Making it in Toledo

When I started this blog and called it “Making it in Toledo” I was bored.  I’m not bored any more.  Who could be bored with a toddler in the house?  I’m also no longer channeling Lucinda Williams; who could fail to find joy with a three-year old around? Life has changed for the better.

 

There’s a cost.  I can no longer pretend that climate change will even largely spare those I love.  Both because the reality is becoming worse and because the life span of my loved ones has been extended.  I’ve admitted that we need to think (not quite ready to talk) about adapting to major change, because it’s too late to prevent it.  I think adapting will require that more of us do some things I’ve always like doing, like cooking from scratch, using all the parts, and eating seasonally (whatever seasons we may have).  (Hence this vegetable soup with beets and carrots and fennel and bone broth).

I’m wrapping up one major volunteer commitment (Pathway) and ramping up another (Reinvest Toledo) and trying to balance my continuing need to be engaged (and FOMO) with the increasing ease of staying at home.  Sometimes I can do both by gathering people at home with me.

Hoping to sit down with my computer more often and share thoughts here…. Hoping for comments…

 

 

A few years ago a friend shared a rule he had adopted:  he would only buy something if he also discarded something.  After 38 years in one place, it’s a bit late for me to take that approach.  I’m not quite ready for the Swedish death cleaning sweep, but probably my ration of add to subtract should be more like 1:10.  Here’s one thing I discarded yesterday:

I also have an (unopened) bottle of Manishewitz which perhaps will serve as today’s drain opener.  We used to keep these bottles to serve to John’s grandmother, who died more than two decades ago.  Yes, I have a hard time letting go.  I always assume that someone will want it and somehow that assumption overweighs the irritation of being overwhelmed with stuff.

Here’s what I added:

and

Since both have already been consumed, I’m making progress.

I’ve always loved old things.  These old glasses give me joy whenever I use them and no matter what they hold. Last night John and I closed out the weekend with Manhattans from cherry-pit infused bourbon.  It’s so satisfying to find delicious uses for something that would otherwise be wasted.

The trick is to distinguish between old-but-worth-saving and time-to-throw-it-out.  My most recent stack of library books includes “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, and today I hope to be inspired by it to clear some clutter.

I don’t think I’ll be clearing any old cocktail glasses, though.

 

It’s summer.  Having made it through a brief but brutal hot spell and having survived poison ivy with the help of herbal remedies (jewelweed soap and tecnu gel) from a great local hardware store, I think I’m ready for some fun now.

We’ve lived in our house since 1980, but until this year haven’t used the lovely old brick fireplace at the back of our property.  Johanna recognized its potential, worked hard to clean it up, and proposes to gain the skills needed to repair it.  We celebrated Aloisa’s birthday eve with S’mores around the campfire, and it was magical. Since Loi loves hot dogs I look forward to using it again.

After too many years of letting nature (and vinca vine) take over, I’ve re-claimed the space around  the fish pond our kids dug when they were teenagers.  Creeping thyme will fill in without being invasive, and the new brass frog adds just the right sound effect. The pond is right under our bedroom windows, and I love hearing it before I fall asleep.

Before June ends, John and I are heading out on a week-long road trip.  We’ll start off attending a wedding at a farm in New Jersey and then spend a couple of days in Connecticut with my sister. We’ll explore Hudson, New York for the first time and re-visit Ithaca fifty years after we first arrived as Cornell freshmen.  We hope to visit one or two of the wineries that have proliferated in the Finger Lakes since out college days there.  A classic summer escape, and I can’t wait!

Of course, summer will also include some politics and a fundraiser.  We’ll be hosting Zack Space, candidate for Ohio Auditor, at the end of July. The Auditor will have a voice in re-districting and the opportunity to help re-build trust by strategic use of the investigatory power of the office.  Space’s dad, Socrates Space, was chair of the Tuscarawas County Democratic Party, and I’m glad to have the opportunity to help.

August is wide open, but I have high hopes.

 

I love food.  I love cooking and I love feeding people.  I think food should be flavorful, beautiful, healthy and environmentally responsible.  Lots of people know about my likes but tonight I have a confession:

Our feeders have been attracting hummingbirds and orioles.  The orioles eat grape jelly and nectar.  The hummingbirds just eat nectar, although I have definitely seen some crossover.  This afternoon I made up a batch of nectar, 4 parts water to 1 part sugar.  I left it on the stove to cool.

John and I were going out tonight. We ended up at Kengo, (it’s been way too long.) which regrettably is not a favorite for our granddaughter Aloisa so we went on our own.  It was perfect, but we decided that a stop at Netty’s for ice cream would really round out the evening.  Since the rest of the family also wanted ice cream, we ordered 5 small cones and did our best to get them home intact.  Our best was not good enough, but since the Netty’s staff put each cone upside down in a plastic cup, although they were deformed they were not  befouled.  Success!!

After serving that less than elegant dessert,  I decided to fill the hummingbird and oriole feeders with the now-cooled nectar, but the nectar pot was mysteriously almost empty . It turns out that Johanna assumed I had left hot-dog cooking water along with the hot dogs (all beef, to be sure) I had thawed for her.  Although she didn’t notice, I’ll bet that sweet hot dogs are really special.

Some days we eat real food.

For me, today was the first day of spring.  Our Mexico vacation was wonderful and it is over. The bags are unpacked and the sunburn is peeling.  The tequila I brought back has yet to be opened. It’s almost April, and I plan to celebrate my entire birth month.  If you’d like to celebrate with me, I’m interested.

John is on his way to Texas to root for the Wolverines.  I hope they win and I hope he enjoys San Antonio.  While I don’t share his enthusiasm for team sports, I appreciate it.

I spent an hour or so in the garden this morning, cutting back last year’s blooms and discovering new growth in the sorrel, rhubarb, and strawberries.  I’m sure there are chives, but they are hidden by a huge grass and I’ll need to use a machete to find them. There’s some hope that Johanna and Aloisa will be my garden partners this year, and, once again, I can’t wait to plant!

My Easter memories involve new dresses, baskets full of chocolate, and a church service I found (and probably would still find) largely incomprehensible.  For Loi, it’s a celebration of spring that involves bunnies and eggs.  Spring is worth celebrating.

The primary election is of particular interest this year.  Seventeen years ago, in a previous life,  I recruited Teresa Fedor to run for office.  I am in awe of what she has accomplished and appalled that my local party has failed be even neutral, let alone supportive, of her in this race.  Vote for Teresa Fedor on May 8th!!  We need to support women who work hard for us.

Happy spring!

 

 

 

Rawhide the Wonder Horse has claimed a place in my living room.  I’m hoping this location is temporary, and I’m looking forward to the creation of a basement play space, but Rawhide is certainly evoking memories and provoking thought.  We acquired him almost 40 years ago, and he was a favorite even then. When we moved back to Toledo in 1978, we arrived before the moving truck and two-and-a-half year old Johanna was practically glued to the window watching for him in her eagerness.  Now it’s Aloisa’s turn.

On Black Friday, I succumbed to the Instant Pot craze.  It’s fun, and recently I bought a cookbook to expand my repertoire of suitable recipes.  The author, Urvashi Pitre, is a “trained scientist”and also “an entrepreneur-and the founder of …a global marketing agency.” Not surprisingly, Pitre says she never expected to be known as “the butter chicken lady.”  If her butter chicken recipe is as good as her tens of thousands of FB followers say, maybe it’s a greater accomplishment than her previous business success.  I’ll decide tomorrow when I make it for John’s birthday dinner.

It’s hard for any of us to know what changes are coming.  I certainly have often been surprised by what I’ve found myself doing in a succession of marginally-related careers since I came to Toledo as a junior high math teacher.  Someone recently asked if I was considering “coming out of retirement” to do something I am passionate about.  That’s not how it works for me.  I don’t do something because I’m passionate about it.  I become passionate about what I do.

After two decades of a no kids at home and almost that long of no pets, I certainly didn’t expected to be a person who has a horse in the living room.  I can’t wait to see what’s next.

Thanks to Donald Trump, I joined most of my friends under a black cloud for much of 2017.   That’s likely to continue, but I’m determined to recognize the bright spots.  Here’s one:

I buy a few pomegranates every year, and I’ve been inspired  by some beautiful dishes highlighting them.  Many years ago, during a spectacular dinner at a Slow Food conference, I enjoyed chiles en nogada in Puebla Mexico.  When I visited Lebanon as part of an exchange delegation for a women in politics project, we were served fresh pomegranate juice by charming children in an alarmingly regimented mountaintop school.  After I discovered Yotam Ottolenghi, I couldn’t resist his eggplant in buttermilk sauce, studded with these gorgeous seeds.

But this year, I was motivated by my granddaughter Aloisa’s curiousity about yet another round red fruit.  So I brought home a perfect specimen.  To my delight, Loi helped her mom extract the seeds, experimented with them by adding them to water (Look! It’s red! ) and, although she wasn’t thrilled by the taste (It makes a squirt in my mouth!) I was still flattered when she referred to them as pomegramma seeds.  I’m easy.

It’s the little things….

 

 

It’s been three years.  As I remember my father doing, I’ve battled knee pain.  (My father called his “Arthur.”) I’ve stretched, I’ve exercised, I’ve applied ointments, I’ve taken pain steadily increasing meds, and I have limped.

In 2014, just a couple of months before a long-anticipated trip to France, I fell on a step into the kitchen while I was bringing in an armful of herbs from the garden.  Sore and worried about being unable to enjoy our trip, I saw an orthopedist.  The X-rays and MRI he ordered showed fairly advanced arthritis.  I did a few weeks of physical therapy and I began taking medication for the pain, and it worked.  We had a great trip, including walking around Paris and southern France.

Since then, I’ve been like the frog in the pot.  Although it’s been up and down, the trend line on the pain has been upward and I have become less mobile.  I resisted the idea of knee replacement because I was always able to convince myself that the pain wasn’t too bad and that I could still do most of what I wanted to do.  But my gardens suffered, the walking-for-exercise dwindled, the walking-for-fun was less fun, and I was always in some level of pain.

Finally in August I knew that the time had come.  New x-rays showed bone on bone.  There was another vacation on my schedule, to northern California, so when the new orthopedist confirmed that I was absolutely a candidate for knee replacement, I decided to delay for a few weeks.  That vacation was also wonderful.  San Francisco is not an easy place for someone who doesn’t like walking, so I relied on Uber.  I didn’t want to forego the Monterey Aquarium or SF MOMA, so I reluctantly sat in a wheelchair, pain-free but self-conscious.

On Tuesday October 24th  I checked into surgery at Mercy St. V’s  and checked out of consciousness for a couple of hours.  I’m still battered, bruised, swollen and sore but the trend line is toward less pain and more mobility.  My physical therapist is pushing me. My family is watching over me.  My friends are feeding me (and the fam).

I’m on the mend, and grateful for it.

 

 

I cook for a lot of reasons.  Taste is number one.  But other associations matter too.  Memories.  Aspirations.

Last week I cooked a Puerto Rican -style pork pernil  . I know that our delicious dinner didn’t help Puerto Ricans any more than Trump’s tossed paper towels, but, since  I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, cooking and eating this food was the best I could do to make the island’s disaster real to me.

Tonight I am soaking midnight black beans from Rancho Gordo, and tomorrow I’ll make Free Mexican Airforce chili.  Until I found this recipe in Steve Sando’s cookbook, I hadn’t heard of Peter Rowan or listened to this song.  Rancho Gordo closed today and told all its employees to stay home.  Much of the wine country is on fire.  Just a couple of weeks ago we were at the junction of 101 and 12, where the Santa Rosa fire started.  Selfishly, I’m glad that we toured Sonoma when we did, and that we spent a day driving through Napa.

 

Is there a lesson here?  It’s tempting to be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the threat to so many beautiful places.  But I’m going to choose to be overwhelmed by the beauty that still exists, at home and on vacation.  Join me?