Category Archives: Whimsies

Wedded Bliss

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One day, a few years ago, Bill and I drove over to Dave and Jll’s house, where they were hosting the family for dinner. We pulled up, and Dagny came hurrying out of the house with a smile on her face.

“Uncle Allen is coming for dinner, and he’s bringing a GIIIIIIRL,” she said, grinning widely.

“He’s WHAT?” Bill and I exclaimed. There was good reason to be surprised. It had been quite some time since Allen — Bill’s eldest child — had brought a giiiiiiirl to meet the family. None of us presumed that he didn’t date; we just all knew that he was very private. For him to bring someone to meet the Fam, it must be serious.

Emma — the giiiiiiirl — is French. Not simply of French descent; she was born and grew up in Paris, an only child. She came to the United States a year or so previously as part of a relationship that didn’t work out in the end.

Allen spent four years traveling around Europe after he graduated from college. He knows a number of foreign languages, but French is definitely the one which with he is most comfortable. He has worked diligently to stay fluent, and for that reason, he was a member of a French Club. It was in this club where he met Emma, who was there to learn English. Do-si-do.

The weeks, months, and years went by, and Emma became like a part of our family. We learned that she is a lovely woman, who, despite being an only child, seemed extraordinarily comfortable with the pandemonium that can be us. She is funny, and smart, and oh-so-lovely. She has taught all of us hillbillies to greet one another in the French way — a kiss on both cheeks. We quickly learned to love her very much, and all secretly kept our fingers crossed that this would be THE ONE for Allen.

A few weeks ago, Allen sent us all a text message. Would you guys be available on September 9 for a party? Emma’s parents will be in town and we’re looking to have a garden party at the studio.

Dum-dum-duuuuuuuum! We simply knew this was it. They were going to announce that they were getting married. We were all certain of it. Well, except for Bill, who — being male — simply thought it was a garden party in honor of Emma’s parents. As if Allen has garden parties all the time.

I will make a long story, well, at least shorter by telling you that a week or so ago, Allen and Emma announced to us NOT that they were getting married, but that they had, in fact ALREADY GOTTEN married. After our initial shock, we couldn’t have been happier. After all, it is Allen we’re talking about. For us to expect a traditional wedding was unrealistic. And see above. We love Emma.

Yesterday evening we did, in fact, go to a garden party at the Skytheory Studio, where we celebrated the marriage of Allen McLain and Emma Glass, along with her parents who are visiting from Paris. They had guessed the truth long before we did, and traveled all the way from Paris, France, to see the truth for themselves.

Emma and her mother and father, who came from Paris for the special celebration.

Allen and Emma, with his sister and brother, Heather and Dave.

The proud father poses with his son and new daughter-in-law.

Getting ready for the celebration.

Allen and Emma, with their nieces and nephews.

May they live happily ever after…..

Saturday Smile: He Man-Flashback

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When my son Court was little, he loved All Things He-Man. He watched the cartoon religiously. He collected the little plastic figures. If he wasn’t playing with them, he still carried them around in his little hand. So when this appeared on my Facebook feed the other day (thank you Cousin Stephanie), I watched it, and being so familiar with He-Man, and a fan of Dirty Dancing, I seriously laughed out loud…..

It’s a He-Man thing. And a Dirty Dancing thing. Tip of the hat to the 80s.

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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This Pear is No Bluff
As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, we have a pear tree in our back yard that has been fruitful this season……

So I am trying to come up with all sorts of ways to use pears. The other day I made a pear-caramel upside down cake that turned out perfectly. I sent Jll a text saying that if anyone would like to come over after dinner for dessert, they were welcome. No response, but around 5:30 the kids began trailing in. First came Maggie Faith on her bicycle. A short time later, I heard the front door open and Alastair walked in with a big smile on his face. I hear there’s pear cake, he said. Next came Addie and Dagny. I asked Addie to serve it up, and before I could say a partridge in a pear tree, the cake was served and eaten, and the kids were gone. Can you blame them?….

Well, actually, Maggie and Dagny stayed to watch an episode of Death in Paradise on Netflix, a mystery show on which I have gotten them hooked.

One More Pear
There were a couple of pieces left from the pear cake, and I removed them from the cake plate and put them on a small paper plate so that Bill and I could enjoy them for dessert the next day. I had a meeting that night, and when I got home, I noticed that Bill had eaten both pieces. “You ate my piece too?” I asked him crabbily. “Well, since they were on one plate, I thought you wanted me to have them both.” I’m not certain of the logic there, which seems somewhat flawed, though genuine. So the next day I made baked pears with brown sugar and cinnamon…..

…..and told him to make sure he left me one!

Bob’s Your Uncle
I’ve mentioned that Pinterest gets an idea on her own in what she thinks I might be interested. For a while it was chicken coops. Lately, however, she has been sending me suggestions for haircuts — specifically, angled bobs…..

Now don’t get me wrong. I happen to think think angled bobs are absolutely adorable. Still, how Pinterest thinks I can go from this…..

…..to an angled bob is a mystery. By the way, the other thing she has been sending me is information on something called “puffy paint.” I have no idea what that is, or why Pinterest thinks I am interested in knowing how to create it. Bill and I have been talking about hiring a painter to paint our upstairs once the windows are finished. Since we all know that Google, Facetime, Instagram, Pinterest, and Twitter all eavesdrop, that might explain the puffy paint posts. But I am NOT putting puffy paint on my bedroom walls.

You’re Beautiful
Bill and I were grown ups again last night. We went to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts and saw Beautiful: The Carole King Musical. I loved — LOVED — Carole King when I was in high school and college. It was all I could do last night to refrain from singing. The woman behind me wasn’t as successful as I. Just sayin’…..

Ciao.

Spaghetti All Around

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There was a period in my life when our family was fairly spread out.  Bec and Terry and their kids lived in Oklahoma or Alabama or northern Virginia or even — for heaven’s sake! — Germany. Dave and his brood lived (and still do) in Arizona. Jen and her family lived in Fort Collins (where she still lives), Court and I lived in Denver, and Mom and Dad lived up in the mountains in Summit County. The family has always gathered together as often as possible, but obviously it wasn’t always easy for Bec and Dave to travel to Colorado.

Still, on a fairly regular basis, those of us who lived in Colorado would meet in a central location. We spent weekends in Golden at the Holidome. We would meet in Estes Park. But one of our favorite spots to meet — especially when the kids were small — was the Old Spaghetti Factory in downtown Denver. 

We liked it because it was reasonably priced, the kids were welcomed, and the food was predicable and good. Mom, in particular, loved the Old Spaghetti Factory. We met, of course, in the days before cell phones. It was always busy, and whoever got there first would put in our names. When we walked in the door, we never knew who was there or if we were the first ones because see above. No cell phones. We always had to wait in the bar. Maybe a glass of wine for the grown ups and a pop for the kids. If we could sit right at the bar, that was even better…..

The building is historic — the old Cable Building. Inside are room after room full of tables. But if you were really lucky, you got to sit inside the caboose which had its own tables. We lucked out a number of times.

Jen called me up a few weeks ago. Did you know the Spaghetti Factory is closing down for good, she asked me. Mom would be so sad, we both decided. We also decided that one last trip to the Spaghetti Factory in honor of Mom was in order. We did so this past Sunday evening.

I was certain no one would be there. If they had a lot of customers, they wouldn’t be closing down, I theorized.

I was wrong:

Welcome to the Old Spaghetti Factory. Your wait will be two-and-a-half hours.

Luckily, we arrived at 5:30. To kill time, we walked to nearby Larimer Square and had a drink at Capital Grille. After all, we had two-and-a-half hours to kill. Except we didn’t, because around 7, my cell phone dinked. Your table is ready.

You have never seen three people walk quite so fast. We made it there in about five minutes and none of us had a heart attack. Nevertheless, our table was gone. So we did what we had done many times in the past: we went to the bar to wait for a table…..

Our wait wasn’t long as the staff was nice enough to put us at the top of the list. We soon were sitting at our table eating the familiar food…..

As we ate, we reminisced about all of the times we had sat in this same room with Mom and Dad. I also remembered a time — years ago — when Bill and I came to the Spaghetti Factory with some of our kids and grandkids…..

Jen and I took a minute to sit on the old red sofa where we had spent many nights waiting for a table…..

I’m not sure why the restaurant is closing. Perhaps the valuable real estate will be put to a more lucrative use. Time moves on, and for us, a memorable monument is vanishing.

And never mind that there is apparently another Spaghetti Factory in one of the northern suburbs. It won’t ever be the same, because it was never about the food. It was about the family.

Thanks for all the memories…..

Duke’s Not the Only One to Take the A Train

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You must take the “A” train
To go to Sugar Hill way up in Harlem.
If you miss the “A” train
You`ll find you missed the quickest way to Harlem.
Hurry, get on, now it`s coming.
Listen to those rails a-thrumming.
All aboard, get on the “A” train.
Soon you will be on Sugar Hill in Harlem. – BILLY STRAYHORN 

Every time I venture out of my southeast Denver neighborhood and head downtown, I am astounded at just how grown up the city has gotten since I worked there. It seems something new appears each time I get off the light rail train and head towards Union Station. There are strange hotels with names that have accents over the vowels. There are gastropubs (gastropubs?). There’s Whole Sol, not to be confused with its next door neighbor Whole Foods. There’s even a Target on the 16th Street Mall, for heaven’s sake. A TARGET! When I worked downtown, I was lucky to find a Rite Aid, and then had to push my way through the street musicians and homeless asking if I could spare a dollar.

But I had a good reason to be going downtown last week. My friend Megan and I were going on an adventure. We were going to take the A Train — not to Harlem but to Denver International Airport. And not because we were flying anywhere; instead, we just wanted to see what all the A-Train fuss was about…..

The A Train, or as it’s really known, the University of Colorado A Line, moves people from Union Station in downtown Denver to the airport and back again. The A Line has had so many problems getting itself to work right that I think the University of Colorado would like to hand its moniker off to its in-state rival CSU. Bill and I had taken the train from DIA to Union Station shortly after it opened, and were one of the few lucky ones whose train didn’t break down, causing significant delays. Woe betide anyone rushing to catch a train in that situation.

Megan, however, had not yet ridden the train, which has been opened for several years already. Want to go on an adventure? she asked me recently, and I agreed.

We met in the beautiful lobby of Union Station. As I waited for her arrival, I recalled the last time I had been in that lobby. It was the day Bill and I left on the California Zephyr for San Francisco. I remember that day well. I was living on oxy and cigarettes. Oh, not really. I had taken one Percocet because I had wrenched my back the night before and could barely walk and needed to withstand 15 hours or more on a train. As for cigarettes, I’ve never smoked one in my life. I just thought that made me sound more interesting and seasoned.

Anyhoo, the lobby is something special, and it was fun to see the travelers mingle with the downtown business people rushing to get their cuppa for a mid-morning pickup. I am waiting by the flower shop I texted her. I will be wearing the Groucho Marx nose and glasses, she responded.

Our plan was to take the train to DIA, and have a fancy-dancy lunch at the fancy-dancy restaurant in the fancy-dancy Westin Hotel that is attached to the airport. As for Megan and me, we are neither fancy nor dancy.

The train takes about 35-40 minutes to make its way from Union Station to the airport. It stops directly in front of the hotel. We disembarked and tried to look suave and debonair as we searched for the restaurant. It is called the Grill & Vine. The ampersand is no accident. It’s like the accent marks over the vowels.

We sat down at approximately 11:50, and finally left at 2:15. Our intention was not necessarily to have a leisurely lunch. The service was just incredibly slow. And we were hungry.

Let’s have burgers, we both agreed when we sat down. Never mind that a burger was 20 bucks. We were on an adventure. But as we sat there awaiting the arrival of our server (a situation we became accustomed to as the lunch progressed), we saw another server walk by with a couple of salads. They looked good, we both agreed.

So when the server finally arrived to take our order, we found ourselves asking for a Caesar salad and a Cobb salad. Little did we know that we wouldn’t see him again for quite some time. I’m pretty sure the chef actually DID take the A Train to Harlem to get the ingredients for our salad. It was close to an hour before our glistening lettuce salads were placed before us…..

As we waited, we dreamed about where we would go if we were actually grabbing a lunch just before boarding a plane to someplace exciting. London, we finally decided. And then to the south of France where Megan could start hunting for property for her next home. It was a dream, after all.

When the salads arrived, we hungrily began eating. We both ate in silence. At last, Megan said, “They’re kind of ordinary, aren’t they? Let’s have dessert.”

So we did. Coconut cake for her; chocolate espresso cake for me…..

We split the bill, as we often do, and put down our respective credit cards. However, for some reason, our server’s version of “splitting a bill” was to charge one of the parties about 10 bucks more. Megan was the lucky winner of the larger bill. To his credit, the server expressed surprise when she pointed out the error, and — as my grandmother would have said — made it right.

As we left the hotel to once again catch the A Train, we turned to one another and said, “We should have had the burger.”

Nevertheless, we enjoyed our adventure very much. Life is short, and time spent with good friends on a train to anywhere is a prize.

Honoring Our Nation’s Laborers

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Thank you to all of the hardworking Americans whose labors make our country thrive. Here are a few photos of some of my grandkids laboring…..

And here is one of my favorite photos of little patriot Kaiya at a much younger age….

Happy Labor Day!

Friday Book Whimsy: The Death of Mrs. Westaway

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When author Ruth Ware comes out with a new novel, I always get sucked in by the title. The Woman in Cabin 10; In a Dark, Dark Wood; The Lying Game. Her latest thriller caught my attention for the same reason: its title. The Death of Mrs. Westaway sounds like it could have been written by Agatha Christie.

I have always been somewhat disappointed by Ware’s stories, however. Her writing is respectable and the stories are always interesting enough that I keep on reading. It’s generally her characters that I find troubling. I have to find something in a protagonist to like or the book will leave me dissatisfied.

I found The Death of Mrs. Westaway to lean somewhat in that direction; yet, I found the main character — a young woman named Hal — to be a bit more likable and less one dimensional.

Hal’s life is at its lowest point. Her mother (she never knew her father) has died. Hal’s career as a tarot card reader like her mother barely covers her living expenses. In fact, she is in debt to a low-life lender who has threatened death if she doesn’t fork up the money in short order. Money she simply doesn’t have.

And then she receives a letter telling her that her grandmother has died and she has been left an inheritance. Voila! This could be the answer to all of her money problems. There is only one problem. Her grandmother died years ago. The letter must have come to her in error. Still, what harm could there be in playing dumb and going to the funeral and the subsequent meeting with the lawyer?

Well, it turns out things get more and more complicated when Hal finds out that she not only was mentioned in the will, but Grandmother left her the whole shooting match — most of her money and the estate in which she lives. The estate which is INCREDIBLY SPOOKY. Hal’s new aunts and uncles aren’t thrilled with this notion, though they try to be nice to her.

But not only is the estate spooky, there is a very creepy housekeeper who dotes uncomfortably on one of Hal’s new uncles. This could be Mrs. Danvers’ (of Rebecca fame) younger sister.

While Hal’s new family appears to be understanding, it quickly becomes apparent that someone doesn’t want her to be around. And why are there pictures of her mother — her real-life mother who by all accounts isn’t even related — around the house?

The story is tied up quite satisfactorily if somewhat predictably. Still, I found this to be my favorite of all Ruth Ware’s novels. Having said that, I must tell you that The Death of Mrs. Westaway is no Rebecca by a long shot.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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Cool or Diseased?
I always think my granddaughters’ feet look so awesome when they have their toenails painted a bright green or blue. So earlier this week when I got my pedicure, I picked out what I thought was a pretty shade of blue. What the heck. I’ll take a walk on the wild side. Unfortunately, I can’t get past the fact that my feet don’t really look striking; rather, they look more like I have a toenail fungus……

Dazed and Confused
I was on light rail last week, heading home from downtown during rush hour traffic. The train was surprisingly full, with mostly standing room only. I happened to be lucky enough to get one of the last seats. I was amused as I looked around and noticed the mostly Millennials who were commuting at that time. They all looked tired and dazed. Nearly all were staring at their phones, and many had on earbuds. I noticed at one point that several of the people were silently mouthing words to themselves. At first I thought everyone was saying a silent rosary, because as a lifelong Catholic, that’s where I go. I realized finally, however, that they were all silently singing along with whatever music they were enjoying, which was why no one was mouthing the same words…..

I Got Buzzed
As I walked through the tunnel that goes underneath I-25 to the light rail station in my neighborhood, I happened to glance down at the front of my clothing. I noticed something dark-colored on my shirt. I looked closer to see if it was a stain, and realized that it was a fairly large insect. Anyone who knows me can imagine just how calm I was. I began whipping the shirt around, trying to dislodge the insect, while dancing madly. It wouldn’t budge. At that point, I realized that it was a bumblebee, and one who was fairly lazy, or perhaps sick, because it had no interest in dislodging itself. I finally managed to flick it off, and hoped that I never had to tell my granddaughter Dagny the story. I also said a silent prayer of thanks that I was alone in the tunnel.

Under the Sea
Kaiya celebrated her birthday last weekend at a party with her school friends. The party’s theme was “Under the Sea.” Mom and Dad did a great job. Everything looked very nautical, but I liked her pinata best…..

Ciao!

It’s More Than 3.14159265359

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I received some really nice comments following yesterday’s blog post, all assuring me that everyone has a bad day here and there. Maybe I should throw snit fits more often. J/K. As you might guess, Bill takes the brunt. My sister Bec consoled me this way: “You know what Sister Elizabeth used to say? I’m getting stoned to death with popcorn.” That was me.

Yesterday afternoon, Bill came home from a trip to one of his favorite stores — Home Depot. Home Depot is to him what a fancy grocery store is to me. Neither one of us can quite understand the other’s obsession. Anyway, as he walked in the door, he said, “Kris, I bought you a present.” Hmmm. Well that was interesting, as he typically doesn’t buy me presents unless it’s my birthday. “I wanted to buy you the moon and the stars, but that wasn’t possible.” This really caught my attention, because Bill is a lot of things, but romantic is generally not one of them. “So, instead,” he went on, “I bought you two comets.”…..

 

Now, this might strike you as about as romantic as King Kong was to Ann Darrow. Au Contraire mon ami. I recently was griping about the fact that the Comet that I kept in our bathroom to clean our shower was missing (the unsaid accusation, of course, being that he took it and didn’t return it), and that I kept forgetting to buy more. So, there actually was some thoughtful sentiment in his purchase. And it proved that he did, in fact, take it. Winner winner chicken dinner.

I mentioned in yesterday’s post that looking at photos of my grandkids cheered me up. Yesterday afternoon, I was further cheered because instead of doing what I should have been doing — namely, putting the things back that I had removed from my china cabinet over a year ago — I baked. Pies are my favorite things to bake, and nearly my favorite thing to eat. So I baked pies.

As you know if you are a faithful reader of my blog, baking pies is not an unusual activity for me, particularly in the late summer and early fall when the peaches are ripe and the apples are plentiful. This time, however, I did something I have never before even tried…..

I made a lattice top crust.

What????? You’ve never done this before? I understand your shocked silence. But I have always been too scared to try. It’s true. Me, who fearlessly rides a scooter on the crazy streets of Denver (dodging bullets if Nextdoor is to be believed), has never even tried to lattice a top crust.

There’s a perfectly good reason for my fear. The pie crust that I always use, while simple and extraordinarily flaky and delicious, is incredibly soft. There is simply no way that I could weave the strips as is necessary to make a lattice crust. So, my solution was simple. I cheated.

I made my usual pie crust. The recipe makes two crusts. I used the two crusts for the bottoms of my peach pie and my apple pie. And then I used a Pillsbury already-prepared crust for the top. Boom. The pies were for a family dinner last night, but by time the kids read the blog post today, they will have already eaten — and hopefully enjoyed — the pies. Fooled ya’.

I, in fact, made a total of three pies yesterday: an apple, a peach, and a key lime with a homemade gluten-free graham cracker crust for Allen. Others will also likely choke it down as well…..

If baking pies makes me happy, it’s no wonder I was so cheerful yesterday. And now I’m going to go clean the shower. I have no excuse not to.