Scout Moves

This past Friday Husband and I were facing a weekend with no plans. Not that we have to have plans every weekend, but there we sat at our respective desks pondering a couple of days with nothing to do. And then Eustacia stepped in with a suggestion that soon became a plan. She was scheduled to take the Megabus from Cleveland to Chicago, leaving Saturday morning at 1:00. People her age can do that, whereas people my age would not appreciate riding a big bus all night long with little sleep. She had a ride to the bus stop, such as it is as an unmarked spot on the sidewalk, but she wondered if her parents would like to drive up to her college and have dinner with her. That's when Husband thought that if we were going to drive to Cleveland, we might as well spend the night there, and it seemed logical to stay at the hotel adjacent to the Megabus stop and see the kid off ourselves. So, that's what we did. We checked into the Renaissance Hotel in Tower City and had a leisurely dinne

...or, what you learn by talking to people. I'm a talker. I don't apologize for that, I'm just saying. I like to talk to people who will listen with interest and will talk back, and I like to talk to strangers. My friend Joan is the same, and we have theorized that people like us give off a certain vibe so that strangers will come up to us out of the blue and just start talking. That does seem to be the case. When I was visiting No. 1 in Berkeley last month, a cabinet maker stopped by to discuss the options for renovating the kitchen. Before he left, I learned all sorts of things about him—he had a 12-year-old daughter who was turning his hair gray, his wife quit a job she hated and helped him form his eco-renovation business, his mother moved to Idaho and joined what he considers a fundamentalist church, and he had trouble talking to her after that. No. 1 stood by and wished we'd shut up, I think. Later, she blamed me for the man's talkativeness and suggested I int

Yes, I realize tax day was this past Monday. My Small Town Newspaper column for that day was about Tax Day and paying taxes. I didn't link to it here, though, because the online comments are ferocious. I knew they would be, so instead of drawing shameful attention to a handful of Small Town meanies who think that calling me "stupid" and saying I write "drivel" is fair substitute for reasonable debate, I have decided to finally post my column here. I stand by my opinion on this subject, call me what you will. TAX DAY—YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU GET Will Rogers said, “If you make any money, the government shoves you in the creek once a year with it in your pockets, and all that don't get wet you can keep.” Even as a supporter of President Roosevelt and the New Deal, the humorist was quick to poke fun at taxes in an era when rates were nearly twice what they are today. Well, whether you’re one to support federal programs or one to believe you’re being soaked by them—w

The other night, I was headed to the store for a few groceries, just enough for that evening, and I asked Husband what he'd like for dinner. Something light, was his response, so I drove off with ideas running through my head of what might constitute something light for an evening meal. When you make a meal you consider "something light," what do you choose? I thought of shrimp with a light sauce or grilled chicken breast with a side salad, but Husband isn't wild about shrimp and chicken. Then I thought of something made with eggs like a frittata, but he doesn't like those either, and I was struggling with the possibilities. By the time I got to the store, I had a plan, though—tomato bisque and grilled cheese. I already had brie and prosciutto for the sandwiches, so I picked up a small loaf of French bread—fake French, that is, because everything from the bakery department of this store tastes like Wonder Bread and has about the same texture—a large can of crushed

Yesterday, the state of Ohio killed the inmate of the month, Clarence Carter, who had a long arrest record that included robbery, drug trafficking and two counts of murder. He was no saint. In 1988, Carter was awaiting sentencing for the murder of a fellow drug trafficker when another inmate attacked him with a shank. How often does the average person get to use the word "shank" when not referring to a prison movie? Not often, I'd suspect, but the word really exists and the thing is really used. In self-defense, Carter fought back, but during the fight, he claims he lost control of his anger. He yelled for witnesses to get the deputy on duty to help him stop the fight, but no deputy was summoned, and Carter killed the inmate. For that crime, he was sentenced to death. In a clemency reporter, which you can read here , it was made known the jury in the case was never informed of Carter's mental status—he had a borderline IQ—nor his childhood background—he was warped by

As I mentioned yesterday, the Philharmonic performed its spring concert over the weekend. During the week leading up to the concert, the horn soloist and his wife, Sallie, were planning a reception to be held at their house afterward, and as you can imagine, I was sure Sallie was doing most of the planning. Not to cast doubt on Steve as a 50-50 kind of guy around the house, but with the pressure of such a big solo/ensemble performance, he probably was not thinking about how much food and how much beer to have for how many guests. I offered to help, and Sallie accepted, and we got to work. We agreed to host a dip buffet. I've never seen one of those before, so we made it up. We planned to have large bowls of things—chilled shrimp, tortilla chips, pita chips, fresh vegetables—to be served with an assortment of dips—salsa, artichoke, hummus, creamy dill, Asian, etc. I thought the mint pesto I had learned to make last spring would be perfect for the shrimp, but it's really more of

My orchestra performed its spring concert over the weekend, Spring Serenades, in fact. There was no wind section this time around, so I was free to sit in the audience and listen. Boy, am I glad I did. Conductor Eric created a thoughtful program that he described as a variety show of sorts, and it went this way: The strings began with a Mozart serenade in four parts—at some point, Small Town's county will learn not to applaud between movements, or not. It was familiar and light and very pleasant. Then a vocal soloist, Robert Frankenberry, took the stage to perform Schubert's "Standchen" accompanied by my good friend Sherri. That woman can play the piano like nobody around, and by that I mean she is very talented, not that we have a shortage of good pianists. The solo was sung in German, and I understood not a word and still thought it was lovely. During the intermission when the hall lights went up, my friends and I noticed the lyrics were provided in English right in

This is what's left of the pie I baked using Martha Foose's Lemon Icebox Pie recipe found in Screen Doors and Sweet Tea . I found the recipe while reading a persuasive article by Francis Lam at Salon , and I bought the book soon after. If the author of this book and creator of the recipe were to see my photo here, she'd say, "Why honey, bless your heart." If you're southern, you understand the tone and the sentiment of such a statement. It means, "You poor thing. You really did try hard, didn't you. It's OK. You'll do better next time, but we won't tell you that you've failed because we don't want to hurt your feelings." There is a world of meaning in the phrase "bless your heart." Here's why I, and my pie, deserve it. I was so eager to bake this pie because I haven't had one like it in years. It was like something brand new to me, even though I've baked similar pies many times. And I love lemon. I set ou

This morning, I was pondering a purchase of a new cookbook I have discovered. I read about it the other day in an article that so thoughtfully extolled its lemon icebox pie that I had to bake the thing immediately. That's another story, but I did want the entire cookbook— Screen Doors and Sweet Tea by Martha Hall Foose. In my pondering, I was thinking I would stop by a Borders later this week and pick up a copy. But then I noticed my iPad sitting right next to me, and then I discovered the book is available through the iBooks application complete with full-color photos, and then I bought it. Digitally. Within mere minutes. And I read three whole pages before privately scolding myself for contributing to the downfall of bookstores. What was I thinking? As I said, I have only read three pages, but it flows like a memoir only more interesting. And the tone and language and the recipes tug at my southern heart strings. Even the title does that. One of my favorite sounds as a child was

Here is my latest knitting project. Want to know how it came about? Well, last week, No. 1 and I ventured out in a torrential downpour to visit a yarn shop she likes. Neither of us was looking for anything in particular, but you don't need to walk into a yarn shop with a project in mind, do you? You just need to want to look at absolutely every ball and skein and flip through every pattern available. It could take hours, if you do it right. We went our separate ways in the small but well-done shop, and decided I must have a project. I found a small book of patterns, all quick projects you could complete in a weekend of diligent knitting. We had planned on knitting for days anyway, so I knew this was the book for me. The problem was, I only liked one pattern, a lacy scarf that required less than 300 yards of a sport weight yarn. I chose a muted blue hand-painted yarn by Freia. Two balls of the 100% wool would be plenty for the scarf—$10.25 a piece. But still, what to do about spendi