Wegman's Number 58

Tom had a long and passionate relationship with Wegmans going back long before I met him, back to his Cornell days. How many conversations did I feel excluded from, and maybe a little jealous of, when he and the Ithaca menfolk (Eric, Peter and Steve, I'm talking about you) waxed poetic (and endless) about Mistress Wegman. Cheeses not to be beat, an international section without peer; the cafe, the prepared foods, the liquor. The Chiavettas.

When Tom was offered the opportunity to recruit at Cornell for the Lab he jumped at it, and I jumped at the chance to tag along and finally meet her, face to face.  I was pregnant with 96  the first time we went.

Wegman's opened its newest store, number 58 (while the Customer Service Rep I chatted up explained that there are 70-something stores, she had no explanation for why the stores don't appear to be numbered sequentially),  in Northborough, MA a few weeks ago. I purposely stayed away that first week, recalling the chaos that was Wellington Circle when New England's first Krispy Kreme opened up there. The weeks went by and one thing or another kept getting in the way of my day trip out to Wegman's. Part of it might have been was gas prices, since the store is 50 miles from the house. Wegman's certainly won't be part of the regular Sunday morning circuit until the store planned for Burlington opens. But I had to go. I had to have a Wegman's.

Wasabi Cheddar. Tom would have
been all over that.

I finally got there this morning, and she was exactly as I remembered her. The cats will be eating Buju & Ziggie dry food for a while, and I'm guessing Pop Tarts from Wegman's taste just like Pop Tarts from Stop & Shop, but I bought some anyway. Because I heart Pop Tarts. And I heart Wegmans.

About half of the cheese department

And the cheeses! I've solved one Thanksgiving question: We'll be serving cheese and crackers for an appetizer. Including a 5-year-aged smoked gouda, which has a consistency more like aged parm than the brown-wrapped "gouda processed cheese product" I usually pick up for mac & cheese, along with a soft sottocenere cheese which I first thought was coated with some kind of grey moldy layer from the aging, but no, it's actually ash. The cheese is matured in "a spicy ash". I'll let you know ...

It was bittersweet, being in that Wegman's without Tom. He would have loved it, and we likely would have left the store with a far greater credit card charge than I did, but I put in a good effort. I resisted the urge to drop $180 for the Wegman's Lionel train set.

The Indian section in International Foods

Tom probably would have liked the international foods section the best.  Inside one of the shelving units in the international foods sections, underneath the Indian foods, I tucked one of his laminated memorial cards. Tom loved food, of course. All food. Any food. Especially Indian food. It's not my favorite cuisine, but I can't smell Indian spicing without thinking of Tom. So until it gets discovered during the next remodel of this brand new store he'll be among his favorite Pataks, and curries, and naan. I added a little note to the back of the card so that if someone does find it I hope they put it back where it belongs. Because for Tom, I think heaven might be a giant Wegmans.

_____

Small Victories

I don't recall the last time Tom changed the propane tank on the gas grill, but I do specifically recall coercing a visitor to change it for me once, probably in the fall of 2009. We are big time grillers, and Tom used to grill at least once or twice a week, year round. But I used this last propane tank judiciously, often lighting only the first of the three burners, which was usually enough heat for my purposes.  That tank of propane lasted me until just after Christmas 2010. I know this because I was at a New Year's Day open house held by some dear friends and asked the Mister for a quick propane tank changing tutorial while he was grillmastering his wicked awesome steak tips. He made it seem simple enough.

My grill spent the season under that hump on the right

But I am embarrassed to tell you how terrified I am of propane tanks. Those suckers can explode, you know, and they probably do on a daily basis even though I've never actually heard of it happening (propane tank industry lobbyists probably paid to squelch any negative press), nor do I know anyone who knows anyone who it happened to.  When Tom and I would refill the tanks at BJ's he'd have me in the front passenger seat with the tank (sometimes two of them) at my feet.  I would be wearing my worst backseat driver hat, heart in my throat, begging Tom, "Hey, watch out for that pothole;" or instructing, "Do you see that car? There? That car there?" (said vehicle likely being a half-mile away, down a side street, going in the opposite direction), and the ever-helpful, "For the love of God, slow down!"

Between my fear of driving with the propane tank in the car, the sixteen feet of snow that covered the grill for much of the last three months, and my absolute certainty of the explosion that would ensue once I connected the tank and lit the grill, well, I just never got around to changing the tank.

I had a bit of a quandary, though: I can't quite ask the neighbor, "Hey, Mister, would you please come to my house and connect my propane tank and ignite it for me, so that I am not the one harmed during the inevitable explosion.  Whenever it's convenient, thanks."  I mean, he has a wife and kids, and they live just a few houses away.  They'd probably hear the explosion and blame me.

With 96 off at a school event this Saturday afternoon,  98 was home with me doing a chores. I called him down, and quite nonchalantly explained that when you install a new propane tank and light it the first time, it's usually a good idea to have someone else around.  You know, like when someone spots you in gym class.  I didn't say anything about explosions or fireballs, and I was very calm, indeed. But 98 says, "Hmmm, that sounds pretty dangerous. You're not going to make it explode are you?" My lips said, "Of course not."  (Did I just see a flicker of disappointment on 98's face?)


My eyebrow furrow might have sent a different message:  Oh, 98, you have no idea how scared of an explosion I am.  I still don't have all my paperwork taken care of, so I really don't want to die in a fireball today. But man, I  really want that steak I've been marinating since yesterday.

No. Instead I continued, "It's just a good habit to get into.  So come outside with me, okay?"  No suggestion to take the phone with him and pre-dial 911.  No precautionary unwinding of the garden hose. Not even so much as a reminder that the fire extinguisher is inside the cellar door. We just we head outside with a wrench to free up the old tank and tighten the new one, and a package of fireplace matches so that once I have opened the burner valve I can drop in the wooden match and at least step back.


Old tank, check. New tank, check. Valve, burner, match. Check, check, check.  Then the best sound I'd heard in three months, the tiniest little whoosh as the flame kicked on.  Fingers, lips, eyebrows: check, check, check.


A few minutes to preheat and that other sound that was music to these ears: the sizzle of the steak hitting the grill.

Oh, medium rare ribeye steaks from the butcher shop at Hilltop Steak House, come to mama!

January 17, 2011

I have struggled with how to recognize today: what would have been, and what should have been, Tom's 58th birthday.  So I thought I'd share some more moments. In no particular order:

This was Agent 96's first cous cous dinner. About a half-step lower on the spectrum than a Thanksgiving feast, cous cous dinners were a ritual at our home. In fact, on Kwaj we once had a cous cous feast instead of a Thanksgiving turkey dinner. Tom loved himself some Moroccan food. Tom loved himself food, and sharing it with his friends.

We had to put Neko to sleep in 1998, when she was 18 years old. I knew we'd be going to the vet later this day, and my heart knew Tom wouldn't get to hold her again. Poor little Neko looks comfortable in this photo, but she could barely stand, and could no longer walk. A few months before she died, Neko, who had taken to hanging out with Tom in the office (where Tom had jury-rigged a running water fountain out of a plastic box, an aquarium pump, and tubing) and increasingly tired of walking up and down two flights of stairs to the litter box, had taught herself to use the toilet. We were alone in the house one day, just Tom, sleeping 96, and I, when from the kitchen we heard someone using the bathroom upstairs. We looked at each other, and remarked upon it, but it wasn't until days later that we actually saw that little kitty sitting up there, assuming the position.






Oh, how we loved our tropical Christmases. And what better way to spend Christmas Eve than teaching your 4- and 5-year-olds how to drive? 

 This might be my actual, official wedding portrait ...

  ... but here, my friend Laura caught Tom speaking his vows  -- proof!  This is my favorite wedding photo.  In our church service a few months later, Fr. Hehir, unhappy that we used the same vows, tacked on to the end that God had put Tom in charge of family security, and put me in charge of the household. So whenever I'd ask Tom to take out the rubbish, he had to do it  ... because God said so!

About two weeks before we pcs'd from  Kwaj in 2002, Tom and I spent a long weekend in Pohnpei, FSM, where we visited Nan Madol. We met our friends Mooch and TOO (short for "The Other One") who let us stay in their thatched hut at The Village as long as we fed them.  I don't remember which is which, but I know they were fatter when we left than when we got there.

Our first visit to the Big Island, 1999.   Don't you love  96 & 98 all matchy-matchy like that?  I'd still put them in matching t-shirts if I could! This was moments before the dotcom bubble burst, and if we had had our checkbook with us the day we stepped off the plane on that vacation we would own a little piece of paradise today. And we would never have left.

Lake Mooselookmeguntic, Oquossoc, Maine. Tom had been going there with friends for years before we met, and I was quite honored the first time he invited me along. We went once with the kids in the early days, but were so mortified by "the great magic marker debacle of '99" that we were afraid to make reservations again until the summer of 2006. Ever wonder what to do if you find an unattended black magic marker?  Stop.  Don't touch.  Leave the area.  Tell an adult.

I don't know which was more of a chick magnet: the cool Daytona, or Maxwell. They're both pretty hot. Hmmmm ... all three of them were pretty hot, actually!

I treasure every moment, every memory.  The lifetime of moments that make the life of a man.