People often used to ask us why we moved as frequently as we did. I've always been hard-pressed to come up with an answer, but I may finally have one. We have lived in our current house for a little over our usual five years. And the little things are beginning to grate on my psyche.
I've never been a big fan (stop laughing, JC) of the previous owners of this house. There have been several instances of 'Harry Homeowner' DIY repairs that defied explanation. We've taken care of them, calling in professionals who shake their heads and figure things out and do it right. I am always quick to tell them that WE did not engage in any of these do-it-yourself activities. Any call to these assorted professionals is usually preceded by a period of cursing on my part, directed for the most part at the previous owners, as well as at the home inspector who cheerfully overlooked the item before we signed the contract.
In any case, in the past two weeks we have experienced both an alarm system malfunction (now fixed) and a microwave meltdown (not literally: the control panel just decided to stop functioning, and decided to bemoan its condition at the top of its voice.) I am waiting for the next equipment failure to make itself known--that is the way of things when you live in a house too long. There are occasional repairs, sure...but when they start ganging up on you, it's time to move on.
Sometimes it is simply the aggregation of little irritations that make moving seem sensible. Our last house was just too small. Squeezing past each other in its postage-stamp kitchen for the thousandth time was just the final straw. Or, in the previous house, banging my head again in the low-ceilinged basement--or killing the umpteenth tennis-ball-sized cricket. Or opening the refrigerator door that blocked all transit through the kitchen. It is, above all, the little things.
Don't get me wrong. I love this house. As I've loved every other one we've lived in, in spite of the flaws, in spite of the repairs, in spite, even, of the bumped heads and critter control. I've come to terms with the fact that there will never be enough bookshelves, there will always be too much stuff, and repairmen will be required to infinity and beyond. It's just that I believe our tolerances change, and it takes about five years for that to become evident. Just as we get the externals under control--the patio, the paint, the pantry, the storage--a new problem presents itself and we're done. This time it may be the four floors and the effect of all those steps on our aging knees. This time, it might be having to empty the storage space to get at the electrical box. Or maybe...this time...the microwave.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Recipes I (still) Haven't Made
Okay. Those of you who want poems...not this time. I have been following a blog--a food blog--this week, ever since the title above showed up on Facebook. I thought it might be interesting to read what recipes have stymied even the semi-pro cooks who blog on food sites: sort of like finding out deep, dark secrets about famous chefs--like Julia Child hated cilantro (so there, all you nay-sayers who don't understand my aversion to the Ivory-soap herb!)
Well, I haven't read anything from anyone famous yet, but there are a lot of folks (fellow-readers) out there who balk at the same things I do. L-O-N-G recipes, for time and labor-intensive dishes (like cassoulet.) Itsy-bitsy quantities of odd ingredients. Things that just SOUND intimidating. Many of the recipes and procedures cited are on my own list: cassoulet (which has always been my Excelsior) among them. Roasting peppers. (I know it's easy, but they come in a jar, for heaven's sake, and nobody has ever shunned my antipasto salad because the peppers weren't roasted in my oven.) Ice cream. Perfect fried chicken.
I generally will try almost anything once--or even twice--and my results have been, shall we say, sometimes less than stellar. But that's the way you learn. I never would have known that I could roll a cake, cook a crepe, manage a souffle, or bake bread if I hadn't tried (and sometimes failed.) It's part of the sport. Imagine RGIII if he never got hit..(Ah, what a thought!) But it's mistakes that are the best and best-remembered teachers. Not to mention the fact that they make great stories.
The other interesting thing is that many of the items on bloggers' lists include things that I scoff at: Never baked bread!? How absurd! Anybody can bake bread! Or maybe not. We tend to take our own abilities for granted. It's easy to magnify our shortcomings and minimize our talents...and to that I say, not only "Guilty!" but also, "Stop it!" Do what you can do, and, like Jimmy Carter, be grateful for it. Try some of the things you don't think you can do, and be grateful for that opportunity. Everybody seems to need to be first and fastest and best at everything. That's impossible. What the world needs right now is a little more gracious failure: more aspiring Indians than overbearing and unqualified chiefs.
So, yes, there is a long list of recipes I've still not made, things I've still not accomplished, places I've not seen, and experiences I've not had. I'll keep plugging along and doing as much as I can fit into this busy life--but, you know, I could be content with applauding people who've done the things I haven't, listening to their exploits, and being grateful for all the gifts that I HAVE been given.
Well, I haven't read anything from anyone famous yet, but there are a lot of folks (fellow-readers) out there who balk at the same things I do. L-O-N-G recipes, for time and labor-intensive dishes (like cassoulet.) Itsy-bitsy quantities of odd ingredients. Things that just SOUND intimidating. Many of the recipes and procedures cited are on my own list: cassoulet (which has always been my Excelsior) among them. Roasting peppers. (I know it's easy, but they come in a jar, for heaven's sake, and nobody has ever shunned my antipasto salad because the peppers weren't roasted in my oven.) Ice cream. Perfect fried chicken.
I generally will try almost anything once--or even twice--and my results have been, shall we say, sometimes less than stellar. But that's the way you learn. I never would have known that I could roll a cake, cook a crepe, manage a souffle, or bake bread if I hadn't tried (and sometimes failed.) It's part of the sport. Imagine RGIII if he never got hit..(Ah, what a thought!) But it's mistakes that are the best and best-remembered teachers. Not to mention the fact that they make great stories.
The other interesting thing is that many of the items on bloggers' lists include things that I scoff at: Never baked bread!? How absurd! Anybody can bake bread! Or maybe not. We tend to take our own abilities for granted. It's easy to magnify our shortcomings and minimize our talents...and to that I say, not only "Guilty!" but also, "Stop it!" Do what you can do, and, like Jimmy Carter, be grateful for it. Try some of the things you don't think you can do, and be grateful for that opportunity. Everybody seems to need to be first and fastest and best at everything. That's impossible. What the world needs right now is a little more gracious failure: more aspiring Indians than overbearing and unqualified chiefs.
So, yes, there is a long list of recipes I've still not made, things I've still not accomplished, places I've not seen, and experiences I've not had. I'll keep plugging along and doing as much as I can fit into this busy life--but, you know, I could be content with applauding people who've done the things I haven't, listening to their exploits, and being grateful for all the gifts that I HAVE been given.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
York--Old York
At one point in this trip, I mentioned something I'd done in New York, and a granddaughter piped up and said, "...but this is OLD York..." And indeed, it was.
Old York is about as far as you can get from New York, I must admit. Both have rivers, but, given the choice, I'd rather walk along the Ouse (pronounced "ooze") than the Hudson. And while I haven't yet taken a walk along the Highline, I think walking along the old walls of this York is more conducive to the imagination.
Upon rendezvousing with Kay and Paul and the girls, our first jaunt was to Clifford's Tower, barely a five minute walk away from our hotel. I'm still not sure what its original purpose was, but it was up on a hill and had stairs to climb and a walkway around the top, and, above all, a gift shop to be explored. Just the antidote for a long train ride.
The next day, having picked up our rental car, we took off for Castle Howard--another Treasure House of Britain (of which Hatfield House had been one.) It proved relatively easy to find, and while I eschewed the house tour, the gardens were worth the price of admission. The roses, particularly, were fabulous, though we were told they were past their prime. All I know is that they perfumed the entire garden, and that I haven't had that experience in recent years. Have newer roses lost their scent? Or is it just me, the city-dweller, who has lost the experience of being in a rose garden?
The next day, we caught up with the Calverts, former neighbors who were in the York area visiting daughter Katie, son-in-law Rob, and their precious grandson. The kids ran around the Museum Garden--not too far from the York Minster, where we had toured and explored earlier in the day. Audrey was captivated by Monty--and vice versa. Claire meanwhile enjoyed the luxury of playing 'only grandchild' while her sister lavished her 'big sister' attention on someone else for a change. We had lunch at a cafe on the riverbank and caught up all round in one lovely afternoon. After our goodbyes, we took a cruise down the river and heard a bit of history before we left the boat not far from our hotel. I must admit, I was more enamored of the sit-down aspect of the tour than by the history and highlights of the Ouze River.
Somewhere in there, we also visited the Jorvik Viking Centre, remembered from our previous trip to York, when Kay and Sarah were much younger. The Disney-esque ride was still there (only instead of 'It's a Small World' playing incessantly, think Viking dirt and primitive trades and huts and market--sights and sounds and even smells provided for the full Viking village experience. The high point for the girls was the re-creation of an authentic Viking outhouse with a rather large Viking ensconced therein, creating some of the aforementioned smells.
Now, I'm not sure exactly when it was, but at one point Kay and I and the girls were walking back to the hotel and encountered one of the numerous ice cream trucks that populated the parks and riverbanks. In spite of Kay's warning, we got 'ice cream' for all. How bad could it be? It's ice cream, after all. No. It's not. It is a cold marshmallow fluff-type substance with a brown waxy stick embedded in its center. This thing is called chocolate flake. It's nasty. Beware these vendors.
On to Durham and Dundee...
We'd decided to stop at Durham on our way to Dundee, as JC had the need to see the cathedral there. So we booked an overnight stop, and visited the cathedral, which is indeed beautiful. More to come...
Old York is about as far as you can get from New York, I must admit. Both have rivers, but, given the choice, I'd rather walk along the Ouse (pronounced "ooze") than the Hudson. And while I haven't yet taken a walk along the Highline, I think walking along the old walls of this York is more conducive to the imagination.
Upon rendezvousing with Kay and Paul and the girls, our first jaunt was to Clifford's Tower, barely a five minute walk away from our hotel. I'm still not sure what its original purpose was, but it was up on a hill and had stairs to climb and a walkway around the top, and, above all, a gift shop to be explored. Just the antidote for a long train ride.
The next day, having picked up our rental car, we took off for Castle Howard--another Treasure House of Britain (of which Hatfield House had been one.) It proved relatively easy to find, and while I eschewed the house tour, the gardens were worth the price of admission. The roses, particularly, were fabulous, though we were told they were past their prime. All I know is that they perfumed the entire garden, and that I haven't had that experience in recent years. Have newer roses lost their scent? Or is it just me, the city-dweller, who has lost the experience of being in a rose garden?
The next day, we caught up with the Calverts, former neighbors who were in the York area visiting daughter Katie, son-in-law Rob, and their precious grandson. The kids ran around the Museum Garden--not too far from the York Minster, where we had toured and explored earlier in the day. Audrey was captivated by Monty--and vice versa. Claire meanwhile enjoyed the luxury of playing 'only grandchild' while her sister lavished her 'big sister' attention on someone else for a change. We had lunch at a cafe on the riverbank and caught up all round in one lovely afternoon. After our goodbyes, we took a cruise down the river and heard a bit of history before we left the boat not far from our hotel. I must admit, I was more enamored of the sit-down aspect of the tour than by the history and highlights of the Ouze River.
Somewhere in there, we also visited the Jorvik Viking Centre, remembered from our previous trip to York, when Kay and Sarah were much younger. The Disney-esque ride was still there (only instead of 'It's a Small World' playing incessantly, think Viking dirt and primitive trades and huts and market--sights and sounds and even smells provided for the full Viking village experience. The high point for the girls was the re-creation of an authentic Viking outhouse with a rather large Viking ensconced therein, creating some of the aforementioned smells.
Now, I'm not sure exactly when it was, but at one point Kay and I and the girls were walking back to the hotel and encountered one of the numerous ice cream trucks that populated the parks and riverbanks. In spite of Kay's warning, we got 'ice cream' for all. How bad could it be? It's ice cream, after all. No. It's not. It is a cold marshmallow fluff-type substance with a brown waxy stick embedded in its center. This thing is called chocolate flake. It's nasty. Beware these vendors.
On to Durham and Dundee...
We'd decided to stop at Durham on our way to Dundee, as JC had the need to see the cathedral there. So we booked an overnight stop, and visited the cathedral, which is indeed beautiful. More to come...
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