So there I was out on the deck. It was early evening, so hot it felt aggressive, so humid the air was spongy. I was on my way to the garden to pick a peck of peppers, pretending my name was Peter, trying to think only of words that start with the letter P.
Pailing piserably.
But then I passed the three arborvitaes that we have potted on the deck. They’ve been there for years and I’ve developed quite an affection for them, in no small part because they require zero attention. About once a year I remember to throw some fertilizer on them, fertilizer meant for vegetables and flowers, not a coniferous tree of the cypress family, but bah, who’s in the mood to split hairs.
But this time as I passed, I noticed the second of the three trees seemed to have quite a bit of brown on it. I wasn’t shocked, since the pots they live in aren’t heavy enough and so the trees are prone to blowing over during storms.
Still, this tree seemed particularly unhappy, especially for a happy-go-lucky arborvitae. So I took a step closer. That’s when I noticed the tree had these brown, spindle-shaped bundles hanging off the end of many of its branches. Upon even closer examination, I realized they looked exactly like retro Christmas decorations, albeit very, very depressing ones. And so to get an even closer examination, I leaned in, nearly touching my nose to the spindle.
And then it moved.
I’d like to apologize in advance for this column — yes, even before I’ve written it — as I’m not quite responsible for myself today. More specifically, I’m laser focused on one goal and am therefore distracted from all other things. That goal? To fall asleep.
In a couple of days, I’ll be able to give my stepdad Peter his birthday gifts: a pair of Donald Trump socks and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I know he’s going to like to them and I know when he opens his gifts he’ll have this little smile on his face, this grin, actually. Then he’ll say, in an exaggerated voice, “Thaaaaaank you” and spend the next half hour inspecting every aspect of his new acquisitions.
It’s that time of year when everything is ripe. You can practically hear it, that buzz that warbles when you slice through a tomato or eat fresh strawberry jam or bite into that perfectly perfect peach. As such, I wanted to talk about a few great recipes that I’ve run across over the past few months to help celebrate this ripeness in all its glory. So here we go:
Stay-cation. Isn’t that a clever word? The concept of staying home on a week off, but still pretending you are away on holiday. It’s a celebration of sorts, but a very, very responsible one. Won’t it be fun, you tell each other as you clink glasses. What a good idea. We’ll save a little coin, we’ll take time for romance, we’ll re-examine what a beautiful life we lead in the comfort of our own home.
This past weekend, I took my stepdaughter to Chicago for camp. We’d had an incredibly lucky drive up (no traffic, killer parking spots, even a tasty lunch) that culminated in arriving at our hotel to find, a), free parking and WIFI, b), an unexpected outlet mall nearby and, c), a Giordano’s pizza restaurant a short walk away. So upon embarking home the next day, it was with a mild sense of doom. I knew, after all, that if there were a luck bank, I had maxed out my account the day before. And the only way to fill it back up was with bad luck installments.
We had ourselves a mission. Or, least, I had assigned everyone one. The goal was to make the seven-mile return trek to New Victoria Fish in Montreal. We’d all applied sunscreen, filled water bottles, had cash in our pockets. Peter had his sports sandals velcroed, my mom had her sneaks on, William was sporting his Ferrari cap. It was game time.
Sometimes column topics take hours to come up with. Sometimes they punch you in the face. This week, the punch happened. Because? Cheese. Duh. My most favorite food in the world (tied with bread). How is it possible I’ve never written about my deep love for it? Come up with an ode, ballad, even limerick on its behalf? Well, the time has arrived. Presenting: Cheese, a love letter.
Last night, my husband gave me Jupiter for dessert.