The summer weather on the mid-Atlantic portion of east coast is always hot and humid, with the exception last year's gorgeous temperatures, and summer is now fully upon us. For the second time in a month, our air conditioner is experiencing technical difficulties, and I am told that the replacement part for the condenser will be another five days in transit before it can possibly be put in place to cool us off.
I'm sure by now my second-grader knows very well how to spell the word "sweat". It apparently was 98 degrees Farenheit yesterday afternoon, feeling more like 101 ("they" said), but I've become so used to living with the heat that I can't say it bothered me as much as I would have expected.
My husband and I prefer natural air to recycled air anyway, and we are frequently the last in our neighborhood to turn on the AC in summer. For one thing, the condensers are loud, and living in close quarters to our neighbors as we do, it becomes a challenge to ignore the loud hum of the machines. It is interesting to see how dependent we humans become on air conditioning once we give in to the temptation of turning it on. We decide we cannot possibly survive without it. We're melting (like the witch in the Wizard of OZ?); we feel we're dying of the heat and humidity; we find ourselves unable to accomplish much of anything as our limbs are so heavy and we are so sleepy. We're just plain exhausted.
A number of things come to mind.
1) The heat really can make people ill, and the elderly and those with respiratory ailments must be very careful.
2) One does need to hydrate to make up for fluids lost to perspiration.
3) And I will confess that the extreme heat and humidity can make me terribly sluggish. I really do feel as if I could curl up and spend the day sleeping. I'm reminded of those desert animals that sleep in the hottest part of the day and come out once the temperature has dropped to a more manageable level.
Yesterday I was talking with my father-in-law about what people did in previous decades to achieve maximum summer heat avoidance [It is always fascinating to talk to people about those aspects of life B.M. T. (Before My Time) that never seem to make the history books and documentaries.). In dry hot climates, a method known as evaporative cooling (as opposed to refrigerative cooling, the method we call air conditioning] was used. I looked this up on Wikipedia, and, not surprisingly, this low-tech method has been used throughout history wherever the climate was hot and dry enough to put it to good use.
Unfortunately, where we live, the air already has enough water in it to sink the nearest battleship, so I guess we're stuck with the more expensive type of air cooling, refrigerative, which uses freon, (just like your refrigerator) and which actually removes moisture from the air. The cooled air is what allows us to put in a normal day's work without needing a three hour siesta and without feeling like we're moving in slow motion in the process.
The one beef I really have with this technology that I can't bring myself to live without, however, is that when I do spend my days in air conditioning—and sometimes very cold air conditioning—I feel as if I'm missing out on the season that, as a child, I used to long for throughout the other three seasons of the year. God forbid I catch a summer cold as a result of freezing indoors, and before I know it, it's time for school, football games, schedules, driving hither and yon, a new round of cold & flu season, and . . . you get the picture.
I like to get really sick of the heat so that Fall is a welcome relief. So, I guess this blog post is ultimately an affirmation of the heat of summer and an acceptance of the air condition-less state of my house. Others may express sympathy, but in a way it is a blessing. I may yet reach that point of summer heat saturation by the time Fall rolls around, and I will have the satisfaction of knowing that I can welcome Autumn's cool, having spent June, July, and August going all melty around the edges, as I am supposed to.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sophie
1996—
Wrenching open the lowest cabinet door, the little red haired girl reached in and grabbed the family-sized box of cornflakes. Too big for her little hand, the box bumped into the rim of the cabinet, flying out of her hand and landing flat on its side on the linoleum.
"Uh oh," she exclaimed loudly, picking it up and pushing the cabinet door closed with a bang.
As she hugged the box tightly to the chest of her red footie pajamas, she marched to the table in the corner of the kitchen like a medieval courier relaying an important document to the king.
Whump! She slammed the box down on the smooth wooden surface. The box responded by falling over with a thud.
She shuffled over to the shelf beneath the window where her plates, bowls, forks, spoons, knives and cups awaited her summons. Being especially careful not to knock anything over, she removed one bowl and one spoon from the collection and took them over to the table to join the box of cereal, still lying on its side.
Climbing onto the adult-sized wooden chair, she poised herself to prepare her breakfast. With a determined look of concentration, she opened the colorful cardboard box and uncrumpled the waxed paper. She positioned her bowl just before her, then . . . out came the golden-brown flakes of cereal with a sound like rustling leaves. Gently shaking, shaking the box, the little girl poured until her bowl was full.
She had just gone to the refrigerator to get the red and white carton of milk and was setting it down on the table when her father, with a loud yawn, walked in, tying the belt on his bathrobe.
"Hey, kiddo, do you want me to get the sugar bowl down for you?" he asked, tousling her hair and giving her a kiss on the forehead.
"No. No sugar. I don't like sugar on my cereal, silly Daddy!" she scolded. Her lips pursed and eyes focused, she cautiously poured the milk over her breakfast.
"Okay, okay," her father laughed as opened the can of coffee. "I was just asking."
Her little pajama-clad feet dangling under the table, the little girl with the red hair happily munched her cereal as she began another sunny Saturday morning.
Wrenching open the lowest cabinet door, the little red haired girl reached in and grabbed the family-sized box of cornflakes. Too big for her little hand, the box bumped into the rim of the cabinet, flying out of her hand and landing flat on its side on the linoleum.
"Uh oh," she exclaimed loudly, picking it up and pushing the cabinet door closed with a bang.
As she hugged the box tightly to the chest of her red footie pajamas, she marched to the table in the corner of the kitchen like a medieval courier relaying an important document to the king.
Whump! She slammed the box down on the smooth wooden surface. The box responded by falling over with a thud.
She shuffled over to the shelf beneath the window where her plates, bowls, forks, spoons, knives and cups awaited her summons. Being especially careful not to knock anything over, she removed one bowl and one spoon from the collection and took them over to the table to join the box of cereal, still lying on its side.
Climbing onto the adult-sized wooden chair, she poised herself to prepare her breakfast. With a determined look of concentration, she opened the colorful cardboard box and uncrumpled the waxed paper. She positioned her bowl just before her, then . . . out came the golden-brown flakes of cereal with a sound like rustling leaves. Gently shaking, shaking the box, the little girl poured until her bowl was full.
She had just gone to the refrigerator to get the red and white carton of milk and was setting it down on the table when her father, with a loud yawn, walked in, tying the belt on his bathrobe.
"Hey, kiddo, do you want me to get the sugar bowl down for you?" he asked, tousling her hair and giving her a kiss on the forehead.
"No. No sugar. I don't like sugar on my cereal, silly Daddy!" she scolded. Her lips pursed and eyes focused, she cautiously poured the milk over her breakfast.
"Okay, okay," her father laughed as opened the can of coffee. "I was just asking."
Her little pajama-clad feet dangling under the table, the little girl with the red hair happily munched her cereal as she began another sunny Saturday morning.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Is too much flavor possible?
Or maybe I should call this one, "When Good Food Goes Bad."
I've now visited a second restaurant in my life that was memorable for providing too much flavor. Yes, I just said too much flavor. Perhaps it was not so much a problem of too much flavor as a problem of too much salt. Salt is frequently the culprit in these cases, but I'll have to think about this one.
The first place was a restaurant in Boston called Pignoli, which I understand from web reviews is closed, no longer in operation (hey, it was in the '90's). The fare was mediterranean with a heavy emphasis on Italian flavors as I recall. My husband and I were thrilled with the appetizer and couldn't wait to tuck into the ensuing courses. We soon found, however, that our poor mouths were screaming for water and a place to curl up in the fetal position in the face of the onslaught of this rather expensive and presumably sophisticated cuisine. Too sophisticated for its own good as it turned out.
Fast forward fifteen or so years, and today we found ourselves, not for the first time, in a restaurant about which I've only heard rave reviews. Arties. It is not far from us, so it's easy enough for us to steal away for a meal now and then if we like. Today was our second visit to this restaurant, and I must say, I was hoping for a milder tasting experience the second time around.
The first time, hubby and I both had a smoked beef short rib that was, as they say in the vernacular, "to die for." It was very good, if very intense. Not normally a problem when paired with a mac & cheese dish, as the carb generally provides a built-in "rest" for the taste buds. This MAC & CHEESE (yes, I meant to put that in all caps) was, however, a force to be reckoned with. It could have, and should have, been a course unto itself. Parmesan bread-crumb crusted (plus garlic) mac & cheese: crunchy on the top, flavorful and gooey on the inside, comfort foody all the way around. But just not with the intense, smokey BBQ flavor of the ribs, okay?
Today, we each had a bowl of lobster bisque that was incredible for the first five spoonfuls, but became a bit excessive with each successive mouthful. Too much cream, too much salt, too much flavor, too much soup. I could have left the table after the soup and not needed to eat again for a few hours. The bread was very nice, but not equal to the task of cutting the heaviness of the soup. Had there been half as much soup, the effect may have been better.
The next course was a caesar salad, which we split. I ate only half of my half of the salad. Why? See above.
Finally, the pecan crusted flounder. Unfortunately, my palate had been so besieged by this point that it had given up and thrust out the white flag. Three bites and a doggy bag was the only possible response.
Did I forget to mention the healthy sized Bloody Marys we each sipped on throughout the meal? We hardly ever have those, so it was a real treat at first, but . . . ah well. Thankfully we had tall glasses of cold water to come to the rescue.
The service was very good, our wait person very attentive and friendly, the atmosphere inviting, and the well-above-average prices to be expected. As I said in a review on a different site, however, it seemed that there must have been a cook-off happening in the kitchen while the judges were taking a cigarette break. It's a shame to have food that is so good—really, it was—that turns on you mid-plate because every last bite of it is in your face. If you'll pardon the expression.
I may be willing to give it another go, but I think I may order an entree a la carte with some French fries on the side next time. And if even the fries are too flavorful, well then, good heavens, I don't know what the world is coming to. I'd hate to see the Golden Arches win a fry-off!
I've now visited a second restaurant in my life that was memorable for providing too much flavor. Yes, I just said too much flavor. Perhaps it was not so much a problem of too much flavor as a problem of too much salt. Salt is frequently the culprit in these cases, but I'll have to think about this one.
The first place was a restaurant in Boston called Pignoli, which I understand from web reviews is closed, no longer in operation (hey, it was in the '90's). The fare was mediterranean with a heavy emphasis on Italian flavors as I recall. My husband and I were thrilled with the appetizer and couldn't wait to tuck into the ensuing courses. We soon found, however, that our poor mouths were screaming for water and a place to curl up in the fetal position in the face of the onslaught of this rather expensive and presumably sophisticated cuisine. Too sophisticated for its own good as it turned out.
Fast forward fifteen or so years, and today we found ourselves, not for the first time, in a restaurant about which I've only heard rave reviews. Arties. It is not far from us, so it's easy enough for us to steal away for a meal now and then if we like. Today was our second visit to this restaurant, and I must say, I was hoping for a milder tasting experience the second time around.
The first time, hubby and I both had a smoked beef short rib that was, as they say in the vernacular, "to die for." It was very good, if very intense. Not normally a problem when paired with a mac & cheese dish, as the carb generally provides a built-in "rest" for the taste buds. This MAC & CHEESE (yes, I meant to put that in all caps) was, however, a force to be reckoned with. It could have, and should have, been a course unto itself. Parmesan bread-crumb crusted (plus garlic) mac & cheese: crunchy on the top, flavorful and gooey on the inside, comfort foody all the way around. But just not with the intense, smokey BBQ flavor of the ribs, okay?
Today, we each had a bowl of lobster bisque that was incredible for the first five spoonfuls, but became a bit excessive with each successive mouthful. Too much cream, too much salt, too much flavor, too much soup. I could have left the table after the soup and not needed to eat again for a few hours. The bread was very nice, but not equal to the task of cutting the heaviness of the soup. Had there been half as much soup, the effect may have been better.
The next course was a caesar salad, which we split. I ate only half of my half of the salad. Why? See above.
Finally, the pecan crusted flounder. Unfortunately, my palate had been so besieged by this point that it had given up and thrust out the white flag. Three bites and a doggy bag was the only possible response.
Did I forget to mention the healthy sized Bloody Marys we each sipped on throughout the meal? We hardly ever have those, so it was a real treat at first, but . . . ah well. Thankfully we had tall glasses of cold water to come to the rescue.
The service was very good, our wait person very attentive and friendly, the atmosphere inviting, and the well-above-average prices to be expected. As I said in a review on a different site, however, it seemed that there must have been a cook-off happening in the kitchen while the judges were taking a cigarette break. It's a shame to have food that is so good—really, it was—that turns on you mid-plate because every last bite of it is in your face. If you'll pardon the expression.
I may be willing to give it another go, but I think I may order an entree a la carte with some French fries on the side next time. And if even the fries are too flavorful, well then, good heavens, I don't know what the world is coming to. I'd hate to see the Golden Arches win a fry-off!
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Prayer for a Good Man
His name is Joseph, and he has been diagnosed with Stage III Carcinoma of the stomach. He is not very old, certainly by today's standards, just 69 years of age. He has three children and seven grandchildren. As long as I have known him he has been generous and genial. He's not a flashy person, though he has the means to be.
My prayer is for one of those rare things known as a Complete Miracle, which requires Divine Intervention. I know that modern medicine can do many things, but cancer is still one of those frontiers that has yet to be conquered, and anyone who is being honest with him or herself will agree that regardless of prognosis or level of care, it is a very scary thing.
Please, God, have Mercy on the suffering servant of God, Joseph, and raise him from the bed of sickness that he might be healed.
My prayer is for one of those rare things known as a Complete Miracle, which requires Divine Intervention. I know that modern medicine can do many things, but cancer is still one of those frontiers that has yet to be conquered, and anyone who is being honest with him or herself will agree that regardless of prognosis or level of care, it is a very scary thing.
Please, God, have Mercy on the suffering servant of God, Joseph, and raise him from the bed of sickness that he might be healed.
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