Bill spent Tuesday morning cutting up an old recliner so that it would fit in the garbage can for pickup Tuesday afternoon. We are preparing for the arrival of some of his mom’s furniture since she is moving from her apartment into assisted living. Bill specializes in taking large pieces of furniture and cutting them into pieces small enough to fit in a garbage can. It’s quite remarkable, really. After we bought our lovely sofa in Arizona, he cut up the entire beat-up sofa we had been using. I noticed about two-thirds of the way through his project that he was using my bread knife. He doesn’t do that anymore.
Here Kitty Kitty
The other night Dave, Jll, and the cousins came for dinner. With Alastair in mind, I made a pumpkin poke cake. The recipe involves a yellow cake mix mixed with a can of pumpkin, baked and cooled. Once completely cooled, holes are poked into the cake with the end of a wooden spoon, and sweetened condensed milk is poured over the whole cake. Finally, it is finished off with whipped cream and toffee chips. I had Alastair in mind because I know he likes ALL THINGS PUMPKIN. If he drank lattes, he would undoubtedly be drinking Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Starbucks with almost everyone else that I know. While the others ate the cake, no one enjoyed it quite as much as Alastair. I say this because here is Maggie Faith’s take on the pumpkin poke cake: She ate the whipped cream and toffee chips off of the top. She poked around a bit on the cake, and then said in an objective, absolutely non-judgmental way (and I quote), “This looks like Sophie’s cat food.” Boom. I told her she should consider a career as a restaurant critic. However, not to be put off, Alastair immediately said, “I’ll eat it!” and did.
Speaking of all things pumpkin, I elected to forgo my annual crabby why-is-everything-pumpkin-flavored-or-fragranced blog post. I don’t know why seeing pumpkin flavoring in everything annoys me, but it simply gets on my last nerve. I like pumpkin. Pumpkin pie is one of my favorites. I enjoy a piece of pumpkin bread or pumpkin muffins. For my part, I rather enjoyed the pumpkin poke cake. But really, can’t we have a few items in the fall that taste like apples? Or pears? Having said this, you will understand why something my sister Jen told me the other day made me laugh out loud. A friend of hers took her car in to get the oil changed. The company had a sign hanging above their front desk that read We now have pumpkin spice motor oil. Like me, someone else is sick of pumpkin spice everything.
Would it Kill You to Be Kind?
Yesterday I made a trip to Park Meadows Mall, about a 15 minute drive south of our house. Normally a 15-minute drive, that is. It turns out that there was road construction that involved the closure of one lane at the intersection of One Busy Street and Another Busy Street. Lane closures bring out the worst in people. You have those (like me) who get in the appropriate lane early. Then you have those who fly past so that they can get into the correct lane closer to the front of the line, thereby making those of us who follow the rules wait longer. Like they are more entitled. I am retired and had nowhere to be, so I tried to be patient, but it really began to get on my nerves. I wished I was driving a semi so that I could block their lane. It amused me that one of the people who flew past me had a vanity license plate that said Be Kind. Hmmm. Anyway, I finally got to the light, so all I lost was a bit of my time.
A Needling Question
While at the mall, I came upon a sight that sent me back in time. There was a man sitting in one of the chairs at the mall that are designed for partners of shoppers to relax and read or look at text messages. That is not an unusual sight, of course. But what was unusual was that the man was working on a big quilt. He was stitching away quite happily, and judging from the size of the quilt (which was pooled at his feet), he was nearly done. The sight made me smile, and it also made me think about something I did when I was in college. I was married to my first husband at the time, and we were both students. I took a lot of Women’s Studies classes (People, it was the 70s) though my major was Journalism. For one of my Women’s Studies classes, I had to do some sort of project that involved gender differences. So David and I went down to the Pearl Street Mall, a popular pedestrian shopping area in Boulder. David sat on the lawn in front of the courthouse and pretended to work on some sort of needlepoint project. My job was to sit back and observe people’s reaction to a man working on a needlepoint project. My recollection was that for the most part there was no reaction at all. After all, it was Boulder, Colorado. I wonder what I said in the paper that I wrote. And I wonder if my friend yesterday was helping his wife on a school project or just likes quilting.