Wisecracks

Summer brain

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Hot, sticky days fracture my attention span and–quite frankly–make me flat-out lazy.

I hate that feeling.

Today I decided that I absolutely MUST get something done. So that I don’t feel like a complete slug, I’m going to recount just about everything I did today.

I. Fed Miss Pup.
2. Walked Miss Pup.
3. Went to our farmer’s market with Hubby. Brought home those gorgeous peaches.
4, Made us grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwiches. The farmer’s market tomatoes were sweet as candy.
5. Registered my new Nespresso Citiz and ordered capsules.
6. Successfully completed two online jigsaw puzzles of French chateaux, a meagre consolation prize for not being on the banks of the Loire.
7. Continued reading a pre-publication copy of Booked by my friend Marina Rezor. Happy to report that it’s every bit as charming as Fowled, her debut novel released last year.
8. Dusted the living room tables and washed the ornamental glass.
9. Shelled limas for dinner.
10. Walked Miss Pup.
11. Fed Miss Pup.
12. Contemplated whether I should make peach pie or peach cobbler or both with those gorgeous peaches. They won’t be ripe enough till Sunday, so I’m off the hook for now.
13. Signed up for a Netflix free trial so we can watch any episodes of Republic of Doyle that weren’t available on Acorn and catch the new release, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society. I loved the book.
14. Wondered if I should iron. Maybe later.

So that’s it so far. Oh, yes, I made the bed. I always make the bed.

Here’s Miss Pup telling me to get off my duff.

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The weather outside is frightful

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April is more than half over, and while I haven’t kept an actual  log, it’s probably safe to say that we have had gray skies, cold rain, howling wind, and snow flurries most days this month.

Tradition has it that the last snow of the season is the signal to plant the onion sets. For roughly four weeks now, I have been looking out the window and dutifully reporting, “Ah, it’s the onion snow,”only to be the victim of déjà vu all over again, as the joke goes. Two 80-degree days last week provided momentary exhilaration but left us all with achy joints and sinus headaches when the temperature plummeted more to the low 40s overnight.

My daughter says that we should all stop complaining about the weather—that our whining has created bad juju, only making things worse. January and February are supposed to be cold, but it’s not supposed to be snowing and below freezing here in the Mid-Atlantic,  in the third week of April, when the daffodils and cherry trees are in full bloom, the willows are yellow-green, and the maple trees are about to leaf out.

Earlier today, driving through a snow shower, Hubby said, “This feels like December.”

Hallmark Christmas movie, anyone?

Open concept

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If you’re anything like me, you fairly gag at the monotonous “one script is all” banter that occurs on House Hunters and all of its variations:

“It’s a good size.”
“I love the granite counter tops.”
“It’s pretty small for a master.” (What would you expect in a house built in 1920, folks?)
“This would fit my furniture.” (One of the most offensive and awkward misconstructions I have ever heard. The furniture fits into the room, House Hunters, not vice versa.)
“I could see myself sitting here, having coffee.”
“This would be great for entertaining.”
“I wanted open concept.” 

It’s the last that’s on my mind right now, as I sit here surrounded by a pre-holiday mess. “Open concept” is an invention of the last 30 years. There was virtually no “open concept” until roughly the last decade of the 20th Century. The point was to HIDE the mess in the kitchen. And for the cook to be able to concentrate while making the soufflé or Beef Wellington—or tuna noodle casserole, for that matter—without the distractions of a blaring television or bickering siblings.

Now, everyone on House Hunters, and, apparently, everywhere else, prefers not to be isolated from the rest of the household while working in the kitchen. That’s a nice idea in theory; it’s true that an open concept living area allows you to keep an eye on the kids, participate in family discussions, and enjoy your guests. But unless you are one of those people who thinks the only real dream kitchen is an unused one,  an “open concept” living area also means a mess for all to see. And while the perfume of bread in the oven may be pleasant and comforting, it is not necessarily pleasant or comforting to get a whiff of the sausage and peppers—or worse, fish—that you made for dinner when you’ve settled down for the evening in the den. Trust me—you can’t open a window when it’s 20 degrees, and the fan on full force and the candles don’t always do the trick.

I like living on one floor. I really do. And I love my house. But do not expect to see kitchen counters cleared of clutter and punctuated with fascinating decorative items à la Joanna Gaines (of whom, incidentally, I’m a committed fan). That’s fine for people who don’t really cook in a big way. And since Christmas is an especially messy time of year, you will at any given time this week find, in our lovely little home, not only a floury mess in the kitchen, but also a tangle of gift wrapping in progress on the dining room table—wide open to all who cross the threshold. Some time between now and Christmas Eve, all will be put in order. But until then, let’s just say we have that “lived in” look, right out there in the open.

PS That’s Adriana Trigiani’s delightful new edition of Cooking with My Sisters in the photo above.. The stories are wonderful, as you would expect.

‘You’ll shoot your eye out!’

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Before you read this, please note:
1) The following is NOT about my husband; but, just as in reading a great work of literature or studying a famous painting, you are free to draw whatever conclusions you like.
2) It may sound “sexist.” It is.

A hospital stay can really knock it out of you even when you’re not the patient. Running back and forth to the hospital is in itself exhausting even without the associated stress. When you get home, you still have to walk the dog, put the trash out, go to the store, and—worse case scenario–water the lawn or shovel the snow, depending on the time of year. All you want to do is sleep, but you are wide-eyed at 2 AM, watching Frazier reruns. You seek distraction in oddly considered chores. All things considered, however, this is not the best time to sharpen your knives or climb a ladder to dust the top of the refrigerator. No household needs two recovering patients.

You think you will be so much better off when your patient is discharged, but going home is even more challenging if your patient is a male.

You’ve seen those cartoons of the “ER for men with colds” circulating on Facebook. Annoying though a whiner may be, you are actually in more trouble if your patient is one of those stalwart soldier types. If you’ve twisted your face in chagrin to scream, “WHY ARE YOU LIFTING THAT?” to a husband recovering from hernia surgery, you will understand why I’ve adopted that priceless line from A Christmas Story, borrowed for the title of this post, as my own code for, “What are you, nuts?” Sometimes, it even works.

You may be accused of sounding like a broken record (does anyone under 50 even know what that is?) or being a shrew, nag, or know-it-all. If he’s too polite and considerate to say any of those things (which the men in my life, fortunately, have always been), you will still see that sentiment very clearly written across his face. If you firmly believe you are always right in such circumstances, you are.

The behavior I’m describing has nothing to do with how smart they are; in fact, the smarter they are, the worse they are at applying common sense to situations involving their own well-being. They may tell you they just want to feel normal again, which I agree is understandable, or—much worse—they still think they can do everything they did at 17. Sadly, the restoration of health after illness or injury does not include time travel.

Fighting this battle does wear you down. After all, you are watching someone do exactly what sound reason and people who know better have said he shouldn’t do. As a result, you imagine one worst-case scenario after another—for example, checking repeatedly to see if he’s still alive when he falls asleep in the middle of The Ballad of Josie Wales. (Clue: If he falls asleep, it’s probably because he’s seen it 75 times.)

The only possibility of an end to this frustration is that at some point in the far distant future, your husband, father, or any other recuperating male in your care, may turn to you and say, “You were right.” And to a woman who knew she was right all along, that’s almost—mind you, I said almost—as good as jewelry.

Photo: One of the hospitals in our area. Sadly, even the Fourth of July dress can’t compensate for the fact that it looks like a computer card.