Last year, I was blessed to spend Easter in the Black Forest. There was a dusting of new snow that morning and I attended mass alone in a beautiful church where the only word I truly understood was “Amen.” It was perfect. In the little town of Neustadt, thousands of miles from “home,” I had a deep sense of belonging to something larger than the daily world I have made for myself and my children. I loved that holiday.
7lbs of bone-in prime rib
This year, the boys and I enjoyed a special dinner on Holy Saturday. I jumped off the meatless Lent train a day early and we feasted on prime rib and grilled asparagus. I opened a fine bottle of Bordeaux which, after our meal was consumed and cleaned up, I brought to the neighbors’ to share. There were more bottles of wine uncorked and I enjoyed a relaxed spring evening. It was lovely.
This morning, I mastered the lamb cake mold my family had mailed from Germany a few weeks back. It took three attempts to nail it. The first try was a disaster – the pan fell over in the (newly cleaned) oven making an impressive mess as the batter flowed into the most impossible to clean crevices. Take two involved an unfortunate premature slide of the cake from the perfectly buttered and floured mold as the poor lamb lost its head. Literally. Toothpicks put things back in place, but I decided to give it one final shot this morning and I found success.
These different experiences from last year to now, offer a wonderful perspective, for me, about life and living. Home is where we feel loved. Friends are family. Sometimes we need to keep trying to get something right. And, finally, we all need to rise up and live the life we have been given. Happy Easter.
As I’ve recently confessed, I love winter. I like cashmere and wool and boots and colorful scarves and hats that hide hair mishaps. You know I am undaunted by cold temperatures and that I’m happy when there is deep, fresh snow. Crockpot suppers, roasted root vegetables and hearty stews are some of my favorite (and simplest) meals to make. Me and winter? We’re good, but…
I also like crisp cotton and exposed ankles and bare shoulders. I’m tired of sleeping in leggings and long-sleeved t-shirts, on the ready for Jeter’s middle of the night “bathroom” breaks. My flannels may welcome me with cozy warmth, but I’m ready for the cool comfort of high thread count cotton sheets. I want to light the grill and sip a refreshing glass of rose’. And then there’s my garden…
Wardrobe, bed sheets and diet aside, I miss watching things grow. After months of being frozen, the earth is ready to start coming to life again. There are bunches and clusters of pale green shoots pushing out through the ground and I can’t wait to be reminded what is where in my postage stamp front garden. I recognize the purplish red leaves of my tulips which have emerged and see the crocus preparing to take their turns – yellow first, followed by white then purple, but there are other beautiful promises which are less predictable. Did the hyacinth take? Are my daffodils naturalizing and filling in? Will the lupine come back?
After a long season without obvious development, spring brings the assurance that there will be change and growth. The quiet acceptance of winter yields to hopefulness and a sense that things will soon be different. It’s time to see what comes next.
I had my car inspected this week. It passed without any issues. I was a couple of weeks late on taking care of things, but my reasons were understandable. At least that’s what I hoped the police officer would think should I have been pulled over.
I initially delayed the process because I wanted to wait until the calendar turned to March. That way I would have gotten 13 months from my previous year’s inspection, a real “stick it to the man” move, right? Of course, I screwed myself because days before the end of February (such a short little month!), a bulb went in my headlight necessitating a trip to the auto parts store and the efforts of three well-intentioned adults to successfully remove and replace the little halogen beauty.
A few days later, I left my car at the place around the block, Delaware Tire and Service, for them to take care of the annual requirement. I was a bit surprised to learn when I returned 90 minutes later that my car had a “few bulbs out” and also needed a new rear windshield wiper blade. “Bulbs?” I asked, thinking how odd that I should have nonfunctioning bulbs, yet not have received a dashboard message light informing me of this deficit. I mean, the reason I knew my headlight was out a couple of weeks ago was because my dashboard told me. Were we now in a fight, my dashboard and I, and no longer talking? I didn’t think so. I thanked him for his time and drove home still without a valid inspection.
I next scheduled an appointment with my regular mechanic, the folks I’ve bought 4 cars from and relied upon for more than 15 years to maintain my vehicles. Naturally, the day before my scheduled appointment, my Check Engine light randomly appeared. I canceled the appointment and waited for the light to go off, as it reliably does.
I noticed Tuesday that the light was off and yesterday took advantage of an early dismissal to stop at Hoffman’s on my way home for an inspection. Obviously, I didn’t mention or suggest any issues with my bulbs until after the new inspection sticker had been affixed to my windshield. At that point, I questioned the technician to see if he had seen anything wrong with bulbs or wiper. Not surprisingly, all was fine – nothing needed to be addressed or replaced.
So – my while my well maintained vehicle passed inspection with flying colors, Delaware Tire and Service gets a huge fail. Wonder how many other innocent drivers have been victimized by this unscrupulous business? You’ll want to give that garage a big pass.
“I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken, and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken pieces as long as I lived.” Margaret Mitchell
If you’re lucky, and like me, you’ve been in love more than once in your lifetime. Which means, of course, that you’ve probably had your heartbroken. Maybe more than once. Perhaps even multiple times by the same person, but obviously, I’m projecting my own history here. It’s my blog.
Do you remember that first heartbreak? I’ll never forget being certain that I was going to die. It just didn’t seem possible that I could survive the fierce assault to my heart and soul. I couldn’t eat. Or sleep. I replayed all the moments leading up to the big brush off, trying to place my finger on the precise instant when things went wrong. I thought that if I could identify what happened, I would be able to prevent myself from experiencing this emotional and physical anguish ever again. Yeah, right.
Since that time, more than 25 years ago, I’ve learned a few things. Important lessons about hearts and love and the ability of a heart to love again. I now understand that there are people who enter our lives (and hearts) as temporary residents. Not everything is supposed to last forever. Pieces get taken. And given.
I’ve realized that the people who have broken my heart have given me far more than they ever took. I learned that the capacity to love is something to be treasured, a gift beyond any other. I believe that the heart is one of the few things which can be rebuilt from pieces and be stronger than ever.
It started with a couple of stolen hours. We’d pick a date that worked for all of us, crossing our fingers for no last-minute work emergencies, sick children or childcare cop outs. Our rendezvous destination was generally somewhere in the middle – north for them, south for me.
On the given day, as I put miles between myself and the responsibilities and demands of home, I recall becoming aware of my breath. It was almost as if I had been holding my breath, neither inhaling or exhaling with any depth, for what seemed like days. Those couple of hours shared with my girlfriends reset my heart, my lungs and my mind.
As our lives have progressed, our opportunities to get together have also grown. A quick shared meal evolved into an occasional overnight in NYC, complete with dinner and drinks. On one occasion, as I packed to leave Albany for 2 nights in the city, I realized that I was borderline sick and in desperate need of a nap. I also knew that my chances of actually getting a nap (and being taken care of) were better in the city with the girls than at home with the guys. I went.
We’ve explored new neighborhoods as we allowed Hotwire and Priceline to determine where we stayed, economizing on accommodations to allow for some shopping as we attempted to bring some of our peace of mind home. We’ve got restaurants and cocktail bars which we consider to be “ours” and have had some wonderful trips making memories to last a lifetime.
We’ve just returned from our most ambitious girls’ trip ever – 5 nights in New Orleans. I can’t tell you how many times I said “Can you believe how fortunate we are that we are able to do this?” during the trip. The fact that we have come to a place where we have the resources and time to pull off a get away like this impresses me to no end. I don’t know when we got to be such grown up women, but I like it. A lot.
I don’t really watch a lot of television, but when I do it’s either a series like Mad Men or Downton Abbey, or sports. The only reality TV I watch, other than American Idol or the occasional episode of The Amazing Race, is on the Home and Garden channel.
I remember first becoming aware of the Kardashian family 5 or 6 years ago while having a manicure in a nail salon in the mall. If I remember correctly, they were at some ski resort and there was all sorts of drama – fighting between the sisters, lying to one another, and lots of conspicuous consumption. The sisters had a tendency to pose with the ever-so irritating duck lips Yuck. Keep up with them? No, thanks.
Since that time I’ve become increasingly more repulsed by this family who makes a business of creating an impression of desirable beauty when in reality they are nothing more than exploiters of all things ugly. It’s hard to tell which is more disturbing – the fact that this family is eager to sort their personal laundry on air or that millions of people are enthusiastic spectators to the mess that is their lives. What does this say about our culture?
I’ve never seen Duck Dynasty, but I think I understand the premise – it’s the antics of a family who have created a family business of actually selling a product, some sort of duck caller, unlike the Kardashians who merely sell their souls. From what I’ve seen in the media, the patriarch of the family has alienated some viewers with his outrageously homophobic opinions, which he presents as originating in his religious beliefs.
Here’s the thing – I don’t really know anything about this guy or his family. I honestly don’t care if he really believes that homosexuals are going directly to hell. It doesn’t matter to me at all because his opinion holds no value in my world. You see, my reality is populated with people who both maintain personal boundaries and value diversity, rather than exhibitionist mediawhores and judgmental conservatives.
Duck, duck, gross. I’ll pass.
Here’s a summary of what I’ve been talking about over at my other home on the web…