Suzy Says

It was 44 festive degrees in my house this morning. The boys and I huddled by the heater while the intrepid Audrey went out to explore in the chilly sunshine. I hear that it’s colder here lately than in parts of Alaska, which just seems wrong. Hooterville: putting the “North” in “Northern California”!

With the big chill, we went through most of the wood that my brother brought over for the outdoor fireplace. I had thoughtfully equipped the outdoor living room with throw blankets, but they remained unused (though commented upon), unlike the pillows, candles and an ashtray or two.

Erica and Jessica arrived first, replete with boxes of delicacies: wild mushroom tartlet appetizers; caramelized Brussels sprouts; a truffle-rich pie made from a squash grown on our family property, and Tarte Antoinette, made with a layer of home grown quince transformed into membrillo and then layered with vanilla chiffon. Even by Erica’s extremely high standards, it may have been the most delicious thing she has ever made:

Jessica was sporting the world’s most fabulous (and possibly Suzy-est) hat and fingerless gloves ever:

Needless to say, the ensemble, like Jessica herself, is an Erica original. Jessica returned the string of jade beads she had borrowed from the jewelry library last year, selecting a new item for this year. I noticed that all the items she has borrowed so far were given to me by my father.

Lichen still hasn’t realized that Thanksgiving (which is two days after his own birthday) isn’t a gift-giving occasion, so he brought a golden gift bag with artisan root beer for Jessica (“I’m obsessed with root beer!” she exclaimed happily). The root beer had a string of garnets fastened around its neck just for added Lichen-ness.

Jarrett and Kalli arrived with Kalli’s (very little) sister, who is five, and their dog, Archimedes, who was the World’s Cutest Puppy just three years ago, when he posed adorably on my couch. The cats did not find Archi adorable at all. Roscoe vanished for the remainder of the evening, while Clyde and Audrey repaired to the relative safety of the sleeping loft, where they could keep an eye on the intruder. The stairs did not, however, stop the kindergartener, who quickly and accurately assessed the situation: “That stripy cat is mean! But the black one is nice.”

Although she also opined that the dressing I made with the torturous chestnuts and Café Beaujolais Austrian sunflower seed bread “tasted like Subway”, dinner was great. In addition to Subway stuffing and Erica’s caramelized Brussels sprouts, there were mashed potatoes, carrots roasted with cumin and turmeric, fresh-pressed cider from the family orchard, freshly picked huckleberry tarts made by my brother, and cranberry bourbon relish. Jonathan sliced up the turkey after making a wonderful gravy:

We used every single piece of my grandmother’s ivory handled silver and every single plate in the house. Once again, some how, some way, I pulled off dinner for 15 people in my tiny house, and everyone, from the kindergartener to Me (why am I always the oldest?) had a great time. It fills my heart with joy to have my house overflowing with family and friends.

After the guests left, Megan and I put on some music and sat by the dying fire with that bottle of Cointreau, talking about the evening and the Thanksgivings past as the moon shone down on us and the stars sparkled. Life is good.

A YEAR AGO: Post Thanksgiving post.

So…yeah. T Day Eve did not go exactly as planned.

I was delusional enough to think that I could get to work early and leave around noon. It soon became apparent that this would not happen, and I was madly typing up hand-written penciled pages at 3:00 PM. As I did so, a tumbleweed or two drifted past my office, since most of the staff had the sense to take the day off.

As I handed my boss the last page, I asked her when it was due. She blithely replied “A month ago,” begging the question of why we absolutely had to get it done the late afternoon before Thanksgiving, when the person we were sending it to was almost certainly not at work. She then added brightly, “At least you’re leaving early!”

On the drive home, I mentally revised the list of things I could now achieve with the limited time I had left. I applied lights to the tree in the outdoor living room to make it more festive, and then turned my attention to the chestnuts. I soon discovered that keeping them in the pantry was unwise, since more than half a dozen of them were moldy. I cut Xs on the remaining ones so deeply that I practically cut them in half (though it did make it easier to peel them when the time came). I put them in to roast, made an adult beverage, and started on the cranberries.

To make the cranberries, you mince up shallots and zest an orange, then put them in a saucepan with an entire cup of Jack Daniel’s in it, then heat it until it gets syrupy. I was moving the saucepan around on the gas burner when somehow the contents caught on fire and I flambéed it a little. I blew it out, hoping it wasn’t the wrong thing to do, but I am pleased to report that both cranberries and Self are fine.

That was all I could do that evening, so this morning I woke up and roasted carrots, made a delightful spice butter to accompany them, and made two pans of stuffing before stuffing the turkey in the oven. I had a text from a friend telling me that he’s bringing a friend who is, not to put too fine a point on it, a convicted felon. Why not? Bring me your ex boyfriends, your kindergartners, your ex cons. I feel like the Statue of Liberty over here. At least the outdoor living room is ready:

And things are under control inside:

I put my grandmother’s ivory-handled silver in her Wedgwood biscuit jar (circa 1820). The salad dish will hold the roasted carrots and the Majolica jug will have gravy in it. I hope I have enough glasses and plates! Time will tell.

As for me, my hair is curled and I’m wearing lots of diamonds. If not now, when? My mother used to say if your diamonds never see the light of day, they might as well have stayed in the ground. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. And I’m thankful for everything from the turkey in the oven to my sleeping sister who saved a life last night to grumpy Audrey to all of you. Thank you for sharing my adventures. I am thankful for all of you.

A YEAR AGO: You will never guess!

Once again, Thanksgiving seemed to sneak up on me, even though I knew it was coming. I found myself lying awake at night “fretting” about it, as my ex used to say*. I later realized that this was partly due to having to plan and execute parties and huge catered meetings at work this month and next, in addition to having the family gathering at my house, and partly due to the fact that for the last several years, when I hostessed with the leastest, I wasn’t working in the Big Town for 5 or 6 days and/or 50 hours a week. So making Thanksgiving is more challenging than usual this time.

As usual, I’m not sure how many people will show up or where I will put them, but somehow we always figure that out. I have commissioned Rob to repo chairs from the family property, where they migrate during the summer party season, and bring them to my house for the winter season. He is also in charge of finding wood to put in the outdoor fireplace for the smoking/outdoor partiers. Despite the drought, I am hoping it doesn’t rain until after Thanksgiving. I need all the seating I can get.

Megan ordered the organic turkey from the Gro, excavated the roasting pan (which was our mother’s, and like everything Mom, it is the Cadillac of roasting pans) and lent me one of her big glass baking dishes for what my Southern friends call dressing. I have apparently learned nothing from previous years, because I assigned myself chestnuts to roast and peel for said dressing, although I know perfectly well that the torture the process inflicts is totally against the Geneva Conventions. As usual, the lure of deliciousness temporarily overcame my inherent laziness.

I also tried to fit in shopping here and there. I stopped in at Safeway before work one morning, and bought a six pack of wine, a bottle of Cointreau (for Megan and me after the guests leave), and cookies for 45 people for a work meeting. Yes, it was 7 am and I was buying nothing but booze and sugar. Of course, the clerk was the best friend of the person who does payroll at work, and ahead of me in line was the head of our IT department, buying virtuous yogurt and a banana. I can explain…

Megan and I met Erica in the beautiful Valley and handed over a Hubbard squash from the garden for her to Erica-ize into a pie (Jonathan is making a pie from apples grown on the property). I’m hoping she and Jessica can come early to hang out with me before everyone else gets there.

As for me, I’m hoping/planning/dreaming of getting out of work early on Wednesday to superficially clean the house (only things that show!), make my famous cranberry-bourbon relish (how surprised are you that I still have Jack Daniel’s left over from last year?) and roast those damn chestnuts with a minimum of swearing. Stay tuned…

*Him: Are you lying there fretting about something?

Me (Reluctantly): Yeeess…

Him (Reasonably): Well, what can you do about it now?

Me (Sadly): Nothing…

Him (Patiently): Then go to sleep.

He would go to sleep and I’d lie there, fretting.

I left work early to go to the physiotherapist, whose office is conveniently located a couple of blocks away. They had a cancellation, so I didn’t have to wait until December as originally planned. After filling out the requisite paperwork in the very Zen looking office, I went into the consultation room.

I explained what happened to the therapist, and she explained what was wrong with my inner ear and its alarming sounding problem of benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. For the daughter of scientist (and someone who had a fairly successful career in finance for a couple of decades), my science and math brain is sadly lacking, so I will just say that the treatment is called an Epley Maneuver, and you can read about it here.

I will also say that the treatment was pretty unpleasant. I sat on a padded bench/exam table thing and the therapist took a firm grip on me before swooping me backwards and to one side with my head off the table. I had to keep my eyes open so she could see the fluttering in my pupils called nystagmus*. She held me there for about a minute as the vertigo jangled and spun its way out, and it was a very long minute. We then repeated this from the middle of the table and then to the other side, before sitting up and leaning over the floor.

You can imagine my enthusiasm for repeating this process a second time, but it was much better the second time, and I was hardly dizzy at all. For the first time in weeks, I was able to put my head on the pillows when I went to bed, and turn over to pet Clyde without suffering attacks of vertigo, though I still had to sit on the side of the bed for a minute before getting up in the morning the day after, but all in all, it was an improvement.

There may have been relief from vertigo, but there was no relief from the bill. Unlike Canada, where everyone sensibly pays a flat tax which rich people can’t get out of to fund healthcare, so things like this are covered, here I had to pay for the whole thing, even though I have insurance. I thought it would be like the dentist, where a certain percentage is covered, but instead, I have to spend $1,500 before the insurance starts paying for anything. So there went the money I had set aside for getting my hair reprettied for the holidays. So I may not be (completely) blonde, but I’m not (completely) dizzy, either.

*My sister told me that drunk people’s pupils also do this. Just another interesting piece of information from years of working on an ambulance!

A YEAR AGO: Back home from the city, with Thanksgiving looming.

I made a solo excursion to the magical South Coast. Megan was teaching a CPR class, so it was just Wednesday and me driving through the spectacular scenery. The ocean was at its most beautiful, since it was a clear day with a storm coming, which always makes the surf more active and showy:

Pink pampas grass flaunted their plumes by the side of the road, where a flock of wild turkeys meandered and gossiped. A skein of black birds pierced the cloudless sky, unreeling, then flying into a circle, then flying away, all in formation. Dark, wind-tossed cypress trees guarded the neighboring Catholic and Druid cemeteries with their witchy equanimity, and cows and sheep wandered in their meadows as I drove by.

My first stop was the Thai food restaurant, where I was the first customer of the day, ordering fresh spring rolls, Massaman curry, and velvet-fried triple orange chicken with a side order of cucumber salad to go. Dinner’s ready! I stowed it all in the cooler in Wednesday’s trunk and headed back to Point Arena to see Benedict Cumberbatch’s “Hamlet”, streamed live from the National Theater in London.

My original plan was to stop in at Franny’s for a delightful confection and possibly some cute things for Christmas stockings, but when I saw the line at the Art Deco theater across the street, I revised my plan. I had never seen such a line or had to park so far away. For the first time since I left San Francisco, I had to curb my wheels (“Up, up and away” was how I remembered it for my driving test – if you’re parked uphill, point your wheels away from the curb).

As usual in any line, from airports to movies, it took the people in front of me ages to complete their transactions (Why? Why?) and seconds for me. The main seating area looked pretty full, so I ventured upstairs, where I found a seat in the front row of the balcony, which is now my favorite place to sit since tall people can’t block the excellent view. It ended up being standing room only, with people perched on folding chairs as well.

Cumberbatch was a wonderfully pale and intense Hamlet, athletic, funny, charming, tragic, compelling with his beautiful face and expressive hands:

The production looked to be set between the wars in an English country house, though they of course referred to Denmark and Elsinore. Horatio had clearly visible neck and arm tattoos, though the play within a play was in Elizabethan costume. I had forgotten how many common expressions are from that play, such as “primrose path” and “the lady doth protest too much”, and I was surprised by how many of the speeches I knew by heart, since Dad used to recite Shakespeare while cooking. I wish he could have been there.

When I left the theater, it was sort of a shock to return to the bright sunlight and the little city of Point Arena, since I was so deeply engrossed in the play. As I drove homeward in the fading golden and pink light of late afternoon, I thought of all the plays Dad and I had seen together in London and how lucky I am that I can still see London plays here in our little corner of the world.

A YEAR AGO: An unproductive visit to San Francisco. I think it’s the last time I was there. It’s been too long!

Downtown

The friend theme continued into Friday, when I stopped by the jobette to say hello to my former co-workers and enjoy some art and conversation. On the first Friday of each month, the shops and art galleries in the Big Town stay open late, serving wine and nibbles. It sounds kind of silly, saying this about a town of 5,000 people, but it was nice to be out on the busy sidewalks with all the lights on. It felt happy and vital and a nice change from my dark, quiet rural life.

The jobette features a local artist each month, and he or she is on hand to talk about their creative process and answer questions. The woman who finds all these talented people and schedules them to appear was there. She and I pass each other notes via library books, since our hold requests are usually next to each other on the shelf. She started doing this after I left the jobette, and we have kept up the tradition. It was nice to see her in real life instead of in paper form.

Just down the street from the jobette is Monica’s new store, which features beautiful things for the home as well as area rugs. She has an amazing gift for creating a warm, welcoming space, and the store is lovely:

It was also crowded with well wishers and shoppers, and I have to admit that I bought a little something for Megan’s stocking. Christmas is coming!

A YEAR AGO: In limbo.

I’m happy to report that it’s raining as I write. It was coming down hard enough last night on the roof/walls to wake me up, confused for a few seconds by what that sound was. I will have to put out the rain gauge and put away the outside furniture (except for Thanksgiving and Christmas).

On the other hand, I can hear the dripping of the annual kitchen leak, and there’s a new one in the laundry room, which is at least conveniently routed to the floor drain.

Surprisingly, the cats are out playing in the wetness. Maybe they missed it too.

This has been a pretty friendly week around Hooterville. Our good friend Paul returned, with his father Mike in tow. Through my former jobette connections, I got them a nice room at a hotel overlooking an estuary, and met them there before setting off to Hooterville.

It was Mike’s first visit, and he was amazed by how beautiful it is here. He had a guided tour of the family property, including the epic garden/party palace and everyone except Megan, who was working her fourth 12 hour night shift of the week at the ER, convened at my house for dinner.

Paul decided to keep it simpler than usual this time, so it was salad and pasta with sauce from the garden, and Jonathan brought apple crisp made from the family orchard’s trees.

Paul and his Dad swapped war stories over dinner. Mike was in the Army in London in WWII, and was in a pub on Baker Street wearing his new, tailored uniform (and, knowing Mike, picking up girls) when a buzz bomb hit. Mike woke up in rubble, covered in cement, still holding his beer. All he could think of was that his brand-new uniform was ruined*. Paul flew helicopters in Vietnam, and on his second day there, went to get a couple of cold beers when snipers started shooting at him. He slid down the sandy sides of a nearby gulf, landing at the bottom with both beers intact, as is the family style.

They are now headed back to Florida, and I miss them already.

*This reminded me of when my father’s mother finally got a voucher for fresh eggs after years of rationing during WWII. She took her two children with her to get them, and on the way home with the precious cargo, they were bombed. As they hid, my grandmother, with her arms around her children, prayed for the safety of her eggs. You will be pleased to hear that all the eggs survived.

A YEAR AGO: A little post-Halloween horror, brought to me by Clyde.

Hedgeskull

On Halloween, I donned the kitty ears Erica gave me last year (they are quite becoming), and Megan draped her light up skull necklace around her neck, and we headed to the Village on a foggy Halloween afternoon.

Our first stop, as it often is, was the bookstore, where the Great Catsby was ensconced on a windowseat getting some beauty sleep. The public’s adoration can be exhausting, and I took his tail twitching, even in his sleep, to mean that he was not in the market for more pets and fussing, so I left him to his cat nap. We had fun perusing the shelves and admiring the trick or treaters, especially the little kids dressed as fuzzy turtles and ladybugs. I noticed that devil costumes were popular this year, both among the grown-ups and the kids.

Jessica partied with her entourage instead of her auntourage this year, but Erica sent me a snap of her dressed as Draco Malfoy’s dead sister:

My guess was the wraith of Yves Saint Laurent. Doesn’t she look so YSL?

After the bookstore, we made our way over to the street party, where the local circus troupe was putting on a performance of aerial silks. As the fog intensified, we watched the amazing athleticism and beauty of the performers:

I was equally impressed by their strength, daring, and how it’s like ballet up in the air.

It was pretty much fogging by the time we headed back to Megan’s little house in the big woods. That’s when you can’t tell if it’s very heavy fog or very light rain, but you’re soaking wet. Fortunately, Megan had the foresight to make ribollita soup beforehand, so we enjoyed a hot bowl of home-made soup (made with some veggies from the epic family garden) along with an episode or two of “Orange Is the New Black”. Because orange and black are Halloween colors. And there may have been candy for dessert.

A YEAR AGO: A busy post-time change day.

Roscoe has really stepped up his hunting skills lately. He brought home two dead squirrels* last week, and I rescued a chipmunk from his jaws of death on the weekend. It ran away while I laughed evilly and Roscoe ran up a tree in about a split second. I was pretty impressed with his athleticism.

Barely a week goes by without an exploded bird on the carpet or bloodstains on the floor, and Roscoe has also busied himself with ridding the house of mice which I didn’t know existed. There was one behind the microwave, which his patient lying in wait:

eventually unearthed.

I’m not sure why he’s become such a prolific serial killer lately, but I can’t say it’s a happy development. I especially hate it when the cats kill birds, though I have stopped crying as I dispose of their feather-light, feathery corpses.

Oddly, Roscoe has become more cuddly at the same time as he has become the terror of the local bird and rodent population. He sits on my lap every morning when I have coffee, which he hasn’t done since he was a kitten, and sleeps with me almost every night, at least part of it. I guess you have to take the good with the bad.

The other kitties are pretty much the way they always have been. Clyde is his cuddly, mama’s boy self. His other main interests in life are food, napping (he snores!) and treats, not necessarily in that order. Audrey is still terrorizing the neighbor dogs, perfecting the Glare of Death, and controlling me with the force of her mind, the way it should be.

*Preferable to the undead variety. Zombie animals are the worst. ~shudder~

A YEAR AGO: Last Halloween. Little did I know it would be our last Halloween as Jessica’s auntourage, though I really should have suspected those days were numbered once the double digits made their appearance.