Tuesday, May 28, 2019


I heard about the DivaCup years ago, but I always thought it sounded a bit too much: too messy, too unreliable, too risky. But then a few weeks back when I was talking to a friend about the Period documentary I’d just watched with my girls, she mentioned that she used the DivaCup. Actually, she’d been using it for years, she said, and she loved it.

Curious, I did a little research. I read up on different menstrual cups (my friend sent me a great article detailing a variety of options), and then I turned to the Amazon reviewsSo many reviews; so much enthusiasm. I had no idea.

I paid particularly close attention to the question and answer sections: sizing, how to know when to change it, how to change it, etc. The answers (and all the comments) were enlightening and encouraging. The whole DivaCup thing suddenly seemed realistic. Easy, even.

So I bought one.

When I told my husband, he looked a little worried in a "sounds kind of messy" way. My girls, though, didn’t bat an eye. They were like, “Awesome,” and “Heck yeah!”

“I’ll try it first,” I said. “If it works, then I’ll get one for each of you.”

Because, like my husband, I was a little apprehensive. I had visions of ruined clothes, public mortification, and a crime-scene-esque bathroom, but guess what. No ruined clothes (I used back-up pads during my heaviest days), zero public mortification (and I even changed it in public restrooms, hear me roar), and nobody ever wondered if someone got murdered in my bathroom.

Actually, that last point is the most surprising: I find that the DivaCup is actually less messy than tampons. Because the blood flows and collects naturally, more cleanly, without any, um, how shall we say, backlog, the whole process is amazingly tidy.

The first day I used it, I couldn’t stop raving. I couldn’t get over how streamlined it was — there’s not even a tampon string to get in the way — and I loved being able to measure my blood flow. Think about it: I’ve had my period since I was ten, and yet I’ve never known, until now, how many ounces of blood I actually lose. The knowledge made me feel empowered and in control of my body.

So giddy was I about the whole thing that I called my husband into the bathroom so he could witness the marvels for himself. He wasn't as enthusiastic as I was (that would be weird, I suppose), but he was politely tolerant. Appreciative even. He knows full well that menstruation is a part of life — no: it is life — so he's cool with it. Women bleed, period.

Regarding the DivaCup, I’m still on a learning curve (the pamphlet said that it takes several menstrual cycles to get completely comfortable with it), but I'm proud to report that I did a couple days of kickboxing (squats! sit-ups! roundhouse kicks!) with no extra protection and zero problems.

Guess it's time to buy DivaCups for my girls!

Do you use the Diva Cup? Would you use it?

 Or maybe everyone is already DivaEnlightened and I’m the last one to the party?

Oh, and what about cloth pads and period panties — have you tried those? (I haven't; should I?)

P.S. Now that we've watched the Period documentary, my younger brother and his wife recommended that we watch Padman. Sounds like a perfect family night movie to me!

This same time, years previous: about that house, snake charmer, in which we didn't need the gun, ice cream supper, the quotidian (5.26.14), rosa de jamaica tea, the quotidian (5.28.12), through my daughter's eyes, the boring blues.

Friday, May 24, 2019

stuffed poblanos

In a new (old) cookbook I picked up from our thrift store, I discovered a couple recipes that called for Anaheim peppers. In one recipe the Anaheims were stuffed with cheese, and in another they were used to line the bottom of a pie pan and then covered with a custard of eggs, milk, and cheese and baked. In both cases, the final product was to be eaten wrapped in corn tortillas. 

Unfortunately, neither of my standard grocery stories carried Anaheim peppers so, on the way out of town one day, I swung by the Latino grocery. They didn’t have Anaheims either, but as I walked by the counter on my way out the door, the shop owner stopped me.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

I hesitated — what was the point in telling her what I was looking for when she obviously didn’t have it? — but then I explained what I was looking for anyway, adding, “How do Anaheims compare to poblanos?” which was one of the kinds of peppers she did have.

“Similar,” she said. “But poblanos are shorter, slightly spicier, and their skin is a little thicker. What did you want them for?” And just like that we were deep in conversation about chiles and cheese. When I finally left the store, I carried a bag of poblanos (and a bunch of cilantro, just in case).

Back home, I prepared the chiles, half following the cookbook recipe and half drawing on what the shopkeeper had told me.

I toasted the chiles over the gas burner flame (this makes the entire kitchen smell like you’ve magically been transported to Mexico), before scraping off the blackened skin and slitting their sides so I could remove the seeds and membranes before stuffing each chile with lots of grated Monterey Jack cheese and minced onion. (I was afraid the onion would be too much, but the onions somehow added nuance while managing to stay super subtle — next time, I’m doubling them.) I fried the chiles over medium-low heat in a little bit of oil until they’d softened even more and the cheese was molten. (Actually, I think I only prepared one chile that first time, just to try it. But that one was so good that later — that same day? the next day? — I made all the rest of the chiles in one fell swoop.)

Because here’s the kicker: they go with everything! Stuffed in a tortilla, they make a fantastic quick lunch (salsa, sour cream, and extra cheese optional). They go great alongside a mountain of beans and rice. Other ideas: chop one up and stir it into a skillet of scrambled eggs, or the next time you’re grilling, add one of these to your burger, oo-la-la!

I’m running to town for groceries this afternoon and will be stocking up on all the ingredients for Latino-inspired meals — dry beans, avocados, limes (margaritas!), sour cream, cheese, and, of course, poblanos.

A batch of these and I’ll be set for a week.

Stuffed Poblanos 
With inspiration from The Supper Book by Marion Cunningham.

6-8 fresh poblanos
8 ounces Monterey Jack cheese, grated
1 onion, minced
olive oil

Wash the poblanos and then blister the skins, either directly over a gas flame or under the broiler. Pop them in a plastic bag and let rest for 15 minutes before scraping off the blackened skin with a paring knife.

Cut the poblanos, lengthwise, down one side and remove the membranes and seeds. (If your poblanos are super mild, as mine were, you don’t need to be too picky about this part.). Tuck 1-2 tablespoons of onion into the chile and then stuff with lots of grated cheese. Repeat with the remaining chiles. 

Lightly oil a skillet and slowly fry the chiles over medium heat until they’ve softened and the cheese is heated through, flipping once or twice. If you’d like, lid the skillet to trap steam and soften the chiles even more.

When the cheese bubbles out of the chiles (turning toasty-brown wherever it comes into contact with the skillet), they’re done.

Serve hot, with beans and rice. Or with eggs, on a burger, wrapped in a hot tortilla, whatever. Refrigerate leftovers for future meals.

This same time, years previous: a problem, the quotidian (5.22.17), sauteed lambsquarters with lemon, after one year: Costco reflections, Shirley's sugar cookies, more on trash, rhubarb streusel muffins.

Monday, May 20, 2019

the quotidian (5.20.19)

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

For the fresh orange cookies.

Garden spears.

Company dinner but minus the carrots because I forgot to set them out.

So much red it hurts my eyes.

All gone. 

The things I find on my porch, sigh.


That dimple!

Saying goodbye.

S l o w l y introducing the new cat.


The big kids went camping, so they did, too.

And speaking of the big kids, here they are, on location.

And again, on their way out. 
(Camping photo credits: Eli)

This same time, years previous: rocking the house, chocolate peanut butter sandwich cookies, campfire cooking, help, the quotidian (5.20.13), up at the property, my favorite things.

Friday, May 17, 2019

flying, flashfloods, and fireballs

Hi World!

The play is over, I just completed four consecutive mornings of (mostly unproductive) writing, and, on the way home from town today, I picked up Vice from Red Box for a date night movie with my lover man and a bag of poblano chiles (from the store, not Red Box) to stuff with cheese and onions and wrap in warm flour tortillas for tonight’s supper (and for my lunch, because I was too excited to wait that long).

Also, I just ate four chocolates, my younger daughter discovered a dead mouse in the trap upstairs (and screamed bloody murder), and there’s a load of laundry in the machine.

Thrills, my life is.


So this is happening:

a baby muscle, yay!

There was a Mother’s Day special — mothers train free for three weeks — so I decided, why not? If my girls can do it, I can, too.

It’s killing me though. Seriously killing me. By the end of each class, I’m flat on my back on the floor, gasping for air, every muscle in my body — arms, butt, thighs, stomach, back — sizzling and burning.

One week down, two to go, heaven help me.


In other news, a small breeze inspired our trampoline to slam itself into a tree and die.

My husband says that's the tree giving us the middle finger for cutting it down — Take that, Murches!

We’ve gone through so many trampolines, I’ve lost count. Anyone have an old one they want to off-load?


Friends came for supper and the kids set off a whopper of a fireball.

Because we like to go all out for guests.


After two years of being on a waitlist to be a ride-along with AirCare 5 Medevac, my son finally got called up.

He got two, back-to-back flights, lucky kid.

And then, upon delivering one of the stroke victims to the hospital, he got to see the doctor insert some sort of thingy into the guy's thigh and then watch on the giant screen as it snaked up through the body on its way to the brain to destroy a blood clot.


Yesterday, my older son and daughter took off to go camping in the boonies for several days.

My son had been planning this trip for a couple months now — the light at the end of the tunnel after all those months of study. (That he considers being far removed from technology and a dry bed and running water "A Light At The End Of The Tunnel" baffles me to no end. Is he really my child?)

I asked them if they had something to read —or playing cards or something — and they were like, Nah.

"But what will you do the whole time?" I asked, distressed.

"Throw rocks in the water," my daughter said.

"Survive," my son said.

Three other guys are joining them tonight. Also, it’s supposed to rain, and since they are camping in a valley next to a river, I made my son read the first couple pages of Jeannette Walls’ Half Broke Horses in which there is a flash flood. Just, you know, so he knows to climb a tree if he hears the ground start to rumble.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.14.18), inclusion, surprise!, driving home the point, the quotidian (5.16.16), Captain Morgan's rhubarb sours, maseca cornbread, a burger, a play, and some bagels, 'twas an honor.

Monday, May 13, 2019

the quotidian (5.13.19)

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

The younger daughter bakes. 

Her recipes rarely work out for me: not sure why I keep trying....

A mean trick.

Helping her create a budget spreadsheet.

Planting tomatoes.

Chopped-up tree + power tools = dream playground.

Full throttle.

Hamburger in the making. 

Girl and her goat.

Studying (haha) for his Kaplan exam.

Surprise! While cleaning out our cupboards (for my Mother's Day present), she discovered a stash! 

Edith Frank and Peter Van Daan.

Friday, May 10, 2019

an honor

In this show (as in all the shows I’ve done), I gain so much from having an audience. Each night, their reactions their gasps and sobs, their laughter and deep silences  teach me more about this story we’re sharing. Their presence is a gift, and hearing their reflections and insights afterward is humbling.


After one of our shows, a friend said, “To think, this is how the immigrants who are living right among us feel. So afraid, never knowing when ICE might knock on their door.”  

She and her husband took us out for ice cream that night. Sitting outside in the cool dark, licking my ice cream cone as the adrenaline drained from my body, her husband told us, in his thick German accent, the story of his pacifist parents in Europe in the 1930s…

...How his father had to flee in the dead of night, leaving his wife and newborn baby behind and walking on foot into Switzerland.

...How the Gestapo came to their home a few days later and axed up their house searching for forbidden documents until the young wife became so irate that she ordered them to leave, and, miraculously, they did.

...How she fled the village with the community’s women and children in the back of a covered truck and, when they arrived at the border and the guards opened the truck’s doors, the stench of shit and vomit was so strong that they closed it up again and let them through.

...How the family took refuge in England for a few years (as Germans, they were placed in internment camps) and then immigrated to Paraguay on a ship that had to go out of its way to avoid the military submarines (and on its return voyage to Europe, the ship, now full of meat, was torpedoed and sunk).


I hear that a Holocaust survivor, a gentleman who had been imprisoned in Belsen during the war and is about the same age Anne would've been if she'd lived, will be attending our show this weekend.


Yesterday I received an alert from our church regarding the impending construction of a new ICE facility in our town. So, following the urgings of the email’s author, I emailed the relevant community leaders to ask that they not sign off on the new facility. Because immigrants are to be cared for, not treated as enemies.

And then I closed with this: “And, if you need a reminder of what happens when one group of people demonizes, hunts, and casts out another group of people, please go to Court Square Theater this weekend to see The Diary of Anne Frank.”

Shameless advertising, and snarky, too, but really, I don’t give a fig. Stories like this one are relevant. We need them.


Below is an excerpt of a message I received this morning:

Bravo, bravo, bravo!  What a wonderful production last night! … I have seen this stage work on a number of occasions, but this interpretation stands head and shoulders above all of the others. Kudos to you actors and to the directors. I felt the joy, the frustration, and the terror unlike I had ever experienced in previous productions. 
I was quite impressed with the detailed thought. In particular, the tactic of keeping you actors on stage during intermission pushed me into a deeper level of thinking. I whipped out my phone during intermission to send a few text messages. As I was freely sending these messages, there was something ominous about simultaneously seeing you actors "locked" in that space and recognizing that this locked space extended so far beyond a 15-minute intermission. Very effective. 
I did not clap at the end. I couldn't. I left thoughtfully, thankfully, and prayerfully. 
Thank you for ... helping to generate such a thought-provoking show. I am grateful.   

Just three shows left.

Peter and Anne

It's been an honor.

This same time, years previous: settling in, the quotidian (5.9.16), the quotidian (5.11.15), immersion, so far today, one more thing, lemony spinach and rice salad with fresh dill and feta.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

our sweet Francie

Last Wednesday, we had Francie, our family dog of nearly fourteen years, put to sleep.

She'd been going downhill for several years. First, she’d developed tumors, and then she went deaf. She had arthritis, too (or something similar), so for months now, we’ve been giving her a baby aspirin every morning along with her food. She’d always been a sweet and docile dog — and more obedient than my own children — but as she aged, she became even sweeter. (I’ll be lucky if I age even half as well.)

Then Monday, she stopped eating. On Tuesday, we brought her inside where she stretched out on the floor, sometimes barely breathing. We thought she might die at any minute, so my older son sat beside her, studying for his semester finals and keeping a close eye on her.

But then she stood up and walked outside.

That evening, she refused to lay back down. For hours, she sat there, trembling and panting, every now and then shifting her weight uncomfortably from one hip to the other.

Wednesday morning, my husband called the clinic and set the appointment for 3:30 that afternoon. The day dragged. In between grocery shopping and kickboxing, chores and finals, the kids took turns sitting beside her, stroking her head and crying.

Seconds before they all dissolved into tears, yet again. 

We discussed where to bury her, and who wanted to go along to the appointment. The boys all wanted to go — my younger son wanted me to go, too — and the girls decided to stay at home. But last minute, as we loaded Francie into the van, the girls, unable to leave Francie, climbed in, too.

The ride to the clinic was silent but for children’s crying. In the clinic waiting room, we were a hot mess, all tears and snot. The staff didn’t waste much time trundling us back to the examining room. The vet, a quiet-spoken older gentleman I’d never met, gave her a sedation shot, and then left the room.

It took only a couple minutes for Francie’s panting to slow and for her to gradually relaxed onto the floor. When the vet returned, my older son lifted her to the table, and the girls left the room. The vet shaved a small spot on her leg and injected her with the medication. Within seconds, she was gone. 

On the drive home, her sheet-wrapped body tucked in the trunk like the grandfather in Little Miss Sunshine, we remembered the first time, thirteen years before, that we’d brought her, whimpering in a crate in the back of the car, to our house — we’d named her Francie on that ride. As we got closer to home, our sadness slowly lifted. The hard, necessary task was finished.

At home, my older son dug the hole. He removed her collar, and lowered her in.

Francie’s death is, by far, the healthiest death I’ve ever experienced with a pet. It left us utterly drained, of course (that evening my older daughter came to watch our invited dress rehearsal, which was, perhaps, an unwise choice: she was so traumatized by seeing the play only a few hours after Francie’s death that she’s refused to come see an actual performance), but there’s not the lingering, piercing sadness we felt after Alice was killed.

This time, there’s just relief that it’s over, and gratefulness for the many years we had with our sweet Francie.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.8.17), Moroccan carrot and chickpea salad, how it is, the quotidian (5.6.13), the family reunion of 2012, my boy, roasted rhubarb.

Monday, May 6, 2019

the quotidian (4.6.19)

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

Once again, the boy made his breakfast.

Safely fenced.

Duking it out with chocolate ganache: biological daughter versus theater daughter.


Sacrificing a favorite tree to save the septic system, sob.

Garden kill.

Taking the lawn by storm.

She loves this.

This same time, years previous: settling in, stages of acting, fence, not what we're used to, rhubarb daiquiri.