the joy of insurance

I came home to find a dividend check from my insurance company. Yes, you read that correctly. This is the 86th straight year that New Jersey Manufacturers Insurance Company has paid dividends to its policyholders. I was a policyholder when I went out on my own in the 70's. Dealing with NJM was one of the few things I looked forward to when returning to this state.

They won't insure just anyone (your employer must be a member of the NJ Business and Industry Association), and they don't insure drivers with current violations at all.

hobbitt's Florida-based employer isn't a member of that organization, though as a prior customer, I had an in. But I did have two speeding tickets, which I richly deserved, from a few years before that when jetting cross-country to or from Mom's, one from Ohio and one from Indiana. For some reason they didn't show up on whatever reports are floating out there in the law-enforcement world. Yahoo! Coverage!

At the time we had my old Swede-mobile and hobbitt's 20-year-old Nissan. The rates in NJ are frighteningly higher than they were in Illinois, but no matter. There's usually a dividend credit, so all in all our actual payments were only slightly higher than with State Farm, even after upgrading to 2 newer automobiles and therefore higher coverages. For the house, with the options we chose, the premium was indeed a bit higher, even with the $1000 deductible (the smallest they'd actually offer us, since the facade of our home is more than 25% glass). This is a larger home; there are water features that are considered safety hazards; we live in the woods on the edge of the Pine Barrens and fire is a real danger from time to time, plus we opted for the full current-market replacement value feature. Again, the added cost is no biggie, because of the dividend reductions.

Its underwriters and reps are paid straight salary. The only way to get insured by them is to go straight to them. And it gets better, if you can actually accept the notion of "good" within the insurance industry:

"NJM operates in a mutual fashion, sharing the proceeds of our sound insurance practices with policyholders as dividends. Some other insurers, by comparison, are owned by stockholders and therefore must strive to achieve profits for them. At NJM, there is no need to meet sales targets, profit levels or any goal that would conflict with our mission to serve the interests of policyholders exclusively."

So today, to come home to a check for $100.43 - a special dividend on our auto policy - was rather a nice treat.

!?!?!

When did I turn into this freaking fuddy-duddy? Just when did my attention turn from crunchy-granola hippie-wannabedome to annuities and insurance policies? How did I miss the transition from house-poor working wife to comfortable middle class idler? Do I have to turn in my slacker card now?

a friendly strafing

You probably read about it. I wondered what it would have sounded like to that lone janitor, and whether it put the fear in her or not. Footsteps on the roof? I think it would have creeped me out. But what, exactly, does 20mm cannon fire feel/sound like? What does it do to a kids desk when it strikes?

I probably don't even come close to it when blasting my car stereo, as I did the other night on my return trip from the airport. Earth Wind & Fire, Shining Star. (I don't even have a sub-woofer in the car and I thank my lucky stars I didn't go for it. I'm sure I'd be bleeding from the ears right about now.)

But for a brief moment, while the music was wailing, I felt the drum beat and wondered if I was drawing fire. The driver of the car stopped next to me at the convergence of routes 527 and 528 could have been shooting, for all I knew. It could happen. After all, if I saw a middle-aged, overweight white woman positively writhing to black 70's rock blaring from her automobile, I'd believe she was possessed, too.

cappuccino coins

You know you loved those walnut crisps. They were easy, they were delicious. So what if you ate them all? But we're upping the ante now. Same procedure, and just a little chocolate.

Cappuccino coins

makes 10 dozen cookies

4 oz. (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into 8 pieces
¼ cup packed dark brown sugar
¼ cup granulated sugar
1 extra-large egg
1 cup plus 2 Tbs. all-purpose flour
1 ½ tsp. instant coffee powder or granules
1 ½ tsp. unsweetened cocoa powder
½ tsp. cinnamon
¼ tsp. fine sea salt
½ cup (2 ounces) finely chopped semisweet chocolate (1/8- inch bits)

In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream butter and both sugars on medium speed until smooth, 3 to 4 minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula. Add the flour, instant coffee, cocoa, cinnamon, salt, and chocolate bits; mix thoroughly for 2 to 3 minutes.

Gather the dough together and turn onto a lightly floured board. Using lightly floured hands, roll the dough into 2 or 3 even 1-inch-thick logs. Wrap the logs separately in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Move an over rack to the middle position. Line large baking sheets with parchment paper.

Slice the logs into ¼ inch thick coins, and place them ½ inch apart on the prepared baking sheets.

One sheet at a time, bake until the cookies are lightly golden and are firm enough at the edges to slide off the parchment without sticking, 15 to 17 minutes. Cool in the baking sheets set on wire racks.


The real beauty of these cookies, as well as the walnut crisps and two other recipes that I have yet to share with the world, is that they are small and delicate, which makes them great for cookie trays. Folks can sample without overeating. But my favorite thing about these cookies is that the dough logs are easily wrapped in decorative paper and given as housewarming or holiday gifts, complete with baking instructions. The dough will live well in the freezer for a month or two, if you can actually resist that long. Just be sure to defrost in the fridge.

crunchy chicken roll-ups

Dammit, my aunts all love this dish. It's easy to make, and can be prepared ahead of time so that the only thing you'll need to do is pour the melted butter over the breasts and bake them. This is good, old-fashioned, low-brow fancy, but oh, so good. If doubling, you probably don't need to entirely double the sour cream - I usually have some left over.

The outsides of the roll-ups are crunchy, while the insides are somewhat like soft stuffing, and creamy. Everyone will think you fussed.

4-6 boneless chicken breasts
1 pkg. Herb stuffing mix (not cubes)
1 stick butter (4 oz.)

8 oz. sour cream – same amount up to 8 chicken breasts
1 T lemon juice
2 tsp worcestershire
1 tsp celery seed – optional (myself, I don't care for it)
½ tsp salt
1 tsp paprika
½ tsp garlic powder

Trim breast and pound chicken flat.

Dip chicken in sour cream mixture.
Roll chicken in stuffing until coated on both sides.
Roll up chicken tightly.
Place snugly in baking dish seam side down.

Recipe can be held at this point. Just cover and refrigerate.

Melt butter and drizzle over chicken.

Bake 350F 45-60 minutes.

when the fog comes in

It's been warm enough recently for us to sleep with the balcony door wide open as well as the window on the other side of our bed. If there's a breeze that makes for some nice fresh air caressing my face, which in my opinion is the only way to sleep. If there's a gale, the window to the hallway blows open and the verticals rattle, but that won't bother me. If it gets chilly during the night we tend to fight for the real estate in the center of the bed to seek each other's warmth, since I have yet to put the winter blanket on the bed. If it's raining, the gentle sound immediately puts me into a trance-like, deep sleep. If it becomes too warm for me, I'll stand at the door for a few minutes to let my body cool down before taking a short stroll around the house or just lying down to listen to the soft sounds of breathing from hobbitt and Inti.

But there's nothing like the fog. It creeps out of the woods slowly, eventually surrounding the house. It climbs up on the balcony and sneaks into our room. If I get up my view of the doorway is obscured, and there is nothing outside - no trees, no street, no world at all. It's a magical place that happens only at night. There won't be a sound out there - it seems that no leaves fall, no squirrels or deer stir, and if the roosters crow, I certainly don't hear it. Though the mist won't fill the room, it eases in almost as far as the bed, appearing as soft as smoke.

We've had such fog for the last two nights. When we take our late-night soak, I can tell that the sandy, acid earth is yielding up her moisture, but it's not even a haze in the woods in that early part of the night. Two hours later the woods are thick, and not long after that the rest of the world has disappeared. If I didn't love sleep so, I would like to watch it all unfold.

But I love my sleep. I dream of mistakes corrected, second chances, fates avoided. I wake in a warm embrace, quickly jump from the bed to shut the door and the window, and watch the fog's leavings slowly drip from the glass. By the time my face is hovering over steaming coffee, the familiar oaks and tupelos and the twisty trunks of the sassafras are visible, as if they'd never disappeared. But I know better. I love my sleep, but that doesn't mean I don't witness the night.

Bananas Foster

If you know me well, you know that anything with bananas as a main ingredient, unless it's mashed and baked into some loaf or muffin, isn't going to be on my list of edibles. Angela twisted my arm, even after giving me the ammo that a former love of hers wouldn't eat bananas because of all the seeds. I whined about texture and seeds, but I still ate the dessert. It was good. I watched her make it. It goes something like this:

Melt a stick of butter in a non-stick frying pan. Everything Angela makes begins with this simple ingredient, prepared this way. Or so it seemed.

Dump an unspecified yet copious amount of brown sugar into the melted butter and stir and let the candy cook for a few minutes.

Slice three bananas lengthwise, drop them in the pan and let them cook in the candy for a few minutes.

Pour an unspecified yet copious amount of rum and banana liqueur into the pan. Let it heat, then apply fire and enjoy the flames shooting up toward the bottom of your microwave oven. Panic briefly, then watch flames subside. When they do subside, dust the ashes with an unspecified sprinkling of cinnamon. Angela says "to taste" but we had already dimmed our tastebuds with copious yet unspecified amounts of Boodles gin, so I can't help you here.

Spoon this glorious concoction into three bowls into which unspecified yet copious amounts of premium vanilla ice cream have been dolloped. Stand in the kitchen and try not to burn your mouth on the hot candy. Yummy.

State Policeman's Balls

You know the old joke, where the chick gets stopped by the NJ State Trooper for speeding. He walks up to the car and she says, "Oh, officer, I know why you stopped me. You want to sell me tickets to the State Troopers' Ball!"

The trooper is rather annoyed and snaps back at the chickie babe, "Lady, State Troopers don't have balls!"

Ahem.

Well, my foodie friends in North Carolina are both ex-cops. In a sweet gesture of friendship, they gave me a PBA card for my drive back home, lest I should, shall we say, exceed the speed limit somewhat (an innocent oversight, of course). Sgt. Bill C. (Ret.) offered as how this might not be a useful item in NC or VA, but to keep my head down, understand that the staties might give me a "nickel" (5 mph over the limit) and produce the card with my other credentials should I have to.

I think I was in Virginia, in the left lane, going along with traffic just at or under 80 mph (the limit there is 65) when I noticed the trooper pulling out from the access road on my left. I wasn't all too concerned, since I wasn't passing anyone and most cars were going about the same speed as me. In any case, we all slowed down somewhat, and I cleverly used my cruise control "coast" button so as not to be obvious with the brake lights.

Except I didn't push the "coast" button, but blared the horn two or three times as I passed the trooper. And this isn't some sissy horn, but double horns that are under the hood of my new Bjorn buggy. At that moment, though, the horns sounded like the alarm clarion on a sub, or the air raid sirens we used to hear being tested when we were children. I might as well have had a drag queen in full regalia on the roof rack, as inconspicuous as I was right then.

I watched in my rearview mirror while the car pulled out into traffic, so I prepared to wield the PBA card, but the policeman pulled back onto the shoulder and turned onto another access road. Perhaps my little gray wagon is invisible. Who knows. There was nothing left to do but call my beloved ex-cop friends and give them a laugh at my expense.

Please! Not one more bite!

I'm being held captive in the home of two of my favorite gourmands, Angela and Billy C. They have retired to this lovely area of the North Carolina shore to enjoy themselves and to this end they are enormously successful. Angela is a cook's cook. One of her favorite phrases from back in the day (more than 15 years ago) is "I just hate having the same old fancy French dishes for dinner every night." The food thing, I think she got from her mother. Never did I walk into that home when Charlotte (Sadie) was alive that I didn't leave with a few pounds of ham, potatoes, and some sort of sinful dessert. Who could say no to Sadie when she was wielding a chef's knife in her hand? "You've never had ham like this," she'd say, in her shaky voice, while slapping the side of an entire pig with the blade.

Angela had a plan when I arrived. It involved plying me with food until I was too freakin' fat to waddle out the door, but I still have enough legs left to get me back home. Here is the menu:

Thursday night:
Veal piccata
roasted potatoes
asparagus with buerre noire
Bananas Foster

Friday night:
spanikopita
prime rib roast
baked potatoes
Caesar salad
Bananas Foster

Saturday night:
Blackened chicken with tarragon mayonnaise
Armenian rice pilaf
sauteed squash, zucchini, peppers and onions
Bananas Foster

What's with the Bananas Foster, you might ask? Here's the thing. We ate like pigs. We couldn't help ourselves. Okay, that's just me. I don't get to eat food like Angela can cook, not often, for sure. I ate and I ate and I ate and when it came time for dessert, there simply wasn't room. So, we had no dessert on Thursday night, no dessert on Friday night, and god help me, she's going to make me eat this Bananas Foster tonight whether I puke it up in the backyard like a sick dog or not. This isn't even taking into account the mass quantities of martinis that we drank (courtesy of the gallon of Boodles Gin I brought as a hostess gift, half of which I unabashedly drank so as to save her the shame of it all) or the snacking (spreadable Gorgonzola cheese or garlic cheddar bread). As Angela says, it was definitely a low-fat escapade. She wanted me to take one of the two bottles of gin back home with me and I can assure you, gentle reader, that my liver has accounted for quite a bit of that. The bottle, however, will be recycled here in North Carolina.

We are about to sit down to watch a movie together, and tomorrow I'll start my drive (hey! I'll be back! I can't eat like that at home and what's an 8-hour drive?) back home. I have another 27 CD's to listen to, after all. But please, let's reconsider the Bananas Foster.

Growed ups

With hobbitt's return from the mysterious Everglades, druid labs has turned over a new leaf with regards to daily living. We've begun to take all of our meals together, at the dining-room table. (The cat has taken over the kitchen table.) Our previous routine has been something like this: hobbitt gets up and makes coffee, and an hour later or so will have a muffin or toast. BHD gets up "sometime later" - don't ask - and would have coffee only. Lunch would happen anytime between noon and 3:30 p.m., and would be taken to our respective corners - for hobbitt, back up to his office to be eaten while working, ditto for me. The last meal would be served TV-side (aka al fresco) sometime before 11 p.m., never before 9.

One look at us would tell you that this is not working. Delaying meals because of work schedules only meant that the meal, when finally taken, was often not of the highest nutritional quality, shall we say. We've wanted to change this dynamic for a long time but haven't been able to accomplish it largely because - and I own this 100% - the cook is lazy and often indulges in the densest forms of inertia. As in, don't have time to do everything? Then do nothing. As you can see this had to change.

And so it did. hobbitt has been preparing grapefruits in the morning and I've wanted to sit at table with him, so getting up at the same time - or reasonably thereafter, since let's face it, sleep is the second most intoxicating thing I know - is required. And we're not just eating together, we're preparing the meal together. We're paying far more attention to food than we have in many years.

Some of you may wonder what I'm talking about when I utter that last sentence. After all, I can be quite the cooking fool. Yes indeed, but that's not the same as giving the food its due when it's actually eaten, which is probaby the most important part. Without offspring that need to be fed and therefore stapled or duct-taped to the kitchen chairs, we just haven't had any compelling reason to pay attention to meal time.

We've often felt like frauds in our homeownership adventures, as though Dad is letting us use the power mower, and Mom is allowing us to plant the garden this year. Seemingly unfazed by actually signing our own names to the mortgage papers, we still giggle when we dare to think that this property is actually our responsibility, and giggle even more when we wonder if we're up to the task of playing house.

So far, so good. Our meals together in the dining room (with just the two of us at this 8 1/2 foot table) are little time-outs in our day, and a chance to talk, really talk, the way we used to when we shared the same profession, though we're not talking about MVS internals anymore. We're even remembering to take our vitamins. I suppose the next thing to accomplish on this road to geezerdom is to get out of denims and t-shirts.

travelin' shoes

I like to get on the road from time to time. I was seriously restricted from prolonged trips when Mom was here, but from March to June of this year I was away from home for about six weeks total. Then the crunch of estate work started and I was hobbled once again. Now that's finished, and I can begin catching up with my friends.

The last time I saw Angela, when she still lived in NJ, was before we moved to Chicagoland. That was June 1990. I'm headed to Wilmington, NC to see her and Billy on Thursday, my first solo trip in my new wheels. I'm looking forward to loading up some good music and enjoying a little bit of unknown, open road. After D.C. and Richmond, that is.

I'm bringing her a gallon of Boodles gin and her custom Bouncin' Dog Greetings holiday cards. She's cooking me her usual gourmet meals. We're going to have some fun.

No-money fun

I will elaborate, though I'm sure I don't really have to - not that that ever stopped me from blathering - about "no-money fun." It is a phrase I first heard used by Mike Myers in his interview with James Lipton on Inside the Actors Studio on Bravo. He talked about the scene in Wayne's World where Wayne and Garth are lying on the car hood waiting for the jumbo-jet to land, and the fact that scene was drawn from the kind of fun he sought out as a young man in Ontario. No-money fun.

druid labs is all about no-money fun. Well, that's only partly true - we're all about fun regardless of the funding, and particularly when someone else is footing the bill. But when we bought our first home together we were concerned about being house-poor, since we had enjoyed, both of us, substantial incomes and no debt or obligations prior. We went to the local library (snag #1. We lived in an unincorporated area of town and had to pay for our library cards, about $70 a year per household, and yet far less than a single trip to Borders) and got books on birding, plants, weather, starcharts - you name it. hobbitt's family has always enjoyed board games and card games and a weird family game called "pass-around pictures." Everyone gathers at the table to begin a drawing, using whatever is at hand - crayons, watercolor pencils, charcoals. After three minutes your picture is passed to the left for the next person to elaborate upon. And so on until you get your picture back, at which point you must give it a title and present it to everyone else. It gets strange: imagine titles like "bad man hurts horse who gets revenge" and "Nepalese goat walking by helicopter" and such. We have all the pictures, by the way, but have yet to scan and post them.

Anyway, you get the picture. Good, clean, adult fun. Kid fun, too. We actually enjoy sitting out on summer nights until after dark, waiting to see who can spot the first, or the most, satellites. Before dark we're playing UpWords (we've played thousands of rounds of this game together and the results are usually thus: BlueHeronDruid gets out to an amazing early lead, only to have it chipped away by hobbitt, who, generally speaking, wins by a wide margin. We've gotten to know each other's style of play so well that we give kudos for finesse, which may not be the same as points. Deft and clever play is well-regarded no matter who wins. I don't recommend any beginners try to play this game with us); or dominoes Muggins; or Scrabble; or WordThief (better played with three or more). Or we'll stroll around the perimeter in the evening and "survey our domain," checking the wanted growth of the shining sumac, or the unwanted growth of the greenbriar; looking for clues that the barred owl house is inhabited; or just generally dreaming about landscaping that actually fits with the demeanor and style of the house.

Perhaps we're easily amused. Faithful readers may remember that the denizens of druid labs actually caught themselves watching paint dry on at least one occasion. And the awareness didn't stop the activity.

No-money fun is good, no-money fun is wise. Then again, so is the other kind.

Good news satellites

Yesterday was another in the on-going doctor days. Check this, scope that, hurry up and wait. My favorite so far has been: oh, this hasn't changed in ten years, but now it's time to really take a look at it, so you need a needle biopsy - see a surgeon. I saw the surgeon. He said, "I have no idea why you're here. There's no indication we need to do anything."

Well of course that's just what I wanted to hear him say. Ergo - an excellent, gifted doctor.

Later in the afternoon I saw the gastroenterologist, who forgot that I first came to him because I need to have a colonoscopy this year, no question about that. He started me off with an upper endoscopy because Mom died of gastric cancer (though her endoscopy at the time was completely normal). He was happy to tell me I didn't have cancer, which I wasn't even thinking about, but I also know from Mom's experience that he can't in utter confidence tell me that. It was as though I was seeing this doctor for the first time. He asked me if I'd ever had any cancer and I couldn't help but look at him as though there were lobsters crawling out of his ears.

I think he just likes to hear himself talk. He lectured me on the importance of "radically changing" my diet, though he knows nothing about my diet and never asked. After a while conversing with him was pointless. I had already turned him off and he'd never tuned into me in the first place. Oh well. I'll imagine he's a skilled technician when I go, in a few weeks, for my colonoscopy.

I was anxious to get out of his office because I wanted to see the Space Station fly-over which was supposed to be visible just before 5, when the sky was still quite light. It's a short drive home from the doctor's office, and I caught hobbitt in the driveway moving things to the remote garage, just in time to catch a wonderful view of an amazingly bright object in an otherwise bright, later-afternoon sky. Another score for no-money fun!

Potato and olive stew

This is for all of you olive lovers out there. Like Allan, among others. A little fussy with the broth preparation, but well worth it. Yeah, so zucchini isn't in season in winter. Get over it. This is perfect on a wintry day.


Potato, zucchini and olive stew with garlic, jalapenos, and tomatoes

4 lbs. fresh tomatoes or 1 28-oz can whole tomatoes, drained
3 Tbs. olive oil
10 cloves garlic, peeled and left whole
½ medium white onion
1 ½ cups vegetable stock or broth
1 cup chopped fresh parsley leaves
1/8 tsp. salt
1 ¼ lbs. tiny red potatoes
1 lb. zucchini (about 3 medium)
1 cup whole pimiento-stuffed green olives, drained
2 tsp. chopped pickled jalapenos

Roast the whole tomatoes under a preheated broiler, turning frequently, until their skins are well charred. Remove from the heat and set aside to cook for a few minutes. When the tomatoes are cool enough to handle, cut out the stem ends, peel away and discard most of the blackened skin, and place the tomatoes in a blender. If using canned tomatoes, place them in the blender. Duh.

Meanwhile, heat the oil over medium heat in a heavy-bottomed stockpot or deep Dutch oven. Add the garlic cloves and cook, stirring constantly, until they begin to turn golden brown. This will take only a minute or two. Watch carefully – if the garlic gets too dark, it will taste bitter. Turn off the heat. Remove the garlic cloves from the oil with a slotted spoon and add them to the tomatoes in the blender, along with the onion, stock, parsley and salt. Puree until smooth.

Strain the puree through a fine-mesh strainer into the pan in which the garlic was cooked; press and stir with a wooden spoon to remove as much of the liquid as possible. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat, reduce heat to very low, and simmer, stirring frequently, for 20 minutes. The sauce will reduce and thicken considerably.

Meanwhile, scrub the potatoes but do not peel them. Cook the whole potatoes in plenty of rapidly boiling water until they are barely fork-tender, about 10-15 minutes, depending on their size. Drain and set aside. Discard the stems and root ends of the zucchini and slice crosswise into ½ inch rounds.

When the sauce has thickened, cut the potatoes in half and stir them into the sauce, along with the zucchini, olives, and jalapenos. Simmer over low heat, stirring frequently, 20 minutes. Serve very hot.

6 main-course servings, easily doubled. Serve with rice or warm corn tortillas. Flavor improves over the course of a couple of days, if refrigerated and reheated gently.

Peas and orzo with olives, tarragon, and pecans

Poor you. You've been invited to a pot-luck but don't know what kind of snap-the-head-back deliciousness you can bring that won't tie up the host's oven, or that will travel well, or that won't require two days slaving in the kitchen with every pot and pan and device known to marketing. So you've stayed home, feeling sorry for yourself, and putting a major dent in that 1.75 liter bottle of Fleishmanns. This, of course, puts an undue strain on your liver, necessitating a lengthy hospital stay, a complete change of blood, and vast quantities of makeup to cover that sallow complexion.

Don't despair. Try this.

Peas and orzo with olives, tarragon, and pecans

2 Tbs. fresh squeezed lemon juice
2 Tbs. minced, dry oil-cured black olives
1 Tbs. minced fresh tarragon leaves
1 clove garlic, minced
several grinds black pepper
3 Tbs. chopped raw unsalted pecans
1 lb. frozen petite peas
2 tsp. olive oil
6 fresh lemon wedges

Bring six cups of water to boil in a large saucepan with the salt. Meanwhile, in a small bowl, combine the lemon juice, olives, tarragon, garlic, and pepper and set aside at room temperature. Place the pecans in a single layer in a dry, heavy-bottomed skillet over medium-high heat and cook, stirring frequently, for several minutes, until nuts are browning and emit a wonderful roasted aroma. Remove them from the pan and set aside.

Cook the orzo in salted boiling water for about 10 minutes, until it is al dente, then add the frozen peas. As soon as the water comes back to a boil, transfer the orzo and peas to a colander and drain very well. In a warmed serving bowl, toss the orzo and peas with the olive oil until well combined, then with the olive mixture and the pecans. Garnish with lemon wedges and serve hot or at room temperature.

6 side-dish servings, easily doubled. And let's face it, nobody likes peas. But I can guarantee you they'll enjoy this dish.

Squash and corn chowder

This was one of my all-time favorite comfort fall soups for many years. I had the misfortune of making a double batch of it a few days before I started chemotherapy in December 1994. Though I never experienced any deleterious side-effects, the drugs did change the way foods tasted and I wasn't able to even think about this soup for six or seven years afterwards. When I make it now I do a little happy dance around the kitchen, remembering how savory, how sweet, and how soothing this is. With a small salad, you have a filling meal here. Enjoy!

Squash and corn chowder

1 medium butternut squash (about 1 ½ lbs.)
1 heaping cup chopped onion
1 celery stalk, finely diced
1 large sweet potato, peeled and diced
light vegetable stock or water
2 Tbs. butter
2 bay leaves
2 tsp. salt-free herb-and-spice seasoning mix
½ tsp. dried thyme
1 ½ to 3 cups cooked corn kernels
1 cup low-fat milk or soymilk
salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

With a sharp, knife, cut the squash across the center of the rounded part. Remove the seeds and fibers. Slice the squash in ½ inch rings, then peel each ring and chop into small dice. Place the squash dice in a large soup pot along with the chopped onion, celery, and sweet potato and add enough water or stock to cover all but about an inch of the vegetables, leaving them above water level. Bring to a boil, then add the margarine, bay leaves, and seasonings. Cover and simmer over low heat, stirring once or twice, until the squash and potatoes are tender, about 20 to 30 minutes.

With a slotted spoon, scoop out 2 heaping cups of the solid ingredients, mash them well, and stir back into the soup. Add the cooked corn kernels and enough milk or soymilk to achieve a slightly thick consistency. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Simmer over low heat for another 10 to 15 minutes. This soup may be served at once, but if time allows, let the soup stand for an hour or so before serving, then heat through as needed.

A wee rant

I have been told that I am lucky to have the relationship that I do with my hobbitt. I have also been told repeatedly and by many different sources (books, friends, magazine articles) that good relationships are hard work.

Bullshit and bullshit. And this isn't about you, reader. It's about me, about hobbitt and me. Your mileage may vary.

It wasn't luck that brought him into my life and it wasn't luck that makes our marriage the peaceful oasis that is has always been. I recognized him right away when I met him, not as a potential mate but as an extraordinary man. Years later when we found each other, after some difficult life changes for both of us, he recognized me, too. Having learned from those difficult life changes, we treated each other with great kindness from the get-go. I had a lot to learn about relationship, though, and his confident, generous, easy and honest demeanor made me want to be like that, too. I had to re-learn so many behavior patterns. It wasn't hard. To paraphrase from "As Good As It Gets", he made me want to be a better woman, and slowly, with effort and attention, I accomplished that. I had to learn about honesty - not just being honest with someone else, but about being honest with myself and owning up to my feelings, both the good and the bad, and admitting my wants, needs, and expectations. And voicing them. And not being shy about it.

But it hasn't been hard work. It's been attention and caregiving; living, truly living both sides of "better or worse"; an ebb and flow of responsibility and leeway; witnessing each other's trials and always showing up. There is no judgment, a huge healthy dose of acceptance, close scrutiny of ourselves, and a continual striving for impeccability for ourselves and with each other. We both encourage the other to be whatever it is we're supposed to, or want to be, without expectations or a personal stake. He's going to love me if I fail. I'm going to love him no matter what. That's what I signed up for. That's not work. That's a personal credo, a way of life. That's the kind of person I want to be.

And maybe that's the key. Be the person you want to be honestly and impeccably and let the chips fall where they may. If you try this, you may, like me, lose some friendships that need to be let go, because for some reason they are toxic in your life. The ones that come to fill the void will be true and wonderful because you have become true and wonderful.

I'm still a jerk a lot of the time. I get depressed and stagger under great inertia. My house is dusty. I'm fat. I'm not living up to my full potential in a myriad of ways. But I got one thing right. I've learned to recognize the gifts that the divine hand puts in my path, and I don't hesitate to pick them up or believe deep in my heart that I deserve them. Like this home, my friends, the redtails that soared through the woods out back this afternoon as I was tending the feeders, and the precious presence of my hobbitt.

I've learned that generosity of spirit doesn't take anything out of my own pocket. Seems like an obvious thing but I didn't know that. I was raised with resentment, withdrawal of affection and fear-based behaviors which led to a stinginess that did no one any good.

The first recipient of that generosity (after myself, that is) is my life's partner. And that's real easy.

Healing

My friend's husband was exposed to neurotoxins and is battling pain with various cleansing techniques. One of them is exposure to heat via saunas or soaks. I'm pleased to be able to offer him soaks whenever he wants. I don't know him all that well, and until tonight he hasn't come here for a hot tub without his wife and son. Sometimes that can be cumbersome: his son is teething and rather cranky at the moment. I have offered that it doesn't need to be a social visit. I don't want him to feel obligated to visit with me, just to get himself some therapy.

So tonight he took me up on that offer. To help him feel less awkward, I asked him if he wanted company out there, and he agreed. While he soaked I put on my warmest coat and stood near the tub for a while. The deck was icy from water I'd dumped off the (broken) cover earlier in the day. I had to take a seat, and we spoke of snorkling, scuba diving, and meteor showers. I believe I saw Orion rising in the east. The stars were colorful, vivid, and lively.

It occurred to me that rejuvenation takes place on a lot of levels. It's wonderful to be out there alone in the deep dark, with nothing but the music of the distant suns to keep one company. We took our leave, the dog and I, and came inside to putter while my friend's husband enjoyed the steam, the symphony of stars, and just maybe, a little healing.

Sialia sialis

Today is the wonder chimp's birthday, and I'm embarrassed to say I don't know how old she is. Not that she'd want that information spread all over the internet, of course, but you'd think that after spending 2 weeks in Oz and every Sunday since 1995 with a person, I'd have a clue.

Marjorie got that nickname after I snapped a photo of her when she came down the stairs one New Year's Day at our house. I'd post the photo, but that wouldn't be cricket, would it? I sent her a nice gourmet basket to her condo on the Gold Coast in Chicago, which should be there when she gets home from work this evening.

While I was performing the floral transaction, I spied eastern bluebirds in the trees and on the bird bath right outside my office window. This is the third time I've spotted them here at druid labs east. Never once saw them at the midwestern abode, though I did sometimes see them in Lyman Woods, a forest preserve just at the end of our street. They never cease to surprise and delight me. hobbitt and I lost an entire afternoon in the spring of 2003, watching them in this same place. It was a rainy April afternoon, and we had stopped home in the middle of running errands, but the rest of the errands never got run. We are simple people.

In January of this year we had a long, bad freeze here, which is unusual. hobbitt and I decided to take a rare morning hot tub, complete with a carafe of fresh coffee. The water steamed when we opened the cover, and my hair froze quickly in the few places the water had splashed on it. Within a few minutes our yard was filled with birds, probably looking for a source of open water and attracted by the steam. Most notable were the six or seven eastern bluebirds that perched on the fence not 15 feet away from where we soaked. They must have been pretty desperate, as they were not the least bit shy.

So I know they're here, and I know they're here year-round. Maybe this winter we'll get it together to run the birdbath heaters and see who shows up. It's not exactly no-money fun, since it takes electricity to keep the heaters running, but it's pretty darned close.

I don't get out much

My neighbors, knowing that I've been alone all week, invited me to dinner tonight with the provision that I bring along some of the Stilton and celery soup. So last night I chopped a small woodlot of celery (some for Aunt Grace, some for Jill, some for the MacMillans, and some for us) to start the soup, which I finished this afternoon. While I was in the kitchen I decided to whip up some of those walnut crisps. You know, kind of like a hostess gift. And the maple oatmeal bread was finished for this morning's breakfast, so it was time to bake another loaf or two of something... like Roquefort bread! But of course I didn't have Roquefort, not that anybody needed to know that. Heck, I didn't have Stilton for the soup! Just a whole bunch of gorgonzola and some domestic blue. About three pounds of it. It was a bit excessive, I know. Sometimes I just can't help myself.

So I ended up spending the whole day in the kitchen. When I'm honest with myself, I acknowledge that it's where I always feel centered, creative, calm and a lot of other C words, like content. And comfortable and charmed. I can't, won't cook when I'm upset or angry. Working in the kitchen, which is to say cooking, is therapy for me.

For her part, my neighbor cooked her family's usual Friday night meal - salmon croquettes, pierogies and cabbage. I brought the soup, the bread fresh out of the oven, and the cookies. I brought so much stuff I had to drive across the street. Well, it was pouring down rain. And it was night. You just never know when one of those killer white tails might beat you to death with her hooves for a piece of Roquefort bread. Hey, it could happen! And I doubt she'd even realize it was gorgonzola.

Excellent meal, nice company. Too bad they're moving to North Carolina next summer, where they're building a home. They showed me the floor plans and photos of the community. We talked about the first house on our street, which is for sale. We talked about education, property taxes, their son who is in Iraq right now but is due for separation in July; we talked about baking, what I want to be when I grow up, the strange local water table, the proper way to calculate gains and losses on reinvested dividends, felonious ex in-laws, life in Turkey, winters in the Maritimes, and a Chevy Chase movie whose name they could not remember and I did not know. (Funny Farm.) My mouth was running like a sick chicken's ass, as my father would say. I don't think I've said so many words in the past two weeks, but I've certainly said very little since Saturday, because the dog isn't so good at conversation.

I guess I was a little overdue for adult human company.

Walnut crisps

These cookies are wicked easy to make, but if you don't have absolutely fresh walnuts, forget it.

4 oz. (1 stick) unsalted butter, cold, cut into 8 pieces
1/2 cup of sugar
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup (3 1/2 oz.) walnut halves and pieces
pinch of salt

In the bowl of an electric mixer cream butter and sugar on medium speed until smooth, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the remaining ingredients and mix until well-blended, about 2 minutes.

Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured board. Roll out the dough into 2 or 3 even, 1-inch-thick logs. Wrap the logs separately in plastic wrap and refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Place oven rack in middle position and line baking sheets with parchment paper. Slice the logs into 1/4 inch disks and place 1/2 inch apart on prepared baking sheets.

One sheet at a time, bake the cookies until the edges are just lightly golden, 12 to 15 minutes. Cool the cookies on the baking sheets set on wire racks.

Makes about 9 dozen little cookies. Which can be eaten in one sitting by two people, so you should probably freeze a log or two just to be safe from your own vices. This recipe easily doubles, but you didn't need to know that either, did you? These cookies are the reason I want to buy a commercial mixer. Sad, really.

The nature of love according to me

I had the good fortune to be able to chat with a dear friend from Nawth Joisey tonight. Excellent fellow, healing from a broken heart. It made me think about my own uneven past in regards to the god Amor, and what I might have learned from the journey.

1. Love isn't supposed to hurt.
1a. Corollary to rule 1. A true love doesn't use hurt against her or his lover.
2. If you have doubts, run.
3. If you don't have doubts, don't manufacture them.
4. Real love demands fearlessness and ownership.
5. I wouldn't have learned any of this without my hobbitt.

This is all facilitated by the simple grade school rule of "Say what you mean, mean what you say, don't say it mean."

It's hard, sometimes, to see anger in my hobbitt, and to know I've done something to provoke it. But it would be a lot harder to ignore it, to walk away from his confusion, than it is to say, simply, "What is this about? How can we fix this?"

Rule # 6. Making up is AWESOME!

Carrot Ginger Soup

First served to me by my dear friend Sharon, founder of the famous Montreal bakery Capucine et Tournesol, and served with a loaf of bread from one of her original organic recipes. I will never forget that lovely snowy spring afternoon.

This soup is velvety smooth, thanks to the leeks and butter. There is no substitute for either.

Serves 4 to six, but not in my house. I always at least double this recipe.

1/4 lb. (1 stick) of butter
1 bunch of leeks, white part only, chopped
1.5 lbs. carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced or pressed
1" piece of ginger, grated
lemon juice, salt, white pepper
toasted chopped almonds, optional

Melt butter in soup pot and add leek. Sauté until soft and translucent, then add garlic. Cook one minute, then stir in carrots and add water to barely cover vegetables. Bring to a boil and simmer 20 minutes or until carrots are very soft. Puree in blender or food processor and return to heat. (Alternately, use an immersion blender to puree vegetables.) Just before serving, add grated ginger and fresh lemon juice, salt and white pepper to taste. Offer optional almonds and yogurt or sour cream on the side.

I have found a product in a very few high-end groceries that I use instead of the ginger root - it is liquid ginger. Very strong and very fresh tasting, it eliminates the strings and sometimes uneven flavors from grating fresh ginger. If you can find ginger paste, this will work too.

Who knew?

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