Sugar

I'm still on my sorghum kick, so I ordered some sorghum syrup. It arrived today.

I dipped the end of a spoon into the bottle and was surprised by how sticky the syrup is. I'm not quite sure how to describe it, but it took forever for the thread of syrup to stop stretching and find its end. That was at room temperature but I'm guessing it'll be easier to use without a mess when it's colder.

More when I know it.

I got the syrup for its iron content and its general sorghumness. Then I did what you're not supposed to do and I put it in yogurt, with a few chopped pecans. It was super tasty, but I probably defeated the iron absorption with the dairy.

I love using different kinds of sugar. With my coffee it's always white. I didn't know until Mickey and Raylene told me that to make it that color they use animal bones. I care about too many things, and that one I just draw a veil of charity over, if you know what I mean.

Palm sugar (jaggery) is my favorite to use in savory foods and some sweets. So tasty with lime, and it proffers good funk. I first used some jaggery from mrguy's stash of brewing ingredients. When I ran through it I went to the Pakistani grocery and asked for jaggery and the nice lady pointed to a bag of C&H. Did I realize previously that the word just meant sugar?

No I did not. This is the same place where the lady got tired of my asking for Amul butter during the pandemic. I eventually found a different source because we are lucky enough to be *thick* with South Asian markets around here. Anyway, on that day I was the red-faced purchaser of palm sugar, and her store is still my go-to. I mostly use this sugar in my applesauce. Jaggery, some allspice leaves from the slowest-growing tree to ever be sold by fastgrowingtrees.com, a little lemon from the tree (if any are hiding within it) and I am good. I made a lot of applesauce during the pandemic because every day my mom took an apple from her diningroom to her apartment and she never ate them. When the elder hoard became too large, her caregiver brought them to me and I made applesauce.

Popping back up to the top -- yay sorghum. I look forward to finding things that you will make more tasty. 

Perhaps my next batch of greens. 

Flights of Scandinavian Fancy

A friend suggested that we apply for a residency to stay on Svalbard and make music with another person we know. That just took me down all kinds of roads. Mrguy is not down with this idea, given that if you go there and want to walk outside the city limits you are required to carry a rifle because of polar bears. Eek.

You know me and bears.

But mrguy was not invited by my friend, by the way.

The third person fronts a metal band. It isn't outside of the realm of possibility that we could make music in Spitsbergen. Efterklang did it and made a beautiful documentary. I heard about it on Fresh Air, and we asked for the digital file of the film. The deal was that in exchange you had to get a group of at least 5 people to watch. We tried, but couldn't really sell it to our friends. Finally, at least ten years later, we broke the rule and watched it in Guy Home Theater. 

So this Svalbard thing took me down many rabbit holes. What kind of music could I do? I haven't sung or touched an instrument in years. I was reminded of the artist Louise Hoffsten, who made the most beautiful album called Käre Du, which took Swedish folksongs and gave them a light, gorgeous, jazzy twist. The song  "Om dagen vid mitt arbete" just slays me. Could there be inspiring songs in Norwegian?

Reddit suggests "...the Norwegian band Folque". They're pretty cool. In a I-can-imagine-Jack-Black-shredding-this kinda way. Then I tried listening to some Danish 80s music by Danseorkestret. I know one of those guys and it would be funny to revamp / tweak one of their songs. I don't really know much about them -- yet.

That's what happens on a Sunday. I was feeling crappy in the mind this morning, and now I feel much better.

From me to you.

A Stray Dog

The prompt was that we were to write from the perspective of a stray dog in our home town. Instead I wrote about my mother's nemesis, the dog down the street.

There are no strays in my neighborhood. My name is Mei Ling, I am a Pekingese, and X Road in San X is my scene. Because I “wet” on Mrs. X’s lawn and leave brown spots, she does not like my father who walks me. I’ve heard her daydream out loud of planting pokey plants in her front yard to make me go elsewhere. I don’t care. I’m a proud lady Pekingese and I own this place.

Sorghum

The anemia continues. I would really like to know what a blast of iron feels like, and I'm responding so slowly to the iron pills that I've decided to go with infusions. First one was today, and then one a week for the next three weeks. I didn't really know what I was signing up for, and it's quite like mrguy's infusions and in fact it's in the same infusion lab. The infusions last for 2-3 hours.

In the meantime, I've done some research about iron-rich foods and one of them is sorghum. What do you know about sorghum? I knew nothing, except that I thought it was sweet enough to provide a syrup. Turns out that I am right. I have some coming by mail in the next week.

A few weeks ago I got some sorghum via Bob's Red Mill. Cooked it up, and probably didn't cook it enough. It was chewy but nice. Maybe I'll ask mrguy to prepare some in his instant pot. Then I'd be sure it was cooked through. Then on my buy nothing facebook group a guy was giving away some sorghum flour. So today I made banana bread using white *and* sorghum flour. I think it tastes pretty good, although I baked it a bit too long.

Readers of mrsguy know how I love a one food festival (like the asparagus festival!) -- so I started exploring where the sorghum festivals can be found. Unfortunately the nearest one is two states away.

There's the Simon Sorghum Festival, in Ohio. Here's their YouTube video about the festival. Rural heritage crafts demonstrations are a bonus.
The Wewoka Sorghum Festival in Wewoka Oklahoma. This one has the added benefit of being co-sponsored by the Seminole Nation. So there are living culture demonstrations, as well.

Blairsville Georgia has a Sorghum Festival, as well. It includes a biscuit eating contest.

So today's excitement was going in for my iron infusion. I enjoyed the pink tape. Iron infusion goo resembles Coca Cola syrup, by the way. I mostly slept while the infusion was happening. It's literally in the same infusion center as mrguy visits, and he was even in there for part of the time I was, because it's his disconnect day.

Everybody there was so nice. They all knew mrguy, because he's a regular. And when he told them that I was in curtain 9, some came in to introduce themselves, which allowed me, in return, to thank them profusely for the great care that they give him.

I worked from home for the second half of the day. Looking forward to feeling better. They say that I should start to feel better in a few weeks as the iron does its duty.

Complaint Department

The prompt was to write a one-page complaint. I riffed, instead.

Fava beans – you are pointless. To even get to the bright green diarrhea-producing nugget inside you, you need to be shelled, boiled and shelled again. A pox upon your house.

To the green produce and dog waste bags – I do not believe that you are compostible. In addition, I am horrified by the feel of you in my hand. I literally cannot unfeel you.

To the people who complain to the neighborhood email list about dog owners who put the poop in the bottom of your newly-emptied trash can – shame only works if you catch them in the act. Also, stop smelling your garbage can.

Chickens – I know you’re having an egg. Can you please hold it down?

To the makers of cheap but soft toilet paper – you have embarassed me deeply. You are so soft that I didn’t notice the paper clinging between my cheeks and small bits of your product fell to the floor during a dermatological exam. Thanks a lot. I never understood the commercials with the blue bear until now.

Pilot G-2 07 pen – do you ever write in a smooth line? It takes me three passes to write “butter” on the grocery list. I understand that in this life no person is guaranteed a pen that writes well, but somehow even seeing you next to the grocery list fills me with contempt. You rob me of the small joy of writing.

Two drummers in separate houses on my suburban street – can you *please* get lessons? Drumming is an artform, not simply the act of ownership and doing. You are driving my husband to madness with your as-if-trying-drums-at-guitar-center level of drum hitting. Smite Different.

Cancer – the way you return without so much as ringing the doorbell and then shake things up? Not cool.

Books with the spines turned backward in author zoom interviews = distracting shapes that scream to be known.

-- Joys? --  

Those are abundant.

The color of a new red maple leaf against a blue sky. I told a dear friend how much I love that one thing and she sent me a photo of it. I almost cried.

Turkey vultures circling high above.

Eating the chicken-y vegetables out of a pot of stock I’m making.

Mechanical pencils. They rarely let you down.

Cats. Mine, yours. Doesn’t matter.

The song and video “Guinea Pig Bridge”, by Parry Gripp. 55 seconds of adorableness and delight. When I’m having a *moment*, sometimes people suggest that I watch it because they know it’s my reset. Find it on YouTube.

Also the color pink, and contrasting thread.

Sign Ze Paypahs!

From yesterday --

It's supposed to happen today. But the day is not over and it hasn't happened yet.

So I thought I'd go to YouTube and listen to Sign Ze Papahs. Cheech and Chong. You know, that sketch is not funny. But the bro used to say "Sign ze papahs" in a German accent for the entirety of my childhood. It was always funny when he said it. But I was wrong.

As refreshment for my mood center, I watched Guinea Pig Bridge. It never disappoints. 55 seconds of happiness.

And then it happened, at 4:59. Hats off to my sister, our real estate attorney, the ancestral beings and anyone else who made this happen in a way that will not come back to haunt me. I feel like I can see my future in front of me finally.

Thank you to all who have listened, comforted, assisted in any way. I do not care if I see a penny from this transaction. Just want distance and clarity. Here's the building, with my pop in it, on a sunny day.

Freedom and Determinism

Hey. It's me! Waiting for pathology in the offices of the world's tallest Mohs surgeon. I think this will be a quickie. But while I'm waiting, with a bandage on my face and a drippy nose, might as well catch up on the weekend.

It rained this weekend, which was glorious. The boy kitten thanked me for putting his favorite blanket on the sofa. Mrguy has been consulting Key Ideas in Human Thought, one of our best pre-Internet reference sources.

Saturday was Irish genealogy club day. Two hours of good times, hints, things to pursue. 

And then, a little jaunt with the rev. We went for a rainy ride and some hot tea in Sugar City, where mrguy and I got married. That's her fetching elbow on the right, and the bridge in the distance on the left. We drove past the old old place. They've painted it blue. In the window? One of the many neighborhood cats in windows in that town that are distantly related to our old cat, nose. Nose and eyes were, themselves, spawn of a neighborhood ragdoll, mrbrownballs. We didn't get nose until we moved into the house next door to this one, so it's nice that it's now populated with one of his mishpoche.

I totally forgot to mention that our friend from the extinct ukulele band came over on Saturday night. What a treat! He just moved to our town and we're excited.

Sunday was a bagel and lox feast at the house of that nice guy's brother. We got to talk a little bit by ourselves, but mostly the day was spent in stories of their close-knit community. They were so lucky to have one another, and it seems like that nice guy's mom was one of the neighborhood's adhesives. She drove the kids, she edited the newsletter, she was the person who connected and networked, before that word existed. I wish I'd known her better, which is the desired achievement of every memorial.

Her friend had a psychic connection with the livingroom carpet.

The spreads were divine. I even ate my first chopped liver.

And now...we wait.

Color Day!

I am listening to Stay True, by Hua Ha. Narrated by the author. It has reeled me in and now spat me out with grief. I have vowed to come back to this later. Too, too tender. I decided this on the way to the grocery to buy some vinegar for the egg dye.

Arriving home, I appreciated the Scarlet Pimpernel growing in the front yard. I know it's a weed (thanks, Mom!) but its flowers are just about my favorite color. Also I love lawn daisies. I know I'm not supposed to like them (thanks, Mom!) but I do.

When I came back to the store in need of a new and different friend to keep me company while egg dyeing, I went to Libby. Looked for memoirs. Found that Mo Rocca has a book that's not available at the moment, but that he also has a podcast. Thanks, Libby! So I listened to Mobituaries. The first episode was about Laura Branigan. OK. The second is about what I call the Mid-Atlantic Accent. You know, the accent that every American actor used in the 30s-40s (think Bette Davis). Now *that's* fascinating. It included much discussion of what used to be considered an appropriate presidential accent, side discussion on presidential pets, deep dive on the meaning of the "r" sound over the decades, and so much other goodness. Mo Rocca kept me sufficiently entertained during egg dyeing, egg photography and egg dye tie dye.

Did you know this could be done? Please consult these pages (or YouTube) for the answer.

That was just so darned relaxing, I gotta tell you. A great last day of my week off. That, and I got photos from clamdip2020's trip to England, a friend sent a text with Hawaiian sheet music, and mrguy is puttering around making a quesadilla. 

Ahhh.

Easter Eve

Today is Easter Eve. Mrguy and I went up the stairs at the end of the street (huff, puff) and went on a short walk up there. The view today is amazing.

Yesterday, as I mentioned, was filled with obligations. After I decided not to go to the Good Friday service I relaxed. Went into the living room and hung out with mrguy. When he retreated to the kitchenden to watch baseball I stayed and listened to some of the records that I bought at Hungry Ear in January. I started up the Japanese one with the wistful looking guy on the cover -- and the music was hideously orchestral, blowsy (but not in a good way) and in English. I almost called it right there. But I moved the needle to track 2, and it was twangy crazy Ventures-influenced rock. I flipped over the record sleeve to see that this guy was the lead guitarist of The Launchers. It ended up being about 70/30 rock to chanson. It's a keeper.

While I was listening I lay down on the rug and put my legs on the hearth. And I worked on my arm rotation. The physical therapy appointment for my right shoulder isn't for a few weeks, yet. When I rotate my shoulder in a certain way (like when you unhook your bra), it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. But today it feels better because of whatever I did while listening to The Launchers and staring up at the ceiling.

Then I listened to the other record and stared out the window. I need to do that more consciously and more often. 

Good Friday Thoughts

The rev invited me to see some amazing singing that's happening at her church today. I was going to do it (fancy opera singers were on the bill). Then I looked at the church calendar and realized that it is Good Friday, the saddest day on the calendar. I can't do more sads. My feelings are too close to the surface, and this morning was Pilates, a conversation with the oncologist, a conversation with our oncology nurse navigator and a followup / stitch removal at the dermatologist. I'm 50-50 -- of four spots he biopsied two were cancer. One will get burned off, and the other is in the middle of my face and will require Mohs. On the way home the central character of the memoir I'm listening to was murdered. 

I put on my makeup and everything, thinking I was going to hear Bach, but no. Jesus death is too depressing.

In other news I've had a mixed bag of dreams lately. Last night I dreamed that I was at my old restaurant and my section filled up and I simply couldn't get to everyone fast enough (a recurring dream). Then someone wanted a crawfish milkshake. I asked my boss if we had crawdads that week and she said yes, and it was evident that I would have to cook and shell my own crawdads in order to make the milkshake.

A different dream saw me at the forklift factory, which was kinda laid out like a supermarket. Donald Trump was on the PA system telling us that there would be no more awards given to employees, that it cost too much money. I couldn't believe that he had infiltrated my work life somehow, so I put my fingers in my ears and sang really loud so I could drown him out in my own head.

A very rewarding dream had me in a familiar situation in which I had taken incompletes in a few classes repeatedly (I used to do this in undergrad) and then took these classes again and totally flaked until the end. I went to the final but was obviously going to flunk. Instead of reminding myself that I could take these classes again I stopped to realize that none of this mattered because I was about to retire and had already had a career. Now *that* was pretty awesome. 

If I could take control of my dreams more often I'd probably sleep better.