Illegitimi non carborundum

I did not need a blogging break after all. What I needed was a break from the shit show out there that passes for news, and I somehow got confused. Shit show? Blog? You can see how it might happen.

This could be the corona virus talking, but I don’t think we can completely divorce ourselves from all the negativity of the world. While bad news followed by more bad news gets old fast, most of us want to stay connected. Connected but not immersed? It may be a shit show out there, but that doesn’t mean we should binge-watch the entire season.

It turns out I require a different system for processing information. Not everything needs to be hoarded like hand sanitizer and toilet paper.

If my brain were an office, and you walked in, it would look like a bomb exploded. Mountains of crumpled newspapers, gigabytes of unfiltered information floating about like space junk, blueberry scone crumbs and yellow crime scene tape. It’s ugly in there.

My plan is to tidy up my brain and take out the trash. Not everything will get tossed. I mean, some things aren’t pleasant, but you probably need to know about it to stay somewhat relevant. I’m thinking a new folder with a label that says, “Does Not Spark Joy.” Because there is so much in life that does spark joy, and it’s a shame to let the rest of it cheat you out of happiness.

Seize the day.

As it happens, Dale and I are uniquely suited for battling the corona virus. We’re retired homebodies with no travel plans, few friends and an aversion to public places and most restaurants. We are experienced at social distancing and freak if the doorbell rings.

While it’s true many psychopaths are loners, many loners are not psychopaths. We’re kind and charming people. It’s just that most of the time, we don’t really want to talk to you. However, if you are bringing beer, we might reconsider.

Thanks to Dale, we also have an aggressive toilet paper supply system. He has always been Johnny Mission when it comes to maintaining inventory. And for reasons undisclosed, I use toilet paper like party streamers.

All in all, I didn’t actually take a real break. Seriously, a break from what? I eat, sleep, golf, walk, swim laps, cook, read, write, grow cannabis and periodically stop to purge my brain of the stuff that does not spark joy.

Illegitimi non carborundum!

Loosely translated as, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Mom’s stuffed cabbage

My mother’s recipe for stuffed cabbage rolls.
… with my additions!
I use kitchen twine to tie my rolls. They hold together better and are easier to shuffle around in the cooking liquid.
The rolls are in and just starting to simmer. Cover, and they’ll take a couple of hours to cook.

We’re finally getting some rain today, hoping for the March Miracle, but so far, it doesn’t look as though we’ll get much. Still, I promised Dale I would make my mother’s stuffed cabbage rolls if it rained. I just can’t get into it if the weather is nice. I’m still hoping for a downpour.

My mother was not a good cook. She loved convenience foods, and some things were just too exotic for regular consumption. There was one tiny bottle of olive oil that lasted my entire childhood. We ate instant mashed potatoes from the box or little white ones from a can. I don’t think I tasted a fresh potato until high school, when my sister and I both started cooking.

One of the few things she made from scratch were stuffed cabbage rolls. An homage to my Slavic roots. Dale loves them, even though his ancestors are from England. I still use the recipe on the index card my mother gave me, but I have notes all over the back of it.

I should probably type up the recipe as I make it these days, but I like seeing my mother’s handwriting. And I love the ambiguous directions.

Half a small glass of white vinegar.

Cook until done.

I used to worry about it – too much? Too little? Now I take out what looks to be a small glass, and I fill it half-way up with vinegar. Then I cook them until done.

Mother knows best.

Her cabbage rolls were pretty bland, but that was by design. They were a side dish for special occasions, like Christmas or Thanksgiving. Dale and I eat it as a main dish. I use venison or bison instead of ground beef and lots of spices. Dale likes it with dark bread and butter, although the dark bread options here are slim. We’ll just make do with whatever he can find.

Beer is a nice accompaniment. We’re currently featuring Fresh Squeezed IPA from Deschutes Brewery in Oregon.

Abandoning lame old guy humor

Re-purposing corporate swag as a cannabis journal. Because who can stop me now?

My, my, my corona

I worry about all things big and small. When I first retired, I feared the showdown with North Korea would ruin my retirement. Damn it, I thought, I just want to sleep late for a few years.

Now the coronavirus is keeping me up at night. My neighbor told me it was going to get bad out there, disease-wise, and my retirement funds were at risk in the stock market. I didn’t comment on the virus but said our finances are conservatively invested. We don’t make as much as other people, but we don’t lose as much, either. That quieted things down.

While I’m trying not to overreact, it’s scary just the same. I’m careful – washing my hands and trying not to touch my face – but Dale isn’t as obsessive as I am, and I fear he’ll catch it and gift it to me.

He said I was probably glad older men are at higher risk, and I did not disagree. I guess I didn’t handle that well. Then I stepped it in again when Dale bought new hearing aids outright rather than pay a monthly fee because they wanted an automatic bank draft.

I pay several bills with automatic drafts and have never had a problem. I said not doing the draft officially makes him an old guy, and he did not take kindly to the feedback.

Cannabis journaling

My new seedling has emerged, and it looks great! It came up in four days. This time around I’m using the LED light for the entire growth cycle, I’m using a bigger pot – 5 gallons – and I should benefit from warmer weather overall.

I have this bound booklet that was a giveaway from some corporate event I attended before I retired. I was supposed to use it for taking notes.

Oops. I forgot.

Now it gives me great pleasure to re-purpose this fine motivational swag as my growing journal. The theme is “Elevating our Impact.”

Books & TV

I ran out of Outlander episodes on Netflix. Season 5 was just released, but it’s only available through STARZ. I signed up for a three-month trial so I could start watching Season 5. Then I discovered STARZ doesn’t drop them all at once like most streaming services. Subscribers get one episode a week.

Although I was annoyed at first, I’ve changed my mind. Binge-watching has its merits, but there’s something to be said for the feeling of anticipation as a new episode approaches. The slower pace seems to fit my retirement lifestyle. It turns out we don’t need everything instantly.  

Vera is a show on BritBox, and since I don’t subscribe to BritBox, I thought I’d read the first book in the series about Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope. “The Crow Trap” by Ann Cleeves. I like it so far, but I’m about one-third of the way through, and Vera has not appeared. I’m eager to meet her, and God knows, these characters need her help. Two dead already and no clues to be found.

I enjoyed “Burn the Place” by Iliana Regan. She is a Michelin-starred chef, and part of the story is about food and foraging, part of it is about substance abuse and the rest is a lesbian coming-out story. The memoir was long-listed for the National Book Award. I don’t think it came anything close to that level, but I enjoyed it very much.

Old guy humor

After my gaffe about Dale being old, I’m abandoning lame old guy humor, which might be good for all of us to think about, considering the slate of U.S. presidential candidates. Old is OK!

I’m also going to try standard compliments. While I thought calling Dale “The Human Dictionary” was a sexy and unique nod to his brilliance, perhaps simpler is better. Something that appeals to the vanity within all of us.

You look great! Have you been working out?

He’ll be suspicious, so I’ll have to tread carefully.   

Don’t mess with Aunt Bee

Fans are upset with plans to film “The Andy Griffith Show” movie in Indiana.

I said no to the woman who offered me a volunteer role in my golf league. My back seized up mid-round, I could barely finish and now I’m popping blue buddies (Advil) while I rest at home for a few days. And they say there are no coincidences. Anyway, here’s my response:

“Thanks so much for thinking of me. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to say no this time around. I do understand the needs of our group and will consider volunteering in the future.”

She said OK, thanks for thinking about it. And many thanks to Retirement Confidential readers for the thoughtful feedback! Your advice, coupled with new evidence of annoying behavior helped me decide.

In golf, every hole has a mowed area where you hit your first shot. The tee box. Markers define the edges, and you stand behind an imaginary line between the two markers facing the target.

Yesterday I played with one of the big wheels in the first group, and she religiously spread the markers on each hole as wide as possible. I asked why, and she said lefties complain the hole doesn’t line up for them properly unless the markers are spread wide. I said presumably there are left-handed men, and no one shuffles their markers around, and she said, “Women are picky.”  

I rest my case.

The Taste Test

For the finale to my first season as a gentlewoman cannabis farmer, I taste-tested my haul, and it’s very nice weed, indeed! This particular strain is called Jack Herer, known for relieving stress and producing a pleasant buzz. I’m always careful not to overdo it … just enough to feel the beginnings of a smile.

I put a seed in water today to germinate … this one is going in a 5-gallon pot with the aim of increasing my yield. Since I am still so new at this, I decided not to re-use the soil from my first grow. It’s probably just a matter of fertilizer, but I went with the expansion kit from A Pot for Pot.

Don’t mess with aunt bee

This morning’s newspaper had an article about a movie featuring Andy Taylor of Mayberry … being filmed in Indiana. Fans are furious they would film it anywhere but North Carolina.

Having lived in South Carolina, I am familiar with Andy Taylor, who was played by Andy Griffith in “The Andy Griffith Show.” The show was based in Mayberry, a fictional representation of Mount Airy, N.C., where the real Andy grew up.

The show is iconic in the South. The Carolinas, anyway. I remember watching re-runs in the chemo room at the hospital in South Carolina, where I was treated for ovarian cancer 21 years ago. Andy was always on, and it didn’t matter if you were black or white or had cancer or not, if you changed the channel you were dead.

Later, I complained about it to a co-worker. I said the worst of it was that sanctimonious Aunt Bee.

I can’t adequately describe the reaction. Shock quickly accelerating to outrage? Like how is that possible? What’s not to love about Aunt Bee?

It would not be completely accurate to say no one spoke to me again after that, but there was always an edge. Like, oh, yeah, you! What a great presentation smarty pants, but aren’t you the one who said you didn’t like Aunt Bee? It’s the kind of thing that follows you around.

My advice to the moviemakers. Suck it up.  Go to North Carolina. Say nice things about Aunt Bee.

New Crime fiction

In the category of crime fiction, I recommend the first two books in what I hope will be a long series by Louisa Luna. “Two Girls Down” is the first, and the second is “The Janes.” The character is Alice Vega, a tough and brilliant young freelance detective who finds missing children. She partners with a disgraced former cop named Cap.

Alice is different than your run-of-the-mill female detective. Stoic is the word that comes to mind. Totally focused on getting the job done and not much interested in normal pleasures like food and sleep, she uses bolt cutters to take bad guys down. Bolt cutters aside, the violence is relatively minimal.

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! 

Indoor cannabis plant at harvest

Indoor cannabis plant at harvest.
Fully mature plant measuring just under 20 inches or 50 centimeters.
Cannabis plant in the garage hanging to dry.

In the continuing adventures of a gentlewoman farmer, you’ll recall I planted a cannabis seed in early November. This was my first attempt at growing anything other than cancer. So far, so good.

I harvested my cannabis plant this week at 102 days. That’s over the average of 80-90 days, and I believe that’s because I didn’t have the LED light from day one, and it has been chilly in our house this winter. Some of the trichomes (the good stuff) were amber and the rest were sort of milky. I wasn’t sure how far to take it … too early or too late reduces potency … but the leaves were browning out, so I decided it was time.

The plant measured at just under 20 inches or 50 centimeters. According to my reference materials, that’s about average for an indoor plant in a 2-gallon or 7.5-liter container.

To harvest, I cut the big leaves off with the scissors that came with my kit. I also used the scissors to cut the stalk, but I probably should have used something else. That stalk was thick!

According to my instructions, it should hang upside down in a dark, cool place. The garage isn’t super dark. Let’s call it dusk, and right now the humidity is low. It was the best I could come up with. We make sure to leave the lights off.

Don’t ask why I hang wind chimes in a windless garage. Who can understand the whims of a pretend Bohemian heiress who dabbles in what amuses her? They were there, so I just tied the plant to one of the wind chimes. I could see some sort of fancy herb drying rack in my future.

The instructions say when the flowers are dry, the branches will easily snap instead of bending. This should take 3-6 days, depending on humidity. Today is day 4, and it’s not ready yet. When the plant is dry, I’m to finish trimming the buds and weigh them to determine my yield. I don’t think it’s going to be all that spectacular, but I’m ever hopeful.

The final step is to put the trimmed buds in a jar, burping and re-sealing the jar every couple of days for the first two weeks. And then comes the best part … the taste test! By the way, I saved the dirt, but I’m not sure it’s advisable to use again. I’m still exploring that option.

So, more to come on the evolution of my cannabis plant. While yield and cost-per-ounce is yet to be determined, I think I did OK, and I’m confident warmer weather will be an asset to my next adventure as a gentlewoman farmer. I have 9 more seeds, so there’s plenty of action left.

Nature’s antidepressant

My cinnamon hand pie.
Dale grilling tomatillos and peppers for Chile Verde.
Tomatillos and peppers grilling for Chile Verde.

The weather turned unseasonably warm and dry, although it’s chilly in the morning and evening. We need the rain, and actually, I’m a precipitation convert. I like it now that I’m retired and can stay home and be cozy.

Politics is maddening and depressing, so I’m trying to ignore it and focus on simple pleasures. Mostly food, with exercise thrown in, because, you know, the food …

Exercise

My favorite golf course is much more enjoyable when it’s dry, so I’m playing all I can before we get another downpour. I always walk … a good five miles. I’m amazed by the number of able-bodied people who take a cart on a walkable course. The same people who wait 15 minutes for a parking space closer to the store.

The swimming pool at my fitness club is lovely, although I witnessed an altercation there this week. I was quietly swimming laps, imagining I was in the Caribbean, when I heard a ruckus. I stopped mid-lane to discover the lady next to me yelling at the guy one lane over. The woman does not swim but runs and hops around in the pool to music.

Apparently, she didn’t like where the guy was about to start swimming. He had his own lane, but I guess it was too close for comfort. He suggested they switch lanes to give her more room, and she suggested he go to the other side of the pool (or somewhere else). I stayed out of it, returning to the bliss of the Caribbean. Good grief, people. Chill out.

When I finished my swim, it appeared neither compromised in any form or fashion, so then I began to wonder if they were married. Ha, ha.  

Food

The warmer weather somewhat foils my winter cooking plans. Still on my agenda are stuffed cabbage rolls and a casserole made with layers of sauerkraut, rice, ground pork, smoked sausage, bacon and sour cream. I know. A weird artery killer, but dag, it’s good.

The New York Times charges extra (beyond the basic subscription level) to access most of its food section, but this feature on one-pot wonders seems freely accessible. I print internet recipes and put them in a three-ring binder. Easier than a scrapbook.

Although I’ll need more rain or at least a cold snap to make this recipe, Dijon and Cognac Beef Stew looks spectacular. I love this quote from the recipe’s author:

“Whoever said cooking should be entered into with abandon or not at all had it wrong. Going into it when you have no hope is sometimes just what you need to get to a better place. Long before there were antidepressants, there was stew.”

Regina Schrambling

I finally made cinnamon hand pies from “When Pies Fly” by Cathy Barrow. While I’ve tried crust recipes from Martha Stewart, Rose Levy Beranbaum and the rest, I never mastered all-butter crust until I did it Cathy’s way. Everything is cold, and you use the food processor, but it doesn’t come together in a clump. You squish the dough together afterward in plastic wrap, roll it into a block and then refrigerate overnight.

Super yummy! Of course, I made that all-butter crust, but I think it would be easy to use any crust, including store-bought, and a simple filling of brown sugar, a bit of flour, cinnamon and nutmeg to taste. Add just enough melted butter to make a crumble and use a cookie scoop to fill the pie before pressing down the edges of the crust with a fork. Vent the top. I baked mine at 400 degrees for about 25 minutes.  

As the weather seems to be transitioning, kind of cold but kind of not, Dale figured out how to make the best of both worlds. A hearty Chile Verde and homemade flour tortillas for a chilly night … but … with some outdoor prep time in the sun when the temps were in the 60s!

Compromise. Just another pro tip for relationships and cooking.

Bad at travel?

Many retirees live to travel, but we are not among them. Why not?

Aside from being happy homebodies, we traveled a lot when we were young, and travel isn’t what it used to be. We’re on vacation every day and don’t need a break. We live well and cook great food at home.

Plus, we’re bad at travel. Dale won’t plan, and I over-plan, researching hotels and restaurants in search of the perfect experience. We’re almost always disappointed and sad to see the money go.

We did some soul-searching and figured out a few things. For some of us, traveling was easier before retirement, because we knew more money was coming in. Right? Time to earn it back. When there’s a fixed pot at the end of the rainbow, you tend to be more cautious. At least we are.

There’s no one-size-fits-all for retirement travel. Easy for some, not so much for others. Still, most of us do want to enjoy new experiences. Maybe it’s just a matter of figuring out what we like and don’t like and learning to do it better.

One thing we learned this week is that we’re sort of low-brow people in search of a low-rent rendezvous. We went to Napa for an overnight trip, and it was an expensive letdown. The wineries were lovely, but later it seemed like we had opened our wallets to charming thieves and said, “Here, take it.”

A big deal up Napa way is bringing your own wine to a restaurant. Best as I can tell, there are rules. You don’t bring a wine they serve at the restaurant. It should be something special. They charge a “cork” fee unless it’s a special day where they don’t charge to uncork your wine, but even then, there’s an etiquette to tipping and tasting. Of course, they stick it to you on the wine if you order theirs.

We had beer! And that was the best part of our meal.

Food … we’re all about food and thought planning a trip around the restaurant would be ideal. I spent hours researching options. And then we ended up with mediocre food that cost too much.

However, there were locals at the bar, and what did my little eye spy but a wine purse! For the bring-your-own uncorking ritual. That’s when I knew this was not our tribe. When I think of purses and wine, I might recall the 70s, when one might have wanted something to throw up in.

I came home in a foul mood and tried to think of our best vacations. What have we forgotten?

Our favorite trips were to unpretentious places where we spent the day absorbing gorgeous natural scenery – walking, hiking, scuba diving. Moderately strenuous but not grueling. We quit backpacking years ago because it’s hard, and the food sucks. And beer is heavy.

We camped or stayed in a modest lodge. You didn’t have to dress up. We ate whatever was there because we were hungry. And it was good! Oh, and one might have a couple of beers or a glass of wine with dinner and then read for a while before going to bed early.

I’m confident there are better and less expensive ways to explore the wine country. We’ll go back at some point. For now, we are going to focus on visiting natural wonders, and there’s no shortage of them within a few hours of our home. Dale’s on board and said he’s eager to visit Death Valley.

In the summer.

Because then you know what it feels like to be in Death Valley in the summer.