Still on the Quest

Want Tuna Casserole. Don't ask me why.

Have tuna and little cans of peas. Invest in cream of mushroom soup and elbow noodles.

Don't look up any recipes until the noodles were noodling.

Recipe wants cheese and breadcrumbs. Don't have cheese. Don't have breadcrumbs. Do have crackers. Most important thing recipe provides is time and temperature of oven.

Noodles are done. Begin to assemble casserole.

Discover little can of peas isn't peas. It's corn. Additional cans prove to be cream corn or greenbeans. Go with the greenbeans.

Manage to get tuna juice all over fingers. Ah well.

Can't get all of the cream of mushroom soup out of the can without violence and not feeling violent. But it is annoying. Poptop lid leaves a rim that blocks my spoon. Ah well.

Casserole dish is just barely large enough to hold noodles, soup, beans. After careful mixing, mash the lot down and top with crackers and a bit of butter.

Bake.

Eat.

Okay, it's a bit strange. But it's good strange. And it certainly explains why my sink is full of dirty dishes again.

Just woke up and did the Oh-Dark-Thirty shovelling of my tiny scrap of sidewalk. It really isn't a lot of concrete to worry about, except that my house faces north and is in the middle of the row, so this time of year the front walk is perpetually in shadow. If you don't keep it clear, icebergs form out there, and taunt you with your puny muscles and plastic implements should you be foolish enough to think you can remove them before the city fathers descend with grim satisfaction to leave you a twenty-five dollar ticket.

Not that I'd be the one to pay it, mind. I rent, and there are people upstairs who own. But I also am on the first floor, and have made myself acquainted with the little old ladies and gentlemen down the street whose necks are on the line. So I shovel.

Sometimes, it's an exercise in futility -- or seems to be. This is one of those storms where the snow keeps packing up against the side of the house, and up the front stairs, and even all the way up the doorjamb, so that when you open the door there's a crust of the cold stuff that hangs there like some kind of mad arctictect's idea of cleverness. "Look, if we make the doorway a more Interesting Shape, you can impress people with you agility as you leap past the layers!"

Or knock the snow off with your broom, whichever.

Then, of course, you have to unbury the steps. I am seriously envious of the people next door, who spent money this year to add a second door at the bottom of their steps. It's not an uncommon thing to do -- I'd say that more than half of the buildings on this side of the street have enclosed their entryways. But we haven't, so the shovel has to be employed before you can even take a step outside.

The wind, the way it is tonight, won't let you close the door properly if you've forgotten your keys. You can see it sending snow skirling up into the hall, like Marley's ghosts skittering up to go see Scrooge. Best to shovel quick, and get back inside.

One step, two, three, four. I shoveled before I went to bed and cleared these steps, but you'd never know it. The wind has drifted the snow into piles so deep that not even boots would save me if I were fool enough to step into one of the delicate shapes.

Which are HEAVY! For all that the wind is pushing the snow around like it might be the powdery kind, truth is, this close to the ocean, the snow has plenty of moisture. Just clearing the steps has me puffing a bit. Thank goodness for nice long heavy scarves.

The wind has actually cleared half the sidewalk, almost to the pavement, but that means more has piled up beside the building. I go along, breaking up the drift and pitching it out to where the wind picks it up. I'm only clearing half the sidewalk tonight. Boston has funny rules. If you don't shovel, you get fined, but if you throw the snow into the street, you get fined more. Not really a problem at the moment. Give this stuff a bit of loft and it instantly becomes someone else's mess. The wind is worse than the snow right now. I'm halfway along the walk when a gust picks up and tries to lift me and my shovel along with the snow. It's all I can do to just stand and wait for it to ease up, watching the snow swirl away down the street and pile up against trees and cars and other people's steps.

By the time I get to the end of my stretch of sidewalk -- and we're talking about a stretch that I can walk on a normal day in fewer than four seconds -- there is already a thin layer of snow on the steps. I dash inside and catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. My coat is coated with snow, and so are my hat and scarf. My hands are mumbling imprecations at me -- next time I better remember my mittens.

But at least inside it is warm. And quiet. If I listen now I can hear the wind. It's so muffled by snow I'd underestimated it before I went out, but I've got it's measure now. Time to crawl back under the covers and wait for the alarm to go off once again. I expect by then, the stairs will be buried and all. But I don't mind. I've already seen what the neighbors' walks look like, and I'm well ahead of the game.

Let it snow!

The other evening I left the T at Downtown crossing because it was pretty clear that there were a gazillion people waiting for a late orange line train, and it was going to be a whole lot easier, and more comfortable, to walk the few blocks over to the blue line and get home that way.

Of course, once I was above ground I was in the temptation zone, and I decided to have some chili at Wendy's for dinner instead of crawling home and staring uselessly into the refrigerator. Got my chili, looked for a seat, found one, much to the annoyance of the guy who had spread his stuff over chairs at three tables. (No, actually, your backpack does not count as a "person", so I can sit opposite it quite happily.) Squirted the not-quite-sour-cream (acidulated?) into my chili, crunched up my crackers and deposited them into same, took a sip of Dr. Pepper and began to dine.

As I ate, I read, and was about halfway down the container when I heard someone say "Nice hat!"

Now, I get "nice hat!" a lot, because I usually wear a black cowboy hat with indian bead trim. Particularly from street folks, who spend a lot of time people watching. But on this occasion I was wearing a bright orange knit creation with two dangly bobbles at the bottom and one bobbly bit at the top, and so far it hasn't yet attracted the same kind of attention.

I turned to thank my admirer and found myself eyeball to eyeball with a little old lady -- emphasis on the little! (Remember I was still sitting down.) She leaned on her cane, eyeing my hat gleefully and said, "I wore one that same color to school on Saint Patrick's Day when I was a girl."

"That must have been interesting," I said, since by her accent she'd grown up in or near Southie.

"Oh yes," she giggled wickedly. "Mrs. Murphy made me go to the principal."

I raised an eyebrow. "You wore it deliberately?"

"Yes!" she said, enjoying my astonishment. "I was always the one who would do things when I was a girl. If you were afraid to do it, you'd ask me, and I'd do it for you."

I laughed. "You must have had a wonderful time."

"I did," she said, with great satisfaction. "Nice talking to you!" and off she went to get her supper. As I was leaving I saw her again and complimented her on her choices.

"That looks good," I said.

"Yes," she said. "It's a dinner of 'I didn't have to cook' and that's always good."

We said our goodnights, but today I saw her again as I went through one of the T stations. She was wearing a soft beret in the hottest pink this side of 1978.

"Hey," I said. "Nice hat!"

There will come soft rains...

There are times when I am reminded once again that I was born and raised on the other side of the dry line. Tonight is one of them.

As an adolescent discovering Sara Teasdale via Ray Bradbury, and getting sappy over O Western Wind with its talk of "small rains", I never really knew what I was reading about. I lived in Denver, land of the the three o'clock thundershower. To me, rain was something that only happened when a bunch of water molecules huddled together for courage and then dashed to the ground as fast as possible -- probably to avoid evaporating before they reached the surface.

I'd seen mist -- honest I had! Drive high enough up in the hills and sooner or later you'll come across a cloud which hasn't got the sense to avoid getting pinned on a few pine trees near a mountaintop. But mountaintop mist is a pale and wispy thing indeed. Chilly. Damp. It hardly ever pretends to be rain, and it nearly never tries to creep down the back of your neck without warning. When Sally Watson, in Poor Felicity had one of the characters say that even if it was raining, it wasn't the wet kind of rain, I nodded, but I did not comprehend.

( I live in Boston now. )

A bath is a good and glorious thing.

After living in an apartment with only a shower for over a decade, it must be confessed that selecting a new abode was made simpler for me when the choice included lodgings equipped with a large, friendly tub. Showers do for every day, but once a week I have made it my habit to ensconce myself in a vat of hot bubbly water, generally with a book in my hands and my dinner at my elbow. Often, I choose to patronize my local cafe, rather than cook my own food,in the knowledge that luxuries should be as luxurious as they safely might.

The local cafe denizens, unaware of any oddity in my prandial positioning, invariably provide the little niceties which might be required in the absence of soap and water -- napkins and so forth. Included among the sundries are usually such condiments as might enhance the viands I have selected for the evening. But occasionally, an enthusiastic packer provides more.

Tonight I dined on a cheeseburger and french fries. I had two little packets of ketchup, which I caught before they fell out of the bag, and a napkin, which I did not, and had to consign to the wastebasket in a sodden lump. But the food tasted good, the book was well written, and all in all the bath went well.

As the fragrant froth diminished and the temperature of the water began to fall, I decided to depart, and reached forward to pull the plug, pushing aside the last cluster of bubbles in my path.

Imagine my surprise when I found one of those little plastic tubs, and a loose foil cover, floating on the gentle waves.

Ladies and Gentlemen -- I have been buttered.

Experimented with Welsh rabbit to go along with the experimental White Zinfandel I bought (I'm a teetotaller normally, but I'm researching a story.)

Okay. Forgot to buy porter when I got the Zinfandel, so I popped around to the little liquor store in the square. I asked for porter and the little Chinese lady behind the counter just blinked at me. "Beer," I expanded and she pointed me at the coolers with a very vague wave. There was something called itself porter, but they wanted me to buy the sixpack and that wasn't worth it. I ended up buying a can of Guinness, which is stout, but probably from the right islands, right?

Printed out the recipe from Alton Brown. Realized I forgot the cream, again, but I had a jar of English clotted cream I meant to use up months ago in the fridge. It's cream, right? And I didn't feel like going out again.

So, assemble ingredients. Dry mustard, got it. Worcestershire sauce -- just enough at the bottom of the bottle. Kosher salt, ditto. Pepper -- well, it ain't fresh ground, but it'll do. Butter. Toast. Get that ready first. Flour... pry flour out of freezer, which is icing over again dammit, and try to remember that I need to go to Sears and find out about a new gasket. Refrigerator is less than five years old, but the darn freezer just won't stay sealed. Butter -- yup. Measure things into cups like Alton does so I don't have to try to do it later. Shred cheddar. All set? Put the butter in the saucepan and start whisking in the... dammit I forgot to measure the flour.

Quickly get flour from bag and add to already melted and starting to turn brown butter. Whisk like a madwoman. 2 minutes and the stuff isn't going to turn brown yet? Alton are you mad? Wait, he's got it on medium heat and I'm remembering a different roux recipe. Too late, add the worcestershire salt and pepper and then the beer and turn down the heat while opening the clotted cream.

Clotted. My god, it isn't clotted, it's SOLID! A spatula won't do it, it takes a steak knife to start persuading this stuff out of the jar and into my dark brown mess. Turn the heat off entirely and keep persuading, stirring now and then to try to get the cream to melt. (Which it does, actually.) At this point there's no hope, so add the cheese anyway a bit at a time, stirring and stirring and well, it doesn't taste absolutely awful... oops, add the mustard and the hot... what hot sauce? Alton!!! Oh, there it is, right in the ingredients list. 2 drops. I must have hot sauce here somewhere, but for two drops, I'll be a wimp.

Cut up the toast on the plate and spoon... er... squidge the lumpy cheese stuff onto it. There's way too much for any human being to eat, so leave that to settle on the turned off burner. Fetch out little bitty bottle of White Zinfandel...

Eat. Drink.

Think.

Well, it's not actually awful... Might be a good combination when made by someone who knows what he's doing. Maybe.

And the remaining cheese sauce may be okay -- it got a lot less lumpy left to its own. i'll add a bit of milk to it and heat it up again later this week to try again.

But on the whole... well... maybe I should stick to frozen food.

Flying is one of the stranger things people do, and it's not just because we don't have wings. You go to the airport ridiculously early and skim through all of the obstacles that were the reason you came early without any delay at all, then sit in a waiting area getting gradually stiffer before you plan to go into a big box and sit confined for several hours. Then you get in the box, strap yourself in, get subjected to noise and boredom until your brains begin to leak and while you're stunned they rearrange the planet. Very strange.

(Although I must say the mousie at Logan Airport did provide some amusement this time. It wasn't a local mouse -- they are small and grey with more tail than body. This mouse was sleek and tan, a hare-mouse to Boston's rabbit-mice. Not afraid of people, apparently. I'll admit to wishing it well in its efforts to avoid capture.)

I got home last night, wandered through the living room and kitchen, shedding attire and acquiring something to drink, sauntered into the bedroom, sat down at my big old rolltop desk, peeled off my glasses, and turned on my computer, all on autopilot. I sipped at my drink while the computer played the Bill Gates song and chuckled itself to life, letting the brain cells idle after a long day of work. My desktop came to life, Sam Gamgee looking fraught on the slopes of Mount Doom through a forest of little icons that probably ought to be collected into folders soon. My hand reached for the mouse. I clicked on the little icon that would connect me to the world...

PAGE NOT FOUND.

*blink*

Hmmm. I thought. Perhaps the kerfuffle at LJ has finally melted their servers. I'll try checking my e-mail.

*typetytypetytype*

PAGE NOT FOUND.

Uh-ooooh.

*typetytypetytype*

PAGE NOT FOUND.

Visions of disaster flashed through my brain. Somewhere a thousand million monkeys typing all at once had failed to produce Hamlet, and instead had foisted a computer virus of such virulence upon the world that no CDC quarantine could prevent catastrophe.

"Oh, Woe! The Internet Has Gone Toes Up!" I exclaimed, and reached for my phone to call my mother and bid her a fond adieu before the asteroid arrived and turned the planet over to the cockroaches.

NO DIAL TONE.

"That's it, time to run screaming into the streets!" I got to my feet, preparing to spread hysteria and fear, when I noticed that the lights on my modem appeared to be blinking in an unfamiliar pattern.

Putting my glasses back on, I confirmed this, and the brain cells which had gone into *notatwork* mode began to fire again.

CHECK THE WIRES, LUKE, Obi-wan Kenobi advised me from the poster on the wall. (He never does get my name right.)

But the wires were all plugged in, intact, complete.

Instantly, my brain cells divided into opposing camps. "We told you, we told you, the Internet has Gone to Meet Its Maker, and taken the phone system with it!" cried the Happy Panickers.

"Oh, come now," said the Pooh-pooh Few. "How on earth is Al Gore going to get the entire Internet into his house, and manage to squeeze in the phones, too?"

"Miniaturization?" Sarcasm City offered promptly. "First you squish all the ether part down into one little blob about the size of jelly donut, then you take the hardware and load it into a trash compactor..."

"Perhaps it's only this street," said a lonely voice, somewhere under the racket of the ongoing debate. "We lose the lights on a regular basis, why not the phone lines?"

Ah! A glimmer of light in a sea of despair!

"Perhaps it's only this house," Logical Lil went on, relentlessly. "The phone and the DSL are on the same line. Did you pay the phone bill?"

Did I pay the phone bill?

"Yes," I said firmly. "Yes, I paid... I mean I set up automatic payments... I mean, well, unless I screwed something up, yes I paid the phone bill."

So off I hiked to the nearest payphone. (No, I don't have a cellphone. Yet.) Called the nice repair people. Played silly buggers with the voicemail system. Asked for an agent. Got put on hold. Listened to the lovely music. Examined my fingernails. Listened to the lovely music. Went through my wallet. Listened to the lovely music. Investigated the coins in my pocket. (Ooh, look! A fifty-lira piece from Turkey!) Listened to the lovely music. Practiced my yoga breaths. Listened to the lovely music. Tried to wake up my foot. Listened to the lovely... "Yes, hello, er... why did I call? Who is this? Oh, yes, yes! That's it. I am calling because my phone isn't working."

The nice repair person did a test on my line which only lasted for one and a half songs and came back to tell me that there's a break in the outside lines. A repair crew will come to restore me to the arms of the universe.

How soon?

Up to forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours? No problem. I've got the internet at work *pauses in narration to hug keyboard* and it's not like I need to call anyone except my mom and my best friend to let them know that my phone is out in case they try to call me. I can do that before I leave the payphone, if only I can persuade it to accept Turkish lira.

So, I sauntered home, back to my apartment and wandered through the living room and kitchen, shedding attire and acquiring a snack, got to the bedroom, sat down at my desk, peeled off my glasses and fired up the computer, listening to the Bill Gates song as I spread peanut butter over celery sticks to fill in the time. I was crunching happily when I reached for the mouse, clicked on the little icon and ...

PAGE NOT FOUND.

Right.

No internet.

For two days.

I am sooooo addicted.






*sigh*

A week and a half later and I still get weepy. But then again, I get weepy pretty easily. I've always been the one to burst into tears over sick kitties or skinned knees or wonderful sunsets or, well, whatever. But I never had a name for it until my grandmother died.

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