After the fire, the flowers bloom

Desert chic with mask.

Although our garden tomatoes are in abundance and quite luscious, we also like the heirlooms from a favorite vendor at the farmer’s market. It’s supposed to be 100 degrees here today, so we headed out early in hopes that we could be back in time to walk/run before the heat kicks in.  

I’m wearing what I call desert chic with mask. It’s all about the fashion statement. Oh, for those of you who may be new to the blog, yes, it’s true I don’t have breasts. I had a mastectomy without reconstruction and am living the flat and fabulous lifestyle.

Anyway, we wanted a stash of tomatoes for a tomato pie I make with cheddar cheese, basil and a biscuit crust. But as we were getting into the car, I said, “I don’t have to make tomato pie. We could do Greek salads again, if you’d rather.” Dale said nothing.

Did you hear me?

Yes.

Well, what do you think?

Yeah, that sounds good.

Seriously! That is not a response. This is a binary choice, Dale.

Oh, you!

I may as well be saying blah, blah, blah, and you’re like, yeah, that sounds good.

We both started laughing, which is a form of grace these days. Then we decided we could actually do both. I made a command decision and said, OK, we’ll do the pie tonight and the salad later in the week. He makes bread for that, so the ball is in his court.

As they say on TV, during these unprecedented times …

Sane and crazy

Sane: I saw some people at the neighborhood park having a socially distant get together. Each chair had a balloon tied to it – I guess as an easy way to keep them six feet apart. Or maybe just for the party effect. Such a simple little gathering, but it made me happy.

Crazy: Our county numbers are still pretty good in comparison to the rest of California, but the whack jobs driving up to South Lake Tahoe to party are making it harder for everyone. An article in this morning’s newspaper quoted a visitor who said, “Everybody seems to be pretty healthy, so I don’t have a concern.”

I can’t even speak to that.

Woodburning

My first two woodburning projects on pallet scraps.
Current woodburning project on a piece of teak patio furniture that was damaged in a fire.

I’m continuing to work on my woodburning projects. It’s quite therapeutic. When I wrote my first post about it, Bobi shared a comment that it reminded her of Zentangle. I checked that out, and it’s pretty cool stuff. I might take a class someday. In the meantime, I’ve been looking at lots of Zentangle images to give me ideas.

The biggest difference is that Zentangle is on paper, which is a perfect surface. I’m using recovered wood and burning it. Although I’m a novice woodburner, I think it’s safe to say wood does what it wants. Sometimes you just can’t get a smooth line. The tool hits snags and resistance.

Just like us! That’s one of the reasons I like burning wood.

I have noticed a big difference between the pallet scraps and a piece of teak scavenged from our neighbor’s bench that was damaged in a fire. Teak is smoother and burns cleaner. And the coloring is different, too.

Perfection is not my goal. In fact, the less perfect the better. The burned bench might be my favorite surface so far. It has a story, a history. I like hanging out in the garage, imagining the possibilities, listening to music and letting my mind run free.

Somehow, it gives me hope for the future. After the fire, the flowers bloom.

Our spirit animal

Our coyote friend came back to take another snooze by the pool. He appears to be a juvenile. Well-fed and healthy. I was out of the house early to play golf, so I don’t know what time the coyote bolted. Dale said he looked out mid-morning, and the coyote was gone.

I think he’s our spirit animal – sent to share a message. Reminding us to not take things too seriously and to seek balance between wisdom and playfulness. As I researched this further, I learned coyote symbolism warns us to beware of the dark side of things and reveals the answers to your problems often come in ways and forms you least expect.

Since the coyote first showed up, we’ve done quite well backing away from COVID arguments, which are principally focused on surviving shopping expeditions and managing territorial issues in the kitchen.

While it’s easy to assume these issues arose from being crushed together during pandemic sheltering, it might also result from being crushed together during my retirement, whereupon I discovered that I liked staying home … which is where Dale likes to hang out, too.

We’ve learned that both of us staying home fighting for space while the world is on fire is a dark place to start when you’re just trying to make dinner.

The thing is, we both like to cook. And with cooking comes control. When I was working, Dale basically had squatters rights in the kitchen, but now he has to share his toys. But it’s not just space or equipment. It’s about choices. What are we going to eat? How are we going to get it? Are you going to use that fresh spinach before it goes bad? Mexican … again?

We had a close call earlier this week, but I managed to defuse the fire with quick action … a skill I’ve been perfecting of late, perhaps with the help of our spirit animal. It involves pressing my lips together and keeping my mouth shut.

The situation was chicken breasts. As you may recall, I defrosted and re-organized the chest freezer. At the time, we only had one chicken breast left, so I put it in a Ziploc with thighs and labeled it, “Chicken Breasts and Thighs.” Makes sense to me.

Normally, Dale likes to buy the frozen chicken breasts individually sealed and you can just cut one off as needed. But when the stay-at-home mandate first started, those were hard to find.

When individually sealed breasts showed up again, Dale purchased a package and put them in the freezer. No, he probably turned backward and tossed them over his shoulder like salt or maybe did a little dance in silent protest of the new order.

And so it came to pass that it was time for Mexican-style baked chicken breasts. A yummy thing. You mix some salsa in with beaten eggs, dip the breast and then roll it in bread crumbs seasoned with cumin and whatever other spices sound good. Throw some butter in a glass casserole, bake at 375 degrees about 30 minutes or until done. Serve with shredded iceberg lettuce, a dollop of sour cream, sliced avocado and a wedge of lime.

I said innocently enough, “When you get the chicken breasts out to thaw, the oldest one is in a labeled Ziploc. Use that one and then cut off one of the new ones.” He did not respond.

Later, as Dale was preparing his kitchen hut for the sacred cooking ritual, I was convinced I personally witnessed him cutting off two portions from the new package of individually sealed breasts.

I wanted to say, “What is so effing hard about using the oldest one first?” But then I thought, oh, the chicken will get eaten one way or the other. Who cares? I did not say a word, and I’ve been quite proud of my restraint. I thought about all the ways to do things and how we almost always go in opposite directions. It’s actually quite funny.

So, I laughed. I thought it would make a funny post and sat down to write. Then I went to the freezer to take some sort of picture to go with. While I was there, I decided to look in the Ziploc. The chicken breast was gone. Only one missing from the other package.

That coyote. He’s a trickster.

The Last Argument

A coyote snoozing by the backyard spa.
Our coyote friend on the move after he heard me open the door.

Suburban coyote

As I was cleaning up cat barf this morning, I happened to look out the back window, only to see a coyote snoozing by the spa. I can’t believe my furry little puker missed that one, as he sat staring out the front window, desperately seeking squirrel activity.

I took a picture through the window and watched him awhile. I figured he would just move along at some point, but Dale said sometimes they can’t get out. I gingerly propped the gate open and came back in the house.

Then the coyote moved to a shady spot by the pool. I opened the sliding glass door and snapped a shot of him trotting away. He jumped to the top of the fence and looked like he decided next door was a better option. I was like, dude, they don’t cook … the food is better over here, but he wasn’t buying it. I put on a mask and went over to alert our neighbors, because they have a dog and a cat that both go outside.

Coyotes do live around here. You can hear them at night. Still, I hope he’s OK. He might have heard the pool is open for the season – registering yesterday at 81 degrees! Of course, I’m being sexist here. It could be a she, but I’m thinking it’s a boy coyote that would run away from home and camp out in someone’s yard.  

Swimming

I’ve started swimming in our backyard pool. It’s not a huge pool, so swimming laps is not ideal, lots of head-bashing, but it’s the only option I have right now, coyotes and all. I need to decide if I’m going to keep my membership in the health club. I would definitely not use the weights or the locker room. I’ve been doing free weights at home.

I would like to use the pool at the health club and have a plan for how to do it safely if or when it reopens, but if I swim twice a week, that’s about $10 a swim. Not sure it’s worth it. Although, my back did feel better after just one swim. Decisions!

Cookie Madness

I’ve decided to allow myself one peanut butter cookie a day until I no longer want one … which might never happen, so perhaps I will be eating one every single day for the rest of my life. I can’t believe one cookie could be all that bad for me. And they are so easy to make.

The recipe yields about a dozen and a half – depending on what size scoop you use, and the only ingredients are peanut butter, brown sugar and an egg. A smattering of sea salt. I prefer them without chocolate chips. What can I say? They bring me joy.

Books & TV

Today is a library curbside pick-up for Dead Land, the new Sara Paretsky novel featuring V.I. Warshawski. This is book 20. I think I’ve read them all.

I’m done with the current season of Bosch, and I finished the Longmire series. Both were excellent, although I did not like how Longmire wrapped up. I won’t spoil it for you, but it just didn’t feel right to me. I do think he’s a cutie and hope to see him in something else soon.

While I’ve yet to pick a new crime series, I have a long list of options. None are calling to me. I’m currently watching Vida on STARZ. It’s about two Mexican sisters who return home to Los Angeles after their mother passes away.

The mother ran a bar, and it turns out she was a closet lesbian – at least closeted to her daughters. The daughters start to run the bar and become immersed in the local scene. Warning – strong sexual content and not necessarily your routine stuff.

The last argument

Although we are still being cautious, we went to Home Depot for two things needed for a small improvement project. While it was not a good experience for us, it did result it what we are calling, “The Last Argument.” I wanted to order online and have it delivered to the car. Dale wanted to go in and buy weed killer. I conceded.

We put on our masks. There was a line, and they were counting people as they entered. Still, there were a lot of people entering, and most of them were not wearing masks. Dale got annoyed and didn’t want to buy weed killer after all. We got the two things we went for and got out of there as fast as we could.

Later, Dale said he was angry that I insisted we go to Home Depot to buy things for an optional improvement project. I said, if you will recall, I wanted to have it delivered to the car. The only reason we went inside is because you wanted to.

He was like, oops, I forgot. Sigh. We’re just humans doing the best we can. Kiss and make up. We agreed – talk everything through in advance, make sure we understand each other’s expectations and don’t fight about anything ever. It sucks.

Stress behavior

People are stressed, and stress behavior can be ugly. I played golf, and one of the women in my group was a complete bitch. She didn’t mess with me, but she was so rude to one of the other players. I don’t know where that came from, other than she’s just pissed about life in general.

I almost didn’t play but had a golf dream telling me to relax and let my swing flow smoothly. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard something about a smooth swing, but I finally figured out why it doesn’t stick.

Sometimes you do herky-jerky things, and you get away with it. Smash a drive or whatever. You begin to think that’s the secret, so you start trying it on purpose. Nothing good comes of this. Smooth is always the answer. I said to myself, just go, be at peace with the universe, stay calm and be smooth. Do not introduce extra movements to the momentum of the swing.

It worked! I played well … much better than I’ve been playing, even with my exposure to the bitter bitch. I hope she chills out. I feel stress and constantly have to work at managing these challenges in a positive way, but I’m mostly successful and certainly happier.

It’s hot, and if there are no coyotes in backyard, I will be taking a dip today.

Stay chilled.

Baby steps?

Fun with the exotic world of masks.

Dale did a commissary run today for the first time since all this started. He used to go twice a month for the basics, supplementing with specialty items at local stores. Commissaries are operated for military personnel, but retirees and family members with proper military ID can also use them. We save about 30 percent when we shop there. The closest one to us is about a 30-minute drive.

Yes, distance to commissary was on my retirement location spreadsheet!

Although we are in good shape supply-wise, he wanted to recon when we didn’t necessarily need anything as sort of a test. The commissary now requires masks, so that tipped in our favor.

When he got back, Dale said military people are great. “They want you to wear a mask? Done! No whiners.” He went right when they opened, and it wasn’t crowded. It was easy to keep his distance.

Dale said they were out of the same things everyone else is out of but otherwise well-stocked. He bought charcoal, Irish butter, eggs, onions, cheese, mayonnaise and my beloved Trop 50 orange juice. For some reason, that stuff is hard to find. Oh, and back-up to the back-up peanut butter. Which means more of those delicious cookies. How can I not?

If all goes well, Dale is back on the clock as supply chain manager. For me, it was a good run but good riddance. He is much easier to get along with when he has a mission. Pandemic Dale is kind of a drag. Pandemic Donna is no prize, either. We’ve been married 41 years, and this is the first time I ever asked myself why? But then there are moments when we feel closer than ever.

Maybe everyone is feeling it, because people around here are starting to act like the virus is gone. That scares us. Our county has low numbers, and I hope they are right, but we’re not banking on it. We continue to be cautious, and so far, nobody has hassled us. I read where people in some parts of California are saying rude things to those who wear masks, like, “You believe this hype? You’re nothing but sheep.”

All I have to say to that is baa.

Restaurants are opening, but we have no intentions of going. We hardly went pre-pandemic. We might loosen up a bit on short visits to the grocery store, but with masks, social distancing and hand-washing. There’s no place we need to go or want to go that requires us to linger inside.

The only other thing we miss are the wineries. It’s so nice to taste before you buy. And it’s usually a lovely drive out to the vineyards. We hardly ever purchase wine in a store anymore.

I’m not sure how the tasting rooms will re-open. We have been plowing slowly sipping our way through the inventory and look forward to replenishing the rack. In good pandemic news, I accidentally opened a bottle of late harvest Zinfandel. It’s more of a dessert wine, which we don’t typically drink. We must have purchased it on a whim.

I didn’t want to waste the wine, so I put a vacuum seal on it and stuck it in the fridge. I thought about making sorbet but chickened out. Then I decided to start drinking a small glass as an aperitif, perhaps as some drink Port at happy hour? This particular late harvest Zin is not super-sweet and went beautifully with some aged cheddar as an appetizer. Delicious.

So, wine remains to be seen. But if Dale can safely do a commissary run with supplemental trips to the local store, and if I can play golf, this marriage might be saved.

Online grocery shopping

A snip from our online order at a local grocery store. Cocktail peanuts, because you know … cocktails, peanuts.

I’m not feeling particularly creative, but I feel good and thought I’d share an update. So far, we’ve avoided bad craziness. But there’s still time.

We converted to online grocery shopping. Dale is not happy about it, but we made the decision together. While the precautions we took last time might be adequate, we decided it isn’t worth the risk.

One of my favorite songs is “Fort Worth Blues” by Steve Earle. It’s a tribute to Townes Van Zandt, a musician who passed away relatively young after many years of substance abuse. There’s a line referring to death, but I think it also applies to life during these strange times:

Somewhere up beyond the great divide

Where the sky is wide and the clouds are few

A man can see his way clear to the light

Just hold on tight

That’s all you gotta do

I keep thinking just hold on tight, that’s all we gotta do. We are safe at home until the worst is over. We’re the lucky ones, and I can’t even begin to describe how grateful I am. Although I’m no Mother Teresa, I made another donation to the food bank and will most likely give more throughout the year. I don’t see how I can’t.

Dale was the principal shopper prior to the pandemic, but he doesn’t want much to do with online shopping. I thought maybe he would get into it, but that has not been the case. I’m doing it in consultation with him about brands, quantities, etc.

I ended up ordering from three different services. Two are pick-ups at local grocers, and one is a delivery from Amazon Fresh. You have to reserve a time for pick-up at the local stores, and that’s running about 5-7 days out. That hasn’t been a problem, since we keep a lot of food around anyway. The window for Amazon Fresh was much quicker – two days.

Substitutions are part of the deal for all these stores, but I don’t care. I did opt out of substitutions for a couple of things – cat food, because we have a picky eater, and he only likes prime filets. I also opted out of a certain kind of sausage we prefer, assuming it’s not essential, and we probably wouldn’t like the substitute. 

This sucks but actually doesn’t bother me all that much. I remember when I had cancer the first time – 1999 – and there was a high probability I would die. The most optimistic five-year survival rate was 40 percent. The majority relapsed within two years.

I tried to think of cancer as an adventure, but I had to adjust to so many changes, and it wasn’t exactly what I would call a fun adventure. Even when I was on the mend, I knew the statistics and spent five years not knowing if the treatment worked. Wondering if I would die. So, what’s a couple of months locked up in a comfy house knowing the statistics are quite possibly on my side this time?

With cancer, there was virtually no way to mitigate my risk, but now I know what to do. Stay home. I have enough to keep me amused.

The hardest part is dealing with each other’s expectations. We still like each other, but we’ve taken to not talking much during the day. He does his thing, and I do mine. I guess it gives us our space. Then we start chatting away at happy hour, just like we used to.

Although I am taking walks, I’m keeping my distance. I don’t touch anything, and I don’t touch my face. I wash my hands as soon as I get home. Our town’s population is about 45,000. Definitely not rural, but not the big squished-together urban scene, either. We have lots of walking paths, and it’s easy to keep my distance from anyone I encounter. Being outside and seeing nature at work is comforting.

I have several different routes. Some shorter, some longer, depending on how my body feels. My longer route is a five-mile loop, and I was thinking it might be kind of cool to work up to 10 miles. But I didn’t think my bladder would hold. Then it occurred to me I could do the five-mile loop, stop at the house to use the restroom, and then do the loop again.

Who said I wasn’t feeling creative?

Fun and games

Of course, we’re both in a funk of sorts. I had a meltdown about a week ago and have since felt reasonably calm and content. It was during the meltdown I said, “I’m just gonna go outside and ask people to spit on me.” I call that my rock bottom, and it has been nothing but up since.

Dale doesn’t do meltdowns, but I would say his low point was after we got back from the grocery store, because that was his happy place, and it’s not anymore. It also turns out Dale is much more extroverted than I am. He misses even the smallest interactions with clerks and neighbors.

We’ve talked through it, not without pain mind you, but we’re still a unit, committed to getting through this healthy, happy and together. I read about relationships being stressed right now, and my favorite line was something like this:

Don’t search for the perfect partner. Try to be the perfect partner.

I could tell Dale needed some comfort food and suggested burgers. We have everything for that, and he jumped right on it. We’re taking an indulgence break and will have burgers tonight. Then it’s back to broccoli on Friday.

We talked about playing board games, and I did an inventory of our toy chest:

  • Risk
  • Monopoly
  • Othello
  • Scrabble
  • Yahtzee
  • Backgammon
  • Dominoes
  • Pente
  • Cribbage

Most of these have been sitting idle for some time. This might be the 70s talking, but I don’t remember anything about Othello or Pente. Dale doesn’t like Scrabble or Yahtzee, my two favorites, so we’re going to start with backgammon. We used to play a lot and have a beautiful board we bought in Egypt. We’ll need to brush up on the rules.

We both used to like cribbage, but his mother was a fanatic, and we both got burned out on it during one of her visits many years ago. Perhaps enough time has passed that we can try it again.

Other unexpected items that showed up in the toy chest during my inventory include:

  • German flag
  • Survival cards
  • Mexican game with cup and ball on a string
  • Multiple decks of playing cards
  • Phantom of the Opera mask
  • Latin dictionary
  • Arabic at a glance
  • English-French dictionary
  • Eisenhower postage stamps

How about you? Are you playing any games while in confinement? What’s in your toy chest?

A pessimist’s guide to positive vibes

My new surf poncho for changing out of my wet swimsuit at the pool.
When the going gets tough, the tough get cooking. My blackberry scones just out of the oven.

I just celebrated 21 years since I was diagnosed with stage 3 primary peritoneal cancer, which is virtually the same as ovarian cancer. I’ve been free of disease since my initial treatment. My annual check-up is Monday, but the labs are done, and all looks good. They always tell me how lucky I am, and believe me, I am well aware of my good fortune.

During my illness, I vowed to keep a positive attitude no matter what. And this was not easy for me, a half-empty kind of gal. There’s a joke about the guy whose tombstone read, “See, I told you I was sick.” That was me.

My life was on the line, so I changed. There are plenty of people with great attitudes who die anyway, but I figured why not try? Whether I live or don’t, at least I will have enjoyed the ride.

That pretty much sums up my attitude toward our current situation. ITSNBN – It That Shall Not Be Named. I’m so sick of reading about it and don’t want to pile on. I’m being careful. Lots of elbow bumps on the golf course, hand-washing and other precautions … but still loving life.

One of my precautions is avoiding the locker room at the gym where I swim laps. I purchased this handy “surf poncho” from Amazon. I put on my suit at home and drive to the gym wearing my poncho. I go directly to the pool, remove the poncho and store it in my gym bag on the cement. I suppose there is some exposure there, but I think it’s less risky than the poolside furniture.

When I’m done with my swim, I put the poncho on, tuck my arms inside and remove my wet swimsuit. No one sees my secret body parts. It’s warm and has a hood. I walk back to my car, bypassing the locker room once again.  

Foodniks

As always, when the going gets tough, we get going in the kitchen. It’s raining today, so I thought I’d try blackberry scones using Linda’s recipe, which I’ve successfully made with blueberries and raspberries. I’ll probably have to crush the blackberries a bit so they get evenly distributed.

Dale has a brisket brining for homemade corned beef, which is one of the best food discoveries ever. It won’t be ready for another week or so, but we’ll have it boiled with cabbage, potatoes and carrots the first night. Maybe Reuben sandwiches before freezing it in chunks for later use. One of our favorites is corned beef hash topped with a fried egg sunny-side-up.

For dinner, Dale’s making Cordon Bleu. He pounds veal cutlets thin, stuffs them with Muenster cheese and Black Forest ham, breads them and pan-fries them lard. We make a German-style salad with butter lettuce and a white wine vinaigrette. He’ll probably do something with potatoes, because he can’t stop himself.

relationship building

We’ve been happy little campers lately. I’m trying to get in my golf and other exercise during the week, almost like it’s my job. I’m often gone most of the day. Then in the evenings and on weekends, we commune. If I should stay home in the middle of the week, it’s a treat, and we’ll do something fun like go to a winery or have bacon for breakfast.

Sometimes I stay home and we do chores, but they aren’t nearly as fun.

In retirement, we’ve learned we both need time away from each other, and figuring out how to do that in a positive way has been helpful. But the biggest difference is Dale got new hearing aids. I’m just going to go out on a limb and say the new hearing aids have reduced our arguments by 50 percent. Our conversations are much healthier, but the downside is he can hear me mutter when I’m cleaning and complaining about what a slob he is.

Before the new hearing aids, vacuuming was like truth serum. Regrettably, unkind things were said, but at least he couldn’t hear them.

Can I say no?

For many of us, retirement starts sort of slow. Nervous at first about the money and how you’re going to spend your time, but then you gradually slide into the comfort zone. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you’re not, but you’re still careful not to commit to anything that will disrupt your version of bliss.

And then someone comes knocking. A little crack in the glass before it shatters to pieces or a fun opportunity to engage with the outside world?

I’ve been asked to undertake a volunteer role in my golf league. It’s what we used to call in the corporate world a rotational assignment. Three months. Every Wednesday. People would email me during the week to sign up or cancel for the next week’s play. I’d be the first one there on the morning of play to start checking people in, and I’d have to readjust playing groups due to cancellations or no-shows. Then I would play in the final group, which pretty much guarantees a 5-hour round.

It sounds like stress to me.

One person approached me already and said someone else is probably going to try and recruit me as well. I have no idea why they think I’m suitable for this job or any job for that matter. They probably just need a warm body.

While I do enjoy my league, I’m still exploring my new-found freedom. After a demanding career, I love not being responsible for much of anything. The odd part is that I am good at being in charge … it’s just that it wears me out. Still, for a fat paycheck, I happily obliged.

God bless those who love to volunteer, but that is not me. Even at work, I was never the eager beaver organizing the birthday luncheon or holiday gift exchange. Showing up and pretending to like it was the best I could do.

I told the person who contacted me I will think about it. I did share that I was newly retired and didn’t want to bite off more than I could chew. I expect to get hit up tomorrow and will say the same thing.

Of course, I was raised by wolves and always struggle with what to do in social situations. For those of you with better upbringing … or simply those who have been involved with clubs and such over the years, I have a few questions.

Can I say no and not burn any bridges? Can I say no forever, and just enjoy the play, or is it assumed one must contribute at some point? Have you signed up for something and regretted it, or did you have a good experience?

Any other advice?

Redefining busy

The weather in northern California was beautiful this week. We get a great view of the sunrise from our backyard. In the forefront is Gladys, my yard art project from last year.
The final trim and weigh-in of my first homegrown cannabis plant.

This week felt busy to me, like my dance card was full, but then my definition of busy is evolving as I enter my third year of retirement.

Monday

Golf. Walked 18 holes. In the evenings, I watched a lot of Outlander, which is not unlike golf. One bad thing after another. You think you’re done, but you go back to see what happens next. Dale sautéed sole filets for dinner, and I made a big salad topped with candied walnuts and crumbled goat cheese.

Tuesday

House elf. Vacuumed, mopped, etc. while a contractor was refinishing the tub in our guest bath. Dale made a commissary run (like Costco for military retirees). I defrosted homemade soup for lunch. Red lentil, chickpea and spinach curry with a dollop of sumac-seasoned yogurt. When Dale returned, I went to the fitness club to swim laps and do weights. That soup talked back! Dale made barbecued beef ribs and marinated cucumbers for dinner.

Wednesday

Golf. Walked 18 holes. I took a different route to the golf course without using my smart phone map because Dale insists variety and getting there without help is good for my brain.

Finished trimming my home-grown cannabis, weighed it and put it in a jar to cure for two weeks. My yield was about 1/3 ounce or 10 grams. The cheapest weed I can buy at the dispensary is $320 per ounce. Mine was about $265 per ounce. I’m confident I can do better next time with a bigger pot and warmer weather.

For dinner, we split a small Marie Callender’s frozen pot pie. We each get a handful of fried crinkle cuts from the freezer to go with. What can I say? It’s our shameful processed food indulgence.

Thursday

Dentist. I go three times a year for cleaning because I lost the genetic lottery. The hygienist said “alignment issues” mean I have to work harder than most people to keep my teeth and gums in good shape. That should be on my tombstone, “She Tried Hard.” I use a water flosser and regular floss and an electric toothbrush – and that just barely gets me in the door.

Golf lesson. The guy I used to take lessons from had unrealistic expectations about what my body could do. My new teacher is a petite woman who understands a sharp short game makes up for what we lack in strength. She taught me a different way to use my wedge around the greens. Stopped at the fitness club to swim laps and do weights. Dale made whole roasted chicken and smashed potatoes for dinner. I steamed broccoli to go with.

Friday

Monthly 90-minute massage. When I got home, Dale was waiting to see if I wanted supermarket sushi for lunch. What a guy! Off we went to the market for pizza ingredients and sushi, which we enjoyed out on the patio. It was a beautiful day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing yard work. I have a collapsible golf net in the back, so after I mowed our little patch of lawn, I set up the net and practiced my new wedge shot. Dale made pizza for dinner. Kitchen sink, as we call this version, with mushrooms, fresh garlic, green peppers, Kalamata olives, pepperoni and Italian sausage.

Wrap-Up

Dale did most of the cooking. When I was working, he was always the main chef. In retirement, I started cooking more and voicing more opinions about what we eat. It has been kind of a struggle to renegotiate our new roles.  

Normally, I like to get it all out in the open, but I’m learning not everything needs to be said. Without introduction or fanfare, I’ve started to focus more on special things I like to cook and leaving most dinners to Dale. He probably wouldn’t acknowledge this, which is why we’re not telling him, OK? But with me having been the principal money earner, I think he liked being the provider, at least the provider of dinner.

My dastardly plan seems to be working. I’m still cooking, but I’m finding my niche. Dale enjoys feeding me, and I enjoy being fed. We’re both mellower, and I have more time to goof off! 

41st anniversary special

Holiday anxiety

The tree is up, but it’s a wee bit tilty, and I’ve been feeling down. I don’t know why. Some of it is the tilt.

I worry about the tree falling over. That, and the Russians, the election, impeachment, climate change, wind blowing furniture into the pool, slippery roads. Sounds like a control thing to me, what with all the wet, windy, tilty, crazy things happening that I can’t fix.    

It had been more than a week since I’d added my high-CBD cannabis tincture to my morning juice, so I got back into my daily dose, and it’s like a miracle for anxiety and excess rumination. I can look at the tree now and not panic.

Nice tree, good tree.

Tincture might be making a comeback. I read notorious cannabis enthusiast Willie Nelson has given up smoking due to breathing issues but is still enjoying cannabis through tinctures and edibles. If anyone can put tincture on the map, it’s Willie.

Whilst in my slump, I also increased my dosage of schmaltz. There are a couple of videos that never fail to make me cry and cheer me up at the same time. Susan Boyle’s first appearance on Britain’s Got Talent is like a rescue inhaler. I also love Tara Lipinsky’s 1998 skate for the gold.

Opening the cat’s presents

For Christmas, Dale bought treats for our cat, Riley, and for his sister’s cat, Earle. The clerk described the treats as crack for cats. Dale wanted to open the package to see if Riley agrees. I was shocked. I mean, isn’t that what he’s getting for Christmas?

Dale said Riley wouldn’t know, but I’m sorry. There are some things you just don’t do, and you don’t go opening your cat’s presents before Christmas. Maybe Christmas Eve, but only if it’s pajamas. Having to explain all this to Dale was exhausting. You can see why I need extra tincture.

Our 41st

So, yes, 41 years of love and exhaustion was celebrated on Saturday. We drove into “the city” and spent the night at a hotel with a highly acclaimed but unpretentious restaurant on the ground floor. We don’t like to dress up, and nice jeans and boots were more than appropriate. We’re also not real slick about navigating urban settings, so having the restaurant in the hotel was perfect. No scary walks at night.

We rarely dine out, mostly because we’re excellent home cooks and almost always disappointed with our meals in restaurants. When we do go out, we find some local haunt, and our bill is usually in the $60 range. And then we’re pissed that we wasted it. For our anniversary, we said, what about going big? Maybe you can buy your way to exceptional food.

Although we were mentally prepared to spend some bucks, it’s always hard for us. We have a comfortable retirement and can afford it, but like many retirees, after saving for so long, it actually is hard to fork over the cash. Fortunately, dinner was spectacular.

Follow the food

For an appetizer, I had grilled octopus with mandarin oranges, shaved fennel, Japanese mustard greens, spicy green sauce and charred avocado. Dale had roasted bone marrow with short rib marmalade, pickled pepper relish, herbs and grilled bread.

We both chose duck for our entrée. It was not planned, but there’s duck history between us. When we were dating, he wooed me from the kitchen of his Bachelor Officer’s Quarters with Duck a L’Orange. Oh, and then there was the benchmark pressed duck in Rouen, France. The wild duck at the fancy place in Paris.

Paris, Rouen … those were our youthful globe-trotting days, before we got loaded down with responsibilities and understood the concept of compound interest. When paychecks were for spending!

This time around it was seared duck breast with onion cream sauce, roasted brussels sprouts leaves, Thumbalina carrots, miniature cannelloni, shaved truffles and duck jus.

I ate every bite and would have licked the plate if I thought I could get away with it. We were both quite full, so we didn’t order dessert. We enjoyed a bottle of Pinot Noir with our meal.

With tip, our bill was $280. The room was $155, plus $32 for parking, so that’s a total of $467 for our 41st wedding anniversary celebration. Seems like a lot, but if anything, we should do it more. Maybe skip on mediocre neighborhood fare and follow the food.