• 2020 book list

    I think I’m learning something about myself: I don’t actually enjoy reading.

    Just saying that amounts to sacrilige, I know, but truth is, the process of sitting down, holding a book in front of my face, and then raking my eyes back and forth across the page is not pleasurable. I like curling up in front of the fire with a hot drink. I like getting new ideas and information. I even like getting lost in a story. But most of the time — like, say, 80 percent of the time that I’m reading — I’m neither sipping a hot drink nor having an ah-ha moment nor am I lost in another world. I’m just… reading.

    When I told my husband my latest self-realization, he gaped, eyes wide. But you read so much!

    I make myself read, I corrected. I write it on my to-do list — read 30″ — so that I’ll do it.

    So why do I read, you ask?

    It’s a fair question, but I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been trained to — it’s a lifestyle thing, of sorts. Also, because I think reading makes me a better person, because it’s a form of reflection, because it’s a valuable mental exercise, because I want to learn something, and because sometimes, in spite of everything I just said, it is fun.

    And tell me this: is there anything better than falling asleep while reading?

    Anyway. As I was typing up this list, I was dismayed to realize how many of these books, books that I’ve spent hours with, I had absolutely zero recollection of. I mean, I’ve read these books within the last year and even, according to my notes, claimed to really enjoy some of them, and yet now, a mere few months later, I’m drawing a complete blank. How is this even possible?

    he doesn’t even like beer

    The books I do recall, though, tend to be the true stories, or at least the stories that felt true to me. So maybe I’m just not a lover of fiction? Or obvious fiction anyway?

    Such mysteries!

    Anyway. Long story short, here’s what I read in 2020. Cheers!

    what I pulled from the library for Christmas break

    And to the kids: The Wee Free Men (never again), Great Expectations (tedious, but we made it), Little Women (ditto), Way Back in the Ozarks (a repeat, because my younger son begged me to), Fish in a Tree (why can’t all books be like this?), and now Look Both Ways (too soon to tell).

    Now it’s your turn. What should I read in 2021?

    This same time, years previous: a Christmas spectacle, right now, balsamic glazed roasted butternut squash and brussel sprouts, 2016 garden notes and stats, remembering Guatemala, cheese ball, hot buttered rolls, giant sausage and leek quiche, spaghetti carbonara.

  • chocolate bourbon pie

    I’m a wee bit pie weary (and right here is where I was going to insert a whole bunch of pie photos, but it’s Christmas Eve and I still have to go to work and bake more pies, plus I really hope I have time to bake a bunch of cookies when I get back home, as well as get a shower and wash my hair, so you’ll just have to use your imaginations), but on the off-chance you’re not, here’s a good one. 

    The recipe is quick and easy, and you probably already have all the ingredients banging around your kitchen. Also, it’s wondrously decadent — just the thing for a special occasion, like, say, Christmas! 

    This pie is great for riffing. The way I like it (printed below), the chocolate is spiked with bourbon and just a hint of peppermint — think mint juleps. But when the diner handed me a bunch of leftover candied oranges, I had to try a chocolate orange version: orange liquor and a bit of orange extract, and then each piece topped with whipped cream and a candied orange slice. It was also wonderful.

    I delivered a couple pieces to my mom for her birthday. 

    Another idea is to infuse the cream with coffee and then add a generous pour of Bailey’s. Or do something with raspberries! Or keep it simple, with just chocolate (add a teaspoon of vanilla).

    Really, you can’t go wrong.

    As for the crust, the original recipe said to use a regular parbaked pie pastry shell, but none of us thought that did much for the pie. A cookie crust, we agreed, was more fitting — we liked the crunch. Oreos made it a tad too sweet, I thought (though other people didn’t seem to mind), so maybe go for an unfilled chocolate wafer cookie or a shortbread crust? Of course, you could simply pour the chocolate into ramekins and nix the crust entirely.  

    The one thing that is a must, though, is the whipped cream. Don’t skip it. 

    Chocolate Bourbon Pie
    Adapted from The Four & Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book by Emily Elsen and Melissa Elsen.

    This recipe makes enough filling for a 9-inch pie. Baked in a tart pan —photographed here — at least a third of the filling is left over.

    1 cup heavy whipping cream
    1 cup milk
    12 ounces semi-sweet chocolate, chopped
    ½ teaspoon salt
    2 eggs
    3 tablespoons bourbon
    ¼ teaspoon peppermint extract
    1 chocolate cookie crust (recipe of your choosing), parbaked at 325 degrees for 10 minutes

    Heat the cream and milk until it’s almost boiling. Remove from heat and add the chocolate. Let sit for a couple minutes and then whisk until smooth. 

    In a separate bowl, beat the eggs and then add a bit of the chocolate, a little at a time, whisking steadily. Once the eggs are tempered, add the rest of the chocolate, the salt, and whisk well. If the mixture is at all lumpy, pour it through a sieve. Stir in the peppermint extract and bourbon.

    Pour the filling into the chocolate cookie crust and bake at 325 degrees for 25-35 minutes. The edges should be set but the middle should still wobble a bit (without appearing runny). Cool to room temp and then refrigerate. 

    Immediately before serving, dust with powdered sugar, if desired (keep in mind that it will melt away after an hour or so), and top with whipped cream.

    This same time, years previous: sex for all creation, 2014 book list, the quotidian (12.23.13), flat, raw, turkey in a wash basket.

  • the coronavirus diaries: week forty-two

    Thus far, we’ve been incredibly fortunate to be able to see family and friends in the relative safety of the great outdoors, but now with the cold creeping in and the dark evenings, our social engagements are becoming even more limited so I’m bracing myself. Emotionally hunkering down. Gearing up for going nowhere. 

    Looks like it’s just us, now. 

    I still try to go running. I have my job which gets me out of the house a couple days a week. I have a phone that I use to call up my mother and chat. I go on walks with my sister-in-law and girlfriends, and by myself.

    Still, I can feel myself beginning to slump. There’s a heaviness tugging at me.

    Maybe I should just go on antidepressants for the next year or so, I say to my husband. 

    Actually, what I say is “for the next ten years.” Might as well knock out the misery of the pandemic, menopause, and the switch to an empty nest all in one fell swoop.

    The other day in the car, I caught snatches of a report on the 1918 pandemic: people ages 20-40 were, surprisingly, the ones most likely to die . . . the economic hardships were enormous since there weren’t any social services in place . . . the flu took out lots of people who were already weakened by tuberculosis . . . afterward, a wave of depression swept the country. 

    The show’s guest said something else that stuck with me. In regards to a health crisis, we in the United States vacillate between panic and complacency. For years we’ve known what we need to do in order to prepare for a global health crisis, but we haven’t done it. Now we’re panicked, and once this is over, we’ll probably return to complacency because that’s what we do. 

    The guest sounded angry. And tired.

    Any good news? The host asked hopefully. There was a pause, and then: 

    Humans are survivors. Many of us have died, and many of us who are here now will not be here when this is over, but we are survivors. 

    The race will go on. 

    As 2020 ends, I find myself thinking back. 

    I think back to March when we were advised against wearing masks and am appalled.

    I think back to January when I first began hearing rumors of a new virus that was being discovered in China. Oh, it’s nothing, I’d said. They’ve had other viruses over there and they didn’t effect us any. The news industry just needs something to report. It’ll be fine. 

    It’s hard to believe that once upon a time that’s what I thought.  

    Out on a walk, I entertain myself by posing a question: If I’d get COVID, which lingering side effect would I rather have — loss of taste or ongoing respiratory problems? 

    One person I know is still struggling, nine months after first getting sick, with debilitating respiratory issues. Another person has lost her sense of taste. For her, food is important, so to lose her sense of taste (and then have it return only to disappear yet again) leaves her in a distressing state of uncertainty. 

    To no longer be able to move about energetically — to go for runs or pound up the stairs to my bedroom or steam through a grocery store — would be horrible. And to no longer taste — peanut butter! lemony broccoli! sourdough! spicy sausages! coffee, coffee! — is a loss I can’t even imagine. 

    After mulling the question over, I finally give up, still undecided. Both choices are terrible. 

    That I could die is something I don’t even consider. 

    Every time the weather gets even a hint of warm, I get squirrely. Gotta go for a walk. Gotta call friends. Gotta have someone over. Gotta go somewhere. If I don’t use the brief little window of opportunity to socialize and exercise, I feel guilty. 

    So a couple weeks ago when the entire weekend forecast was for sunshine and warm temps, I announced a family hike. And then I invited friends, because what better way to visit than while tromping for hours through the woods? 

    After an hour or so, we had to decide whether or not to do a small loop or a large. We’re already out here, I said, all vim and vigor. Might as well go all out. 

    And so we hiked. And hiked and hiked and hiked, through muddy trails and up rocky mountains (when choosing the eleven-mile loop, we neglected to consider the topography, oops) and over boulders and across streams. 

    That night, I feel asleep fast and slept hard. It was marvelous — the best kind of tired ever.  

    I love our traditional stay-at-home Christmases: stockings for the kids, cookies for breakfast, my husband’s ham, puzzles and games. 

    But that at-homeness is fun specifically because it is sandwiched between a whole lotta church, family gatherings, and parties. Now that it’s us all of the time, it feels like Christmas will be just more of the same. 

    We don’t really have good ideas to make it special — and, quite frankly, I’m not sure I even want “specialness substitutes” because anything we do will just accentuate what’s missing — but we’re trying. Here’s what we’ve come up with.

    Books: I did some research and then checked out a bunch of good read-alouds from the library. My goal is to read out loud about three times a day — we are gonna plow through the books. 

    No studies: I canceled the kids’ studies, though I am increasing their assigned readings, and there will still be history lessons with my husband, and maybe science and typing lessons with the grandparents. But no spelling and math!

    Documentaries: My husband suggested we watch documentaries, so now I need to do some research to find a bunch of good ones to add to my queue. 

    Relaxing: I want to set up a puzzle and drink more tea. Card games, maybe.

    Soup: I’m craving soups — the kinds that are brothy and loaded with leafy greens — so I’m gonna make us some.

    Outings: There may be a couple small day road trips, and perhaps another hike or two. 

    House projects: I’d like to find an area rug for the sitting area. We need to send off the Cutco knives to get sharpened. Little things like that.

    These are small pleasures, and even though the persistant piercing sadness sometimes makes it hard to appreciate them and keep my equilibrium, they’ll be enough. 

    They have to be. 

    These days, instead of reading the serious books and watching the hard movies — the things I routinely try to do to educate and better myself — I’m choosing easy material, the heartwarming and familiar and funny. So what am I reading? Juvenile fiction, I kid you not. (Also, The Warmth of Other Suns because I already started it.)

    The other night the girls and I finished Schitt’s Creek. I cried, of course. Reaching the end of an incredibly wonderful show is so bittersweet. But all is not lost! I’m on season four with my husband — he’s getting into it, whoop! — and so I get to watch it all again, with him. (By myself I’m watching The Crown. With the family, The Great British Baking Show. And recent family night movies include Prom and The Sound of Metal.)

    Two nights in a row last week, I fell asleep at eight o’clock, the warmth of the fire so deeply relaxing that I felt like my whole body had fused to the sofa. One day I stayed in my pajamas all day long. 

    Mornings it’s so windy and bitter cold that I simply can’t bear the thought of going running, I don’t. Because maybe what I need is a cozy, dark morning inside the house with slippers and coffee and candles, and that’s okay.

    To get through these long, dark, cold winter months, what I want — what I need — is lightness and laughter and comfort. Once the daylight and warmth return, then I’ll push myself again.

    For now, though, I go easy. 

    This same time, years previous: old-fashioned sour cream cake doughnuts, the quotidian (12.22.14), marshmallows.