Summer Heat

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.

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.

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!

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.

Memorial Day

I know I have nothing much to add to the discussion of the meaning and observation of Memorial Day, but I would still like to salute the men and women who have fought and died in the creation and defense of our country.

My ancestors served with George Washington in the War for Independence, the Civil War, and World War II, among others. More recently, I had a cousin killed in Karbala, Iraq in 2004. I would feel remiss in neglecting to remember and honor the sacrifices that these people and their loved ones have made over the (roughly) two-and-a-half centuries of our nation's existence if I did not post something here when I have the venue and the opportunity to do so.

I've traveled a little bit, even lived abroad for a few years, and I can tell you that there are good things we could learn from some of the other countries with whom we share the planet. But I will also say that the good things we have in our own country should never be taken for granted, or we will surely lose them.

Sure, we need to tweak a few things now and then to make them work better; on occasion we may need to face the reality that an overhaul is necessary (the exception, not the rule, please); and there may be times that we find someone else has a better solution to a problem than we do. We're big enough to do these things without rancor if we put our minds to it.

And yes, I'll go ahead and say it, there are times when we should be able and willing to tell others that we are not going to change the way we do some things—end of story.

Our history is not perfect (show me the land whose is), and there is always room for improvement. But today is the day, every year at this time, when we can stop and thank the people who make all of the above possible. To them and their families, I say thank you.

Happy Memorial Day.

Machismo vs. Masculinity and Happy Father's Day

A truly superior man is a thing of beauty. Trust me. I know a few of them. One of the traits that makes them masculine is humility, which is the one thing macho dudes most lack. Another of trait of the superior man is his gentleness. Ironic, isn't it?

Masculinity is the quality of being a man with all the traits typically associated with men. For me, the primary difference between machismo and masculinity lies in the application of those manly qualities in a way that is helpful to others and to society as a whole. 

Machismo. According to www.thefreedictionary.com, "machismo" is 


1. A strong or exaggerated sense of masculinity stressing attributes such as physical courage, virility, domination of women, and aggressiveness.
2. An exaggerated sense of strength or toughness.

Clearly, they are not the same thing.

This morning my husband and I were discussing someone we know, a very nice man in his thirties who has finally been knocked around a little by life—the school of hard knocks, I believe is what we call it—and we were agreeing that this friend has been playing a very stereotypically male role, his duties and responsibilities in his marriage apart and separate from his wife's, very stoic and proper. Men belong in the waiting room while their wives are delivering babies (Guys, women can smell fear; you're not fooling anyone—especially your wife.) and all that. But I don't mean "macho."


Or do I?


I think we generally tend to imagine macho men as half-human, half gorilla (sorry guys, it's true, and I should probably apologize to the world's gorilla population as well). The macho man is the stereotypical man who has to show everyone who's boss, who's tough, who's physical prowess is unsurpassed, who's the king of the proverbial hill, blah, blah, blah . . . 


What such men should understand—though they're not likely to be the type who would even know how to find a blog, much less read one—is that they are parodies of what a real man is in the real world. Somewhere along the way, they have either been taught, or willingly adopted, the idea that a real man lives by the "might makes right" philosphy of life. "I'm bigger and stronger than you are, and, therefore, I am also superior. You have to play my game by my rules or I'll hurt you."


Much of the world operates this way. Reference the Taliban and other drug lords for starters. See also organized crime, gangs and dictatorships, and consider the privileged young athlete who recently offed his ex-girlfriend when she displeased him by, um, not being his girlfriend. Even big business throwing its money (and lawyers) around. And we won't even get into the issue of everyday domestic violence.


But what about the average bloke, like our friend, who assumes that because his mother cooked all his food, did all the dishes and the laundry and the housecleaning, etc., that his wife will naturally be taking care of all these duties as well? Survival skills consist of more than being able to tie knots, club and skin animals, or pull in a paycheck. Even in what we might consider the civilized world, there is machismo. It just sometimes takes a more subtle form that we might call chauvinism.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry when I see some men left to their own devices for any length of time. They run out of food. And clothes. And dishes for the food they've run out of. They don't know where to find anything. They look almost silly at times in their general "all-thumbsness" in their own homes. That is not even a satisfactory example of being self-reliant, never mind powerful.


In the executive world, machismo looks like the man who has to be the highest earner, the biggest boss, have the showiest house, the best-looking (and maybe youngest) wife or girlfriend. He's the power broker, the one drinking the most expensive alcohol, smoking the most expensive cigars, driving the most expensive cars, and wearing the most expensive clothes and jewelry. Impressive, isn't he?


Now, Gentlemen, don't get me wrong. There may be nothing inherently wrong with any of the above individual pursuits when they are kept in perspective—a few superlatives can even be very attractive.  The problem comes in when those pursuits take the place of the truly important things in life. You know, the things that actually make us human in the first place, like love and affection (not to be confused with lust, if you please), concern for the well-being of others, self-denial and self-sacrifice when called for, doing the right thing because it is the right thing to do, protecting and helping those whose physical and/or mental strength is not as great as your own, and the list goes on.


More than a few men in this life miss the reality that their relative physical strength is not a cause for gloating and triumphalism. It is a gift that is meant to be shared with others, rather than a weapon to be used against them or a power to be lorded over them. There is no basis for the assumption that they are superior human beings just because they are bigger, as so many of them in the world appear to have convinced themselves and one another.


As I said, a truly superior man is a thing of beauty. Though I know a number of men who would fall into this category, the one I will mention here is my husband. He is my best friend, my confidant, the person with whom I would gladly spend hours doing just about anything. He is intelligent, well-rounded, able to see another's point of view, even if he disagrees with it; he does laundry and dishes, has changed countless diapers, and I even have the most precious photos of him sleeping on beds, sofas, futons, and the floor with each of our four children when they were infants, toddlers, preschoolers. He doesn't need to prove himself to anyone—at least not outside of work, and even there he is goal-oriented, not blustery.


He's a fantastic teacher (because he is a willing student) and has an amazing sense of humor, which is a good thing during those moments when I lose mine; he is sensitive to the needs of others, but he can also push back when others are being unreasonable. He is active and engaged in the world around him; he's well-traveled, interested in people and places and is equally comfortable conversing with women and men, whether about news, sports, work, kids, or the most mundane daily experiences. In fact, I'm not sure if there are many subjects about which he couldn't converse to some degree if called upon to do so.


Finally (Thank goodness, you say?), he is the best father four daughters could possibly have. He listens—really listens—to them. And they know it. They bring him their highlights and their low points. He helps them brainstorm and problem-solve. They know that he would give his life for each of them if need be, as he would for me, also. He is not perfect, but he has set an incredibly high standard for any young man that might come into their lives, and the world is better for it. If every young woman could have such a father, the bar would be raised for every young man, and the quality of life the world over would improve beyond imagination.


My husband is not macho. He is masculine. 


Happy Father's Day to all the good fathers and men out there, and especially to you, Дорогой Николай!

Ah, Japan

Ah, Japan.

We will be there in the not-too-distant future, and I will do my best to find my camera, dust if off, and use it. Perhaps I will even figure out how to publish them here on my blog. Can't wait.