Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Separated at birth?

Butthead and Cris Collinsworth.

Oh, come on, is it just me? Isn't it obvious?

Ode to Target

The contents of my Target shopping basket tonight, along with the rationale for each purchase:

• One bottle of kids' Gummy-vitamins (fills the gaps)
• One bottle of Fiber-gummies (for the kid who won't go potty)
• Brown eye shadow (replaces one that's more than 2 years old)
• Burt's Bees facial night creme (bringing in the big guns)
• Revlon Foundation (I've yet to find the perfect hue)
• Panti-liners (because. Just because.)
• A 3-pack of black underwear (because! Just because!)
• Two pairs of headphones (to replace the ones I loaned to my son, which he then lost) (on sale, half price)
• A black V-neck sweater (can you ever have too many black sweaters?)
• A red drapey scarf (matches my red Wellies)
• One bagged Caesar salad kit (to go with tonight's dinner)
• A Greek yogurt (strawberry) (have you tried this stuff? Soooo creamy)
• One box of Toaster Strudel (kids' request)
• Crest sparkly kids' toothpaste (also, kids' request)
• One empty spray bottle (you never know when you'll need one of these)

Thank you, Target, for being the store where I can buy a Bagged Salad and a Black Sweater, all on the same trip.

Next stop: Frumpyville

While walking on Connecticut Avenue in DC recently, I made a beeline for took a detour through Filene's Basement, just for some retail therapy to see what was on sale.  I was feeling like my work wardrobe was suffering in the "tops" department, and also in need of a basic black skirt in a size that fits me. My time was limited - I had to get back to work - no time to try things on. So, I grabbed one of these off of the rack:

...in a dark heather gray, with a matching sleeveless top in the same color. For layering.

It looked roomy comfy, and stretchy, and, due to its neutral color (did I mention it was gray?), I was sure it would match the rest of my unspeakably drab wardrobe.  And that, I was okay with. I don't dress to impress when I head to the office. I dress so that my attire does not distract from my crazy-mad human resources skillz.

The first day I wore it, I declared it the Most Comfortable Sweater Set EVER. It was flowy. Swingy. Possibly even Sassy! I liked how the shawl collar draped, and was pleased with the layered effect. It looked fine with a long skirt and boots. Its neutral tone had the potential to coordinate with all of my equally-neutral slacks and shoes.

But when I wore the ensemble today, with a pair of plain black slacks and black clogs, I made a startling discovery. I entered the office ladies' room, with its large mirrors and unforgiving fluorescent lighting and was horrified to see this lady staring back at me:

"GAAAH!" I screamed inside my head, and flinched, for only then did I realize the sad, pathetic truth:

I have started dressing  like a Golden Girl.

I am becoming Bea Arthur. BEA! ARTHUR!

Oh, the horror.

I squinted into the mirror. No gray hair - but only because I applied an all-over brown-hued color two weekends ago.  Underneath, it's closer to Bea's color than I ought to admit. My facial skin is starting its inevitable surrender to the relentless pull of gravity. And - let's be honest here - that swishy, swirly sweater? Is designed to hide my spare tire muffin top and my expanding rear end.

It occurred to me that I'm not fooling anyone in my strategically-draped garb.

But my subsequent thought, that should have been an epiphany, was actually anticlimactic. And here it is:

Meh. Big deal.

I have accepted that my body just ain't what it used to be. I mean, I've been travelling around in it for more than four decades; it's bound to be showing some wear by now. To the extent my health is not compromised, I'm content to drape flowy gray knits around my midsection. I accept that the jeans at Old Navy aren't made for my body type. (Heck, I have accepted that women of a certain age just shouldn't be wearing Old Navy... unless it's to bed.)  I don't mind, really, that I can't wear cute high heels or strappy sandals, lest I risk further damage to my already-ruined feet. I know that capris are more flattering (or less unflattering?) for my body type than shorts. (Even long-ish shorts.)

Of course, this means accepting that I'm not getting any younger. I'm hurtling towards middle age, and it shows.  The wheels are slowly starting to fall off... but as long as they can be repaired, and the vehicle remains in good, functional condition -

WHO CARES WHAT I DRESS IT IN?

I have read that women reach a certain age and begin to accept and even love themselves, and I think I'm just about there.  And I can smile as I write that. Sincerely.

 

Love notes

"So, I need 2 ask U, do U like Bobby from our class? He rides by ur house all the time..."

This was posted on the Facebook wall belonging to one of my teenage "friends."

"Um.... no?" She replied.

This innocent little exchange caused me to have this epiphany:

Do These Kids Nowadays write love notes to each other?  Like on paper? With a pencil? Or an ink-pen?

I bet they just text. Or Facebook, or whatever. 

(WARNING: Here comes the part where I wax all nostalgic about how things were awesome back in My Day and, in doing so, I will sound like I'm 80 years old. I'm not. I'm 42. But I can't help myself. Ready? Here goes...)

I would imagine that texting is a stealthier and more secure method of message delivery. Back in the Precambrian Era  Great Depression 1970s and 1980s, you had to wait for your math teacher to turn his back and write on the board. (Sorry, Mr. Cameron!) Then you had to place your trust in the three classmates sitting between you and your crush, and hope that they would actually deliver your note to the intended recipient without getting caught. Or intercepting and reading your note, causing you to die of embarassment right there at your right-handed desk (even though you were left-handed, but all they had in the classroom was two leftie desks).

Of course, your note had to be short so he could read it fast (and in this we have the precursor to today's 140-character text message). The recipient would have to check the appropriate box - or circle yes or no - then refold the note and casually send it back your way.

Do you like me? Yes or no. Circle one.  Pass this back to me.

And then my mind wandered all the way back to the school tablets whose sheets we transformed into brief declarations of puppy love. Remember the tablets? They weren't notebooks; they were top-bound, lined tablets.  Not three-hole punched, not spiral-bound, not perforated. And the best thing was, they would give you one upon request! Remember that? You'd raise your hand and announce you needed a new tablet, and Voila! Fresh tablet! Gratis. They smelled so good and held such promise.

But the best part about a new tablet was, without question, decorating the cover. This was where your true artistic potential could be expressed, you with the loopy cursive and bubble i-dots and hearts and smiley-faces. Remember practicing how to write you and your crush's name?

Meg + Curt

Curt + Meg

Meg luvs Curt

2B + 2gether = 4ever

Meg McCormick

Mrs. Curt McCormick

I tried to find a picture of an old school tablet from the 1970s. If I remember correctly, the brand was "Educator" and there was a picture of a quill and inkwell and maybe a scroll. But when I Googled "old school tablet", here's what I got:

I know, right??? I'm old, Google, but I am NOT THAT OLD, okay?

And then I got a lot of this:

I'm sorry, but *that* is NOT a "tablet." 

WTF, Google??

Will Today's Youth ever know the thrill of receiving a sheet of lined paper, folded into eighths, slipped into your locker through the vent or tucked into your Trapper Keeper? Will they ever compulsively unfold and refold that note, until it starts to tear along the folds, reading and rereading it to discern any possible subtext? 

Will they ever feel tempted to correct their crush's spelling, or be ever-so-slightly put off by a misused your/you're or their/there or to/too?

(Shut up. If you've read this far, you already know I'm a freak, and if this isn't your first time here, you love me in spite of it. You can't be surprised to learn that I was compulsive about grammar and spelling at a tender age.)

Possibly the best thing about notes was, if necessary, you could destroy them.  Three weeks after you passed that note in math class, you were already on to a new crush, and any evidence of your previous crush could be burned or flushed or torn into teeny, tiny bits and scattered out the window of the school bus.

And then?

You could raise your hand and request a brand-new tablet.

What are your memories of love notes that you sent or received?

Chestnuts

At the grocery store last Friday, an 8-ounce mesh bag of Italian chestnuts jumped into my cart.  I've been keeping an eye out for chestnuts - you don't see them just anywhere anymore. I bristled at the $6 pricetag, but it's a once-a-year autumnal fix for me, so I splurged. Soup Husband Curt "doesn't care for them" (which is what he initially told me about cilantro, which he later admitted he finds repulsive).

Tonight I scored a few with an X and roasted them in the oven (for lack of an open fire on the premises tonight), and shared them with The Boss. He liked them.  Then I started waxing nostalgic about how much I liked them when I was a kid.  This was when Ross quietly excused himself from the room. But you're stuck here, so you get to suffer through hear the story:

My Great Uncle Roy (Grandma Sara's brother) gave us two chestnut trees when my dad died. We planted them, and they grew and grew and, after a few years, bore chestnuts encased in prickly orbs that were fun to mow over:

 
Thanks, Wikipedia, for both of these photos

So to me, chestnuts hold memories of a thoughtful uncle who shared our loss and whose gesture during a painful time stays with me, even though I've long since moved away from where those two trees grow.

Those trees put down scores of chestnuts and we could eat 'em all FOR FREE. We braved risk of stabbing our digits with those pointy outsides to get to the delicious nugget inside. Used to be, you could buy 'em for cheap by the paper bagful. But where are the chestnut trees in Maryland? And why was the only bag of chestnuts I could find in the grocery store imported from ITALY?

I decided to Google the venerable chestnut to see what I could learn.

"Heh heh heh, heh heh heh," said Soup Husband Curt who, confirming the rumors, remains a 12 year old boy trapped in a 44 year old man's body. "You said CHEST-NUT."

Among the sponsored ads and search results were the following:

Peeled, roasted chestnuts. A vendor selling peeled, roasted chestnuts. Because roasting and peeling them yourself is such an odious task? I mean, isn't that the fun of roasting them yourself?

Bring back the chestnut. A tree farm (nursery) whose mission is clear. (Hyperlinked because they have interesting historical info about the chestnut - go, read!)

Chestnut Roasting Pan. A "gourmet" cookware vendor who sells a long-handled metal pan with small holes in the bottom, useful for roasting chestnuts over an open fire.

French chestnuts. Imported from France, I suppose. Fancy.

Now I should admit here that in my world, chestnuts were never, ever something we added to anything that was stuffed into the cavity of a turkey and roasted on Thanksgiving. We are stuffing purists (and it's stuffing, not dressing, dammit) - bread with sauteed celery and onions and some seasonings is really the only appropriate thing to serve with a large fowl on the fourth Thursday in November.  But I realize, in some parts, "chestnut dressing" is traditional. But, to me, the ONLY thing to do is to roast chestnuts, then peel and eat them plain.

What are your memories of chestnuts, or your recipes or recommendations, or sources for cheap chestnuts in Maryland or PA? Please share in the comments.