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Slow Mo Nanowrimo

11/2/2016

Day 2 of Nanowrimo: National Novel Writing Month.

When I woke up this morning I decided to put aside the fresh new novel I started to write yesterday, and return to one I started a couple of years ago. So after breakfast, coffee mug in hand, full of fresh Writerly Resolve, I go to sit at my desk in the office nook with my laptop and realize the big and bulky computer is taking up too much room, yet I have to decide where to put it. I think the closet in the guest room might be a great place, so I go in and see the pirate costumery from Saturday’s Halloween party piled on the steamer trunk at the end of the bed, which needs to be swept up and taken to the basement, so I do. Then when I dump the pirate items on a bench to be put in with all the costume stuff later (in bins that are stashed too high for me to reach safely) I notice a long-neglected lamp on the floor, that looks so sad – damn that cute animated Pixar lamp! I feel sorry that we have no use for it anymore, and I decide I need to gift it on Buy Nothing Shoreline where it can have new, more loving owners, so I bring it upstairs, clean it up so the brass and marble shine, and take a picture so I can post it later. After all my writing, you know?

I go back into the guest room where I’m still planning to put the old computer, and I notice a decidedly crooked painting on the wall, so I reach to straighten it, whereupon it falls behind the dresser. I realize that the mysterious shifting sound we heard last night when we were in the living room but were too lazy to investigate, buried as we were in pillows and S.H.I.E.L.D, must have been this little painting pulling itself off the sticky-mount on the wall! I pull the dresser out to retrieve the painting and it’s all dusty from its descent, so I get the flashlight and see it's scarier than shit back there, like it’s seriously Shelob’s vacation lair, and now I have to vacuum behind the dresser, holding a small flashlight in my teeth like a detective, trying not to gag and jabbing the long extension in like a weapon.

Next I rearrange the closet so I can drag the chest (that had all the pirate gear on it, remember?) in and see that the foot of the bed is now looking kind of empty and cold, so I move the little sheepskin rug there. Now it looks good in the guestroom except for my son’s sleeping bag I took out of the closet and put on top of the bed. Nicely folded, but still. I go back to the office nook and write a note that I need to call him to see if he wants it. I record some notes on my phone to myself at how ridiculous this morning is going, and I notice the big computer is still sitting there on the desk, mocking me. After all that I decide the computer shouldn't be going into the closet in the guestroom to most likely die, but instead should go to the basement where it can possibly be used. I go back downstairs to ponder location. I scoop the cat box. I come back up, disconnect the computer and place it next to the pirate loot on the bench.

Now some untidy papers and such are visible on the desk, so I sort through and file some, recycle some others. The recycle bin needs emptying so I take it to the big bin outside and on the way back one of the few valiant dahlias that graced us with their presence this year attracts my eye with a flash of red in the gray rain, and I think it would look lovely in the stone vase on my desk, so I come back in and get the snippers. After the flower is in the vase, I decide the crudely-welded cube that holds the Sharpies and fat pens I separated a while ago from the normal pens because I didn’t want them intermingling, is bad Feng shui and search around for a suitable replacement. I drag the step stool out of the pantry and retrieve a beautiful enameled red Chinese mug from above the kitchen cupboards. Now, with everything to my liking I sit upon my velvet cushion in my vintage wooden rocking office chair, turn on my laptop, rock back, and…my stomach growls!

Despite the setbacks of the day I did get some notes organized, re-acquainted myself with my story, did some editing, and used some previously written material for today’s word count. Plus, I wrote a post for the blog. And the house looks great!

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The "That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm"

10/15/2016

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Survival. Since the first whispered storm forecasts for the Pacific NW I’ve been bulking up on carbs, throwing cautionary calories to the pending wind. The instinct kicks in every time the weather gets threatening; like a squirrel I’ve been running around stuffing my cheeks with popcorn, that bit of leftover bread I used for making croutons for the French Onion soup I made on Monday, dipping into the bag of chips I got as a treat for Joe, but he keeps forgetting about. If things get truly dire, I’ll be able to survive for weeks on fat reserves alone.

The other night we roamed the grocery aisles foraging for non-perishable goods to stock our pantry. It was no easy task for someone who makes most things from scratch, who shops the perimeters of the store – produce, dairy and meat – scooping happily away in the bulk section for dried lentils, grains and the like. Joe turned his nose up at canned chili and stew. Instead, we’ll make hummus from garbanzo or black beans, (we have tahini and lemons, right?!) using the new food mill (I recently got with my Amazon gift certificate – insert fist pump here) instead of the food processor. We patted ourselves on the back at how resourceful we were. We stared at a mind-numbing variety of boxes of granola bars alongside a woman doing the same thing. “Shopping for the storm?” she said. When we dumbly nodded she laughed. “I think it’s just an excuse to get chocolate!”

We bought fudgy bite-sized brownies. They were mostly gone before the first phase of the storm was over.

We bought 20 cans of cat food. For the cat. It was a really great deal, what can I say? I was self-conscious the cashier might think it was for us, though. If she saw how I gag every time I open a can she’d think differently. Of course, if it really were an apocalypse? Maybe she thought we were planning to fatten the cat for future roasting! Maybe I watch and read too many dystopian movies and novels.

I hear there’s no name for this storm, as it’s really three converging together, so I’m dubbing it That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm. If the power is out for any significant length of time, we’ve got 30 fat brats (bratwurst sausages, not disagreeable children) in the beer fridge downstairs meant for above-mentioned once-postponed, once-canceled party that will have to be cooked. Our corner of Shorelandia will be smelling delicious!
In the meantime, as I sit safe, cozy, and warm in my faux-fur vest, and the rain steadily increases, I think there’s another brownie around here with my name on it.

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Mr. Thirsty is Screaming

9/22/2016

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I’m lying there unable to communicate except for a flutter of my hands. I’m seeing monster faces in the pattern of the acoustic tile ceiling, because, well, that’s what I do. Pandora is playing a Billy Joel song and my dentist is testing his 20-something assistant on her 70s music knowledge. She’s heard the name…He proceeds to tell her about Billy as he knows him – heavy-set, bald, bug-eyed – in his soft and adorable Colombian accent, but can’t remember the name of the beautiful model he was once married to. My eyes are wild behind my protective eyewear, darting to the doctor, the assistant, doctor, back to the assistant, pleading with my eyebrows for them to rip the duct tape off my mouth and let me speak! He fashions my baby tooth to look like an adult one, and sweat forms on my brow as I furiously attempt to mentally transmit the model’s name to him, to throw my voice over to the assistant like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy, but only this comes out: iheee innneee! I’m the monster in Young Frankenstein in top hat and tails dancing with Gene Wilder and putting on the ritz. Christie Brinkley! Alas, it’s drown-out by the screaming of Mr. Thirsty vigorously sucking the saliva out of the bottom of my mouth. To not be able to sing to all the pop 70s songs of my youth, to not pipe in on the conversation when little-know-it-all me knows the answers; this is true torture!

For now I relax. Or try to – my mouth has become a construction site, as the doctor moves on to removing the last of my ancient fillings from the Land of Metallica and replacing it with a crown. Singing under his breath, “Hold me closer tiny dah-han-cer,” he’s pushed the heavy drilling equipment up to 11, a cloud of fine tooth bits is spattering everything within a three-foot radius, a hot, iron smell fills my nostrils, and over the heinous high-pitched sound my stomach growls. My brain has been tricked into thinking it’s snack time by the sluice of water, metal and mmm-mmm calcium and my stomach responds with a roar like it’s never been fed before. I’m embarrassed at its gullibility.

I’m left alone while the gloppy mold of my new tooth crown is setting, and close my eyes. My teeth are clenched down in a bite, and I do some deep breathing for five minutes, until I feel something wet trailing down the side of my neck and realize I’m so numb I’ve unwittingly drooled Niagara Falls out of the side of my mouth. I’m busy cleaning myself up with my completely useless bib when the assistant comes back in. She gets busy inserting a cord around the remaining bottom of the tooth, which apparently proves difficult.

“Your tissue is very buoyant.”

“That’s what she said!” I couldn’t help but reply. In my head.

When I'm finally done and checking out at the receptionist’s desk, I try to apply some tinted chap stick but my upper lip is still numb, and I fear I’ve smeared it all over my face. I smile sheepishly as I leave, but when I get to the car and glance at the rearview mirror I see nothing but a palsied sneer, a lame Elvis impersonator in the driver’s seat. With a sloppy pink clown mouth.

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Aloha Mole

9/1/2016

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“I’ve got this mole, see,” I said in my best gangster talk as I flipped ashes from my imaginary stogie onto my skirt that was bunched up around my waist. The paper modesty drape crinkled as I shifted self-consciously on the doctor’s chair. He wanted to know what prompted me to come in. “It’s…different.” I hesitated.

Earlier his nurse had asked where the mischievous mole was located, and I indicated with my hand. “Your thigh?” His finger paused over his digital notepad.

“Uh, no. It’s on my…. pubis?” My mons, my hoo-hah, my-god-I’m-nearly-55-and-I-don’t-really-know-what-I-should-call-it-anatomically. Is that a blush or a hot flash I’m feeling? I considered Googling it when I was in the dermatology waiting room with all the other redheads, blondes and fair-skinned of our species, (and one poor teen with acne that made me cringe inside with sympathy). The nurse wrote it down, so I figured one of us knew. He then asked if I would be more comfortable with a female in the room during the (male doctor’s) exam. I shrugged my shoulders indifferently, but secretly wished for an overweight assistant; I don’t feel that uncomfortable showing my body, but the fat…not so much.

I read recently that "The mythical explanation of antiquity was that the gods, concerned that some mortals were just too beautiful, sent dark spots down to mar pretty faces." My face is liberally spattered with freckles and beauty marks, that kind-hearted euphemism. Thank you very much you jealous gods! But the Mons Mole, hidden in its Top Secret location since birth like a discreet tattoo, always held a certain aura of mystery about it. “Has he seen your mole?” became a friend’s code for a relationship’s…progress, shall we say.

“Different how?” the dermatologist prompted me.

“Well, it’s tender, and it’s grown horns.” I demonstrated by wiggling my index fingers at the top of my head. The doctor rewarded me with widened eyes, and eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his glasses.

“Now I’m intrigued! Let’s have a look. Will I be able to see it easily?” he said as he snapped his purple gloves on and reached for a magnifying light. I could sense his eagerness and was happy I could make his day a bit more fun; if there were Master’s Degrees in Lightheartedness I would have one.

“Oh yeah,” I nodded. Put that magnifying glass back, honey, and say hello to my lil’ fren.

We decided to remove it. It was a bit hard to say goodbye to this part of me, this piece of myself, but it was probably for the best. The doctor picked up on my sense of humor ("Can you see any gray since you're down there?") and said that they were going to mount it on the break room refrigerator. I was comforted by the thought of its little horns waving back and forth as the fridge door was opened daily.

I considered ending this post with a recipe for Pumpkin Mole, but that’s too far, even for me.

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Melty Goodness

8/10/2016

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I’ve been somewhat obsessed with the neighbors’ melted blinds this last week, so it comes as no surprise that my recipe of choice last night was a Crab Melt. I’d like to think it serves as a good example of my ability to take something negative and twist it, if sometimes absurdly, into a positive.

The recipe comes from A Boat, A Whale & A Walrus, a local cookbook by Renee Erickson. It’s filled with menus, recipes, beautiful photos and stories sprinkled throughout about everything from her summers in Washington as a kid to the food suppliers she uses for her restaurants. The recipes can be elegant, yet simple, and always fresh. Like the Pacific Northwest itself, now that I think about it.

This Crab Melt is so easy and straightforward I had to wonder why it was even included. But…..delicious! I’ve been eating more sensibly lately, avoiding carbs and bad fats and the like, so this was a truly decadent treat. I wanted to use fresh crabmeat, so sauntered up to the seafood counter at a local grocery store and asked for a pound. That’s all he happened to have, and as he handed me the container he hesitated and told me the price. I froze in shock, but I saw a challenge in his eyes – real or imagined – and pride made me take it from him with a forced insouciance. Plus, the thought of the canned stuff by the tuna fish that always seems to have a lot of cartilage in the meat made me throw my self-imposed budget to the wind; I wanted the real deal. Fresh, succulent Northwest goodness.

I made a half-recipe, as it was only for my husband and I, and it made plenty – enough for dinner again tonight. Neither of us is a fan of tarragon, so I swapped that out for fresh garlic chives from the pot on the back porch. I also used Vegenaise instead of mayonnaise. When I want authentic mayo I make it from scratch, but for day-to-day use I like the vegan version. Using fresh crabmeat was the right call, as when I taste-tested the mixture for seasoning before piling it on the English muffin, I wanted to eat it all up right then! We both waited patiently (well, one of us did) while our little toaster oven took forever to broil, getting that sharp cheddar to that perfect melted, golden stage.

I served this with a coleslaw made from what I had on hand: chopped green cabbage, the last of a bunch of cilantro, (so mostly stems), a dollop of Vegenaise, a bloop bloop bloop of rice vinegar, a sprinkle of whatever is in the sugar bowl (Splenda) because it was closer to my hand than the pantry, and a couple generous pinches of Thai ginger sea salt and vigorous grinds of the pepper mill. Can I hear a YUM?

Crab Melts
(makes 8)

4 English muffins, split
2 lbs. picked crabmeat
½ cup mayonnaise
1/3 cup chopped fresh tarragon leaves
Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
6 ounces strong white cheddar, such as Beecher’s Flagship

Toast the English muffins until lightly browned in toaster, and preheat the oven’s broiler setting to high.

In a large mixing bowl, blend together the crabmeat, mayonnaise tarragon, and salt and pepper to taste. Place the muffins on a baking sheet, cut sides up. Pile the crab salad onto the muffins, then top the crab with the cheddar.

Place the baking sheet on a rack about 4 inches from the broiling unit. Broil the melts with the door partway open until the cheese is melted and bubbly, turning the pan once if needed to melt the cheese evenly, 3 to 5 minutes total. (The meat inside doesn’t need to be piping hot.) Serve immediately.

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Blind Obsession

8/10/2016

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I kept wishing they would take the blinds down. Every time I walked past our dining room window, I stopped and stared across the driveway at those blinds. At first glance they just looked broken, like someone bent the slats down when peeping through them and they stayed that way. Then you would notice the odd warping, and realize they were melted. And there was a one by two-foot rectangle just gone, a black absence in the neat pattern of lines at the top. It was so hot in their living room the blinds melted.

The night of the fire I couldn’t fall asleep so slid into a kimono and settled myself on the couch with my book. I was reading for a while and had just raided the fridge for a tasty bite of leftover sausage and settled back into my nest, back to my story. Then I heard a large truck pull up in front of the house. It didn’t move, and I turned to see red lights flashing in through that middle part of the curtains that seems to only close all the way half the time. I got up and pulled them aside. A fire truck was in front of our house and the one next door, and our neighbor was standing in her robe in her driveway lit by the truck’s flood lights, hand to her mouth facing towards her house. I ran outside.

A smell of burning plastic assaulted me as I flew over the lawn in my bare feet. Once I got to J I could see smoke silhouetted against the black sky. I took her in my arms and asked if she was okay. Once she confirmed she was I asked her firmly where T was, and she nodded toward the driveway saying “There.” Relief flooded through me as he came towards us, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, his bare chest looking so soft and vulnerable next to the half-a dozen fire fighters fully geared up around him. He joined us, and somehow I grew twice my size and enveloped them in a big mama bear hug of safety, murmuring over and over to them that they were okay, while at the back of my mind I was embarrassed that I had sausage breath. My next thought was that I had to get a robe for T.

This was a week ago, and there’s been a fire restoration truck there for a few days now, slowly hauling our friends’ heavily smoke-damaged lives out bits at a time. Incredibly frightening what built-up lint in the dryer hose can do. They were not injured, the house is still standing (though unlivable for at least a month, most likely longer) they have each other – they’re getting married next week; the wedding dress was thankfully at her mom's – but they’re left in a daze of “what ifs.”

The blinds were untouched for a week, and became my obsession. I would make up reasons to walk past our window so I could look at them. They hung there, partly intact, partly drooping in a plastic palsied frown; a grotesque reminder of the biggest “what if…” What if they hadn’t woken up?

If I were an artist, I would take charcoal from the charred floorboard that was beneath the dryer that now sits alongside the washer, both burnt-out hulks of sadness in the backyard. On a white wall I would sketch a living room, with family photos, books, a couch with that special pillow that was finally just right for taking a nap. Then I would blow the black dust from my hands over the scene, draw a window over it, and hang those melted blinds over it all. You would smell smoke and plastic, and you would be able to feel the horror of “what if.”

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Quirky Musings from a Quirky Mind

7/15/2016

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Post-Camping Nirvana. You know. When you tumble through your door after a few days in the woods, kick off your boots, and head for the bathroom, where it is blessedly your own, clean, you don’t have to pull your bandana over your face to prevent barfing, nothing is below your tush but porcelain and water, and visions of that creepy thing from the X-Files that lurked in the hole of outhouses don’t exist. Then that blessed manna from modern plumbing, the hot shower. Down the drain goes the bug spray, the dried sweat, the rivulets of dirt dried to mud on your ankles. And washing your hair! Biodegradable Dr. Bronner’s you’re cool and all that, but give me some Bumble and Bumble in that seductive summer scent of coconut and I’ll give you a new woman. And what could possibly be better than slipping that clean body into your own bed, cool, smooth sheets on an actual mattress a foot thick, a real pillow and not some bundled t-shirts because you forgot the pillows for camping?

Sometimes I wake up with this fluttering in my chest, a shot of adrenalin racing through my veins, and I think: Panic attack? Or is this strange energy called being rested and fully awake? It’s so rare I would hardly know. Should I take a pill to calm the storm, or stretch my arms up into a salutation of the sun?

I was at a museum recently and while I loved reading about the history of each piece, standing absorbed in interest, admiring the craftsmanship, the beauty, I was aching to touch everything. To trace my fingers along the whorls in a chair finely wrought in Celtic patterns by an anonymous carver from Romania, designed by their queen who came over from the British Isles. To cup my hand around the cool, smooth haunch of a Rodin statue. To poke my finger at the waterproof jacket made of seal intestines that looked amazing like a lightweight quilted parka from REI. To add to this hell of holding back my tactile desires were the often crookedly mounted placards, and even some paintings tilted slightly to the left. Unthinkingly, out of habit, I reached my hand out to a corner of a painting and gently pushed it up, but was met with resistance. It was permanently crooked. I gave a sigh and shuffled on.

Sometimes I wonder if I have some sort of neurological disorder that makes squares and rectangles appear slightly tilted down to the left. Or are they sliding up to the right? To this day our wall-mounted TV looks off-kilter to me, even though Joe has adamantly defended his carpentry skills, even whipped out a level to prove it is true. Regardless of science, if my eye sees it as crooked, isn’t it crooked? I see it as my civic duty to straighten frames in doctor’s offices, cafes, stores. Sometimes I do it matter-of-factly, like it’s my right to fix it, and other times I surreptitiously snake a hand out and do it on the sly. I always feel better for having done so, and wonder why it doesn’t bother anyone else. How long has that poster of Clean Hands Save Lives been tacked up on the wall so obviously wonky, and is it just me that feels slightly alarmed? I have to adjust most of the pictures on the walls of our home almost daily. Was there some earthquake in the wee morning hours? Does our old house settle that much during the night? My father, bless his OCD soul, pencil-marks the corners of frames so he knows exactly where to adjust any that are misbehaving. Are quirks passed on to new generations?

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Messy Hands, Happy Heart

7/13/2016

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It’s my husband’s birthday, but we’re flat broke, because I haven’t had a job in 9 months, (except for that time I worked at the front desk of the salon, and quit the next morning, leading one to believe I confused getting a “day job” with working one day. Also, several months ago I gave up looking for work entirely, as I needed to help a friend by becoming, essentially, her caretaker, but that is a story for another day.) This is what really sparks creativity – that mother of invention, Desperation.

I bustle about the kitchen and pantry to see what I can come up with for a special birthday dinner. Leftover salmon (that our generous neighbor caught) from last night, and a chunk of Parmesan wink at me enticingly from the refrigerator, and I think: Salmon Fettuccine. No pasta, though. But wait! I have flour, some semolina and eggs! I peer up onto the high shelves of the pantry where my dusty, forgotten kitchen helpers sleep, undisturbed, beside the big Halloween bowl I only use for passing out candy, and behold the Atlas pasta maker we got for a wedding gift nearly 23 years ago. The stainless steel of the heavy machine gleams with promise as I pull it out of its box. Fresh, homemade pasta is on the menu tonight!

I have a food processor I can throw the ingredients in, but I prefer to get my hands messy, give my forearms a 10-minute workout, to knead looooove into the dough. I turn on Pandora and create a Mambo Italiano station, and after mixing the flour into the crater of egg, oil and salt, I happily knead away to the accompaniment of the likes of Dean Martin, Sinatra, and Bobby Darin. “When that shark bites….” Palm pushes down on the dough, push, push, push. “With his teeth, babe.” Half-turn, push, push, push! When it’s elastic and smooth, I form it into a ball to rest, and I run to the store to get cream for the sauce, because all I have on hand is fat free half and half, and that simply will not do. I also get a bag of dark chocolate Hershey’s Kisses to make a perky, shining trail to the bedroom. For dessert…

I decide chunks of our home-cured bacon would be good in the dish, so get half-a-dozen slices cooking in the toaster oven, while I triumphantly unearth a jar of capers I bought a few weeks ago. This salmon fettuccine promises to be downright seductive, with little pockets bursting with flavor in every bite. My favorite kind of meal.

The process of thinning the dough through the hand-cranked pasta machine is so satisfying. All those years of Playdough training as a child finally pay off. It takes time, no doubt about it, but the texture is perfect, and when I’m done with the process the entire kitchen island is covered with drying fettuccine noodles. I mince a shallot, and finely grind some Parmesan as prep. Pour myself a glass of wine, while Sinatra croons. After melting a cube of butter, I add a half-cup of olive oil, and sauté the shallots. I throw in a cup and a half of cream, the bacon cubes, and capers, and simmer it while the pasta water comes to a boil. Right before I add the pasta, I sprinkle the cheese in the cream pot, stirring until it’s thick and smooth like chowder. The pasta cooks quickly, like 2 minutes. After I drain the pasta and plate it, smother it with sauce, then grate some more Parmesan on top, I step out to the back porch and cut some garlic chives for garnish. One birthday dinner, complete. Life is good in Shorelandia.

Fresh Egg Pasta Dough
2 cups flour, plus extra for dusting (I use ½ semolina, ½ flour)
3 eggs
1 tsp. extra-virgin olive oil
½ tsp. salt

Make a well in the flour. Pour 2 cups of the flour into a mound on a clean work surface. With your fist, gently make a well large enough to hold the eggs in the center of the mound.
Pour the eggs into the well. Crack the eggs into the well, adding a teaspoon of olive oil and the salt, if you want a little more flavor to your pasta, and I know you do.
Whisk the eggs. Using a fork, carefully whisk the eggs in the well, without drawing in any flour, until they are just mixed together.
Draw in the flour. Move the fork in a circular motion to gradually draw the flour into the center and stir it together with the egg-oil mixture. Gently draw in more flour and mix it in this way until all of the flour is blended in (use your other hand to help reinforce your wall of flour), and you have a shaggy mess of dough.
Bring the dough together. Use your hands to bring the mass of dough into a ball. When all the flour is combined, if the dough is still sticky, sprinkle more flour over the dough, a little at a time, and mix it in.
Knead the dough. Use a scraper to clean the work surface, and dust the clean surface with flour. Transfer the dough to the floured surface and knead it by pushing down and away from you, give it a half-turn, and repeat until the dough feels smooth and satiny, 7 to 10 minutes. Sprinkle on more flour if the dough becomes sticky or soft during kneading. Test by poking your finger in the dough; if it comes out clean, you're good, if it's sticky, add flour.
Let the dough rest. Clear away most of the excess flour on the work surface. Shape the dough into a ball by rolling it in a circle with both hands, applying pressure to the bottom so that the dough tucks under itself and the ball tightens up a little. Cover the ball with a large overturned bowl and let it rest for up half an hour up to 2 hours before rolling.

Makes about 1 pound.

If you don't have a hand-cranked pasta maker, simply roll out with a pin, or a wine bottle, until thin enough, let dry a bit, then cut our your lengths of fettuccine, or whatever shape, and let dry a bit before cooking. It only needs a couple minutes once it's but in the boiling water, so don't go away once you throw it in there! It will be firm, yet tender, to the bite when it's done.

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Invasion of the Antbots

4/29/2016

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Salvador Dali walking an anteater. But of course!

They appeared out of nowhere yesterday on my crumb-free, clean kitchen counter, slowly milling about near the food compost pail. It was like looking down at a dysfunctional marching band from the cheap seats in the stadium. Tiny black ants unresponsive to finger squishing – I had to use the back of my nail – and, I discovered after shaking a paper towel of supposedly dead ones into the sink, resistant to drowning (I don’t believe they survived the garbage disposal though…bwahaaaahaaa!). Immediately I removed every item from that section of the counter (including a sugar bowl, which you’d think would be wildly popular, but apparently this species has discerning tastes and snubbed their miniscule proboscises at New Stevia) killing any strays that had wandered off from the band. There was no sign of them above the sink in the vinegar and oil cupboard, nor beneath the sink. I cleaned everything with bleach, kept a vigilant eye out, thumbnail at the ready, and for the rest of the day I suffered from Delusional Parasitosis, (thank you Internet!) that feeling that your skin is crawling with bugs. I scratched my head like a flea-bitten animal; I clawed at my arms and legs until my skin was red. It’s happening again right now as I type. Because although there was no further sign of the wee pests yesterday afternoon or evening, this morning when I was in my most vulnerable state of pre-coffee, just-tumbled-out-bed-to-feed-the-starving-attention-deprived-cat, they were back.

The cat alerted me. She was standing near her wet-food bowl and she meowed in a different tone than usual. A “What is it, girl? Is Timmy down the well?!” type of meow. I reached down to get her bowl to wash before feeding her, and low and behold, the leftover food I thought she was being too picky to eat was being devoured by carnivorous ants. I was instantly awake and grinding the intruders and cat food in the disposal. I returned to the scene and smashed the ones who had either had their fill of Friskies or were fashionably late to the party. Again, it was as if they appeared from nowhere; there was no trail, no conga line to outside. I saw a couple near the floorboards, and stationed myself on the kitchen floor with my cup of coffee, reading glasses on (they’re so small!) waiting to ambush them. I got down on my belly, ant-eye level, to stare at the red Marmoleum for signs of movement, iPhone beside me as it occurs a picture would be nice for the post I’m writing in my head. Apparently they are camera shy.

I fantasize about having a mini-anteater for a pet, and wonder how soft they are, for petting and cuddling purposes. (Tangential research reveals that anteaters are extremely unsocial, yet check out this description by Jeff Corwin where he “…rhapsodizes about the anteater’s ‘angelic face … Its dense pelage is as soft as cashmere and has the color of golden honey. It even smells nice, like clean linen.’ Meeting the ‘angel of the forest,’ Corwin was euphoric: ‘This mysterious, almost magical creature sends my heart aflutter each time I have the rare privilege to set my eyes upon it.’”) Wearing my readers I see just how dirty the floorboards are, so I clean some more. I recall a dream last night where I was vacuuming a friend’s house, and wonder if my subconscious is telling me to clean my own house better. Nah. I think these are Antbots.

How diabolical would that be? Antbots! Able to infiltrate easily, indestructible and they drive you insane…even when they’re not there. But of course, there’s no such thing. (Except for this!) It’s getting chilly here on the floor, where I’m still sitting, though now with my laptop, thinking about micro-bots and magical anteaters. I haven’t seen any invaders for a while now, so I think I’ll go take a hot shower and scrub my skin until it shines.Then I'll come back and re-nail the baseboard to the wall.

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Tulips and Bellinis = A Perfect Day

4/12/2016

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Painted acres of ultra-vibrant tulips, sunshine, views of snowy Mt. Baker lording over the northeast, and the San Juan Islands disappearing to the north and west – this is the phenomenal Skagit Valley in April.

For years on my way to and from my family home on Whidbey Island I’ve been passing through this area, the fertile swath of agricultural land between the Puget Sound on the west and the Cascade Mountains to the east. There’s a shortcut, of sorts, where you turn off Interstate 5, or Highway 20, and slow your pace while the neat rows of crops flicker past your window. You can drive serenely through striped acres stretching across the valley, often hosting hundreds of fat, white snow geese who will take your breath away when they rise together, twisting magically into the air, their alabaster wings contrasting starkly against the blue or gray sky.

Once the spring arrives, Snow Goose Produce slides open their doors and walls, and you can’t help but stopping in to browse the open-air market, filled with all manner of tempting local goods, produce, cheese, seafood. If your will is strong enough to drive by the heaps of bright woven baskets, and lush plants displayed outside, the tantalizing scent of homemade waffle cones might make you pull over. Just across the Skagit River and up the road is the Rexville Grocery, where you can pop in for an espresso, or tasty hot food, or a pint of local brew. They’ll also pack a picnic for those romantic souls who desire a laid-back gourmet lunch among the celebrated tulips that adorn the fields this time of year.

Of course, I’m one of those romantics. When I heard the tulips were in bloom, I planned out a menu, prepared everything the night before, and on a sunny Friday, the first day the fields were open to the public, we set out for an entire day of downright Downton Abbey-esque decadent leisure. Attired in fancy hats, swirling skirts, lace and pearls – Joe in a Cubavera shirt in beige tones to match his hat and chinos – our intrepid trio traipsed from the grassy parking lot still wet with dew according to our long hems, to join the throngs of nature worshippers lined up to go into RoozenGaarde, the tulip mecca of the Pacific Northwest.

We were all giddy from the sun, the silent explosion of flowers, the springy bounce of hardened-mud trails underfoot. The tulips were very patient as they were ogled from all sides by the tourist paparazzi, serving as the background for countless selfies, regaling us with their unwavering simple beauty. But after a couple hours our stomachs led us away from the colors and towards the promise of our picnic.

We drove a short way to a sandy beach we shared with bald eagles and an intermittent handful of people strolling along the water’s edge, where we spread out on a large tapestry, and toasted the stunning day with Honeydew Bellinis. In consideration for our food-sensitive guest, Pixie, the meal was entirely vegan and gluten-free, each bite bursting with the freshness of the season. With the bay and San Juan Islands splayed before us, Joe played the flute, and I strummed the ukulele and sang. Pixie got out her art supplies and painted pastel patterns on shells. We shared meringue cookies with people who walked by. We abandoned our shoes and happily dug our toes into the sand. For one glorious day we forgot about our troubles. To sum it up, (and you really must say it in your head with an upper-class English accent): It was delightful.

Vegan, Gluten-Free Picnic Menu

Honeydew Bellinis
Asparagus with Vinaigrette*
Lemon-soy Carrots
Cumin-spiced Pepitas
Grapes
Fusilli with Lemon Pesto*
Vegan Meringues (made with aquafaba, or 'bean juice' a simple, amazing egg replacement!)

*Recipe adapted from Seattle Picnics, 1991 edition

Honeydew Bellini
4 cups 1-inch cubes ripe honeydew melon (about ½ medium melon)
2 Tbsp. sugar
1 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
2 750-ml bottles Prosecco

Line large strainer with 2 layers damp cheesecloth; set over large bowl.

Puree melon, sugar, and lemon juice in blender until smooth. Pour melon puree into lined strainer. Let puree drain until only pale green pulp remains in strainer, about 30 minutes. Discard pulp in strainer.

Pour generous 3 Tbsp. melon juice into champagne glasses, fill with Prosecco and serve.

Serves 10

Asparagus in Vinaigrette
2 ½ pounds thin, tender fresh asparagus
2/3 cup olive oil
½ cup white wine vinegar
½ tsp. Dijon mustard
½ tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced shallot
1 – 2 Tbsp. minced garlic chives

Wash and trim asparagus, then steam over boiling water just until tender (about 10 minutes). Drain, rinse with cold water, and drain again. Arrange in a glass dish.
Whisk remaining ingredients in a small bowl, and pour over asparagus. Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 1 week.

Makes 8 servings.

Lemon-soy Carrots
4 carrots, peeled and sliced into rounds
¾ cup soy sauce
4 lemons, juiced
1 Tbsp. minced garlic
2 Tbsp. olive oil

Gently boil carrots for 2 to 3 minutes. Immerse in cold water. Drain.

Combine remaining ingredients. Pour sauce over carrots and refrigerate in a large covered container. Carrots will keep for 10 to 14 days.

Cumin-Spiced Pumpkin Seeds
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
3/4 cup shelled raw pumpkin seeds (pepitas)
1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon fresh lime juice
Kosher salt

Heat oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add pumpkin seeds and toast, shaking pan often, until seeds are brown, about 4 minutes. Add cumin seeds, then gradually add sugar, then lime juice, tossing constantly to coat seeds with melted sugar and juice. Transfer pumpkin seed mixture to a foil-lined baking sheet; spread out and let cool. Season with salt.

Fusilli with Lemon Pesto Sauce
2 cups fresh basil leaves (1 ounce), rinsed, patted dry, chopped
4 tsp. sesame oil
6 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice
¼ cup gluten-free soy sauce
2 tsp. finely chopped fresh ginger
2 tsp. sugar
10 oz. fusilli (corkscrew), or some type of gluten-free pasta

In a blender, combine basil with oil. Blend until puréed. With blender running, add remaining ingredients, except pasta, and blend until smooth.

Following package instructions, cook fusilli; drain well. Pour sauce over hot pasta; toss to mix. For picnics, tastes best at room temperature.

Makes 8 servings

Vegan Meringues
Liquid from one 15-ounce can of chickpeas (about ¾ cup)
¾ cup granulated sugar
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
Pinch of cream of tartar
Dribbles of beet juice

Heat the oven to 250°F and line one or more baking sheets with parchment paper. Pour the chickpea liquid (aquafaba) into the bowl of a stand mixer and beat with the whisk attachment until stiff peaks form, about 15 minutes. Gradually beat in the sugar and cream of tartar, then the vanilla and dribbles of beet juice until it reaches a pink tinge you like.

Scoop or pipe the aquafaba mixture into mounds onto the baking sheet(s) and bake for 90 minutes. (The meringues will be hard to the touch.) Let meringues cool on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, then serve. (Meringues can be stored in an airtight container for up to three days.)

Yield: 30 to 35 meringues
Time: About 2 hours, almost entirely unattended