The other night we had a bunch of neighbors over for doughnuts. 

When living in the country, the definition of “neighbor” stretches to cover several miles. Only one of the people in attendance was an actual bonafide “neighbor.”

But I digress.

We fried up most of the doughnuts ahead of time, timing it so I we were just finishing when people arrived. That way, the doughnut-making was still “A Thing” but the bulk of the work mostly done, freeing us to properly host and have fun instead of working the whole time. 

At the start, people had cluster conversations — small pockets of conversation — but as it grew dark, we all gravitated to the fire. (The kids played a card game on the porch. It involved lots of shrieking.) We didn’t discuss anything profound — stories from the neighborhood, thrifted clothing, marathon training — but then I said, “So here’s something I want to know. How often do y’all wash your sheets?” 

(Writing that just now, I realize how freakishly random that question sounds — and it was. I have no excuse.)

Turns out, most everyone had a set time for washing their bedding — more or less weekly, or maybe every other week — and same with towels. Some people even had actual assigned days for washing bath towels. They just round up all the towels in one fell swoop and wash them. 

I was flabberghasted. Such organization! Such cleanliness! Such on-top-of-their-game-ness!

“What about you?” they asked me. 

“Oh, um. . . whenever they get dirty? There’s no schedule.”

The truth is, we wash our sheets every 2 or 3 weeks on average — and we sometime go even longer — but surrounded by such disciplined, clean company, I tried to sound slightly less squalid. 

I was much more comfortable sharing our towel-washing practices — whenever they start smelling (so every 2-3 weeks?) and each person is responsible for making that call — because, as my younger son pointed out that evening, “If your towels are getting dirty, then you’re not showering properly.”

But then someone asked, “How do you hang your towels?” and the plot thickened. Because if towels are hung on a hook, they don’t dry as well and get funky quicker. Rod-hung towels, on the other hand, dry out better and last longer. (We’re rod-hanging folk.)

And then someone brought up the blog post I wrote a few years back about making the bed and that sparked another round of fierce opinions. (All my neighbors except one are dedicated bed makers, good grief! Such collective domesticity boggles my mind.)

How often do you wash your sheets?

proof we’re not animals

P.S. As I was writing this post, I realized an important variable in this “how often do you wash your sheets” discussion: whether or not people shower before going to bed. Because if people don’t shower before sleeping and climb into bed dirty (oh, the horrors!), then of course the sheets need to be washed frequently.

Clearly, this conversation needs to be revisited. Doughnuts on the patio, anyone?

This same time, years previous: South Africa: examined experience, four meal deliveries: what I learned, wait for it, the quotidian (11.4.19), old-fashioned apple roll-ups, cinnamon pretzels, meatloaf, when your child can’t read, awkward, piano lessons.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Sun and seeds.

Pre-frost harvest.

Pickled — and wicked hot.

Candy bar or pie? You decide.

Afternoon treat for the fiber optic road crew.

Cheddar still life.

Lego project.

Woodstove season is here!

In the shade of the pickup: birthday lunch.

Hard work looks good on him.

Family potluck.

This same time, years previous: extraction, dulce de leche, chai tea concentrate, a hallowed eve, egg bagels, sour cream coffee cake, apple dumplings, 2015 garden stats and notes, apple farro salad, stuffed peppers.

For months — years, maybe — I’ve been on the hunt for a scent. I wanted something sweet and cozy. Gentle and warm. Clean. Unobtrusive. Vanilla or coconut or sugar-n-butter. Most important, it couldn’t be astringent, or chemically. My husband is super sensitive to odors — spray the wrong scent around him and he gets an immediate headache. 

Sidenote: when I mentioned my quest for a scent to my girlfriends, their first response was, “Why?” Guess I’m not as earthy-granola as the company I keep, ha! But as for my answer: I like smelling like something other than Nothing. I find it deeply soothing to pull on a shirt that I wore the day before and catch a comforting whiff of golden goodness, like graham crackers and marshmallows and toffee. Even if it’s so mild no one else can smell it — to me, it’s a happy treat.

Fast forward to the other week when I was at a PT appointment (a whole other story), when one of the techs walked by and I caught a whiff of something delicious. I asked what she was wearing, and when I left the place, I had a sticky note with the scribbled name of her perfume tucked into the book I was reading. 

It took me a few days to gather up the courage to order the perfume (last time I ordered a scent, it went straight into the trash), but then I took the plunge and — hallelujah! It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for: sweet and comforting, with zero burny chemical smell. 

And the best part? It passes the sensitive husband test! I can even put it on before climbing into bed and he doesn’t roar in protest.  

***

I do not have social anxiety, but I love this story/dance/poem about it. 

***

At the dentist the other day for an emergency appointment (another whole other story), the dentist asked me about the book I was reading. It’s a novel, I said. What’s it about? she asked. She was trying to distract me, but I was tense and couldn’t think, so I just mumbled something along the lines of, “Um, well, I don’t know. There’s people in it. They do things.”

Which pretty much sums up how I feel about novels.

But here’s the exciting bit. On Saturday, I read a whole entire book all in one day. (Actually, I first finished another book and then I read a whole new one — WHAT?!) 

It was weird, spending that many consecutive hours reading, but it was also kinda fun, in a boring sort of way. (I was trying to go easy on the knee. PT was a wash — except for the perfume discovery and the kinda-maybe-perhaps diagnosis of tendonitis.)

ANYWAY. 

The book, which was not a novel thankyouverymuch, was about a grandmother-granddaughter relationship and the writing is funny and sharp and REAL, and it made me laugh out loud and get excited to be a grandma. Five stars. 

(The other book was also very good and not a novel.)

***

If you see these at your Costco, BUY THEM.

Better yet, buy ALL of them. You can thank me later.

I bought a bag on a whim, and once I got around to opening them, they got gobbled up in just a few days — because they are a-may-zah-zing. (Pro-tip: they pair spectacularly with coffee.)

So I told my daughter to pick some up when she went to Costco, and when she texted that they were sold out, I didn’t believe her. But then I went to Costco myself and there really truly weren’t any. I even made a guy check the computer system. They might be back at Christmas, he said. 

So now I’m telling everyone (i.e. YOU) to be on the lookout. One must always be prepared about these matters. 

***

The third season of The Diplomat (Netflix) is out! 

It’s not often that my husband and I land on a show we can both watch, but this one ticks all our picky boxes. 

(We also just finished Severance which we kinda loved — maybe? — and we’re rewatching Ted Lasso as our de-intensify show before heading to bed.) 

***

Which leads me to this poster which makes me inordinately happy, and which I want.*

The girls say it came with their purchase of the Lasso DVD set. They aren’t parting with it (I don’t blame them), and it isn’t — to the best of my internet digging — available anywhere.

Woe. 

(*Whenever we WANT something, someone always says, “I want that ship.” IYKYK.)

***

Buying jeans is The Worst. Can I get an amen?

Actually, no. Wearing jeans that don’t ever quite fit— that’s worse. Year in and year out, I put myself through torture to find jeans that fit well enough, and then I get home and things go sideways. They bunch, fall down, ride up, sag — it’s always something. 

So when my husband took me on a birthday outing to Charlottesville, I hit up Madewell while he snoozed in the car. I’d been itching to try their jeans for years. 

The store was predictably bougie, and it irked me that the sizes were mostly medium or small (at size 29, my jeans were on the upper end of what they had available in-store), but I tried on everything and walked out with two pairs.

They’re different than what I’m used to — a lot more fabric, snug and fitted around the waist, and plenty long enough (finally!!!) — so the verdict is still out. But I’m hopeful. If these work, I’ll be overjoyed. 

Because it makes much more sense to buy one expensive pair of jeans that fits than four pairs that don’t.

***

This same time, years previous: Spanish poblano casserole, four fun things, making the bed, menopause: seven stories, three things, curbing the technology addiction, a hairy situation, back in business, three feet, field work, the reading week.