I'm still here. Barely.

Today is the first day in almost a month I didn't get up and go straight to work. If you're paying attention, you'll note today is Saturday but weekends mean nothing during Tax Season. One day streams to the next without delimiters. Nothing to signal rest, refresh, restock, reset.

I needed a break and decided to sleep in.

My bladder, however, had different ideas and woke me at sunrise. I am not sad about this because the sunrises here can be beautiful. I dressed, poured coffee, and went outside. And then, I did a Sudoku puzzle. I haven't done a puzzle in weeks and it felt like a dirty secret. 

March 22 was National Goof-Off Day, of which I was informed only after the day had passed. I figure I'm owed a makeup day. While today probably isn't it, I figure I deserved an hour to myself.

The puzzle solved, the sun risen, and the hour expired, it's time to get back to work. My only exercise will be to fetch the newspaper from the driveway sometime later this morning. Hubby will have to remind me to eat and bathe, and I will have my head down for another three weeks and three days.

I just thought I'd take a moment to let you know I'm still here. Barely.

(And to my friends in the industry, Hang in there!)

Up to 100% reliable.

 

Can I apply this to, say, my taxes? I'll pay up to 100% of what I owe!

This makes me think of our cloud server which is up to 100% reliable. Which is to say, totally not 100% reliable. Actually, there's an inverse relationship between reliability and an impending tax deadline. Doesn't matter what the deadline is, the cloud will fail just days before. This leaves workers - accountants, in this case - reaching for the closest bottle. (I had the foresight to stock up on the extra large bottles from Costco.)

There's about five and half weeks left of tax season. I figure there will be at least one more down day between now and then.

At least.

Nothing to see here.

 

Monday's Coffee Calamity

To get ready for the week, I like to brew Japanese-Style Iced Coffee which I pour into a glass growler and store in the refrigerator. It yields about seven cups of coffee. It's been my preferred brewing method for years. Yet, this week I ground the beans as if for espresso - a much finer grind than for iced coffee. It was also more than I needed to make a latte.

My instinct was to throw them away and start over. When I make coffee, I measure the beans before grinding. I didn't know what the proper measurement was for ground coffee.

In an unusual moment of "winging it," I stored the ground coffee in a small, sealable container before staring over. When I made my latte later, I just guessed at how much coffee to use. Sadly, I didn't think to use any kind of scoop so some of the coffee got dumped directly into the sink. Now I didn't think there was enough left for tomorrow's latte. Should I grind more? How would I know how much to grind?

While pondering this conundrum, I proceeded to make my latte by adding water to my soy milk rather than steam. At this point, I was just grateful to have any cup of coffee and no longer cared about the specifics. At least, I had a cup of coffee.

Maybe tomorrow will go more smoothly.

Something must have been lost in the translation.

A local grocery store advertised in the paper they had A-5 Japanese Wagyu New York Steaks available for $99.99 per pound. I thought this an astronomical price for beef so I checked their website. No mistake. A hundred bucks for steak.

Turns out that might have been a good deal. A5 is the highest grade given to Wagyu beef and you could spend a good deal more. The ad suggested the savings was $50. Indeed, Costco has it available at $150 per pound.

What tickled me about the ad was the the item's description: "taste and flavor that spread out in the mouth, and the smooth texture." While not smooth, a sweaty sock would have flavor that spreads out in the mouth. I couldn't tell you from experience but maybe liver is smooth and would fill my mouth with flavor. That doesn't mean I want to try it. Especially, at $100-$150 per pound.

By contrast, the item featured just below the beef was Barramundi Fillets for $14.99 per pound. I didn't know what a Barramundi Fillet was except from the picture I could tell it was some sort of fish. By contrast, this lesser priced protein had a description worth more than that of the Wagyu beef. The fish "has a mild, buttery flavor with a hint of sweetness and a dense meaty texture. . . ." That sounds more like something I would like to try.

Yes, but will it fill my mouth? I wonder.

Maybe just 10-15% of it.

It hasn't even started yet and I'm already planning for the end.

Tax Season doesn't officially start this year until January 24. That's when the IRS will begin accepting
2021 returns. Don't get in a hurry, though. They're still processing 2020 tax returns. However, if your 2020 return is being held up, that's no excuse for not filing 2021. Death and taxes, man. They can be delayed but they can't be avoided.

Nothing about 2020 and 2021 has been "normal" and, sadly, 2022 is shaping up to be no different. Tax Day was delayed to July 15 in 2020 and to May 17 in 2021. Even though April 15th falls on a Friday this year, the tax deadline will be April 18th (or 19th if you live in Massachusetts or Maine). So yet another weekend will be ruined this Spring preparing returns.

For states that have income tax filing requirements, the deadline is also April 18th except in the following states:

• Delaware - May 2
• Iowa - April 30
• Louisiana - May 15
• Maine - April 19
• Massachusetts - April 19
• Virginia - May 2

But I know you. You aren't even going to start until October. And, as luck will have it, the 15th of October falls on a Saturday meaning extended returns aren't due until 17th of October, ruining yet another weekend. If that's you, don't forget your extension and any tax due (even if you're extending) must be filed and paid in April. On the 18th. Or maybe the 19th. Or maybe in May.

Please send chocolate.

Which is the lesser of evils?

The last time I washed my boyfriend jeans I ran them through the dryer. Because, well, they're boyfriend jeans. They are made from faded denim and have holes in them. I figured the risk was low in drying them. Today, however, they fit more like skinny jeans which makes me think that putting them through the dryer was a mistake.

One said hole is large and exposes my right knee. It's big enough for me to put my hand in there which is exactly what I do. After I shower, all I want to do is jump into my clothes. (It might not be as cold here as where you are but it's cold enough for me to want to avoid it.) In winter attire, I try to moisturize whatever skin is still exposed: hands, feet, and when I'm wearing my boyfriend jeans, my right knee. I can't get to my elbows, my décolletage, or the rest of my legs. It's a quick and easy way for me to ward off winter dryness - as far as you know. And, it's effective. 

When I go to take my pants off at night, my dry legs sorrowfully greet me in their neglect. All but my right knee which is conspicuously smooth and moisturized. "Don't worry," my right knee says to my left. "Shorts weather is around the corner and moisture is on its way."

"Not all good news," the left replies. "Because then we need to shave."

What's the math on that?

Four cups, three coffees, two people.

Hubby is easy. He has one cup of coffee in one cup. Simple enough. In red letters, his cup reads, The man, the myth, the legend. He has a shirt with the same thing on it. Must be true.

I have two cups of coffee but I use three cups. Each has a different purpose and story, you see. My first cup is from Coachella Valley Coffee and is one of very few non-red cups in my cupboard. But, not only did CVC deliver my coffee beans to my doorstep the very day they were roasted, they also sent me a cup - white with black lettering. How could I ignore such a gesture and drink their coffee from any other mug? (They have a customer for life in me.)

However, the non-red mug is only tolerated for the first cup of the day. The second coffee is a homemade latte for which two red mugs are essential. The one I use for steaming the milk is red ceramic with etched lettering in white that reads Now & Then. It's the only merchandise (not available for sale) associated with a story I wrote of the same name. A fan, and truly beautiful person, had it made for me. I will always remember her and her husband for that gift (and their readership).

After the milk is steamed and the espresso shot is pulled, it gets served in larger red mug. This mug is big enough for soup, a cozy vessel well suited for a large latte. I inherited this cup from a rabbi, in a manner of speaking. She sold me her condo which was fully furnished. When I sold it five years later, I also sold it with all the furnishings - all but the red cups. These, I took with me. (I left the new owner with the yellow cups which, while lovely, were not red.)

If you were to come to my house, you would not be served coffee in any of these cups. These cups are reserved for their specific purposes. However, I have red cups to spare you would not be denied coffee for that would not only be rude, it could, in some instances, be dangerous. You may have as much coffee as you like but you only get to use only one cup. It makes for simpler math.

Home Town Cookbooks

 Mine are all from Ohio and all are handed down by grandmas. 

I have three such cookbooks on my countertop right now. Granted, two were given to me by a grandma who lived in Ohio. The third, while actually from Fort Myers, Florida, still has a connection to Ohio. The granddaughter of the author of What's Cookin' at Shell Point (signed "Enjoy, Love Grandma)" was from Granville, Ohio (which is about 30 miles northeast of Columbus). That's enough of a connection for me.

The recipes to be found in these cookbooks are strange to me. I have never lived in Ohio although I had family there and visited many times over a lifetime. I have eaten at Skyline Chili so while I have an appreciation for weird, these cookbooks use ingredients I would, today, neither fathom using nor promote using.

Here is a sampling of the table of contents from What's Cookin':

• Chicken and Biscuits (which includes the instruction "make your own biscuits. . . . "
• One-Step Crockpot Stew (which is comprised of 7 steps - 8, if you include "Do not peek!")
• Bacon-Cheese Onion Things (There's really no better way to describe this.)
• Zucchini Surprise (I'm going to go out on a limb here and say there's always a "surprise" in any hometown cookbook.)
• Taffy Apple Salad (While I didn't find a salad in this cookbook that contained mini-marshmallows, I did find this one which included Cool Whip. It did not, ironically, include taffy.)
• I skipped the chapter on seafood intentionally. (I have been to Ohio.)

For more down-home goodness, I present a sampling of the contents from John Paulding Historical Society Cook Book + Recipes + Reflections signed by Grandma R. with the words of "I love you" in 1992:

• Brides Punch (which includes orange juice, can frozen lemonade, can pineapple juice, quart ginger ale plus two cups of sugar!) [emphasis mine]
• Cornmeal Mush with Tomato Gravy (This doesn't even sound appetizing. I read the recipe and my opinion did not change.)
• Fireside Supper ("Fireside" is not mentioned anywhere in the recipe except the title.)
• Sinful Potatoes (which includes Velveeta cheese and a jar of Miracle Whip which sounds pretty sinful to me.)
• Overnight Fruit Salad (This one includes mini-marshmallows but no actual fruit other than canned.)
• There are a lot of recipes in this one for "balls" in Appetizers, Main Dishes, and Desserts, but I din't find any "surprises."

Cooking with Friends also comes from Paulding, Ohio. The inscription is dated 1997. 

• Under the heading of Appetizers, the reader is advised that appetizers are treats that can be served before a meal, at an open house, or at a reception. The first example was "Caviar flavored with onion juice." I skipped the rest of this section.
• It surprises me what passes for salad but it often includes Cool Whip, sugar, or cream cheese or some combination thereof. Canned pineapple is also featured.
• Mystery Crackers are made of oyster crackers, buttery popping oil, and two packages of Lipton Cup-A-Soup mixed together. The mystery is "why?"
• There are five pages in the Vegetables section of this cookbook. In all recipes, the vegetables are disguised by ingredients such as Ritz crackers, grated cheese, sour cream, Jiffy corn muffin mix, Velveeta, corn flakes, boxed stuffing mix, Marshmallow Cream, Cheese Whiz, Bisquick, and a variety of canned soups.
• There are 20 pages in the Cakes, Cookies & Confections section. This is separate from another 10 pages of Desserts.
• Cream Cheese Pound Cake contains only a half pound of cream cheese.
• Honeymoon Cake will likely lead to diabetes and/or divorce. Its main ingredient is one pound of fruit cocktail and is topped with coconut-pecan frosting and whipped cream. If that doesn't do it, try Coffee Marshmallow Cake made of marshmallows, whipped cream, vanilla wagers, plus sugar.
• In the Beverages section, there's a recipe for Party Punch. Even as a kid, I knew there was something inherently wrong with a beverage that included Jell-o, fruit juice concentrate, ginger ale, and sherbet all mixed together and served in a punch bowl, served with a glass ladle into little glass cups. Was it supposed to be elegant or decadent? What's more is no parent ever stopped their child from drinking it. That's midwestern goodness right there.

What I love about hometown cookbooks is their down-home-ness. They represents comfort food from the heartland. They are recipes passed down from generation to generation, preserved in a book that no granddaughter has ever referenced. Either she already knows these recipes, having grown up with them, or she has moved out of Ohio and developed different culinary tastes. Nevertheless, these books contain the love of grandmas and so live on in kitchens everywhere. 

They aren't as much about the recipes as the people behind them. And, that's the best ingredient of all.

Looking for an Invite

 Today, I engaged in one of my favorite holiday traditions: scheduling phone calls with my family at the exact same time as when dinner preparations need to begin. The beauty is that I've been getting away with this for more than a quarter century. Hubby, being both hungry and valiant, gets things started in the kitchen. If dinner's not ready when I'm done with the first phone call, I call the next relative. And so on until dinner is ready or I'm lured into the kitchen with a glass of wine.

Is that selfish?

Oh, hell yes.

I've been warned that I will not be able to get away with this next year.

Would it be okay if I spend the holidays with you? I offer that I'm good at washing dishes. I am fully vaccinated and my passport is in order.

I didn't see it coming

 Of course I saw it coming! It happens every year: Christmas. And, every year about this time I think Crap! How will I get it all done?

I'm not sure what all needs to get done but I feel like there's a ton of it and only two and a half weeks to do it. 18 days, exactly.

Breathe.

I hear lists are good. 

1. Make list.

2. Shit. What's supposed to go on the list??

    a. names

    b. gifts

3. Order gifts. 

See? That wasn't so bad. It's getting started that's hard for me and the thing is my list isn't so big. I don't buy a lot of gifts but somehow I get tangled up in the enormity of it, the weight. Seriously, I could have purchased the few gifts I need in less time than it took me to write this post.

Ah, but remember the thing about getting started? I am easily distracted by - literally everything. Reading, writing, a jigsaw puzzle, getting regular exercise and nutrition, drinking my latte - oops, I need to brew more cold brew coffee for tomorrow - oh, and work. Wait, what's for dinner? Do I need to pull something out of the freezer. Or, maybe I should cook. . . . 

Work isn't all that busy right now. No hard deadlines. Just a large project that continues to nag, You don't want to put it off, much like Christmas. There's also travel and hosting travelers. And, cookies. Today is cool and threatening to rain (in a place where it rarely rains). It's a perfect day for baking. But, work! When am I going to do that? And what about all those other things?

I just need to focus on the next indicated thing: What's the most important thing in this moment? Just that. Also, I need to realize that none of this is really important. None of the hoopla, none of the worrying, none of the cookies, not even the gifts - none of it is important. What is important is saying "I love you" and meaning it. And that should be said all year round.

What I really did today:

• Worked (go figure, would rather work than shop)
• Did a crossword puzzle
• Worked the jigsaw puzzle (but only a little)
• Started (but didn't finish) a Sudoku puzzle (think I like puzzles much?)
• Walked (about 8,000 steps today)
• Started the cookies (and vowed I would shop while they're in the oven but I'm writing this and have a date in 45 minutes so it's looking highly doubtful)
• Worried that I also need to send cards and made a mental note that the above list is supposed to be checked twice
• Toyed with the idea of canceling Christmas altogether

*Sigh*

The show was Hairspray.

Intermission was almost over so there was no line for the restroom. I thought I was alone until I heard a flush from another stall. I came out of mine and saw a woman behind a walker (the kind that has a seat and hand brakes), holding one of her shoes.

I recognized her. She was the woman that had been sitting in the seat in front me in the theater. She wore a beautiful black coat that was fringed in fur as her nearly bald head was fringed in wirey wisps of red hair.

Her eyes implored, “I need help.” I wasn’t sure if she actually said those words or if I only saw her lips moving. She stood with one foot bare and pointed at a plastic cap. She asked if I would get it for her. Meanwhile, she was able to retrieve the canister from the floor of her vacated stall. I guided her to a chair that was in the restroom. I’d always wondered why there were chairs in the ladies room. Perhaps for a moment such as this.

The woman was in pain. She sprayed her bare foot with whatever was in the canister. I don’t know what comfort it brought her. She had no toes, only a knob where her big toe should have been. I knelt on the floor and helped her put her shoe back on, loosening the Velcro straps as much as they would allow.

She grimaced as I tried to get her foot back in her shoe but she didn’t cry out. Her pain was inescapable, her endless reality, and she was handling it as best as she knew how. As she got back to her feet a theater usher appeared, ready to help her back to the theater and I wondered why this usher didn’t appear two minutes ago.

I wished the woman a merry Christmas as the pair left. Alone now, I washed my hands. Twice. Back in the theater, the second act had already started but I found an empty seat near the back and that was good enough. Easier than climbing over a row of people to get to my own seat, the one that had been behind that woman.

That moment of kindness for a stranger was both sad and beautiful. It was, no doubt, humbling for both of us. If I had only one gift to give this Christmas, that was it.

Have a heart.

It's only December 5 and the Grinch has already been sighted. Shortly after this image was taken, it's reported that the photographer was escorted off an undisclosed Palm Springs area resort. 

A witness to the event, who was not authorized to speak about it, said that "Grinchy" (as the woman identified him) often vacationed in the desert area prior to the holidays. "He just wants to be left alone," she said while a small dog cowered in the background.

It's reported that once identified, the Grinch lunged at the photographer vowing his Christmas would be the first to be ruined if the Grinch had anything to say about it. An altercation ensued which included the dog, the Grinch, the photographer, and one unfortunate waiter. Amid the chaos, the photographer's camera and nose were broken while the dog lapped up mojitos spilled during the melee.

Resort staff requested the resort not be identified stating it was for "obvious reasons." A statement was later issued by the resort management:

While it is unfortunate that paparazzi found access onto resort property, we continue to assure guests - both beloved and despised -  that guest privacy and safety is of paramount concern. We strive to provide a relaxing atmosphere for all our guests especially as preparations are made for the holidays. We understand that not everyone feels all warm and cozy at this time of year. However, we hope that this incident will not have a negative effect on the presents currently stacked under the tree in our grand lobby. (It is with great hesitation that we remind our guests that pets are not allowed.)

It is unclear whether the photographer will press charges against the Grinch. Meanwhile, the Grinch remains a guest of the resort.

While the the Grinch receives overwhelmingly negative press (in this and other publications), it should be noted that he has his supporters. As soon as news of his presence was leaked, a small protest of sorts was launched in downtown Palm Springs. The group, made up of children and adults with large ears, buck teeth, and strange hairstyles sang nonsensical lyrics while holding hands. The apparent leader, who was identified only as Cindy Lou, stood in the middle and held a sign that read, "Even the Grinch has a heart. You should too."

Is it over?

 Thanksgiving was a quiet affair. It was just the two of us with none of the obligations that usually come with a major holiday. We did all of whatever we wanted and none of whatever we should be doing. We hiked, ate cinnamon rolls, had breakfast for lunch, and made the traditional feast of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and pie.

All the food came from Costco and was fool proof: 1) Put it in the oven. 2) Eat. Mostly, it was a day of doing dishes. Feasting and cleaning up.

We watched football, started a jigsaw, and read books. There was no family around to invite over so we invited a neighbor who would have otherwise been alone so we weren’t entirely selfish. As it turned out, though, she couldn’t make it so our selfishness felt guilt free. (We tried - a little.)

It was easy to appreciate all our bounty when we didn’t have to share it with anyone. But we also thought about our families who were elsewhere for one reason or another. Friends, too. We reached out by text which felt more genuine, in a way, than sharing a crowded room with them. It was a brief moment to share honest appreciation for one another without the chaos of a family gathering. Not that family gatherings aren’t joyful but they’re a lot of work.

The holiday started early in the week, as soon as the pies were either purchased or made. There were more cinnamon rolls than we could possibly eat so it made sense to get started on those early as well. Afterwards, of course, there were leftovers. We made tetrazzini with the turkey and we tried diligently to get through all the pie for more than a week.

Finally, it was garbage day and, sadly, whatever was left got tossed. The refrigerator and all of my food storage containers were reclaimed. (More dishes.)

As if I knew the void was coming, I'd already purchased baking ingredients. Cookies are not far off in my future. As one holiday swells into another, it's hard to think about work. No time for that when there's cyber shopping to be done.

Knock, knock! says work.

*visions of sugar plums dissolve*

This is not over! I shout.

And, indeed, it is not.

Because Tradition

This recipe is adapted from Real Simple | Bourbon and Orange Pecan Pie

This is Hubby's favorite pie and he requests it every year. Thankfully, this recipe is pretty easy:

1. Eyeball your pantry and refrigerator to make sure you have all the ingredients:

1 piecrust (store-bought or homemade)

1 cup light corn syrup

3/4 cup light brown sugar

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted

3 large eggs

2 tablespoons bourbon (or 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract)

1/2 teaspoon grated orange zest

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

2 cups pecan halves

2. Go to the store for whatever you don't already have. 

3. Set an oven rack in the lowest position and heat oven to 350° F. Place the pie plate on a foil-lined baking sheet. (Oops. I forgot the foil. No worries as long as the filling doesn't travel beyond the boundaries of the pie crust. In that case, you will just want to throw your baking sheet away because the filling will caramelize into indestructible stickiness on the pan.)

I realize the original recipe only has three steps. I'm just trying to give you the most complete information.

4. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup . . .

5. It looked like a full cup of corn syrup in the bottle but it turns out it was only 3/4 cup. Top it off with honey to make a full cup. If you don't have honey, there are other substitutes for corn syrup. Okay, . . .

6. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, butter . . . 

7. Turn off the oven and melt the butter. Right, melt the butter first.

8. While the butter is melting, grate the orange zest. If you only have a Valencia orange, that will do although it won't be as good. Use a zester (rather than a grater), then mince.

9. Turn the oven back on to 350° F.

Really, this recipe is very simple.

10. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, butter, sugar . . .

11. Turn off the oven. Turns out the brown sugar in the pantry was from two years ago (because you didn't make pie last year) and is rock hard.

12. Go back to the store. Get light brown sugar. While you're there, pick up a navel orange. It'll be better that way. Might as well pick up something easy for dinner because now you're running late.

Everything should go smoothly from here on out.

13. Turn the oven back on to 350° F.

14. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter . . . 

15. The butter has hardened slightly so ditch the whisk for now and use a spatula to stir the first three ingredients rather vigorously. If your grocery store was nearby then the butter shouldn't be too hard. (Otherwise, you might have to go back to the store because that was the last of the corn syrup!)

16. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter, eggs, bourbon, orange zest. . . .

17. CRAP! ZEST THE NAVEL ORANGE! UGH!

18. If you turned the oven off again, turn it back on for crissakes!

If you haven't already taken a swig of the bourbon, go right ahead. You won't be alone.

19. In a large bowl, whisk together the corn syrup, sugar, butter, eggs, bourbon, orange zest, and salt.

20. CRAP! ADD THE FREAKIN' PECANS. RIGHT? I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL YOU THIS!

Breathe. We're almost there.

21. Pour the pecan mixture into the crust. 

Here, I want to warn you that there's always excess mixture. You don't want to overfill the pie crust (refer back to Step 3). If you want to fish out the remaining pecans in the bowl, use a fork rather than the spoon to avoid adding too much of the goo.

22. Bake until the center is set, 50 to 55 minutes.

23. What the heck, pour yourself another bourbon.

24. Let pie cool to room temperature before serving.

25. Order something from DoorDash or Uber Eats because you don't feel like cooking anymore. And, the kitchen is a goddam mess.

26. Curse Hubby under your breath for requesting pecan pie which you don't even like and consider not making pie again next year. (Maybe that's why I didn't make it last year.)

Follow my blog for this and other easy recipes!

Hashtag Travel Stories

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, we traveled to a place most notable for rain - not in terms of inches but number of days. But having once lived in this place, I can tell you it is also a place well known for its beautiful sunny days (when that happens), it's relatively temperate climate, beautiful water, and amazing seafood. 

This trip was over several weeks and we visited several locations. At one time, we stayed on an island, accessible by ferry. Tourists flock to the main town while the rest of the island is quiet, residential, and heavily wooded. We had been to this place before and knew its best haunts. This time we had a car so we decided we didn't need to stay in town and opted for a lower cost option instead. I won't mention the name so I'll just call it the Un-Quality Inn.

There was nothing really wrong with it, exactly, but there were several things that could have been more right, shall we say. It was a motel where the rooms all had one window with a heavy curtain facing the parking lot. Beneath the window was a through-wall A/C unit that, we soon learned, rattled. The motel advertised that it had been remodeled which translated to a fresh coat of interior paint (which didn't cover the smell of the pets who had accompanied travelers before) and a truckload of new air conditioning units that had been delivered but not installed (due to a significant labor shortage). 

We were not deterred and our spirits not dampened because, in this place, we could get fresh Dungeness crab - in my opinion, the best crab to be had. We secured our crab and a bottle of wine and proceeded to eat it at a bistro table and chairs arrangement which had been placed on the sidewalk between our hotel window the trunk of our car. The meal was romantic, not because of ambiance I assure you, but because we were in a special locale, generally speaking, eating exquisite local crab.

Before too long another guest pulled into the lot, backing his exhaust into our picnic dinner. Larry dropped the tailgate on the back of his pickup truck, opened a beer, and joined us by the fact that it was rather unavoidable. We learned he had been living in the room next to ours for the last two months while he was on a construction job building a multi-million dollar mansion on the island. 

Soon, another pickup truck parked across the way. This was one of Larry's co-workers, also living at the hotel but across the parking lot from us. He complained about the air conditioner unit in his room and said he had had enough. He was going to march right into the motel office and offer to install one of the new air conditioners in his room himself. He and Larry then argued about whether they should charge the motel for this service and, furthermore, offer their services to replace all of the units since they were staying there anyway.

All three of the men - Hubby included - trudged off to the office bolstered by their collective resolve to get this job done. Hubby did an excellent job of supervising while the young men carted a new unit to Larry's co-worker's room. 

Here arose a problem. Neither construction worker had any tools in their work trucks. Imagine.

Hubby came to the rescue in the form of a never before used screwdriver which was factory installed into a secret compartment in the truck of his German import vehicle. Larry and his co-worker found this fortuitous as well as amusing - not so much that he should have a secret compartment with tools in it but that it had never been used. (Hubby showed must restraint by not telling them that no self-respecting German import vehicle owner would be caught dead using the tools himself. Especially not on his German import vehicle.)

The next night, they repeated the story they told at work: Some dude in a fancy car was staying at the same cheap motel that they were. One worker responded, "At least he knows where to count his pennies so he can afford that expensive car." Hubby took pleasure in telling our hotel neighbors that his car cost less then their work trucks. They were astounded.

And, it came with its own screwdriver.

Pristine

 

At a NASCAR event, this is the only car I bothered to take a picture of.

 

A weekend in America

NASCAR at PIR. My weather app says it’s 86 degrees, 16% humidity. Nevertheless, I’m overheated. My heart is pumping even in the shade. A man loaned me a hat for a while but I knew I couldn’t stay in the sun much longer. Hubby came with me as we climbed higher in the grandstands to find available seats in the shade. I feel better but my heart is still pounding. Soon I will have to get my cool cloth wet so my brain will snap back to full attention. 

I ate a hotdog and now I feel like I need to shit. What fun! The track is oval and I can see all of it, cars so load I have to wear ear protection in the 42nd row. Cars roaring around in circles. (Ovals!)

It’s hard to describe a NASCAR event without offending the people who love it. In an attempt to avoid stereotypes, I would describe the spectators as proud, hard working people who come to see heroes. The drivers they look up to represent American values (whatever that might mean). Most of the drivers are white. The crowd appears to be at least 99% white. There are a few beautiful people here. Most are ordinary. Like all of America. 

On the way in, people were seeking signatures from registered voters. For what, I don’t know. One man yelled, “Are you tired of people laughing at our voting system?” 

“Let’s go Brandon” shirts were popular. 

We stood in line for hot dogs - the one that still makes me want to empty my bowels. We were behind a man who told us that COVID was a made up thing. He went on to say that his father died of COVID. He also had COVID. He’d lost his sense of taste and smell and “maybe had some brain damage.” Even still he concluded the whole thing (COVID) was manufactured. 

He didn’t have all of his teeth and, at one point, spittle flew from his mouth as he was telling his story. I saw it fly towards Hubby. Would it hit his face or his beer? I didn’t see where it landed and Hubby either didn’t see it or pretended not to notice. This man had been attending NASCAR at PIR every year for 30 years. It was the increase in prices that got him spitting but he was a nice enough fellow and, really, who hasn't spit accidentally while talking?

One of the things I noticed this weekend, which also included attending an NHL game, was that while people seemed weary of talking about COVID, they nevertheless did. And people who championed choice had strong opinions about other people’s choices whether it was an individual, local government, Federal government, or foreign nation. 

After we got the hot dogs, I tried to refill my water bottle but the three water fountains I tried were dry. I thought it was illegal not to make free water available at a stadium. Not sure about that and don’t know how long it would have taken to find a water station if there was one. (With 40,000 people in attendance with no mask requirement, they couldn’t have been worried about transmitted diseases.) I bought another water instead.

Before the end of the race, I saw woman with beautiful gray hair and professional cut gumming a cigarette. Her face was caved from missing teeth. She was thin and hunched over as if too tired to manage sitting up straight, weary-like. She was sitting alone and it was easy to imagine she'd had a rough life but for her well coiffed hair. I imagined instead that she was had been beautiful in a former life. 

My need to rid myself of the hot dog I ate previously has not waned. I let out a noxious fart in the ladies room and pretended it wasn’t me. 

If this reads like I didn’t have a good time, you’d be mistaken. People watching is great. (Cars driving in circles, meh.) People wore shirts with messages - some in support of their favorite driver, some political, some funny, and others celebrating the consumption of alcohol. 

I wore a plain white t-shirt and just enjoyed the show.

I cannot recommend the toast. Nevertheless, I love the toaster.

 The toast comes as is - however the toaster spits it out. Dark on one side, light and uneven on the other. Sometimes one side is barely warm while the other side is charred. While it hasn't happened (yet) in my current dwelling space, it occasionally sets off the smoke detector. (Also, occasionally, it makes good toast.)

It has no buttons or sliding plungers. Only a single ineffectual knob that once upon a time might have allowed a user to select how toast was produced on the light/dark spectrum.

Other than that, it's in perfect condition - until recently, that is. Sadly, part of a plastic leg has broken off. It's in an obscure location so I should try to glue it back to preserve its mid-century aesthetic. 

Seeing as the toaster is older than I am, I think the toaster is rather remarkable. But as I set this plate of toast before Hubby, he suggested it might be time to ... ahem, retire it.

Never! I replied.

Perhaps I should remind him the toaster is closer to his age than mine.