That Accident Left Everyone A Little

Seriously. This is an unlikely development.

Friends in Atlanta sent a box of special, beautiful skeins of yarn. When I sorted by color and texture, patterns formed. The person who bought the yarn planned to make fuzzy winter scarves in rich jewel tones and baby blankets in pastel blue. We all have plans we might not get to see come to fruition.

So I asked my friends if they’d like me to make blankets out of the soft baby yarn and donate them to a shelter or agency. They said that’d be fine. A year ago, I worked up the nerve to knit baby blankets for complete strangers. I get stage fright. Sue me. This year, leading into the unnamed university’s anti-hunger project, I’m going to try to knit a baby blanket every few weeks, maybe one per month. In between, I’m going to race through half a dozen blankets for animal shelters. It’s a modest plan and not the first time during the cat blanket project a box of yarn drove home the fragility of our future.

They’re all just blankets. I’m just knitting. The world is spinning, spinning, spinning.

Invest A Dime

One hopes to discover as few things as possible in one’s basement. It’s early September now, so June, July and August’s fruits in jars start to both add up and make the head swim. Once I’d decided to make an inventory it took three weeks to mosey down the stairs and drum up a list. In my own defense, I was busy putting things into jars so I could count them, then I suffered a bout of ennui when August positively evaporated. I don’t know where it went, but at left here you can see the cinderblocks are still moist from the hurricane. Anyway, I finally had a look at the pantry and discovered a few things I didn’t remember jarring. Considering what I could have found down there, I feel strangely lucky.

No Other Way To Go With It

So pretty you look around for the pick pocket.

This morning, I held up my hand and counted the correct number of fingers, so before my first cup of coffee I put jars in water on the stove. A few weeks ago, I lamented that the season may have passed me by and I hadn’t gotten nectarines into jars. At the farmers market on Friday, I found some beautiful white nectarines and snatched them up. I cut them up, tossed them in lemon juice, made an ultra light simple syrup adding a cinnamon stick, a thumb of fresh ginger and a teaspoon of ras el-Hanout and simmered the nectarines in the syrup before processing. I added a little more lemon juice before sealing the jars, just for good measure. It was so easy I couldn’t believe I hadn’t done it by accident a few weeks back or something.

My adorable grandchildren both have teeth now, which I admire in budding omnivores. Miss Sasha informed me recently that tiny Buckwheat likes food with actual flavors, which is exciting and means I will be standing next to the spice rack, cackling. Lightning will strike. My lab assistant will beg me not to throw the giant switch, but I will throw it! My hair will fly in an unnatural wind as I shout, “Give my jarred fruit SPIIIIICE!”

A Lifetime Run Over And Over

Sometimes when I’m out on the bicycle in traffic, I see things I have to file away to think about later. One of those things has been NJ Transit bus signs in English and Spanish asking women not to abandon their babies.

Last night, I looked up the New Jersey Safe Haven Infant Protection Act site because I was curious about how big a problem abandoned babies might be in the state that has certainly seen highly publicized abandoned baby disasters.

Yeah. That happened here in New Jersey. Twice. In general, though, an abandoned baby anywhere is not the kind of news that penetrates my carefully-constructed cocoon of self-absorption, so this morning, I called the number for further information and asked for just that. Seriously: how big a problem is this? Does it happen every year or just often enough to drive Seth MacFarlane tastelessly up a wall? The woman answering the phone directed me to a series of statistics pages.

Well then. This is certainly a different problem than I imagined. Every year for the last ten, at least four babies have been abandoned in the state, at least one in unsafe circumstances, though the chart does not describe those circumstances or the outcomes. As much as I would like to let the rational mind handle thinking about this matter, I can’t get past knowing what it feels like to have a baby you can’t take care of and not knowing what to do. These numbers hint at a lot of suffering and, strangely in my opinion, that news of Safe Haven protections hasn’t reached everyone. The agencies involved are asking for help.

Pretty But I’ve Never Been

Shiny yarn drives the pussycats especially crrrrrrazy.

Drusy is curled up on my lap, explaining everything that boy in her French class said in the lunch room – either that or I’m confused about the fall hemlines and why five people in my office turned up in purple shirts today. Turns out I’m sensitive to chemicals in paint the construction guys are using in an office immediately adjacent to mine and several times in the last month I’ve spent whole days unable to count how many fingers I was holding up. Still, I thought they were finished. That site was opening up today. Just after noon, I realized I’d been reading the same paragraph for half an hour, so I went and looked. Sure enough, one of the painters was pouring paint just on the other side of the wall.

Then I was happy because at least I was stooopid for a reason. Reason, however, fails these people altogether.

His Hat Was His Home

This is just sad:

Has knife; has yet to get a grip.

About the Show

Lisa Lillien is not a nutritionist. She’s just hungry. She’s a “foodologist”, whose Hungry Girl email newsletter reaches 1 million subscribers daily. She invents simple, delicious recipes that are guilt-free, satisfy cravings and taste great without adding lots of extra calories and fat grams to your daily diet. In her series, Hungry Girl stops at nothing to provide us with the answers we all need — what to eat, what to buy, what to cook, how to read labels. She’ll have lots of tips, whether at home or out in the world. Each week Hungry Girl will feature low-calorie recipes and makeovers of fatty favorites; feature survival guides for restaurants and eating situations; alert viewers to shocking (yet fun!) facts about the food we eat; and share all of her secret weapons to “chew the right thing” through her fun and inventive approach to food.

All that emphasis? Yeah, that’s mine. You probably think I’m exaggerating when I say this woman and this show pose an actual threat to idiots fascinated with shiny objects. Watch this culinary crazy train. THAT’S NOT FOOD, IT’S MALNUTRITION ON A PLATE.

There’s a lot wrong with Lisa Lillien’s fun food philosophy that relies so heavily on guilt avoidance and daily dieting; essentially, food is your enemy and you are your enemy and your enemies go dancing every night without you, though they call you up to tell you every exasperating detail. Who develops such an incredibly hostile and fraught relationship with food? Women, of course. Women who’ve been on diets since before glorious puberty tied their paths to svelte fame and fortune into Gordian knots fraying near the bathmat fringe. This isn’t eating for your health, to feed your deeper self the vitamins and nutrients key to building a strong body and a calm, active mind. No, this is colorful self-sabotage and trying to plug the hole where Mommy’s bitterness poured in like icy bilge water. You can never be good enough. Why not skip the flowers and say it with rickets? Though she never mentions vitamins, electrolytes, fiber, grains, calcium, Omega fatty acids or anything else a nutritionist should, Lillien goes on ad nauseam about calories, fat reduction and large portions. She mentions protein, probably because without protein in your diet your hair falls out and the other Real Housewives of your condo complex will TAWK. It’s a prescription for fatigue, bad skin and useless muscles, but if you’re underweight, that’s a rock-hard victory, right?

Wrong. I didn’t spend years horking up every meal and getting over it to lie to you about this shit. Lillien doesn’t seem to have a problem suggesting the most ridiculous, metabolism-wrecking horseshit to people stupid enough think a dozen chocolate cupcakes constitute diet food. Maybe they deserve each other, but maybe they don’t. Certainly, Lillien doesn’t deserve a platform on the Food Network spouting this utter crap for cash.

And Face the Strange

The unnamed university sent out an email describing in cold, technical terms that its employees should come to work this morning, weather or no weather. This was followed by the city declaring that only emergency vehicles should be on the streets, so everyone stayed home and a good thing that was: once a road into the city was cleared, the ambulances and helicopters ran to the two hospitals all day. Even so: people gathered on the bridge, the flooded highway and in the parks to see for themselves what the rain had done and the river was doing.

Yesterday, as the eye of the storm sat over us, Pete and I got on our bikes and rode over to the family stores. Rainstorms have typically not been kind to the buildings that house the stores and this one was an outright bastard. We could tell the basements had been flooded differently, one more than the other, and both were draining. Boxes that’d been left on the floor were wet and there were too many of them for us to do anything to help the situation. Discouraged, we rode over to a house we’d promised to look in on and found that too had a full basement, draining after a flood. It was fortunate for us, then, that the catsitter arrived and though we had keys she plainly wanted us out. We rode over to the bridge over the river, where the flood raged and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. We took pictures that astound us still – and we were there.

We also went back last night to see the progress of the river’s recovery and we were not impressed. Though we walked this way and that, we could not find a clear, safe path to the unnamed university. I called Gianna, my boss, who lives three blocks from my house and whose picture window is safety glass for a reason, and told her there was no safe way across the river that wouldn’t end in a ditch on the back roads. She called this morning to say the head of the libraries had decided there was no safe way across the river, period. Thus, I had the first snow day of my illustrious career that involved no snow whatsoever.

This morning, we got on our bikes and went back to the bridge. For the first time, we could see the road along the river was under the river as it was currently constituted, horrible pun unintended. The water level had fallen remarkably, perhaps as much as ten feet, but the river is tidal and officials are saying tonight that by morning the level might be higher than last night’s. That would be very bad news for commuters. Pete and I are fairly confident we may be able to cross the river on bicycles in the morning – probably. Our housemate drives one of those rescue trucks for AAA. We haven’t seen him since Friday afternoon.

I had such a good snow day I made compound butter of sage and rosemary from my garden with a little lemon juice. In the winter, smeared under the crisping skin of a roasting chicken, this butter will remind us of the snow day at the end of summer.

Make Sure She’s All In

About a week ago, a whole lot of small, annoying setbacks finally kicked my ass. This afternoon, things started to come back together. The hurricane weekend suits me. I’m tired and can hardly wait for a peaceful Sunday inside my house. You, however, get some Johnny in the sunshine.