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“Now and then it’s good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.”

December 13, 2011

The morning was lovely. I had to be up and about early, early for me, not the rest of the world, and be in Hyannis by nine. When I went outside to leave, my windshield was covered in frost. The air was wonderfully crisp the way a winter morning should be. It wasn’t cold, but there was a chill in the air left over from the nighttime. The sun was just gearing up to warm the day. It’s already 45°.

After my appointment, I did a bit of last-minute shopping. I needed a few small gifts for Colorado as I’m sending their packages tomorrow. Tonight I’ll wrap what I bought then off the boxes will go wending their way westward. I stopped at a couple of more places before I came home, but I saved one for later so Gracie can come for the ride.

I always send Christmas cards. For me, they are a way of staying in touch and of telling people you’re thinking of them during this wonderful season. I buy special cards for my dearest friends and for my sisters. The other cards I send are also special but in their own way as they are cards illustrated by Edward Gorey. They are amazing drawings far different from the usual cards filled with snowmen, holly or trees. The Gorey cards always make me smile, and I think of them as my Christmas trademark.

My mother had a green metal file box with snowflakes all over it. Inside were index cards alphabetically tabbed and other individual cards were filed by name. On each card my mother kept track of the two columns below the name: one was labeled sent and the other received. In those days we got so many cards the mailman came twice, once in the morning and later in the afternoon. We’d take turns opening the cards, and once in a while a card would come for each of us. We were thrilled. My mother would sometimes put those cards in the middle of the tree. They served as decorations and also hid some of the bare spots. The rest of the cards were taped around the inside doorways and around the picture window.

Some of my friends still send cards but it is a dying tradition. I’m saddened by that. I love going to the mailbox and finding the red or green envelopes and knowing I have some cards to open. I  still have a couple from when I was a kid. Those go in the middle of the tree even if there isn’t a bare spot.

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“His eyes–how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!”

November 22, 2011

Last night was cold, no way getting around it. It was in the mid-30’s, and that sounds an awful lot like winter to me. I watched the Patriots’ game. I could see their breath, and Brady was wearing his hand warmer, more wintry signs. I figured they must be playing somewhere like Green Bay, but no, it was Foxboro.

Today is on and off sunny and for the first time in days there is no wind. My usually quiet street is filled with the sounds of leaf blowers as yards are being cleaned. I heard the sound when I woke up this morning, and it still continues but from another part of the neighborhood.

I did some Christmas shopping this morning in the warmth of my house without a crowd. My fingers did all the work. I’ve been shopping the last couple of days whittling my list, and I haven’t even set foot in a store.

I don’t remember my parents carrying bags or even going Christmas shopping. We were Santa believers so my parents must have hidden stuff in the trunk until we were all in bed then they’d carry the toys inside and stash them in the attic. When I was older, they woke me up when they were bringing stuff down from the attic so I knew that had been a hiding place. Our attic had hidden stairs. You had to take off the cover in the ceiling then pull down the stairs, and, because most of the attic was unfinished, it wasn’t a place we ever explored so it was a perfect hiding spot for Santa toys. I stayed awake a long while that Christmas Eve and even sneaked down the stairs to watch my parents put out the gifts. We were an unwrapped Santa gift family so that year I watched as the toys were being put under and around the tree. My dad would hand something to my mother who would then artistically place it in the right spot. We all knew our spots. They never changed from year to year.

I must have moved and creaked the stairs because my parents finally heard me and sent me back to bed. I know I fell asleep right away, and I know the morning was quick to come.

That year I wasn’t disappointed at having seen a few of my gifts but rather I felt part of a conspiracy of wonder and joy, of seeing my Santas do their magic.

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“Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?

November 7, 2011

The day is so beautiful it invites me outside so when I finish here I’ll take Gracie and out we’ll go. I do have a few stops I need to make but Gracie won’t mind. Any excuse for a car ride is just fine with her.

The big event for the day is laundry. The entire week looks pretty much the same except for a couple of meetings, both on the same day. That’s the way it is sometimes. Nothing happens then everything happens at once.

November afternoons seem to lend themselves to books, and I have a few new ones I haven’t yet read. I started one yesterday, a Baldacci, and, after my errands, I think I’ll brew a pot of coffee, grab some brie and crackers for lunch, get comfy on the couch and read. It doesn’t take much to make me content.

The one tree in my yard which had yellow leaves is now just naked branches. I saw the leaves fall, and it made me a little sad to lose even that tiny bit of color. I think I’ll wear a red shirt today.

This small bit has taken me all morning to finish. I found myelf bereft of my muse so I allowed myself to get sidetracked. I had another cup of coffee and watched a program I had DVR’ed. Today is just one of those days.

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“Why are our days numbered and not, say, lettered?

November 7, 2011

The day is so beautiful it invites me outside so when I finish here I’ll take Gracie and out we’ll go. I do have a few stops I need to make but Gracie won’t mind. Any excuse for a car ride is just fine with her.

The big event for the day is laundry. The entire week looks pretty much the same except for a couple of meetings, both on the same day. That’s the way it is sometimes. Nothing happens then everything happens at once.

November afternoons seem to lend themselves to books, and I have a few new ones I haven’t yet read. I started one yesterday, a Baldacci, and, after my errands, I think I’ll brew a pot of coffee, grab some brie and crackers for lunch, get comfy on the couch and read. It doesn’t take much to make me content.

The one tree in my yard which had yellow leaves is now just naked branches. I saw the leaves fall, and it made me a little sad to lose even that tiny bit of color. I think I’ll wear a red shirt today.

This small bit has taken me all morning to finish. I found myelf bereft of my muse so I allowed myself to get sidetracked. I had another cup of coffee and watched a program I had DVR’ed. Today is just one of those days.

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“A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule.”

May 22, 2011

Most of my flowers and all of my herbs are now planted. Only the deck flowers are still in their pots waiting for a more permanent home. After everything was planted yesterday, I saw I still need more herbs for the garden, some for the window boxes, geraniums for the deck pots and more flowers for the front. After my dump run today, I’ll go shopping.

The weatherman was right: still no sun. The rain came last night which was good for everything I’d planted. The sky is gray and the day is still damp. The leaves on the oak tree are getting bigger and darker. Maybe they sense summer coming better than I can.

When I was little, I often presented my mother with a bouquet of yellow dandelions. She was always thrilled and made a big deal of putting them in a glass of water then on the table or the windowsill. She made me feel as if I had given her the most beautiful flowers anyone had ever seen. I remember buttercups and holding one under my friend’s chin to see if she liked butter. If she did, the yellow was reflected on her. I remember blowing dandelion puffs. The field below my house was filled with them, and we’d run through, grab a few, blow and let the wind take them. They always seemed to waft gently.

I don’t remember lots of flower gardens in my neighborhood. Most people, like my father, planted a few flowers in front and none in the backyards which were filled with clotheslines and a wide hill of grass stretched across the back of where all our houses stood. Lawns were the big thing. There wasn’t an acknowledged competition, but it existed none the less. My father mowed a certain way. Every Saturday you could hear the click clack of his mower as he walked across the lawn in the particular pattern he favored. None of us ever mowed. We didn’t do it right. We’d cut the grass, but the pattern was always wrong. My father had a beautiful lawn, but he was never the winner. Mrs. Burns always was.

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“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

April 11, 2011

The day is cloudy, and it rained during the night. The air still feels damp, but it’s not a bone chilling damp, not a winter damp. The early morning was foggy. It is already 51°. The sun would be nice, but I’ll take a day in the 50’s even without it.

The morning has been lazy. I woke up early but took my time with my coffee and the papers. Gracie decided to fall asleep with her head on my lap, and I just sat there patting her for the longest time. Finally I roused myself for more coffee and then started some laundry. I have errands later including shopping at the dreaded grocery store. The cats need food and Gracie needs more of her treats.

I love the smells of cinnamon and curry and rosemary. Sometimes I just run my hand up a stalk of rosemary from the garden and its aroma stays on my fingers. When I took my laundry down the cellar this morning, I passed my spice rack built on the inside cellar door. It was curry I smelled so I had to linger a bit. In Marrakesh, whole stalls are filled with spices in too many colors to describe. They give Moroccan food its distinct flavors. I remember cumin, coriander and saffron.

I love experimenting by cooking new foods. Most times I do it for company, and I don’t mind the risk of making an entirely new dish. I read tons of recipes and have to imagine the look and taste of each dish so they complement each other. My friends are willing to give the food a try, and most times the dishes have wonderful tastes and flavors. I know there must be failures, but I don’t remember them, selective memory loss I guess. Some dishes have become favorites. My friends love my Moroccan marinated olives. which I consider a great sacrifice for me to make. I don’t like olives. My muhammara, also from Morocco, is pretty much a universal favorite. My curry always wows them. One summer, my watermelon and feta salad was the hit of the season.

When I have a little time or I’m bored with TV or my books, I take out my file of clippings from magazines and the newspapers and go through all the recipes. I have a couple I’m excited to try. Looks like I need to expand my shopping list.

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“Give me a laundry-list and I’ll set it to music.”

October 23, 2010

The last few days have been lovely with a bright sun and relatively warm weather, but once that sun goes down, it gets mighty chilly. Yesterday was errand day and Gracie and I were out and about for a couple of hours. I stopped at Hart Farm for some small pumpkins and ended up buying cherry tomatoes, purple and fingerling potatoes, onion jam and honey crisp apples. I couldn’t resist.

On the back of my cellar door is a spice rack. I had it built to fit the width of the door when my spices outgrew their kitchen cabinet. Every time I open that door to go down cellar I catch a whiff of the most amazing aroma, a sweet combination of herbs and spices. I have all the common herbs and spices and some exotic ones, mostly for Indian and Moroccan foods. They are, of course, arranged alphabetically to make it easier to find them. On the inside of a kitchen cabinet door is stapled a typed list of all the rack’s contents. I made the list when I found several cinnamon, cream of tartar and peppercorn jars. I also made the list because I am anal about lists.

My making lists started innocently enough. When I worked, with little free time during the week, I needed to cram everything into week-ends, all the chores and errands, so I made a list. It was one list, one all-encompassing list, until that fateful Thanksgiving dinner when I forgot to bring some food to the table. It was a Waldorf salad left it in the back of the fridge. A flow chart came out of that experience. It starts a day or two before the event and ends with the cooking times: in and out. I was unwittingly becoming a list maker.

One year I forgot a traditional stocking stuffer I always gave my mother, a new linen calendar for the kitchen. She mentioned it, and the day after Christmas I bought her one. I decided then to keep a Christmas gift list of all I’ve bought and the traditional gifts I need to get.

As I grew older, I forgot stuff so I kept a list of groceries, appointments and on and on. Lists tend to beget lists, and I was hooked on making lists. Post-it notes are my friends. I have them in a variety of colors, and they hang off the car dashboard, the computer monitor and the lamp shade.They are but the tip of the iceberg. I am a list maker.

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