The Bitter, the Sweet, and Everything in Between

Woke up to a fog-shrouded 35 degree morning. I’ll walk later. Right now I need more tea.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in The Great Gatsby, life has picked up again in the fall as it’s turned crisp. After this past summer, I welcome it. It’s good to walk and not feel like I’ve been swimming through the heavy air.

Some of the summer was pleasant. With two dear friends I attended the Andy Warhol exhibit at College of DuPage. Not only did we get to see his portrait of Marilyn Monroe and the Campbell’s soup cans, but his advertisements and illustrations for magazines. And we learned of the man behind the soup cans. He enjoyed working with children and had 27 cats named Sam. Oh, you didn’t know that either? Now you do.

Some of it was quite unpleasant. We had repeated storms that brought hail and high winds. They damaged the one of the area towers; specifically the one that sends us our 5G internet signals. Net service became so erratic and choppy that it was downright unusable some days. Luckily, it was fixed in the last few days.

The other unpleasantry: having to add air quality index (AQI) to our weather vocabulary. When was it..June? I think…well, any way, one night I’d gone to bed with the windows open to enjoy the cool night air and the winks of starlight peeking between the curtains. When I woke up the next morning, the parts of my face impacted by last year’s cellulitis felt as if they were on fire. I looked out the window to see an orange hell scape. The AQI that day was over 300 due to the wild fires in northern Canada.

Anything over 100 triggered itching and burning on the still sensitive parts of my face, and heat did me no favors, either. I had to stay inside in the company of my air purifier and rotating ice packs for comfort.

Needless to say, Ren Faire was a wash again. Between my problems with weather impacting my face and my current food restrictions and the doubling of ticket prices and parking with no new acts, we decided that it wasn’t a good year for it. We’re looking at smaller and early or late season Faires for next year, such as Janesville or Michigan.

So with a sigh, we let go of the summer. Fall started out in a seemingly benevolent way, and then the call came last week that was expected but not then and not wanted.

Sister’s husband, whom I’ve referred to as BIL, made his passage last week. He’d spent the summer running in and out of the hospital with atrial fibrillation problems. He’d had a good weekend, a little tired. And then on Monday he crossed over as he was getting ready to have breakfast.

Sister honored his wishes with a natural burial and no service or visitation, but the celebration of life will be this spring or next fall. I’ll pay her a visit after she gets her feet back on the ground.

So we go on.

This last weekend there was a solar eclipse that’s supposedly portends the arrival of better times. After a year of health challenges and losing too many good people and dogs, I hope to hell it does.

Treasure Hunting

After several days of above average temperatures and bright skies, the weather pendulum swung back to precipitation and wind chills more suitable to early March.

With a sigh, I made a cup of tea and spent a good part of the morning making the rounds of Facebook, my preferred news sites, and YouTube for dog videos while Hubby ran over to the ag store in the next town over to get a cap or two to wear while doing yard work. His impressive stash of caps became decimated through wearing out and leaving some at his mom’s house in Michigan. Despite a lack of head coverings he’d worked under the bright sun this past weekend and had turned quite pink as a result. Not quite burned, but close enough to serve as a reminder that he needed to protect himself.

So shopping he went. Ends up the caps at the ag store were all in the neighborhood of $20. That’s a lot to spend on something that will be subjected to sweat, rain, mud, and worse. An associate told him in low and confidential tones that the thrift store sold them for around $3.

Hubby called from the ag store’s parking lot to relay the information. Want to make a run to the thrift store in our town?

Yes, please. The dog-related videos hadn’t quite cleansed my palate of the stories of the latest shootings and attacks on civil liberties. Time for a change of scenery. Anyway, I wanted to get pots for a couple of aloe plants I’d been gifted (been keeping them in a vase with water) as well. I hadn’t made time to stop there to see what they had.

The ag store associate was correct. Hubby found three caps that were in reasonable shape. Based on the logos, they were likely part of corporate promotion give aways. They fit well, and will do the job of protecting him from the sun for very reasonable prices. I found two pots for the plants that will do for now (they were a gift from my acupuncture doc whose office aloe plant had propagated like no one’s business. If these take after their parent I should be able to pass on the blessings in short order).

That being done….want to go to the secondhand store in the nearest big city? The huge one?

Why not? Either that or get depressed over the news.

We kept the jazz station on as we drove the half hour through the spitting snow to the north side of the big city. It had been years since we’d shopped there. The last thing that I remember buying there was a bowl for Oakley when he was attending day long sessions at his first day care. It’s off white ceramic with CHIEN in blue letters on the side.

Anyway, time for some new memories. This store is more selective with accepted donations than the one in my town and organizes their merchandise displays better, plus they have antiques in a discreet room in the back. Were I starting out I would have no hesitation equipping my home with purchases from this place, right down to the good china carefully stashed in plastic storage tubs.

We wandered the aisles until we reached the books. Hubby wisely went off on his own so I could browse, drool, and shake from the sheer volume of volumes. I found a book of daily meditations, a copy of Under the Tuscan Sun by Frances Mayes (I’d loaned my first copy to someone I’m no longer in touch with), a biography of Mozart, and just in time for the coronation of Charles III next month, the memoirs of Sarah Ferguson, his ex-sister in law. Oh, and one other book I don’t recall but was happy to find it.

Between the two stores, we spent about the same as the price of a cap from the ag store. That made us both happy. Knowing that we’d done our part to keep stuff out of the landfill made me as thrilled as scoring a hardcover edition of a juicy book by a former member of the Windsor clan had.

And we’d had a little fun in the process.

The Small Things Add Up

It’s another cold and windy day here in the soybean field. Technically, it’s spring, but March didn’t get the message. The season of pleasures of the hearth continues at least through this weekend.

The gratitude for simple pleasures including hot tea, a warm house with a backdrop of classical music, and puppy snores has increased exponentially in light of what’s going on in Ukraine. My first hope is that the refugees will become reacquainted with them very soon and never have to endure a cruel and bloody uprooting again.

My second hope is that small actions taken by people worldwide both locally and globally will add up and increase pressure on whatever entities may be supporting the Russian president. I will not speak his name, but I will encourage you to do this: go to your favorite search engine and see who the parent company of the manufacturers of common household products are. If Nestle and Koch Brothers come up, time to look for alternatives. Those two corporations are refusing to leave Russia. We’ve had the talk about different brands of TP since finding out that the one we’ve used the better part of our marriage was made by a Koch subsidiary. We don’t buy anything Nestle, so we’re good there.

Other things you might do:

Conserve energy and resources. It doesn’t have to be anything huge or fancy like buying a hybrid (and I am pleased to report that milage with my Prius has been better than expected) or an electric. Just small things like combining errands, dialing the heat down a degree, limit oven use, share rides, and so on. If you were around for the gas shortages in the ’70s, you remember all of this.

One of the big factors in the current president of Russia being in power: oligarchs who made their fortunes through petroleum. Every degree you dial down, every trip you shorten has an impact. Might be as small as if they were getting their toenails cut, but it will add up eventually.

If you’ve heard your parents’ and grandparents’ stories about how they made it through the Depression and World War II, take heed. Can you mend clothes (do a search on fast fashion and how many resources that sucks up) and plant a garden, even if it’s just tomatoes? Can you think about ways to adjust your cooking habits such as eating vegetarian one day a week and going without wheat on another? Ukraine is one of the world’s big wheat producers. I don’t know if we’re going to be up against shortages because of the war, but it’s best to get some recipes on file using alternative grains.

Donate. World Central Kitchen https://wck.org and Doctors Without Borders https://www.doctorswithoutborders.org are on the ground in Ukraine and bordering countries to help refugees and residents who were unable to leave for one reason or another. Also check with Ukrainian Orthodox churches in your area to see if they’re taking donations of durable goods such as clothes, hygiene products, diapers, and so on to ship over there.

Contact your elected reps. Let them know your views on renewable energy; on getting rid of Reagan-era legislation promoting the completely unworkable trickle-down economics that keep the rich in power and created billionaires who are apathetic to others; on support for Ukraine. I’ve been emailing or calling mine nearly every day.

Practice self care. Always a good idea, and especially now that we have a comic book villain who wants to take over the world. Remember to exercise, enjoy favorite treats in moderation, and find distractions from the news. (I will never judge you for your YouTube rabbit holes after finding Nate the Hoof Guy . Soothing voice, the problem with the hoof in question is resolved on average in about 10 minutes or less, and the cows look very happy afterwards.)

Remember that “crisis” and “change” use the same character in Chinese. My wish is that we use this time to make a switch to renewable energy and to do a lot of reflection on what we need rather than staying stuck in the ’80s mindset of overconsumption.

No one knows how or when this war will end. It will, eventually. And my greatest hope is that we emerge a better, stronger society based on renewables and equality because of it.

Summertime Is Here…

Getting a little nostalgic for the day trips to see my sister (my brother had moved to the east coast by then) when she lived in western Michigan with this in the background: https://youtu.be/gSQAlfyaKyc. (“Summertime Is Here” by War.) The drive to St. Joseph-Benton Harbor is about two and a half hours from Lansing. Once at our destination, we’d stop at a store, grab supplies, and have a picnic at one of the state parks with a view of Lake Michigan spreading before us and the wind in the pines and the waves . While Dad tended the grill and Sister tended the place settings and related matters, I would take Fritz the Wonder Schnauzer for a walk along the beach. He didn’t like water, so that made it more of a drag when I wanted to dip my toes in the lake. Any time in nature with a dog is well-spent, though, even with a lack of cooperation.

Flash forward to present day. It’s quite hot and muggy already, more like July or August out there than mid-June. I limited this morning’s walk to 30 minutes. Oakley and I were both pretty uncomfortable by the time we returned to the car.

I don’t think we’ll go back to the forest preserve today. We’d have to go rather late, and I’m not comfortable going there after five or six by myself. Not as if we live in a high crime area, but safety first.

I have other plans this evening, though. When the sun moves to the front of the house and the raised bed lies in the shadows, I will finally unveil the raised bed and plant some seeds. I tried growing my own seedlings, but they all died. This week’s errands include a stop any place with plants. They will join their younger siblings after I pick them up. Water, cross fingers, hope for the best.

According to sources, I can still plant up to July 1. At the rate things are going, that might happen. Mothers’ Day weekend, the traditional last date for frost, brought it as well as snow not that far north of here. Then we had a heat wave, and then Memorial Day weekend brought another round of frost and freeze advisories along with measurable snow in Eau Claire, WI, about three hours to the northwest of me. And then came another heat wave.

Seeds will be planted, however. Period.

The other hallmark of the summer, Renaissance Faire, is up for grabs. We’re leaning towards a pass this year. We’re vaxxed, masked, but we aren’t going to relax until Dr. Fauci says it’s over. The one we go to is encouraging masking up, but there are always the few that impact the many. It’s why they’ve had do purse and diaper bag and backpack searches on entry for guns since Wiconsin became a concealed carry state despite signage all over the front gates and website forbidding guns.

We’ll be able to get back to the bookstore, though, shortly. Illinois is slated to reopen, masking encouraged, on June 11th. I’m going back to in person yoga then.

No matter what else happens, we’ll have some produce.

Wind

Last time I looked at the National Weather Service website, we had a 23 MPH wind hooking around from the northeast with gusts up to 40. And a wind advisory until 7 P.M. Whee.

Well, we are on the brink of spring. There’s roughly 48 hours left of astronomical winter, and it’s making the most of it remaining time here in the northern hemisphere. After a week or so of warm weather, we had snow last weekend that melted quickly followed by a rainstorm that whipped against the windows.

The wind woke Oakley up about 5:30, a not too obscene hour. Pace, pace, flop. Pace, pace, flop. Pace, pace–OK, OK, I’m up. Took him out. Productive. Then we had a micro power failure, one that lasted long enough to knock the microwave and stove clocks off line before the lights came back on. Adjusted clocks. Settled for a few minutes, then had to go back out to stare at the things that only dogs can see in the dark wind. Dragged him back inside. Tend to the clocks again after another micro-failure, then another run to tend to more business.

Five minutes is not long enough to steep tea some mornings, like this blustery cold one. My mug may be fused to the palm of my left hand by the end of the day.

In the mean time, we stay inside and make the day the best possible one. Hubby hangs out in his office, learning a software program that enables him to design cabinets and other nifty things. Oakley perfects his starving orphan puppy act, trying to convince Hubby that I didn’t feed him and that no one gave him his half mini-bagel this morning while I start a fresh batch of dog food.

Me? I found a new recipe that we’ll try for dinner. It’s called harira, a Moroccan lentil and chickpea soup with plenty of warming spices, something we dearly need today. I found the recipe on https://www.themediterraneandish.com. If you haven’t checked out Suzy’s recipes, do so. Especially the cod with lemon and garlic.

Between looks out the window to see if the neighbor’s cows have started flying, we’re just quietly doing our own things, riding out the unstable weather, and looking forward to the calmer, warmer days ahead.

Reality Check

We didn’t get that much snow last night. We did, however, get enough wind to make it look as if a blizzard had landed and knock out the power for an hour. The roads are still slick and I’m sure the curve on the road that we take to the big park and day care has been blown in by the unrelenting west wind and snow traversing the open fields.

I decided not to take Oakley to day care. First and foremost, because of the weather and that the secondary roads we take are not that well tended. When I took Oakley out for his first potty run this morning, the majority of the drivers I saw on the main road were picking their way to their destinations with caution even though the roads looked plowed. It’s important that he sees his friends and teachers, yes, but I am not willing to have us risk hitting that one patch of black ice or snow and ending up in the middle of a field or a ditch.

The second reason was his hips. I’d taken him on Tuesday. I’d been home long enough to eat a bowl of soup for lunch when his teacher asked me to come pick him up. He was acting unhappy and having problems sitting and lying down. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had diarrhea.

On my way.

What really amped up the suck factor was that this was the first session after Ms. L. had closed down day care for two weeks because two of the teachers had shown COVID symptoms. They’re both OK, thank the Mystery. I had hoped that the afternoon would give Oakley some fun and frolic and me some space to vacuum and tidy a bit, but that was not to be.

So I arrived. Oakley did not look as happy as he was when I had dropped him off. Ms. L. had videoed him struggling to sit.

I watched the video. I looked at Oakley as he leaned into my shins, his way of hugging me. And in the bright light of the reception area, I saw a lot of white hairs blending into the chestnut ones above his eyebrows.

Oh, my, God/dess.

Oakley is aging.

Just like me. It’s fine for me to get older, but Oakley, my companion, my guardian, my fur child? The bundle of legs and fur who’d put his head in the hollow of my neck and fallen into a snoring sleep on the way home from the adoption event where we’d found each other?

Yes. Him.

Oakley had been fine at home that morning, so it’s likely it was just one bad day caused by the weather. He’d torn it up with pups less than half his age at the last day care session. Well, some dogs age out of day care, and if it’s time to let the twice a week sessions go, it’s OK. No, it isn’t, but it is what it is as part of the aging process. Ms. L. reassured me that he will always be welcome on Ren Faire weekends or other occasions warranting a stay at sleepover camp.

OK, thank you. Go home. Give the homeopathic anti-inflammatory. Give the anti-diarrheal. No, baby. 1:30 is too early for dinner.

He went to his spot on the sofa and fell into a nap. I went on line and ordered more anti-inflammatory pills and another product by the same manufacturer specifically for arthritis. One of my friends had given it to her dogs with success, and I’m hoping for the same with Oakley.

If not, one of the vets at our clinic has experience in a couple of modalities that will help. We’ll figure out the best work arounds, like shorter but more frequent walks, herbs, cold laser treatments.

The arthritis pills will be here Monday, please Mystery.

Until then, short walks in the yard. Not a hard thing because of the wind chill. And anti-inflammatory pills every four hours.

And dream of warmer days ahead.O

There’s Always That One Storm….

Image courtesy of https://thegraphicsfairy.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/10/Fall-Landscape-GraphicsFairy.jpg

Thunder followed by rain pattering against the window woke me up at 5:30. I closed the windows and dozed for an hour or so, listening to Oakley snore from the comfort of his new bed.

In any other time, I would have been picking him up after sleepover camp at Ms. Lanette’s. Hubby and I should have been at Ren Faire yesterday, but fates and COVID-19 said otherwise.

It is what it is. And what it is in this case is The Storm. The storm that marks the transition to cooler fall weather. It’s usually the week after Labor Day, sometimes the holiday weekend itself. It sounds different, slower, as if taking its time to give the earth a good soaking.

We’ve had two of these storms announcing fall’s arrival (even if it’s astronomically the 21st or 22nd of September) when Hubby and I have been at Ren Faire. Usually, it starts raining late afternoon as we debate if we want to see another act, go to the book store, or start heading home. When that happens, we usually bid a fond seasonal farewell to Bristol and head home.

One arrived mid-afternoon. We squeezed into a pottery shop next to the stage where the band we’d planned to see was scheduled to perform. No matter. The band squeezed in with us and did their set and some more to boot.

When the storm tapered off, we walked the rain slicked lanes through the last sprinkles to do a bit more shopping, see maybe one last act before we parted for the season. Too wet to sit anyplace, so we stopped at another pottery shop before heading home. I found soup bowls and salad plates, substantial weight, dark green with a design inspired by pine boughs and cones.

Those became my go-to for cool weather meals and pasta dishes year round. When I pull them out of the cupboard, I revisit that day, how the wind played the music for the leaves’ dance, how the band put a little something extra into their performance, and laughing at myself trying to navigate the muddy streets in my Birkenstocks.

And I smile, remembering.

A Slightly Wild Ride

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Monday (8/10/20) just felt weird energetically.

I took Oakley out to tend to morning business. As we sauntered around the back yard, the sun that spilled through the cracks in the clouds was intense, the breeze blew cold, and the air felt as if a wet towel had been draped over everything.

Well, storms, probably severe ones, had been in the forecast since Friday. Once Oakley freshened up his boundary markers, we went inside and turned on the TV to check the weather.

And I was greeted with special reports about overnight looting in downtown Chicago. All I could do was watch the footage of windows getting smashed and the shards of glass glittering in the early morning sun.

Finally, they went to  weather. This was not an ordinary storm; this was a derecho coming at us. A couple of years ago one trashed the Boundary Waters area in Minnesota. It’s a huge (in this case from well into Wisconsin to Peoria) storm complex with  thunderstorms, straight-line winds of 58 miles or more, and 240 mile wide swaths of damage. It wasn’t expected until after lunch time.

Even though Chicago proper is some 50 miles east and this wasn’t going to impact us directly, it combined with the storm to relieve me of the desire to leave my house. “Oakley, just tell me when you need to go out, but I don’t think we’re going to go anywhere today,” I told him.

Oakley didn’t mind since I gave him a liver cracker while I told him about the change in plans.

Now what? Plug in phone. Have candles and flashlights at the ready. Bring in the trash can and lawnmower. And wait. And keep the TV on but muted.

It finally arrived around 2:45. My phone went off with news of the tornado watch as the crawlers on the TV rattled off the counties under watches and warnings. Off in the distance the siren wailed a song of incoming danger. On the TV the weather guys posted a red rectangle stretching from Sugar Grove (about eight miles north of me) to one of the tiny towns on the Route 47 corridor about five miles south).

And then we lost power.

Not much to do. I grabbed a biskie for Oakley and joined him in his storm shelter between the coffee table and the love seat. A bit of thunder. A bit of lightning, but mostly wind driving the hail and the rain into the windows.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but it had tapered off by about five. Called the power company. Made my report and waited.

And waited.

Checked to make sure the sump pump pit hadn’t overflowed, hauled a ladder upstairs so I could pull a smoke alarm that sang its own death knell out of the ceiling in one of the bedrooms, and then sat and read.

And took Oakley out so he could touch up his boundary markers.

Thankfully, all the shingles were in place and the car parked outside was intact. Windows solid. Everything looked good.

Still no power and no signs of when it would be back. I lit several candles and read while Oakley sat next to me and napped.

I called the power company one more time, but the system had crashed. Turned out that about half a million people were in the same electric-less boat.

We went to bed a bit early. Not really anything else we could do. I took the battery operated lantern upstairs and read some more while the cricket songs floated in through the open windows accompanied by the rustle of the wind in the cornstalks.

The next morning sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, gently waking me up. I went downstairs about 5:45. Just as I was putting water to boil on the stove, the electricity came back.

Again, I turned on the TV for weather. Seven confirmed tornados, including one in Chicago proper and one that damaged a church on the Wheaton College campus. A possible eighth one is being investigated about twelve miles to my west, suspicion raised by the downed utility lines and other damages.

Other than not being able to get to one of the forest preserves for a walk due to cleanup operations, it blossomed into a predictable Tuesday. Oakley went to daycare; I did some bits and pieces around the house. I picked Oakley up. He came home, inhaled dinner, and fell into a deep nap.

Cleanup at the little forest preserve continues today. The big forest preserve was open for business this morning, and we walked there to celebrate safe passage through the storm.

Somehow, we didn’t need to do anything else.

 

 

 

 

When Licking the Coffee Table Becomes a Viable Option….

Photo by Magda Ehlers on Pexels.com

I can tell when Oakley is getting ready to do it. He stares at me to get my attention. Then, while keeping his eyes on me, he unfurls his tongue and leans over towards the coffee table.

“NO!” Part of the fun is watching me react.

He gets in a swipe while I create a diversion with a stuffed Kong or a puzzle. Once diverted, he settles down and attends to freeing the tidbits stashed in the puzzle’s compartments or slurping away at the Kong.

Usually, I sigh both to release my frustration and to express gratitude that he stopped chewing stuff up a long time ago. After all, what’s a couple of harnesses and a few chunks of drywall when he turned out this well?

I can’t say as I blame him. The stay-at-home routine is getting to me, too, but I’m not quite at the point where I wish to put my tongue in contact with the furniture instead of using a dust rag.  Especially with the weather as it is this morning. Something like four inches of  wet snow fell overnight, then turned to rain and fog. I never thought I’d be salting the steps in mid-April, but there you go.

So I channel my energy into laundry, into routine tidying, and reading. Oakley will do nose work (also known as “find-it,” based on training exercises for contraband sniffing dogs) and get a couple of extra treats for amusement purposes.

And with some luck, no one will lick the coffee table today.

The French Farmhouse Report for 1/22/20

Image courtesy of The Graphics Fairy

 Two consecutive weekends of storms with freezing rain as the headliner and a couple of days of pretty cold weather kind of took the stuffings out of me. At least last year’s polar vortex event featured clear skies and snow that a person and a dog could walk on without crampons.

Liberal use of a paw- and grass-friendly ice melter kept the back step cleared and a path open to a patch where Oakley could tend to those most personal forms of business. Otherwise, we stayed inside. Oakley played with his holiday puzzles and napped. I read, napped, and succumbed to the lure of the TV.

As I flipped around, I saw a teaser for a show featuring unusual Chicago area restaurants, such as one near the Northwestern University campus that specializes in grilled cheese sandwiches. They certainly had my undivided attention.

After some five minutes of ads, the show started. Interview with the chef/owner, shots of the funky/cozy/brick walled interior with hand-lettered chalk board menus. Tour complete, it was down to business in the kitchen. Texas toast slices (the ones at least double the thickness of a regular slice of bread, usually involved in making diner-style French toast) were brushed with what may or may not have been melted butter, topped with some sort of cheese, then passed through a broiler like the ones in chain burger joints for a preliminary browning and melting.

Then came a filling of delicacies such as French fries or macaroni and cheese before the two slices were assembled into a sandwich and given a final browning in a buttered frying pan.

Now, the Mystery She knows that I have consumed my fair share and someone else’s of carbs and fats, especially back in the day when I may or may not have ingested adult beverages and more so when my hormones dragged me to the store and demanded potato chips. But this was so totally over the top that it didn’t even look good. To me, anyway.

Maybe it’s because I’ve developed discernment as I’ve matured; maybe it’s because of the lessons learned during my trip to France and subsequent readings about their cultural attitudes towards food. In any event, I would take a pass on it, thank you. OK, maybe I would split it with someone, but it’s not something I’d order on my own.

This over the top type of grilled cheese wouldn’t fly in France, except as a novelty, maybe.  A diner would get a much smaller sandwich consisting of two conventionally-sized slices of bread with cheese or a cheese sauce and some ham, turkey, or chicken in the middle. That would be baked for about 15 minutes, then perhaps served with a fried egg on top. There would be a small side salad. (Fries are usually served with steak.)  And that would be it. Except for some fruit for dessert. And don’t forget a small cup of coffee or tea to conclude the meal.

My own hankerings for grilled cheese get satisfied here at home with two slices of whole wheat bread, an unprocessed cheese in the middle, and the twist courtesy of one of my friends: instead of buttering the outside, spread with mayonnaise and sprinkle Parmesan  cheese for a crunchy brown crust. I won’t say it’s life changing, but I will say it makes the next fifteen or so minutes pretty tolerable, indeed.

If I have an urge while I’m out, I stop at Belladonna, the local point of refuge for artists, Bohemians, and people who appreciate the art of really good food, coffee, and tea. One of the grilled cheese paninis with a cup of the homemade soup always elevates the day.

It’s just enough, and a little more (I usually take half home for dinner), and that’s just right for me.