She's like, so whatever, you could do so much better. - Avril Lavigne, "Girlfriend"

It's a snippet post, haven't done one in ages. But I am a little scattered at the moment, so here goes.

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I am wearing a pale blue, flowered April Cornell skirt that was given to me by a friend who lost thirty pounds using the Stressful Divorce Diet. It’s long and loose and cool (the skirt, not the divorce), but it’s totally frumpilicious, and completely bulks out my already-nonexistent waistline. (I am wearing it with a man’s white oxford button-down – Queen of Style, that’s me. I call this my Muslim look.) Plus, I keep rolling over it with the wheels of my roll-y chair at work at the ref desk. I am not only the Queen of Style, I am graceful as well.

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Per everyone’s requests, I would be thrilled – thrilled to pieces – to post a photo of my pretty new dress. I love it, and plan to wear it often. We have symphony tix Saturday and I will probably wear it again for that. I’ll take the photo then.

I do need different shoes for it – my pointy-toed leather slingbacks are not summery enough, and my black sandals (the “cruel shoes”) are sexy and strappy, but the straps are elastic – it takes hours for the marks on my feet to go away after I take off the shoes. What I need is a pair of (still) black, (still) strappy (maybe two, and definitely a thicker strap), heeled sandals to work with the dress; I do not want a wedge, I want a heel, and I definitely think they need to be mules. White would go with it, but I REFUSE to wear white shoes. (Unless they are tennis shoes, obviously. In which case, ONLY white will do.) Anyhoo, when I show you the dress, I also will show you the shoe candidates and perhaps you, my sweet little stylish 'netties, can help me pick.

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I meant to say thank you to all those who offered the stick-your-boobs-out advice. I must say, it worked : ) I thought of you all cheering me on, and I felt loved. Albeit by, rationally speaking, a bunch of women I have mostly never met in person – but loved nonetheless. So if any of you are really three-hundred-year-old perverted men who are just toying with me, don’t tell me now, ok?

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Onward and upward...

At the risk of revealing myself to be a total degenerate, I discovered Harry Potter porn last night. Like most fan fiction, lots of it was abysmally bad, some was decent, and one or two stories were perhaps well beyond the realm of possibility, but amazingly well-written. Nice to confirm that I am not the only woman out there who lusts for Severus Snape, or Draco Malfoy (which fact is most odd, as I normally don’t care for blonde men, but both Draco and his father fill me with lust. (Now I feel like Jimmy Carter. Ahem.))
The last time I got really engrossed in HP fan fic, turns out I knew the guy who was writing lots of it. So, you, and you know who you are, if you're writing HP porn, lemme know which ones are yours.

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I am THIS CLOSE to finishing I Know This Much is True. I enjoyed it very much, despite its Oprah certification : )

Next up: one of the following books, all ILLs from my job, which is definitely a terrific perk:

Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures: Stories - Vincent Lam. Our ILL department really went above and beyond for this one – it’s not held by many libraries, and the first request for it came back unfilled. But then my dear sweet ILL angel hand-requested it from the holding library, and lo and behold, here it is.

The Great Stink - Clare Clark. I know, I didn’t return it. I am thinking this might be next, as it seems like it’ll be a quick read.

The Plague and I– Betty MacDonald. I need to own this but until I find it used, this will suffice. I love MacDonald’s The Egg and I and think it’s one of the funniest books ever. I have high hopes for the entertainment quotient of this one.

Living the Good Life: Being a plain practical account of a twenty year project in a self-subsistent homestead in Vermont, together with remarks on how to live sanely & simply in a troubled world - Helen & Scott Nearing, and This Organic Life: Confessions of a suburban homesteader - Joan Dye Gussow. Both of these are positive backlash from the Kingsolver book. Until I get all my tomato plants in (I bought three Red Beefsteak Heirloom plants today), I need farming inspiration. (And did anyone notice how this was initially posted with that thought just hanging there in mid-air, completely unfinished? Welcome to my brain.)

This is one of those cases where 1)I have so much good stuff to read, I am virtually paralyzed and therefore do not know where to begin; and 2) I was at the library today and did not check out any books, because I already have a ton waiting for me at home.

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A couple of friends invited me to dinner tonight at a new restaurant called The Library. I couldn't go but they did bring me back dinner. I debated ordering the Breakfast of Champions appetizer (potato skins with brie and smoked bacon) or perhaps the Light in the Attic salad (spinach, gorgonzola, and bacon) but settled on the Hamlet sandwich (prosciutto and smoked cheddar), and it is DELICIOUS.

J ordered the Tyler Durden (black and blue ribeye with gorgonzola sauce and redskin smashed potatoes); B got the Huck Finn sandwich (pulled pork). Rave reviews all around. Off to eat my drippy, salty, tasty prosciutto sandwich. Cheers!

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam (We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe)

We drove to New Jersey last Thursday, leaving Punto with a friend, packing up clothes and diapers and snacks (and juice boxes) for the road, and hostess gifts (a pound of handmade salami from Parma Meats for my brother, and a pound of Enrico lemon-poppyseed biscotti for my SIL, and a book and some cars for my nephew) and my laptop and H’s guitar and my new dress. (Next time we go anywhere, I think we should rent a minivan.)

We made excellent time to NJ, even stopping in Carlisle at the Country Club Diner where my boys inhaled their weight in food and charmed the pants off the waitresses, who plied them with ice cream topped by whipped cream and sprinkles.

NJ was just as hot as PA, but for some reason, it didn’t bother me nearly as much. Perhaps because they only have the one child, their house is not sticky all over like mine, and so that helps.

We took the boys to the playground and taught them how to play Home Run Derby; ordered out burritos, and pizza; drank a whole lot of Amish ale and wine. Chess games were played, and hockey games watched, late into the night.

I lay around a lot in the hammock – look at my view. Ahhhhhh. Lazybones. I also read a lot - mostly I Know This Much is True but also bits of my brother's copy of Slaughterhouse Five.

Terzo enjoyed the swing. And Uncle C obligingly pushed him for almost an hour. God bless the patience of uncles.


My brothers taught the boys to play Texas Hold’Em.
(When H asked Primo to go get him another beer, I worried that the neighbors would call CYS.)



There was a jam session, with frenetic dancing and little children masquerading as whirling dervishes. (We introduced my nephew to the pleasures of both Ralph's World AND Wilco.)

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Saturday H and I got up at the crack of dawn and drove to Connecticut.


We hit Route 1 early enough to enjoy a leisurely breakfast in a little teeny tiny diner, where we drank pots of coffee and discussed opening a teeny tiny diner of our own in our neighborhood, one of the few things it lacks. I grew up in the Land of Diners, I miss being able to stop in night or day for a fresh cup of coffee, killer breakfasts any time, and consistently excellent pie.

The bat mitzvah service itself was beautiful – very moving and solemn.
E was nervous but still lovely, poised, and practically perfect. I have known her since she was a baby, and she has grown up to be a sweet, smart, gentle, funny, and delightful young woman. I wiped tears away several times; we were all so pleased for and proud of her.

After the Torah portion and the procession and the dressing/undressing of the scroll, and the bit with the bread and wine which was shockingly like Holy Communion, the service wound to its close and we all adjourned to the club for the reception – which I must say, rivaled most wedding receptions I have attended.

We were greeted at the door with servers bearing trays of drinks. There was a lavish spread of grilled vegetables, cheese, fruit, and crackers. Circulating servers offered scallion-wrapped scallops, coconut shrimp, smoked salmon on black bread, mini avocado-mango-corn tarts, and other nibblies. (It did not occur to me until later to wonder about the presence of so much shellfish; at the time I was merely grateful to eat as much of it as I could hold. There’s nothing like chewing a salty, tender scallop while looking out over the ocean.)


The meal was wonderful – fresh field greens topped with a round of toast and goat cheese; a choice between broiled salmon or beef tenderloin; carrot cake with light, creamy frosting; a tray of delicate, buttery cookies; lots of hot, strong coffee; and an open bar.


We shared our table with two couples, the male halves of which had worked with A in a previous job, which we didn’t really speak of, as he left the company shortly after two of its directors were killed in the September 11 attacks. (A was meant to be at the early-morning meeting as well, but for some reason wasn't. H and A have been friends since college, and A was best man at our wedding; the thought of any of our lives without his strength, intelligence, and levelheadedness is well nigh unbearable.)

Instead we spoke of children (one of the women had given birth a mere two weeks ago); music, politics, travel (one of the men was from Ireland, and one of the women from Russia); books, vacations, food – we had a wonderful, wonderful time, and H even danced with me, and complimented my dress. Will wonders never cease? (Turns out he was hammered. Does that matter?)

There was a terrific slideshow of E growing up, with three or four slides of her with our boys. (H and I cheered and clapped and overall acted like ancient people, which I suppose technically we were.)

There was a DJ, and some crazy dancing, especially to a song about not liking someone’s girlfriend? I am so glad I have boys. A couple of these thirteen-year-olds had moves that made me blush.


The centerpieces were bowls with fresh flowers – and look, fish! The favors were little bags of gelt, which were embossed with E’s name and the date. (I brought gelt home to my two older boys, my littlest and my nephew got maracas which the DJ was handing out.)


After the party wrapped up and we helped E’s parents gather up presents and leftover cookies and stuff, we all went back to their gorgeous, comfortable home in a little wooded cul-de-sac and sat on the screen porch and talked. Finally H and I drove home at 930, listening to the Stanley Cup finals on the way.

I cannot remember the last time I had such a perfect, beautiful day.

Three years from now, E’s little brother N will become a bar mitzvah! We are already looking forward to the trip. Although, since we were dubbed honorary Jews by E’s dad during the Hakafah, does that mean that next time I can’t eat my weight in scallops?

"Most of New Jersey doesn't even have refineries." - Richie Sambora

I am in New Jersey for a bit, visiting my little brother and his wonderful wife and my positively adorable, chewable little nephew. The boys - all three, plus H - are with me. Posting may be scarce for a bit. We have baseball games to play, and bat mitzvahs to attend, and nephews to fawn over. There are cousins - "Cousins!" - to play with.

The drive wasn't really all that bad, once we got out of the dead space of mid-PA and found a diner in which to eat eggs and pie. We escaped the Roy Rogers/old-people-in-tour-buses experience by the skin of our teeth, but our trauma was such that a hefty cup of diner coffee was enough to erase it from memory.

And inquiring minds want to know - is a compass a standard piece of equipment in cars these days?

Musr run - "Play with cousins!" is up next.

"When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad..."

I started reading Slaughterhouse Five online on Saturday, because it was insanely dead at work but there were people about so I didn’t want to risk reading an actual BOOK at the desk. How is it that I have never read this before? It’s funny and sweet and sad, and Billy Pilgrim is a strange sort of Everyman. I am reading it in PDF form, and am about at page 70 of 118. It’s wonderful.

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I finished The $64 Tomato. I felt like the author never really finished the book, or rather, that it just ENDED. It was mildly entertaining, and did indeed, as one commenter pointed out, teach me to not start too big. My little 4x8 plot (tomatoes, sweet banana peppers, watermelon, basil, and parsley) and a couple of terracotta trenches (lettuces) and pots (mint) are well within my capabilities, I believe.

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I ditched Final Exam by Pauline Chen. Another author who never seemed to get to her point. There’s a reason she’s a surgeon and not a writer.

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I have a feeling I am going to enjoy Clare Clark’s The Great Stink but now is not the time. Same with Lord Byron’s Novel.

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For some reason, Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much is True called to me, and I started it last night. I continued it on my lunch hour today. I needed a big, fat book that would pull me in, and I think this will do the trick. I remember being thoroughly engrossed in She’s Come Undone so, despite the fact that it is an Oprah book (I know, I am a snob), I am really liking it.

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I had a crappy day today. I actually had a crappy weekend, carried into today, and I am not really anticipating a much more pleasant next-weekend. We are driving to see my little brother and his lovely wife and my dear little nephew who will turn two next month, which should be great, but from there we have a bat mitzvah in Greenwich CT to attend, all day Saturday, and I am not looking forward to any type of formal event with H (yes, I bought a new dress although I am sure I look like a heifer anyway), or any of the driving.

I came back from lunch at three-ish, and claimed a headache, and left at four. Atypically I was not scheduled on the desk at all today, so I didn’t leave anyone in the lurch; I just needed to BE HOME.

Is this what panic attacks are like? I’ve never had one, that I know of. It would sort of suck to start now.
Would it be wise to take the big bottle of Rescue Remedy with me?

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These are a few of my favorite things:
Right now, right after I post this, I am crawling into (1) my bed, with its nice, crisp, clean sheets, and (2) my book, and (3) a pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream.

I anticipate a chance to (4) run tomorrow since H is on vacation this week.

I discovered (5) a fabulous nursery near my house, which carries all sorts of plants (including heirloom, although no Brandywine tomatoes which I am anxious to try), and seeds (organic and regular) and plenty of other cool garden stuff; my (6) no-dig raised bed is all built (thank you for the pointers, Nutmeg!) and I will put the rest of the plants in tomorrow; and I have three estimates on the fence project so we can proceed with serious brush-clearing and yard work now. I put into the front flower bed some pretty purple and lavender and white (7) alyssum which smells just like honey, and (8) I scored a gigantic, intact terra cotta pot out of the neighbor’s trash last night.

(9) My chives came up.

And (10) The Baby’s newest word is “weedwhacker.”

"...that's the most extraordinary stuff I've ever tasted! It's shattering!" - "Big X" Bartlett, in "The Great Escape"

Gina and I tried our hands at cheesemaking this past Saturday night. (Yeah, we live la vida loca over here.) I was hungry on the way over to Gina's, having skipped dinner, so stopped for some fries - this juxtaposition amused me. (I am sorry, I HAVE read Fast Food Nation, and I understand McDonald's is an evil, corporate giant, but I owe them some gratitude for getting me through all three pregnancies alive.)


We followed the recipe for Thirty-Minute Mozzarella in Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal Vegetable Miracle (I am starting to feel like a shill...), but you can also find the recipe online at the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company website. The milk was organic, pasteurized whole milk I bought at the East End Food Co-op, which is also where I found the rennet. Gina drove down to South Hills Brewing for the citric acid. The thermometer was an old candy thermometer I had lying around. It was mildly inconvenient that the temps we needed to observe were under the milk, but we figured it out. We started with the gallon of cold milk; at 55 degrees F, we stirred in the 1/4 tsp of rennet dissolved in a quarter-cup of bottled water.

We stirred languidly, the pot over a medium-ish flame.
Just as we were saying, "It's not DOING anything," the milk began to curdle, just the teeniest bit, at about 88 degrees F, as promised.


From there on, we exhibited a leetle bit more faith, added the (1/4 tsp dissolved in water) citric acid, and the curds, they came. Right about at 100 degrees F, again as promised. The whey became sort of clear but yellowish. Very attractive. (Like the juvenile I am, I observed that it sort of looked like vomit. Well, it DID.)



We scooped the biggest curds out, but resorted to a colander/strainer type thingey for the rest of the draining. If you were going to use the whey to reheat the cheese, you would want to drain into something, but we - wasteful people and not having any handy piggies - poured it down the drain. (Gina observed, more than likely correctly, that this was probably the first time whey had ever been poured down that drain.)


"Wringing out the cheese, wringing out the cheese! We shall come rejoicing, wringing out the cheese!"


We dutifully heated (35-40 seconds in the microwave)and kneaded and stretched it, heated and kneaded and stretched again, heated and kneaded and stretched again. We actually had to reheat a fourth time as the first two times we had not heated nearly enough. You want the cheese to be almost liquidy, and yes, it gets HOT. We were all, "Wow, wussies!" kneading the first two times, "La la la, this isn't too bad!" but when we'd finally heated it ENOUGH, I danced around and did my Ouchy-ouchy-ouch dance while stretching the cheese. (It was very attractive, let me tell you.) We put on and kneaded in about a teaspoon, maybe two, of kosher salt when directed to 'salt to taste.'


Finally, we had something resembling cheese. (On top of tupperware, as all of Gina's plates are white, and the cheese wasn't shown off to full advantage on them.) It smelled good, and it looked ok, rather...cheese-like, even if I do say so myself. I can't wait to try mine on homemade pizza tonight.


See how CUTE? I am SO giving people homemade mozzarella cheese for Christmas this year, wrapped in foil over the wax paper and tied with ribbons at either end. So festive, cheese bon-bons. You know, nothing quite says "Season's greetings!" like a ball o' cheese.