Girl Detective

#58 in my movie challenge for the year, A History of Violence, with Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello, and directed by David Cronenberg, was a strong, provocative film. The performances were across-the-board great. The film was not rushed even though it had a short running time; the story unspooled deliberately and economically. Based on a graphic novel, it tells the story of a man whose life is interrupted by violence, and who may have had a violent past. It questions whether violence can remain in the past. It is an interesting film to consider alongside I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, a film I watched earlier this year. There were some interesting similarities and differences between the two.

#91 in my book challenge for the year (am I going to make it to 100? I just don’t know!) was Big Mouth and Ugly Girl by Joyce Carol Oates. I’ve been so impressed recently by talented “adult” authors like Alison McGhee and Pete Hautman who have written books for the young adult market, and Oates’s book is another fine example. It’s about two high school misfits, Matt and Ursula, whose respective nicknames make the title. Matt gets in trouble because of his mouth. Ursula’s part of the story is told from her point of view, with insight into her perception of herself as Ugly Girl, and how that serves her. As their stories unfold and intertwine, both characters develop believably and in environments that are richly detailed. There is some ugliness in the book, but of the kind that a good young-adult author doesn’t shy from, and it’s redeemed by hope and character development. Good writing and good characters, and an auspicious introduction for me to the works of Oates, who I have not read before.

After I read and enjoyed the book, I checked out reviews for the movie. They were largely favorable, so I rented it, #57 in my movie challenge for the year. Alas, I can’t recommend the movie. It annoyed me, and diminished my affection for the book. Skip the movie; read the book.

I got a speeding ticket yesterday because I was close to home, driving back after lunch, looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw that Drake had fallen asleep. I knew if he continued to sleep, he wouldn’t nap when we got home. I’d had a bad night’s sleep the night before, and he’d had a rough morning, so we both needed naps.

Immediately, I reached back, jiggled his foot, started singing the ABCs at the top of my voice, and hit the accelerator. Alas, I wasn’t able to multi-task just a bit further to make sure my acceleration was within the speed limit, or notice the police car. I was written up for “unwarranted acceleration.” I guess that depends on your point of view. Kid falling asleep in car just before nap time within twenty blocks of home sure seemed warranted to me.

Or, more pithily, Biff, by Christopher Moore, was #90 in my book challenge for the year. It intrigued me when I first read about it, but I had just begun not to write down books, but to accrue enough recommendations or sightings that I could remember them without prompting. Biff definitely got enough recommendations from the media and from trusted reader friends that it earned a place on my reading list.

Biff has been resurrected by an angel in order to write a new gospel, one that fills in the blanks left by the Big Four. As noted in the title, Biff is Christ’s, or Joshua’s, friend since childhood. They get into trouble together, they fall in love with Maggie, and they bumble through a buddy tale in which they travel far, meet the three wise men, learn kung fu, confront demons, and more. Unfortunately for Moore, we all know how the story ends, and it isn’t well. The book is at its best imagining what might have happened in the thirty years after the birth narratives and before Joshua began preaching in earnest and on the record. The book is eminently quotable, with some genuinely hysterical scenes, as when a caffeinated Joshua decides to heal everyone he can in a marketplace. Moore’s book points out some of the common misconceptions and re-imagines them–the wise men aren’t kings, Mary of Magdalen isn’t a whore. This is a fun, funny, clever book. I didn’t find it life-changing, or overly thought-provoking, though.

I travelled to visit family for the holidays for about 18 years. It took that long for me to realize that holiday travel is usually more expensive, and always more stressful, than travel at off-peak times. I enjoy visiting with family a lot more when it happens at my convenience, and not by the national calendar.

The past few years my husband G. Grod and I have sought out other friends who are also on their own in Minnesota. This year, we split the cooking and celebrated with our neighbors from down the street and their two boys. We ate at normal dinner time, allowing the two-year olds their naps. Best of all, when the two-year olds decided they were done at the table, they got down and played with each other, leaving the rest of us to enjoy the dinner.

No one felt strongly about having a turkey, and no one wanted to cook one, so instead I made a Dr. Pepper glazed ham. We also had mashed potatoes, a sweet potato casserole, corn pudding, spinach salad, pumpkin pie, and bittersweet chocolate mousse cake.

Alas, I forgot to take photos before we ate, and my attempts to photograph individual servings later just looked gross and weird, so a verbal description will have to do. Everything turned out well, but the corn pudding (from the latest issue of Cook’s Country), made with cheddar cheese, heavy cream and a hit of cayenne, was particularly nice. The six-year old pronounced the mousse cake “yummy, yummy, yummy”. I’d never made the recipe before (it’s from Cook’s Illustrated), and it involved separating eight eggs, then whipping the egg whites and folding them into chocolate, and baking the cake in a water bath. Folding egg whites has always intimidated me, but the recipe turned out well, and the chocolate was a nice complement to the pumpkin, since of course I had to have both desserts.

The ham not only allowed for leftovers for both families, but I used the scraps and the bone to make my first-ever split pea soup, which turned out nicely plus made for another few meals. This thanksgiving I was grateful for good food, and for friends to share it with. And for not having to leave my house.

Dr. Pepper Glazed Ham
from Cook’s Country, Dec/Jan 2006

1/2 c. Dr. Pepper
3/4 c. light brown sugar
2 Tbl. fresh orange juice
2 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 spiral-sliced, bone-in half ham, 7 to 10 lbs., pref. shank end

1. Bring Dr. Pepper, sugar, orange juice, and mustard to a boil in medium saucepan. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until mixture is syrupy and measures 3/4 cup, about 8 minutes. (Glaze can be refrigerated for up to 2 days; reheat when needed.)
2. Remove ham from packaging and discard plastic disk that covers bone. Place ham in plastic oven bag, tie bag shut, and trim excess plastic. Set ham cut side down in 13 by 9 inch baking disch and cut 4 slits in top of bag. Let stand at room temperature for 1 1/2 hours.
3. Adjust oven rack to lowest position and heat oven to 250 degrees F. Bake ham until center registers about 100 degress in instant-read thermometer, 1 1/2 to 2 1/2 hours, about 14 minutes per pound.
4. Remove ham from oven and roll back sides of bag to expose ham. Brush ham liberally with glaze and return to oven briefly until glaze becomes sticky, about 10 minutes. Remove from oven, brush entire ham again with glaze, loosely cover with foil, and let rest for 30 to 40 minutes before serving.

Savory Corn Pudding
from Cook’s Country, Dec/Jan 2006

1 Tbl. unsalted butter, softened for greasing casserole dish
6 c. frozen corn
1 1/2 c. heavy cream
6 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 1/2 c. shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 Tbl. sugar
1/4 tsp. cayenne
3 Tbl. chopped fresh basil

1. Adjust oven rack to middle position and heat oven to 350 degrees. Grease 2 quart casserole dish with butter. Bring large kettle of water to boil for water bath. Bring 2 qts. water to boil in large saucepan for corn.
2. Add 1 Tbl. salt and corn to boiling water and cook for 1 minute. Drain in colander and dry with paper towels. Pulse 4 c. corn in food precessor until rough puree forms, about ten 1-second pulses. Transfer to large bowl and stir in remaining whole corn, 1 tsp. salt, cream, eggs, cheese, sugar, cayenne, and basil until combined.
3. Pour corn mixture into casserole and transfer dish to roasting pan. Pour boiling water from kettle into roasting pan until it comes halfway up sides of casserole dish. Place roasting pan in oven and bake until pudding is set and a few brown spots appear around edges, 40 to 45 minutes. Remove casserold from water bath, transfer to wire rack and let set for 5 to 10 minutes before serving.

To make ahead: Corn can be cooked, processed, and mixed with the whole corn, salt, cream, cheese, sugar and cayenne up to 2 days in advance. Refrigerate until ready, then stir in eggs and basil when ready to cook.

Bittersweet Chocolate Mousse Cake
from Cook’s Illustrated 11/2002

Because it is available in most supermarkets and has scored highly in past tastings, Hershey’s Special Dark is the chocolate of choice in this recipe. Other bittersweet chocolates will work, but because amounts of sugar and cocoa butter differ from brand to brand, they will produce cakes with slightly different textures and flavors. When crumbling the brown sugar to remove lumps, make sure that your fingers are clean and grease-free; any residual fat from butter or chocolate might hinder the whipping of the whites. If you like, dust the cake with confectioners’ sugar just before serving or top slices with a dollop of lightly sweetened whipped cream.

Makes one 9-inch cake, serving 12 to 16
12 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 1/2 sticks), cut into 12 pieces
1 teaspoon unsalted butter , softened, for greasing pan
unbleached all-purpose flour for dusting pan
12 ounces bittersweet chocolate (such as Hershey’s Special Dark), chopped
1 ounce unsweetened chocolate , chopped
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
8 large eggs , seperated
1/8 teaspoon table salt
2/3 cup packed light brown sugar (4 1/2 ounces), crumbled with fingers to remove lumps (see note)

1. Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and heat oven to 325 degrees. Butter sides of 9-inch springform pan; flour sides and tap out excess. Line bottom of pan with parchment or waxed paper round. Wrap bottom and sides of pan with large sheet of foil.

2. Melt 12 tablespoons butter and chocolates in large bowl over large saucepan containing about 2 quarts barely simmering water, stirring occasionally, until chocolate mixture is smooth. Cool mixture slightly, then whisk in vanilla and egg yolks. Set chocolate mixture aside, reserving hot water, covered, in saucepan.

3. In clean bowl of standing mixer fitted with whisk attachment, beat egg whites and salt at medium speed until frothy, about 30 seconds; add half of crumbled brown sugar, beat at high speed until combined, about 30 seconds, then add remaining brown sugar and continue to beat at high speed until soft peaks form when whisk is lifted (see photo, below), about 2 minutes longer. Using whisk, stir about one-third of beaten egg whites into chocolate mixture to lighten it, then fold in remaining egg whites in 2 additions using whisk. Gently scrape batter into prepared springform pan, set springform pan in large roasting pan, then pour hot water from saucepan to depth of 1 inch. Carefully slide roasting pan into oven; bake until cake has risen, is firm around edges, center has just set, and instant-read thermometer inserted into center registers about 170 degrees, 45 to 55 minutes.

4. Remove springform pan from water bath, discard foil, and cool on wire rack 10 minutes. Run thin-bladed paring knife between sides of pan and cake to loosen; cool cake in springform pan on wire rack until barely warm, about 3 hours, then wrap pan in plastic wrap and refrigerate until thoroughly chilled, at least 8 hours. (Cake can be refrigerated for up to 2 days.)

5. To unmold cake, remove sides of pan. Slide thin metal spatula between cake and pan bottom to loosen, then invert cake onto large plate, peel off parchment, and re-invert onto serving platter. To serve, use sharp, thin-bladed knife, dipping knife in pitcher of hot water and wiping blade before each cut.

#89 in my book challenge for the year was Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. It would be easy to review the book in a word: wow. As regular readers might know, though, I am not prone to under-writing. Alias Grace was recommended to me years ago by a trusted friend, and has sat accusingly on my bookshelf since. I found its size daunting, which made it all the more ironic when I read the first hundred pages, stopped to read another book for a deadline, then picked up Alias Grace again, and re-read those hundred pages again just because I could, because I wanted to, because they were that good. I flew through the rest of the book, so rapt with the story that I gave scant attention to the awe-inspiring mastery of Atwood’s prose.

What amused and sometimes discouraged me most read was how Atwood brazenly flouted conventional wisdom on how to write a novel. Phrases from writing instructors echoed in my head: don’t switch verb tense; don’t vary point of view; be wary of flashbacks and dreams. Atwood did all these and more. She is writing proof that rules are meant to be broken by those who can, and a novel need not be experimental and weird to break the rules. Alias Grace is a tremendous story written with astonishing skill, with Atwood’s trademark ambiguities that give so much credit to the reader for interpretation.

A few years ago my husband G. Grod and I subscribed for two seasons to the most well-known local theater. We saw some good shows, but two seasons was enough for me. In the end, all the plays seemed the same; the creative director had homogenized them to the point of blandness. This put me off theater for quite some time. Recently, though, I was seized with an urge for Shakespeare. With a baby due in less than three months, I will not soon have three hour chunks of time to do with as I wish. I was lucky in that I could choose between an all-male production of Measure for Measure at the aforementioned theater, or an all-female production of The Tempest at Theatre Unbound. The latter seemed an obvious choice.

The program for the production noted something else obvious, though it hadn’t occurred to me. Even though theater no longer insists that all its players be male, the number of roles for women is still quite small. Staging an all-female production gives more women the opportunity to play more Shakespeare.

The room was small, and the staging consisted only of a small number of props and some versatile drapes. This was a wise choice, as it let the audience focus on both the play itself and its gender-bending production. It was also a brave one, since The Tempest is a play with so many supernatural elements that it would be easy to justify an extravagant staging.

As with many productions some performances were forgettable, while others were striking. Caliban was played with such ferocious intensity that s/he was painful to watch, while Ariel was played with such humor and physical grace that s/he drew all eyes when on stage. The performance that most made me think, though, was that of Prospero. The actor was skilled, but her manly suit could not mask a motherly mien. To have the meddling father of Prospero embodied in a mother’s physique made me realize that the meddling is creepy no matter which parent is doing it.

Another upside to seeing The Tempest is that it is a short play. It is not one that is usually edited, so that when you see the production you are usually seeing the entire text enacted. I re-read the play for the performance, which was #88 in my book challenge for the year. A good and learned friend recommended the individual Arden editions to me years ago; they have since been my volumes of choice. My husband G. Grod prefers his Penguin omnibus, but I like one play at a time, even with scads of footnotes to a page, even when those footnotes are politely vague:

Act IV, Scene I, line 236. Now is the jerkin under the line…Malone records a suggestion that the jest is less decent than any of these conjectures.

My favorite line from the play has never been a famous one. It is spoken by the drunk:

I am not Stephano, but a cramp. (Act V, Scene I, line 286)

It was a particularly apt one, since the next morning my uterus decided to express outrage over who knows what, and began a series of painful but ultimately non-harmful cramps that landed me in the hospital on monitors for five hours. I’ve been resting and hydrating since, and all cramps have abated. Like the characters in The Tempest, I seem to have weathered this particular storm.

I feel as if I should come up with a standard disclaimer for when I haven’t posted in while. Kind readers, please know I don’t take you for granted. The last few weeks have been filled with pregnancy-related rest (I’m fine and Swimmy’s fine; we just need to rest) and crafting my very first query letter so I can finally send out the manuscript for my novel.

Stunning insight of yesterday: the more pregnant I get, the more rest I need.

Stunning insight of today: the more I rest, the less I get done.

But I continue to read, write, and watch movies and TV. I continue to challenge my brain into activity. Remember, the law of inertia concerns bodies, not minds.

Good Music; Bad Fashion At the urging of a local music critic, I went to see Mary Gauthier and Eliza Gilkyson at the Cedar Cultural Center last month. I’d heard both of them on The Current, but had not listened to either of them in depth. My friend Queenie and I left the kids with the husbands and had a moms night out. I’d forgotten what a civilized venue the Cedar is. It’s open seating, but we arrived within half an hour of the show and still had great seats near the stage. (My strategy for movie seating worked well–buck traffic and go to the sides. Everyone goes up the center.) It was strange being 37 at a concert and still among the younger members of the audience. I saw my future as a middle-aged Minnesotan. It was politically liberal, earnest, and having a good time, but not particularly well-dressed.

Two of the worst glamour don’ts were on the stage, though. Gauthier had on a pair of nice, well-fitting leather pants but her floral jacket had a large skull and Native American headdress on the back. Gilkyson, in her fifties, nonetheless has the arms to be able to go sleeveless without shame, but her tank was over a floaty skirt that was over a pair of tie-dyed pants. Fortunately, both women could sing and play guitar so well that their dubious fashion choices were not distracting for long.

Both had arresting voices, moving songs, and great guitar skills. Each also was accompanied by a different talented guy on guitar. The crowd kept to their seats except to demand encores of both performers. I’m abashed that a small quiet show is now the kind I enjoy, but it was so nice just to sit and listen to some really good singer/songwriter/musicians.

I have a friend who lives in Eagan, a Twin Cities suburb. I never envied her locale. It takes me a few highways to get there, and I have to travel at off-peak times, or I’d be stuck in traffic. Plus it’s a normal suburb: there’s not much to walk to and it’s full of chain stores and restaurants. When I read a review of Brianno’s, though, some envy began to nip at my brain. And when I tried it with my friend, the envy emerged full blown. Brianno’s is a gem to have close by. I took a closer look at the neighborhood I’m in, and there’s nothing to compare. I’ve got a family restaurant that’s sometimes good, a friendly coffee shop, a bad new pizza place, and a couple good Indian places that are not too far. What I do not have is a kick-ass Italian grocery and deli, with to-die-for sandwiches, which I will refer to as hoagies, because I moved here from Philly*.

I browsed Brianno’s shelves and freezers. They had every kind of dried pasta shape imaginable (my food coop doesn’t even carry farfalle) and cases full of pre-made foods: ravioli, lasagna, soups, and more. I restrained myself to the takeout order I’d come for, a full-size eggplant parmigiana hoagie, a half of a classic Italian hoagie, and a small size Caesar salad.

I imagined that I’d eat a quarter of the Italian hoagie, a quarter of the eggplant, the half salad, then split leftovers with my husband for lunch the next day. I was barely able to leave a bit of the Italian hoagie undevoured. It was a perfect blend of Italian meats and cheeses, with a vinaigrette on a great bun. The dressing on the salad was unexceptional, but the croutons were crisp and flavorful. The eggplant parmigiana was enveloped in a rich, meat-full sauce. Unfortunately for my husband, who took it to lunch the next day, the eggplant hoagie didn’t keep as well as my sliver of Italian hoagie did.

When I lived in Philly, I had a hard time finding a good hoagie. I lived in a little town just outside the city and there was nothing close. The best hoagies I had were from a place called The White House in Atlantic City, a trip that was both far and usually involved gambling. The trip to Eagan is shorter, and casino-free. I’d still give a lot to live closer to a really good hoagie shop.

*For your edification, here is the note about sandwich terminology from http://dictionary.com, excerpted from The American Heritage Dictionary, Fourth Edition.

Regional Note: The long sandwich featuring layers of meat and cheese on a crusty Italian roll or French bread goes by a variety of names. These names are not distributed in a pattern similar to that of other regional words because their use depends on the business and marketing enterprise of the people who create the sandwiches and sell them. Submarine and sub are widespread terms, not assignable to any particular region. Many of the localized terms are clustered in the northeast United States, where the greatest numbers of Italian Americans live. In Maine, it is called an Italian sandwich, befitting its heritage. Elsewhere in New England and in Sacramento, California, it is often called a grinder. New York City knows it as a hero. In the Delaware Valley, including Philadelphia and southern New Jersey, the sandwich is called a hoagie. Speakers in Miami use the name Cuban sandwich. Along the Gulf Coast the same sandwich is often called a poor boy. In New Orleans, a poor boy is likely to be offered in a version featuring fried oysters.

#56 in my movie challenge for the year, Undertow, directed by David Gordon Green, was a mixed bag. I was not surprised to learn that Terence Malick, the reclusive director of the masterpieces Badlands and Days of Heaven, was a producer. The film was very Malick-y, with long, often uncomfortable shots of individuals. It was set in a messed-up, rural locale, and very bad things happened to the characters. This was a very physical film, both for the actors and of the locale, which featured prominently. Ultimately, though, I side more with those who call it pretentious than those who claim it is a masterpiece. I found Greene’s camera work distracted but did not add to the story, which was ultimately too unsettling and non-redemptive for all the suffering it detailed. The performances, though, by Jamie Bell, Dermot Mulroney, and Joshua Lucas, were frighteningly powerful.

#87 in my book challenge for the year, The Skin Chairs by Barbara Comyns was lent to me by my friend Becca. It is told by 10 year old Frances, whose family falls upon hard times and must struggle to adjust. It is a novel of childhood, of pre-WWII England, and both a horror novel in some of the details it relates, as well as a romance for its happy ending. It is well-written, and the child’s voice is compelling, but I found the creepiness and the happy ending were strange bedfellows.

On the inside back cover of Consumer Reports, there is usually at least one example of a fraudulent or misleading magazine solicitation. My husband’s favorite is the one that was a check. When you endorsed it, you authorized someone to charge you for the cost of a subscription, which was, of course, greater than the amount of the check. I’ve had a spate of solicitations, recently, some more insidious than others.

One, from Cook’s Country, I would like to think is just an administrative error. It took me some time to renew my subscription, I did it online, then our next issue had the “YOUR LAST ISSUE” brand on it. I double checked to make sure we had indeed paid them; we had. So I ignored it, and hope that no more solicitations would be forthcoming. In my other interactions with Cook’s, they have been sometimes slow, but scrupulous, especially about renewing our online subscription.

Another, from Everyday Food, is a little more suspicious. Friends recommended the magazine, and I decided to give it a try and signed up for a new subscription online. I got the magazine promptly, but I also got a bill. And another. I checked to confirm that I paid them; I did. If I get one more bill I’ll probably cancel the subscription. The magazine is fine. It’s a nice digest size, and it has recipes that are easy to shop for and prepare. Unfortunately, as my father is fond of saying, everything is a compromise. I’ve found that the recipes compromise convenience for flavor. This is a magazine for good ideas, but I’ve not yet made a recipe good enough to make again. I was already uneasy about giving money to the Martha Stewart empire. While the magazine is good, it’s not good enough to excuse sloppy or deceptive billing.

Finally, last week I received a “bill” from Yoga Journal, a magazine I subscribed to a couple years ago. It’s a lovely magazine, with good paper quality, good yoga information, and many stories about the spiritual side of yoga that is often forgotten in its trendiness as exercise. Apparently, the spirituality does not extend to solicitation practice. The item I received said it was an invoice for a three year subscription for $65. Funny, I don’t recall having contacted them to request a subscription. I discarded the “bill”.

These are all good reminders of why I’ve cut my magazine subsciptions to almost nothing. Not only are you getting a magazine, you’re getting all their solicitations and sometimes solicitations from others. Subscriptions are a tempting deal. They are inexpensive compared to individual issues. They also play to your fear that you might “miss” something if you don’t get every issue. What I’ve found, though, is that my life is a lot simpler and less cluttered when I don’t have magazines and their solicitations piling up. And I have more time because I don’t have to check whether I’ve paid or not. If I don’t have a subscription, then I don’t owe them anything. I can pick up single issues on a whim, and I buy them rarely enough that they never add up to the cost of a subscription. I must, though, admit to having taken some magazines away from recent doctor appointments. This is not a practice I can really condone as a way to avoid subscriptions.

I spent the last hour on the phone with my health clinic so someone could explain what charges I was being billed for, and then with my insurance company, so someone could explain to me why my health clinic is billing me incorrectly and, apparently, unethically.

Why yes, I do have better things to do with my time, thank you for asking.

I have been increasingly unhappy with the quality of care I’ve been getting from the clinic, and now the billing is a problem, too. I don’t relish the thought of switching doctors and clinics mid-pregnancy, but it’s looking more and more like the thing to do.

It occurred to me today that before we pick a new healthcare provider, perhaps we should call the insurance company, and ask how their billing services are. We found our financial consultant this way–we asked a friend who was an underwriter which of the people he worked with gave him the least nonsense. Years later, we’re still thrilled with that choice, so I think there’s something to be said for checking references that way.

In the spirit of the upcoming food fests, here is my favorite easy pumpkin pie recipe. It turns out perfectly for me every time. Blend, pour, bake, cool, ta-da!

1 15-oz. can pumpkin
1 1/2 c. milk, or 1 13-oz. can evaporated milk
1/2 c. biscuit/pancake mix or 1/2 c. flour plus 3/4 tsp. baking powder
1 c. sugar
2 Tbl. butter, melted then cooled
2 large eggs, beaten
1 tsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. ground ginger
1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground cloves

Preheat oven to 350F. Grease a 9-inch glass or Pyrex pie plate.

Place all ingredients in blender; blend for 2 minutes. Pour mixture into pie plate and bake for about an hour, or till center is set and tester comes out clean. Cool. Serve with vanilla or ginger ice cream, or vanilla or maple whipped cream.

The cold snuck up on me this year. I live in Minnesota, so you might think cold wouldn’t be surprising. Yet in the seven and a half years I’ve lived here, I haven’t found Minnesota to be the daunting tundra that so many believe it to be. Yeah, it gets a little colder for a little longer in winter, and it’s a little less hot in summer, but the climate is not much different from the other two places I lived the longest, Philadelphia and central Ohio, the latter of which had a MUCH worse winter last year than we did here. In fact, last year Minnesota had a very late first snowfall. So when the weather people began predicting snow this week, I thought, I’ll believe it when I see it. Sure enough, on Tuesday it was wet and cold, but the temp stayed in the mid-thirties F. and never dropped to freezing. Wednesday, though, was something else.

The change in weather wouldn’t have been a problem, except that I was unprepared for the last minute preparations to clear out our yard; today is the last collection day for yard waste by our trash service. My husband G. Grod, as is his habit, left all the leaves till last weekend. Unfortunately, he was only able to clean up the front yard, not the back and sides. Tuesday I went outside in the snizzle with Drake, who was miraculously open to playing in the yard while I hauled ten bundles of hydrangea stalks out to the trash, and raked the back yard. I put off bagging the leaves, though, and they sat out that night. The bad news is they got covered with a thin layer of ice and snow. The good news is that it formed a protective coating so my leaf piles didn’t blow away in the gales of wind.

By yesterday, it was below freezing (hovering just below 20 F during the day, with a wind chill of about 1. Yes, one.) and there was both snow and ice. I began my morning like a responsible home owner, by shovelling and sweeping my steps and walks. I followed this with a scattering of salt for the ice. Drake was not nearly so amenable to staying put while I did this as he’d been the day before (funny, how being fenced in can make watching him SO much easier), though, so imagine a pregnant woman running half a block down icy sidewalks after her toddler, several times, as punctuation to the shoveling/salting. Good times.

During Drake’s nap, I attended to my frozen leaf piles, and filled six bags by hand. I then turned my zeal on the hostas, and cut them back using a small hand clipper, which I don’t recommend. (Last year, G. Grod tried the weed whacker and it didn’t work, so if anyone has a recommended method/tool for cutting down hostas, I’d love to know for next year.) The hostas took up two more bags, and I decided to be done. Everything else will have to wait for a spring clean up.

A few weeks ago, my two year old Drake had trouble sleeping, but didn’t seem sick. I decided to keep an eye on things, then ended up at Urgent Care on Sunday morning. He was diagnosed with infections in both ears and pink eye. He improved rapidly with the antibiotics, but was left with a lingering cough. Again, I decided to keep an eye on it, and congratulated myself when it went away. But when it popped up again after a week (the cough, not the sleep problems), I didn’t even hesitate. I called the pediatrician’s office and made an appointment for the next morning.

The doc listened to Drake’s lungs and peered into his throat and his ears. Drake was a champ, and underwent it all without a yell. The doc then said that the lungs were clear and he probably had another virus, and that his ears looked so clear that he doubted whether Drake’s ears had been infected last month.

I took this all in calmly. At previous points, I would have been railing at myself for wasting my and the doc’s time over just a virus, gnashing my teeth over unnecessary antibiotics, berating myself for having crappy mom instincts, etc. That day, though, I thought the co-pay was well worth it to confirm that Drake didn’t have a bacterial infection. In my experience, the only one who can confirm it is the person with the otoscope. As for second guessing the previous doc’s diagnosis, it didn’t matter to me. If Drake has trouble sleeping nowadays, it’s usually something more serious than a virus. I believe his ears were infected, and that the drugs cleared him up. His behavior and my previous experience backs it up. I don’t rely on the person with the otoscope to retroactively un-diagnose infections. Don’t care. He was sick, he took drugs, he got better. He got sick again, I took him in immediately, and he didn’t need drugs. I grabbed Drake two lollipops on the way out (Dum-Dums, cream soda) for being such a good boy. I kept him home for the next 24 hours, and his symptoms have faded yet again.

Keeping an eye on things is fine, sometimes. But second guessing and self-berating? I’ve got no time for those.

#86 in my book challenge for the year was I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith, who is better known as the author of 101 Dalmations. This book was lent me by my friend Becca, who says she read it when young and re-reads it regularly. I was sad when I finished the book that it’s taken me so long to read it for the first time. I envy Becca her long history with it, because it’s a sweet, restorative book. It is narrated by Cassandra Mortmain, the daughter of a one-shot-wonder author father. Their family rents a crumbling castle in not-very-genteel poverty. Their lives and fortunes change when the castle is left to a wealthy American. The book is by turns amusing and sad, and Cassandra’s coming of age is both believable and inevitable. I was surprised by how satisfying I found the ending. As the book led up to it, I couldn’t see how the author was going to pull it off, but she did. This is a wonderful book, short of some cliches along class and country issues, and especially good if you’re feeling in need of something cheering.

In my old, pre-child life, I used to attend yoga class on Sunday mornings at the nearby gym. I skipped breakfast beforehand, since conventional yoga wisdom says not to eat or drink for 2 hours before class. After class, I’d arrive home ravenous, and my husband G. Grod would have prepared me a double short latte, scrambled eggs, and bacon. I loved those brunches.

These days, I am no longer attending yoga classes on Sunday. But yesterday I had a craving for the breakfast in any case. I made my own scramble this time. I started by baking the bacon, which I find is a much more reliable method than pan frying. (G. Grod disagrees with me on this.) I then fried up some frozen hash browns, grated some Swiss cheese, emptied the hash browns from the pan, and added 2 eggs I’d stirred with 2 tablespoons of milk, some salt and pepper. The eggs scrambled in a flash since the pan was so hot, then I turned off the heat and added the hash browns, cheese, and 2 slices (or was it 3?) crumbled bacon back to the pan, folded them together and, voila, I had a perfect scramble, with the ideal blend of breakfast ingredients all in one plate. By scrambling the eggs first and adding the rest later, I didn’t have goopy, undercooked bits of egg, or soggy additions.