Momo's a Celtics Fan!

We were leading until I snapped this picture.

No Birthday Cake? You Say That Like It’s A Bad Thing

It's my birthday, and you can be sure I brought the boys out yesterday to buy a present AND a card. Gift and card notwithstanding, I'm also enforcing the standard we-forgot-to-get-you-a-gift gift: no bickering for 24 hours. By golly, I'll be queen for the day! But I think I’ll skip the birthday cake this year and go with one of my favorite cookies instead.

I have previously mentioned that I am programmed not to follow recipes to the letter. This particular cookie is a family favorite that I invented one day when I was out of peanut butter, but had hazelnuts in the freezer (far stranger things than this happened when we lived 2400 miles from the nearest grocery chain.)

Kwajalein photo courtesy Sue Rosoff Photography.

HAZELNUT CYCLOPS COOKIES

1 ¼ c all purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
¼ tsp salt
1 c toasted, blanched and cooled hazelnuts
¼ c granulated sugar
½ c butter
½ c brown sugar
½ tsp vanilla
1 egg
Coarse brown sugar (for dipping)
Guittard Bittersweet Onyx Wafers (or Hershey Kisses)


Sift together the flour, baking soda and salt in a large mixing bowl and set aside.

Grind the cooled hazelnuts and granulated sugar in a food processor until very fine. Add the butter, brown sugar, vanilla and egg and continue processing until very smooth.

Pour the hazelnut mixture into the flour and stir together until well blended. Use a wooden spoon instead of a mixer to prevent overmixing, which will make the cookies tough.

Wrap the dough in plastic and chill well, or freeze until ready to use. (If freezing, thaw in the refrigerator before shaping).

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Shape the dough into 1” balls, dip into the coarse brown sugar and place about 2” apart on a cookie sheet. Bake 10 to 12 minutes until slightly browned. While the cookies are still hot and on the cookie sheet, press a Bittersweet Onyx chocolate disk (or a Hershey Kiss) into the center of each. Let the cookies set about 5 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack to cool completely.

Note: To toast the hazelnuts, spread them in a single layer on a heavy skillet over medium heat, stirring often, until the oils begin to release and the nuts begin to lightly brown. Alton Brown says if you can smell the nuts toasting you’ve overdone them, but I usually toast them until they are fragrant. Cool the nuts completely before grinding.

Variations:

• Mix 12 ounces of chocolate chips into the dough before wrapping and chilling, and skip the chocolate disk at the end. 
• Skip the chocolate altogether and mix about a cup of coarsely chopped hazelnuts into the dough before wrapping and chilling. 

And in case you're wondering, no, I didn't follow the recipe exactly. I didn't chill the dough.

C Stands for Cool, Calm and Collected

This is the first time I've embedded a video, so let's see if it works.

It was early morning one school day, and I was pouring juice or milk (okay, soda) for David for breakfast, to drink with his eggs or cereal (okay, cookies) when I dropped the glass, shattering it on the ceramic tile kitchen floor, inches from C. He didn't move from his favorite spot next to the heating vent, but I noticed a lot of tiny shards of glass in his fur. So what was I supposed to do?

I got out the vacuum, and the rest is now, officially, history.

What's for Supper?

If you know me, you know I know my way around a kitchen. So what the heck happened in my kitchen today?

I had some ears of corn on the counter unshucked from the holiday barbecue, and thought struck to make corn fritters for dinner. Yes, I know they're supposed to be a side dish, not a meal; but I get these urges sometimes, and corn fritters just seemed so right. That little voice inside my head made it sound like such a good idea. And why waste all that space with protein and dietary fiber and vitamins when I can fill it all up with fritters?

So I opened Joy, and checked the googles, and found a couple of recipes, which of course I couldn't follow to the letter because I am incapable of following a recipe to the letter. I had the bright idea to coat my fritters in seasoned panko. I still think that's a winner of an idea, but now I'll never know.

Let me explain, in my most unscientific voice, exactly how popcorn works. The water inside the kernel is heated to vapor, expands, and then, BOOM, explosion, and voila, you have popcorn.

Now, imagine that same scenario, batter-dipped and in 2 inches of 375° degree peanut oil.

Then imagine cereal for supper.

Serendipity

Meet the newest Gentile, Momo. When one cat crosses the Rainbow Bridge on a Thursday, and the following Monday you heed a call about a kitten that’s about to be returned to the shelter because the new owner is hopelessly allergic, how can you call it anything but serendipity? How could we just up and adopt a new kitten so quickly? Let me tell you, it was easy. Mostly white with grayish markings at the top of her head, rump and tail, she is a dirty white snowball of boundless energy, enthusiastically trying to befriend her feline housemates, but sadly rebuffed at every turn. Not so with the humans. She takes turns sleeping with all of us: a few hours with 98, then on to 96’s room, settling in with me by the time I turn out the lights. I try to keep her away from the other cats' favorite spots, but she has taken a liking to Pixel’s bed by the window and Ada’s towel on the couch. Heaven help her the first time she jumps up into the kitchen box window, the one with the shelf I specifically cleared off so the cats could view the backyard unimpeded by pottery and spices. Pix will go ballistic.

Ada, as expected, hisses at every encounter. Scruffy is more curious than the others, tentatively sniffing, and even allowing Momo to share the dinner plate with him. Pixel runs, terrified by the tornado-vortex-like nature of Momo’s friendly advances, but even he is slowly coming around. I walked into my bedroom today and they were both on the bed. In opposite corners, they could not have been further from each other and still both have been been on the bed, but there they were, on the bed “together”.

Everything's a toy when you're a kitten: anything tied to a doorknob, anything that makes noise ... any bit of paper or a hairband or a dust bunny or an ant on the floor is there for the entertainment - or nutrition - or friendship - of our little Momo. We thought about renaming her after a comet, but Momo suits her, so a momo she is, and a momo she shall stay. 

I hope Momo's first human companion is feeling better, and that her allergies are subsiding. And I hope she knows how much we already love her little peach.

RIP, C

If I’m in your Facebook newsfeed, you already know that we lost C recently. He’d been on the decline for many months, and while I didn’t want him to suffer (he didn’t), I mostly just didn’t want C to die before Tom did. They were great friends, Tom and C, and I didn’t want Tom to endure that loss. So we did what we could and we did what we had to: we brought C to the vet when he had the symptoms of his recurrent UTI (he always had a UTI, and you’re welcome for me not explaining in excruciating detail why he was so prone to them) … We brought him to the vet when we noticed maggots falling out of a small wound on his backside … We brought him most recently for an overgrown claw. Since he was slowing down, he simply wasn’t wearing down his claws, and it had grown full circle, impaling itself in the pad below it. It didn’t seem to cause any pain, and we wouldn’t even have realized anything was wrong except that David was playing with him on the bed and noticed it. Not even so much as a limp.

That vet appointment fixed the claw, but uncovered several other troubles: congestive heart failure and a pancreatic mass, for starters. We opted not to treat the mass, put him on Plavix ($50 for 7 pills, and that’s with the AAA discount –  and no, C didn't have health insurance) and some other heart meds and antibiotics, and commenced with another round of “hurry up and wait”. Dr. Zanotti didn’t have to say it when we had our scheduled follow up visit: I knew we were looking at days, maybe weeks; certainly not months. We would keep C’s days as pleasant as possible, and that meant a lot of American cheese and chicken scraps. Just a few hours after that appointment we noticed he was unable to walk, and brought him back to the vet. He had thrown a clot, not unexpectedly, and his suffering would soon begin. So while the decision was hard to make, we really had no choice. C had lived a long and happy life. He had eaten his share of treats, pee’d his way into the cellar floor hall of fame, and barfed with the best of them. He’ll be cremated and added to my little “collection”. And when the time is right, and the ground is dry, and the air is warm, we’ll take Tom’s ashes, and C’s, and Mr. Gibb’s, and Yeti’s, and Neko's, and those good friends will share a very pretty spot high in the Fells behind the house, watching the planes and stalking the birds.

We owe a sincere thanks to Stephen Zanotti, VMD,  and all the vets, techs, medical and support staff at Winchester Veterinary Group for everything they’ve done over the years to help us care for the pets we so dearly love, as well as all the animals that are lucky enough to cross their threshold.

In the beginning, there were frogs. Lots and lots of frogs.

Today would be our 16th daywemet-iversary. I like that word, and if it didn’t cost $325 to trademark it, I’d be totally there. Since I’m too cheap to spend the money – who knows what product or service I might invent that would need the trademark-protected "daywemetiversary" – I’ll just have to stick with a “first use” protection. And this post is the second time I’ve used the word, so there.


Of course, I neglect to mention that if I’d had my way, Tom and I would never have met. I had heard from so many frogs with the personal ad my cat Neko had placed in Boston Magazine that I had officially thrown up my hands and was not going to follow up with any more responses. Tom’s letter was in the pile labeled “I Give Up!”

I don’t recall the exact moment I gave up on Neko’s ad. It might have been these beefcake shots.  If you responded to my ad with your application form to some random dating service I didn't follow up. Ditto if you couldn’t be bothered replying and simply sent me a copy of your own personal ad. If you had your own phone number that spelled something, and that something was creepy, I didn't respond. And if you invited me for coffie, I didn’t go.

If this was you, then I bet you can guess in what direction I swiftly walked. (But the guy did give me a run for my money in the category of "overuse of parentheses").

Some prisons did me the favor of telling me your letter was mailed from an incarceration facility, even if you forgot to mention it. If you were on an extended vacation in the Adirondacks and your postmark was Ray Brook, NY, you were in prison, and I wasn't interested. Even if you were not incarcerated for long, you were actually incarcerated, and I actually wasn't interested. And yes, you might have been one of those wrongly convicted, but that little infraction was indeed a deterrent, and I didn't respond to you, either. And the creepy quotation marks in your post script only made me run a little faster. And even if your non-traditional incident wasn't wanton, I still wasn't going to date you. And when if your parole is granted, don’t hold your breath.

If your first question was about my weight, I wouldn't have gone out with you. And that was when I was 40 pounds lighter than I am today. Sometimes people don’t mention their build in their personal ads because, well, at $3.95 per word, maybe we think other things matter more?


So I gave up on the ad, and decided not to respond to any more responses. My friend Laura had other plans, though, and thought Tom’s letter sounded perfect. So perfect, in fact, that she nagged me daily: “Have you called him yet, Linda?” “When are you going to call him?” “Why won’t you call him? He sounds perfect for you, Linda.” She was getting so fed up with me she finally threatened to call him herself, posing as me. She really wanted me to meet this guy. And I was getting pretty fed up with her, too.

I truly only called Tom to shut Laura up. So I called during the day, when I knew he’d be at work, and left my name and number. He called and we met at the Bertucci’s in Central Square for pizza. How very fitting that just under two years later, Laura was my matron of honor.

To Catch a Bird ... or a Snake ... or a Vole ... Doesn't Matter, Really: Where's the Food?

C came home recently from a nearly weeklong hospital stay, and he's not doing very well. With seventeen years under his belt (Tom and I met when C and Ada were about a year old) I have taken a stroll down memory lane with him this week. What a lovely stroll it was.

I learned early in my relationship with Tom that the way to Tom's heart was through C's stomach. At nearly 20 pounds when I met him, C rarely met a treat he didn't like. On my way to Tom's I'd stop at the deli counter at the Purity Supreme and buy C one slice from the cold cuts section ... bologna one day, roast beef the next. The deli guy knew it was for my new boyfriend's cat, and never begrudged me his time, even though we both knew it was his smallest sale of the day. C, whom we considered a dog trapped in a cat's body, greeted me with enthusiam. Evil grin ... my plan is working! The only time he turned up his nose at my Friday night special was the one time I brought him a single jumbo shrimp. He wouldn't have anything to do with it. Neither would Ada, for that matter, or Mr. Gibbs. Tom had trained his minions well: Don't. Eat. The Fish.

C also liked to supervise household projects. Tom installed the box windows in the sunroom, and they were - are - lovely. Don't look too closely at the window seat, however, lest you notice the pawprints left in the wet polyurethane. They're still there, still visible, and not going anywhere anytime soon. Also in the house repair department was the time that C was so interested in house trim painting (we had a black-and-white cat for a while after that). Not satisfied with climbing the ladder to join Tom, he proceeded to climb up and over Tom on the ladder, positioning himself in the gutter - where he didn't quite fit but thought he had found the best seat in the house. It took an hour to get him down.

Even on his best days now, he never brings home a snake anymore: Ada was into chipmunk and bird inventory control, but C could never resist a garter snake; and I can't say I miss that particular aspect of sharing a house with a pet, or two, or six, but I hope that C continues to enjoy his daily constitutional, a few minutes of sunshine and fresh air, for a long time to come. Then, at the end of the day, that he'll climb the stairs to the second floor, and then climb the stairs up into the bed, so his still-bellowing purr can keep me awake. Enough with the peeing on the cellar floor, though, 'kay?

Free to Good Home

Nothing quite says "kids live here" like a bare spot in the backyard that can be seen from space. That said, there's also nothing quite like the squeal of kids playing in the pool on a summer afternoon. For two summers we set up a 15-foot-diameter above-ground pool that looks like this one (that's our pool, but those totally aren't the Gentiles). But now my kids tell me they're too old for it. What does that make me?

Gone are the days when water of any type attracted my kids like a magnet. Even though within the last week they came home from the woods and had to change out of wet clothes because they were jumping in the creek in back of the house, they're in that period of time when they are too old for something that grownups wish they could do. How many pictures do I have of my kids playing in puddles on Kwajalein? It's a rhetorical question, but let me tell you: a lot.

The pool sat unused in the shed all last summer, and I hate the thought of this perfectly fine thing sitting idle, not earning its keep, for another summer almost as much as I hate the thought of keeping the snowblower in the garage for one more summer because there's no room for it in the shed, what with the garage door being broken by the whitewater in the yard during the flood, but that's a story for another time.

So if you would like an above-ground pool for your very own for the very reasonable price of you-make-some-memories, let me know and we'll set up an exchange. Seriously. I want to get rid of the pool.

Two Months

April 7. It's been two months since Tom died. Today Boston will have the warmest temperatures it has seen since September 2009, and I used  the morning to throw some grass seed on some bare spots in the lawn and plant the peas I should have planted a week ago (they like it a little cool while they're germinating).

In every previous year, the day we started the garden was long and frantic. We would already have made at least a couple of trips to Home Depot for peat and manure and fertilizer and whatever else normally goes into the garden. Then on the first warm dry day, Tom would pull out the rototiller and turn the whole garden over and work all that stuff into the soil, and every year he would ignore my protests that we don't need to rototill every year. This year, I planted the peas without tilling first. Admittedly and not inconsequentially, I don't know how to turn the tiller on. Even if I did, I wouldn't have tilled this year, because the garden doesn't need it. But this year I don't have anyone to fight with about it.

Who would have thought I'd miss fighting with Tom? Tom and I both liked to have the last word in an argument, and God knows we argued often. I was clearly superior at getting that last muttered "harumph" in just as he was smugly turning to leave, thinking he had just had The Last Word. That just-under-the-wire harumph would always get a smile out of him. But then he'd go and rototill anyway.

Today I don't hear the rototiller or the table saw. Lights are left on, returnable cans collect in bags, waiting to be redeemed. Circulars are recycled, coupons unclipped. I watch the Daily Show, or Colbert,  or something science-y on Tivo, and I won't delete it, thinking, "Ooh, I have to save this for Tom".

And then I remember. His absence fills every corner of every room, and everywhere I look, Tom's not there.

Me, 2 Boys, 4 Cats, 1 Turtle, 1 Frog, No Dogs Yet

Geoffrey was a wee bit miffed that I didn’t mention his turtle in the title of my new blog, so this entry is dedicated to King Arthur, who joined our family just before Christmas. Geoff knew he wanted a turtle, so we went to Petsmart to have a look, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that the one he wanted was $109, and an appropriately-sized terrarium was another $119. I mentioned this to my friend Lynn, who suggested I look on Craigslist.


I had never been on Craigslist before, but I thought I’d give it a try. I looked in the Boston listings for “box turtle” … maybe even plain old “turtle” since I don’t think we had it narrowed down by species at that point. Sure enough, up pops ONE listing: a box turtle and container, with food and water dish, for $25 in Hamilton, MA. So I contacted the person who placed the ad, and after two or three emails back-and-forth we worked out that I would come to her house, since it was a rather cold December day and I didn’t want to expose the turtle to any more outside air than was necessary … but I made sure to mention that I’d have 3 teenage boys with me. (Might this be some murderous whackjob, trying to lure his next victim with the irresistible promise of a turtle and terrarium for $25? – remember, I was under a bit of stress at the time.) I still don’t quite get why it didn’t occur to her that we might have been some murderous whackjob gang, picking our prey based on their “for sale” ads on Craigslist. But it all worked out in the end, happily.

We gathered up a towel and small container so Geoff could hold the turtle in his lap, and piled into the car with Geoff’s friend John, and headed up to our rendezvous point. The seller, Sarah, was an architect whose grown kids were no longer interested in Lula the box turtle, and was thrilled that Lula would be going to a home with kids who would pay her the attention she deserved. And she wasn’t the least little bit offended when we changed Lula's name to King Arthur, rather arbitrarily changing his gender in the process. Sarah was making seasoned olives as Christmas gifts that day, and her kitchen smelled fantastic. She even sent the recipe along, so act surprised if you get lemony olives for Christmas next year.

Then we piled back into the car for the ride home, and it wasn’t until we got to our driveway that we realized that Geoff went the entire ride home with his seatbelt unbuckled.

So we are, officially: me, two boys, four cats, a turtle, a frog, and no dogs yet. And I haven’t actually considered what I’ll do if we ever find that loyal, smart, friendly dog who doesn’t smell when he’s wet and doesn’t ever poop. Will I have to change the name of the blog then?
 

Ready, Steady ...

It had been a long eighteen months, and absurd as it sounds, Tom’s death was sudden, and unexpected. I had read all the books, attended all the support groups, had the counseling, dragged my kids, quite literally kicking and screaming, into counseling. As prepared as I was, I wasn’t ready.

I would have told you I was ready, of course, and I would have believed it myself. I had a list of account numbers, and login id’s and passwords. I had a list of phone numbers, and email addresses. I had a wallet card of medications, and doctors names and addresses. I had a durable power of attorney and a medical proxy. We had talked about his wishes, and I was comfortable with his requests. I had a funeral home picked out: I wanted it nearby and convenient, but I didn’t want to drive by it every day and think to myself, “That was where Tom was …” It couldn’t be en route from our house to one of the kids’ friends’ houses, either, so they wouldn’t think, “That’s where Dad …” every time they visited that friend. So I very cleverly picked one on a side street in Medford. I was prepared. It was all under control.

I was not ready for the wheelchair, or the seizures, or the night nurse, or the falls, or the ambulance ride. I was not ready to sit in the living room until the kids were awake to tell them Daddy had died that Sunday morning.

I am not ready to make sauce, or lasagna, or meatballs. I am not ready to balance the checkbook, or pay the taxes, or fix the fence; but I do each one of these tasks as they come up, and it turns out some of them I do pretty well.

But I will never be ready for the silence I hear where his snore is supposed to be.