Don't Call Me

I HAD to bring my phone. (You may roll your eyes now.) I mean, I knew it wouldn't work during our lay-over in Panama or in Ecuador where we're vacationing for two weeks, but I just had to have it. I mean, I might need to call someone urgently as we took off. Or landed I might need to TALK.

Oh, you say, the phone wasn't the mistake. The mistake was the ballet. Our tickets for Hemingway: The Sun Also Rises were for May 6, right smack dab in the middle of vacation. Not much makes us skip an evening at the ballet, but sitting on the deck of a pontoon boat in the middle of the Galapagos will do it. I happily found someone who'd enjoy our tickets, and I was rewarded because the postcard came in the mail saying that we could attend a working rehearsal for Hemingway. Dilemma: the rehearsal was the night before vacation. Well, what the heck, we went anyway.

Here's the thing, though. I try to be very organized, but being out until 11:00 PM the night before you go on vacation can cramp your style. Already tired, we landed in the 9,000 foot altitude of Quito tired and disoriented. We couldn't find the camera. Really? We're headed to the Amazon and the Galapagos and somehow forgot to pack the camera?!! Then I saw that my phone had turned itself on. Perhaps it had been on the entire flight, and I was lucky the sky marshals hadn't packed me off to jail.

Anyway, I turned my phone off and stashed it in my suitcase. The next time we had a minute to call (heh, heh, I made a pun) our own, I couldn't remember where I'd put it. Where, oh, where? It didn't matter anyway, right?? I mean, I couldn't use the thing. It was in the room – somewhere – and would doubtless turn up in its own good tie

Off the group went to an indigenous culture museum and dinner. Back to the hotel, and at 9:00, Steve was out cold ,and I was happily reading myself to sleep. If you've read my previous post about the smoke alarm, this story will strike a rather familiar note (heh, heh, another one). Deedle-deep!

What? What? What was that?

Silence. I settle back into the depths of my Kindle.

9:10: Deedle-deep! Damn, damn, damn! Steve's left his i-pad on, and it's making those silly noises. I get up and pad around the room. Where is it? I don't see it anywhere. It's not in his small bag packed for our stay in the Amazon. It's not on the desk. It's not on the table, It's not in bed with him. *sigh* Maybe I won't hear it again. Maybe I imagined it (yeah, right). Maybe it won't wake me up when I go to sleep. Back to my book.

9:15: I'm really sleepy. Deedle deep! Why always in the middle of the night? Why me? Why, for heavens sakes, me? I wake up Steve. He stumbles to his i-pod, says the sound is already off and turns goes back to sleep. Deelde-deep!

No! No, no, no!

It comes to me in a flash. It's my phone! Sure, it does seem to have a secret life of its own and will sometimes make calls without my knowledge, but never before has it turned itself on. If I don't turn it off, it will continue to nag me with its useless presence ALL NIGHT LONG!

I drag my suitcase to the bed and open it up. DEEDLE DEEP! The louder sound tells me I'm warm. I've already taken everyone out of the suitcase twice looking for that dratted phone. I remove everything again. A third I put on the bed, a third on the desk, and a third stays in the suitcase which I put outside the bathroom door. I sit down miserably and wait. DEEDLE DEEP It's still coming from the suitcase. I lug the thing up onto the bed and remove the remaining clothes. No phone. I am somewhere between a foot-stomping tantrum and tears.

By this time, Steve is awake and says, “Do you want me to find it?”

“Yes!”

He lifts out the remaining few things: the hiking shoes, the snorkel and the walking stick (sure, my phone's going to hide underneath a collapsed walking stick). There's nothing left but the lining and another DEEDLE-DEEP!

“Check the pockets”

“I've checked the pockets five times!” I pull everything out of the pockets including the money pouch for, you know, valuables. I look at it. “I bet I put it in here!”

“I think you told me that.”

I un-zip the pouch, and there's my phone, lying there innocently with it's little face shining and it's battery bank empty.

I plug it in and charge it all night long because, you know, I can't call anybody, and in the morning, I pack it safely where anybody would: in my shoe.

I found it, but it won't work anyway, so don't call me, and I won't call you.

Just Desserts

Life is not fair.  I know it, you know it, and the sea gulls by the sea know it.  It is not fair that my sister  and brother-in-law moved to Florida, far away from us. It's not fair that we can no longer have our semi-annual sibs weekends.  And it’s totally not just that she lets us come from the cold north to visit every year.  We have certainly done nothing to deserve the bountiful hospitality she lavishes on us, but we do not complain.  We soldier on.

This year’s trip was lovely, thank you.  My brother and sister-in-law came, too.  We drove down the Keys, walked and bird watched and talked and talked and talked.  And ate.  Because that’s what we do best together:  talk and eat.  I will not bore you with a list of menus and restaurants, but you might like to hear about the wonderful desserts never denied ourselves.

On the first day of our visit, we went to a spiffy hotel restaurant with a fixed price menu.  The fountain spouted serene white noise in the background, and the linen was still with starch.  The food was good. It was very, very good, and although after the appetizer and entree, I was full up, I could not (or, anyway, did not) resist selecting a dessert of chocolate bread pudding in vanilla cream sauce.  I generally don’t go for flavored desserts that are classically served plain.  I like plain cheesecake, plain apple pie and plain bread pudding.  However, this chocolate bread pudding was the only chocolate dessert on the menu, so what’s a girl to do? 

It was FANTASTIC!  Now bread pudding is not a light dessert, and normally I like to think I’d have eaten half and taken half home for later, but, hey, this was vacation.  The fact that as retirees, a good deal of our life is vacation is neither here nor there. This was vacation, and I ate every speck of bread pudding and all but licked the plate after.  I waddled back to the car quite happy and somnolent. 

We ate at home the next night, and I think we actually (gasp!) skipped dessert.  The next morning we drove down to the Keys, staying half-way down the chain.  We had dinner at a little local fish market.  This time I left a little room in my tummy for chocolate almond ice cream pie in a chocolate cookie crumb crust.  I ate it all.

The following day we saw all there is to see on Key West and returned to Marathon in time to have dessert at Sweet Savannah’s.  They serve homemade ice cream and cup cakes.  (Just for the record, I did NOT have homemade ice cream on top of a cupcake like some other people I could mention.)  They make pistachio ice cream!  It is so hard to find pistachio ice cream, and it is my absolute favorite!  Oh, man, it was really, really good.

The week ensued in daily order.  My sister made pear pie (yum!).  We had fresh blueberries with whipped cream (refreshing -- plus there’s the self-righteousness of having fruit).   There was that sadly mediocre chocolate, chocolate truffle cake and the (plain) cheesecake.

Our last day was that one perfect beach day.  The sun was out, the jelly fish were under control and the breeze was light.  The guys walked down the beach to the concession stand.  Steve returned with a Nutty Buddy, not the fanciest dessert of the week, but let’s face it, everyone likes a Nutty Buddy.  He sat on his beach chair savoring each lick, cap pulled low over his eyes to shield from the glare, holding the cone up for philosophical meditation. 

In one swoop, a gull dove in from behind his head, grabbed the cone and flew off.  Twenty gulls chased him, calling him names and bullying him for a shard, but he was off and away.  Last day of vacation -- Steve stared at his empty fist.

 

Now, I ask you, was that fair?  Was that equitable?  Was that just?

Travel Through Space

My head was spinning. Think of having your brains flung round in a centrifuge, and you’ll have an idea about my current state of mind. In fact, I was so stressed that I wasn’t eating. That’s stressed, I’m telling you.

Two and a half weeks ago, Steve got a contract for a consulting gig at the Hanford Nuclear Waste Site in Washing ton State, so two weeks ago we packed up his clothes and golf clubs and sent him off. That gave me two weeks to get my own act together.

Steve wanted some professional books so on Friday I jammed them into a flat rate box and sent them to his office. Tossed in the camera and binoculars, too, since they’re heavy. I called the cleaners and set their last mission to the house.

I checked out the calendar and realized that we had ballet tickets the 22nd. I had to give away the tickets for Alice in Wonderland and Noche Latina, but was I going to skip out on a presentation of Twyla Tharp choreography? I don’t think so. A performance on Wed. meant I could fly out Friday morning. I had standard blood work the previous Wednesday morning and then stopped into the AAA Office to get my own airplane tickets for Friday, Feb. 24. Once I set that date, I could go about cancelling newspapers, trash collection , etc.

Steve checked out apartments and sent pictures. We selected one. He gave me the phone number of the furniture rental company we had chosen, and between their pictures and conversations I had with their incredibly helpful representative, we’ve got the Two Bedroom Package which includes lamps, living room furniture and a table with four chairs.

I threw most of my clothes and some of Steve’s warm weather clothes into two large suitcases. Because I want what I want, I also put in my very small sewing machine. Hey, if he can have his golf clubs, I can have an 11 pound sewing machine! Of course, the overflow had to go somewhere so there’s a bunch of stuff that will arrive courtesy of UPS.

Steve’ books were delivered Tuesday, only no one had it. No one called him to pick them up, I sent him the e-mail confirmation Thursday morning. I’d addressed the package to his company in Suite 301, but the correct address was 302. He told me the address over the phone, so we don’t know whose mistake that was -- just as well. Note that there are two suites per floor in this building, so where could they have gone? In any case, the package was delivered SOMEWHERE, and Steve spent a couple of hours talking to people in every suite in the building, people in the buildings next door and the lady at the post office. No luck.

Wednesday evening my friend and I went to the Kennedy Center café for a light dinner and the ballet. Lovely.

I went on line to check in on Thursday afternoon only to discover that they had mis-issued my tickets for March 24. WHAT? WHAT!!! So the time I was going to use to finish binding a little quilt I was making was spent getting on Friday’s flight.

Steve called to say the furniture was delivered fine, but the Master Bed Room suite wasn’t the one we’d ordered. I flashed off a quick e-mail to my rep, ate up all the left-overs in the house and took out the garbage one last time.  Of course, all this planning and settling is done over a three hour time lag which makes communication all the more interesting. 

My wonderful neighbor Polly took me to the airport Friday morning. She assured me -- based on no knowledge but much good will -- that Steve would have the box when I arrived in Pasco. I was the only person interested in checking in curbside. My huge and heavy (but under 50 pounds) suitcases went sailing off. No one seemed to be flying so I had plenty of time to get through security (NO ONE was in the security point check-through ahead of me!) and have a bite at Starbucks.

My layover was in Denver where I connected with the furniture rental woman who had already corrected their error. I called Steve who was going crazy over which black hole the box had disappeared into. I found a quiet place in the airport lounge and enjoyed the bread and butter, hard boiled eggs, cheese and apple I’d packed and cruised the kiosks.

I had an hour to read at the gate, hopped on the plane and two hours later landed. Steve was all grins, not only to see me but because the office woman had never checked her mailbox. The key to the package delivery box was in it, and his professional books were retrieved.

I dived into the black hole and have emerged on the other side. I’m here! I’m here! I’m here!

I Was Invited

My neighbor Cynthia is a fantastic cook, fantastic, eager and knowledgeable. Those of you who actually know me, know that that makes it all the more amazing that this week, while she was so busy and exhausted, she asked me to guest blog for her. Her blog is all about cooking (and life) and is called the Minivan Cook. If you'd like to read about Nova Scotian breakfast (with recipe) of Strawberry Croissant French Toast, click here: http://bit.ly/n4zurO

What Is the Nature of Your Emergency?

The flight from Philie to Halifax was calm and beautiful with the blue ocean outlining curves of green land.  We claimed our rental car at the airport and loaded our luggage, removed it and loaded it again. 
My brother-in-law slid behind the wheel with my sister took shotgun, and Steve and I sat in the back.  When you rent a car, there are always those first frantic moments while you locate all the buttons and amenities.  At this point, we (well, my brother-in-law) were having some trouble locating the controls to adjust the side mirrors.  My sister said, "What about these?" as she pointed to a row of icons on the rear-view mirror.  Just as my brother-in-law said, "Wait!  Don't touch th . . . " she poked at them.
"You have activated your On-Star, on-line emergency system," a computerized voice intoned.  "I am connecting you with help." 
"No!  No!" was accompanied by frantic jabbings. 

"Push that power icon!" I recommended, never allowing being in the back seat to prevent me from offering assistance.  She pushed at it. 

Just as we thought we had it powered down, a disembodied, female voice spoke through the air.  She sounded just like the commercials, too.  "What is the nature of your emergency?"
"There is no emergency!" my sister yelled in a panic. "We turned this on, and we're too stupid to figure out how to turn it off."
"I can help you with that," and the system shut off, just like that.
We found the mirror adjustment buttons.  Eventually my brother-in-law discovered how to turn off the tushie-warmer, and a few minutes later their GPS Lady (theirs is English, with a very cultured voice) found herself and began directing us to our hotel. 
The next morning we came out of the hotel and, dragging our suitcases, repeatedly clicked "unlock" in front of a silver Malibu to no avail.  Hmm, wronbg car.  We meandered all over the parking lot looking for where we'd parked the night before, and I thought, that On-Star lady didn't take care of our emergency.  We're still stupid. 

My Summer Vacation or How I Ate My Way Up the California Coast

It asll began in Las Vegas. We flew out to attend the wedding our our own best man from 41 years ago. Our friend Karen offered to put us up. Karen not only gave us shelter, she loaned us her car. She not only loaned us her car, she fed us. There was breakfast every morning. She made English Toffee to take to our son (most of it made it); she made us a lemon meringue pie. On our last evening, she prepared an amazing crab-stuffed white fish smothered in a white-cheese sauce. It was matched with homemade French bread and garlic asparagus. Because somehow, magically, the pie had already disappeared, she whipped up a cheese cake served with ripe raspberries.
The next day saw us driving from the San Francisco Airport towards Monterey. Midway and hungry for lunch, we pulled off the highway. There we were facing a Subway. No, I don’t think so. Then we saw Lieu’s, a little, independently-owned Chinese place. We know you’re in a good ethnic restaurant when we have the only white faces in the place. Inside were round tables where families wer enjoying a succession of beautifully presented dishes. It was all I could do not to spear samples as the waiters passed by. The owner explained that they were serving their Father’s Day meal. Steve decided on prawns with peppers, and I enjoyed simple chicken with vegetables. This place served notable food but was, in my mind, more noted for the attention of the owner and the congeniality of the other patrons who told us it was the best Chinese restaurant within 100 miles. We rolled out of there and continued down the coast.

Steve’s sister, Judi, is a world class Italian cook. World Class. Also, she likes to cook large breakfasts for people. While I was able to restrain myself at breakfast time, I totally broke down at a dinner party where she served salad, pasta with marinara sauce, chicken cacciatore and an unbelievable scrumptious eggplant casserole involving ricotta cheese and half and half. (She rationalized to me that it was okay because she used non-fat half and half.) (recipe from The Barefoot Countessa) She wouldn’t be caught dead having a dinner party without dessert, so she put out two, yes, two kinds of chocolate cake as well as Oliallieberry Pie, a local delicacy using a blackberry-like fruit. (You were jealous at two chocolate cakes, and now you can hardly stand it, can you?) After a couple of dinners out and a final morning involving steak and eggs, we waddled to our car and headed up to Davis.

We began to starve to death around noontime and veered off one of the Pleasanton exits. I was looking forward to a salad, but all we found was Jim’s Country Café. Who knew we’d get amazing hamburgers and more amazing French fires? I know I should be embarrassed to mention that I almost finished the French fries, but I’m not editorializing here; I’m just reporting.

ur son and daughter-in-law live in Davis. We were only spending one night there before going to Sonoma for the weekend, so we went to my favorite little café. I can happily report that there I got salad at last, a beet, goat cheese and butter leaf lettuce salad. Man, it made me feel like I could almost fit into my clothes again.

Saturday morning, the four of us drove to Bodega Beach. We stopped at a little fish place, and what do you order at a fish place? David and I split our orders of fish and chips, and prawns and chips. Yes, it was fried, and at this point, I’m saying it with my chin (and my belly) jutting forward.
We stopped to look at the ocean, drove to the redwood forest and took a walk, flooded with the aroma and with the trunks spiring up like giant stalks. That worked off at least 100 calories, right? It’s good thing because when we arrived at the B&B, the hostess served us tea and homemade scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam. That evening she recommended a restaurant within the grocery store Fresh. All I could put into my tummy was a basil-chicken salad with pine nuts accompanied by a glass of un-oaked chardonnay. Pretty darned tasty and not too filling, leaving room for the homemade shortbread left on the B&B's sideboard.

Saturday morning was wine exploration time. Lunch in the park at Healdsberg consisted of left-overs from the Fresh plus a piece of asparagus quiche, a slice of bacon, bakery bread and a cinnamon cake in the baggie the hostess gave us at breakfast. Sadly, the morning’s yogurt, honey and granola torte wouldn’t go into the take-away bag. It was amazing, and you can find that and other of Jackie’s recipes at www.melittastationinn.com . Jackie trained as a chef, and the price of the B&B was more than worth her kitchen miracles.

A couple of more wineries led us to Somoma’s city square. We’d made dinner reservations at Le Solette, aa Portuguese restaurant. I’d never had Portuguese food before, and I may never have Portuguese food that matches this. David and Dana had the Portuguese caldera, a fish stew very like paella with large prawns, clams and mussels. Steve had the evening’s special, a Mediterranean sea bass with olives and potatoes. I had the most delicious baked sea bass served over kale and sweet corn. OMG, that’s all I have to say about that.

A final breakfast of oranges in caramel sauce (ooooh, so much better than it sounds), an egg casserole made with cake crumbs served with poached, organic pears and zucchini bread. I pondered the reality of returning home to breakfasts of plain yogurt and a banana.

After breakfast, we drove back to Davis and the following morning packed up our 3 pounds of Las Vegas, Ethel M chocolates and flew home.

Oh, gods, I love vacation.

Well Worth a Pound

We were two weeks in France, and I never described food. I ask you, how is one supposed to say anything new about French food?  Not that that will stop me.  I mean, butter, cream, eggs:  the holy triumvirate!
Sunday morning in Lyon, my friend Jan and I skipped out on the included tour of an art market and headed for the daily grocery market. The smell of the freshly baked breads and pastries, cheeses, vegetables and chickens made us jealous of the French.  Well, except for the roasted chickens we saw with the heads left on, little roasted crests and eyes facing us mournfully as we walked by. We imagined rolling out of bed, strolling down the market, picking up bread, cheese, roast chicken (sans head) and wine and then retiring to a tastefully decorated apartment to leisurely enjoy our newspaper, eating our way through the day.

All the food was so fresh and beautiful, but, of course, it meant we couldn't buy any to bring home until . . . UNTIL we came to a cheese and pate counter. There in little tureens were jars of pates, two for five Euros. The only thing I understood on the labels was that they were made in cognac.  Cognac had to be good, right?  I blindly picked  two. Back at the ship, the local guide translated for me: one is pate of poultry and the other pate of reindeer. I do wonder if she meant it was venison, but either way, we opened the reindeer last night, and it was good! Bound to be – it's French.
In Tournus (At least, I think it was in Tournus. I didn't keep notes and the some of the ports blend), we had lunch at a little café where we ordered escargot as an entrée (an appetizer in English). I would like to say that snails are entirely superfluous to this dish . You may as well toss the little snail bodies in the garbage and fill their shells with the garlic saturated butter, and drink up. 
The coup de gras (like my French?) came our last night in Paris when we were walking up and down the Rue de Rennes. We enjoyed the window shopping but had walked almost to the Seine and back and were pretty beat. We examined brasserie (bar) after brasserie looking for a menu with more than hamburgers and French fries and an ambience more delicate than smoke. We rounded the corner onto boulevard du Montparnasse and found it. The restaurant Le Montparnasse 1900 was not quite opened at 6:50, but they seated us 10 minutes early and paid lavish attention to us. For my entrée I downed green salad with sautéed scallops ('cause I wanted to be healthy with a salad, don't you know) followed by my plat (main dish) of duck breast (fat, fat duck breast, still tinged pink) with au pauve sauce (or whatever the spelling is for pepper sauce). I can tell you right now that you could eat that sauce over cardboard, and it would still be delicious, delicately filling the back or your mouth with creamy yumminess, its flavors blending with the duck juices just as they hit the tongue. The manager suggested a medoc with it, and its higher edge was the right counterbalance for the duck. There was one point in the meal when I sat with my eyes closed and lost awareness of everything except what was happening in my mouth. Steve spoke to me, and I came to with a jolt.  Food doesn't get any better than that.
For dessert, we decided to order crepes suzette, but the manager suggested a dessert off the menu of fresh strawberries slightly sweetened with sugar (slightly, my foot) and lightly whipped in egg yolk. It was a good thing we shared one order because It came in a pasta plate.  We kept telling each other we didn't have to eat it all, but, of course, we did.  Iff you're in Paris on the left bank, head over to 58, boulevard du Montparnasse.  And do you know, I got on the scale this morning and had only gained one pound?
PS We explored Versailles on Wednesday and were able to stop in the Lauderee there and come out with a lovely little green shopping bag of macaroons. All hopes fulfilled.

Fall Back, encore

Last night, France set its clocks back one hour.  We got an extra hour's sleep!  Next week when we get home, we'll set our clocks back another hour.  If you think about this in the right way, I am getting two extra hours sleep while you are getting only one.  Ha, ha I say to you! 

Today a friend and I skipped out on the tour to another medieval church and roamed a street marked with beautiful fresh breads, cheeses and meats.  I bought two little pots of pate.  When I got back to the ship, I enlisted the help of the staff to read what I'd bought.  One, as I'd suspected, was pate of poultry.  The other is pate of reindeer.  That's what she said!  When we get home, we'll see how it tastes.  I suspect, having been made in France, it will be delicious.

Betting Against the Rain

On Sunday, we are going to France. I know what you're thinking, but, look, someone has to do it. Steve and I are willing to take the bullet for the rest of you. I've finished the laundry from the shore and, in my mind's eye, I'm thinking about what to pack, what combinations will be most versatile, what clothes will wash out in the sink. I've decided on my long, felted sweater instead of a raincoat. It looks nice with a wider range of outfits, and I'll bring my broad-brimmed rain hat. I'll check the weather Saturday , and if the forecast is especially wet, I'll switch out, but mostly I'm betting against the rain.
It's a hardship tour, too. We spend a couple of days in Nice, bus over to Arles and cruise up the Rhone for a week, right through the wine districts. The cruise line brings chefs from the districts on board and features the local wines. Yeah, yeah, there are historic tours, too, but who are we kidding? When we're all as stuffed and happy as we can be, they bus us over to Paris for 24 hours.
Paris. The tours offered in Paris cover what we saw when we were there four years ago. That was on our "free" trip to Paris, compliments of Steve's emergency medical evacuation out of Moscow to have his gall bladder removed. On the direction that, when sufficiently recovered, it was good for him to get fresh air and exercise, we took a short excursion each day, metro-ing to sites in central Paris. Unfortunately, at that time, he couldn't walk enough to see Versailles. That is my goal this time.
As the best of good luck would have it, our very favorite patisserie (thanks to a recommendation from Steve's nurse – he's still a little in love with her) has a branch right on the grounds of Versailles. Lauderee, oh, my sweet Lauderee, of the pale green and pink china, napkins and boxes. How much dare I spend on macaroons? How many can I bring home without crushing the box? Without their going stale? What flavors will I enjoy this time? Raspberry, pistachio, lemon? (Remarkably, the chocolate aren't as good as some of the other flavors.) Dare we try Jasmine Mango, added in 2008? Should we deviate altogether and have a napoleon with our coffee?
I know for many people, Paris means fashion, Paris means art, Paris means love. For us, Paris means macaroons from Lauderee.  Without rain, please.