The other day when I found myself on the far side of town, I stopped at Aldi’s. I only needed sour cream but by the time I’d walked to the dairy section and back to the checkout, my arms were full: assorted crackers, a candle, dill Havarti (for recipe comparison purposes), Lebanon bologna, and, of course, chocolate.

These peanut butter cups are, we all agree, much better than Reese’s peanut butter cups: creamier, less sweet, and without Reese’s icky chemical flavor and the bothersome paper cups. I wish I’d gotten several bags.

***

I’ve watched this at least three times. It makes me so, so happy.

How I miss Ted and Rebecca!

***

Like art? Then you gotta check out my niece’s Instagram. 

Noemi is a surface pattern designer and water color painter, as well as a sewist. She has a website filled with embroidery tutorials, coloring pages, and themed inspo boards, plus a newsletter and blog.

^{credit for the above four photos: Noemi Salome}

Oh, and she has an Etsy shop, too. Knock yourselves out! 

***

I’m not usually one for these types of videos — I often find them a bit sappy — but the children made this one. It’s magical.

Bonus points go to the white-haired woman. What she said.

***

If you need a laugh, check out Jenny’s post. “We couldn’t be prouder of this one-star review. Come for the cool chairs, stay for the intersectional feminism.” I laughed out loud.

***

Have you watched Beckham (Netflix)? 

At first I didn’t like the show — just some teen athlete getting rich way too fast, blah, blah, blah — so I quit watching. But then one night I tried it again out of boredom and got totally hooked. There’s so much to be fascinated by: the horrific fame, the long-lasting marriage, the complete obsession with the game. We watched the final episode last night but the glow lingers. 

***

My friend and I were talking about pies and she suggested I put bacon grease in pie pastry when making an apple pie, as per her Grandma Agnes Foley’s instructions. So I did.

For one recipe of pie pastry, I used 4 ounces of homemade butter, 2.5 ounces of unstrained bacon grease and 1.5 ounces of lard, and then used the pastry to make a free-form pie — or strudel, or whatever you wanna call it. 

Grandma Agnes was right! Bacon grease in pie pastry is glorious. It didn’t have a bacon flavor (though I suspect that might change if I added more), but it gave the pastry a special depth of flavor: saltier, umami-er, more robust and full-flavored. Paired with the sweetly-spiced apples, it was perfection. 

ALSO. I am beginning to believe that strudels (or free-form pies or whatever) are leagues better than regular-shaped pies, at least when it comes to apple. The crust-to-fruit ratio is spot on, you can eat the strudel out of hand, and the vanilla drizzle ties the whole thing together into a tidy sweet package.

***

Happy weekending! xo

This same time, years previous: three girlfriend recommendations, cheese tasting: round two, change, the quotidian (11.17.14), lemony lentil goodness, three things, in which I ask a lot of questions.

Do you ever pull up to a traffic light and look around at all the people sitting in their cars and think about how they — every single one of them — represent a whole universe? Each person is a world unto themselves, with passions and agonies and fears and longings.

When I think about it, really think about it, my mind spasms and I am suddenly equal parts invitoraged and depressed. The intensity with which I feel things is so enormous, so all-encompassing, and yet the whole of my universe is utterly invisible to all but a smattering of folks.

I am
All I know. I am
but a mere trifle. 

***

Yesterday my older son dropped in to do a load of laundry. While the machine worked its magic, he left to go on a run. I was working on the computer when I heard him talking to someone out on the deck. At first I assumed he was on the phone but then I heard another voice. I peeked through the door and saw a grubby, ginger-bearded man.

My son popped his head in the door. “I met this guy who’s biking from DC to Florida and told him he could refill his water here.” 

“Sure,” I said. “Does he need a bathroom? A shower? Does he want something to eat?” And then when I glimpsed the man walking away from the house, “Wait! Why’s he leaving? Stop him!”

“He’s just getting his water bottle,” my son laughed. “He’ll be right back.”

The two of them sat out on the deck while I heated up a plate of leftover lasagna and made coffee. While I puttered about the kitchen, I could hear the steady murmur of their voices, and through the window I saw them studying maps on their phones, absentmindedly petting the dogs while they chatted, pointing to the mountains that were rapidly being obscured by smoke from the forest fires. A little later when I was down in the field checking on Charlotte (no calf, STILL), my son called me. “He’s ready to leave. Do you have food we can send with him?”

By the time I got back to the house, my son had collected crackers and cheese, the bag of ginger cookies I’d already packed up, some apples. When the man went back out to his bike to get his water bottle to refill (which had been the whole reason for stopping at our house in the first place), my son said, “Just you wait till you hear his story, Mom.”

And then before he left, the man briefly filled me in himself: he’s a bilateral partial foot amputee, the casualty of a disastrous hiking accident, who is now hiking and biking, and posting about his adventures on his instagram and YouTube channel in hopes of inspiring other people to go after their dreams, even against all odds. 

“Are we gonna be famous now?” I teased, and we all laughed. 

***

After the man left, my son filled me in on their conversation story. “Do you actually think he’s for real?” I asked, ever skeptical. “How do we know he’s actually missing both feet?” 

“I saw them, Mom. He showed me. Look him up!”

“Oh, okay,” I said, scrolling his Instagram page and feeling mildly relieved because — full disclosure — it did occur to me that he could lurk in the woods down the road until we left for town and then return to ransack the place.

My son said, “The whole time I was thinking of that—” His voice broke and and he nodded toward the sign hanging on our chimney.

I knew exactly what he meant. I felt the same way. 

***

I don’t think that man’s an angel any more than I’m an angel. The angel, I think, is the connection that sparks when the worlds of complete strangers collide. For a few minutes on an ordinary Wednesday morning, that man’s life joined with ours. Briefly, barriers dropped. Stories got swapped, information shared, and food eaten. And now, thanks to that chance encounter, our world has expanded to include a bilateral partial foot amputee bicyclist who is on his way to Key West. 

How beautiful is that?

This same time, years previous: fat cow, the quotidian (11.15.21), sourdough English muffins, guayaba bars, success!, Thai chicken curry, the quotidian (11.16.15), lessons from a shopping trip, official, why I’m glad we don’t have guns in our house, so far so good.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my kids seem to have a thing for motorcycles.

At this point, three of the four have their motorcycle licenses, and my younger son is making noises about how many more years are left until he can join the gang. I’ve even heard my daughter-in-law speak about them favorably.

I’m not sure where this infatuation comes from. My husband is not in the least bit interested in them, and while I learned to drive a dirtbike at age 14 or 15, and I once rode two hours from college to home on the back of some guy’s bike — an experience I do not remember but friends say is true — that’s the extent of my motorcycling. 

When my older son started itching for a bike, my husband and I were relieved to learn that Virginia law requires a person to be nineteen years old before getting a motorcycle license. That bought us a few years, but once that window closed and his hankering hadn’t quit, we realized we needed to stop stalling and set some ground rules to minimize headbutting. So we decided that 1) motorcycle ownership was forbidden while living at our house, and 2) they had to be off our medical insurance prior to buying a bike. 

Some other expectations that have been initiated primarily by the children and then followed without question are that they’ve each paid for, taken, and passed a two-day motorcycle riding safety course, as well as purchased all the proper riding gear such as padded coats, biking pants, gloves, boots, helmets. We’ve also requested that my older daughter, who lives alone, shoot us a text before taking her bike out and again after she returns home. That all of the kids have taken these precautionary measures illustrates a certain level of maturity which, in turn, gives me some peace of mind. (And when it comes to motorcycles, any peace of mind, no matter how small, is a big deal.)

Currently, the two older children have their own health insurance, homes, and bikes. Our younger daughter is still at home and on our insurance, so while she just got her license, she’s not allowed to get her own bike. In the meantime, she borrows a friend’s bike to go on occasional practice rides, usually with her sister.

So how do I feel about them riding motorcycles? 

Part of me hates it — it would be so much easier if they simply never did anything dangerous or risky — but another, bigger part of me knows that I don’t have control over their choices, and I don’t want control, either. Even though I might not crave that wind-in-the-hair freedom that they’re gluttons for, I do understand it, and in spite of my reservations, I can’t help but delight in their excitement and joy. 

I’m proud of them, too. Proud of them for going after what they want, even when it’s not particularly parent-endorsed or parent-assisted. They are their own people.

So what do I do? I try to not think about accidents even as I accept that they may happen — that’s the hard one. Also, I lecture about reflective gear. I admire their fancy helmets and bluetooth headphone thingies, and listen to their riding stories. I snap photos and yell at them to quit revving the engines.

And when they pull out of the driveway, I wave goodbye and then walk back to the house hoping — opleasepleasepleaseplease — that they’ll get to wherever they’re going all in one piece.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (11.9.20), the quotidian (11.9.15), pumpkin cranberry cheesecake muffins, brilliant brownies, cumin-spiced pumpkin sourdough bread.