first present
Callum totally beat me to the punch, rotten kid. This present is top secret, but apparently I am going to love it and want to hang it in my room...more to come, I'm sure.
wonderland
Bit by bit, piece by piece, we're getting it done around here. First came the tree. Lights and star one night and decorations the next. We seem to get our tree earlier than we did when I was a kid. I like having it up early. I come down first every morning and turn the lights on before letting the dogs out. It's the only light glowing in the living room. The tree is my favorite part every year.
I have boxes of family ornaments packed away in Tennessee. I wouldn't mind having those again, but these are all ours. Some made, some purchased, but all from the CFE. Current Family Era. I would like to have those old ornaments, but I'd need another tree. Not that that's a bad thing. I think I may be onto something. Are those ornaments in the attic, Dad?
I made this pom pom garland last year and I love it. It tangles easily, but I married an expert de-tangler, so that's no problem. It's all teals, purples, blues greens and whites. Good colors in our living room.
Last year, I was really sad at Christmas time, so I...ahem...spent a little money on decorations. Until that year, I'd never really decorated beyond the tree and a poinsettia or two. It just never occurred to me to take almost everything off the mantle and make it so different for the season, but I love it. I may have been sad last year, but it sure is pretty around here now.
Our living room was an entirely different color last Christmas, (more
of a sky blue) so I had to switch out the candles, but other than that
the decorations are the same.
Aside from the potted, fluffy flower things, most of the stuff on the
mantle is not new, actually. I love the winter-wonderland look of it.
Sparkly ice crystals.
I'm also really enjoying this trend of non-traditional colors at Christmas time. Teal! Pink! Ice Blue! That's what captured me so much last year. The colors were so much more captivating than traditional red and green.
So we have red and pink and silver in the dining room. Little presents scattered all over the table.
The family room feels more traditional, for us at least. A more traditional garland, and splashes of gold instead of pink and teal. Those reindeer are from Pottery Barn, years and years ago. Isn't that one of the best things? Getting out the stuff year after year? Old friends. And I like how the rooms flow from knock you out dressy to bits and pieces decorated.
Merry Christmas Little Gray House. Time to get to work making presents.
diorama-drama
I want to send out a special thank you out to Callum's second-grade teacher. Thank you so much for assigning a diorama project. I love those! What fun! Especially at this time of year. It's not like there are lights to be hung, cookies to be baked, Christmas cards to be addressed, mantles to be decorated and gifts to be crafted (not to mention laundry, cooking, cleaning and grocery shopping).
A mid-afternoon delivery of beer and fudge got us through it. Callum especially appreciated the beer. (It's a JOKE, people. No need to go hit speed-dial for social services.)
And we present: the desert habitat diorama. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
P.S. Thank you all so much for your comments, calls and e-mails checking in on sweet Violet. She's fine now. Was back home that evening, and back to her old self by the next day. She'd had a reaction to her distemper vaccine and went into anaphylactic shock. Thank God we were still there and have such a great vet in Dr. Dragon (no kidding, that's her name!). She's been milking it like nobody's business, and you know what. I agree, she deserves some extra loving.
recipe tuesday, fall back
Okay, I know that there are those of you who will beg to differ (Shoshana), but in my mind, this is some of the. best. macaroni. and. cheese. ever.
From Sarah Foster's Fresh Every Day. We had it last week to use up the last of the leftover turkey.
2 T unsalted butter, plus more for buttering pan
1/2 lb. bite sized pasta (we used bow tie)
2 t. sea salt
2 T olive oil
1 large yellow onion
3 garlic cloves minced
2 C milk
2 C heavy cream
3 1/2 C cooked shredded chicken (this is where we used the turkey)
2 C shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 grated Parmesan cheese
8 ounces fresh spinach, washed, stems removed, blah, blah, blah
2 t. dried marjoram
1 to 2 T hot sauce (I used Texas Pete)
Freshly ground black pepper to taste1. Preheat oven to 350. Lightly butter a 9X13 backing dish
2. Boil pasta until al dente. Drain and transfer to a large bowl. Drizzle with 1 T of olive oil and toss to coat.
3. Melt butter with remaining tablespoon of olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onion and cook, stirring occasionally until translucent. Add garlic and cook for a minute longer, stirring constantly so the garlic doesn't brown.
4. Stir in the milk and cream, reduce heat to low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until sauce is reduced by half and is thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 20 minutes.
5. Remove sauce from heat and add the chicken, Cheddar, Parmesan, spinach, marjoram,hot sauce, salt and pepper. Stir until cheeses have melted and spinach has wilted. Pour into a bowl with the pasta and toss to coat with sauce. Taste (!) and season to taste.
6. Transfer pasta to baking dish and bake for 45 minutes or until the sauce is bubbling around the edges and pasta is slightly brown on top. Let rest for ten minutes before serving warm.
What do you say? A macs and cheese cook off? Sounds like a win-win to me!
banka
I actually think it's going to be hard for me to write a post about my granddad. My heart is too full. Today is his birthday. He would have been 98. He died of pneumonia in 2004. The old man's friend. I still miss him a lot. Of the three grandparents who were part of my growing up, this man, my dad's dad, was the one I was closest to. When I was a little, little girl, I called him Banka. My grandmothers were amazing women (go here and here to see what I mean), and we were close, but my grandpa played with me and talked to me. That was pretty special.
We played a lot. My dad has the same sense of play that my grandpa had, and that makes for a great parent and grandparent. Once, some Thanksgiving or Christmas, Dad, Grandpa and I were all playing football in the backyard, and my dad threw a bomb to my Grandpa. I wasn't that young, maybe in junior high (remember before it was middle school?) or early high school, which meant that Grandpa wasn't that young either. He jumped up to catch the ball and came down flat on his back. Dad and I were so worried, we dashed to the other end of the field to find Grandpa still lying there. He was laughing so hard he couldn't get up, but he still had possession of the ball.
He had a great smile and a great laugh and the sweetest, gentlest spirit of any man you could ever know. He also had a hard life. He was the third eldest of nine children, but when Grandpa was very young, the eldest died within days of each other from diphtheria. His father was a brutal, abusive alcoholic who eventually abandoned his family, and my grandfather never spoke of him. When Grandpa's own mother finally died (at 96...I have longevity on my side, it would seem!) and my dad went to the funeral, she was buried next to my great-grandfather. Looking at the marker, my dad realized that because my grandfather never spoke of him, he had never learned his own grandfather's name.
When he was in high school (am I right about that time frame, Dad?) Grandpa was sent to live with a childless family to "work" for them. Let's not put too fine a point on this. My great-grandfather needed money, so he essentially sold his son to these people. Grandpa was still able to go to school, but his life was one of hard work and loneliness. He worried, as well, about the brothers and sisters left behind in that brutal household. He was, for a time, valedictorian of his high school class, but didn't want to give a speech at graduation so he let his grades slip a bit. The family he'd been sent to live with offered to send him to college, but only if he'd consent to being a teacher. Grandpa didn't want to be a teacher, so he didn't go. I wonder how his life would be different if he hadn't had such a strong spirit. This dog in the picture with him was named Mickey. My grandmother always said that after Mickey died they couldn't bear to get another dog, and I always wondered how much of that was her and not him.
He grew up Lutheran, but before marrying my grandmother joined her Methodist church. He didn't discuss this with her before hand, just went and did it and presented his decision as a fait accompli. They had a funny marriage that way. Not a lot of talking things over, but full of love. Grandpa ended up being the treasurer of their church, and he based his opinion of their minister on the length of the sermon. Too long and Grandpa was not too impressed. When they built a new sanctuary, Grandpa chose the stained glass windows. They're beautiful, unusual and modern. Not what you'd expect, and that was my granddad. Not what you'd expect.
Every Christmas he'd take me to the local floral shop to buy some poinsettias and order flowers to be delivered to my mother and grandmothers. This was a lovely tradition, one I wish we could get moving here. I guess Christmas is much on my mind because also at Christmas every year he'd get my Grandmother a gorgeous piece of jewelry. We'd all wait to see what was in the little box this year. Traditions were important to us...I'd give him Old Spice every Christmas.
Have you ever seen those signs on the side of the road, "Watch for Falling Rock"? Well Grandpa would tell me a wonderful story about an Indian Princess named Falling Rock. He let me play endlessly with his hair, making it "stribbly," and placed countless orders for food in my "restaurant." As I got older, he didn't just talk to me, he confided in me. Things about my dad and his growing up. Things about his own marriage. He loved golf and Redskins football, reading and his family. We we once at a diner for breakfast and made him laugh so hard that coffee and blueberry muffin came out of his nose. VO and 7Up always seemed like a classy drink because my Grandpa drank it, and every margarita he had was, "The best margarita I ever tasted."
On my birthday in 1992 Grandpa had a massive stroke that nearly killed him. Mentally and physically he never really recovered. He went in and out of one nursing home and then back in another in the twelve years he lived after that stroke. After the stroke he learned to walk again and even moved back home for awhile. That, to him, was a great triumph, living at home again. But he wasn't the same man really. Reading took a concentration he no longer had; he even lost the taste for coffee and iced tea. Where he'd once been proud and confident, he became crotchety and worried. While Neel was in graduate school we lived near my grandparents and took them out to eat nearly every Sunday. Invariably Grandpa would complain when we were minutes late. One of my favorite lines from this time, I may have blogged about it before, is one that appears in our family lexicon a lot. As we were driving back from an outing with my dad and both my grandparents, Grandpa worried that we'd be late for his dinner at the nursing home. My dad tried valiantly to reassure him, but Grandpa said, "You may tell me not to worry, but I am worried." We all still use that one.
When he died, I felt overwhelming sadness, but what surprised me was the relief. It was as if his death freed him for me. It freed my memories at least. It was as if seeing him as he was made it too hard to remember him as he had been. I got him back, in a way, when he died. Neel spoke at his funeral, under the stained glass windows Grandpa chose, in the sanctuary where he hadn't attended in so long, Neel made everyone really see what kind of man my Granddad had been. Neel talked about how it was a shame Grandpa had died before learning Joe Gibbs was coming back to coach his beloved Redskins (I like to think that Grandpa got to heaven and whispered a suggestion in God's ear), and my dad told a story about being a kid and watching a man ask his dad for money. Grandpa didn't give him money, but took the man into the restaurant they were passing and bought him a meal. That was the kind of man he was.
I love that last picture of him. He looks so handsome and debonair. That's how I like to remember him. Standing strong. Strong handshake. He kept that strong handshake even after his stroke. For a long time I wondered if it would have been better if he'd just died outright. Those nursing homes were hard on all of us. And then I realized that in those twelve years he saw me get married and met his great-grandson. So those memories aren't all bad. I have a great memory of a very young Callum, three maybe, sharing a bag of potato chips with Grandpa, and that is a very nice memory to have. At his funeral, little four-year old Callum was one of the pall bearers, and that makes me very proud. Happy Birthday Banka. Your Redskins are 5-7, and you have the Bears on Thursday night. You may tell me not to worry, but I am worried. I love you.
checkered present
Duh. As she smack herself on the forehead, loser-like. How can I expect to blog about Christmas crafts when many of my recipients are readers here?
weekend engagement
The "friend" portion of the holiday season started in full force on Saturday with the engagement party of some friends of ours.
A few weeks ago, back in early October, Nurse Rebecca and her family took Callum to Busch Gardens for the day to celebrate HallowScream. Oh my God the fun that kid had. If I did a whole "Thanksgiving-y" post of things I'm grateful for, numbering near the top would have to be the people who include and even absorb my young son into their lives. Name any of our near neighbors, but their parents too, and they all welcome Callum into any endeavor that they think he'd enjoy. He doesn't get it now. For him, boat rides and Busch Gardens are just an accepted part of his life. But we get it, and he will. When he looks back, he will.
On that day it was Rebecca, her parents and this happy couple. Rebecca's brother Wyatt and his fiancee Megan. On Saturday we celebrated their engagement.
Sometimes I get the sense that we didn't really know how to do things until we moved here. Finally, with lots of exposure, we're learning. This oyster roast engagement party was just how a fall party should be. A perfect location, with the weather dialed up for a perfect fall day.
The house is part of the Episcopal Diocese and is on a point of land sloping toward the river. The wide, wide lawn was the perfect spot for a couple of fire pits, games of frisbee, tree climbing, and water watching. All of the activity was outside under the tent and around the fire.
Fortunately crab cakes were passed around.
There was lovely live music. All the best songs, from Dave Matthews to Van Morrison with just a guitar and an amp. Callum asked as we were leaving if I liked the musician, and I told him that I wanted him to come to my house and play for me all the time.
The autumn light on the water.
Lovely homes peaking through leafless trees.
These happy people.
And these happy people.
When the sun went down, we all trooped home. But what a wonderful day. Jan and Bill, Nurse Rebecca, Wyatt and Megan...what a great party. Thank you so much for including us again.
family feast
"Thanksgiving is nothing without the turkey," or so says my eight-year old, and I suppose he has a point. We've celebrated many other ways. Goat curry (no lie) at my in laws. In San Diego we had so many international friends that we ended up with quite a feast. Nineteen or twenty people from around the world would join us at our tiny condo for a world-bazaar of a potluck. The Germans were always on time. The Indians were always late. The Welsh were indecipherable. The Australians were always drunk. Good times that. Some of my favorite Thanksgivings were around those packed and colorful tables.
It's different here. Families eat with families, and while sometimes we've celebrated with friends, more often than not, it's the three of us. And I like it that way. Last year when I tried to minimize the hugeness of a turkey dinner for three people by serving a pork tenderloin, I caught no end of hell from Callum. So this year a turkey. All eleven pounds. The smallest I could find. We'll be having turkey for days.
Callum was a big help this year. We have a family tradition of making chestnut stuffing for the turkey. My dad and I always made it together while listening to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and I had Callum and Neel's good help this year. The Blood Marys helped some too... When I was growing up, my job was the relish tray, and at eight, I felt it was time that Callum started to carry this torch. I got him his very own tray, and he did a great job, don't you think?
Add to that Megan's Sweet Potato Casserole and my grandmother's corn in her Fiestaware bowl. Not a bad day for three sick kids.
The girls did their part, working hard. Especially Sweet Violet.
We have a blessing that we say at our table most nights and I'll share it with you sometime. I loved Amy's though. It seems especially appropriate around here these days.
Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't lean a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so let us all be thankful. --Buddha
Wow. Love that. Just love it. So family. Just family this Thanksgiving, and for that I am very grateful. But get geared up, for the wild rumpus is just beginning. I love this time of year. Family today. Friends from here on out.
gearing up
To say that we're all on the mend over here might be overstating it a little. Callum's doing much better, although he's still getting tired easily, but I'm still fighting a fever and coughing like a tuberculosis patient waiting to catch a plane for his honeymoon, and Neel and I are both blowing our noses enough to go through several boxes of those. Ugh. This virus has lasted a long time.
In the meantime, autumn has burst into technicolor and I miss my little life and my little blog and oh, Thanksgiving, I've barely had a chance to give you a thought. We mustered the energy to get to the grocery store today and the counters are littered with all the fixings for tomorrow.
I've had so much I wanted to say about Thanksgiving. It really is my favorite holiday. We've spent it many different ways, but this year it'll be just the three of us (That was the plan even before the plague hit!). I'm so glad. That's how Thanksgivings were for me growing up, quiet "just us guys" time, and all I want is my family with me right now.
So I've made the first small step towards setting the table, and I'm really hoping to check back in tomorrow with some less congested updates on food and family fun. I miss everybody. Slurp.
harrowing
There's been no other word to describe this past week, really. Callum's temp crept up and up and up all day last Tuesday, all the way about 104 degrees. Nothing I seemed to do would bring it down. You raise a kid for eight years and you get to know his illness MO. Sure he's had fevers before, but never this high and never without any other symptoms (all he complained of was a headache, sore skin and a stiff neck). And I could always bring them down. Not this time.
We called Neighbor Nurse Rebecca in for a consult and her concern made us more concerned (the stiff neck had us all worried about meningitis). So with a 104.1 fever and nothing else to go on, off to the ER at the local Children's Hospital we go. We haven't been to the ER with Callum since moving here. Urgent Care yes, no ER trips. Thank God. We were regulars in San Diego. (They have an awesome Children's Hospital, by the way.) Once was for falling of a bench onto a concrete floor, once was for a broken nose, but primarily we went for a stint that Callum spent with asthma when he was 2-3 years old.
The first time we made the asthma run was the kick-off of the worst 48 hours of my life. From Callum's labored breathing to the 911 call to the ambulance ride to the long, long wait in the ER waiting room. After that ER wait, my dad joked that I could probably see my future flash before me. A kid with his arm in a sling. Somebody needing stitches in his chin. Sure those families were there. All the things you anticipate going through when you sign on for this parenting thing. There was worse too, though. A little baby, younger than Callum, with osteogenesis imperfecta. His pelvis was broken and he'd been there before. I was so caught up in our own scary moments as Callum struggled to breathe, but the face of that boy's mother is burned on my mind. Both haunted and resigned. We got Callum hyped up on Albuterol with his oxygen saturation up to normal levels and went home. Only to return in the middle of the night as my baby boy struggled to breathe again. That time the ER was quieter, but just as scary as a teen suicide attempt was rushed past us. You absorb the anguish and the fear somehow. How can you not?
This time was different. Not as fearful. Not as... dramatic. Was it harrowing? Just as. We sat for four hours as Callum stayed hot and uncomfortable and miserably unhappy. All I wanted to do was go home, but as long as his fever hovered around 104 we were hesitant to leave. The place was packed. There were kids throwing up on either side of us. Poor Neel had been to a memorial service that day and was still in his dress shoes. No one, besides the triage nurse, ever saw us. Callum's temperature dipped to 102, and I called it. I want to go home. It serves no purpose to stay here. I was reminded of one time, deep in the throes of the asthma crisis, when Neel and I drove (why is it always in the dark of the night?) to the ER, took one look at the packed waiting room and turned right back around. We'd see our doctor in the morning. How liberating. I know it sounds dumb. We're not held hostage by our doctors or our emergency rooms. We don't have to go. If it hadn't been for that stiff neck and that stubborn high fever I never would have subjected any of us to that miserable Tuesday night. But you know what? You are held hostage by your child's very breath. By his hot, parched skin and strange and listless demeanor. I think what happens is that you just hit a point where suddenly you know that no one can do or know better than what you can do.
It happened that night in the San Diego Children's Hospital. It was, as it happens, our last bout with asthma. I don't draw the connection, really, but after that night when we made the decision not to stay at the ER, Callum out grew his asthma. And he's a pretty healthy kid. Up until this week, he hadn't been sick in over a year. This one was a doozy. Out of school all week. When we finally got to our doctor Wednesday afternoon (after a 15 minute wait), he tested negative for both strep and the flu. But the fever remained, and he was only up and moving around on Sunday. Six long days. Honestly, even with all the asthma and every ear infection, I have never seen him as sick as he was this week. Even the pups, Lucy especially, have been hovering restlessly, knowing that something has been up with their boy.
He's on the mend now for the most part. He should go to school today but may give PE a miss since his cough lingers. I'm glad it's a short week and that our Thanksgiving plans are light. I haven't even thought about Thanksgiving yet and I want to. The kicker is that I'm sick now too. Sinus infection and an ear infection to boot. And winter's not even here yet.
102.6
Well, we made it to school and almost immediately turned around and came home again. This boy who didn't have a fever when he left the house sure enough had one by the time we got back home. I feel fairly cruddy too, so we're hunkering down with some cozy blankets and a movie or two. Days like this remind you that all work can wait. Snuggles can't.
the house at pooh corner
I know you probably don't care much about what I've been up to this week. I'm sure everybody is wondering how the girls are all getting along and settling in.
So far, things are going pretty well.
I have a lot to learn, I know, about the politics of a multi-dog house. Dare I say a multi-bitch house? Present company excluded, of course. But we are very proud of our girls and how well they are seem to be adjusting to life together. I've told several people now that we have a shake-down of characters from Winnie-the-Pooh.
Lucy is Tigger. Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. I worried about her adjustment the most, even though I knew she was lonely. But she's held her own. Our first born pup, Phoebe was so old when Lucy-Goosey moved in, that she was no real companion for our little beagle pup. Every morning when I'd get up early, early, Lucy would come downstairs with me and chase a ball or a bone or a decapitated squeaky toy from room to room. Only when the other girls got here did I realize that she was probably waiting for that toy to chase her back.
Now she has Violet. Lucy and Vi have really bonded and they play just the way Lucy and her tennis ball used to.
Violet is our little Piglet. "I'm a very small dog, you know, " she reminds us continually. She is a sweet, wee little peanut.
I mean look at that face. Impossibly sweet. She reminds me of a Steiff stuffed animal. Except her theme music is from The Great Escape. This very small dog (you know) has been very big trouble. Oh but she loves you so much, all she wants to do is snuggle. And kiss you. And snuggle some more. Except she's just very curious about what's on the other side of the fence. Our very own Pokey Little Puppy. She seems very confident and self-assured. I don't know what it is about Lucy that makes us think she's looking around to say, "Is this how we do it guys?" Not Violet. She knows the score. If she doesn't like how things are going down (Lucy and Thea's scraps were troubling to her at first), she'd just get up and leave. Hang out in her crate. But mostly she's happy. Her whole body wiggles when she wags her tail. And she'll put her paws up on her mom or Lucy's back if she's trying to get a little taller. Have to get a picture of that sometime. I keep trying.
Thea cracks me up because she is so serious. She's our Rabbit. Bossy and, well, bossy. I don't know anything about the Welsh national character; she strikes me as more German. Life is work. And she's regal too. When they got here, she jumped on the sofa and said, "Madame may be served her dinner now." When Team Squirrel springs into action, Thea is very focused. The first off the starting block as they all scamper outside. While the little girls play and bounce and chase about the back yard, Thea will watch from the porch.
I love this picture because she looks almost lighthearted. Almost. She's not. We had dinner by the fire Saturday night, and Thea is not lighthearted about food. She knows her way around a kitchen and a dining room, and she works hard in both places. She disdains toys, she never smiles, she's even been known to frown upon a milkbone. She reminds me of Mrs. Fisher in Enchanted April. All Thea wants to do is be left alone and think of better times and better men.
It's hard work on all of these girls running this house. Still, I think they'd all say they landed some place soft.
uncle
I've been burning the candle at both ends lately and now I'm crying "uncle". I'm worn out and I have the sniffles and that kind of pre-cold achey tender-skin feeling. We have some late nights scheduled this week, and I'm feeling out of balance, so I'm going to take a blogging break and try to regain some equilibrium. I'll be back next week with some thoughts on Christmas crafting (it's not too late to start, is it?) and trying to find that all elusive balance in my life, and I'm sure you'll want to know what we've been having for dinner! (And Megan, don't worry, if I do a post about chestnuts, I'll warn you in advance.) See you in a few days.
the story behind the story
Yep. It's true. There are two new pups in the house. Can you believe it? I can barely believe it myself. We've been looking for another dog. One other dog. Remember Mandy? When Lucy moved in, Phoebe already lived here. Phoebe was our first born and she died last February at the regal age of fourteen. I'll write about her someday, but not today. For the time that Phoebe and Lucy overlapped we really enjoyed having two dogs in the house, and we knew we wanted to do it again. We tried all spring and summer, but each attempt seemed forced somehow. Neel kept reminding me that the right pup would fall into our laps. He didn't seem to realize that the right PUPS would show up!
Thea
When I called my friend Greg last week, he surprised my by saying that he had a Corgi on his lap. It was a trial run. They think they're not ready for a dog. I can appreciate that. Still, I think you're always more ready to open your heart than you think. So I jumped on that right away. Lucy needs a Corgi sister. (Right, Lucy?) Then Greg told me, "Well, Miss Corgi here has a daughter."
Violet
Here's how it happened. Greg has a friend who is the kind of guy who just has a warm and open heart. You can feel the goodness simply by standing near him. I think these dogs knew that when they showed up at his doorstep a few weeks ago, bundle of belongings tied to a stick. Dogs know, you know? This guy will take care of us. And John did. He had two beagles for them to hang with, a great yard to run around in and a lot of love. He tried and tried to find their owners. Did all of the right things. But the sad fact is that we have a transitory population in this town and people move a lot and animals get abandoned. We think that's what happened. After Greg and his wife decided that this just wasn't the right time for them to have a dog, John pointed out that he'd like to see these dogs stay together.
It's clear. They go together. Thea and Violet. Neel and I were pretty wary of two dogs. We took Lucy over for a meet and greet, and as soon as we saw them we knew it would be fine. They're little dogs! It's the Black-and-Tan Brigade. So we got another crate, some new toys and pink collars and here we are. And so far things have been going fine. Better than expected.
There's definitely a lot more movement in the house. It'll take some getting used to. Lucy was very jealous last night. "Look, I can jump on the bed! Oh? You can't? Too bad. So sad." And I wish I had a picture of the sleeping arrangements. The new girls sharing a crate. Lucy finally in her crate (we couldn't take her lording it over them by jumping off the bed and then asking to be picked up over and over again), and Callum asleep in a sleeping bag on the floor between them.
Today Lucy has been all, "Here's my ball, and here's my bone, and oh! You want to go in the living room? We can go in the living room, let's go!!" And then I look into the backyard and see Lucy and Thea and no Violet. Of course total panic. She's a baby. We think she's only about six months old. Throw on shoes and a jacket. Bring the other girls in. Run into the front yard. Finally see her in our neighbor's backyard. She dug under the fence (shades of The Pokey Little Puppy). So I go next door to get her. She's gone back into our yard. So I go home. And she's back under the fence in their yard. I finally wait at the hole and she crawls under to me. A little muddy and terribly pleased with herself.
And here's Thea's response to all of this mess...
Welcome home, girls. Except someone has gas.
fireside supper
We had our first real snap in the air last night and decided to have supper by the fire. So far the super-dorky structured approach seems to be helping me out quite a bit. Where ever I had a curve ball, I just shifted that meal to the next week, and it's clear that this one is now a staple. Neel likes my version better, and I like his. This just follows my theory that you like the best the food that someone makes you. But the warm, slightly spicy noodles and the stewed chicken were perfect for this crisp evening. As was the fire.
Our living room is one of my favorite rooms in our house, and I love how it can smell like woodsmoke even in the dead of summer. It was lovely to have a weeknight fire and lovely to eat dinner in front of it. I plan on doing it a lot this winter.
Everybody seemed to like it, so why not?
anniversary
Yesterday was our twelve-year wedding anniversary. I spent the afternoon at work, and we spent the evening at dinner with about twenty other people sitting at two separate tables in two separate rooms. I could hear Neel's laugh across the entire house. Neel has a great laugh. I heard him laugh before I ever met him, before I ever laid eyes on him. What a nice first memory of a person. It's everyone's first memory of Neel, and that alone makes me very happy to be married to him. We laugh a lot.
Not that it's all perfect. Last night, in the middle of the night, as I hauled the covers once again back over my shivering body, I thought here's the book I'm finally gonna get published. Living with the Light Miser and the Blanket Thief: A Guide to Marriage. It'll make me millions.
Here's to the next dozen or so years, Neel. I love you like the stars above. I'll love you till I die.
second annual SOBO pumpkin carving
Never say I'm such a dork that I can't hit a curve ball when it's pitched to me. No pasta with golden fennel for us last night. It's time for the Second Annual SOBO Pumpkin Carving Extravaganza.
For sustenance you start with Chinese food. I'm not sure how it happened, but Neel and I ended up with all the leftovers and didn't manage to pay for a thing. Because we're having rain (!), we moved the festivities into Tyler and Catherine's Garage-Mahal. It was the perfect fall night. Cool and windy with water dripping from the trees.
It's hard to be patient while the grown-ups sit and eat and talk, and pretty soon Callum was urging us towards the pumpkins. Jean, Paul, Zack and Mack couldn't join us this year (we missed you guys, but fully anticipate your presence at Halloween), and Callum felt keenly the responsibility that comes with being the only kid on the premises. It's. time. to. start. carving.
Rebecca spends some time thinking about her design,
but guest-carver Ryan dives right in on his first pumpkin ever.
Neel goes at our pumpkins with the precision of any good scientist. And you know, I tried to figure why I didn't get many shots of Tyler, but I think I was mostly taking action shots. Tyler, Catherine and I did a lot of supervising. Those are Tyler's legs behind Neel. He's getting something for Rebecca to make some freckles on her pumpkin. I'm telling myself that it's not based on me.
Callum has to inspect everybody's work. Here they are, all lined up together. Like neighbors.
My favorite part comes later, after all of the carving is done. Pumpkin-seed time. My spices vary from year to year and I never know exactly what I seasoned the seeds with the year before, but this year's batch was particularly good. Garlic salt for the base with a pinch on cayenne, some cumin and the smallest dash of some cinnamon. Toasted at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes for the perfect midnight snack.
Boo.