The Ranch is Closed

I wonder if they miss me. Or at least recognize that I'm gone, most likely for good. I wonder if they are whispering about our whereabouts up and down the River Walk.

I bet the squirrel lady, who so begrudgingly gave me the evil eye every morning as I counteracted her friendly feedings by spastic, yes I'm scared of squirrels, shewings, has one too many squirrels on her hand.

I'm afraid the dog walkers from thin to pudgy, old to young, grumpy to friendly, mute to gossipy will think that I've been injured and forced to give up my methodical, paced runs every morning.

I imagine the butchers at Casey's have assumed that the Bee finally got her way - that the clearly delineated orders of a porterhouse and a piece of salmon have gone to one side, making us migrate to Succulent Seafood.

I think Bud already misses talking to Peter and living vicariously through the aromas steaming out of our retro kitchen.

I bet the Trick or Treaters will worry, scoff and complain when the girl with the silver tray of full size Hershey bars doesn't come to the door this Halloween.

I can just see the Starbuck's employees speculating and brewing about their favorite regular deciding to cut loyalties and go to the new Caribou instead.

I think the Ushers in Church will be happy to have two extra seats for the standing room only crowd.

I can see the stock piles of Kim Crawford at Binny's waiting and waiting for the faithful fan who won't come.

And I wonder if there is talk around town about the sudden disappearance of the (relatively) young couple with too many hobbies.

Yes, I'm giving our impact on the Naperville community too much credit. Though we pounded its pavement, swam in its quarry, prayed at its church, and frequented its shops, our Naperville experience was largely defined by the Ranch. Which as of today, closed, and shifted from us to another owner.

We turned over the key, the wall paper, the double showers, Grandma Barry's floor, the side yard and the chipmunks in the gutters to someone I only know by name. And further claimed our status as two-suitcase vagabonds, living in just about the most perfect little yellow room in La Grange Park.

Whether or not we made an impression on Naperville, I believe the Ranch will forever be changed. And I just have a few parting words to the house, to the memories it created and to its new home owners.

Ranchers - It may not seem like much. It may be just your investment property. But please feel the wall paper, do all the dishes by hand, bring good food and wine to the table every evening, play music loudly, dance, plant vegetables and flowers and watch them grow, give good morning and good night kisses to your special someone, and give the house all the love it deserves. It'll treat you very well in return. Just please, please don't tare it down.

To the Ranch. Thank you for being the best first home, sweet home ever.

Lo.

Fragile

Oh I had big plans this weekend. There was to be a packing party at the Ranch. A weekend's worth of a fete - the final send off for the home sweet home that has treated us so well. 

There was going to be champagne and my grandma's bear claws. Perhaps a 'My Week with Marilyn' viewing while we wrapped and stashed. We'd listen to Bon Iver and commence 'remember when' stories as we wrapped up scrapbooks, photo albums, snips and clips. We'd remember each thoughtful, generous, well-wishing wedding guest as we carefully bubble-encased our registry. We'd break for mass, perhaps a Red Mango too. Then we'd start right back up again, dusting off great memories, thinking about where the collection of scuba gear would go in the new house, planning THE outfit for the house warming party on the other end of the move, and relishing the addition of a dish washer to our kitchen. 

Then we'd do a cookout. The perfect spring weather would make the Eleven burgers, corn on the cob, and onion rings even better. And as the sun set, we'd wash our hands of the newspaper smudges, have a home brew, and anticipate the fun that the future holds.

Ha! I April fooled myself. 

Packing.

F-ing.

Sucks. 

There was no party. There was no champagne paired with iced pastries. There was no last supper. Or cookout. And the newspaper smudges aren't isolated on my hands, they are all over my aching, ornery body. I'm filthy, and tired, and completely paranoid that the movers are going to come tomorrow, break my China, smash my crystal and drink my alcohol, even after reading the detailed notes I left them.

I'm on my break. I'm not eating a bear claw, and I'm sure as hell not watching a movie, because the Internet isn't connected and the TV is dismounted. My rosy, posey optimism is tapped. So I will instead document lessons learned during my 48-hour non stop packing hell.

Start early. Don't wait till the weekend before.
Don't run 14 miles the morning before you start packing. 
Yes, that registry item looks amazing, and it's just what you want, and it'll make all the food you cook taste better. But it's really, really heavy. And really, really fragile. And really, really not meant to move once it's opened and in your house.
In that spirit, brides, keep every single box that your wedding gifts arrived in.
Buy more packing material. You can never have enough. Ever. 
Get a dumpster. Or if you are so inclined start removing the crap you are storing for no particular reason from your house immediately. 
Play loud music. It drowns out the annoying noise that your packing partner is making by crinkling paper, ripping tape, clacking hangers, and dropping stuff. 
Don't pack near your significant other. You will end up fighting about the way you overstuffed all of your boxes.
Forget about any ideas that translate into making the process of moving fun. It's not. It never will be. I'm not moving ever, ever again. Why did I pack that last wine glass?!

Lo. 

Ranching

Thursday night has always been a favorite.

In grade school, many Thursday nights promised the chance to put on a Laura Ashley dress, attend a Civic Light Opera performance, and eat Junior Mints at Intermission. In high school, Thursday night meant NBC's prime time line-up - Friends, Seinfeld, and ER - which never under-promised. In college it meant putting on your tank top and black pants in the dead of winter so you could be one of the hot, sweaty, underage revelers squeezed onto the dance floor of Boat Club. And in MBA school, without classes on Friday, Thursday evenings could mean a short ride to New Buffalo for a sunset cruise on the boat. 

In the working world, a productive Friday lies on the other side of Thursday night, so my days of Boat Clubbing are definitely not an option. But there's something about tweeting #TGIF the following morning, that makes a Thursday night relaxing and great.

On this particular Thursday night, last night, we most definitely should have dismissed the idea of fun. We'd already had our big night out for the week, getting my boots shines, eating Smokin' Joes, sitting court side at the McDonald's All-American Basketball Games on Wednesday. So we should have had one activity in mind -  packing. With a mere three days left in the Ranch there is a ton to do: china to wrap, crystal to carefully tuck back into boxes, clothes to fold, books to organize, and junk to toss. We should have steamed the leftover tamales, unloaded the boxes from the monster truck, and packed. But we didn't. And our house is still in perfect order.

Instead, we sat in our Adirondack chairs; we read, grilled, and watched the little world we have called home for the past three years go by.

Last night, we just Ranched - the thing we've done best for the past three years. And although we'll most likely do just about the same thing, minus a decade, at our new house, there is something about this place that I don't want to let go of - that I will miss dearly. So until we hit a breaking point where we really need to start packing, probably shortly after my run on Saturday, we will keep on giving the Ranch the love and time it deserves. 

It was a great Thursday night in Naperville - one that would make my other favorite Thursdays proud. And one that would make the Ranch happy to have had the brewer and the bee as its residents.

 

Lo. 

Grilled Pork Chops with Leftover Tamale Sauce

2 bone-in pork chops
Leftover tamale sauce
(I made tamales on Tuesday night with chicken instead of pork. The sauce that I braised the chicken in makes about 1-2 cups too much. Reserve the pureed sauce and use as a marinade.)

Marinate the chops in the tamale sauce for 45 minutes to an hour.

Heat up the grill. Cook chops 10 minutes per side, or for thicker cuts (which we had), 15 minutes per side.

In a small sauce pan, bring the leftover marinade to a boil. Boil for three minutes, then reduce heat to medium low and simmer for 10-15 minutes. Drizzle over grilled pork chops.

Serve the chops with a blue cheese chopped salad and corn bread. And you've got a meal for the Rancher in you.