Survival

I decided to make zucchini bread this afternoon. It was a tough decision, I can tell you. I had a long debate with myself.

• It’s SO hot outside. What are you thinking?
―But there is zucchini in the refrigerator.
• Do you even bother to READ anything you blog about?
―But there is zucchini in the refrigerator.
• Have you looked at the hall thermometer? It says 78 degrees. Inside. Before the oven has been on for 45 minutes.
―Only 78? That’s not bad.
• But it’s the first time it’s been under 80 inside, during the daytime, since … since I don’t know when.
―But there is zucchini in the refrigerator. If I don’t make bread I will have to eat green blobs in my dinner tonight.
• Oh, right. The green blobs. What was I thinking?

I baked. And I doubled the recipe and baked four loaves of zucchini bread because when I looked more closely in the vegetable bin, there were two zucchinis. I did not want to sweat in a hot kitchen for nothing. I needed a guarantee that for at least tonight, my dinner would be zucchini-free.

Here is my favorite zucchini bread recipe, courtesy of Dean’s mom.

ZUCCHINI BREAD

Cream:

3 eggs

2 cups sugar

1 cup salad oil

3 tsp. vanilla

Stir:

2 cups grated zucchini

3 cups flour

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp. soda

¼ tsp. baking powder

3 tsp. cinnamon

Combine with creamed mixture. Add ½ cup chopped nuts. Pour into two greased and flour bread pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes.

In the past I have added all kinds of nuts … walnuts, pecans, sliced almonds. Today I used up the rest of the sliced almonds and since I needed more nuts I also added pecans. A little coconut sounded good so I threw in about ¾ cup of that just for the heck of it. I didn't add them this time but you can never go wrong with raisins. Never.

Buen Apetito!◦

Survival

I’m Cranky Cuz I’m Not Gettin’ Any

It’s hot. It’s hot during the day and it’s hot at night. I get cranky when it’s hot all the time. I wake up in the morning, look at the thermometer in the hallway and do a little happy dance if it’s dropped below 80 degrees. There haven’t been many happy dances recently.

We don’t have an air conditioner. We don’t have a swamp cooler. We have ceiling fans and the Vornado.

We have the Vornado because the ceiling fan in our bedroom is dangling and wobbles when you use it. Not that I would ever use it even if it wasn’t wobbling. Because it hums. Try sleeping when you hear “hummmmmmm…..hummmmm……hummmmmm….” all night long. I would hear this annoying cyclical humming all night long because I wouldn’t be sleeping because I was hot. The Vornado is pretty quiet. It isn’t silent, but it doesn’t rhythmically hum all night. It’s more like a small motor running in the background but it doesn’t cycle up and down and hum so I can’t blame my craziness on humming. I have to to blame it on the heat ... and, of course, Dean.  Just because.

When I get hot I sweat.  As if hot flashes weren't enough.  I don’t mind sweating if there's a good reason for it.  Excuse me, “glowing”.  I remember reading somewhere once that “men sweat, “women glow”. I glow on the elliptical. I glow at hot yoga. I even glow if I’m working in the yard. But I hate glowing when I’m at home and just the movement of my arm raising a glass of ice water to my mouth can produce a glowing drip of moisture running down my already glowing face.

I was quietly expressing my dismay over the temperature last night with Dean. “You know” I said, “about this time of the year I begin to hate mowing the lawn. Okay, I hate it all the time, but by this time of year I’m just sick of mowing. Tonight when I mowed, I didn’t even weed-whack. And I don’t want to water the potted plants on the deck anymore. They’re all straggly and half dried up anyway. “

Then my mind started wandering. What do people who live where it’s warm year-round do? Do they have to mow their lawns every week of the year? Do they never get a time when they can push that mower into the shed, big smile on their face, and say “see ya next year!” How do they live with the pressure of knowing there will never be a time when there won’t be weeds in the garden or flower beds demanding attention. How DO they do it? Do any of you live under that kind of pressure?

My body and brain are beginning the mental adjustment toward guilt-free winter-time hunkering. I am beginning to think about quilting, and guilt-free afternoon movie watching when the snow is flying horizontally at 50 miles per hour. My body and spirit need those weeks and months of down time. Summer is nice and I look forward to it every year, but it’s a stressful time. I can only take so much of it. There’s just too much to do. There’s the lawn and the garden and the flowers and hiking and canoeing and barbecues. And then to top it off, it gets hot and then stays hot at night. And then I just become exhausted and cranky and crazy because I’ve been trying to get all those things done. And I’m hot. Hot all the time. Which is why I’m not gettin’ any.

Sleep.

What did you think I meant?◦

I’m Cranky Cuz I’m Not Gettin’ Any

The Things You Don’t Say Out Loud

On Monday, June 21, after my pilates class, I walked out of the gym and didn’t cross the threshold again until Monday, August 16. That’s exactly eight weeks of no pilates. 56 days with no yoga—hot or cold. 1,344 hours without sweating on the elliptical or occasional quiet curses when I looked at the remaining time. 80,640 minutes for my triceps muscles to loosen and begin to flap. 4,838,400 seconds for my oh-so-close-to-a-four-pack-abs to regress into a pony keg.

When I started writing this I was feeling a bit guilty; just a bit, because I did have an excuse. I spent ten days in Ecuador. I’ve been busy helping with wedding plans. I’ve been making all kinds of travel arrangements for another trip to Ecuador as well as a trip to the Amazon. Those things took time…..lots and lots of time. But now, seeing those words staring me in the face, that blatant admission that I turned my back on all exercise for the past eight weeks, just increased my level of guilt exponentially. I now feel I must crawl on my jelly belly to the Great Goddess of Fitness. I must beg forgiveness and swear on my yoga mat I will push, pull, twist and contort my muscles until the pain wipes the guilt from my mind and I once again become one with sweat and trembling muscles.

There are no excuses. I should have been working out. But it’s a good thing I didn’t write that first paragraph before I went back to pilates on Monday, sweat on the elliptical on Tuesday, and suffered through 75 minutes of hot yoga on Wednesday….after eight weeks of doing N • O • T • H • I • N • G. If I would have written that first paragraph on Monday I would have felt so deflated, ashamed and dejected that I wouldn’t have been able to uncurl myself from the fetal position long enough to pull on my wrinkly lime green shorts and frayed t-shirt, let alone get in the car and drive to the gym.

But I hadn’t written it and I did go. Pilates was hard but I survived. The elliptical is never fun and I always wonder what the hell I’m doing on it but I got through it, even though “Say Yes to the Dress” had been replaced by “Cake Boss”.  Hot yoga, though— it nearly killed me. I don’t think any of my fellow yogis—the ten young, blond, tan, sinewy women in their color coordinated outfits—would have been surprised if I’d toppled over and died during standing tree. I’m sure they thought I already had one foot in the grave although I must be honest. I did not hear them say that out loud. Or maybe they just couldn’t tear their eyes away from their reflection in the mirrors long enough to realize I was even sitting there.

During one of the first hot yoga classes I ever attended, a couple of women were whispering to each other during one of the poses. Shortly after, Nikki (our instructor) told us in her soft, meditative-like yoga voice that it was important for us to “respect the silence of those around us.” After I heard that, I was pretty sure any comments I might want to express during class should be spoken silently in my head.

Here’s what I wanted to, but did not say out loud, during my first hot yoga class in eight weeks:

• Nikki: Take a moment to find your intention.
   Me: My intention is to survive. Just let me survive.

• Nikki: Find your strength. Let the pain become your strength.
    Me: Sweet Goddess of Yoga this hurts. Pleeeze give me some strength.

• Nikki: Find your space. Space in your body. Space in your life.
    Me: I need space to lie down. When do we get to lie down?

• Nikki: Fill your lungs. Inhale the good. Exhale the stale.
    Me: Am I still breathing? What was I thinking? I’m not going to survive this. I’ll never make it.

I did make it.  Barely.  But maybe I should have written that first paragraph before I decided to get back into the exercise routine. Because if I had, today I wouldn’t be so stiff and sore that I have to lift one leg with my hands to cross it over the other. And then push it off when I want to get up and walk somewhere, which I do very slowly because of the aching in my thighs and my cheeks. And I don’t mean the cheeks where I store M&Ms. I wouldn’t be so sore that I’ve been wishing I had handicap bars in the bathroom. I might not be so sore that I groan when I sneeze.

But then again, if I wasn’t this sore I’d just have to find something else to complain about which might not be nearly as interesting…like how Dean feeds his dog those expensive, peeled, baby carrots and feeds me the big honkin’ things you buy in bulk and have to peel and slice. If only I could tell you that I didn’t say that out loud either. But I can’t. I did say it. Out loud. Last night. At dinner. On our 38th wedding anniversary. Oh, Great Goddess of Married Couples. I come to you in humble ….◦

The Things You Don’t Say Out Loud

Masking the Wild Zucchini

How many of you are out in your gardens right now harvesting your produce? Well, maybe not right now, because exactly right now you are reading this, but just before you read this, how many of you were out there filling bowls and colanders with peas and beans and tomatoes and peppers? Or maybe you are jumping up at this very moment and saying to yourself, “holy cow. I need to get out there in my garden with my bowl and harvest my peas and beans and tomatoes and peppers.” So you’ve either been there or are heading out there. Let’s say you’ve been there. You’ve filled your bowl and you begin walking down the path toward the end of the garden, planning tonight’s meal of creamed peas and potatoes when you glance over to your left. “What’s that?!” you say. You carefully set down your bowl and peer in a little closer. You don’t have to lean too closely, though, because what you see is a zucchini so big you could scrape it out, carve a small shelf for your beer cooler, hop in, and float the river.

I hear you people talk about your love of zucchini. Zucchini in salads, zucchini fried, zucchini baked, zucchini this and zucchini that. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of you truly love zucchini. You just want to be seen as some veggie-loving health nut that disdains those people who choose to eat their zucchini covered in sugar and chocolate. I am married to one of you. Mr. “I think I’ll chop up this zucchini and add it to this beef/soup/salad/chicken/dish”. Stand alone entrees which, I might add, were perfectly fine without zucchini. I’m surprised I haven’t had zucchini in my weekend pancakes or waffles. Wait a minute…..he told me those lumps were apples…..

This time of year I am constantly on guard for lumps of a pale green substance in all but my workday breakfasts and lunches; the only meals I can eat without worry because they are the only meals I prepare myself. Sure, I could offer to cook all the evening meals, but that takes so much more time than carefully forking out unwanted matter into pale green piles on the side of my plate. The thrill of the search only lasts for so long, though, so I have become quite adept at grabbing the zucchini before Dean has a chance to get creative with it and use it in the way it was truly meant to be used. There is a reason zucchinis were developed in the first place and it wasn’t to make healthy vegetarians out of all of us. It was to satisfy our sweet tooth. That is the only reason.

And now that you have been informed of the true reason for zucchini, I am going to share my favorite, tried and true zucchini cake recipe. The next time somebody brags to you about the latest healthy and creative zucchini meal they ate/cooked/saw in a cookbook ---- stuff their open mouth with a piece of this cake.

Or better yet…….just wave a piece of it in front of their nose, watch them drool and then stuff it in your own mouth, smile politely and explain that you’d love to offer them a piece but you know they don’t eat zucchini that has been corrupted with sugar and chocolate. But try not to drop too many crumbs out of your mouth as you say it. That’s just tacky.

Chocolate Zucchini Cake

½ cup margarine, soft

½ cup vegetable oil

1 ¾ cup sugar

2 whole eggs

1 tsp. vanilla

½ cup sour milk

2 ½ cup flour

4 tablespoons cocoa

½ tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. baking soda

½ tsp. cinnamon

½ tsp. cloves

2 cups finely diced zucchini

½ cup chocolate chips

Cream together butter, oil and sugar. Add eggs, vanilla and sour milk. Beat with mixer.
Mix together all the dry ingredients and add to the creamed mixture.
Beat well with mixture.
Stir in diced zucchini.
Spoon batter into greased and floured 9 x 12 x 2 inch pan.
Sprinkle top with chocolate chips
Bake at 325 degrees for 40-45 minutes or until toothpick comes out dry and clean.◦

Masking the Wild Zucchini

Pescado, Pescado y Más Pescado

I’m finally going to tell you about the fish in Manta. But I don’t want to give you the punch line before I’ve told the joke so you’re going to have to wait while I give you all kinds of other facts and tidbits and ramble on and on about anything I feel is worthy of rambling on and on about before I tell you about fish. I don’t much like fish, alive or dead, fresh on the hoof (or gill if you want to be picky) or battered and deep fried, so I’m not in a big hurry to get to them anyway.

When I last left you I’d met Jorge’s family and had amazed and awed them with my nearly fluent Spanish spoken with a flawless accent. Since I’d reached the mountain-top I felt I deserved to rest on my laurels, and for the next couple of days I kicked back and rested so much at Abby & Jorge’s house that I lost track of not only what day it was, but even what time it was. Jorge would walk in the door after work, I’d say, “Hi, Jorge, are you home early?” thinking it was around 3:30 or 4:00 p.m. or so and he’d say, “no…..it’s 6 p.m.” If only every day could be like that….

Don’t let me mislead you. I did DO things during those couple of days. I watched Abby do laundry, I ate what Abby cooked for breakfast and I ate what she cooked for lunch and I ate what she cooked for dinner. I admired the plants in their yard, I played with Maggie, I pet Luna,…. but the time finally came when resting ended and we had to leave for Manta. So Thursday morning we got up early, said goodbye to Quevedo, and hit the road for Manta because Abby and Jorge needed to discuss wedding arrangements with the hotel people, the bakery people, the florist people, the photographer and generally just take care of a hundred-billion wedding details.

When we weren’t taking care of wedding details we went here to a kite-surfing beach about 45 minutes from Manta. Sadly, I had neglected to pack my surfing gear so I wasn’t able to dangle up in the air on a string and then come crashing down into the surf. Maybe next time. I suspect the nun I saw talking on her cell phone

was regretting forgetting hers also. “Sister Mary, this is Sister Agnes. Father Paul is here surfing and now I wish I would have brought my gear. Can you bring it to me?”

And we saw………yes, here it comes … the topic you’ve been waiting for … try not to get too excited ... yes, there are tons of photos ... we also saw………………F I S H. Lots and lots of F I S H in the morning, at the fish market, on the beach, in Manta. It was fish-heaven for the seagulls. We watched men in boats off-shore shovel fish into baskets which were heaved up onto other men’s shoulders and those men would frantically run (as fast as you can run through water) to the beach while seagulls swooped down and picked out a delectable fish for their breakfast.

I guess they didn’t think they lost enough fish to make it worth the time it would take to cover their basket with some kind of net. Or maybe they’re just altruistic fishermen. Or………maybe in a previous life they were a seagull and they came back as fishermen so they know how those seagulls feel. Of course if they used to be a fish….and now they’re a fisherman….they probably just need some therapy.

We were walking around the fish market looking at all the fish when this guy decided to be our own private "fish market guide."  He led us from table to table and would pull up a fish, smile broadly and wait for me to take his picture. 

After a few photos Jorge gave him a little money and we left.  Abby told me later the other people selling fish in the market weren't really happy with him grabbing their fish and holding them up for a gringa. 

As I said earlier I don’t like fish. I don’t like it cooked or raw or swimming in a bowl. But while I was in Ecuador I tried sushi and ceviche. I had imagined ceviche to be a plate containing a pile of raw, slimy fish but as it turned out it was a pretty tasty soup. I think I might even have liked it enough to order some for myself if I hadn’t recently seen a pile of fish guts on the sand. The sushi I can do without—even if it isn’t prefaced with a tour of the fish market.

There was a lot of wedding planning, meetings, and coordinating while we were in Manta and I know you are dying for details but I’m not spilling the beans. Nope. Nuh uh. No details from me. Nada. My lips are sealed. Not even if you bribe me with licorice. Nice, black, savory, ummmmm licorice …. Sorry.

Eight days later my first trip to Ecuador was coming to an end. Saturday we headed back to Guayaquil. We stretched my last day out as long as we could. We stretched it so long that between getting to bed in the wee hours of the morning, and checking my alarm clock every 15 minutes for the few hours I was actually in bed, by the time I was sitting at the Guayaquil airport on Sunday morning at 5:30 a.m., I'd had about one hour of sleep. I planned to lean my head against the side of the airplane and sleep during the flight between Guayaquil and Panama City but the guy in the seat in front of me decided HE was going to sleep—and snore very loudly. So I leaned, but instead of sleeping I listened to his snoring and snorting. I was just glad I wasn’t the person next to him he was probably drooling on.

I had a nice five hour layover in the Panama City airport where I watched a girl sprawled out over some very uncomfortable airport chairs. I admired her ability to sleep like a baby and wished I knew her technique but I could not duplicate it. I don’t know why I couldn’t mimic her. I guess airports are such exciting and stimulating environments I’m afraid I’ll miss something--like how many different colors of flip flops there are, or long women will wait in a bathroom line before they search out a different one.

I knew when I reached Houston I would only have 56 minutes to get through customs, get my bag, check my bag again, go through security and get to my gate. Yes, you read that correctly. Fifty-six minutes to do something that probably normally takes about an hour and a half. I was ready. I knew it was going to be close but I had every confidence that I’d make it. It didn’t matter that I was sitting at the back of the plane. I didn’t have to worry about a carry-on because I didn’t have to guard a wedding dress this time. When the plane landed and taxied to the gate I was going to jump up and shamelessly push myself through to the front. I wouldn’t even have to dig for my boarding pass to check the gate number.

We landed. And then we sat. And we sat. And we sat. We sat for fifteen solid minutes before we taxied to the gate and finally stopped. That meant I was down to 41 minutes.  I jumped up, I pushed through, and I weaseled my way ahead of people in the customs line. I was shameless. I got my bag, went through security, handed my boarding pass to the airport guy and waited. He looked at it and said, “You’re not going to make it.” My heart sank. Then he looked at the gate number on my ticket, looked me in the eye, and said, “Run!”   I took off.

I hadn’t even taken the time to put my shoes back on after the last security check and I ran as fast as you can run a serpentine pattern, barefoot, holding onto your shoes, across a dirty tile floor, with a big purse bouncing up and down against your hip.  If there was an “airport dash” record I'm positive I beat it. But I had not beaten the plane. It was gone. My plane was gone.

At least this time I didn’t have to spend the night and I caught a later flight. Finally, at 9 p.m., two hours later than planned, after 41 hours without sleep, I arrived in Denver.  41 minutes to get to my plane.  41 hours without sleep.  Maybe there's some kind of supernatural significance going on I didn't even realize at the time.  Maybe I narrowly escaped ending up here?  That's shivers down my back spooky.

The next day we drove home to Casper. There was no time to play in Denver. I had to get home you see, because I had another trip to plan. For a wedding. In October. In Manta. Near a beach. But not near a fish market.

◦

Pescado, Pescado y Más Pescado

Fishless Fishing

I fear I’m going to be taken for a liar if I keep telling you “the next post will be ___” and then it isn’t. This isn’t the fish post I promised, but technically I was fishing. It just wasn’t fish I was trying to catch. I could explain what I mean by that very succinctly, but I know you would be disappointed if you didn't get to read all the inane, pointless details that I seem incapable of leaving out when I write, and dang it, I just can’t deprive you of them.  So brace yourself. Here’s the detailed-loaded long version.

I was once again distracted from posting about the rest of my trip to Ecuador, the fish of Manta to be specific, by a day on the mountain listening to music. Saturday morning while Dean went to garage sales with Leslie, I was at home collecting the drinks, cooler, ice, chairs, sunscreen, blankets, dog leash, dog biscuits, dog bowl, water bottles and backpack we would need for a day on the mountain. The plan was to leave at 10 a.m.. As I was collecting and piling all the gear on the front porch, I drank my morning six cups of coffee.  Then I paced furiously waited patiently for Dean to get home. At 10:10 a.m. he strolled in, I gently nudged him into the car, and up to the festival we went.

Once we were there we claimed our piece of ground,

and I settled in for a day in the meadow, surrounded by pine trees, blue skies and music. As I was sitting there, water bottle in one hand, a piece of cherry-chocolate fudge in the other, foot tapping to the beat of the fiddle, it occurred to me my appearance might imply I was somewhat of a dork. But here’s the thing. In Chapter 22, section 3b, paragraph 4 of The Mother of the Bride Handbook it states: "Any mother who arrives at the wedding with tan lines, peeling skin or recovering 3rd degree sunburns will be expected to wear this."  In exactly nine weeks I plan to wear this. Consequently, at the music festival, surrounded by sun worshipers, I was wearing this.

It’s not that I really cared (much) what people thought of my dirty gardening hat. And I didn’t much care if they wondered if I had some kind of sun allergy or snickered at my apparel. I was with Dean after all. I wasn’t the first person they would be staring at. But I did wonder a bit if I was the second dorkiest person out there so I started looking around. That’s how I ended up fishing. I was fishing for hats. A few were keepers--I got a string or two of ‘em.  But most of them were catch and release.

Of course, there is always the sweat-stained ball cap. Isn’t there some kind of unwritten law that states “when the salt from the sweat on a ball cap leaves a white trail as the ball cap wearer walks, said hat must be retired to the ball cap hall of shfame?” No? Really?

Then there was this one. "Holy dooley, look at that Sheila over there in the ugly gardening hat! Point me to the middy. I need a longneck."

I stalked followed one “cowgirl” down the aisle of craft booths hoping to get a good shot of her hat but the woman never stopped and stood still.  I was following at a discreet distance, innocently looking around, pointing my camera here and there, pretending I was taking photos of the mountains, the trees, while surreptitiously snapping photos of her hat, but all I got were blurs of her head looking left or right.  She finally went to her chair and sat down, but each time I clicked the camera button, her husband would lean in and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. If he would have just left her alone I wouldn’t have had to stand there for two solid minutes taking 15 photos of his right ear before I finally got this one of the hat.

See how it glitters in the sun? It sparkles.  It was like watching a light show when she walked.  It was so ugly it was almost pretty.  I left when her husband looked my way because I think he was whispering, “hey honey, don’t look now but there’s strange woman in an ugly gardening hat staring at you.” Geez....I don’t know how private eyes do it.

Later in the afternoon I went in search of ice cream.  I wasn't going to take the camera with me, but by then Dean was scoping out hats for me and told me I'd better.  “You just never know” he said.  Boy was he right.  To think I might have missed this.  The pièce de résistance. 

It was a cornucopia of hats.  Have a look here and tell me which one is your favorite.

As the day wore on I found my gaze moving from heads to feet.

I started thinking … a feet and shoes theme next year might be fun.

But then the headliner of the day, Mr. Leo Kotke, took the stage. And I saw his hair …

which got me thinking ...

I might need a boat next year.

◦

Fishless Fishing

Beauty and the Beast

This is Dean's favorite glass.  I think it came in a box of garage sale "treasures".  If I would have known he'd pick this lovely item as his special drinking glass I would have done a better job scoping out the boxes of junk before he had a chance to paw through them.  But really, who would think anybody in their right mind would choose this glass and allow it to take up space in their cupboard?

I've given up trying to figure out why he loves it so much.  I hate it.  Every time I open the cupboard door and see it sitting there, big as you please, smug and staring at me like it belongs there, shivers run down my spine.  It's ugly.  And it's not ugly as in, "oh, that puppy is so ugly it's cute."  It's just ugly.  I want to drop it on the floor or "lose" it in the garbage every time I see it sitting on the counter waiting to be washed.  I slam that sucker in the dishwasher.  I use no caution picking it up if my hands are slippery with soap suds.  I've "accidentally" knocked it against the sink on it's way to the dishwasher but I haven't even managed that glass seems to be made of steel.

Why is it that the dish I wash and dry by hand; the dish my mother always served us all mashed potatoes in; the dish I didn't want to break, is the one I did.  This morning.  It fell out of the dish rack and hit the countertop.  There was no fixing it.  I considered placing it back in its special place on the shelf behind the glass-faced cupboard, turning the chip away so I wouldn't see it and pretending like it hadn't happened.  But I know, every time I looked into that cupboard I would remember and feel bad all over again.  So..........in the trash it went.  I know if my mom was still here she would say, "it was just a bowl."  But it was the potato bowl.

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Beauty and the Beast