Every year of a wedding anniversary is connected with some sort of item. For example, your first anniversary is paper. So the idea is that you would give your beloved spouse something made out of paper. I guess they don’t want you wasting money until you know the marriage is going to “take.” And I don’t know who “they” is. Probably Hallmark, because Hallmark is the king of All Things Gifted.

Anyway, it seems like 29 years should warrant something special. I went online to see the gift category for 29 years. Tools. Yep. After 29 years of marriage, Bill is supposed to give me a nail gun and I’m supposed to give him a power ratchet.

And, by the way, while I have no idea what a power ratchet is, I can almost guarantee that there is already one in our garage somewhere. Bill has a lot of tools that he has collected over the years. We did have to rent a jackhammer recently, but, oh well, we’re on to our 30th anniversary. The gift for 30 years, I’m pleased to say, is pearls. Bill bought me a pearl necklace early in our marriage. I could wear two strands and look like Barbara Bush. I can’t wait.

Anyway, since we passed on the tools, we made up for it by going out for a wonderful dinner with my sister Jen and her son B.J. We went to a wonderful Fort Collins restaurant named RARE. It is Italian, and I don’t think I’ve ever eaten better food. We knew we couldn’t go wrong.

And I have to add that eating with B.J. is one of the most pleasurable experiences you can imagine. The man likes food. He knows about food. He cooks fabulous food. And he knows what he likes. I love to eat with someone who loves to eat. What can I say?

Anyhoo, as we drank our before dinner drinks (martinis for B.J. and me, and glasses of prosecco for Jen and Bill) we perused the menu. As we did so, the server announced the restaurants specials. I can’t remember the rest, because as soon as the words were out of her mouth, I knew Bill might as well put his menu away. What was the word? Tomahawk steak.

If you have never seen (or eaten) a tomahawk steak, I will tell you it is one of the most pleasurable eating experiences you can have. A tomahawk steak is a bone-in ribeye steak. But what a bone! Wait, let me show you…..

Never mind that the cost was $175. Bill was all in. After all, a jackhammer would have been considerably more expensive. And besides, he was paying.

The steak, coupled with a few different risottos and some tagliatelle made for some wonderful eating. We started out with antipasti, as would any good Italian couple celebrating their 29th anniversary.

You know what else SCREAMED 29th anniversary? Our reservations were for 3:45 p.m. That was the only time left for reservations. I thought we would be surrounded by nothing but old people. The truth was, there were quite a few people there, finishing up their late lunch. When we were seated, Jen asked the server if we were going to be rushed. She said no, we could take our time. And that was before she knew we were going to order a steak the size of a side of beef.

Remember what I said about B.J. enjoying food? When we were finished eating, he asked if he could have the bone. I said yes, assuming he was going to take it home. But no:

I have to tell you what Bill lacked in manliness for ordering prosecco as a before-dinner drink, he more than made up for with the steak.

Having recently attended a wedding has gotten me to think about marriage in general and weddings in particular. I’ve been the blissful bride at two of them myself. This is, of course, one more than many people. I have found it takes me more than one try on many things in life. I’m happy to say I got it right the second time.

I had just turned 24 when I gave marriage my first go. We got married at a small Catholic church in Dillon, CO, called Our Lady of Peace. It was my parents’ church. By that time I was living in Denver, and was a mostly faithful churchgoer. While I went to church more often than I didn’t, I certainly didn’t have a church that I would have called my parish. Given that, we decided to get married at my parents’ church.

Our wedding was on December 29. Thinking that the church would still be decorated for Christmas, I didn’t worry about flowers. (Frankly, I didn’t worry about a lot of things regarding my wedding. I bought my dress at a regular store rather than a bridal store, and it didn’t cost very much.) Much to my surprise, when we walked into the church the night before our wedding for the rehearsal, there wasn’t a decoration in sight. To this day, I don’t know why the pastor took down everything four days after Christmas. His name was Fr. Ed, but he might as well have been Fr. Grinch.

My second wedding was entirely different. It was still small, with maybe 50-75 guests. But it wasn’t small in my heart. We were married in the church I had attended for 10 years. It was a half-block from the house in which Court and I lived. The parish had a school that Court attended from kindergarten through eighth grade.

Every member of my family was involved in some way in our wedding. My two sisters were bridesmaids. My nieces Kate and Maggie, and Bill’s daughter Heather were my junior bridesmaids. My nephew Christopher was ringbearer. And my two little nieces Kacy and Jessie were flower girls. Bill’s sons were groomsmen. My brother Dave held the honorary position of “host” which, thankfully, didn’t really involve much hosting. My nephew B.J. was the altar server. Court walked me down the aisle.

The wedding was really a celebration of love and I was joyful every hour of that day. I have many memories of that day, but one in particular always stands out. It was about 11 o’clock in the morning, and our wedding was at 2. The women/girls had just returned from getting our hair and makeup done. I walked in the back door of our little house (which was full of happy people). Court — 12 years old at the time — came running up to me and said, “Mom, B.J. and I are hungry. What is there to eat?”

I had carefully planned every minute of that day, but I had completely forgotten that people needed to eat lunch. Those kids were hungry. We ordered Dominic’s Pizza.

Yesterday Bill and I celebrated the 29th anniversary of this wonderful day. We’ve had ups and downs, but our life together together has been rich and full of surprises and lots of love.

Happy anniversary to my amazing husband who has made every day of our life together joyful. Well, except for the day that I threw the burrito at him.

Our granddaughter Maggie Faith spent this past week in children’s drama camp. The week culminated in a performance of Matilda, a play based on a book by author Roald Dahl. It was a shortened version of the play, but well done for only a week’s worth of practice. As for Maggie, she is a born entertainer……

Maggie’s performance made me smile. Have a great weekend.

Frozen 3
You might recall that right before we left for AZ to attend my niece’s wedding, our refrigerator went kablooey. Well, actually it was our freezer. I took everything out of our freezer and carried the frozen goods (of which there was a considerable amount) to a few loved ones who had room enough in their freezers and who loved me enough to share their space. We returned 10 days later, but before I could say defrost, I was in the hospital. So I finally picked up my frozen food the other day. Now I have to figure out how to use some of the frozen food that will no longer fit in my freezer. You know how your clothes fit in the suitcase when you begin a trip but no longer fit when you repack to come home? Same reality.

Cattails Ala King
Did you know that you can eat cattails for survival in case of a world disaster? I learned that from Pinterest which still apparently thinks I am preparing for Armageddon as they keep feeding me survival tips. There is a park in a nearby usuburb named Cattail Park. I will merely have to walk to the park and beat off the rich people who live near that park to survive disaster. Good to know.

Frying an Egg on the Sidewalk
While not even coming close to the 115 degrees “enjoyed” by my Arizona family, Denver’s high yesterday reached 100 degrees at DIA. One of the lead stories on the local news wasn’t Biden’s meeting with Putin. Nope, instead the reporter tried to fry an egg on the sidewalk (unsuccessfully), bake cookies in a car, (unsuccessfully), and make s’mores in a pizza box covered with aluminum foil (marginally successful. It really was hot. My outdoor plants were very glad to see me and my hose.

What’s Up, Doc?
Bill had his long-overdue appointment with his PD doctor on Tuesday. For the most part, he was pleased with Bill’s health. The disease, of course, continues to progress, but it seems to be taking its sweet time with him. I think he simply stays so busy that it can’t catch up with him. One takeaway is that he has to undergo a sleep study to diagnose sleep apnea. They really could save the time and money and just ask his loving wife. I listen to him breathe all night long. Sometimes he holds his breath so long that I’m flying over to the other side of the bed to shake him, just abouty the time he takes another breath.

Ciao.

After The Bucket List movie was released in 2007, everyone wanted to put together a bucket list. The idea of having a bucket list became so common that I don’t even feel the need to explain the term bucket list. Even I — the world’s least ambitious human — started thinking about the things I would like to do before I die.

That, however, was some 16 or 17 years ago. A lot has changed since then. The biggest change is that I am 16 years older than I was when the movie came out. While I might have considered paragliding in my late 40s/early 50s (yeah, right), I certainly wouldn’t do it now. Not only is paragliding dangerous and terrifying, the idea of putting on a swim suit is nearly as dangerous and terrifying.

So, I decided that it was time to update my bucket list. Here are five bucket list revisions…..

1. I was determined to write a novel sometime before I died. Unfortunately, every time I would read a really good book, I would set aside that goal because I simply didn’t think I was good enough to publish. I’m downgrading that particular goal to, instead, simply figuring out a way to use the word fortnight correctly in a sentence. I read a lot of British literature and watch a lot of British television. The characters think nothing of throwing fortnights around like confetti. I am determined that the next time something is going to take place in two weeks, I am going to use the word. Maybe I will even schedule a doctor’s appointment for two weeks from today so that I can say to Bill, “I am seeing Dr. Hoolihan in a fortnight.” Boom.
2. One of my son Court’s bucket list items was to see a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. Take me out to the ballgame and all. He achieved that goal one time during a business trip to Boston. As for me, I wanted to visit Madison Square Garden in NYC. I didn’t particularly care if I saw a basketball game or a circus. I just wanted to be able to say I had been inside Madison Square Garden. While that goal is still possible, I think I need to be more realistic and set my goal to my own garden in my backyard. The thistles are nearly as big as the pine trees. They need to be pulled.
3. And speaking of Madison Square Garden, top of my bucket list was to attend the Westminster Dog Show at MSG just one time. As the years tick by, that seems less and less achievable. This year the dog show wasn’t even held at Madison Square Garden. It was held upstate somewhere because of COVID. So if I want to see Westminster anything, it will probably have to be Westminster, Colorado, a suburb of Denver. They have a butterfly pavilion that Cole has wanted to see.
4. Another heartily-wished-for bucket list item was to fly somewhere — anywhere — first class. I am pretty sure I’m the only person left on this earth who hasn’t stumbled upon the good luck of being upgraded to first class. Now that even my short legs are in my face when I fly, being able to fly first class, drinking champagne and eating truffle omelets sounds delightful. Unfortunately, it appears I’m going to have to lower my goal to receiving a personal letter from someone bearing a first-class stamp.
5. A few years ago, while visiting our Vermont family, we road tripped to Portsmouth, NH, and took a whale watching trip. We had a very good time. Not only did we see numerous whales, but a pod of some 100 dolphins followed our boat most of the way. They were funny and delightful to watch. I decided that swimming with the dolphins would be a great adventure. That, unfortunately, was never a realistic goal because I can’t swim a single stroke. So, my much more realistic goal is to put my head under water sometime this summer. Think large or go home.

There you have folks. A much more realistic bucket list.

I mentioned yesterday that when I have recovered from one of my bowel obstructions, I have to slowly work my way back to eating regular food. Generally, while still in the hospital, I start with clear liquids, move to full liquids, finish with regular food.

For a long time I wasn’t clear about the difference between clear liquids and full liquids. For once thing, coffee is included in the clear liquid category. Thank heavens, by the way. But coffee is certainly not clear in color. What I learned is that clear refers to the thinness of the liquid. So coffee is clear; milk is full.

The other clear liquid that shows up regularly on my regime in the hospital when I’m taking my first food baby steps is Jell-O. Also not clear in color, but definitely clear in texture. And for reasons about which I am uncertain, the Jell-O is always green or orange. Not that it makes a lot of difference, because they all frankly taste about the same, but it would be fun to see some blue or red show up once in a while.

Jell-o tastes bad. Maybe it tastes fine if it is accompanied by vodka. I’ve never taken a Jell-O shot, so I can’t confirm or deny. But when you haven’t eaten for a few days and you’re starving, Jell-O is definitely not the answer. Jell-O makes the ubiquitous chicken broth taste like beef wellington.

I’ll tell you what does taste good is cranberry juice. I’m not sure why, but after taking nothing by mouth for two or three days, the tart flavor of cranberry juice tastes wonderful to me. Like Jell-O, it would taste better with a shot of vodka and a lime, but I am very happy when cranberry juice shows up on my initial food tray.

When I graduate to full liquids, I’m guaranteed to have a little dish of orange sherbet. Orange sherbet makes me happy. It doesn’t need to be accompanied by vodka. A little vanilla ice cream, perhaps.

But back to Jell-O. The trade name Jell-O was trademarked in 1897 by Pearle Bixby Wait and his wife May. Someone else came up with the idea way back in 1845 to add flavoring to sugar and granulated gelatin. I don’t know who came up with the original idea, because apparently the idea went nowhere until the Waits stepped in.

The Waits never sold a single box of Jell-O, however. Instead, they sold the idea and the name to  Orator Francis Woodward who owned Genesee Pure Food Company. Woodward marketed the product by calling it America’s Most Famous Dessert. The French would shudder.

This led to that, and finally the dish ended up on every American Thanksgiving table filled with fruit cocktail, mandarin oranges, or (God forbid) shredded carrots. Not necessarily as a dessert; more of a special salad treat.

My mother’s holiday table was no exception. She never EVER used shredded carrots. Instead, she used fruit cocktail. She also never owned a Jell-O mold. She did, however, always make a Jell-O salad for Thanksgiving. She made it in an 8×8 square pan. She would put the little squares of Jell-O on a small salad plate, nesting on a piece of iceberg lettuce. She always put mayonnaise on hers. If you were lucky, your Jell-O square included the red maraschino cherry.

I’m pretty sure I have never served Jell-O at any of my holiday meals. And I certainly will not start now. For the rest of my life, Jell-O will always mean hospitals to me.