A tree for the holidays?

I never get sick of retirement. Even when I read the news, and it’s all horrible and depressing, I think, well, at least I got to sleep in for two years.

Jury duty did not materialize. I called the automated line the first day, and they said call again tomorrow. I called again the next day, and they said you’re done. I was relieved to be set free but ready to do my part for democracy, if there should be any shreds left when all is said and done.

The Medical maze

Good news regarding my wrists. As you may recall, I fell off my bike in 2012 and broke my right wrist. It was in a cast. A couple of years later, I fell at work and x-rays were taken. My left wrist had an old fracture. I never knew it was broken, but I recall an anger management incident whereupon I pounded my fist on the arm of a chair, and I remember it hurting for weeks.

My wrists still hurt occasionally, and I attributed it to the fractures, although I also suspected carpal tunnel syndrome. Then in September, I did a fitness assessment that involved push-ups and other weight-bearing tests. They haven’t been the same since.

My primary care physician ordered x-rays and said my right one showed no signs of a fracture, and my left one had multiple fractures. She sent me to an orthopedic specialist.

I saw the ortho Monday. I will say that over the past couple of weeks, my wrists were starting to feel a lot better. I’ve continued to swim and play golf, wrapping my wrists in sports tape, which was hugely helpful.

Apparently, my primary care physician does not know how to read x-rays. The ortho said both wrists show signs of old but healed fractures. There is no evidence of arthritis. No symptoms associated with carpal tunnel.

He said my wrists look good and saw no reason for an MRI. The worst thing would be to immobilize them, so he said to keep doing what I’m doing. Play golf, swim, do weights, whatever. Tape them, don’t tape them, take Advil occasionally, whatever works. I asked about these little bands called Wrist Widgets, and he said sure, try them.

Later, I started having imaginary conversations.

 “What about bat’s blood? Do you think that would help?”

“Sure, give it a whirl.”

It kind of reminds me of when we lived in Egypt. You’d have horrible diarrhea and go to the medical clinic, and the first thing they’d ask is, “How long have you lived in Egypt?” And no matter what you said, they always replied, “That’s normal.” We started making up stuff.

“Doctor, there’s purple puss pouring out of my nose, and I’m vomiting baby chickens.”

“How long have you lived in Egypt?”

“Two years.”

“That’s normal.”

Anyway, I’m happy to be given the green light to play golf and swim and do weights, and as I said, both wrists are getting better, but I was a little surprised by his complete lack of concern. I guess that’s a good thing.

No signs of a Christmas tree

My Christmas tree experiment backfired on me. I reminded Dale once that Christmas would come fast following Thanksgiving, because I know he procrastinates, and if he wanted a tree, he’d better hustle. I would rather skip the whole thing, so I never said another word, hoping he’d forget.

He did seem unmotivated, and there were no signs of a tree. That’s when I started to feel bad. The tree makes him happy. I should encourage that, not secretly hope time gets the best of him. I finally said, look, I was hoping you’d forget about the tree, and I feel terrible if my bah humbug attitude brought you down. He said I was completely absolved. The tree is his deal.

Still, there’s no sign of a tree. Our neighbors got one yesterday, and it’s parked temporarily on their doorstep. It’s small but nicely shaped. I said, hey, check out Mike’s tree on their porch. I wonder where he got it? Dale nodded but didn’t say anything. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be begging.

A tree, for God’s sake, just get a tree already!

Retirement reading

I read where Tahoe Girl was re-reading one of her favorite books, “The Historian” by Elizabeth Kostova. I got it from the library and dove right in. First off, I will say it’s a beast of a book, weighing in at some 650 pages.

The story revolves around a group of academics studying the lore of Dracula and eventually their travels in search of his tomb. The principal narrator is the daughter of an academic, but part of the story is told through the father’s eyes, as well as through letters from another professor who went missing in the midst of his research. There’s even a love story tucked inside.

I liked it a lot. The history is detailed and quite interesting. I admit to speed reading here and there. But all in all, I found it hard to put down. I had a bad vampire dream toward the end of the book, and I finished it in the parking lot of the library, because I wanted the book out of the house.

Now that vampires aren’t stalking me in my sleep, I’m between books. I have a hold on the new Grisham book, “The Guardians.” Oh, and I got a nice note from Jay Harrison, our friend at BoomSpeak. He likes the Kristen Lepionka books I recommended. The character, Roxane Weary, is a private eye in Columbus, Ohio. She’s also bisexual.

I usually don’t like it when the author gets too cute with the private eye’s background. “He’s a retired clown who lives with witches on a mountain in Mongolia …” All that to say Roxane’s sexual preferences are an interesting sideline that don’t interfere with the integrity of a good private eye story.

California Dreaming

Since I didn’t have jury duty, I went to my golf club’s holiday luncheon. I blew out my hair and wore nice wool slacks that haven’t seen the light of day since I retired. Black pants, white shirt, denim jacket and black booties. For me, that’s festive.

As I was driving to the event, it was overcast and drizzling. I could hear the Mama and Papas singing, “All the leaves are gone, and the sky is gray.” And something about driving among the barren trees through California’s winter gloom to celebrate the holidays with a bunch of old lady golfers made me crazy happy.

Now I’m getting sentimental. I guess that means I will go with Dale to get a damned tree.

Cheerfulness breaking through

I finally broke down and watched the Peloton ad, which has been much maligned for being sexist. I’m usually the Top Gun of my class when it comes to identifying sexist bullshit, but I just can’t get excited about this one.

Husband buys wife a fancy exercise bike. She starts exercising. Changes her life. I guess because he gave it to her, and I guess because she didn’t request it, that implies he wants her to change in some way, and the bike is a not-so-subtle message to get off her ass and ride?

It’s a stretch, even for me, a lifelong feminist. I’m thinking, yay, a present! A bike seems more realistic than a car or diamonds, and no one seems to get upset about those ads. Maybe there’s a minimum.  

I’m not seeing dark forces at work here, and now that I know what the fuss is about, I’m moving on. There was a time when I would get fired up about everything, but like Leonard Cohen, I found over the years that cheerfulness kept breaking through.     

Still, in the spirit of sexist conspiracy theories, I vote for the Trintellix ad, in which a woman is depressed while dealing with dirty laundry, two small kids, a husband who doesn’t seem to do much, an office job with a bunch of men standing around looking important and a broken copy machine she has to fix.

There’s a pill for that.

Ortho consultation

I’m a bit apprehensive about the upcoming week. I finally get to see an orthopedic specialist on Monday. I broke both my wrists in 2012, and since then I’ve experienced periodic pain. I’ve never been sure if the pain is related to the fractures or carpal tunnel syndrome.

Usually when my wrists act up, I wear braces for a couple of days, and I’m fine. This time, I put a lot of pressure on both wrists attempting push-ups during my new member “fitness evaluation” at the club I joined, and my wrists pretty much hurt all the time now.

The interesting part is that I’ve been playing some of my best golf ever and swimming, so it’s not incapacitating. I’m fearful the doctor will tell me I can’t completely recover without a lot of downtime, meaning no golf. I’ll do what I have to do, and it’s better to deal with it in the winter when golf kind of sucks anyway, but I’m hoping I can play through it.

I definitely don’t want surgery.

Jury Duty

I got a summons for jury duty. I’ve only been summoned once before, and that was in Texas. Move around enough, and it takes them time to find you. In Texas, I went to the jury selection room, where more than a 100 people were being processed. When they finally got to the end, it was down to me and four others. They said we could go home.

Of course, I’m proud to do my civic duty, and it could be interesting, but I dread it just the same. The summons has a little warning about dress code. “Jurors are to dress appropriately as an officer of the court.” Whatever that means. No tank tops, shorts or bare feet, so I’m good on that front.

I’m instructed to call tomorrow to see if my appearance at the court house is confirmed, postponed or canceled. If it’s on, I have to go in first thing Tuesday morning. Ugh. Maybe I should have submitted an excuse:

I’m retired. I can’t start anything at 8:30 a.m., and I no longer have a relationship with appropriate attire. Can I watch it on TV and text you my thoughts?

It’s a marshmallow world

Homemade Marshmallows

Based on a recipe from Alton Brown, this pillowy peep-like confection is totally worth the trouble for the marshmallow lover in your life.
Print Recipe

Ingredients
  

  • 3 packages unflavored gelatin
  • 1 cup ice cold water, divided
  • 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
  • 1 cup light corn syrup
  • 1/4 tsp kosher salt
  • 1 tsp vanilla extract
  • 1/4 cup confectioners' sugar
  • 1/4 cup cornstarch
  • nonstick spray
  • sanding sugar

Instructions
 

  • Place gelatin into the bowl of a heavy-duty stand mixer along with 1/2 cup of the water. Have the whisk attachment standing by.
  • In a small saucepan, combine the remaining 1/2 cup of water, granulated sugar, corn syrup and salt. Place over medium high heat, cover and cook for 3 to 4 minutes. Uncover, clip a candy thermometer onto the side of the pan and continue to cook until the mixture reaches 240 degrees F, about 7 to 8 minutes. Once the mixture reaches temperature, immediately remove from the heat.
  • Turn the mixer on low speed and, while running, slowly pour the sugar syrup down the side of the bowl into the gelatin mixture. Once you've added all the syrup, increase the speed to high. Continue to whip until the mixture becomes very thick and lukewarm, about 12 to 15 minutes. Add the vanilla during the last minute of whipping. While the mixture is whipping, prepare the pan.
  • Combine confectioners' sugar and cornstarch in a small bowl. Lightly spray a pan with nonstick cooking spray. I use a square silicone cake pan, but you can also use a glass or metal 9×13 pan. The smaller cake pan yields taller marshmallows, which I prefer. Add the sugar and cornstarch mixture and swish around to completely coat the bottom and sides of the pan. Return the remaining mixture to the bowl for later use.
  • When the marshmallow mixture is ready, pour/scrape into the prepared pan, using a lightly oiled spatula for spreading evenly into the pan. It's very sticky, and you won't be able to get every last bit. Dust the top with the remaining sugar and cornstarch mixture to lightly cover. Once covered, you can use your hands to press evenly into place. Allow to sit uncovered overnight.
  • Turn the marshmallows out onto a cutting board and cut into squares with a sharp knife or pizza cutter dusted with the sugar and cornstarch mixture. Once cut, lightly dust all sides of each marshmallow with the remaining mixture to ensure no side is sticky.
  • To decorate, put some cold water in a small bowl, and put your sanding sugars in separate bowls. Very lightly dip the top of the marshmallow into the water and then press into the sanding sugar. If you want to coat the entire marshmallow, paint the water on with a brush and then roll around in the sanding sugar to evenly coat. Allow to dry a couple of hours on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper.
  • Store in an airtight container for up to 3 weeks.

With apologies to Darlene Love, it’s a marshmallow world in the winter. Except I’m not talking about snow. This marshmallow starts in the kitchen.

I’ve been making marshmallows for years, but I just started coating them with sanding sugar to get more of the peep-like effect. It’s probably too much sugar for some, but for those of us who love peeps, there’s no such thing as too much sugar.

Quick question for peep lovers … fresh or stale?

While I prefer coarse sugar over fine, these marshmallows are also delicious unadulterated. Dale normally doesn’t like marshmallows, but he loves these without the extra sugar. They would also make a great gift with hot cocoa mix and maybe a cute mug.

These will be packaged up and gifted. I usually use cellophane bags tied with a ribbon, but I might poke around and see what else is out there.

Oh, and yes, it makes a mess, but when it comes to cleaning up sugar, hot water is your friend.

Growing cannabis: a 30-day progress report

My cannabis plant looked healthy, but I didn’t see any growth over a week’s time and concluded it needed more light. Dale originally thought there was plenty of light but changed his mind because, oh, I don’t know, it’s practically winter? Dark and gloomy? What a shocker.

I went ahead and purchased an LED grow light and nearly blinded Dale during the installation. He said he would help put it up, but then he started backtracking. Like maybe there was something easier that didn’t involve ladders and finding a joist in the ceiling.

Neither one of us could find the joist. I said I would call a handyman, but Dale thought that was ridiculous. He said they don’t even pull into your driveway for less than $100, making homegrown cannabis not such a bargain after all. I explained I’ve been frugal about this whole project, but sometimes you just have to throw money at it.

Except I didn’t want to spend the money, either. I said I was going to return the light, which I purchased on Amazon – free shipping both ways. He thought that was best. I did the return online, and this particular item had to go to Kohl’s to get free shipping. Lowe’s is on the way to Kohl’s, so I figured I’d return it and then shop around for alternatives.

Dale suggested we go to Lowe’s first, to look for some sort of stand that could hold the light. I said I already initiated the return. What? He didn’t know how an Amazon return works. It’s a small thing, but it’s like discovering he doesn’t know where babies come from.

Lowe’s didn’t have anything that looked promising, and Dale finally agreed we should call the handyman service. I had to cancel the return, which is easy enough, but I hate doing and undoing. I accused him of making it up as he goes, saying whatever’s convenient, and he said I didn’t understand science or nature.

On the way home, I said what about asking our neighbor? He’s a contractor. Surely, he could find a joist. Dale said look, I know it’s legal, but I’m not sure our neighbor needs to know we’re growing pot. I said what if I remove all the evidence and just say we need a hook in the joist so we can hang a plant? Dale agreed that might work.

Our neighbor came over and even he had a hard time finding the joist, but mission accomplished! Dale put in the hook, and we hung the light. We couldn’t find the switch, so I said maybe you just plug it in. That’s what I did, and it worked great, but at that precise moment, the light was pointed directly at Dale’s face. He was fine after a few minutes, but still, I felt bad.

Everyone is happy again. The plant has been growing for 30 days. I think it’s a little behind schedule, due to the light issues and it not being particularly warm in our house. When it was all said and done, we had our usual “repair the damage” conversation. We misinterpret what each other says and both need to ask better questions to be sure we’re on the same page.

Hugs and kisses all around. Our anniversary is this month – 41 years – and sometimes it’s hard to believe we’ve pulled it off. We occasionally make things harder than they have to be, but we do eventually work it out and are on track to ride out eternity together.

With all the recent rain, we both felt cooped up and to accelerate our recovery, I played golf this morning, and Dale went for a run … as in must get out of house, preferably alone. The sun actually appeared! Perhaps the secret of a long and happy marriage, particularly in retirement, is finding that sweet spot between togetherness and personal space.

And good weather.

When the rain came

Our Thanksgiving was great, although the turkey was a little overdone. We had delicious turkey sandwiches last night on Dale’s homemade bread, so it couldn’t have been all that bad.

There was an incident involving the oven. Dale roasted a pork belly the night before, and apparently grease splattered, creating a lot of smoke when I was getting ready to put in the cheesecake. I had to turn on the fan and open windows. Luckily, it didn’t affect the food, and after the oven cooled, Dale wiped down the inside so we wouldn’t have a smokefest when he started cooking the turkey.

We didn’t argue about it, but I could tell he was annoyed that I was annoyed with smoke. He thinks I overreact, and that might be true, but I don’t see any advantage to embracing smoke and fire as a byproduct of cooking inside the home.

Dale went to bed early, but I stayed up watching the Downton Abbey movie. I love the series and felt like I was reunited with old friends – oh, look, there’s Anna! And Mr. Bates! And Mary’s hair … so chic. But all in all, it was pretty disappointing. I have this vision of the actors putting on their old costumes and laughing hysterically. As in, “Can you believe we’re getting paid to do this?”  

My pumpkin cheesecake was fantastic. I’m experimenting with freezer action. Once the pieces are firm, I’ll wrap them in plastic and put them in a tub or or add another layer of foil.

I am not a Christmas person, but I’m not going to get all grumpy about it, either. I’m just happy to be here. Dale is more into it than I am, but he doesn’t want to put up a tree until about a week before. However, if you don’t go soon, the trees are gone – especially with Thanksgiving coming right at the end of November this year.

Dale is not exactly methodical about getting things done, so I’m not saying a word. I’m hoping he procrastinates until there are no trees to be had. The only potential downside is my annual holiday tradition of drinking single malt scotch while he decorates the tree. I feel certain I could find another excuse to enjoy a wee bit of scotch, if the tree shortage should come to pass.

I finished all my books, and as it turns out, the library is open today! I’ve been avoiding crowds, but the library is reasonably safe. I suppose I’ll have to find something to wear other than jammies and head over there this afternoon, hopefully before the rain kicks in.

Yes, it’s California, but the rainy season is finally here, and it is quite chilly by my standards. I am proud to say I’ve walked about an hour every day. In terms of motivation, I had to dig deep, as I am such a wuus about the cold. But it was fine once I got started.

The rain and cold also affect my golf schedule – what Dale calls, “The Tour.” He usually asks me on Sunday what the tour schedule is this week. I didn’t play last week at all. I’m going to try and squeeze in a round early Tuesday. The rain is supposed to start in the afternoon. I welcome the rain, but I’m already sad about the unpredictability of winter golf.

When golf season is in full swing, I hardly bother with crafts projects. But now that the rainy season has started, I’ll resume my activities in the artist’s studio garage. I still have all the stuff for coasters, as well a piece of discarded fence I think will be interesting to play around with.

My little cannabis plant looks healthy, but it doesn’t seem to be growing much. I think it needs more light, so I caved and purchased an LED lamp. It should arrive today, and Dale said he would help me hang it – the guidelines suggest about one foot above the plant. For some reason, I was thinking of Robert Frost:

My little plant must think it queer to grow without a light source near.

Dale wants to take a turkey break today, but we have yet to discuss what we’ll have instead. I always make soup out of the carcass, so I’ll probably do that Sunday or Monday. Rain tonight, I think, and tomorrow looks like a washout.

I’m looking forward to next week, when everybody else goes back to work!

The 365-day weekend

We watched Office Space, which might be up there with Young Frankenstein for most times watched. I still love the scene where the consultant tells Peter he has been missing a lot of work lately.

Peter replies, “I wouldn’t say I’ve been missing it, Bob.”

Ditto!

In the work world I used to inhabit, Thanksgiving was at least a four-day weekend. Sometimes I would take a few extra days of vacation to get the whole week off, but as I advanced in my career, that became harder to do. More money equaled less time off, and in the end, the 24/7 work culture motivated me to retire. I never bought into the idea they owned me body and soul.

Even when I had time off, almost as soon as it started, I was stressed about it coming to an end.

I worked for a good company that paid me well, so I stayed fully committed and used to tell myself, “Don’t retire until you retire.” But the more hours I put in, the more I began to think about my exit strategy. I’m glad I hung in there, but I’m also glad I got out in time to enjoy retired life.

Now I’m entering my third year of retirement. The 365-day weekend. My third Thanksgiving without the dread of wondering when the call or email would come that some sort of crisis demanded my immediate attention. The biggest event today happened when I was toasting pecans and did a taste test. A few were rancid, so I had to throw out the whole package and send Dale to the store for more.

I know there are those who need more excitement or greater challenges, but I’m kind of done pushing that rock up the hill. Ambition served me well, but I don’t feel that need to prove myself anymore. Maybe it will come back, but for now I’m happy reading, writing, playing golf, walking, swimming, cooking – the usual suspects.

It got cold and windy and rainy here, so I’m going through my annual period of denial and staying inside with a couple of good books. I forgot I now have a gym membership, because I mainly just use it for the pool, but I could easily drive over there and hop on the treadmill. I might do that if this weather keeps up.

As for reading, I discovered a new writer – Kristen Lepionka. Her character is Roxane Weary, a private detective in Columbus, Ohio. There are three books, and I’ve now read them all. The characters are great, the stories interesting and I love her humor. Roxane is also bisexual and has an on-and-off girlfriend, as well as an on-and-off boyfriend. You know, all things prurient …

I’m about half-way through the new Janis Joplin biography by Holly George-Warren. It’s actually quite sad. Janis tried so hard to be conventional and fit in to her family’s expectations, but she just couldn’t make a go of it. I’m glad she went with who she was and shared her rare talent with us, but I wish she had been able to leave the drugs alone.

The Downton Abbey movie is available to stream for $19.99 on Amazon. I’m trying to justify it by suggesting it would cost more than if Dale and I went to the theater to see it and got a big bucket of popcorn. The thing is, he doesn’t really want to watch it, so my justification is weak.

That means I’m just going to do it anyway. My popcorn is pretty good, too. Olive oil, I swear, there’s no turning back.

Thanksgiving wine snobs

Dale and I went to one of our favorite wineries yesterday mainly to purchase replacement Barbera but also to sample the tasting menu and see what’s new. All of it was delicious and on sale if you bought at least half a case, but we stuck with our plan and purchased just two bottles of Barbera, a full-bodied red wine that is a signature wine of the Sierra foothills.

While we love quality wine, we don’t think of ourselves as wine snobs and don’t really know much more or want to know much more than, yum, I like that. It was just our luck to be standing at the wine bar next to a group of sophisticates discussing the merits of various wines.

I detect a hint of hot tar from a freshly paved road.

Oh, is that lemon meringue pie I taste on the back of the tongue?

Hmmm, laced with wood and deep notes of tobacco …

Dale and I were dying. I mean, we know detecting all these flavors in wine is a real thing, but it was starting to sound ridiculous. I whispered to Dale, “Is that ripe roadkill I’m tasting?” He said, “No, perhaps a hint of just-mowed sod with a backdrop of goose poop.”

All that said, we love being close to the wineries and find most of the wines in El Dorado and Amador counties to be just as good and less expensive than anything you might find in Napa or Sonoma. The tasting rooms are usually in beautiful settings, and the experience is completely unpretentious if you don’t count local wine snobs. It’s a lovely outing for us, and we never buy wine from the grocery store anymore. Maybe we are snobs.

Two popular wines that are typically not grown in the foothills are Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. However, some of the wineries partner with growers in other areas and bottle it locally.

To accompany our Thanksgiving dinner, we’re having a bottle of Pinot Noir from E16, a winery in Somerset, which is about a 30-minute drive from our house. The grapes are actually grown in the Russian River Valley. E16 wines are spendier than some, so we save them for special meals but not necessarily special occasions. It just depends on what we’re cooking and how we feel.

We don’t follow rules about what to drink with what. For example, some say you should only drink white wine with fish. We had sautéed Petrale Sole the other night, and we did enjoy that with a nice Sauvignon Blanc ($9.99 from a bottle-your-own event at a local winery). However, we usually have red wine with salmon … and turkey.

Just for fun, I included a picture of a wine purchased 30 years ago, when we lived in Egypt. We’ve been hauling this thing around for a long time. It was pretty awful even then, but you know, you make do with what you have. We called it EBD wine. That stood for Egyptian Bathroom Disease. I’m sure it’s even more awful now, but aside from the wine, we loved Egypt and seeing Gianaclis in the rack brings back fond memories.

That’s the thing about wine. You don’t have to be an expert. I don’t know tar from tobacco, but I know to start with what tastes good and focus on the people, the food, the conversation and the scenery – the whole experience.

Our Pinot Noir will accompany roast turkey, Maine potato stuffing, green beans almondine, mashed potatoes and gravy, and homemade cranberry sauce. Dessert is pumpkin cheesecake.

What’s on your menu?

The best salad dressing you’ve never tasted

I gained a bunch of weight in high school but lost the extra pounds in my early 20s. In between, I struggled with what to eat and demonized foods I now view as perfectly fine to enjoy in moderation. Salad dressing was verboten for several years. Instead, I’d add a squirt of lemon or rice wine vinegar. Serviceable but not outrageously delicious.

While I understand some people restrict fats for various reasons, I focus on eating wholesome homemade foods, fat be damned. But because I don’t load up on processed foods or junk (and exercise a lot), I don’t have a weight or cholesterol problem, and I bear no guilt for treating myself to a salad with yummy dressing.

Cooking from scratch is a retirement hobby that pays huge dividends.

My favorite indulgence as a teenager (when not dieting) was a chef’s salad with thousand island dressing. I still love it. There’s just something so satisfying about creamy but slightly tart thousand island on crisp greens, ham, turkey, cheese and hard-cooked eggs. As for the dressing, it seems not a lot of places serve it anymore. Or if they do, it’s not house made.

Another dressing that’s hard to find is Roquefort. Marie’s, the premium dressing sold in a jar in the refrigerated section of the grocery store, used to have Roquefort. When they discontinued it, I actually wrote them a letter. The response was something along the lines of it not being cost-effective. Their blue cheese is still good, and we use it sparingly.

We often go with olive oil and balsamic vinegar or just plain old red wine vinegar or even Italian mixed up from the Good Seasons packet, but our favorite is an oldie we found in a Los Angeles Times cookbook, circa 1981. They call it French dressing, although it bears no resemblance to any French dressing I’ve ever tasted. We call it The Pink Stuff.

The Pink Stuff is easy to make. The taste is peppery with a pungent mustard backdrop and a hint of sweetness from the red wine. It’s fantastic over any kind of greens, including spinach. Mostly I just drizzle it on because it’s convenient and doesn’t use an extra dish, but as is the case with most salad dressings, less is more.

My spinach salad in the picture was a wee bit overdressed but still fantastic. Ideally, you toss a small amount of dressing with your greens in a big bowl to lightly but evenly distribute the tasty goodness.

This recipe calls for simple ingredients we keep on hand anyway. We store peanut oil in the refrigerator because we don’t use it that much, and it can go rancid. The oil solidifies in the fridge, so you need to take it out ahead of time or run hot water over the bottle to re-liquify. The bottle we buy is too tall for the microwave.

Pro Tip. Go ahead. Save the big bowl and pour The Pink Stuff directly on your salad. Just not too much.

The Pink Stuff (French Dressing)

Punched with flavor and unlike anything resembling what you might think of as French dressing, this recipe was originally published by the Los Angeles Times California Cookbook (1981). It was said to be the house dressing at Le St. Germain, a fine French restaurant in Hollywood I believe no longer exists.
Print Recipe Pin Recipe

Ingredients
  

  • 1/2 tsp salt
  • 1/2 tsp black pepper
  • 1/4 tsp white pepper
  • 1 tbsp Dijon-style mustard
  • 1 tsp hot dry mustard
  • 2 tbsp red wine vinegar
  • 3 tbsp red wine
  • 1/4 cup peanut oil

Instructions
 

  • Combine salt, black pepper, white pepper and mustards and mix well with a whisk. Add vinegar and wine, and beat until smooth. Slowly add oil and beat with a whisk until slightly thickened.

Growing cannabis (day 10)

Today is day 10 of growing my cannabis plant, which is still in the “jiffy pellet” that came with the kit. It’s almost time to transfer the seedling to the big pot. However, nothing is crisp and clear in the world of gardening … probably another reason I avoided it for so long.

I tend to be literal. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned Humpty Dumpty was an egg. Everyone laughs, but they never said he was an egg. OK? I used to be that way about cooking, too. If the recipe said 450 degrees for 20 minutes, it was 450 degrees for 20 minutes, and it didn’t matter if there were flames shooting out of the oven. Just following the recipe.

With practice and skill, I lightened up and became more creative and flexible in the kitchen. I’m hoping some of that will rub off on my gardening activities. I mean, this is my first attempt to grow anything other than a yeast infection. Learning as I go. And that’s the issue. Other than what the instructions tell me, I don’t know what to expect.

Here’s what I know so far. The smooth more rounded leaves at the bottom are called cotyledons. I think they eventually fall off. The second set of leaves are the big ones, and the third set of leaves are the smaller ones in the middle. While they look healthy to my untrained eye, the instructions say to transplant after about 10 days, or when the third set of leaves are the same length as the second set.

So, there’s my dilemma. The leaves are nowhere close in size. Just to make it more complicated, the instructions say it’s better to transplant sooner rather than later. I suppose I will have to use my judgment, which is always suspect.

The type of cannabis I’m growing is called Ruderalis. It’s an auto-flowering strain that is said to be ideal for growing at home or indoors. It does not need 12-hour cycles of light and dark, as Indica and Sativa require. The plant needs about four hours of sunlight a day.

My seedling is perched by a south-facing window, and although I think it’s getting plenty of light, I’m not really sure. If in doubt, the guidelines suggest supplemental LED lighting. I’m kind of holding out on that front, as the room truly is flooded with warm sunlight most of the day.

I’m wondering if my plant is a little slow to grow because we keep our house rather cool … although the instructions say it should grow fine with a temperature between 69 and 80 degrees. We’re probably at the bottom end of that.

I have to make a decision, and I’ve pretty much decided I’m not waiting too long for the second set of leaves to catch up to the third. I’ll probably give it two more days and then do the transplant. I have this feeling it will work, but it’s going to take a little longer than normal because of the air temperature. Just a WAG on my part.

If the plant fails, I have more seeds and can try again. If needed, I will probably spring for the supplemental LED light. Or maybe it’s just something I can only grow in the warmer months. We’ll see!

An uneventful week … perfect

It was an uneventful week of retirement, and that is exactly how I like it.

Dale seems to be recovered from a brutal case of Achilles bursitis. He has been sidelined for awhile, and now it looks like we can plan some outdoor activities together. The weather here in northern California is gorgeous. This is what we pay for.

I’ve recovered from a freak accident involving the upper back weight machine, whereupon you sit on a bicycle-like seat facing the weights and squeeze your shoulder blades as you pull the weights toward you. If you should so happen to be taking boatloads of Advil for another injury and exert too much energy, it might result it some pretty spectacular bruising in the area of the body getting all friendly with the bicycle seat.

Now I know why Lance Armstrong didn’t know he had testicular cancer.

Our solar power system on our house is finally up and running. This is the last year of the 30 percent rebate on our federal taxes. We’ll use the rebate and savings on our utility bill to fund a new heating and cooling unit next year. Ours is 20 years old.

The solar contractor was excellent, but PG&E dragged their feet. They presumably had fires and electrical outages to worry about … one of the downsides of living in northern California.

PG&E emailed a welcome packet, which I suppose we’ll have to read. I’m not much for details when it comes to science. If I should ask Dale a simple question, I get a 20-minute response and references to books and documentaries. I would have been fine with something along the lines of, “Sun make magic with roof panels.”

When I think about our daily activities, I expect someone to scold us for being privileged. We’re not extravagant, mostly focusing on simple pleasures, but I do recognize not living from paycheck to paycheck is a luxury. Still, I imagine an announcer from an old scare-tactic documentary such as Reefer Madness.

“They don’t work! They eat cheese! They wear jammies until noon! They run out of mayonnaise! They’re living the retirement lifestyle!”

So, yes, we ran out of mayonnaise. Dale was making BLTs and scraping the bottom of the jar. He went to the pantry for more, and there wasn’t any. I followed up with another search. Surely, there’s a backup jar hiding somewhere between crushed tomatoes and peanut butter.

Running out of mayo is unheard of in our house. It would be like running out of cheddar cheese. Just doesn’t happen. Dale takes great pride in maintaining a robust pantry. Anything gets low, and you know there’s another one in backup.

I have a responsibility to add items to the list, so it’s not his fault. Surely, somewhere between tuna melts and tuna melts, I should have seen this coming.  

Part of the problem is we don’t keep a master list. Dale hates lists. Especially if it says to-do and has his name on it. I was in search of a compromise and after a period of reflection that included counting my blessings for having such problems, an idea bubbled to the surface.

Here’s the deal. Dale hates having a personal list, but he’s not opposed to lists in general. What’s not to like about a house list, as in not his and not mine? We have a small collection of refrigerator magnets, and I used them to affix the list to the fridge, a neutral setting. Now there’s a consolidated location for documenting items that are getting low.

I slowly walked Dale over to the list, like introducing a cat to another cat for the first time. He might have sniffed and scratched a little, but he likes it! And he bought replacement mayo.

Today is a beer run. No list required.