Staples

I know there are those of you out there whose eyes widened thinking school supplies! while visions of the supply store ad (in which a dad skips through the aisles as he filled a cart) danced in your head. But I am ill-equipped to think about back-to-school, despite being assaulted by store displays on every end cap and ads in every medium. Beyond ill-equipped, I am unwilling to think about it. I mean really, who are the people who actually open the emails from LL Bean and Eddie Bauer in August and take advantage of their fall classics sales? It seems like I just got my cashmere sweaters out of the dry cleaner! When the dew point is 72 in New England and the weather forecast says hazy, hot and humid, who shops for turtlenecks and corduroys? (Come to think of it, who shops for corduroys and turtlenecks any time? Probably the teachers with whom I work who actually wear jumpers. Don’t get me started. But I digress.) I have no interest in “[being] the first to shop the new fall collection!” No, I want to delete those emails and sit by the pool. As soon as I finish here.

The staples to which I refer are refrigerator must-haves. A friend who knows I like to cook asked about the things I make, and the things I have on hand, and it occurred to me that as much as a well-stocked pantry—with pastas and grains, diced tomatoes, cans and cartons of broths and stocks—is key to a meal in a pinch, certain refrigerator items can not only elevate a meal but also create a plate start to finish as handily as it will create an image of you as a host that really has it together.

· cheeses—at least: a block of cheddar for cheese and crackers, Parmesan and/or Romano for grating and shaving, blue cheese crumbles, feta cheese crumbles, shredded mozzarella for pizzas, and fresh mozzarella

· other dairy—2% milk, half and half, sour cream, Greek yogurt, eggs

· meats—pepperoni and/or salami, prosciutto, pancetta, bacon

· condiments—mayonnaise (full fat), mustard (yellow and Dijon), ketchup, Soy sauce, terriyaki sauce, Soyaki (from Trader Joe’s), toasted sesame oil, chili oil, mango chutney, yellow Thai curry (also TJs), Worcestershire sauce, horseradish, hot sauce (feel a Bloody Mary coming up?), Sriracha, anchovy paste, tomato paste in tube, jarred pesto (yes, a condiment), sundried tomatoes, capers

· water—bottled and a pitcher

· limes

· lemons

· tomato juice (there we go)

· orange juice

· Prosecco

· olives

· pickles

· some sort of fruit (grapes usually, and not just the fermented kind)

· veggies including greens and lettuce for salads and whenever possible…arugula, which makes me very happy

Give me garlic and onion (which I always also have on hand) and I can get busy with that box of pasta or some thing from my freezer--chicken, pork tenderloin, raw shrimp, cooked shrimp, or that foil-wrapped baguette. I can write about my freezer on another day, though. The sun is shining and the pool beckons. There are no back-to-school ads there.

Home Sweet Home Again

Sometimes I think the best vacations are the ones you don’t mind coming home from. Sure, there is something to be said for the vacation you never want to end (if your funds are endless), that fantasy world you get to sample that makes the rest of your life a miserable and futile act of wanting, but I’m not sure that always does any long term good. Unless you’re Shirley Valentine. So I don’t mean to imply that the best vacations are not good vacations; it has nothing to do with having a bad time. I think, in fact, for it to qualify as such a vacation, one actually needs to have a good time, but then (still?) feel good about being home. It is a combination of having a great vacation, a few fun days away, and returning to reality that is a life from which you realize you really didn’t need a break.

As I have written, I had a great time in the PNW. I spent time with an old friend and got to visit two of my favorite cities. (Thanks again, Tam!) And even though I had a teary goodbye, I was happy to come home to this life of mine that wasn’t driving me crazy, to a life I see even more clearly is blessed. And again, there is no implication here that her life is chaos. I didn’t go visit a friend in a crack house and think thank god I can still get by on alcohol! Rather, I was happy to visit with a friend and see that she has a good life and to be a guest in that life for a few days. And it was okay to leave her in her element and return to my own.

It is nice to be home again. I hate to sound materialistic, but I like my things. I like to be around my things. My couch, my vases, my art. I like knowing where everything is. And not having to ask to use them. (Okay, now I sound like a control freak. I’m not. Although I do think I am particularly independent.) I like my life and my relaxed summer routine. I like writing in the morning before I do anything else. I did that today before I sat by my pool today and read. Then I came in late this afternoon to my chilly AC and made a plate of cheese and crackers to snack on as the lunch I missed while I was engrossed in reading. Today was a good day. Most of my days are.

Yesterday, as I made my way to the baggage carousel at Bradley International, a flight mate—walking beside me at that hurried, yet exhausted, pace of travelers who have made it home after a long day of travel—turned to me and said, “Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”

Indeed.

Soap Box

I am at the Seattle Tacoma Airport, with a couple hours ahead of me to wait and a harrowing experience just behind me.

For my last day in Seattle, Tamara and I headed downtown to Pike Place Market.




As I mentioned before, I love it there. With the vibrant flowers, fresh produce and flying fish (and check out those lobster tails!), it’s a bit like Quincy Market and the weekend Haymarket in Boston, but all rolled into one and a little more, every day. I love to people watch and window shop and take pictures, and Pike Place Market has it all to offer.





We started by strolling through the artisan stalls, and then went out to lunch to The Pink Door on Post Alley. We had a light, delicious lunch on a colorful deck—bright, mismatched table cloths and overflowing, hanging flower pots—overlooking the water, and enjoyed every bit of everything.




After lunch we made our way down to The Soap Box where I bought a bottle of Verbena lotion—apothecary style. I decided against the richest (A-D-E) lotion (too thick for summer) and went with a lighter version, better for summer, the season during which verbena is my scent of choice. We strolled some more, stopped for late afternoon drinks, and then my vacation was over. After a wonderful visit with Tamara and her family and friends—and with five books from Powell’s in Portland and my verbena lotion from Pike Place Market in Seattle—I was ready to head home.

Twenty minutes later I was at SeaTac saying a tearful goodbye. I checked my bag curbside and headed to security.

“Do you have lotion?” the TSA agent asks.

“Oh, no! …[string of expletives in my head as I tried not to cry] What a waste of money. I just bought it and forgot to put it in my checked bag.”

By the grace of God, and maybe because I wasn’t holding anyone up or because I didn’t have a quart size bag full of 3 ounce bottles already, he said, “We’re letting it through.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

So, that thing about amateurs who live under a rock? Maybe some people just forget, or make silly mistakes like I did…

Pilgrimage to Powell's July 31, 2009

My favorite bookstore: Powell's Books in Portland, OR



literary bike racks
The Blue Room/Fiction

Travel Tales

At this time in America one doesn’t have to be a frequent flier to know the rules. In fact, I would say one pretty much needs to live under a rock not to know that liquid toiletries must be no more than 3 ounces, and all such items must be packed in no more than one one-quart plastic bag that can be easily removed from carry on items for x-ray by TSA.

I, of course, was behind two such amateurs/rock dwellers on my way out of Hartford on Tuesday. And, since I was somehow in the family friendly aisle, those people happened to be behind two families traveling with infants, strollers, and car seats that needed to be inspected. But because I understand that going through security can be a hassle these days, I had given myself plenty of time, so I didn’t panic. I kept my cool, took deep breaths, and waited my turn. I got through security without incident, then found the cocktail lounge closest to my gate and had a drink.

My first flight left on time and arrived early in Chicago. I had lunch, a couple of glasses of wine, and ended up waiting at the gate for my delayed flight to Seattle. Once on the plane, I waited a bit longer, because—as the pilot informed us—they were waiting for a bag to be brought up from the cargo hold. Apparently there was a passenger who simply could not be separated from his or her bag. Why s/he had allowed her or himself to be separated from it in the first place is not something the pilot shared with us. But I kept reminding myself you’re on vacation, it’s okay. No hurry.

Despite the TSA hassle in Hartford, and the delay in Chicago, I had—as we would say on a report card—a cooperative, positive attitude on that second flight. On more than one occasion I asked the two people seated to my right (I had the aisle seat) if they wanted to get up and stretch. With about an hour and a half left to go, we all got up and went to the bathroom and I waited for the others to get back to our row so we could file in without stepping over each other. I even offered everyone gum on descent.

I got here safe and sound--with stories to tell about the amateurs in Hartford, and the first class passenger’s bag in Chicago. In the end that’s all that matters. The getting here, that is. Well maybe both.

The PNW

My first trip to the Pacific Northwest was in 1992 (91?) for Tamara's first wedding, which I will never mention again. We had lots of things to do and lots of fun, and I met some great people, but didn't do anything very touristy, really. Honestly, it could have been a trip to Cleveland as much as it was a trip to Portland, Oregon. (No offense, Tam.)

Since then I have lost count of the number of times I have been to the Pacific Northwest, to Portland and to Seattle (where Tamara now lives), sometimes both cities in one trip. In my life before teaching, I took several business trips to those cities, and always extended my visits if I could to spend time with Tamara, her son Matthew, and eventually her second (and much better) husband John and second son Jack. I have explored some things with her and her sons, like Mt. Rainier, and some things on my own, like Mt. Hood, the Columbia River Gorge, and the Oregon desert during what I call the Summer of Tevas, when at 35 I needed to prove to myself and anyone else who doubted that I could go on a vacation that wasn't all about drinking, eating, and shopping. And I did it. I even went white water rafting. By myself. (Well, on a tour.)(And, no, I didn't go overboard.)

I love the PNW, as they like to call it. I love Pike Place Market in Seattle, home of the original Starbucks and the original Sur La Table. I can't wait to walk through the spectacular fresh flowers and then create my own Verbena lotion at The Soap Box just around the corner. I love Portland and its Saturday Market with the scent of patchouli wafting through the stalls overflowing with pottery. And as much as I love the Brookline Booksmith, there is something completely unique and lovable about Powell's, the coolest bookstore ever really (and on steroids), where new and used books are shelved together. I couldn't be more thankful that Tamara is going to try to get me there this visit, although it means a 2.5 hour/140 mile drive to indulge my inner bookworm (and so that I can replace a couple of first printing hardcovers of Elinor Lipman books that I was kind enough to lend, but never got back!).

I haven't been in 6 years, which is way too long by any standard, especially for a woman who loves the PNW, loves to travel, and has a dear friend there. I leave today, and know I will have a very good time, a vacation like the one I had with Jill back in April in San Diego. Which is to say the day trips to fave places are icing on the cake. The real treat will be sitting, chatting face to face, not finagling phone calls between time zones, sipping coffee in the morning and wine or cocktails in the evening, laughing so hard that my cheeks will hurt.

TTFN. I'll post from there.

Addendum

Nothing says sexy like a peeling scalp. And the sunburn that precedes it feels fantastic.

Add that to my list of 40-something woes: thinning hair with increased exposure at my part line.

PS Oh, and wish me luck that I don't get cankles on my flight to Seattle tomorrow.