Happy Ghosts

In my lifetime, I have seen very few horror movies. And there's a reason for that. I'm an easy scare and prefer sweet dreams over scary ones. Growing up, the Gremlins, Seymour the man-eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors, the head Witch in the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's the Witches, and the two hoodlums that engaged our Ford Taurus in a car chase around Squirrel Hill gave me my fill of fear. These were the images of my nightmares; the reason I didn't want to go into the basement alone; why the tropical plant room at Phipps Conservatory could be bypassed; and the rationale behind yelling at Peter for passive aggressive driving to this day.

At night, I would run into my parents room if I had a dream haunted by a Gremlin or Witch, hoping to be welcomed by my Mom's healing embrace. But before she could even extend an invitation for me to climb up next to her, my Dad was leading me back to my room, back to my bed. He would nestle me under the covers, pat my back, and sooth me into a sweeter slumber.

***

I often wonder what Mary dreams about at this young age. I have to imagine her stuffed bunnies and bears make appearances. There's likely lots of milk and a couple tea cookies from Kirschbaums. Chalk and crayons, red and yellow leaves, Dora and Diego, buses, trucks, trains, and bikes. Oma and her potato pancakes.
   

Mommy's icing. And the layers of pumpkin cake inside.  



Jooooooe.


Walking and running with Nanny and Opa in the forest, crossing bridges, and quacking like the duckies.

I like to think she dreams of her family and friends and all the fun that life has already presented to her.

However, for the past three weeks, I've been alerted by a scream in the middle of the night to something else entering my little girl's dreams.

'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts.'
'Ghosts'

You might think or so I thought, she's one and a half, how does she know what ghosts are? And how does she understand that they are scary?

Oh.

That's right. Throughout the whole month of October, my cushy neighborhood is staged like a horror movie. Million dollar homes have scenes straight out of hell displayed in their front yards. And I'm supposed to explain to my 19-month old that hey, that's not scary; those are 'happy ghosts' and 'nice witches' and they love you.

Every year, the suburban execution of Halloween seems to get more petrifying. The collection of skeletons in everyone's California Closets expands and by October 1, there is a mad dash to spew as much blood and gore on professionally pruned lawns as possible. I don't get it. And quite frankly, I'm getting mad about it.

Ironically, it was Opa, or the Notre Dame Leprechaun that Mary calls, 'Opa' that saved the day the past two nights. She demanded that he come to bed with her, and just like that, he used his Irish heritage to fight off the ghouls trying to get into Mary's crib.

To set expectations for the rest of the babies and toddlers on the block. You will never find scares at the White House. Just treats. And they will always be the king size ones. 

Lo. 

Out and In

After Thanksgiving, Aunt Jeannie told me not to entertain anymore. She said to take it easy.
Just relax. I nodded, complied, but knew perfectly well that there would be many more guests before March rolled around. 

Last weekend, I did take Jeannie's suggestion though. Instead of staying in, we went out for sixteen dollar hamburgers, specialty drafts, and the company of our friends, Bill and Meghan. The hot spot was Vie, which besides coming over to our house, is the reason you should make the trip to the Western Suburbs for dinner. It's a Michelin rated gem with an impressive seasonal menu, excellent wine list, and a preservationist's dream walk-in. They also offer a whole hog butchering class, which was the highlight of our summer a couple years ago.

However, amongst the smartly casual crowd, I became (at least in my mind) the thing that didn't belong. Party due to my frugality and partly due to the way I've been carrying this baby, I've resorted to stretch ware's finest, which is just what I wore out last Friday night. I quietly hoped that the sassy suburbanites would focus on my new Frye boots instead of the Lycra-wrapped upper quartiles of my body. But I could sense the spandex haters all around me. Or maybe it was just me, hating myself in spandex. Regardless, the food was great, the company better, and the lack of dishes to wash, much appreciated.

This weekend though, I decided to return to my comfort zone and invited the party to come to us. That is, two of my cousins, two of their friends, and the showpiece of the evening, Ellen's new beau. (Uncle Mike, not a jagoff. Two thumbs up from us.) To fend off the frigid temperatures, there were platters of bruschetta served fireside, followed by Thomas Keller's filling and seemingly mile-high quiche, a roasted beet salad, and freshly baked biscotti for dessert.   

About midway through dinner, I once again confirmed the benefits of staying in. It's cheaper. And in many cases, better. Everyone seems a little more comfortable - so comfortable in fact, that picking at the crust of the quiche before its served is A-okay. There is full transparency about what's happening in the kitchen and the guests always seem to eager to participate. You don't have to weight for the server to fill up your pint glass. Stretch pants are totally acceptable. And when dinner is over, there's no road trip separating you from your warm bed.  

There is also something infinitely rewarding about preparing dinner and serving it to a group of young people who have dedicated the early part of their careers to making a positive difference in the world. Whether it's through clean energy, social work, environmentalism, educating some of the most vulnerable children in the country, or tackling the big issues through prose, Peter and I were in the company of some Millennial change-makers last night, privy to some incredible insider information that added human faces to the problems plaguing our nation. To send this optimistic, hard working crowd off into the 3 degree Chicago tundra, warm, full and happy, was awesome.   

So yes, Aunt Jeannie, there are hours here and there set aside for lying down, relaxing with my pregnant belly blocking the lower half of my book nowadays. But the hours leading up to dinner will always remain full, because they continue to bring so much life to my life.

Lo.

Thomas Keller's Over the Top Mushroom Quiche
Adapted from Food and Wine 

Buttery Pastry Shell
 
Ingredients: 
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 small container oyster mushrooms, roughly chopped
1 big container white mushrooms, thinly sliced
1 tablespoon unsalted butter 
2 small shallots, minced 
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, chopped 
1 cup shredded Emmental cheese
1 1/2 cups milk 
1 1/2 cups heavy cream 
5 large eggs, lightly beaten
Freshly grated nutmeg
Salt, pepper

Directions:
Prepare the crust. This can always be a challenge, and stepping up to the heights of a spring form pan to create Keller's crust can be very challenging. Here are some tips:

• Make sure you chill the dough enough before rolling it out and right before you put it in the oven. 
• Roll out the dough enough that you have excess hanging over the side of the pan and press the top firmly around the edges. It seems inevitable that the crust will collapse inward, so being prepared in this vain will help. 
• If you are aiming for Keller's perfection, save some excess pie dough to fill in the cracks.  
• Use pie weights. 
• Bake almost the full hour that it calls for before adding your custard mixture and the rest of the ingredients.

Preheat the oven to 325 F. In a large skillet, heat oil. Add the mushrooms, season with salt and pepper and cook over medium high heat until they start to soften, about 5 minutes. Reduce the heat to medium, and add the butter, shallots and thyme and cook about 12 minutes longer, stirring often. Season with salt and pepper and let cool. (There will be a lot of liquid from the mushrooms. You will want to drain most of this before adding the mushrooms to the quiche.)

Scatter 1/2 cup of the cheese and half of the mushrooms evenly over the bottom of the pastry shell. In a large bowl, mix together the custard: eggs, milk, cream, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Pour half of the mixture over the cheese and mushrooms. Top with another 1/4 cup of cheese and the remaining mushrooms. Then add the rest of the custard. Finally, scatter the remaining 1/4 cup of cheese on top.

Now, there is a reason this is called an 'over the top' quiche. Sure, it's 'over the top' in that it's a higher, fluffier, quite impressive quiche. But it's also 'over the top' in that the egg mixture quite literally went over the top of the (and under) the pan for me. That is why I reduced the custard proportions a bit. I don't like wasting eggs in this house. Depending on how well you did with your crust, look out for the lowest lying crack, and try to fill the shell past that point.

Bake the quiche for more than 1 1/2 hours. I say more than, because at 90 minutes, it wasn't quite set yet. I needed an additional 15. It should be richly browned on top and barely set in the center. Let it cool in the pan until still very warm, but set. Pop out the bottom of the springform pan and serve in wedges.

Craving-Beating Biscotti
(Barely) adapted from Smitten Kitchen

Ingredients:
3 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 tablespoon orange juice
1 teaspoon orange zest
1 cup sliced almonds, toasted
1 large egg white, lightly beaten

Directions:
Preheat to 350F. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.

Sift flour, baking powder and salt into medium bowl. Mix sugar, melted butter, eggs, almond extract, orange juice and zest in large bowl. Add flour mixture to egg mixture and stir with wooden spoon until well blended. Mix in almonds.

Divide dough in half and shape each half into logs on the prepared baking sheet. Depending on how long you want your biscotti, vary the width of the log. (You will be cutting them on the horizontal.) Brush egg log all around with prepared egg white.

Bake logs until golden brown about 30 minutes. Cool logs completely on sheet, about 25 minutes, but maintain oven temperature.

Using a serrated knife, cut logs horizontally into slices. Again, based on preference, cut them thinner or thicker. We prefer a 3/4 inch slice. Arrange slices, cut side down, on baking sheet. Bake 20 minutes, turning the slices over about midway through the bake. In the last five minutes, watch carefully, because they turn color quickly. Transfer to rack and cool.

The Sous

In French, 'sous' means under. So in a restaurant, it makes sense that the sous chef works under the executive chef or chef de cuisine, aligning and igniting the kitchen based on the strategic leadership of his boss. The etymology of the title implies that the sous might in some way be sheltered by his boss - protected from the natural culinary disasters that are likely to hit on Friday and Saturday nights. However, in the restaurants where I have worked and in the kitchens that I have observed, I've never seen a sous in such a privileged state. Most times he's on the front line, getting dirty, diced, sliced, and burned; he's there earlier and later than the rest of the crew; and when the chef needs somewhere to direct his wrath, it generally hits his sous. 
 
When I was in search of Mr. Right, I was also looking for the ideal sous chef. Someone who was equally invested in food, who would appreciate the extra effort and dollars put into dinner, who could take the reigns when things got backed up on a big night, and who could handle the pressure. Enter Peter. A month or so in, I hired him. And I haven't looked back.  

So today, in just about the smallest galley kitchen within the remodeled kitchen wonderland of the Western Suburbs, I continue to work alongside my sous chef, testing new recipes, tossing together new ideas, and serving new customers, while his enthusiasm for dinner preparation grows. He asks the right questions, brings new techniques to the chopping block, has a mean jump shot approach to his pizza dough throwing, and while he is afraid of getting burnt, he's not afraid to get dirty. He is the perfect sous. Mostly, because he makes me better. 

The problem is, he doubles as the master brewer of our establishment. Which on busy Saturdays and Sundays can be a challenge. And if our little concept is ever going to work, I'll eventually need another person in the kitchen. 

Enter an interested candidate. Someone who shares a passion for marketing and communications within the food service industry, my black and gold blood and an excellent sense of fashion. Someone who was eager to learn my craft. Hired.

Ashlee started on Monday. She wanted to learn a go-to meat and potatoes recipe that would impress her future Mr. Right. I wanted to get a basic lesson in pan searing in. So we went with seared strip steaks, haricots verts, and garlic mashed potatoes. 

We started at square one: the butcher. I took her through the mystifying case at Casey's and taught her about the different cuts of meat. She earmarked a couple for another apres-work lesson. We selected a couple of steaks, got a few other ingredients to fill in the gaps of our menu, and then set up shop back in my kitchen. She learned to dice and season; to steam, sear and reduce; she took notes, asked good questions, and sampled with a critical palette. But as I expected, the whole 'under' thing, didn't shield her from flying pan sauce, but that's what happens when you're the sous.

The meal was a success - the Brewer approved. And she's scheduled to return for some chicken frying, meatball rolling, and small plate assembling soon. Excellent. In the meantime, she has an assignment on Sunday night. Chops. Slow and low. Go. 

Lo.

8-0

Last night, Pete - IT, class of '88, Greg - development, class of '98, Lo - marketing, class of '04, and Mike - security, sub alum class of '64, gathered at the very back of the auction floor, in the electronics section lined with Apple's newest products and the bigger than big, big screen TVs to sneak peaks of a very pivotal Notre Dame game.

Together, we checked ourselves to see if we were making any social faux pas or worse yet, shirking our duties as volunteers. Together, we shared stories about Notre Dame's glory days. And together, we nervously anticipated the outcome of judgment day, quietly dreading that Oklahoma would uncover mediocrity.

When the lights flickered and the announcer told us to take our seats in the Ballroom, we each reluctantly said some parting words and resumed our roles for the evening. Some of us sneaked back into the auction room to watch a couple downs, others relied on under the table text messages from friends with far better seats, and I followed the slow progression of a miniature football on Gamecast, jolting and jeering as my iPhone unlocked one delayed play after the next.

Throughout the game, I kept thinking of my brother. With each nail biting play, as we took the lead, lost it, then regained it, and as the Irish, working as a team, pulled away and convinced the nation that yes, indeed, they were relevant, I thought back on him as a little boy, back in 1988.

Yes, I was only six. And yes, he was only three. But we had already been indoctrinated into the deep rooted passion and defining culture that characterized Notre Dame fans. From a very early age, whether we were gathered around the television in the sun room or watching the game live in South Bend, Fighting Irish football was ritualistic. We wore, sang, argued, and even drew our pride.

At the age of three, my brother started taking creative liberties with the team's starting lineup. By the age of five, he knew the contours of every face mask, the various dimensions that a running back's or quarterback's pads would add, the perfect crayon to shade in the luster of the gold helmets, the number of every player, their key stats, and the color of their eyes, hair, and skin. Every fall our family's refrigerator would be covered in the team's likeness. From Tim Brown and the Rocket, to Chris Zorich and Todd Lyght; from Rick Mirer and Jerome Bettis, to Derrick Mayes and Lake Dawson, he loved and looked up to them all.

But over the years, as the team's losses started to add up, and as my brother's idolizing and cartooning was replaced with the need to make a name for himself on his own team, my Irish enthusiasm started to wane. Ironically enough, it faded even more when I went to school at Notre Dame and then again when I returned to get my MBA. But throughout, my brother remained optimistically loyal. With each new recruiting season, with every coaching change, and with every glimmer of hope my brother went against the odds and saw a national championship in the future.

Last night, as an Irish win was confirmed with a late fourth quarter field goal, I was excited for the players and for a long-suffering ND nation. But I was more excited for my brother, and all the little boys who back in the 80s and early 90s dreamed of putting on a golden helmet and taking the field with their favorite players.


This morning, as I ran seven miles through the suburbs, up into Hinsdale and back through Western Springs, I saw at least 20 Notre Dame flags draped from people's homes. (Not only does my community have the highest concentration of Irish Americans in Chicago, it apparently has the highest concentration of Fighting Irish fans too.) Within each of these flag flying households, I imagined that there might be little boys, like my brother, drawing pictures of Manti Te'o, Louis Nix, Theo Riddick, Everett Golson, Tyler Eifert, Cierre Wood, and heck, even Mike Golic Jr. And I thought, how great it was that these kids could look up to a team that not only knows how to hit hard, run, pass, score and swagger; but also how to speak eloquently, study, give back and graduate. 

After my run and after Mass, I sketched and sifted my own version of Irish pride into brunch.

And it tasted as sweet as last night's victory.
8-0.
Lo.

Boozy French Toast

Five pieces stale Italian bread
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier
Powdered sugar

Whisk together eggs, milk, allspice and Grand Marnier. Dip each slice of bread into the egg mixture until well coated and soaked through. Over medium heat, melt a little butter on a griddle. Brown each slice of French toast (about 3-5 minutes per side.) Dust with powdered sugar.

A Reflection

On my graduation day, I should have been in Baltimore, playing Loyola in the NCAA Women's Lacrosse National Championships. But we had lost to Northwestern a couple days before, so I was in South Bend with everyone else. I was continually drifting off, concerned about the jobless road that lay ahead. I honestly don't remember much of my commencement, not even the keynote speaker. I do remember that my cap didn't fit - I by no means have a size small head. I remember standing up with the rest of the liberal minded students in the JACC to accept my degree from the College of Arts and Letters. And I remember our valedictorian, Keri, and her remarks.

The summer before her junior year, Keri had traveled to India to do service work with the Missionaries of Charity, the congregation started by Mother Teresa in Calcutta. She had passed the whole summer without a mirror, because Mother Teresa and her missionaries believed that you didn't need one - that you should look for your reflection every day in the people that you served. Keri then asked us how we wanted to reflect ourselves to the world after we left the cradle of Notre Dame's campus.

I started drifting off again, not contemplating the deeper meanings of my personal imaging, but stuck on this notion of a world without mirrors. Seriously? How did she cope? Sure, she delivered a nice, feel good message, but come on.

I've always had a bit of a mirror addiction - a polar attraction to vanity mirrors, full length mirrors, those magnifying mirrors that give you disturbing close ups of your pores, highly reflective windows, I've even used other people's sunglasses, puddles, and the flip side of my iPhone camera to sneak a peak at my look of the minute. My girlfriends in college used to call me out for it all the time. 

However, last year, when I moved into Peter's house and now, settled into our new house, the prevalence of mirrors has drastically decreased. Currently, we have two mirrors - both in the bathrooms - both only about 10 by 20 inches big. It's enough space to analyze my face, but I leave the house everyday with only a vague understanding of my appearance from the neck down.

My greatest opportunities for full length reflections are in the bathroom at work and along the storefronts of the Western Suburbs during my morning runs. This weekend though, something happened. Bounding down the sidewalk, dotted by yummy mummies holding a stroller in one hand and a frappucino in the other, I turned my head and saw my worst reflection yet. It wasn't so much me, but a Humpty Dumpty-esque figure. Little legs. Rotund chest and belly. Big head. I was totally disturbed. I ran a little faster home.

The thing is, when I got home, I was still greeted with the same admiring smile of my husband. He apparently didn't see the story book character I had become. He perhaps saw a runner, a bundle of energy, a 'little chef'', a writer, a wife, a best friend, a mommy to be? I thought back on Keri's graduation speech. Suddenly, Humpty went away, and I saw my real reflection in Peter's eyes.

I am honestly perplexed at how wise Keri was at the age of 22. I thought I knew all the answers - the ins and the outs of myself by the time I went back to school to get my MBA. However, over these last five months, I've been realizing how much more room there is to grow.

On Monday, my understanding of image matured a little more as Peter and I saw the best reflection of all - my belly wasn't so much Humpty's hump it was our little baby dancing, somersaulting, and I swear running inside my belly.

Lo.

Bump Day

I've grown up believing that there is a reason for everything.

For instance, there was a reason why I spent countless evenings on good, bad and awkward dates the year that I turned 25. There was a reason that I chose to go back to school to get a masters in business instead of one in fine art, its history or how to decorate with it. There was a reason that I chose Notre Dame over the University of Pittsburgh; that I went to CJ's the first night on campus instead of Corby's; and that I gained a whole lot of bar confidence from hopping around them with Molly and Kate. If all those things hadn't happened, I probably never would have met Peter, seen that of all the guys out there, he was my perfect match, and staked a claim. 

Perplexed by other fortunes and misfortunes this year, I went back to that central tenet. There has to be a reason.

Like why did Peter spontaneously divert our new house search from the city of Chicago to the Western Suburbs this spring? Or how did I cross the finish line of the Pittsburgh Marathon with my best time yet and enough energy pulsing through my body to go another six miles? Or why did my arrogant, cursed oral surgeon have to cancel my long-awaited wisdom tooth surgery this summer?

When I got home from work on July 6 of this year, I found the answer. And it was a positive one. Low and behold, there was a little something or should I say someone growing inside of me. And it explained so much.

Had we moved into the city, we would have been house hunting again next year. (Big ugh.) Since Pittsburgh was my last marathon for awhile, it was fitting that my experience was so perfect. And the most amazing revelation, had I gone under anesthesia to get all my wisdom teeth removed, I probably would have lost the baby.
  
Now I'm trying to figure out a whole new set of issues.

Like why do I have deal with a mind numbing headache every evening?

Why do I have I run so slowly? The yummy mummies of La Grange keep prancing in front of me, their egos inflating despite their bad form, and its really frustrating me. I'm thinking about putting a sign on my back that says, 'Preggo, that's why you are passing me.'

Why is drinking so bad? That's been a tough one. And I'm dreaming of a bottle of Veuve on ice and a plate of unpasteurized cheese and crackers in my delivery room.

Why did they call it hump day? I've renamed it bump day, because every Wednesday I mark off another week of my pregnancy and look down to see if my once flat stomach has gotten any bigger. It still just looks bloated. And now its got some weird dry skin issues spotting it. 

Do I really care about the headaches, slow pace, sobriety, and gut? Not at all, because the reason behind them is the most perfect blessing I could have ever received.

Lo 2.0 is coming on March 6 and we can't wait.  

Lo.

Veal Forestiere

Wow. So a week has flown by and while I believe I've received pretty good marks as an employee, volunteer, book worm, traveler, and friend, I've just about failed when it comes to my chipper, suburban wife role. I have been blissfully undomestic. And I have to admit, there were relaxing moments on the couch when I cherished it. The house didn't get its weekly scrub down, I served waffles and scrambled eggs for dinner on Wednesday night, the milk in the refrigerator just turned sour, and I actually bought salad dressing and topped off Friday night's dinner with it, which promptly produced negative reactions from Peter and I and ended up in the garbage.

I traded in my apron, cutting boards and copper pots for other stuff: later nights at work, a much needed dose of Quinlin and Staley, a quaint Italian bistro in Atlanta, ball parks, Pilsen tacos, and time spent on the couch reading two delectable books in a row.

Whenever my Dad had one of those weeks - where the number of evenings dining out trumped the number of evenings dining in, he would recommit to his kitchen with an elaborate meal. Usually it happened on a Sunday. There would be four, heck, even five courses on the menu. Many times the main course was veal: prepared in his signature schnitzel, Forestiere, Parmesan or Marsala styles. Perhaps sides of mashed potatoes and green beans. A salad to the right of our plate. Bread to the left. And a homemade pie to round out the affair.  It was a glorious feast, filling and inspiring a young chef thoughtfully plotting her future family dinners.

I took my Dad's lead tonight and I recommitted - to grocery runs after work, to careful waltzes from burner to burner in our miniature kitchen, and to filling our House with sweet aromas that lovingly respond to Peter when he says, 'Honey, I'm home.' This evening, I did it with four pieces of veal, Forestiere style. Mashed potatoes and green beans on the side.

Okay, there was no pie. It's Monday night after all. And I'm midway through the trashiest book I could ever imagine - one that I really cannot believe millions and millions of women have read and are currently reading. But my commentary there can wait.

Until then, bon appetit. 

Lo.

Veal Forestiere 

4 pieces veal (between 12 and 16 ounces)
1 egg
1 cup flour
salt, pepper
2 tablespoons butter
1 shallot, minced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup sweet vermouth
1/2 cup veal stock (or you can substitute beef stock)
2 cups crimini mushrooms, sliced

In a small bowl, beat egg. In another small bowl, combine flour, salt and pepper. Dip each piece of veal in egg, then flour mixture, set aside.

Melt butter over medium to medium high heat. Brown the veal in the butter, about two minutes per side. Remove. You might need to do this in two batches if the pan isn't big enough.

If needed, add a little more butter to the pan. Saute garlic and shallot for about two minutes. Add vermouth to deglaze the pan. Add chicken stock. Place the veal back in the pan, making sure it's evenly spaced. Top with mushrooms. Cover pan and let simmer over low heat for 45 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serve with mashed potatoes and green beans.

What the Singlefolk do

I'm very disappointed in myself. I shouldn't be up yet. I should be on my third or maybe only second hour of sleep. When I do wake up though, I should have stories to tell - foggy memories of a night that I'll never forget, coming more and more into focus. I should be chuckling to myself.

As it is, I'm up to water my flowers, shew away the early birds getting their worms from my yard, and greet the neighbors participating in a similar morning regimen. And I'm mad that I let myself do it.

'Do what?,' you ask. 

This. See, I've been evaluating my Facebook feed recently - it's become very predictable. Weddings, honeymoons and babies. That's it. I used to wake up on a Sunday morning excited to see the people, parties and incriminating photos of a great Saturday night. But for the past year or more, all that seems to pop up on Sunday are bridal party shots and 'good mornings' from baby after baby. While I love seeing that kind of content, I'm left wondering what my single friends are doing? Why aren't they posted their fun so that I can vicariously live through them after I've had my fill of the Pet Parades, ice cream socials, and trampolines that come with suburban life?

This weekend, Peter went fishing in Cape Cod. So in essence, I got to be a party of one for the weekend. I had the chance to find out what all the single folk were doing in the city - the fun stuff that has become too cool to post on Facebook. And to persuade my city-dwelling friends that I haven't prematurely turned 45 years-old.  

I had mapped out a great Saturday evening - Division Fest, drinks with Kate around 9:00, meet up with Cinderella before her chariot from the Casino to the city turned into a pumpkin at midnight.

But yesterday after a 14-mile run, including a stroll through the annual Pet Parade, a trip to the frame store, loads of laundry, letter writing and reading in the hammock, and another afternoon in the garden, the sun started to set as I pulled one last weed. It was already 7:00. I got showered and dressed, debating whether or not I should still go downtown, ultimately reaching the answer, 'no,' which in turn has made me very disappointed this morning. 

I just checked Facebook and there was just a subtle reference to what I missed - a check-in at the Rooftop at the Wit, and one where my friend got to skip the line. One of my favorite places. VIP treatment. Darnit. 

While I love the green grass of the Western Suburbs. I believe the single ladies (and men) of the world are playing in some very verdant pastures. And I wish I had frolicked in them this weekend. Singles, keep living it up, staying forever young, and saving the secrets of your incredible revelries for the eyes and ears of the people that can stay up past 9:30.


Lo.

Dirty Thumbs

There are green thumbs on both sides of my family. Double G was an avid vegetable gardener, in essence, producing a yield to feed a family of ten. And my Dad has tamed, planted, and tended a half an acre arboretum of a yard, filled with perennials and annuals that my Mom doesn't even know the names of. So, I'm thinking the genetic probability that I inherited some verdant digits is pretty high.

However, when it comes to gardening, some might argue that it's not so much nature that determines your capability to grow, it's the way you were nurtured. And luckily, I have some of that going for me as well.

Every year, I got lessons from Double G in tomato planting, zucchini growing, and asparagus harvesting. And applied them to the small vegetable garden that my Dad cornered off for me. My Big Boys were never as big, juicy and plentiful as Grandpa's, but they seemed to improve each season. I also received annual lessons from my Dad on the floral side of gardening - how to turn over the soil and prep it for planting, how to perfectly space Impatiens, how to prune and trim the perennials, and how to patiently water each bed until their thirst was quenched.


When we moved, I had given thought to the amount of work it would take to renovate the house. There were priorities: The chimney, exterior facade, asbestos tile to cover. And long term projects: the bathroom remodel, champagne room build-out, replacement of windows and doors. What I failed to factor in though, was the yard. I failed to do a diligent surveillance of exactly what was out there and what kind of man power it would take to tame it.

For the past couple weeks, I feel like I've been playing Secret Garden at my house, bringing a plot of land, neglected for a decade or more, back to life based on what is wick and what is not. My evening hours have been dedicated to yanking and digging up the root systems of Jurassic weeds, figuring out where one lethal bush ends and the other ones begin, waging the battle of the green ivy, and cursing the laziness of my neighbors who apparently don't garden and instead hire western suburban labor to do everything for them.

I have scratches up my legs, pollen swimming in my nasal passages, and dirt embedded in my nails.  I've tried to scrub it out with the nail brush, but it won't budge. My weed war has produced a new form of irritability in me. And unfortunately for Peter, dinner keeps getting later and later. You could have rounded up to 9:00 PM this week. There is always one more monstrous weed to pull - one more 10-foot (yes, 10 foot) poke weed to murder with my trusty shovel.

However, in gardening, there tends to be a wonderful reward on the other side of your labor. The beauty and bounty that you have produced with your own hands can be mesmerizing. Bed by bed, I've been able to celebrate my progress, and as I surveyed it on Wednesday evening, the little girl next door told me that I had done a beautiful job.
'Well it was a lot of hard work,' I scoffed.
'It was worth it though.'
Ah, how wise that one is.  

My verified green thumb is yet to be determined, but I believe, given my perpetually dirty hands, that I'm on the right track. Double G always used to have a little dirt under his nails - a sure sign that he had been tilling and toiling in the garden. Perhaps, the soiled-hand look - the one that comes from people who like to get their hands dirty, and can't help but get them dirtier the minute after they've cleaned up - is the first step to fulfilling my green DNA.

Off to say good morning to the yard and to give my vegetables, herbs and flowers a drink. 

Lo.

Mayberry

This is what I want. To wake up in the morning, put on a pink robe, and with a kiss, send my husband off to work, dressed in the new blue suit I bought him from Marshall Fields. I want to leisurely read Breakfast at Tiffany's over coffee, and two pieces of toast. I want to get dressed for a day of grocery shopping, bridge playing, house decorating, and dinner making. My hat and gloves are a must. And I want to be surrounded by friendly neighbors, who just happen to drop by for tea, and a piece of cake, and a bit of gossip.  

Before we officially changed our address, a friend of mine told me that I was moving to Mayberry. And despite all the present day negative press that an idyllic imaginary location like Mayberry might get, I've got to say that I was quite excited about the prospect. I envisioned that I was going to a place where a cup of confectioners sugar was just a neighbor away, where Oberweiss delivered fresh milk to my doorstep once a week, where Dick and Jane played with Spot in their neatly manicured back yards, but always using their inside voices, where students skipped to school with apples, and where the grass was equally green on everyone's lawn. 

Although, I'm in love with my new neighborhood, Mayberry isn't exactly what I thought it would be. Some of the neighbors have had to beg, borrow, and steal from banks so they could lay claim to the greenest grass in the community. Spot isn't a cute little Cockerspaniel, he's a genetically modified hybrid dog that doesn't shed, bark, poop or smell. The few kids that I've spotted playing outside, don't know what an inside voice is. And the women who are sending their husbands off to work everyday aren't getting dressed in their Sunday best, they are sporting the latest Lululemon looks, judging whose thighs do or do not touch.

While the present day vision of Mayberry can be as disappointing as the kids that I have spotted smoking pot on the way to school three out of five days this week, there are still many old fashioned elements that make this community very special. Oberweiss does deliver. And I'm about to sign up. The neighborhood butchers already know me by name. The welcome wagon just came to our door. There are more parks and little leaguers per capita that any place else in Illinois. And our neighbors are this close to asking for samples from the grill.  

And as someone who was most likely born six decades too late, I believe that it is my duty to do my part to make Mayberry, as picture perfect as possible.

I'll only turn on the television for major events.

Cocktail hour shakes up about thirty minutes after the Mini and Monster Truck are lined up and put to bed for the day.

There will be fluffy pink cupcakes and the like at my house even though they don't look nearly as pretty as Sweetapolita's.  

 

There will be a Casey's bacon loving brewer in the backyard. And his apron clad bee finishing dinner inside.

There will be records playing, and land lines ringing, and people dressed to receive company.

And until I stumble upon the all access admission ticket of a kid or two or ten, I'll just grab Peter's fishing pole and go whistling down to Salt Creek on the kind of lazy Saturday morning that I'm looking forward to tomorrow. 

Lo.

This Old House

While the producers of This Old House nodded in approval at the gem we found, Sarah Jessica Parker shook her head in disgust at the size of my closet.

While Donny Palko assessed the lack of screens on our screened in porch, Dale Redpath gave me an estimate to paint over the words, 'Life is Absolutely Delicious' on our wall. While Deb and the Big Girls in the Small Kitchen encouraged me with their culinary masterpieces prepared in a kitchen more petite than mine, the Monster Truck lamented that it would never, ever fit in a garage that small.

And while the lush grass got a trim last night from its latest barber, I continued to unpack box after box, until I hit a stopping point - the miscellaneous box that I don't know what to do with. I put it aside. My stomach growled. I looked around at the chaos that is slowly, but surely being tamed. I poured the anxiety that comes with moving a drink. And around 7:30, started making dinner.

A couple weeks ago, I tweeted that the chicken divan recipe I love would taste better in our new home. So, I tested the theory. Despite the work that needs to be done and some of the more pocket sized features; despite the boxes and boxes, lack of Internet, and reliance on my memory to recreate a casserole, it did taste better. Perhaps I was hungrier, perhaps the empty camera battery led me to bypass its more runny appearance, but I soaked up every last drop. Satisfied, I sat back in my chair, surveying the progress that we made, looking from the north to the south side of our house, feeling more at home than ever.

We are homeowners and in our house and very happy. And looking forward to our first B and B guest on Sunday night. John, please pardon the boxes. Focus on the food.

Lo.