Suzy Says

The sky was grey and depressing today. There are a lot more grey days up here, and a lot more rain, and this tends to dampen my spirits along with the ground. Even yesterday’s early violet turned to overcast skies. I think we should invent some kind of festival requiring lights and sparkliness and maybe even fireworks to get us through the gloomy hibernal months after the holidays are over and you can no longer eat candy and drink with impunity any time of the day or night.

My brother dropped by yesterday to borrow a couple of movies, and pointed out that I could have left the Christmas lights up if I wanted to. It hadn’t even occurred to me to do that, since yesterday was Twelfth Night and that’s when we traditionally took down our decorations when I was a child. I still think it’s bad luck to take them down on any other day, and given the family curse, I’m not willing to tempt bad luck. Especially since I’m still injury-free so far this year. I even managed not to burn myself on the oven when I put the scalloped potatoes in for dinner tonight.

I make the potatoes the way my mother’s mother did. I couldn’t tell you what the recipe is or the amounts of the ingredients. Megan was fascinated to watch me put together the layers, always in a certain order, and asked me why. The answer was that it was the way Nana always did it. It’s the same reason that I crimp the edges of pies against my fingers and then cut a design in the crust showing what’s in it, such as an apple. I wish I’d asked Nana why she did it when I did still had the chance, but I’m still part of the tradition that was handed down to her. I love that feeling.

Lavender morning

Sometimes it’s worth having the Audrometer wake me up so early. I took this picture before the sun had finished getting out of bed, yawning, and getting dressed up for the day. Once she was ready, though, she seemed shy and hid behind the sheers, occasionally peeking out at Hooterville and then retreating. Who can blame her?

I wish there was a morning equivalent for “twilight”. This violet time is not dawn, in my opinion. Dawn to me is when the sun comes up, not the magical lavender time right before.

I’ve taken down my Christmas decorations both here and at home. Putting them away is as melancholy as putting them up is festive, so it’s fitting that the violet dawn gave way to a misty, grey day. As I poured the water out of the vase the little tree was in (not one shed needle, by the way), a covey of quail crossed my path, walking like wind-up toys.

Sunny June

Like girl, like cat:

I was doing the dishes when I heard a thud. I turned around and saw that June had fallen off the sleeping loft and landed on the floor with a thud.

Unlike Me, she didn’t break the floor or her ribs. She sat up, looking a little surprised, and had an emergency bath – the kind that’s cat for “I’m really embarrassed and pretending it never happened.” I picked her up and cuddled her, and she purred while patting my face with her little white paw, so she seemed to be fine.

Audrey peered over the edge of the loft and pattered quickly down the stairs, then sniffed June anxiously. After joining in the emergency bath, they both went to the sliding doors and I let them out to play.

Later, when Schatzi and I came back from our walk on the logging road behind the house, June was waiting at the entrance to the road. When she saw the dog, she puffed up hugely. Schatzi looked away, and we sneaked past June, with me next to June so she couldn’t jump on Schatzi, who knows all about cats and their claws, thank you very much.

When I sat down to work again, Henry jumped up on my lap instantly. I used to think the shortest possible length of time was between a traffic light turning green and someone honking their horn, but now I think it’s between me sitting down and Henry jumping onto my lap, purring.

As you can see, I’ve had a hard time getting used to “Henrietta”. I’ve called her “Henry” for two years now, and it’s hard to break the habit. I’ve decided that “Etta” is her middle name, and no-one calls me by my middle name. At least, not anymore (why is it that saying your whole name is the international symbol for “You are in a boatload of trouble?”). So her whole name is now Henry Etta James, though she’ll answer to Henry or Henry Etta or any variable.

Or not.

After all, she is a cat.

Jonathan gave Megan a pizza stone for Christmas. In spite of our usual “no gift” rule, if you see something someone would want/love, it’s OK to get it. No reciprocation needed. It’s all in keeping with our guilt-free Christmas.

I knew the big box was from Williams-Sonoma. I recognized the gift wrapping from the days when I had professionals wrap my gifts, partly because of my innate slothfulness and partly because of my total lack of wrapping skills. But we were surprised and delighted to see what was in the box.

Now, I used to have a pizza stone, but since I couldn’t figure out how to get the sticky, topping-laden pizza onto the hot pizza stone in the oven without damage to pizza or Self*, I gave it away before I moved.

Megan thought that she could put cornmeal on the back of a cookie sheet and the pizza would slide off onto the hot stone, but she also experienced stickiness and general recalcitrance on the part of the pizza, and ended up baking it on the cookie sheet. It was still good, but the stone remains untested, and we were hoping the stone would give us the crispy pizzeria-type crust of our delivery-deprived dreams.

Of course, Rob immediately started thinking of ways he could make a pizza peel from found objects, so I’m sure we’ll experience the pizza stone in the near future.

While Megan was struggling with the pizza I was struggling with Key lime pie.

The pie problem was caused by Megan and me modifying a new recipe into a sort of Thai chicken soup. It called for lime juice, but a whole bag of Key limes was less than two dollars, so we got that instead. The obvious way to use up the leftover limes was pie, and Megan already had the recipe. I picked up graham crackers and condensed milk at the local store and got to work.

When I looked more closely at the recipe, I saw that it called for a pre-made crust. I figured it was crushed crackers and butter and maybe sugar, but in what proportions? I consulted Epicurious.com and found an easy-looking recipe. I started to crush the crackers by hand, but it soon became apparent that this was not one of the best ideas I ever had.

I went to the studio/pantry to look for my food processor. While I was at it, I located the components of the electric juicer. I like to make my expeditions to my house’s Arctic as productive as possible.

The food processor was a big improvement. Once I had the crust in the oven, I turned my attention to the filling. You wouldn’t believe how many teeny limes it takes to make two teaspoons of zest.

Then it was time to juice the limes. They turned out to be inconveniently small for the pointed part of the juicer and kept sliding off. This in turn made the juicer slide around the counterette (it’s too small to be called a counter), so I had to try and hold it down with one hand while attempting to juice the limette with the other.

You wouldn’t believe how many limettes it takes to make 1/3 cup of juice.

By this time, the crust was done and I put it into the refrigerator without burning myself on the oven. Score! The recipe says to chill the crust thoroughly before putting in the filling, but then you put it back in the oven, so why does it need to be chilled?

Once I had the juice and zest ready, I opened the can of condensed milk. I was immediately horrified. Dairy products other than cheese and ice cream disgust me, so you can imagine the dismay with which I regarded the sticky, gelatinous goo that oozed forth from the can of horror.

I mixed the frightful mess together with egg yolks, an egg, the zest and the juice, then poured it into the sort of chilled crust and put it in the oven for 20 minutes.

Obviously, you don’t want it to brown, but how can you tell if it’s done? I hoped for the best when I took it out of the oven. It was kind of jiggly, but I figured the eggs would finish cooking at room temperature. It seemed to be fine once it had cooled, and there were no crust issues caused by lack of chilling, so I still don’t know why you’re supposed to do that.

I’ve eaten a lot of Key lime pies over the years, but now that I know what’s in it, I never want to eat it again. I did take a taste though, and concluded that it needed more labor-intensive juice and zest. But everyone else loved it, and the whole thing’s been eaten by now.

Ignorance is bliss, my friends!

*I’m pleased to report that I’ve been injury free for four days and counting this new year!

Rita on the banks of the Ohio Canal

Yesterday, I was deeply saddened to learn that the Lovely Rita is gone.

She was at least fifteen years old, a ripe old age for canines, but it still made my heart ache.

All day, as I ran errands with my sister (the vet for Schatzi’s thyroid pills; the Feed & Pet; Rite Aid; the bank; visiting Meg’s partner in pit bulls, Monica, at her store; the Safeway; Harvest Market), my mind was running on parallel tracks: one for my tasks, and the other for Rita. I was flooded with memories.

Faithful readers will remember that Rita lived with me for about three years, when her Actual Owner’s life was kind of tumultuous. She was an amazing companion, and traveled with me often. I know everyone thinks their dog is beautiful, but the Lovely Rita really was. People actually came out of their houses and leaned out of their cars to tell me how beautiful she was. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her and loved her, even people I didn’t know. She was the Queen of the Dog Park.

What is that thing?

When I moved to Oakland, I made the difficult and painful decision to return her to her owner. It just about broke my heart, but I know I did the right thing for her. She would have been miserable there, and almost certainly would not have lived as long (or happily) as she did.

Last night, my sister and I toasted the Lovely Rita, and I tried hard not to cry. I remarked that it makes me wonder why we get pets at all, since we know they’re going to die before us, and it’s going to be horrible. Yet we keep doing it to ourselves. Megan said that it was because they make our lives better and happier.

Rita relaxing

In honor of Rita (and in keeping with my new year’s resolution to categorize), I’ll go through my old posts and put all the Rita-related ones into the “Dogs” category. Though perhaps she should have a category of her own, since she was always in a class by herself.

So it took me this long to notice that the peacock ornaments match my painting. The painting is by Keith Wicks, and it’s called “Russian Hill”. It’s one of the few remaining vestiges of my formerly gracious life, like my diamond watch and my Manolo Blahniks.

Amazingly, the cats have left the peacocks alone so far. I guess chasing real birds makes glass ones a lot less interesting.

I left the cats in charge and went to my sister’s last night, armed with a bottle of sorta-Champagne (it was from Sonoma). My brother and his friend K turned up with split pea soup and cornbread for dinner, along with another bottle of Sonoma’s finest. We listened to music, laughed, and talked. My siblings are confident that this year will be a good one, maybe because they have the well is going now and that’s one step closer to my sister moving there, too. So we talked about the past and the future, memories and hopes.

We didn’t manage to stay up until midnight, but the moonlight was bright enough that I didn’t need the flashlight on my way home. I have learned to look up at the sky between the trees instead of at the ground. In the still of the night, I could hear the ocean.

Happy new year, one and all. Here’s hoping my sibs are right, and it’s a good one.