Charlotte has taken to hardcore, middle-of-the-night, obsessive-compulsive barking. As in, she won’t. shut. up.

Last night, after listening to her bark for a moderate eternity, I had enough. I poked my husband in the leg with my toe.

“Lock her in her crate,” I said, slurring my voice so he wouldn’t try to make me get up.

“You do it,” he snapped.

“No, you,” I was still trying to sound other-worldly in a groggy sort of way. “There’s no door on the crate. You need to fix it.”

“You fix it.”

“I don’t know how.” (Dang it. What was wrong with him?)

“Figure it out.”

“No.”

Yap. Yap. Yap. Yapyapyapyapyapyapyapyapyap.

Silence. I played possum. He did, too.

Yap. Yap. Yap. YAPYAPYAPYAPYAPYAPYAP.

My husband heaved himself out of bed and stormed off down the hall. I smiled to myself and snuggled deeper into the covers. After a few minutes, the barking stopped.

“What did you do with her?” I asked when he came back up to bed

“I told her to be quiet and when she didn’t listen I locked her in the crate.”

“Good. Thanks.”

I was just starting to relax when—

Yap. Yap. Yap. YAPYAPYAPYAPYAPYAPYAP.

The barking was muffled, but insistent. And just as gratingly irritating as before.

“She’s still barking,” I pointed out.

My husband didn’t move a muscle.

“You need to go deal with her.”

“YOU GO TAKE CARE OF HER.”

“Shh, don’t wake the kids. Maybe put her crate in the basement?”

Down the hall he stomped once again.

A few minutes later, back under the covers he crawled.

“What’d you do?”

“I tried to muzzle her with a hanky, but she kept barking. And then she bit me. So I put her in the van.”

The rest of the night was blissfully quiet.

At least, it was blissfully quiet until the other dog started barking (I told her to be quiet and she listened)…

And then the mouse under the floor decided to feast on some crunchy bits of wood…

And then our younger daughter made her nightly voyage to our room and regaled us with pity-me tales of terror and woe until my husband relocated to her room to sleep away the few remaining hours with her on her single bed. 

After that, well, I sprawled out diagonally on our queen-sized bed and slept just great!

So now, please tell me: what is the best way to cure a dog of the nighttime barkies? Our sanity (and the dog’s life) is at stake.

(Okay, so I’m joking about the “dog’s life” bit.) (Kind of.)

This same time, years previous: piano lessons, laid flat, living history

It’s Friday night. I’m in my room, the door shut, a glass of white wine on the bedstand beside me. Noises float up through the floor boards: my son playing around on the piano, the kids chattering, the odd loud thumps and bumps.

I have some free time to chat, but I’m not sure what about. I’ve gotten used to keeping my thoughts bottled up, not writing about all the This and That. So much of the goings on around here feels like big stuff. Monumental. It would take pages to catch up, to explain how we’ve gotten to where we are. Just the thought of explaining all that bottled-up stuff makes me feel like curling up in a ball. Staring at a wall is so much easier.

So I end up not saying anything at all. I don’t like that option either.

But you know what? Being tight-lipped is easier than I thought. (That I’m 37 and am only now figuring this out makes me snort.)

Then there’s the time factor, too. That’s another reason I’m not writing much. Even though I still have free time, my mind is cluttered with thoughts of luggage and travel expenses and plane tickets and insurances. I don’t have the space for my thoughts to spread out and develop. My brain is in lock-down mode.

I’m back to not cooking anymore. We’re eating from the freezer: green beans, corn, green beans, pesto, green beans, sour cherries, green beans.

Today the kids had two varieties of leftover green beans on their plates. They were not pleased. I told them it was an opportunity to do a taste test.

The Romas won.

But I have big plans for this weekend. Bierocks and treacle tart are at the top of my list. I think my muggles will be mighty happy.

I was going to read to the kids tonight, but now my husband just put them all to bed and it’s only 8:21. The house is soft with quiet. Soon I’ll head downstairs and we’ll make sweet and spicy popcorn and watch Once while the wind rattles the metal roof.

Good night, lovies. As soon as my brain relaxes, I’ll write more.

This same time, years previous: posing for candy, why I’m spacey, Greek yogurt, oatmeal bread, cheesy broccoli potato soup, sweet and sour lentils, lemon squares, blessing hearts

The other night I had all the fixings for quiche—a disk of pastry, browned sausage, frozen spinach—but I just wasn’t in the mood. There was a half-gallon of white beans in the fridge, too. Every time I looked at them, I felt guilty. I really needed to use them up.

A soup would be good, I thought, but white beans plus spinach would be sure to equal a dinnertime battle. I wasn’t in the mood for that, either. Maybe I could put the beans in the quiche? Meh…

“I know! I’ll make a quiche soup!” I yelled, but not out loud. (Is this why I get headaches? Because I’m yelling inside my head all the time?)

I’d turn the crust into crackers and the quiche filling into a brothy stew!
The crackers would sit atop the stew, all jazzy-artful!
It’d be quiche, deconstructed!  
Yes! Yes! Yes!

And that’s just what I did. I rolled out the pastry, cut it into rectangles with a pizza cutter, and stabbed it all over with a fork. I made a thick, dairy-free soup. Table side, we drizzled in a little half-and-half and sprinkled on the parm.

The meal was super yum, even my husband said so, and the pastry crackers were a huge hit—so melt-in-your-mouth rich, fragile with tenderness.

In the oven, they puffed up into flaky layers, kind of like a cheaters puff pastry.

The whole meal gave me a big thrill, it did.

Quiche Soup

If I weren’t cooking for a lactose-intolerant eater, I’d add the half-and-half straight to the soup pot. Also, a bunch of cheese—the children would’ve probably liked that. However, the broth and beans and meat combined to make the soup plenty rich-tasting, I thought, even without cheese (or with only a bit as garnish). Either way, it’s good.

½ recipe of lard pastry
1 glug of olive oil
2 medium onions, chopped
2 cups browned sausage
1 10-ounce package frozen spinach, drained and chopped
½ gallon cooked white beans, drained
3-4 cups chicken broth
salt and black pepper
half-and-half, for garnish
freshly grated Parmesan, for garnish

for the pastry crackers:
Roll the pastry out as you would for a pie crust (i.e. between two pieces of plastic wrap), but make it more in the shape of a rectangle than a circle. Lay it on a sided baking sheet (to catch the fat drips), cut it into little rectangles with a pizza cutter. Stab each cracker with the tines of a fork. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown and puffy, about 15-20 minutes. Cool to room temperature before storing in an airtight container. Best used the same day they are made.

for the soup:
Saute the onions in the olive oil. When tender, add the sausage and spinach and heat through. Add the beans and broth. Bring to a simmer. Season with salt and pepper.

to serve:
Fill each bowl with the soup. Add a drizzle of half-and-half and a flurry of Parmesan. Set a couple crackers on top. Dig in! (A spoonful or two of white wine added along with the cream is very nice, too.)

This same time, years previous: apples schmapples, dusting the dough, light-as-air hamburger buns and sloppy joes, how to freeze pumpkin