Cupboard Doors

Do you ever get delightful, welcoming, calming diversions unexpectedly? In the house renovation, we are installing new cupboards in the new kitchen.  Bill is not going to miss my noisy parade of doors in the kitchen: all of the doors slammed shut regardless of how delicately I tried to close them.  (I must admit “delicate” is stretching it a bit… particularly in the Morning Kitchen while flying through to make breakfast and lunches.) Even the felt I attached to every seam hardly deafened the sharpness of the closings.   The doors under my sink had other issues.  Not only did they slam, they also fell downward over the course of the week.  I kept a Philips screwdriver under the sink and taught Liam how to tighten the hinges.  That would last only a few days before the doors would bang out, “Hey, would ya tighten me up here??”  They had a strong Bostonian accent.

Before we went to England at the end of May, I needed to run to the kitchen design store to finalize our cupboard layout.  I squeezed the trip in between packing and picking up the boys from school.  I was haphazardly packing suitcases for England, packing boxes to take with us for the summer, and packing the contents of the entire house into four rooms.

Haphazard = putting four pairs and 15 single socks in the boys' suitcase for England; sending bookcases for the summer rental house with the movers, minus a few book shelves, minus ALL pegs that they sit on; throwing ski pants on the floor next to the basement door prone to leaking water.  (Yes, it did...)  I must have looked like a wild woman when I walked into the kitchen store.

My designer was wrapping up with another customer, so I went to my favorite spot in the very non-haphazard showroom: next to a drawer and a cupboard door that self-close.  I opened the cupboard door and gave it a push shut.  The door caught about three inches from the cabinet; then silently, smoothly the hinge pulled the door shut.  I opened a drawer and gave it a little push.  It caught about three inches from the cabinet and closed itself too.  I got in at least 10 good opens and closes on each before the designer appeared at my side -- a little mystified by my cupboard meditation.

That episode still makes me smile.  Cupboards whispering, “Let me help you with that.”  “I’ll finish this for you.”  “Go ahead do something else.  I've got this covered.”

Wishing you simple diversions…  Happy Hump Day.

(During construction, this was a summer of numbers.)

Sea Glass

Glass.

How long will it take for this new Bath Aqua Glass in Bath, England to become sea glass?

Will it ever make its way to an ocean to be tumbled and rubbed, eventually lodging on a beach and then landing in a beachcomber's pocket?

In Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, there is a brilliant short quote something to the effect of "if it's glass, it will break; it's only a matter of when." If you can get your mind around this, then the shock is lessened when something breakable -- perhaps even considered valuable -- meets its demise.

When it happens, how long before the swept up sharp bits and chards become someone else's treasure? Say at low tide on the Annisquam River or the beach at Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, MA?

A part of me wants to know the history of this beautiful, broken, buffed yet cloudy sea glass. But most of me wants to hold on to the romance of it. No history lesson. Just let the sea glass be. After all, what if it wasn't on a transatlantic ship in the 1700's? Do I really want to know that?

Not today.

Sunset

Do you love a good sunset?  The Malcolms do. Although it’s arguable on Bill’s side of the family when that beautiful sunset actually occurs.  What part of it is the most spellbinding.

Years ago while vacationing with Bill’s family in Florida, we dropped towels on a beach just in time to watch the sunset.  The ball of fire was brilliant and we had to shield our eyes to look west.  We could only hazard a quick glance at it – the silhouette of which momentarily burned onto our retinas.  A rather painful endeavor.

The ball dropped behind the horizon as if a string from below gave it a final tug to make it disappear so quickly.  Then, the other four Malcolms started folding up there towels to leave the beach.  I sat anchored tight on mine looking at them in disbelief.  Sunset was just beginning!  They acquiesced, but I could tell for them it was like staring at the ball in Times Square after it had hit bottom.  Party over.

Ingredients for my perfect sunset: the sun, a wide horizon, and clouds in the sky.  Bonus: All of these, plus a body of water.  When that powerful, bright ball sinks and the range of pinks, oranges, reds, and purples are strewn over the massive cloud-canvas, changing in hue and darkening in richnes by the second...

This is sunset you can watch full-on.  Sometimes for more than an hour, until true dusk wins the battle.  As for the bonus of water, it doubles what you get from the sky.  Magnificent.

This is near the moment of the Malcolm family sunset... intense.

(This shot was taken by the owner of the Lobster Pool.)

This is my perfect sunset… calming.

(Taken over the Annisquam River, Gloucester, MA.)

Of course, whatever your definition of sunset, the beauty of Sunset is that it happens every day.

Remember?

Perhaps, walk outside your door and see yours tonight.  Go here, plug in your zip code, and see what time the ball drops over your horizon.

Happy Hump Day…

The Eye of the Storm

I am over three years out from breast cancer diagnosis, cancer-free, and well into the swing of alternating MRI's and mammograms every six months.  These don't seem to get any easier as time goes on. After my mammograms in July, all is good.  The Eye of the Storm reflects on that day.  Please forward this to a woman you know who is living with or beyond breast cancer.  And please, let her know she's not alone.

...

One of the loneliest places on earth is the mammogram room on a call-back “just to check some calcification that wasn’t on the last mammogram.  We’ll book time for an ultrasound, just in case.”

That’s where I stood July 19th, six days after my Friday the 13th birthday mammogram.

First trip into the chamber.  “If the calcification appears scattered then we check again in 6 months.  If it appears to be bunched together, then we would want to look at it more closely.”

After four initial compressions, the radiologist wanted to take a few more.

Second trip into the chamber.  “OK, hold your breath.”  I can’t hold any breath.  I can’t work out why.  Four or five more tight squeezes.

“Just have a seat and I’ll be back in a few minutes after the radiologist reads these.”

This is a new breast care center, so I get to wear a light salmon pink johnny.  The blue johnnies are still in the dressing rooms but under the salmon johnnies.  Should all of the salmon ones get worn, well, thank goodness for the blue ones.  Fucking things.  I must get a Hug Wrap for myself.  “Don’t forget!”  I scream to my subconscious.

“OK, Linda.  We need to take a couple more.”

Third trip into the chamber.  “This time we need to take the images while remaining compressed for 10 minutes.”  “Are you kidding me?” my cancerous snarkiness raises its protective head.  “More like five actually.  We need to work out where the calcification is.  This is the calcification.”

Bunched together... shit.  “The mammogram shows it but doesn’t clearly identify where it is within the breast.”

I realize why I can’t hold my breath.  I can’t breathe in to fill my lungs.  The compression keeps my breathing shallow.  I’m holding my breath on the exhale with no air in my lungs.  I pick a spot on the wall; hyperfocus on it; tell my brain more oxygen will come soon.  So that it doesn’t panic.

“Let me look at these before you go back to the waiting room.”

I stood in the middle of the quiet, dimly-lit room with the whole world spiraling around me.  Which path do I walk on out of here?  The room is calm.  Peaceful.  In the eye of the storm.  A storm of normal life and responsibilities is what I walked in with.  Will I walk out with the same or in the middle of another storm that makes the first one look like an April shower?

“Looks good.  You can wait outside.”  Minutes pass.  Have I done everything I should?  What are my priorities?  Do I need to focus more on family, less on volunteering?  Liam’s life book isn’t done.  Do I even pray any more?  Do I over react to things that I really shouldn’t?

“Sorry, Linda.  We need to take a few more.”

Fourth trip into the chamber.  “So the radiologist thinks the calcification may actually be on your skin.  In that case it is 110% NOT cancerous.”  Well, that’s good news.  Perhaps my blood pressure dips a few points.  More exhaled breath-holding.  More compressions.  “That should do it.  Go ahead and get dressed and just sit in the waiting area until he reads these.”  Ahh… the power returns as the salmon johnny is dispensed into the dirty laundry.

“Linda, come on back.” Oh, for fuck’s sake, I need a “Linda-go-home.”

Fifth trip into the chamber.  “Don’t worry about changing into a johnny again.  Let’s just take this.  He wants me to roll you so we get a horizontal shot proving the calcification is on your skin.  He just wants to be very careful given your history.”

Back to the waiting room.  Ten minutes later, I’m sweating.  I sent a message via a passing nurse saying, “I’ve got to go get my kids.  I can’t stay any longer.”  My kids are at a short play date that should have ended a half hour ago.

After checking in with the technician or radiologist, the nurse came back with a smiling reply, “We’ll see you in a year.”  I’m pretty sure the technician forgot about me as I sat wanting to crawl out of my skin in the waiting room.  After nearly two hours, five visits to the mammogram room, and 20 compressions, I flee to pick up my boys.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  And tired.  And teary.  Next time I’ll stand in the middle of that room with a Tuscan red and yellow Hugwrap about me.  I’ll arrange for a friend to meet me afterwards for a class of wine.  Then perhaps dinner with Bill.  Could I give myself the day rather than a tight two hours to sail through the next one?

That eerie calm standing in the eye of a storm.  Exhausting.

Homemade Mac'n'Cheese

A recipe never  before written down... A tribute to moms and dads whose children have been dubbed "picky eaters," have sensory integration issues, or just have a plain old stubborn streak when it comes to food.

With thanks to families who so often let me bring Will's mac'n'cheese to dinner.  Your hospitality toward my pan of mac permanently seals our friendship.

With apologies to moms whose children beg for "Linda's Mac'n'Cheese" and turn their noses up at their plates of "real food."

And for Annie, who Will and Liam love, perhaps more than my mac'n'cheese...

Here's Will's favorite: Homemade Mac'n'Cheese

Bring water to a boil.  Dump in 1 cup of Prince Elbows.  While that cooks, gather 2 T. real unsalted butter; 4 slices of Kraft Singles orange prepared cheese product; and 1 1/2 T. of 2% milk and 1 1/2 T. of half & half.  I usually get a 1/4 measuring cup out and just dump in equal parts of these two.

Put colander in sink and dump cooked mac into it.  Put pan back on low heat and add, in order, butter, milk/half&half, and cheese slices.  Turn heat up a little bit and stir constantly until individual ingredients combine into cheese sauce.  Remove from heat.  Stir in macaroni.   Cover with lid.  Let set about 5 minutes (while you finish preparing everyone else's dinner...) then stir again and serve.  In a bowl with a spoon = ultimate comfort.

After years of perfecting this, I rarely veer from these ingredients.  The one addition I do of our "at-home Will & Liam-only version" is a little Benefiber in the cheese sauce.  I also occasionally substitute real Kraft orange deli cheese.  Also, microwaved leftovers just aren't the same as the fresh stuff.

 

Geraniums?

Thanks to the heat, we’ve spent the last few days indoors and the old bites are scabbed over and not itching as much.  Thanks to friends, yesterday we ventured forth with a new no-see-um repellent. DEET in Back Woods Off didn’t seem to faze them.  Skinstastic, they eat it for breakfast.  Welcome EcoSmart, an organic spray from the grocery store.   No-see-ums no like it.

The first squirts are repelling.  Honestly, you want to get away from yourself.  Initially, I felt as though I’d just had a bath in an over-sized mortar bowl after the pestle creamed geraniums, rosemary, cinnamon, and lemongrass.  Each intense in its own right, but the combination... whew.  Will’s take, “This is horrible but necessary, right Mom?” looking at me for reassurance.

The trick is to spray everyone so that no one notices.  You all smell the same.  Plus, the initial smack of this concoction calms down pretty quickly.  Then at night everyone bathes or showers – or smells like the odd man out.  EcoSmart vs. Dove.

Diversion… This makes me think of the story from my uncle who lived on a Naval submarine years ago.  With stale air circulating weeks under water, everyone smelled the same air.  After being onboard for a while, no one noticed the sub aroma until the sub surfaced; then the fresh air triggered an “Ugh, what is that!”  I think this guy on a Yahoo Q&A page probably sums up sub life pretty well, particularly the smells: What's it like on a submarine?  Pretty close, Uncle Gary?

We haven’t ventured to the beach yet to test EcoSmart on the greenheads, but on the deck with the no-see-ums, it seems effective -- albeit confusing to some: early yesterday morning a honey bee lazily lingered near my arm.  Its wings whispered, “Geranium?”

Construction Magic

Mars and Pluto are out of alignment. MadMimi, the newsletter program I use to send you these fancy letters, does not want to talk to me if I say, "Hey, let's send out some pictures!"  She was fine earlier... today she has a bug.

A cool cloud called "Dropbox" -- where you can add files and share with others "easily" -- must be caught in a thunderstorm.

Recent pictures I took of construction on the house are stuck on my cell phone.  My cell provider does not recognize my location.  And I forget to forward pictures to my email when I'm running errands in town and have coverage.

Yesterday morning, after my computer participated in an "origami yoda" session with Will, it lost contact with the mouse.  (Finally, last night Bill said, "Did you try taking the battery out to shut it down and reboot?"  Obviously, it worked because here I am...)

Amidst this technology rubble, Bill's hand is recovering nicely and construction is going as scheduled.

The house.

Well, it's amazing... absolutely amazing.  Interior walls are framed; electrical and plumbing are done.  The builders are in a holding pattern waiting for all the building inspectors to give the thumbs-up so the insulation crew can start.

Pictures of the interior might make sense to a construction crew, but to the naked eye without a set of plans, it looks as thought I've taken a shot of vertical 2x4's lined up evenly like dominoes, ready for someone to push over the first one.

On the other hand, exterior shots are all about obvious progress.

Side of house before:

Side of house after -- from a different angle:

Back of house before:

Back of house during:

Back of house after:

What a facelift, huh?

Liquid Farming: Fishing & Problem-solving

We’ve been throwing lines into the Annisquam River to fish.    From the beach or the 12x15 dock, there is a lot of ducking, casting, and reeling.  Plus mid-air swinging of lead hooks.  And plunked down rods when “I’ve-got-to-jump-in-now!” hits.  Leaving baited hooks and bare feet and a griping mother on the dock.  And giggles and swimmers in the water. For the perfectionists in our house, fishing is a test of patience.  Like golf, it’s not a matter of simply swinging a club or casting a line and getting the ball in the hole or a fish on the hook.  Both are games of variables.  Of problem-solving.  Of remaining calm when the perfect cast doesn’t land 10 yards in front of you in the middle of the river channel, but 20 yards to the right of you.  Over three people and a walkway to the dock next to you.   And anchors on the seaweed-covered lines holding that dock in place.  The look of horror brought to the face of a perfectionist in this event… predictable.

Then the diagnosis of the problem.  First, good job not hooking any of the three people.  Now, gently reel in the line following it as you go.  Yank, yank, yank at the scene of the stuck bobber, weight, and hook.  And… we yanked in the direction that pulled that tooth even deeper into the line.  Looks like we need to cut the fishing line.  But it’s the hand-chosen neon yellow bobber!

What next?  I could jump in and get it.  But I don’t have trunks and the water is pretty cold.  Hey, I could cut the line and wait for the tide to go out… then get my bobber!  Yes!  And, in the meantime you get to learn how to string your own fishing line.

And we haven’t even gotten to bait  type or to depth of bait in the water, never mind the true want of catching a fish.  Every seasoned fisherman and woman creates one solely designed path for a particular spot or fish species.  The trick is weaving the path through trial and err, not as the crow flies.  Not as the perfectionists will it.

(Our first fishing expedition was on the 4th of July.  This way of life, Liquid Farming, takes some getting used to.)

Liquid Farming

Six years ago when Will and I made the 16-hour drive from Chicago to Boston to join Bill, who had already started his new job, I wondered how or if people in Mass. made a living off the land. There were acres and acres of trees in western Mass. Forestry? As the trees dispersed, cities built up. Commerce on paper. After finding our house and trying to dig a new flower garden, I was soon convinced there was no money coming from the dirt. The land is full of ledge that I have so often bemoaned. Moving from the Midwest to Northeast, I fought hard trying to think what I glued to the map in 4th grade when we were studying states and main resources.  I’m sure I found corn for Iowa, and I remember using cotton for the South.  However, I have no recollection of the Northeast.

But now, I’m sitting on the north-eastern edge of the U.S. -- on a liquid farm called the Atlantic.

 

4th of July. Fireworks. Reading. Fishing.

Last night in Gloucester, we took in the traditional fireworks display.  Driving around the loud and crazy festivities at Gloucester Harbor, we found a small, quiet park on the opposite of the harbor.  Space for the boys to run around while we waited for the first bang.   Far enough away that the bangs, swizzles, whistles, and chasers didn’t force the guys to watch with hands over their ears.  We named the fireworks: gold waterfalls, pyrite rocks, spiders, and whistlers. This morning, giving ourselves permission to simply sit and read.  (OK, there is one Leapster whispering beside me…)  Only fidgeting enough to scratch the combined 50 no-see-um bites we have from early evenings outside.  No-see-ums are flying teeth.  Tiny, tiny bugs that you can’t see or feel until they bite.  The choice is go inside or spray on a thick coating of Off at 6 p.m.  I prefer nightly baths to feeding flying teeth.

With threatening clouds overhead, the river is quiet and the tide is in.  After meeting a retired commercial fisherman earlier this week on the beach, Liam was ready to throw in a hook.  Liam didn’t flinch as he watched Ed work the hook through the eyes of an 8-inch herring he was using as bait.  Ed missed a couple good bites while chatting with us, so we didn’t actually see a fish from the river.

The next day, we had a lesson from a very knowledgeable and patient Dick’s Sporting Goods manager on rigging up a fishing pole and what bait to use.  The Malcolms now own four fishing rods.  The boys cast their first lines later that same day.

Apparently, there are 28-inch striped bass – “stripers” – and blue fish in the Annisquam River.  I fear catching a fish, particularly since I can only identify Caribbean reef fish and Iowa bull-heads.  According to Ed, blue fish are swimming teeth – they should be easy to ID.  Ed showed me the needle-nosed pliers he uses to remove hooks from the mouths of blue fish.  Consequently, we bought a multi-purpose tool at Dick’s: needle-nose pliers/line cutters.

On the first visit to the dock, it was soon apparent that nothing would be hauled in: it was a casting, reeling, and untangling session.  I was relieved.  While this practice was going on, a small boat pulled up to the dock and we met the neighbors across the street.  Rich information was gathered during this brief introduction:  the woman who has lived here 50+ years knows how to clean and fillet fish.  So…

On the second visit, Bill and I lugged a big blue bucket with us.  I also took a heavy beach towel to use as a lid, should we catch a big fish.  With a cast on one hand and a pick-line-low-weight-lifting restriction on the other, Bill was not going to be the one to haul it in or take it off the hook.  (Actually even if he had two fully-operating hands, there’s a good chance I would still be the one to fight the fish.)  On the walk to the dock, I checked out the shade tree where I could leave the bucket of fish as I dashed up to the neighbor’s house to plead for help.  All for naught.  Yet again, a practice session with a lot of boat traffic.

Today, with a quiet river and high tide, I’ll take the bucket again.  And hope there is movement across the street at our neighbor’s house.

Fireworks.  Reading.  Fishing.

A quiet 4th of July.

Unless we catch a fish…

(More about Liquid Farming: Fishing & Problem-solving.)

Fireworks. Reading. Fishing.

Last night in Gloucester, we took-in the traditional fireworks display.  Driving around the loud and crazy festivities at Gloucester Harbor, we found a small, quiet park on the opposite of the harbor.  Space for the boys to run around while we waited for the first bang.   Far enough away that the bangs, swizzles, whistles, and chasers didn’t force the guys to watch with hands over their ears.  We named the fireworks: gold waterfalls, pyrite rocks, spiders, and whistlers. This morning, giving ourselves permission to simply sit and read.  (OK, there is one Leapster whispering beside me…)  Only fidgeting enough to scratch the combined 50 no-see-um bites we have from early evenings outside.  No-see-ums are flying teeth.  Tiny, tiny bugs that you can’t see or feel until they bite.  The choice is go inside or spray on a thick coating of Off at 6 p.m.  I prefer nightly baths to feeding flying teeth.

This morning, with threatening clouds overhead, the river is quiet and the tide is in.  After meeting a retired commercial fisherman earlier this week on the beach, Liam was ready to throw in a hook.  Liam didn’t flinch as he watched Ed work the hook through the eyes of an 8-inch herring he was using as bait.  Ed missed a couple good bites while chatting with us, so we didn’t actually see a fish from the river.

The next day, we had a lesson from a very knowledgeable and patient Dick’s Sporting Goods manager on rigging up a fishing pole and what bait to use.  The Malcolms now own four fishing rods.  The boys cast their first lines later that same day.

Apparently, there are 28-inch striped bass – “stripers” – and blue fish in the Annisquam River.  I fear catching a fish, particularly since I can only identify Caribbean reef fish and Iowa bull-heads.  According to Ed, blue fish are swimming teeth – they should be easy to ID.  Ed showed me the needle-nosed pliers he uses to remove hooks from the mouths of blue fish.  Consequently, we bought a multi-purpose tool at Dick’s: needle-nose pliers/line cutters.

On the first visit to the dock, it was soon apparent that nothing would be hauled in: it was a casting, reeling, and untangling session.  I was relieved.  While this practice was going on, a small boat pulled up to the dock and we met the neighbors across the street.  Rich information was gathered during this brief introduction:  the woman who has lived here 50+ years knows how to clean and fillet fish.  So…

On the second visit, Bill and I lugged a big blue bucket with us.  I also took a heavy beach towel to use as a lid, should we catch a big fish.  With a cast on one hand and a pick-line-low-weight-lifting restriction on the other, Bill was not going to be the one to haul it in or take it off the hook.  (Actually even if he had two fully-operating hands, there’s a good chance I would still be the one to fight the fish.)  On the walk to the dock, I checked out the shade tree where I could leave the bucket of fish as I dashed up to the neighbor’s house to plead for help.  All for naught.  Yet again, a practice session with a lot of boat traffic.

Today, with a quiet river and high tide, I’ll take the bucket again.  And hope there is movement across the street at our neighbor’s house.

Fireworks.  Reading.  Fishing.

A quiet 4th of July.

Unless we catch a fish…

Live from Gloucester, MA!

I have a new computer, and all of my old stuff is on it!  Even those 30 shots of an English rose -- clear, blurry, and/or questionable.  Love digital, but I don't sort out the good from the bad.  I just dump them on the computer to store.  You know... so they're safe. Bill's hand is recovering nicely.  As of Friday, no more twice daily hydrogen peroxide baths.  We've passed the two-week mark on daily antibiotic infusions.  Two to four weeks remaining.  Unfortunately, with the pick-line in, that means Bill can't get wet.  (In case you missed the beginning of this story, here it is -- in a round-about way...) In February, we planned the summer with water in mind.  Since the 24th of June, we've been waking up to kayaks, fishing boats, lobster boats, and motor boats on the Annisquam River.

With construction progressing on our addition, we moved out of our house as we flew to England on May 26th.  Literally.  We threw wet towels and toothbrushes on top of a 2-foot high pile of stuff on the dining room table as we scrambled out the door at 6 a.m. to catch a plane.  Everything from the kitchen and living room, which are being renovated, has been shoved into the dining room and toy room, which will remain unchanged.

We came back from England and checked into a hotel for two weeks, including the last week of school.  While in England, the builders took over the house, gutted some of the rooms, and put up framing that now marks the new rooms inside.  Now, it looks more like the architectural drawings than it looks like our old house.

In the three houses we have owned, we have had add-on plans for "some day."  Twenty years later, this is some day.  With the scope of work, we couldn’t try to live in the house.

We decided to rent a house for the summer on Cape Ann in Gloucester, a town about 40 minutes or so from our house.  It feels like it’s a flight away: watching lobster boats with seagulls chasing them early in the morning, seeing the Annisquam lighthouse flashing at night, structuring our days around high and low tide.  It has a bit of an island feel to it.  Really, we are living unstructured days around the tides.

We could have chosen to rent an apartment inland, but we chose something different.  A summer adventure.  After all, today is some day.

 

 

I Crashed the Gate Doing 98

Leaving the hospital (MGH) in Boston Friday, after my monthly visit, I plugged my paid ticket into the machine inside the garage.  Then I drove to the exit 100 yards away.  The barrier lifted as I slowly drove up to it. From there we went down the road to the Museum of Science.  I was chatting with the boys about where to park.  We like parking on the roof for the view of the city, but it was 98 degrees.  During the decision-making discussion, I rolled up to the barrier.   We talked about the impact of the sun on the heat index in the van.  Knowing full well the bright yellow barrier would open, I kept moving – right through the loud popping noise.  In my peripheral, I saw a long, yellow bar tumbling off the hood of my van.

Popped it off the hinges.   I didn’t scream.  I gently braked, muttering the line “…crashed the gate doing 98, saying ‘Let those truckers roll, 10-4…’ from the old “Convoy” song.

We were not doing 98 mph.  We were doing 98+ wpm.  Words per minute.

Subconsciously, I was waiting for the barrier to rise like the one at MGH.  I got out of the van and looked around.  The gentlemen cashiering came toward me, saying nothing.  “I’m so sorry!  I was talking to my kids and drove right through the barrier.”  Still nothing as he picked up the barrier from the ground.  “I’m sorry.”

Finally, “You’re not the first.  Pull ahead and I’ll get the ticket for you.”  It was that Nemo character’s voice – the one that has to go deflate the puffer fish, AGAIN.

By the time we left four hours later, it had been reattached and was functioning properly.  No damage done.

We have a membership at the museum.  We get to take a few friends in with us; we have discounts on the store and cafeteria and the Butterfly Garden, etc.  And at least one free “bust the barrier” day?

I imagine any mini-van full of kids gets that perk – without being a member.

Have a Happy Barrier-free Hump Day!

Computers and Clouds

Sigh. I’m writing from a strange computer. At my 10th request to close out of Cool Math 4 Kids , Liam did so with an abrupt closing of my laptop. Accompanied by a strange sound of something breaking. Alas, the computer I have been meaning to replace for a few months – the one I talk to and convince to continue on – broke. Unable to resuscitate it, my mood dampened.

Nothing backed up for six or more months. Stories not quite ready to be told. Stories about to be published – including Friday’s “Crash the gate doing 98.” Photos from January through the last day of school. Photos and in-process articles for the school's website.  All now in question.

Commence one trip to the big store with a yellow and blue logo. Give me a cavity filling and a mammogram in one day over a trip to this store. I struck out early Saturday morning and there was no wait in the meet-the-geek line. I picked out another computer like my old steadfast, but three years younger. I entered the modern age with a hotspot, big hard-drive back-up, and a new Microsoft Office package. I said, “I want to turn it on and use it when I get home.” I had great service from the sales guys, particularly when I said I was a blogger. That really seemed to speed things up. Particularly when I mentioned the appointments I would rather go to than to come here.

Easily, my computer would be ready that afternoon. But no call yesterday from the geek who would be transferring all my data from the old to the new.  I’m thinking no news is not good news.

When I go in to pick up the new computer, I’m getting advice on how to set-up automatic back-ups to the hard drive. 

I’m thinking, ‘Why didn’t I learn my lesson when my 3rd grader lost his whole outline in May after not saving it?’

I’m thinking, ‘Never again.”

I’m thinking, ‘I’ve said that before.’

 Is a cloud the answer?  Is there an automatic  back up to some memory cloud in the sky?

Maybe for the next computer. 

Ahhh, I just noticed that this draft was automatically saved.  I did not know that my blog entry point is a memory cloud!

Hoping for a silver lining later today... filled with all left undone on my old computer.

Uncovering the Real England: Cream

Hello from Salad-Land… North Shore, Massachusetts. I wrote the following a couple weeks ago while I was in the land of English Cream. Oh, the decadence of it. On vacation in England, sitting in the sun in Bill’s mum’s English garden, drinking a cup of coffee with a big glug of English double cream in it. Double cream pours out of the tub like a thick crepe batter.

In England, cigarette wrappers are prominently marked, “SMOKING KILLS.” I wonder how many more decades will pass before double cream, clotted cream, single cream, and any other full-fat cousins, will have a similar warning.

Still, in the Malcolm house in England, a lighter version of cream is now in the fridge: Elmlea. Elmlea can be purchased as a single cream or a double cream, but the dead giveaway that it’s a fraud: it doesn’t float to the top of the coffee when poured – at least the single version didn’t when I poured it into my coffee. I read the ingredients to see how Elmlea is lightened: Added vegetable oil. Processed. I can’t remember the exact grams and what the serving size was, but this is an exaggerated, approximated ratio: 3,000 to 2,500. To which I ask, why bother? So, the last half of the trip, I used the real thing.

Double cream has multiple purposes, in addition to floating on coffee.  When eating trifle, Yule log, and most other spoon-eaten desserts, cream is slathered over the top. Nowadays, I try to get to the distribution point to stop this pour – with the exception of the Yule log.

On one of these pourings, which initially felt over-the-top, I had a couple déjà vu moments. Growing up, Dad poured milk over every cake dessert, and as kids, we used to break up graham crackers, sprinkle sugar on them, and reduce them to mush with milk. Then there is the famous cookie that loves milk: Oreos. This smothering of milk products over food was not as foreign to me as I initially thought.

But back to cream.

For the first 18 years of my life, I drank raw, whole, straight-from-the-cow milk. I remember pulling 2-quart pitchers from the fridge in the morning and being disgusted by 1 ½ inches of cream on the top. We would ladle it off and dump it down the drain. Every single chunky bit needed to be gone before we would pour it on our cereal.

Fast forward 23 years to cream tea.  It's up for discussion which is spread first on the scone: jam or clotted cream, but either way, the combination of sweet and rich atop a fresh scone and accompanied by English tea... mmmm.  That's a "cream tea."

Clotted cream originates from Devonshire in England and it spreads like butter. The most memorable cream tea I’ve had was next to a clapper bridge on the Dartmoor in Devon. Scones & jam served on paper plates with tubs of clotted cream: ¼ pound per person.  Fortunately, as I sat down on a rock next to a clapper bridge, my tub rolled into the stream, so Bill and I shared one.

Since first having clotted cream in 1989, I’ve browsed recipes trying to work out how it’s made. One specified, “First, go to a local farm for fresh milk, preferably from Jersey cows.” I love it when a recipe is an adventure.  Some day.  Probably not in Iowa.  Most dairy cows I see there are Holsteins. Probably not in England. I don’t know any farmers. Perhaps Vermont, known for its small dairies and friendly community. And, home of Ben & Jerry’s: the frozen American cousin of clotted cream.

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The rest of the summer I write about salads and fish. However, I still sip coffee with half & half every morning and think back to that double cream rich coffee morning in an English garden.

P.S. This recipe for clotted cream looks pretty simple and true to recipes I found in English cookbooks, but I haven’t tried it myself. I’m afraid to. Honestly, it’s in my best interest to let clotted cream remain on English soil... with goose fat.

My Warrior Prince

Journal from yesterday, June 14th... I’ve been keeping small, tidy, realistic lists this week.

Today, meet with builder at 7 a.m.  Go with Bill to follow-up hand appt. at 9 a.m.  Go to Lowes to find light fixtures at 11 a.m.  Get Will to gymnastics at 4:30 p.m.  Go with Bill at 6 p.m. to finalize plumbing fixture selection.  Get Will from gymnastics at 7:30 p.m.

A famous person once said the only thing you can plan for is a picnic.  Insinuating everything else will be rearranged.  He was right. Today’s juggle started at 7 a.m.  Get plumbing valves before the lights.  Clean out LEGO structure closet by Monday so drain pipe can be built in.

At Bill’s doctor’s appointment, Lowes, plumbing valves, and the LEGOS closet got pushed to back burner.  Bill has a staph infection in his hand.  Based on the x-ray, the ortho doctor/surgeon thought it was deeper than the pin entry points.  (Pins were removed Tuesday.  At that point, she saw the infection and booked an operating room for today on the very, very outside chance she might need to clean up Bill’s hand.)  Bill’s surgery was on for 1:30.

As Bill sat with the open wound, she reviewed the possible scenarios, including two or three days in the hospital with intravenous antibiotics – at which point a bit of blood spouted from Bill’s hand.  The doctor and nurse gave a little scream. Bill didn’t know what was going on.  I thought, “Wow, the thought of a hospital stay pushed his blood pressure up a few points and blood shot right out of the hole in his hand!”  Cool science.

The doctor explained that it was only a drop of blood.  “It’s a girl thing.  You’re OK, it’s just a drop of blood, but we don’t want it to drop on your pants.”  Bless them, murmured the Laundry Maven.

Pre-op at 12:00 p.m. through post-op endpoint at 7:20 p.m. felt a bit like a Saturday Night Live skit.  Nurse Betty came in talking about installation of a “pick-line” while the infectious disease (ID) doctor – with a pocket protector and a stack of binder-clipped 3x5 note cards – explained, numerous times, how infection works, how a nurse would be coming to our house once a day for four weeks to administer IV antibiotics and change dressings, how Bill wouldn’t be working for a few days.

Bill and I are throwing looks back and forth.  Finally, I said, “This is all a bit of a surprise to us as this wasn’t the conversation we had with the ortho doctor this morning.  This is the first we are hearing about any of this as definite.”

Backpedalling a little – yet continuing in the vein of intravenous antibiotics, the ID doctor asked where we lived in case we had to up daily visiting nurse visits.  Bill answered.  To Bill, I said, “No, we don’t live there.  We don’t have a house right now.”  To the ID doc I said, “We are putting an addition on our house and have moved out for the summer.  We are in a hotel for two weeks then living in a house in Gloucester for the summer.”

That crazy scenario threw him, so he went back to defining infection.  With three nurses, the surgeon, and an anesthesiologist present, no one could turn him off.  Finally, in my most assertive voice I started saying, “Thank you, doctor.  You’ve BEEN very helpful.  Thanks for coming BYE.”  Finally, he waved and said, “Good luck with the addition!” which put an awkward silence in the air amongst us strangers.  “That would be a house addition, not a baby addition,” I added.  It took a while for Bill to catch it; through laughter he said, “I feel a blog post coming on!”  Oh yeah.

When the 4th medical professional asked if I would be staying here while Bill was in surgery, I replied, “No.  I’m going to the Caribbean.”

Enter capable, trustworthy, bright surgeon who explained she would flush the area during surgery, Bill would have a pick line put in after surgery, and then he would have daily antibiotics administered by the Nurse Maiden.  Said Nurse Maiden – me – would also need to change bandages three times a day after we bathed the area in Hydrogen Peroxide and water.

Hmmm… I have a compromised lymph node system.  If my doctors are afraid of the dirt in my flower gardens, I probably shouldn’t be dabbling in staph infection.  The purple rubber gloves on the wall fit me, so I added a couple pairs to the pile of take-home gauze.

Bill to surgery.  Arrival of very nice man to explain at-home IV system.  The conversation moved along quickly as chemo déjà vu proved helpful.  I understood it all and suggested adding the step of giving patients gum before the saline push.

Bill out of surgery.  Surgeon’s speculations were correct: infection is in the bone and tendon.  She has flushed it, it’s super clean, and it’s deep, so the Nurse Maiden shouldn’t be surprised when changing the dressings.  Bill sees the surgeon again next Tuesday for a follow-up.

Bill’s in recovery, waiting for pick-line set up.  I was just asked if I had the original prescriptions.  No, I haven’t been given any paperwork.  Oh dear.  I just told the nurse this feels like a Saturday Night Live skit.

Please pick-line my husband, give him a big dose of antibiotics, and let me take him home.  Er, to the hotel.

At 3:30 I mentioned that I have to pick up the boys from school by 6:00 p.m.  It was field day, so I knew a longer day at school would be more than OK with a bouncy castle sitting outside the building.  “Oh, you will be out of here long before then.  They are nearly done with the pick-line and then they will just take an x-ray to make sure it’s placed correctly.”

At 4:30 I finally see Bill, who hadn’t been given any food.  “I feel funny.  My head has been on a folded up blanket, not a pillow, and my feet are hanging off the edge of the bed.”  And you haven’t eaten since 6 p.m. yesterday.  And one paw is in a huge gauze bandage and the other has an IV in the bend in your arm and a pick-line on the inside of your upper arm.  And your arm is orange.  And I see the wheels spinning, “&*(^% two-handed catch.”

Yes, it all started with a two-handed catch on a beautiful spring evening playing softball under the lights.  The ball hit a finger on the ungloved hand and broke a bone in that hand.  I recognized the look.  Today Bill joined the rank of Warrior.   The Warrior Princess’s Warrior Prince.

At 5:15 and four x-rays later, I decide to get the boys from school.  The radiologist couldn’t see the 52 cm of tubing that had been fished into his vein.  “Just call us when you get back and we will bring him down.”   At 6:00 we returned with a Dunkin’ Donuts bagel for Bill.  It was an evening of Dunkin’ Donuts and potato chip appetizers for the boys.

After waiting in the van for a half hour, the pick-line picture still hadn’t come through.  The boys were given permission to come into the recovery room, where kids are “never allowed.”  They were given this-will-make-it-better popsicles that the nurse stole from the OR.

At 7:00, a 5th x-ray was taken.  Finally, “It’s satisfactory.”  We closed the place down at 7:20 and got home at 7:36.

It’s now 12:00 a.m. tomorrow.  All are bedded down, but the Nurse Maiden is contemplating all that is ahead in the coming weeks – yet knowing that this day will make a quick IV and thrice daily hydrogen peroxide baths seem like a piece of cake.

We are given these Warrior days for a reason.

MS Living vs LM Living

May 26, 2012 Dear Martha,

I can’t help but wonder if I shouldn’t subscribe to Martha Stewart Living again.  It’s been a challenging few weeks.  Could your advice have helped? In getting ideas for the addition on our house, I did pick up your issue titled something like “Everything Organized.”  How often do you dust all those open shelves or do you have a machine that just blows the dust off?  Do paper airplanes ever land in the plates?  Do kids ever use cups as target practice with rockets or balls?  Do you ever go to serve your soup and find a dead fly in a bowl?

What a great suggestion to tear out recipes and articles from magazines and place them in plastic pocket protectors in a 3-ring binder, rather than keep the whole magazine.  However, I couldn’t find my craft exacto knife to gently cut the pages out nor did I have time to run to Staples.  In the end, I shoved all the magazines into a box.

The Laundry Maven lost focus over the last few weeks with packing and getting ready for all the month’s adventures.  Unsure of your take on drying clothes, whether you prefer the dryer or clothesline drying.  I thought your readers might benefit from this tip:

If you wash a t-ball shirt Monday, anticipating the 6 p.m. game on Wednesday, but forget to dry that particular load until 5:33 p.m. Wednesday… well, it can be done, assuming you are driving to the game.  Put the shirt in the dryer on high for 10 minutes.  At minute 9, get the kids in the van – make sure the t-ball player is dressed in a similar colored shirt to the team shirt (just in case).  Get the shirt out of the dryer, windows down in the car, hold the shirt by the hem, and keep it inflated as you drive.  You may need to give it a shake occasionally to keep it full of air.  With an 8-minute drive, it will be dry enough to wear without the player feeling damp.

Pretty sure I saw your twin, or at least an avid MS Living reader, on the airport bus at 6:30 a.m. this morning.  I carried my youngest onto the bus in bare feet and mismatched pajamas.  While I wrestled his toes into yesterday’s socks and his shoes, the Iron Maiden’s littlest boy sat on her lap perfectly starched and bathed.  His roosters were evenly dispersed over his head, unlike my little guy’s random roosters.  Some day when he takes showers in the morning instead of baths at night, he too will have even roosters.

You know, I really don’t have time to read or live up to MS Living, but I think something like LM Living might give people more comfort in their realities… of living.

Sincerely,

Linda Malcolm

Fruit in the Bathroom

(From May 30th...) Remember, Harrison and Olivia?

After a bad bout of constipation, Mom and Olivia had a discussion about the importance of fiber and how it helps food moving through the tummy. “Like strawberries, Mom?” Yes, she was getting it. “This won’t happen again if I eat lots of strawberries?” Well, it won’t happen as often.

A month later, Mom hears a scream. “Strawberries! I want strawberries!” Mom tears down the stairs to find Olivia wide-eyed on the toilet. “I need strawberries NOW!!”

Double dilemma: It’s a little late for the strawberries, and there are no strawberries in the house. Explaining the benefits of fiber taking hours to work through a tummy seemed useless. “We don’t have strawberries, but pears do the same thing!” Mom called truthfully from the kitchen as she peeled and chopped pears.

Mom sat on the edge of the tub and forked pieces into the little bird’s mouth then took a deep breath, “OK… that’s all there is.”

Mom and Olivia looked at each other, both wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next.

“Ahhhhhhh… thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, honey.”

.......

Happy Hump Day!

A few blips from the Avon Walk

At the boys' gymnastics club, there is routinely a bag of frozen veggies lying on a bench. Frozen peas and corn make great ice packs. Today my left foot is warming up a bag of peas and the right is using an ice pack given to Bill after surgery on his arm. The peas feel best. I think my feet are having chemo flashbacks: occasional sharp pains. But really, is it neuropathy pain or 45-year-old-that-just-walked-26-miles pain? Before the details of the weekend fall into the vat of slushy memories, here are a few blips from those two days.

Most people walked in teams and wore team t-shirts: “Save the ta-tas” “Stop the war on my raq” “Hakuna ma ta tas” (worn by a team of 14 women who raised $38,000 this year) “Don’t be a boob. Get a mammogram.” “Save 2nd base”

And then there were the survivors with a sense of humor: “Yes, these are fake… my real ones tried to kill me.”

Signs that walkers pinned to their backs showed who they were "In it to end it" for. Most signs had several names. Occasionally there was only one person's name:

“I’m in it to end it for <- her” ("Her" pointed to her friend, a breast cancer survivor.)

A photo of a woman born in 1967. “RIP… we love you.” That one was haunting.

Youth crews cheered us on at rest stops. A 13-year-old boy with pink hair filled our water bottles while chanting, “Drink and pee, avoid IV’s!”

Yours truly at mile 8 the second day: “Ahhh, there’s a line of porta-potties – we are close to the next rest stop!” At my side, Amy: “That’s a cemetery.” My eyes sent the image of a row of grave stones to my brain as a row of porta-potties.

$4.8M raised for the Avon Walk Boston this year

Out of 2,100 walkers, 242 were breast cancer survivors.

The sign on the back of my shirt:  "In it to end it for all Princess Warriors."

I could name at least 24 Princess Warriors. Way too many...