36 Hours

I had thirty six hours to get from here ...

Monday morning, 8:00 a.m.

... to here.

Appetizer, melon with prosciutto and marinated mozzarella cheese.

Main Course, Lasagna. If you haven't learned the secret to lasagna, listen up:   
Put. The. Noodles. In. Raw. 
Cross-my-heart, it works. Regular, store-bought, dried lasagna noodles. The kind you could shingle a roof with. NOT the no-boil abominations. You need to add some extra liquid in the form of sauce on the bottom and more than you typically would between the layers, but honestly, it works. And it's so much easier than cooking the noodles and then finding out for the last layer all you have are the little broken bits left because you dropped a couple on the floor when you scalded your hands getting the noodles out of the pot. Admit it, we've all been there. Some people bake the lasagna covered with foil, but I find a heavy dose of grated mozzarella on top provides a perfectly sufficient seal.

Desserts: Hazelnut mocha marble cheesecake.
(The cracks add charm. That's my story and I'm stick to it.)

Almond cookie Christmas tree. 
Funny story. Assuming the pound of butter called for in the recipe was sufficient, I did not butter the pans. This was a fatal mistake, ruining the entire batch which only came out of the pans in chunks. So I started over, but now with 8 egg whites on my hands (the recipe called for four egg yolks), what else could I do? Pistachio and chocolate mint meringues, of course. 

And yes, that's Bo Obama in the background. 
They're not calling and emailing me like they did this past fall, but clearly they can't quit me.

 

Oh, yeah. I didn't use the lemon.

Nailed it! Holiday greetings to all, and here's hoping we all have a healthy and happy 2013!

Holiday Newsletter, 2012

96 and 98 at Yellowstone

Greetings from our home to yours!

Oooh, boy, I'm late this year. Given the cookies that need baking, the ingredients that need assembing into our traditional Christmas lasagna dinner, the presents that need wrapping, and a house I might more easily bulldoze than clean before company for the holiday, I'm pretty sure this will be a January newsletter and not a December one. Alas.

This is not the part where I was going 85 ...
this is the part where I was going 3

Continuing my policy of "travel domestically and ignore the complaining", our summer vacation this year took us first to Yellowstone, then on to scenic Billings, Montana, where we met up with my sister for the Mt. Rushmore leg of our journey. Continuing another theme, the "teenagers, let me tell you a story about teenagers" theme, the highlight of Yellowstone for the boys was the day each, separately, got to stay alone in the hotel room, without having to see the lake, or the Continental Divide, or Old Faithful, or Mammoth Hot Springs, or a single bison or any of the myriad wonders boring nature stuff to be beheld within the country's first national park. Yes, that would be the hotel without a landline, or cell service, or wifi, or tv, or fm radio, or air conditioning. Honestly, it's hard not to take this stuff personally, but then I remember that my favorite part of the vacation was the 48 hours of no bickering and no poking while I toured alone with one while the other stayed at that hotel without a landline, cell service, or wifi ... although the long, straight, empty stretches of Rte. 90 with its 85 mph speed limit (aka, "a few miles below optimum speed" friendly advisory) came in a very close second. 

Nick Clifford, author and carver;
98; 96

At Mt. Rushmore we met Nick Clifford, one of the monument's original carvers. He worked on it from 1938-40. Yes, we bought the book. Autographed!

Agent 96, at 16, is midway through his high school junior year and has started looking at colleges. On the short list at the moment are Columbia, Brown, and Cornell. It looks like we may take a trip to Chicago this summer to see Northwestern, too. He's investigating journalism (heh, heh) as a major, but ask him this question again next week.

98, Graduation Night

Agent 98, almost 15, ended 8th grade with a bang this past June, getting his braces off the day before graduation; achieving a science award for straight "A"s in the subject; and earning the Amelia Chebator Award, which came with a small scholarship. He earned the award, in the words of the presenter, for being "always ready with a friendly smile, a kind word, or a caring deed." His favorite class this, his freshman year, is world history. He's decided to drop bowling for a while and this year has taken a spot on the debate team at school.

The animals continue to entertain, comfort and irritate ... occasionally somehow simultaneously. Zoet's unbridled enthusiasm keeps her ever-charming; Scruffy's growing purr, once barely audible is now almost a small bellow, I hope signalling his contentment; Momo's decided she's now an indoor cat and spends most of every day in a sunroom window, looking out. But not in a longing to experience it way ... more like an "I can't believe those silly cats forget there's a bed and food in here. Oh, snap, more for me" kind of way; and little Pixel divides his loyalties evenly among us all, leading each of the humans to believe he or she is his favorite. Clearly only Pix and I know the truth.

Gene Display inscription
DFCI, Boston, MA

We wish you the very best this holiday season
 and throughout the New Year!

Sometimes I Think I'll Never Learn ...

Agent 96 has long done lighting for the Dever Players at his school. The performances are well worth the price of admission if you're ever inclined to see a high school performance. This weekend are the final performances of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia.

Anyway, in his haste to thwart a lighting disaster only a lighting guy (read: not I) can articulate, he runs down the stairs in Bulger to the stage. Let's just say he took a shortcut from the bottom step to the stage and faceplanted on the front edge of said stage. This happened at 4pm or so and the school nurses were already gone for the weekend, so he shook it off and continued with his job and the show went off without a hitch.

I got the anticipated call at 9:30 that he and another tech kid who lives nearby were ready to be picked up, so I grabbed a jacket to throw over my pajamas (technically, Tom's paint-stained T-shirt and ratty sweatpants but let's not quibble), got in the car, and met the boys at the designated spot. He and his companion talk about the day, and tell me about the show, and, "Oh yeah, I fell."


"What do you mean, you fell?"

"I fell. I bumped my head and my knee, and my thumb hurts."

"You bumped your head? Did you tell a teacher? Why didn't you call me? Blah, blah, blah."

While I was driving I made him turn the dome light on to show me the bump on his head, and holy heck, he shows me the biggest lump I've ever seen in my life. And I'm old. And clumsy. Let's just say I've seen a lump or two in my day.  It was so big it literally cast a shadow on his forehead.

By now it's 10:15 and I'm at a loss as to what to do. As if I had an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, only in this case the characters were probably a DCS worker and me and the conversation went something like this: He's had a bump to to the head. He should probably see a doctor.  ... But I'm in my pajamas ...  He's had no problem in the 7-plus hours since he fell ... Do you not see the Mt. Everest growing on your son's forehead?

 I proclaim the bump to be at least urgent-care-worthy (96 disagreed but humored me), get the friend home, and get 96 to urgent care at MIT before it closes for the night. Dr. Mudrock (my new favorite name) thinks the bump is ER-worthy and sends us along to Mt. Auburn Hospital. By the time Mt. Auburn is done with us, having pronounced 96's bump not-CAT-scan-worthy, we're home a little after 1am. I am conveniently already in my pajamas, of course, so at least there's that.

 I was not happy when Zoet, having slept through and therefore not fully appreciating the excitement of the previous night, expected her business to be business as usual at 6am Saturday. Gah.

So, the play's final performance is tonight, Saturday, and the plan is to drop 96 back off at school at 2pm to prepare. So I grab a jacket to throw over ... Tom's tshirt and sweatpants. Yup. From last night. Last night, as in, that time I swore I'd never leave the house again in pj's. I drove like I had a driving instructor in the seat next to me. And at least this time I had brushed my teeth.

The Wildest Thing Just Happened

The wildest thing just happened at Shaw’s Supermarket in Medford this afternoon. Well, it actually started a couple of days ago …

Has that house changed!

I was running errands for my mom in Quincy, and Agent 96 was in the car with me. We were in Wollaston, and in no rush, so I took a detour down to 122 Taylor Street.

I digress, though. My story has nothing to do with Taylor Street.

Driving through the old neighborhood, I pointed out to 96 some different houses that I know he didn’t care one whit about, but it was conversation, and that’s better than no conversation. So I pointed out Auntie Jeanne’s friend Corinne’s house. Corinne got into wicked trouble -- like, grounded-for-the-rest-of-the-school-year-trouble -- for hitting me with a rock once. I don’t recall any of the details; but I’d place money on me being a pain in the neck to them, and I probably wailed, offended that she actually got me, and it's more than likely I thumbed my nose at her when she got in trouble for it.

Yeah, I’m still digressing, sorry. There was Carolyn’s house (hi, Carolyn!); and the house where I used to babysit; and there on Safford Street, I pointed out to 96 where my childhood friend, Linda Simpson, lived.  I probably hadn’t thought of this person in forty years. We were friends in junior high school; it might even have been elementary school.

So I’m my own grocery store, in Medford, earlier today, picking up the cat food I didn’t have in the house to feed the cats this morning. I load my 48 cans onto the conveyor belt and glance at the person in line in front of me.

It. Can’t. Be. 

I thought to myself that I must be imagining the resemblance, only because I had just spoken of her after so long. But this woman looked so much like her I literally did a double take. Before she left the register, I had to ask. “Your first name wouldn’t be ‘Linda’ by any chance, would it?” I asked, with some hesitation and more than a dash of embarrassment. Surprised, she acknowledged that yes, indeed, she is one of us. “Simpson?” I continued. Her jaw dropped, and she replied, "It used to be ... but ..." and I identified myself to her. I'm pretty sure I saw a flash of worry across her face when I then blurted out, “...and I just drove by your house the other day!” But I was quick to explain my story, and I don’t think any TROs will be forthcoming.

But holy heck, really, that was some wild thing that happened at Shaws’s today!

What's Wrong With This Picture?

What's wrong with this picture?

If you said, "Oh, Linda, such a nice box window. Too bad you have to keep the rubbish barrel up there so the dog doesn't get into it and pull out all the kleenexes and rip them into a thousand pieces spread them all over the house" I'd assume you have a dog.

If you said, "Oh, Linda, what an unusual blossom on that pathos plant. My pathos plant blooms never look like men's boxer shorts. You're so lucky" I'd assume you didn't have teenage boys.

If you said, "Gross! You mean they reached past the rubbish barrel, which is right there at eye level so they can't possibly miss it, to put the used paper towel on the window sill instead of in the barrel?" I'd thank you for the empathy and give you a prize.

...

If you told me my windows really need to be washed I'd hella punch you in the head. Just sayin'.

Guest Blogger, 98

On 98's last day of classes he and his classmates made presentations about the important people in their lives. This is 98's presentation, about his Uncle Jack.

A role model is someone you want to be like when you are older, someone you look up to.  My role model is my uncle, Jack Gillis, because he is intelligent, helpful and funny.  He is involved in both the community and in politics, and he is also straightforward and honest about expressing his opinions on just about everything. 

 

            Back when he was younger, Jack got good grades all through school.  He took several AP classes in high school; this is something I also hope to do all the next four years.  But Jack knew how to have fun, too.  He was a champion apple thrower in his neighborhood in Quincy where he and his five siblings regularly took part in heated rotten apple battles.  One thing I really admire about Jack is that he was very protective of his only older brother, Jim, who was developmentally delayed.  Even after Jim moved to a group home, Jack stayed close to him and watched out for him until he died a few years ago.  

Jack is an English professor at Fitchburg State University, but he does not always correct our grammatical errors when we are talking to him.  He loves to read Shakespeare and literary novels and he has written a book about politics and the scandals surrounding President Clinton.  I am proud of him for all that he has accomplished and I want some day to be as successful as he is . 

Jack loves all animals, especially turtles and my dog Zoet, who is a mixture of a Belgian breed and a Chihuahua..  He is borderline crazy about turtles.  He took really good care of the pet turtle he had as a kid and he has encouraged me to be a responsible pet owner.

I am glad to have my uncle as a role model.  He cares about me and is always happy to give me advice, but only if I seek it out.  He is very respectful of me and accepts me for who I am.  I am grateful that he is a part of my life and today I want to thank him for all that he has done for me.   

Going Places and Doing Stuff

As I mentioned previously,when we were in Denver last summer en route to the Grand Canyon we took a voluntary bump in exchange for $400 in United travel vouchers, each. So that was $400 for my sister, who used them to fly up to Boston last fall, and $400 each for 98, 96 and me.  I felt like I had won the lottery. If I recall correctly, we arrived at our destination within about an hour of our original arrival time, so, except for when I cried in the middle of the airport, it was a win all around.

So what do I do with the $1200 in vouchers I received? The vouchers that say right on them, "Cannot be replaced if lost or stolen". Yeah, those vouchers. I had big plans for those vouchers. Big plans indeed. Said plans involved girlfriends, and the Windy City, and, most importantly, no damn kids. So what do I do with them? I leave them at my sister's house. Stupid vouchers not growing legs and opposable thumbs in order to get themselves into my luggage like I expected them to.

Given their transferable status (anyone could bring them to United and book flights; the names on the vouchers did not have to match the names on the new tickets) my sister wisely carried them with her when she came up to Boston (using her vouchers)  a couple of months later. But somehow, despite seeing each other daily for her whole trip neither one of us thought to grab those vouchers. Those same stupid vouchers never once thought to holler out, "Hey girlfriend, don't forget us! We're in here waiting for you!" How rude.

So Jeanne left them at my mom's house, and I guess as a lesson to me now the vouchers decide to grow those legs and thumbs and hide in a folder with some other paperwork. No match for my Mom, though, the vouchers finally surface, literally 24 hours before I decide to buy the tickets and give up on ever finding them. Now I feel like I've won the lottery all over again.

Only now it's not "Chicago with girlfriends" anymore. It's omg-not-again vacation with the  kids again.

Hotels booked. Car reserved. Triptik ordered. Now we just have to listen to that incessant tick-tock tick-tock of the clock ticking down until ... "omg-not-again vacation with the kids" time.

And  for some peripherally related content ...

So while 96 and I are having a our annual "Where do you want to go on vacationWhy do we always have to go places and do stuff?" conversation, I am saddened to learn that I have unwittingly doomed my grandchildren to boring, lonely George Jetson summer vacations filled with boring flying cars, mind-controlled 3-d antigravity video game consoles, and invisibility cloaks while their friends travel to Norway or an asteroid or at least Fresno for summer vacation because their parents weren't forced, forced I tell 'ya, to travel all day, every day, day-after-day, all summer long ten days a year. I have roooooined travel for 96 and 98. Don't mess with me:  I'm mean that way.

Tea is for Trouble

I found myself one day at MIT, and I thought fondly of my friend, C, who had moved across the country with her family some years ago. She and I had had similar jobs, mine at Harvard, hers at MIT.  Our bosses were good friends and we easily became friends, too. "Gee," I thought to myself, "I wonder if C is on Facebook." I went home, had a look, and there she was. Soon enough we were in touch, caught up ever so briefly and, as they had moved back to Boston, we made a date to meet up at Bernard's in the Mall at Chestnut Hill for lunch and a formal catchup. Lunch was delicious, the company was wonderful and I had a marvelous afternoon. We walked a bit around the mall after lunch.

She needed to stop at Teavana, which I took as a sign. I had never been inside one, but with Ash Wednesday and Lent ahead of us, I thought of my looming sacrifice: for both my spiritual growth and liver, I had decided to give up diet soda. Obviously a familiar face at the store, she asked for two pounds (Two! Pounds!) of her preferred tea, and the clerk bundled up, I kid you not, a grocery-bag-sized package of tea for her. I had never seen so much tea in my life.

Even if I replaced one-for-one every diet soda I drank in the course of a day with a pot of tea, I wouldn't need that much tea in a year.  So instead I asked for a quarter pound of Earl Grey and a quarter pound of Himalayan Splendor (how could I resist such an evocative name?) along with an airtight tin for each. The tins were labelled, and I remember thinking that ten dollars was a lot of money for tea, but it was Chestnut Hill, after all: a pretty swanky mall; and this was for Lent (a thought which, if brought to its logical conclusion, would go something like this: "What? It's Lent -- I should deprive myself just because it's expensive?")

So my first mistake was not quite thinking my Lenten sacrifice all the way through.

I choked (holding the actual gasp in check) when the clerk rang me up and announced, "That will be $102, please." But I was with my old friend, whom I hadn't seen in years, and I didn't want to be the cheap one. It was only then that I looked at the sign a little more carefully: $10 per ounce. Oops. So I swallowed my good sense, handed over my credit card, and bought one-hundred-and-two-dollars' worth of tea that day.

To add insult to injury, when I got home I inspected the receipt and discovered they had charged me for FIVE ounces of the Earl Grey. Except I was so mad at myself for buying the stupid tea in the first place I couldn't muster up any more emotion to be mad at them for overcharging me.

In a year I have made exactly one cup with that poison tea. I tried to enjoy it, and it was indeed delicious tea. But one-hundred-and-two-dollars' worth of delish? Not. Even. Close.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RIP, Mr. T
19?? - 2012