We didn’t spend all of our time as a foursome. Often the kids went off on their own.
“I’ve got to stop calling them that,” my husband announced, but what else to call them? Younger son not yet 30, girlfriend, younger yet.
Nothing about the rhythm of apartness caused grievance or disappointment. Perhaps that surprised me. But one haunting moment lingers even now.
We are on the street. Picture a throng on either side where people are shoulder to shoulder — a veritable river of human beings. Girlfriend wears a sweet straw hat, making her generally visible even in a crowd. But on this particular afternoon as they set off, I must have looked down for a moment, possibly at my phone — a trusty travel companion, that device — and when I looked up again there were gone. They had melted into the crowd on their way somewhere.
For all intents and purposes, they had disappeared. Their separation from us and forward movement and disappearance carried the weight and mystery and sadness of time in it. At that moment, they were literally walking into an afternoon, a future, unknowable to me. . . like they will today and tomorrow and the moment I am gone.
It was too shaggy. It barely held together when being shaped into disks for the fridge. Rolling the dough out later was tricky and getting in into the pie pan, trickier still. It was friable, cohering with mashing and not finesse.
And yet. And yet! It turned out to be delicious, making for one marvelous quiche and one delicious apple pie.
What’s the lesson here? Something about the perils of relying on the standards of previous efforts, perhaps. Something about holding low expectations…
I know I’m home because I’m typing to jackhammering.
I know I’m home because I didn’t sleep well two nights last week.
I know I’m home because the garden calls like a Siren.
I know I’m home because I’m looking forward to writing with my Tuesday writers this morning.
Back to dog walks. Back to really tasty salads.
One male. One female. Posse of five
My son returned to Colorado with Covid. If biting your tongue made a sound (regarding masks, which he not once wore), he would hear it from Massachusetts. How hard is it? I truly don’t understand. It wasn’t just him — in almost every mode of transport and crowded venue, I was the only person masked.
Too much?
Lest you think me extreme, a woman coughed (goopy, wet) for all six hours of this flight. About five rows back. It did not sound like she was even bothering to cover her mouth.
Washed, pressed, ready to cut for sachets!
PS. Flight was a red-eye and the coverup helped me sleep too.
Temps plummeting here so I made Finn a coat. It’s already been modified since its debut.
There’s a polar fleece underlayer and a top layer of gorgeous Irish wool. I know, I know. High quality imported wool for the dog?
Well, yes and why not? It’s been sitting in a bin for twenty-plus years. I think my mother gave it to me. Or it was hers and ended up with me. Since this picture was taken, I revamped the neck edge and moved the straps forward. Not ideal but it will work for the next walk in 7 degrees. Going to -10 overnight. Whew!
We went to Colorado last week. Saw the boys. We enjoyed it, our first gathering in EIGHTEEN MONTHS. One evening at the XGames in Aspen was a bit of a scene and memorable, other nights in front of a fire more relaxed (with YouTube offering much better viewing of the boarding events). C had a GoPro camera strapped to his chest on their days on the slopes, so even though I wasn’t skiing, I was treated to video of their descents.
I’m proud to say that we shopped the first day for what seemed like a huge amount of food, but we very nearly consumed it all. Except for the acorn squash. For some reason, on no night did I feel like stuffed acorn squash. I brought them home in my suitcase!
Our flights out of Aspen were cancelled because of a localized storm, so we ended up driving to Denver. Everyone made it home safe and sound. And no, the passes through Loveland and Breckenridge were not the white-knuckling, guard-rail-free nightmares I was anticipating.
I will never not be amazed by flying. That’s one of the Great Lakes above. K and I got four upgrades to first class. Sigh. The end of an era, since his Global Services status is due to expire. He may try to squeeze a couple of trips to China in before he retires, but given the ferocity of their Covid outbreak, it’s a problematic idea.
You used to have to quarantine upon arrival in China for seven to fourteen days, depending. Even if you quarantined in one city, say Beijing, you’d have to quarantine all over again if you traveled elsewhere, say Shanghai. They’ve dropped those requirements.
It is so odd how China went from imposing the most draconian disease management protocols to having none at all. In our country, we seem to be suffering from a similar lack of will — or is it delusion? Covid is no longer an emergency? Oh really? Is that why 2,000 to 4,000 Americans are dying EVERY WEEK, not to mention the drastic effects of Long Covid beginning to be documented to a horrifying degree?
Two men behind me on the flight home coughed the entire trip.
I borrowed a friend’s super duper HEPA filter. I have three fans in position, ready to circulate the air. My husband’ll take our bedroom and bath and I’ll take one of the boys’ bedrooms and their bath. We’ll wear masks.
Because? You guessed it. He caught COVID. K spent the week in Barcelona duking it out with Tylenol and room service. He didn’t make his presentation. “It’s like a bad cold,” he said, as many do. He stayed longer than his coworkers but is traveling home now after a positive test.
I know. I know.
I stopped to buy ham so I can make one of his favorite meals this weekend: ham, au gratin potatoes, and something green. I also bought a generous pack of chicken wings to add to the chicken carcass that’s in the fridge. This batch of chicken soup has to be good, silky-good. His senses of taste and smell do not seem to have been affected.
Today is cool. A beautiful first day of fall. Finn sniffed things on our walk this morning per usual and tried to roll in some very stinky soil amendment near The Terraces which was not usual.
I listened to This American Life — about a couple that travels to Switzerland for an assisted suicide. The husband had Alzheimer’s.
Did I already post this? (speaking of dementia!)
No one understood why I didn’t want to go to Spain with K. I kept saying, “It’s because I don’t want to get Covid.”
When K gave me the news earlier this week, I laughed and said, “You didn’t have to get sick to prove me right!” (Not immediately, of course. That wasn’t the first thing I said …)
I’ll be back to answer comments from last post. I seem to be missing some of my usual mojo lately.
Trying to decide whether to move or cancel a family trip to the Rockies. It’s scheduled for mid- to late-January and is meant to be our Christmas gathering with the boys. The Airbnb has a strict cancellation policy.
I’m having all kinds of feelings about this, mostly aggravated worry sliding into outrage. As my husband likes to point out, I go from zero to ten rather quickly. (At least he pointed out that I laugh easily too).
But here’s the thing: when members of a family have different tolerances for risk, whose gets to govern?
And, if we cancelled because a million cases are predicted for next week and oh, by the way, our airline keeps canceling hundreds of flights due to sick personnel, why should we be penalized? This is Act of God-level interference.
Frankly, if no money was involved, I’d have made a unilateral decision two days ago and cancelled.
Nicolle Wallace on Deadline Whitehouse yesterday: I just assume I’m gonna get it. Everyone I know has it. She doesn’t usually indulge in that level of hyperbole, but there you have it.
As I said to Airbnb hostess, I don’t care about getting a breakthrough case. It’s long Covid I worry about, for all of us. Can you imagine, for instance, living out your days without a sense of taste?
At least I took the ornaments off the tree. It’ll be on the curb by mid afternoon.
I’m off to make mushroom soup for lunch. A friend is coming over and we’re going to watch Being the Ricardos.
