In lieu of going to the gym, Bill and I elected instead to enjoy the pretty autumn morning we were having yesterday and go for a walk. I really do like the fall weather, and the trees in our neighborhood are absolutely lovely as the leaves change colors and begin to fall. It is one of the things I would miss if we lived in Arizona year-round. My sister Bec has a deciduous tree in her backyard in Chandler, AZ, and she told me one day she noticed the leaves were falling off the tree. Well, she thought, this must be fall in Arizona. But when she looked at the tree later that day, she saw buds for new flowers. Spring and fall all in one day. Welcome to Arizona.
More Apron Strings
I got a lot of hits on my blog post about aprons. I’m not entirely sure why. A lot of people remember my grandmother and commented on how loved she was. Many people just loved the notion of wearing aprons. But frankly, a lot of people were just surprised/impressed that Bill was the one sewing the aprons. Go Bill! But here’s the thing. While I now own two – both sewed by Bill – I never remember to put them on. It isn’t in fact until I find myself once again wiping my hands on my pants that I remember to grab an apron and put it on. I assure you that my grandmother NEVER forgot to put on her apron.
I was making a pot of chili the other night using my mom’s recipe. I dropped in a couple of bay leaves as my mother always did, and immediately I had a flashback to something that happened back in the days of dinosaurs when I was in junior high. My BFF was over for dinner and my mother served her chili. Now, whenever Lidia cooks with bay leaves, she always says, “Make sure you know how many you put in because you need to pull out that many so no one chokes on a bay leaf.” Pshaw. My mother figured every man for himself. So we were quietly enjoying our chili, when suddenly my friend said, “Mrs. Gloor, um, there’s a leaf in my soup.” That became a story that my friend and I have laughed about many times over the years. Now she is a very good cook and likely often puts leaves in her soup.
I made a recent decision that I’m going to train myself to like beer. After all, I’m sure I didn’t take my first drink of gin and say, “Why, that is a simply delicious flavor. Martinis are my drink of choice.” I developed a taste for gin, and now it is quite true that I love me a good gin martini. I have never developed a taste, however, for beer, and I think an ice cold beer is just a good beverage of choice under certain conditions. With Mexican food. At a baseball game. While sitting on my Arizona patio when it is 95 degrees. So last night I got out the beer mug that Bill keeps in the freezer and poured myself a Pabst Blue Ribbon Light. Hmmm. It didn’t taste too bad, and I think with patience, I can learn to drink beer. But Jen asked a good question: “Why, when there is so much good wine to drink?”
Shopping in Gay Paree
Jen recently told me that she went to a French market that was held in Old Town Fort Collins, and had a wonderful time looking around. She bought a few things here and there. Overall, it was a grand experience. When she told me that story, I recalled that there used to be a French market in Denver that I went to one time with a friend. I checked, and lo, and behold, the market still ran once a month during the summer. In fact, last Saturday was the last one for the season, so I went. Called A Paris Street Market, it featured vendors carrying homemade items, vintage furniture and décor, clothing, jewelry and the like. Bill wanted to go, but I discouraged him enough that he decided to stay home. I was glad, because I wandered slowly through each booth, determining just what I couldn’t live without. I, in fact, came home with only one thing. I have been looking for just the right art to decorate my little coffee counter in the kitchen, and found the perfect thing. No?