You might have expected a few photos of 'treaters but no. Just a quick story.
Tonight, I sat here with my pumpkin full of candy, all excited about giving it away. No such luck. The late afternoon melted into evening and zip. Nothing. And feeling a bit bad because I snacked on a few items in spite of my fancy meal plan.
As it was getting a bit on, I was just about to shut down Operation "Save-me-from-myself" when the doorbell rang.
A lovely nuclear family yelled the traditional greeting and I was happy to be facing gaping pillow sacks. "We are SO glad that you were here," the dad said. "We just came from the mall where ALL the stores had only tootsie rolls to give away. Can you believe it? So we left the mall to go to the neighborhoods and nothing. Finally, we saw your pumpkin light and there you go!"
I asked the little girls to take many handfuls to save my colleagues at work. Their tiny little hands grabbed and grabbed. Made the dad and mom grab too. The whole thing felt speedy and a bit frenzied. I think that all the adults were relieved that sugar had passed from hand to hand. We could tuck ourselves (and our kids) in for the coming winter, with some ghosty bargain kept.
"Right in the ole breadbasket" is one of my favorite descriptions pointing to the mid-body. I like that phrase but I've never liked "bun in the oven." That's always grossed me out. Since I don't have an oven, I'm going to talk about my breadbasket. More specifically, what I put into it.
As you my three readers know, I've been working out a bit since I've been in Medford. My goal is to be able to tool around without pain and maybe with some power and grace. So I'm semi-hard at work lifting weights, aerobicizing, revising my diet. My trainer (Remember the old days when your coach would exhaust you for free?) provided a weekly menu for the next hunk of time so I can shed a few fats while I build a few muscles.
I went shopping for my week's menu yesterday and I have to admit that it was an unsettling experience. My intentions are good: strict adherence to each prescribed snack and meal for the next six weeks. Buying a exact week's worth of food at a time was a bit disconcerting - three oranges, 70 grapes (no shit), two carrots. My shopping kart was pretty full. Sure, I bought a few staples that will last for weeks, if not months. But most of the load will be consumed in one week.
It was sobering to think that I ingest that volume of food in a week's time. The sense of volume worked two ways for me: first, the plain old size of the pile in front of me; second, that my body (aka, my digestive tubes) was going to have to deal with that pile of food. It was also sobering to know that it tallies up to far fewer calories than I normally eat. Soylent Green apparently is packed with calories. The ghost of my usual fare was crafting a greasy indictment to stop this madness. I can't say whether this was a meaningful exercise or not. As I shopped among the folks in halloween costumes, many of them skeletons, I felt right at home. I had some empathy for what that hot dog eating champion must feel like every time he competes: "That pile is going into my body? What in the hell was I thinking?
I was happy that I got the chance to hang out with one member of our rapidly-aging boomer population this weekend. Birthdays were had, dinners were eaten and art was seen.
The Portland Giftshop of Art featured a knock-out exhibition entitled: Chuck Close Prints: Process and Collaboration. I'm not going to attempt to review this amazing show. Go to the show or check out the companion book. Me, I'm simply going to mention what Chuck said in the video Chuck Close: Close Up: "I think that the problem that you create is more interesting than the problem that you have to solve."
(By the way, I'm typically not a fan of watching video in museums when you've got the damn art on the walls. But this was a fascinating look into a unique life in art that helped amplify what was on the walls.) (By the way, I do apologize for all the hyperlinks.)
The problem you create. I'm working on that right now.
Much of what I do I consider to be self-indulgent. You don't have to tally the score too carefully to come to that conclusion. That's not a brag, for God's sake. It's more an admission of ability or capacity. With that said....
Today, I'd like to report on some of the happenings of my day. This isn't meant for you voyeurs, although I hope that you do enjoy. It's more because I thought I had a peculiar day today.
I rolled out of bed late this morning after interesting dreams about bugs, dread and volcanoes. Many I love were in the dream so it was must-see TV for me. Plus, volcanoes, lava and peril! What's not to love? Whipped myself into the shower, conditioned my hair, took off too much skin from my face. Wolfed down the blueberries I prepared the night before with some yogurt and I was out the door.
Annoyed, my car has flipped a computer chip. It wants to rev in short sharp cycles between 1000 and 2000 rpm. It does that for two minutes, then decides that it has overheated. I blast the heater on full and the sensors sense that all is in balance. A minute later, I'm at work. Car's in the shop tomorrow.
Today, a team huddle in our VP's office, neither routine. An announcement about someone up the food chain who apparently was given the boot this a.m. "Not about going private. Nothing to do with a blood-letting now that we've gone private." A good thing to say but just a couple hours later, another quick huddle about another person who was let go. A guy right near me. Not his choice either.
I'll miss him. Once a day, he'd pick up a guitar and play some Stevie Ray Vaughan. He's been working on "Cold Shot" especially hard. Too bad. Really too bad.
After, I was doing my normal routine, ordering stuff, tending to small fires and I looked up and it was time for lunch. YES! I love lunch, for those of you who never know what to get me. I plotted the range of my differently-abled car and went home for lunch. Too much football impeded my ability to find exciting lunch food on Sunday. So I vacuumed the fridge and ate what I collected.
During lunch, I read about the dominance of the Patriots, those sneaky Blackwater folks, and about the new CD releases I wasn't going to buy. The point is that the newspaper is still the best thing to read at lunch. Period. It's all smudgy.
A few triumphs after lunch. At one point, I threw my arms up into the air to celebrate something that I did correctly, with knowing how to do it. Two or three people were looking at me funny so I told them that I had just done something spectacular. They mercifully didn't ask for details.
As I worked late in the day, the internet kept me current with the Indian's game. The internet coverage was a fine parallel to watching a real game. Not much happened really, and bloggers were yakking about stuff while they waited for stuff to happen. Just like a real broadcast.
I worked 'til a bit before six and went home to watch the game. In a fit of madness, I ordered delivery pizza and talked with Mom. She wasn't watching the game because her watching is a well-known jinx factor. I ditched her when the pizza arrived and I was very excited! My first Medford delivery pizza! It was just as fabulous or craptastic as any but I kept loading slab A into slot B, happy as a clam who eats pizza.
At sometime during the 8th inning, as the Indian's pitcher faced the Sox's best, I stupidly let my guard down and began to believe that the Tribe could win this thing. What is wrong with me? I din't buy Ohio State backing into the top BCS spot this week. Why wasn't I strong enough to keep the Indians at bay too? O stupid Northeastern Ohio sporting fan! Every season, every year, every decade, the same: "Bernie will save us! Tim will save us! Brady will save us!" Rinse and repeat for each Cleveland major league team. 1) Insert hopes into crushing device. 2) Crush.
Now I'm sitting here typing this, full of pizza, full of stupid hope and thinking about lava. I don't want the lava to get my friends, my teams or my fine collection of rocks. I really am hoping that the lava doesn't start flowing near me. I'm wearing cheap red ikea slippers which, in spite of their redness, would be no match for lava. Honestly, I'm am too loaded down with pizza for me to care about eluding hot flowing magma and besides, I've got a two games to one ALCS lead. Why should I worry about a little lava?
I'm no more immune from the pleasures and traps of nostalgia than anyone. Nor would I want to be.
Today's aromatic topic: chicken and rice.
Lately I've been having strong visualizations and scent memories of Grandma Fieata's chicken and rice. My memory is spotty enough that I can't claim to be certain if I'm even remembering that this was her dish, rather than Mom's. (Sorry Mom.) For someone who really likes food, that's a surprising admission. What I do remember is how all of that chicken fat (and butter too?) created something fattening and beautiful.
The good news: my re-creation of this chicken and rice memory was successful. Tasty even with brown rice and I suspect loads less fat. I can't say precisely what in me was getting fed. It's not unlike me to remember a swirl of sensations without an anchor. Often, what is the essence remains ghostly for me. The only solid thing I remember here is the electric pan. This tired warhorse was called into service for chicken and rice as well as kidneys and rice, if I remember correctly.
Kidneys and rice wasn't just a budget choice. The Italian folks I grew up with had a sincere love for the internal organ. And skin too, as long as it was roasted crispy. I always felt deep down that eating organs was just taking it a bit too far. Kidneys struck too clinical a chord for me, but I liked the texture so I ate them anyway. This food acceptance was unusual for me, one of the pickier child eaters on the planet. This was a clear exception to my dainty eating patterns. Maybe it was a perception that as misfit as I was, if I ingested organ meat, I'd not be completely non-ethnic. Even Grandma's stunning venison heart in marinara couldn't get me completely over this visceral hump.
I'm surprised that I've not been overwhelmed by these savory flashes of nostalgia since I find myself in Medford, Oregon rather than Seattle, Northeastern Ohio or any other place. When you sincerely try to change your life, every little life thing is open to inspection, every gain, every loss. Memories rub up against me and give me pause and I move on. I have to in spite of the invitation to each specific lovely longing. Nostalgia is fine. I accept it as a type of quick warm memory but I have to take care not to warp it into an inaccurate emotional mythology.
It's kinda like being continually visited by a version of Scrooge's spirits of the Past, Present and Future. What happened versus what do I think happened. I am not Scrooge, thankfully; and the Ghost of Christmas Future no longer has its claws in my bones. I'd say, metaphorically, and at the risk of too much schmaltz, that Tiny Tim is still living and there's enough coal to warm the future. On this Christmas morning, that fine young lad brought me just a few chicken parts, not the biggest bird in the shop. But that seems enough for now.
