So we never got to Paris

There were a lot of things I thought I'd do before I had kids. Well, either that or I thought I'd have kids right away after getting married. As it is I'm learning to live with an entirely different reality -- one that fills me with joy and expectation but also reminds me of all the stuff we won't be able to do when our little one comes. (Stuff I probably don't need to do anyway.) All that thinking reminds me of an old song by Out of the Grey:

So we never got to Paris

Young lovers, without much
Save each other, isn't that enough
Paint the future, a little day by day
Making plans with no regard for what might come our way

This cup fills up so quickly
There's so much on our plate
Between the living and the learning
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best of both

There's still wonder in our eyes
But we see each other in a different light
Yet the future isn't always clear
Now the question is where do we go from here

This cup fills up so quickly
There's too much on our plate
Between the living and the dying
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best of both

This cup fills up so quickly
There's too much on our plate
Between the living and the dying
Some things must wait

So we never got to Paris
And found the café of our dreams
But our table holds a whole wide world of memories
No, we never went to Venice
And strolled the streets alone
But we built our worlds together and we got the best

We may never get to Paris
And find the café of our dreams
But our table still will hold a world of memories
If we never get to Venice
And roam the streets alone
We'll hold our worlds together and we'll keep the best of both

And before you think I've given up on Paris (or, in my case, Scotland, Ireland, and Scandinavia), I'm well aware that there is such a thing as grandparents who will watch the kids for a week, and there's also a wonderful time in most people's lives when they are neither old nor terribly involved with their kids: their late 40s and their 50s. So don't think I'm giving up all together; we may not have lots of stamps in our passports, but we are a loving family and we've got many more years to spend together.

Making room for food

I don’t know if I can shop at the grocery store anymore. It’s been a several-year-long process, so this supermarket aversion hasn’t come as a complete shock. But with my current lifestyle, it doesn’t make things very easy, either.

But then, ease is probably what created the supermarkets and the food industry that stocks them and our culture’s perceived need for this time-saving, cost-saving middleman. Ease needs to be shifted down a few rungs on my food priority list.

Mr. Incredible, who has a five-ingredients-or-fewer rule when it comes to bread, joins me in this quest to find and buy food that nourishes and delights—but that doesn’t completely break the bank. Which is more and more of a problem considering the way food prices are rising these days.

Nevertheless, we’re determined in our household to make time to shop for, prepare, and savor healthy, tasty food. And as much as possible, we’ll find room in our budget for good food, too.

People at work are always asking me how I manage to bring in healthy leftovers each day, when they eat out for lunch three to four days a week. My answer? Sometimes, cooking is all I get done in an evening. Meaning I don’t necessarily have their social life or keep up with the TV lineup like they do.

Take tonight, for instance: there’s red lentil and cauliflower coconut curry to prepare (the cauliflower and cabbage must be used ASAP!) and then I’ll have to get a head start on the cottage pie I’m preparing for dinner at a friend’s house tomorrow (there’s no way I’d be able to get it done tomorrow between work and the time we have to leave). Just like in college, when I would gear myself up for a late night of paper-writing, I prepare myself mentally to devote the larger portion of my evening to food. And surprising as it may seem, I rarely regret these cooking marathons. (I just have to remember to drink a lot of water and sit down while I chop these days, otherwise my pregnant back and feet will regret it tomorrow.)

So what’s the problem with the supermarket and why can’t I just buy healthy, yummy stuff there? They do carry produce, after all.

Most of the products at the store are highly processed, something that I’m becoming more and more aware of as I read more labels, and I’m just not sure if this frankenfood is good for me. Even foods that seem fairly straightforward and pure are messed with; that is, they have additives and conditioners and dyes and preservatives (not to mention residual pesticides and antibiotics)—all kinds of things that would be absent if I prepared these foods myself at home.

Even the produce is making me wary. Grocery store tomatoes are the perfect example of produce that’s made for easy transportation and long shelf life, apparently without much thought to taste (or nutrition, actually).

There are a lot of people to blame for my supermarket frustrations: there’s me, of course—the compulsive label reader and lover of really good-tasting, fresh food. And there’s the delicious legacy of our families’ home gardens and family meals. But then there’s also Barbara Kingsolver, whose book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle has made me a believer in eating close to home, for reasons that range from nutrition to family life to economics. And this summer, Michael Pollan has caused me a great deal of irritation as I browse the supermarket shelves and see so-called health claims calling to me from foods that may not even be food, let alone healthy. His book In Defense of Food has been a daily source of discussion in our household for its critical view of what most of us has accepted as nutrition.

But this awakening has caused me more than just frustration. It’s also caused me to see my food as more than fuel. I’ve been pushed to reevaluate my priorities and decide just how much organic local potatoes and free-range eggs mean to me and the health of my family. As it turns out, they mean quite a lot; I just have to decide what to cut out of my life now in order to make room for them. And I’ve been reminded that food is more than just its nutrients. Really good food—really well prepared—constitutes a social event, an act of gratitude toward God and his creation, and a labor of love.

And when you think of it that way, suddenly the supermarket doesn’t seem so super.

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By the way, if you're still looking for something to read this summer, I highly recommend both of the books below.

How we spread the surprising news

A crossword for my grandma (this is her first great-grandchild)



A canister of tea for the veteran grandma (this is her fourth)









When my parents were pregnant with me, they announced it to my grandma using a mustard yellow sweatshirt that said "It's just ducky being a grandma" (in fuzzy iron-on black letters, of course -- it was 1982).




We thought it was a good enough tradition to continue.

The unexpected (but very welcome) guest

Hospitality has always been important to me. And as I’ve gotten older and a little more secure in who I am, I’ve come to enjoy unexpected guests almost more than the planned variety. As I said to my dad, after he stowed away in my in-laws’ car for the journey to Pittsburgh to surprise me with his presence, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me you were coming, because then I would have worried too much about where you would sleep and the condition of the house. This way, I can’t do anything about it; I just get to enjoy having you here.”

That was pretty much how it felt that Monday morning in April when I shakily handed the pregnancy test to Mr. Incredible. It was as if an unexpected guest—a fairly long-term one, too— was already at the door, knocking. And although there was a healthy measure of fear and surprise at this discovery, we were also relieved of the stress of planning the right time and getting everything in order to start “trying.” Because, after all, our guest had already moved in. All we could do—all we had to do—was to welcome our new tenant and enjoy the time we have to spend together.

So here we are in the middle of week 16, just about 24 more weeks to go. I will admit, this guest has made him or herself right at home in ways that are a little difficult to deal with. The special dietary restrictions and the significant increase in the amount of food we need to purchase have taken some getting used to. And the hormone-drenched environment he or she needs to thrive have left me feeling sick and tired for longer than I’d like.

But despite these inconveniences, I can’t wait to get to know this little one better—to finally see the face and hands and kicking legs of the thing that’s growing inside me. With a due date of December 19, it’s made the Christmas countdown (and, for Mr. Incredible, the countdown to the end of the fall semester) a little more to look forward to.

The early pregnancy stuff is behind us now. We’ve told our friends, family, and coworkers; I’ve packed up my regular clothes in favor of empire waists (and no waists at all); and the shock and nausea are beginning to subside. We’re settling into this stage with a surprising amount of contentment and joy, and we hope you’ll join us in our anticipation.

Coming soon: photo documentation of how we told our parents the good news.

Everybody wants to be an executioner.

Or so it seems from all the marketing copy I’ve been reading and editing lately. When asked what they do best, companies continually answer:

We execute.

When asked what differentiates their company from the rest; what they excel in, they say:

Execution.

What concerns me about this is that, if you take their meaning to be that they “get things done” and that they “excel in the implementation of their solutions to customers’ problems,” that’s not really something to brag about, is it? That kind of execution barely keeps you in business, let alone propelling your company to the front of the pack.

Therefore I must consider: are these companies doing some side jobs for the mob?

I know that’s not what these companies mean, but seriously – come up with something original to do, and an original way to express what you do, or I will assume that you’re whacking people in the back room.

On a lighter note, all this talk of execution makes me think of the almost-fate of Bartholomew Cubbins, the 500-hat-wearer of Seuss fame. Check out the book if you’re bored; it’s one of my childhood favorites.

Of Pop-Tarts and split infinitives

I am not a Pop-Tart eater. What’s more, if I were to consume a Pop-Tart, I would certainly not choose the frosted variety with hot pink sprinkles. But in order to satisfy a post-lunch need for carbs (which I should have predicted, since I brought salad for lunch), I ate one today. Two, actually, since they come two to a pack.

Now, I’m a fan of Brian Regan and his legendary rant regarding Pop-Tart instructions. How stupid do you have to be, truly, if you need to read the instructions in order to toast your Pop-Tart properly?

But today I found that, in my relative inexperience with this fruit-filled toaster pastry, I needed to read the instructions. Remember, these were frosted. Given that we have both a traditional vertical toaster – designed for speed and even browning of toast and bagels – and a sophisticated-looking toaster oven – perfect for reheating pizza, melting cheese on bread, and other messier jobs, but very slow – I was left with a choice.

Do I wait six minutes for the toaster oven to barely warm these processed strawberry treats? Or do I choose the fast track, inserting them on their sides into the toaster (all the while praying the icing doesn’t melt, gunking up and possibly shorting out the appliance)?

Choosing life on the edge – and a swifter return to my desk – I went vertical. As I waited and watched, planning the Pop-Tarts’ emergency exit from the toaster should it become necessary, I wondered why the package did not stipulate the orientation of the toaster pastry. Surely others like me have wondered if it is safe to toast them on their sides.

But what I learned today is that Pop-Tart manufacturers have designed icing that defies heat, resisting meltage, even at the high temperatures that render the filling too hot to eat. This leads me to believe that it is not truly icing, but some form of sweet, marginally edible ceramic substance that allows morons to keep their vertical toasters in clean and working order.

On a completely unrelated grammatical note, I also cemented my personal views on split infinitives. I know they’re messy – even, as many people would note, wrong – but they’re far more musical and dramatic than their grammatically correct counterparts.

Which is why, when it comes to Pop-Tarts or anything else, my goal is to boldly go where no man has gone before. “To go boldly ” just doesn’t cut it.

When I bite into a York Peppermint Pattie

I get the sensation.

It's a well-known fact that peppermint patties are my candy of choice. And why wouldn't they be? Refreshing mint -- which actually is a necessity after some meals -- enrobed in chocolate. In recent years, York Peppermint Patties have also been shown (on their packaging, at least) to be "a lowfat food" and "dark chocolate covered," which certainly gives them a couple more points in my book.

After a lifetime of loving peppermint patties, the candy now has for me associations of memory and emotions that even further endear me to it.

When I was a kid, Hershey Foods (which unfortunately does own York) ran these amazingly cheesy, yet evocative, commercials along the theme of "When I bite into a York Peppermint Pattie, I get the sensation," featuring normal, everyday people who get the sensation of skiing in the Alps just from a piece of minty chocolate (even though they're actually just standing on their coffee table, pretending to feel the rush of an Alpine avalanche).

My grandma apparently shares my love of peppermint patties -- or at least, the commercials -- and I will never forget her impersonation of that commercial. Yes, she did jump up on the coffee table, and yes, we worried about her mental and physical health. But oh, did we ever laugh.

For my bridal shower, my best friend made sure to have both peppermint patties and Starburst -- my two favorites -- in abundance. And when my husband wants to give me a little encouragement, he brings one home for me to enjoy. In some ways, it's not so much about the candy itself as it is about your loved ones knowing and caring about the little things that make you happy.

I've been a little disappointed over the years, as I've noticed the sugar content rising . . . frankly, we don't need it, and it only contributes to tooth decay and weird aftertastes.

But overall, the peppermint pattie has moved into the 21st century unchanged. It still arrives in that retro foil wrapper with the simple design that takes you back to the 40s.

I'm not sure I believe that peppermint patties are truly a "lowfat food" or that they really contain two percent of my recommended daily intake of iron . . . but they do give me the sensation, I'll give 'em that.

Country roads / take me home

You’d think, living in the middle of one of the most backwoods cities in the country, that I’d have just about enough of the country here in Pittsburgh. Also, considering that our fair city is one of the most tree-lined in the nation, I really do have a lot to be grateful for when it comes to shade and freshly made oxygen balancing out the oppression of the urban jungle.

But somehow, it just ain’t enough for this country girl. On our way home to Dillsburg last weekend to visit with friends and family, Lewis the mutt and Mr. Incredible just about got drunk on fresh spring air flowing through the car as we passed into Central Pennsylvania (it smelled good to me, too, but I was the designated driver and had to control myself).

We love our neighbors, the diversity of the people around us, the many events and opportunities the city offers (especially for foodies like us) . . . but this is what we miss:

The willow tree in our old backyard. It was probably destined to die sometime soon anyway, but the way it swayed in the breeze, thrashed in thunderstorms and provided a 15-foot diameter of dappled shade—I will never stop missing that.

Driving down the road in the dark. The city never sleeps, so they say, for which I’m grateful, when I’m a pedestrian after dark. But on the other hand, it never really gets dark. There’s something seductive about driving down a main country road in the dark: it makes you want to run away with the person you love and follow whatever crazy dreams you’ve always had, but never acted on.

Having a yard where our dog can run around and poop. That’s probably enough explanation for that topic.

Seasons in the country. We have spring in the city, yes, and it is stunning in its own way, as flowering trees and shrubs lend extra grace to century-old architecture that you’d never find in the country. But spring in the country means that when the trees begin to leaf out, you see masses—even mountains—of bright green tips against dark bark. And when trees bloom, there are clouds of white and pink blossoms filling the sky. You can’t miss it, and you can’t help being overcome by the drama of country seasons.

That’s probably only the short list of what we miss. We also miss our friends and our family . . . although in some cases, moving away has only shown us how strong our relationships are.

We’ll move back to the country someday to start our commune (any takers? I’m serious), and when we do I’m sure we’ll miss the comforts of city life, like only filling up our gas tank once a month, only needing one car, not having a yard to mow and living on the same block as our friends from church. We’ll miss Trader Joe’s and the other three grocery stores within a mile and a half of our house. And the convenience of the farmer’s market.

But overall, when we move away from the city, I’m pretty sure that those country roads are going to take us home to the place where we belong.

(Not West Virginia, though. I hope.)

Bare legs on a cool spring day

It is a joy to put on a flouncy skirt on the first of May;
To revel in the freedom of bare feet in soft flat shoes—
No tights, no nylons, no pants—
No constraints.

It is a shock to walk outside in a flouncy skirt on the first of May;
Though it’ll be seventy-one later it’s forty-three now—
Only eleven degrees between freezing and spring—
I must be nuts.

It is a relief to feel warm rain on a flouncy skirt on the first of May;
It soothes the leg hairs that have grown 1/8 inch in the cold air—
Drops falling slowly and warm puddles forming promise a warmer day—
I can’t wait.

Buzzword alert

One of the business buzzwords I’ve been seeing a lot of lately is “turnkey.” Usually found in the context of “offering turnkey solutions to fit your company’s needs,” it’s one of those great words that people must think sounds easy and smart without actually meaning or promising too much.

But with my particularly odd eye, all I can ever think when I see this word is “turkey.” Somehow my eye skips over the “n” to reveal the true silliness of it all.

Today I challenge you to offer turkey solutions for all your clients. They'll thank you, I'm sure.

There are some things that money can't buy.

Vanana yogurt (that we bought by accident when we wanted plain) = $2.99

Strawberry granola bars = $1.99

The cashier at Trader Joe’s thinking you’re a cute couple because you and your husband delight in smelling the bag of potatoes while in the checkout line = Priceless.

Juxtaposition

We country folk tend to think that there is no wildlife in the city (except, of course, for pigeons, squirrels and rabbits and they don’t count because people feed them processed, greasy food in the park—they’re just mooching off the urban system). But as I write this, an immense bird is soaring between skyscrapers, diving then recovering altitude and swooshing past the office windows, barely missing the cold, hard steel of our building with its daring wings. As I look out again, I see that there are now several hawks (at least, I think they are hawks) soaring through this part of downtown.

Just this morning a fellow bus rider, who lives in the neighborhood of Morningside, informed me he had deer in his backyard this morning, and last fall Mr. Incredible and Lewis caught a long glimpse of a beautiful buck in our neighborhood. (In fact, deer present quite a problem for the City of Pittsburgh from time to time, when they leave the safety of the city’s expansive parks and venture out onto busy streets and highways. Every Pittsburgher has one of these stories to tell, of the day they were driving down __________ Blvd. and had to slam on their brakes because deer were crossing.)

Driving through the Strip District at rush hour one morning, I spotted an even weirder sight: two wild turkeys waddling and gobbling along the Amtrak rails, looking very much at home.

So perhaps we country folk are a little naïve when it comes to how easily nature can be crowded out of a space. From what I can see—turkeys amongst railroad tracks, deer prancing in the median strip, and osprey skydiving downtown—these wild animals will make do with any space we give them, no matter how humble. They are built for survival.

The normalization of the dangling participle

In my ardent, never-ending quest to become a better writer, I was reading an article today about grammatical errors to avoid. The title of the article was "Five Grammatical Errors That Make You Look Dumb," which, now that I think about it, was a strange article for me to be reading. After all, I don't think I was actually afraid that I commit these errors; maybe I was looking for another error to catch people on. I hope that's not the case, because that's sick.

The author made an interesting assertion about dangling modifiers. He cited two examples:

After rotting in the cellar for weeks, my brother brought up some oranges.

...

Featuring plug-in circuit boards, we can strongly endorse this server’s flexibility and growth potential

And then he wrote,

The problem with both of the above is that the participial phrase that begins the sentence is not intended to modify what follows next in the sentence. However, readers mentally expect it to work that way, so your opening phrase should always modify what immediately follows. If it doesn’t, you’ve left the participle dangling, as well as your readers. (emphasis mine)

Here's the thing: I'm not so sure that's true. I see these dangling modifiers all over the place. Granted, they are not prevalent in official, published material, so at least part of the English-speaking population is expecting the second part of the sentence to follow the first. But I think there are a lot of people who don't see there's a connection between the two, as if the first part of the sentence is just giving a certain amount of background information and the second part is providing an entirely different piece of information; as if what comes after the comma is not referenced by what goes before it.

Just another example of the widening and erosion of the English language . . . what a great language it is, but how ambiguous it's getting these days!

Deuces are wild!

Found in a great old sci-fi novel by Arthur C. Clarke bought at City Books on the South Side.

The welcome package

I’ve been wanting to post this photos for a couple of weeks now . . . here are some photos of the welcome package I received from Brady Communications, where I now work. See why I feel so good about this?

Risotto, a simile, and some news

My life is like a saucepan of risotto:
I stir and add broth, scrape the bottom of the pan,
Stir again, add more broth, scrape, scrape, sccrrAAAape
For what seems like an eternity.
(Forty minutes, in fact, of continuous stirring.)

And in the end I get a steaming, glutinous mass
Of short, stubby rice
With tender, golden onions
And bright green zucchini punctuating the creamy globs—
In short, a culinary masterpiece, the ultimate comfort food.

And nobody but me can understand why I would go to the bother of stirring, stirring, scraping
A saucepan of globby rice.

In other news, I have a new job, which I started today and I like very much. I am a writer (yes, I'm getting paid for it again!) for Brady Communications, a design firm in downtown Pittsburgh.

Disclaimer (Mr Wonderful insists I put this here): I did not take this picture. Someone has clearly aerated this bowl of risotto, and although it looks prettier than mine, I am confident mine was far more satisfying.

Confession:

I'm not very good at using escalators. Despite the fact that I use escalators at least twice a day, I can never quite time my steps so that I glide with the left, then plant with the right as I step onto the platform.

I'm also not so great at keeping my blog updated. But I promise I'll work on it.

Where God's chillin'

There are lots of Christmas lyrics that make me wince, but this one (taken from "Santa Claus is Coming to Town") actually manages to find me with my mouth wide open in disbelief almost every time I hear it. I'm not actually sure who wrote this disturbing addition to an already sub-par song, but Bing Crosby sings it with such cool confidence that I can scarcely believe my ears.

Santa knows that where God's chillin'
That makes everything right

My challenge this week: to post Christmas lyrics each day. That should give you poor readers something new to ponder . . . several of you say you've been "reading my blog," and I can only assume that means you're reading and rereading old posts. Unsure of whether or not my writing can actually sustain that many readings, I think it would just be best if I write something new.

Jump in bed, cover up your head
'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight, tonight
Santa Claus is coming tonight

Diminutive snowperson

Compliments of our neighbors . . . we think they may have been trying to create an arctic version of Adam, what with the ivy leaf.

Work in progress

Because I am tired of everyone badgering me to post photos of our new bedroom . . . here they are. As you can see, we're lacking all the finishing touches: trim around the windows and doors, art on the walls, curtains, etc.

But we're really enjoying the carpet, which has a great texture to it, and our super-organized closet. Hopefully someday soon I'll be able to post photos of the completed project!