes back downstairs, sharply creased and lawyerly.

He reluctantly gathers things together, remotely starts his Impala, and finally accepts that he really has to go.  It’s not all bad–Mark and his nice colleagues will welcome the Chinese New Year at the Panda Buffet at lunch–but still, he has to brave the blustery weather and a thirty minute drive.  I hope there are no eejits or yi-yi’s on Route 16 today.

The house grows quiet. I tackle the freshly baked portion of the day first.

I’ve decided to try the Joy of Cooking recipe for chocolate chip cookies–a day to be daring.  (My favorite recipe is still from the Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, the one with the red-checked cover. Those are wonderfully, reliably, good cookies.  But–you never know what else could be out there, another recipe waiting to become the new favorite.  I keep searching.) I vow not to mess with the instructions; I will follow the recipe exactly as is to get an idea, a baseline.  If I like it, I can innovate in later baking adventures.

Cookies
I dig out the ingredients, get them all ready in their measuring cups and bowls–pretending I am like those cooks on television who walk into their immaculate kitchens and–Gosh! Look at all these tidy little containers of ingredients waiting for me!

I tug out my stack of cookie sheets (my son Jim did a wonderful job of Internet shopping this Christmas past; from somewhere he leveraged a stack of no stick, heavy duty cookie sheets.  Now I can put almost a whole double recipe of cookies out on sheets at once.  Today, I only have to re-use two trays to bake up the whole batch.)

The Joy recipe is from pre-WWII days; it says to grease the sheets, so–non-stick or no–I do.

The only tiny variation I make is to throw in the end of a bag of mini chocolate chips with the full bag of semi-sweet morsels; I love the added chocolatey texture those mini-guys give a cookie.  And I like the way these cookies come out, flat but not pancakey, crispy with a little chew. I will get the Zanghi boys to weigh in, but I’m thinking this might just be a new default recipe.

I think this, because I carefully, scientifically, and thoughtfully (in between pulling sheets from the oven, putting new sheets in, and sliding hot cookies onto the cooling tray) examine and analyze with the proper tools : a steaming mug o’ joe, a cozy murder mystery, and a saucer of fresh-from-the oven cookies.

I’m reading the latest in Sally Goldenbaum’s “Seaside Knitters Mystery” series, Murder in Merino.  The books have a group of lovely friends at their core, and I am able to watch their lives unfold. So I’ve seen Izzy go from unhappy big-city lawyer to small New England town yarn-shop owner, from single woman to newlywed,  and to, in this latest volume, new mom. There’s also the perky and aged town matriarch, Birdie, who has wealth and wisdom and a long trail of out-lived husbands; there’s tough little Cass, who, with her brother, runs a lobster-trapping enterprise; and there’s Nell.  Nell’s like the earth mama of the group. She and her husband Ben are wonderful together; it’s a true love match; and they host delicious Friday night suppers,–weather permitting, on their deck.

I can count on the Friday night dinners and the Thursday night knit-togethers in Goldenbaum’s books, and I can count on recipes and patterns at the end of each.  (This one has directions for a throw with interesting cable panels; I might just buy great hunks of soft black yarn and knit one for the family room.)  And I can count on the sad discovery of a dead body; this little New England town attracts outcasts and conflicts and murders. And of course, the knitters always feel compelled to figure out whodunnit.

Completely outlandish of course–who would stay in a town, no matter how beautiful, that was such a death magnet?  But these books are not supposed to mirror reality; the characters are comfortable old fictional friends; and it’s nice to think about sitting on a deck by the ocean, enjoying cool breezes after the heat of the day.  Temps here are plunging to minus eleven; the wind chill, says my weather person, will make it feel like minus thirty.

Oh, for a warm ocean breeze.

*****

I clean up as I go these days–my messy baking roots just a dim and distant memory. By the time the last tray of cookies have been spatula-ed onto the round tray where I spread them to cool, all I have left to wash is…the last tray.

I check my email and find that my community engagement meeting is still on.  Ah: my adventure awaits!  I head upstairs and put on my public mask and get out of my cozy, elastic-waisted, snowy day gear.  James gets up and rummages in the refrigerator, pulling out the perfect snow day breakfast for boyos: cold pizza.

I start the car, crank up the fan, and let it warm.  While it does, I take the crazy little dog out for a walk.  The only hat I can find is Mark’s good Buffalo Bills toque; that pops off my clean hair uselessly, so I wrap my head in my long, scrap-knitted scarf, and Greta and I head down the drive.

One would think animals have that sense of--Ooooh, it’s really cold; I’ll just take care of business and trot right back inside.  But no. Greta wants to sniff and explore, to meander and wonder.  She finds deep deer tracks splashing through the snow.  She must put her slender snout in each one and snort me a report.

My cheeks start to feel petrified, so, since she has admirably performed her noble functions, I tug the dog back to a warm house and a chunk o’ wiener  treat.  I worry about those unprotected little paws in sub-zero snow.

The car is warm; the art museum where we meet just far enough away to justify driving.  Most of the team is there; we glow with intrepidation–Here we are, while the rest of the world shivers in their warm houses: we, –yes, we,–have braved the elements! Laine, the vibrant museum director, provides hot drinks and a little nosh, and we efficiently put our budget and our schedule together.  Huh. We who have mastered the arctic temps can easily handle a little bit of event planning.

I swing by the grocery store on the way home, and buy all the necessary apples and bananas for tomorrow’s event.  Panic averted; we are set to offer breakfast treats.

The car is warm; Jim, at home, needs his outing, his adventure, too, so we head back out to the public library.  Committed to reading the books piled high on my shelves, I don’t even let myself LOOK at the new books.  I flip through periodicals while Jim scours the film shelves, roves through stacks of graphic novels.  With his reading and viewing supplies replenished, we head home.

*****

It is now time to put together the hearty meal.  I’m thinking soup; we’ve had pasta sauce and chili already this week; and I have broth made from roasted turkey bones, and I have, too, all the other necessaries to make a big pot of Italian wedding soup.  I cook up three links of Italian sausage–specially bought sausage from western New York. It has a nice hot hit of spice, and, sliced into coins, the sausage  flavors the soup a little more piquantly than just the little meatballs do.

The soup simmers; I take Murder in Merino to my reading chair and pull the afghan over me; as I drift off—plooommph!—the little dog jumps into my lap.  We take that finest thing–a cozy, mid-winter afternoon nap,– together.

Mark comes home full of the bitterly cold day’s exploits.  We slather butter onto fresh slices of French bread from Giacomo’s, our favorite deli-bakery; we make turkey, bacon, and cheddar paninis–Mark’s and mine have caramelized onions, too–and we eat the sandwiches with steaming bowls of soup.  Darkness falls; the house is warm and cozy.

Markie eating

Tomorrow will come roaring at me, but the purpose of a snow day, I have decided, is to give us renewed energy for that cold, hard reality.  Snow days remind me of the essential role that ‘Home’ plays in my life.  And they tell me that surprises are possible, that, in the midst of a difficult winter, and all along Life’s sometimes trouble-y trudges, there are splendid and unexpected possibilities in store.

I end the day with a steaming soak in a brimming tub, and then I take my murder mystery to bed.  I almost finish it before I drift off, renewed and ready for what the morrow, and the winter, have in store. And thankful.

Ahhhhhhhh. A snow day.