Be Of Good Cheer

I'd been seeing red, pink, white and orange quilts all over the blogosphere this summer, so I pulled out my stash, added a few (isn't that what we always do?) and made a quilt.  I somehow knew it wasn't mine, but hadn't yet figured out whose it would be.

My daughter Barbara has a rare heart disease, PeriPartum Cardiomyopathy, the onset timed with (and perhaps due to) the delivery of her third child last December, a little clone of my daughter.  While I could detail for you the technical aspects of this disease, basically Barbara has an 80-year-old heart.  So, no pushing her baby around the block in a stroller, no more taking casseroles to all her neighbors, no more running up and down the stairs.  No more sewing and putting things in her Etsy shop.  As her mother, my heart was in a wrench over all this.


As I sewed the colors of a heart (reds) sprinkled with pinks (for love?), orange (for happy) and white (for faith) it became apparent to me that this was her quilt. I poured my heart into my work as I stitched the brightly-colored blocks. While that has a sappy sentimental sound to it, I think that's what happens when the stewing over something moves into your bones, your thoughts, and all the tears and travail and remembrances carry through your hands.  Orange, red, pink, and white all combined to carry a message of love to her.

We traveled to a family reunion and brought the quilt to her in person (they live in AZ, some 7 hours from me).  She was sweet and open and loved the quilt (see her blog where she writes about it), giving me a tender hug.  This quilt is a tender hug for her when I'm not there, telling her that I love her, to hang in there, to believe that better days are ahead.
 

In short, to Be of Good Cheer.

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Here's some details:

The stash lined up on the ironing board.  I tried to use a lot of different fabrics.

The back, held up by my daughter and my husband at the Family Reunion (we held it in Eden, Utah, not too far from Park City!).

A close-up of the quilting, done with a butterfly pattern--Barbara's favorite since she was a child.

My quilter, Cathy Kreter, of CJ Designs, did it in a record two days--a favor to me because she knew the story and knew I was leaving.

Here I am, holding up Madilyn, that third baby.

She's a gift.

Grading Galaxy

I'm on the other side of the universe, caught in The Grading Galaxy.

See you upon re-entry!

Thinking About The Situation

My friend Judy and I discuss on a regular basis life, our students, and how our peers interact with the internet, which is (quite frankly) rarely. As a result, she and I are about the only commenters on each other's blogs outside of family members. I told her my daughter's peers have a different mindset (as does her daughter's) and that this younger generation regularly reads and comments on each other's blogs. Or Facebook pages.

I read a lot of blogs. Some dismiss them as narcissistic, lightweight and completely self-referential. Are they? I'd say no more so than personal essays that are published in the newspapers. (Or poems in various collections.)

But the difference between the published accounts and these "free web" accounts is that critical word: "free." I've thought for some time that the web could be a vehicle for publication of some kind, whether it be this blog-self-publishing version, or whether like Pioneer Woman, a blogger is picked up by the major publishing houses for a book, thereby legitimizing what is written by the act of putting ink to page, money into bank account.

In all cases, the goal is to build an audience. When I was at my writer-friend's home the other night, she had several books that she talked about. One was her friend Holly's book, a softcover book that didn't have enough sales so it didn't merit a contract for a second book. So, Holly's done. In a way. Much the way I felt after hitting 400 posts and the only comment was a "encouraged" comment from my husband, as well as a comment from my friend Judy, mentioned above.

Hitting 400 posts is not the same as batting .400, or hitting 400 balls out of the ballpark, or publishing 400 novels, or 400 personal essays, or raising 400 children, or baking 400 cupcakes. It's viewed as someone just sitting down at their computer and larking around with words, text, photos, illustrations, in other words, not serious writing.

But it is seductive for just that reason: a blogger/writer can mix, match, cull, steal, borrow, video, write, doodle, in short, lark around with all the various types of media that are out there. And it's immediate. And given the writing compulsion of the writer to write, it's easier than wading through publishers, agents, convincing the world out there that supposedly doesn't read, to Please! Notice Me! It's Web 2.o at its finest, and all free.

And if the blogger/writer picks up ads on the side, potentially lucrative. I noticed that Nienie has now opened up her cooking blog and the cynic in me noted that the ads were front and center. Given the proclivities of my generation I don't ever anticipate getting paid for my internet writing. But it's not only ads. Do prizes attract viewers? Do free giveaways bring in the blog numbers? In many cases (mostly those of the under-thirties generation) blogging has become about getting paid for the copy that is put forth into the world. We have come full circle. Does getting paid for maintaining a blog legitimize this endeavor?

Or is ink to paper still the only way for a writer to earn their credentials?

With This One, It's 400 Posts

Route 400 to Somewhere

400 Fantastic Issues!

400-Watt Ultrasound

Daytona 400, also known as the Pepsi Netzero 400 (apparently)

By 2020 China will have 400 new cities.
We are busy in the U.S. trying to keep our cities from dying.

Seating for 400 in a ballroom.
(Thanks, but no thanks. I'm through with all of our wedding receptions.)

The Atari 400 computer, from 1978
Designed primarily as a computer for children, the Atari 400 has an "advanced child-proof design featuring pressure-sensitive, wipe-clean keyboard."

Boeing 747-400 airplane

World's first 625 line television: The Philips TX-400.

Fundraising pitch from art gallery.

My first post: Thursday, September 14, 2006

Door to Heaven
Disney Concert Hall
Los Angeles, California

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It's been a nice journey. Thanks for listening.

Hot Dog Distributor

My horoscope for yesterday:

For Tuesday, September 22 -If work were a camping trip, you'd be in charge of the grill. Why? For one thing, everybody trusts you when it comes to handling fire. You can light it, you can keep it burning, you can make sure it doesn't get so big that is sets the paper plates and tablecloths on fire. Further, people trust you to distribute the hot dogs fairly, equitably and fully cooked. Yep, it's no wonder you're the office equivalent of the grill chef -- who else is as trustworthy as you?

Now you know why I read these things. It's just in case I ever have an identity crisis.

Mother's Wheat Germ Bread

I think about the fires recently in the hills around us here in Southern California, and remember back to the Oakland California fires in an earlier era. While many stories were poignant and very sad, one that has stuck in my memory is the story of the woman who lost everything in the fire. Interestingly, she despaired the most over the loss of her recipes, some of which were family treasures passed down for several generations. (I have a few of those as well.)

Some weeks after the fire, one of her neighbors found out where she was living, and brought her a loaf of her own bread, with the recipe attached to it. Little by little, her recipes came back to her, because she had shared them.

My mother cooked for a crowd: her family of seven children. I remember coming home as a teenager to the smell of this bread, freshly baked. It was perfect in the afternoons, just warm crumbly bread, some homemade jam, and a glass of milk. Of course the fantasy memory might include then happily skipping off to do the homework, but I think the real memory probably was slicing one more slice, in order to avoid leaving Mom’s kitchen and her good bread. This is one recipe I don’t want to lose, so I’m posting it here. It's also over at Elizabeth's Kitchen.

Mother’s Wheat Germ Bread

Combine in a mixer bowl:
1 1/2 cups boiling water
6 Tbls. shortening (I suppose you could substitute butter)
1/2 cup honey
1 teaspoon salt.

Dissolve 2 packages yeast in 1/2 cup warm water and add to above mixture. Then add 2 eggs, mixing well, but not overbeating.

Add: 1 cup wheat germ and 3 cups white flour and beat for 2 minutes at medium speed. Blend in 2 1/2 cups more flour.

“Blob it in” (the recipe says) into 2 greased loaf “tins,” and let rise to within 1″ of the top of the pan.

Bake at 375 degrees for 45-50 minutes. Brush tops with melted butter.

I find that I’m used to a more complete recipe these days: Do I turn the loaves out onto racks immediately, or let them cool for 10 minutes in the pan? When do I brush on the melted butter? How long do I mix the dough? This is a recipe from days when most women cooked, and cooked regularly, and knew what to do. I smile at even earlier recipes that say things like “Cook in a moderate oven until done.” Translation, please?

No photo of the bread. When it stops hitting temperatures past the hundred-degree mark, I’ll make some, for old times sake, and post a photo then.

Birds on a Wire

Birds on the Wires from Jarbas Agnelli on Vimeo.

To quote from Mr. Agnelli:
Reading a newspaper, I saw a picture of birds on the electric wires. I cut out the photo and decided to make a song, using the exact location of the birds as notes (no Photoshop edit). I knew it wasn't the most original idea in the universe. I was just curious to hear what melody the birds were creating.

I sent the music to the photographer, Paulo Pinto, who I Googled on the internet. He told his editor, who told a reporter and the story ended up as an interview in the very same newspaper.

Here I've posted a short video made with the photo, the music and the score (composed by the birds).

And Dinner Tonight Was. . .

White Fish with Green Gazpacho Sauce. Make extra sauce (included in my version) because it you'll find yourself wanting to eat more. Since it's so lo-cal and good for you, no guilt when you do.


Head over to Elizabeth's Kitchen for the recipe and comments (click on image to your right, in sidebar).

And the update on Tattoo Student is this:
He wrote a pretty good paper. It has some problems, but he was able to nail quite a few of the elements.

And he complained to the Dept. Chair that because I'd asked him to walk around OUTSIDE, instead of IN my classroom, I wasn't accommodating him on ADA guidelines. Turns out he's most worried that I'll drop him. I told the Chair that Tattoo Student's problem is that he doesn't read and he doesn't listen.

If he read the syllabus that I gave to him when he came to class (he missed the first day and the Age Old Tradition of the Reading of the Syllabus) it clearly states that I don't drop students. I tell them, you got yourself in here, you can get yourself out. And if he'd listened, he'd have heard that I offered him the chance to lie down on my classroom floor with his pillow if he wanted (although with budget cutbacks and sporadic custodial service, who'd want to?).

I just carried home 55 papers to grade this weekend. That should explain why I took time out to cook a nice dinner.

Okay, Here's Some Fun!

You have to try this. Head over to this article in the New York Times, and try to drive and text. Yes, they've set up a driving test (do the Test Drive to get the picture) and then they send you text messages on this phone to the right. You're supposed to drive and text. If there would have been people on this imaginary roadway, I would have wiped them all out.

Good luck!

Welcome Back to My Real Life

I returned to the classroom yesterday, feeling pretty jetlagged, but ready to go again. We had Peer Review on their first essay, which is a section of class where they bring in their essays, trade with a classmate and then evaluate each other's essay. Not only does it 1) give them an earlier due date so I don't have to read first drafts, it also 2) gives them a chance to have someone else take a look at their essay and 3) improve their editing skills.

See? I've thought it all out.

Except what do you do Student A brings in the SECOND essay to be reviewed? The essay that I'm going to assign tomorrow with a spiffy assignment packet, a presentation and all sorts of tips and strategies?

I met with Student A, a highly decorated (tattoo-wise) military veteran who is in his late twenties, and gently asked him why he chose to do the second essay.

He unfolds a note from his orthopedic doctor explaining that he's going to have surgery soon and he'll have to get up and move around, may not be able to sit. I said that's no problem, just please take a seat on the very back row so you don't disturb others if you have to move. And it's okay to get up and walk around OUTSIDE. As a teacher, can I just say things aren't looking real great?

So I herded him back to the subject at hand.
--Why did he do the second essay?
--Because I want to get ahead.
--But you can't really do that one yet because we haven't finished the first one. Besides, I haven't given out the assignment sheet yet.
--I looked in the Course Calendar and read what you said and went off of that. (He pulls out his notebook, stuffed with papers every which way.) See? Here's all my research for my paper on Tattoos.

Note to self: add "tattoos" to the list of banned topics. And I'm wondering if while in the service, that not only did he enjoy the local tat parlor but also the local drug dealer? *Focus, focus.*

I start him on brainstorming some topics to write about. He reassures me that it's no problem to write an essay about the first time he served in combat--It will be a wonderful essay, he says. Really wonderful.

Wonderful.

Surf's Up in Munich!

Head over to Traveled Mind for the other surfer clip.

Why We're Going to Munich

Short answer:
Because I erased the photos from my hard drive on one fateful afternoon in Washington D.C.

Long answer:
Because Dave has a conference and he knew I wanted to re-take all the photos I'd lost on one fateful afternoon in Washington D.C.

The photo above is about the only one left, and it's really not from Munich, but is a picture of me in the dirndl I made after going to Munich. We were, at the time, living in Washington DC so jetlag was only a 6 hour change (instead of the 9-hour change it is from here). I'd purchased fabric from a store in Munich, struggled through a German-language version of a dress pattern, and made this dress. I found out later that our pattern books have an English-language version.

Someday I'll wear this to church. I usually wear it at Christmastime, but we'd just merged wards in our stake last year and I didn't want the newbies to think I was flat out weird. Now they know I'm just flat out weird, so there's no worries.

Here's a closer up. Yep, she's a middle-aged honeybunch, but doesn't she look Bavarian?
I was also pretty not-feeling-well when I was over there before (gallstones) so I'd like to go when I'm in pretty good shape. Or as my Dad says, travel now, while you're young.
I like that he thinks I'm young.

Visual answer:
Theatine Church, Munich.

Most of this church is done in white stucco, so the day's shadows, lights, darks, sunlight streams all play off the shapes, creating their own tonality.

Food answer:
Maybe to get some Bavarian Apple Strudel?

(This picture is all over the web. Maybe I can come up with a new one.)

Dave's answer:
Benzene conference (he's an expert).

Wait, let me get you another picture of the classic benzene ring.

Whoops. This is a local band, The Benzene Ring, and you can click to listen to their tunes.
(One review says: A compelling combination of short soundscapes, creepy chants, and five-minute-plus epics ... Breathing Water in a Dream is diverse and fresh enough to pull in listeners from both the prog and indie camps.)

Okey, dokey for all you progs and indies out there.

Yes! That's it!
But let's not stop there. Here's one from the United States Army, the chemical division, with a traditional six-sided benzene ring:

Wonder how I can get one of these for Dave? Better yet, everyone at his conference? The description reads:
48th Chemical Brigade Distinctive Unit Insignia: The green dragon grasping the sword alludes to the chemical operations of the Brigade and the unit's mission to combat chemical and biological warfare. The benzene ring is adapted from the branch insignia.

And then there's this guy, August Kekulé, who dozy-day-dreamed about a snake swallowing its tail, which taught him the structure of the benzene ring, basis of all organic chemistry.

Let's hear it for naps.

Or for staring into space.

At any rate, we're off tomorrow, beating the Labor Day rush to get out of town to celebrate the last day of summer.

Follow us on our travel blog, where I'll post when I feel like it:

The Traveled Mind.

Dinner Tonight is Tuscan White Beans

Over on Elizabeth's Kitchen, I posted the recipe/how-to for our dinner tonight. Stay cool, and out of the fires.

Italian Purse

My mom's asked for pictures of my Italian Goldenrod purse. Happy to oblige.

I took it to school today, just to try it out (and show my friend Judy), and all went fine until I went to pick it up after teaching and noticed my hands covered with the black dust from the whiteboard markers. I didn't pick up my purse until I'd cleaned my hands.

I love my purse, but I'm trading it out for the cowboy purse next time I go to school. That one's dark green.

Dave wonders why someone would have a purse that required such babying.
He's a guy.

Jetlag

In spite of the picture above, I believe it's easier to adjust to jetlag when I'm heading out on a visit to Europe, excited about finally seeing all those sights I've noted in my guidebooks. I swallow a melatonin on the plane, skip their meal, set my watch ahead and try to adjust quickly. Of course, I've not gone to India or Hong Kong lately, which is completely inverted from our day.

We arrived home Friday. The plane arrived at 1 p.m. Our luggage arrived at the carousel at around 2 p.m. and we were through customs about 5 minutes later, even in spite of my candied citrus peel and wrapped Italian candies for my classes. We arrived at home at 4 p.m. after enduring LA traffic. I was at the grocery store at 4:15 p.m.

I stared at the meat counter. I was jetlagging, seriously jetlagging. I looked at the chicken breasts and didn't think I could remember how to cook those. The fish looked too complicated too. Definitely couldn't face crab, real or fake. The man behind the counter looked at me. I looked at him. I shrugged my shoulders, smiled wanly, and moved on. We had pasta that night, a pale imitation of what we'd had in Montepulciano for lunch, even though I'd bought the expensive, imported pasta in the store that day.

Last night was worse than the night before. I'd taken my melatonin, but the weird thing is that even though my mind insists that it's dark and I should be sleeping, I awake at midnight, hungry or something, or at 3 and find my way to the bathroom, or 5 and decide I'd better give up. I finally got up at 7:30 a.m. groggy as I was when I turned in at 9:30 the previous night.

The worst thing is I can't seem to get traction in my own life, the teaching/grading life that begins again tomorrow full bore. It's going to be an interesting week.

What Do They Have in Common?

San Lorenzo cloisters

San Miniato church

Luccheti d'amore

They're all in Florence. Follow our travels on

The Traveled Mind blog.

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For the record, I'm sitting here in Pienza in the downstairs breakfast area, as rolling thunder and gray clouds are all around me. Occasionally, the sun breaks through, showing off the golden hills and green vineyards. The young woman behind the desk has finished her soda (giving a tiny little burp at its conclusion) and she now tells me our reservations have been accepted for dinner at Da Fiorella in town. Dave's upstairs either napping or reading. Life is good here. I hope it's good with you.

Looking at a Big Picture

At a dinner in the canyon last Thursday night with my husband's family, it began to rain, so a few of us adults gathered under some trees and talked and laughed and told jokes and stories and waited out the inclement weather.

The next evening, at another reunion with my side of the family, the wind picked up after dinner and the children, some in pajamas, ran around tossing Frisbees, eating round tortilla chips, climbing on the rocks while the adults milled around, talking and chatting about nothing in particular, moving from group to group as people went in for their sweaters, then returned. We were all making memories in the stiff canyon breezes that presaged that night's thunderstorms. When those storms finally arrived in the early morning, my husband and I, fit together like spoons under the quilt, watched the lightning through our window and listened to the rolling thunder until we fell back asleep.

I love all my family--aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, in-laws, grandchildren and so on--in an easy way, yet with an intensity that can sometimes catch me unawares. I know that earthly relationships can fray, fracture and break. I could drop a grandchild in a fall--would the daughter or daughter-in-law ever forgive me? I could say a harsh word when tired, offend someone. I could move far away and lose touch, or might not return a phone call or answer a letter. I could be human.

In our religion, getting married--not just in a church, but in the temple where we are sealed together for eternity--was always put out as One of the Goals--a hoop to jump through, an act of obedience. However, as I have aged, I have come to see the promises and covenants made in the temple with a new perspective. We mortals are so frail in our relationships. Father in Heaven says go forward in faith and love and give it all a try and risk and take care of each other, because if you are sealed together, it's a guarantee that you'll see each other again--even after anger, after sorrow and misunderstanding, after death. Temple sealings are evidence of the Lord's complete and enduring compassion for his children.

With my husband Dave traveling on the other side of the world, I can all too easily slide into fear or worry. There are other reminders of mortality as well, some as innocuous as declining vision, reminding me that we all are moving toward some sort of painful separation from each other. Once I asked my mother what she would do if Dad died. "Why, it's the unthinkable," she said. I don't spend every day with a long face, moping around, anticipating the worst. But I am aware that I'm in a personal golden age that could quickly crumble into a hollow. In order to press forward I remember that because His love, we are sealed.

Because of His love, we are family.

Treats from the Anniversary

While I was out getting the car serviced, then doing errands and a run to the grocery store, Dave was busy yesterday morning. He went and bought me roses to celebrate our 20th anniversary.

We'd read the notes from our wedding, transcribed for us and taped in the back of our photo album (the honeymoon scrapbook is what you see with all the hearts on the cover). One piece of advice we'd been given by Joe Whitesides (who married us) was to do the little things for each other: like bring flowers and make a cake.

So, while Dave was getting me flowers, I was buying the ingredients for this cake: Torta di Whatever (recipe found at Elizabeth's Kitchen). We both remembered!

Recipes in the Cloud

I just think I ought to do one more blog.
But this one really isn't.
It's just recipes in the cloud, for safekeeping and for access.
Click on the picture above or head to elizabethskitchen.wordpress.com.
If you would a particular recipe up there, send me an email (or leave a comment). It has to be one I've already cooked, or one you need right now so you can take it to the ward dinner.

(Yes, it's a wordpress blog. Peter's teaching me, little by little.)

Celebrating 20 Years

So we started here, some twenty years ago, one of the real successes of our church's Single Adult social program. This was the photo we sent out in our wedding invitations.

Dave's parents are on the left, mine on the right, and our family in the middle. What a journey we started, all of us, all together, the parents flanking us, the wedding covenants in the temple giving us a sure start and we pushed on into the newness of it all: Dave, me, Chad, Matthew (on his tiptoes so he could be taller than Chad), Barbara (one of my junior bridesmaids that day) and Peter, who held my hand in every photo but one. And in that one, he's scowling fiercely.

We've talked about our marriage a lot this past week--I guess I should say I've brought it up a lot on our walks--and we shake our heads at our dumb luck at having made this enterprise get off the runway and sail into the air.

We're thicker through the middle, one of us is thinner through the hairline, we both have more wrinkles, and sag a little more through the shoulders, but the children have grown and married and have brought a new generation for us to love in our eight grandchildren.

To provide evidence that we're celebrating our twentieth, I'll be at an orientation meeting where I teach and Dave will be honing his talk to give next week at a conference. Romance? We've got it. In fact we've postponed celebrating our Big Day until next week, when he'll take me out to dinner in one of my favorite places: Pienza, Italy. I'll splurge and order the Panna Cotta (we'll share) and then we'll walk along the city wall, looking over in the countryside. Maybe we'll hold hands, occasionally I'll steal a kiss from my handsome fellow by my side, and then, like any good middle-aged couple, we'll turn in by 10 p.m.

Happy Twentieth Anniversary, Dave. I love you.

Trip Preparations

It's always fun to look at the weather in a place you plan to travel to. Either you cheer (beautiful weather) or groan (I'm gonna roast).

I noticed that Florence has a range of 17C minima to 31 maxima.

That noise you hear is a groan, because it mirrors what we have here--and I try to stay out of the heat and stay in my A/C house. This is the main reason why gelato is such a big seller in Italy during summer. That and quiet, dark churches, which I noticed now charge for admission.

Mastering the Art of French Cooking

Last night Dave and I went to see the movie Julie and Julia. I'd read all the pre-event publicity--the interview in the NYTimes with Nora Ephron and the reporter making an apple tart, press about the food stylists, press about the preparation of the food, director's musings (that would be Nora Ephron again), analysis by Julia Child's friends and relatives--and I was ready.

We stood in a line at our theater, while the local oldies station was having a Spin the Dial and DJ event to publicize the opening. While standing there, thinking how nice this was that they'd publicize the opening, a couple approached us and asked us if we'd like two free tickets. Sure, we said. They slipped in line in front of us--seems they got them from the oldies radio station--and they'd get the tickets then give the two free ones to us. We chatted for a bit, then she said, "You are in line for the GI Joe opening, right?"

My first thought was "Do we look like the type that goes to GI Joe movies?"
But I said, "No, we're here for the Julie/Julia movie. " Dave added, "At 7 p.m."

Oh, they said, and started asking others if they wanted free tickets. Okay, I should have known that the oldies station wouldn't gear up for a movie about cooking.

I noticed that the audience in our movie was trending toward Social Security recipients, but we found our seats, and endured the endless previews (We found one we won't be seeing: "Stepfather," about a guy who's trying to marry into a family with children and turns out to be a murderer. Great.).

It was worth it. The movie is a four forks rating, two thumbs up, a veritable delight. We laughed and laughed and were pulled into the Meryl Streep magic, and empathized with the plight of Amy Adams' character (as well as her husband). We got a kick out of seeing Blogger in its infancy, and liked the fact that the movie was about the cooking and creating of the food, rather than the emphasis found in many current shows--that of the consuming of it, as well as trying to create it under manufactured false pressures. (Note to producers: I want to see a reality show of trying to fix a balanced meal, having just discovered you are missing a key ingredient, all the while answering phone calls, supervising homework, and navigating the toys strewn around the kitchen by the toddler and the baby. None of this Iron Chef stuff. I want Iron Mother.)

I went home and thought about buying Mastering the Art of French Cooking, you know, just to have the book. Actually the scene with the chocolate cake was a real motivator.
The copies I saw on Amazon were running in the fifty-buck-and-up range for a vintage book.

So, we're eating dinner tonight and I idly look over at the bookcase. There between The Naked Chef and Fannie Farmer is. . . yes! Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I recognized the cover as being similar to the one shown in the movie last night. Can't believe it.

It's got some food stains on the front, and when I opened the cover, neatly penciled in the corner is the price: $8.00.

It's a first edition, 10th printing in August of 1965. I must have purchased it at an estate sale here in Riverside. I wonder if I bought it at Norma Baricelli's sale; she was a neighbor who also taught me at RCC. I have no idea really, but I did pick up quite a few cookbooks at that sale.

So now I check Amazon since I have more specific details, in order to find out the worth of this book. I like that it has the same printed cover as the one in the movie, and see the little "Ecole des 3 Gourmands" logo facing the title page. I wonder if it's worth that 50 bucks that I'd seen before.

Nope.
It's worth $149.

Is it This? Or That?

I finished the quilt top of the red, orange, pink quilt and also stitched all the squares together for the back. I think the quilter lady is out of town, but my part is done and I'll wait for her to return.

This summer I have also stitched together a totebag (had to try the pattern), a jacket, two skirts, a purse, two quilts, finished editing my father's memoir, watched my youngest son get married, taken three short trips, maintained several blogs, written up my teaching course outlines/documents/syllabus and a couple of the first assignments.

I actually made a List of Summer Goals, and was able to check off most of them, including reading the Michael Pollan books, a novel, a "reflection" (that's what the dust jacket says) and a memoir. I also planted my garden (although its performance is abysmal), had countertops put in, new windows installed, made a trip to L.A. and didn't get killed on the freeway. And while my hands were busy, I thought about the novel I began in grad school and never fleshed out, never finished. Time to think has been one of the biggest yields of this hiatus.

I need two more summers like this one in order to catch up with everything on my To Do List. But my question is, is this summer my real life, or is it that other life, the one where I'm running like a crazy person, avoiding the grading, trying to check off the list of "have-to" chores and always tired (I counted yesterday while doing errands: a total of 100% of people, when greeted by a friend or a salesclerk asking How Are You? answered "Tired.").

Is it This? Or That?

Maybe this is why I see lots of cartoons of people shackled to their desks in their cubicles, dreaming of breaking off the cuffs. Maybe that's why I hear about people quitting their jobs and trying something smaller and new (although my son will attest to the fact that if you are thinking of quitting your daytime job and starting a small business, this is NOT the year to do that).

Maybe we all dream of that Other Life, which holds our possibilities, our potentials while we trudge along in the life that pays the bills, feeds the children, wipes up the floor, watches the tomatoes shrivel in the garden, swelters in the heat and dies knowing they missed out on their Big Chance.