tollipop

karma chowder

The other day I finally got around to making my New Year's clam chowder.  You know--the one I was supposed to make for New Year's Eve which got downgraded to spaghetti when I realized just how many youngsters would be coming over and how awful it would be to confront their mutinous glares once they were apprised of the menu.

As it was, my own girls took one look at the chowder and promptly fished out their clams.  

Can you imagine?

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact I used whole clams.  Have you ever seen a whole clam, dear reader?  It looks like Gollum is floating around in your soup. 

I didn't use whole clams on purpose, mind you.  In case you didn't know, there's a rare strain of beings out there who are literate yet completely capable of ignoring labels.  Yes, it's true.  And they correlate closely with the demographic who'll open a can and dump its contents into their dinner without inspection.

Watching one's children fish the signature ingredient from a slaved-over chowder while trying to control their gag reflexes does not exactly make for a magical evening, dear reader.  It doesn't feel like a home run.  

I wonder if it has anything to do with all the bad energy I've been putting into the universe lately?

I wonder if it's in response to my attempt to paint every nuance in the spectrum of taupe on the walls of our new home and then ask my husband to tell me what he thinks.  

Incidentally, I suspect he thinks a lot more than what he's telling me.

I wonder if it's in response to giving my daughter super hard words on Hanging with Friends and not feeling even a twinge of remorse when her mascot plummets into a live volcano?

In my defense, this is because of the karma of her messy room.

I wonder if it's because I went running with the death squad yesterday, left them in the dust, and didn't say anything gracious or sporting when they straggled across the finish line?

Listen, it gets tricky with those guys.  Karma works in reverse for them.  Being gracious and sporting is actually a sign of weakness, which is the last thing you'd want to reveal in their midst.  

In wolf talk, that's like saying: hey, look at my broken paw!  I'm too old to hunt!  You better kick me out of the pack.

rule of thumb

This morning I went grocery shopping.  Unless I'm at Trader Joe's or an international market, grocery shopping doesn't exactly knock my socks off.  If anything, it hammers my soul to smithereens.  Something about huge buildings, industrial lighting, vast quantities of food shrink-wrapped together, people pushing pallets stacked with frozen waffles, shrimp platters, gallons of dip.  It goes down like rain at a picnic and mud all over my new party dress.  

At any rate, I parked as far away from the store as I possibly could, since I read somewhere this is the French woman's secret to staying slim and fabulous.  

Was there perhaps more to that article?  Did someone rip out the second page which divulged even better secrets?  Maybe so. Because I've been parking light years away from stores for ages now and I have yet to waltz through a room and hear people whisper, "Fabulous. How does she do it?!"

As I walked across the parking lot, I noticed a trail of raspberries along the way, some no more than a smear, others sadly tattered, a few still plump and luscious.  And for some reason it was all I could do not to pick up the good ones and pop them in my mouth.  They looked so tempting!  

The only thing stopping me was a small litmus test I often apply to such situations wherein I ask: Would a mother scold her toddler if he did what I'm about to do?

If the answer is yes, I generally reconsider my plan of action. Unless I don't care about getting scolded.

So I went inside and purchased some raspberries of my own. That was the better choice, right?

But I still think it such a shame--so many pretty, ruined berries! Perhaps I should have eaten them, after all.

I hope whoever dropped them went on to have a vastly better day.

trader joe's: a tale of innocence lost

Dear reader, have you been to Trader Joe's lately?  Because holiday season is right around the corner so if you go, don't think it'll be a quick trip to granny's house.  You'll be off the path in NO TIME, wandering through the forest and meeting all kinds of dark, nefarious characters.

To wit: the first bad influence to greet me as I entered the store was a cluster of these hooligans.  I drew nearer, fascinated, whispering their name aloud:

milk chocolate covered potato chips.

Someone gasped and recoiled as if I'd said a dirty word. A mother covered her child's ears and hurried away.  I flushed, feeling both revolted and strangely curious at once.  

I managed to tear myself away and go about my regular business.  But when it came time to pay for my groceries, I noticed the chocolate potato chips were also loitering at the check out stand.  

What is that?  Is that like, even legal?  To mix together two highly addictive subtances in the first place, and then to stash them all over one's store until a shopper finally wears down and succumbs to the madness?

Because as the TJ's associate was checking out my groceries, she noticed me moving toward the potato chips like a moth to the flame.  

"Do you wanna try those?," she asked.

"What?  ME?!  No.  Noooooooo.," I said, shaking my head and pretending to examine my fingernails.  

"Here, give me a bag," she said, reaching for one from the display.

And just like that, she tore it open and waved a milk chocolate covered potato chip not five inches from my nose!  And I blushed madly while everyone else in the checkout line began to chant:  Do it!  Do it!  Do it!

I don't even remember what happened next, how many standards of ethical marketing were violated, how many pagan rites were resurrected, but the next thing I knew I was back home unpacking groceries, chocolate smeared all over my face, discovering I'd come away from the store with much more than I'd bargained for.  

So just a word of warning, dear reader.  You can be the most innocent, pink cheeked lass in the entire world, but the next time you stray into Trader Joe's you better strap on some street smarts, fast.

Because holiday season is on its way, and if you're not careful you're going to walk out of there feeling as if you'd been sprinkled with salt and dipped in chocolate, and that your once wide-eyed wonder over such treats has been forever replaced by a jaded barfly who wouldn't think twice before consuming an entire trough of those things.  

evening run

The desert has been unseasonably temperate this year, dear reader.  

That's weatherman talk for saying the desert has been lax in gaping wide its molten, seething maw and consuming me in the furnace of its discontent.

Who knows?  Maybe it has better things to do.  Maybe it fell in love.

No kidding, that's how the desert feels these days.

Lately, when I've gone for a run, it's been in the mood to set the mood, if you know what I'm saying.

The air is dulcet, caressing, sweet.  The light is low.  And I blush madly, because the desert always drops what it's doing when I come onto the scene and fixes me with one of those long, appraising stares, like a thirsty man who just found water.

Of course I start talking like a nervous auctioneer, humiliated by my slipshod appearance, my botched ponytail, but the desert moves in, shushing me, never breaking eye contact, speaking in low, exotic tones which is probably a fake accent but works wonders on me in the moment.

Then it surprises me with a gesture that shows just how much the desert truly gets me: tadpoles!

If you know anything about me, anything at all, you'll know that gesture went straight to my heart.  

I am smitten by tadpoles, as it happens.

Love comes in all shapes and sizes, dear reader.  You are lucky if you have a dog.  You are lucky if you have a friend.  You are lucky if you have a child.  You are lucky if you have a bar of chocolate, a yellow cardigan, a good book, a Trader Joe's.  You are exceedingly lucky if you come across your own Mr. Darcy.  

But in the midst of all that love, there is always room for more, and hopefully this summer you will have the living daylights wooed out of you by the mesmerizing and seductive, great outdoors.

in other news, i hope i can keep this fern alive

 
Dear reader, how was your weekend?  Ours was busy, fun, uplifting, and filled with family.  Pretty much one of my favorite weekends so far this year.

And it continues to be busy.  My little brother is here visiting for the week.  He is moving to Washington, D.C., to begin a new job and I am going to miss him like crazy. 

At any rate, I bet you are wondering who takes pictures of her groceries as she is in the process of checking them out?  Honestly, I can't really say why I did it.  Perhaps because this is the first houseplant I've purchased in ages (not counting the Trader Joe's orchids I sometimes get and then reluctantly allow to wane), and I'm wondering if I can keep it alive. 

It's a fern, and something about it touched my heart.  I remember my grandmother had a fern in the corner of her living room and it was enormous, practically insatiable.  I think we lost a tiny cousin in there once and she was never heard from again. 

 
This dear fern has prettier manners.  It is now sitting in a birdcage and every time I pass by, I stop and gaze at it awhile, feeling deeply satisfied.  I think my scattered brain thrives upon scenes of balance and simplicity.  Needless to say, I subject myself to the girls' closets the very least amount of time necessary.

The fern did not come with a list of instructions, not that it would have made a great deal of difference if it had.  The orchids come with copious rules~you practically have to sign a mandate to buy one~and yet they still don't last more than a few months under my care. 

 
But I'm wondering if anyone out there knows anything about keeping ferns alive in the world's dryest climate, and if so, can you distill the information down to the level of a very small and easily distracted child?

Trust me, it will be in the fern's best interest if you do.

serendipity

 
Yesterday the world's cutest pitcher came to my door.

 
He brought me a treat his mother had made.

 
It was a delicious avocado smoothie, her favorite childhood drink from the Phillipines.

 
Which was funny, since I had just gotten home from a trip to Trader Joe's and was about to go across the street myself to give her an (unopened) sample of my latest candy crush.

 
Isn't it wonderful when karma is on such a roll it actually color coordinates and beats you to the punch?

::::::::::::::::::::

p.s.  my friend was kind enough to share her recipe...please enjoy!

In the blender:

2 ripe avocados
1 can evaporated milk
handful of ice cubes
**mix until creamy**
add sugar to taste
add milk to dilute consistency (she adds about 1/4 cup)

best trader joe's story ever

 
It started out pretty grim, dear reader, as many good stories do. 

I pulled into the parking lot at Trader Joe's yesterday afternoon with about three minutes to accomplish my errands, when I suddenly realized my purse was not in the car.  Not in the car?  But we were out of milk and Caroline's cello lesson was starting in forty minutes!  How dare a purse go missing under such circumstances?! 

So I went into denial search mode, wherein you scour the same nooks and crannies repeatedly in case the universe tires out and consents to manifest your will...just this once.  But as fate would have it, the planets were in no mood to align: the purse was at home on the kitchen table where I'd walked right by as I was rushing out the door.

But wait!  There was a ten dollar bill in my pocket!  How it got there, I'll never know.  This much was certain, however: we were out of milk and Caroline's cello lesson was starting in thirty-five minutes.

So I ran into the store and mentally calculated some of the other necessities which were lacking in our home.  Milk, duly noted.  Bread.  Eggs.  Bananas.  What about cheese?  Mental math has never been my strong suit, but I was vaguely convinced I had enough money to cover the contents of my basket.  Just to make sure, however, I explained my situation to the cashier and asked her to subtotal  everything before including the cheese with my purchase.  She did so and, deeming the amount low enough, reached for the cheese and ran it through the scanner.

$10.61, dear reader. 

I had ten dollars.

So of course I asked the cashier to subtract the cheese from the total, but instead she called for a manager, suggesting an arrangement could be made.  And while she waited for a manager, she began patting her own pockets, insisting she had enough money to cover the difference.  And during this time I was trying to assure her it was unnecessary, that I would return tomorrow and finish my shopping when suddenly, someone touched my shoulder.  I turned around and...get ready for this, dear reader:

It was a little old man.

Only he wasn't very little.  He was actually taller than me.  He had eyes the color of the Mediterranean and a shirt that was every bit as blue.  His skin was tanned and the fringe of hair around his head was pure, heavenly white.  In his hand he held the crispest dollar bill I'd ever seen.

He smiled at me.  I stared at him. 

"Here you go, my dear, I'd like to help," he said.

And I'm not kidding, dear reader, for one scary moment my eyes started to sting. 

Thank goodness for the battle brewing between the store manager, the cashier, my useless protests, this darling man, and the lady behind him who kept exclaiming that forgetting one's purse happens to everyone, dearie.  We all do it once in awhile.

In the end, it was Trader Joe's who won out.  They covered the extra cost and assured me there was no need to reimburse (even though I will).  The cashier told me I was a good customer.  I reached out and touched the old man.  I actually caressed his arm.  The lady behind him kept telling me not to worry, these things happen.  And I left the store in time to get Caroline to her lesson.

 

I don't know.  What is that, dear reader?  Is that like the universe picking you up, putting you on its lap, and wrapping its arms around you, all the while telling you what a good girl you've been, and that everything is going to be all right? 

every time i go to trader joe's, i make a new friend

 
Oh, dear reader.  Do you remember when I told you Trader Joe promised me peppermint taffy for the holiday season?  Well, I'm happy to report he is a man of his word.

The taffy is here!  And it's brilliant!  It's soft!  It's stripy!  It's minty!  It's dreamy!  Why, it's the most marvelous peppermint taffy you've ever tasted! 

But that's not what I meant about making new friends at Trader Joe's, although I assure you me and the taffy are very chummy these days.  

I meant I make real friends.  With the other shoppers. 

Lately it's been working like this:  I'll be standing in the holiday treats section, awestruck at all the pretty packages and delicious things to eat.  Someone comes along and stops as well, unable to make a decision.  I'll ask her if she's tried the little gingerbread men covered in a delicious white fudge.  She'll look at me, perhaps startled to find someone invading her personal space, then admit she hasn't. 

"Are they any good?," she'll ask, taking a hesitant step away. 

"Are they any good?!," I'll splutter, smacking my forehead with the palm of my hand several times, "Are they any good?!  Madame, that's like asking is Las Vegas a garish den of iniquity?!"

And that, dear reader, is a surefire way to make new friends around here. 

Patrons often mistake me for an actual store associate, if you can believe it.  I suppose it's because I'm that enthusiastic when endorsing Trader Joe's products.  I can't help myself.

Have you tried their little gingerbread men in white fudge lately?

how am I doing with my bid to cut back sugar? ask these yahoos.

Petula's going to freak when she sees I'm writing about Trader Joe's again.  She thinks I'm trying to taunt her by doing that, but I think she tries to taunt me by living in Maine.  We need someone's mom to settle this.

This has been a long, hard day in the mines, and by "mines" I mean "my girls' bedrooms."  What a sluice box of tripe they've collected!  The other day I actually saw Caroline creeping upstairs with an egg between her teeth and I was all, "Where do you think you're going with that, young lady?," and she tried to pass off some story about a spider trading it to her for a newsclipping about baking soda.  As if.

Anyway, I'm making progress in there, but it's slow going.  I know my sister, the one I shared a room with growing up, is getting such a laugh from all this.  Talk about karma coming full circle.  Talk about three apples falling way too near the tree.  And I had such high hopes that procreation would yield something a little different than myself...more evolved, slightly improved.  A penchant for cleanliness if it wasn't too much to ask.  Oh Darwin, this is bad news.

Which brings me to this moment in time: taking a little break, thinking of Oprah's neighbors with the pristine abode, and knocking back a couple of these.  I think it's the blue green algae that makes it feel so right.

you know how when you're eating an almond joy and you want more almond with your joy? problem solved.

Can you read what it says on the box?  Crunchy almonds and a creamy coconut center enrobed in milk chocolate.  I mean, are you even allowed to say things like that?  I thought Trader Joe's was a family establishment, for crying out loud.  And I know, dear reader, I know I recently mentioned something to the effect of planning to go easy on sweets.  But rest assured--I could stick my face in a trough of sugar and still be cutting back on my regular intake.

While I'm at it, I may as well show you something else I purchased at Trader Joe's, perhaps a wiser choice when one is in the mood for goodies.  Just a reminder--there are six servings contained in this package instead of what appears to be one.  I caught onto this tiny detail about three servings too late, but at least I can sleep soundly tonight knowing I did everything in my power to ensure this tragedy doesn't happen to someone else.

And the most delightful thing that happened today, in the midst of swimming at the pool, making half-hearted attempts to clean the house, and being forced to buy groceries in the molten furnace that is Las Vegas, was the discovery of a front page feature of my little tree girl on Etsy!  It was grouped with a lovely collection and I was thrilled to be a part of it.