Dreaming of the Big City on a cold weekend

It’s the second weekend of April, and it’s snowing again.

This is the part of year that’s the toughest in Canada.  Photos of flowers popping up all ny 1NY collage 4over North America, trees sprouting soft gentle buds, birds singing their little hearts out, toddlers toddling and giggling in light jackets or sweaters, puppies and kitties…..and

we have yet another dusting of snow.

And it’s cold.  It’s not forecast to go over -10—as a high—all weekend, and that’s not counting the wind chill. (In Fahrenheit that’s about 15 degrees).

I suppose that’s not so bad.  If you live up against a mountain range, north of the 49th, and maybe even south at a higher elevation, it’s not surprising to have a little snow and a little cold well into the spring; I’ve seen snow in every month of the year.  OK, well, in July I think it was closer to the Rockies and in August it might have been more hail-like, but it was still white stuff and it was accumulating on the ground.

If it’s any consolation, there’s possible snow in the forecast in New York.  And last Monday, Opening Day at Yankee Stadium, was postponed not for rain, but for snow.  Here’s what it looked like.

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Easter on the East Coast

bubble man
Last year in Union Square.  It looks like Easter colors.

Hello everybunny, and Happy Easter.

And Happy Passover to all my friends celebrating as well.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not a very religious person (this is about as religious as I will ever get); that said, I’ve certainly had the opportunity to celebrate holidays with all my friends of all denominations (that’s not exactly true; in fact, just this morning, I was thinking that this year I must absolutely go to an iftar during Ramadan).

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Wine, Women….a Moscow Mule…..Spam…and Michelle Obama. Oh, and Podcast #2!

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Long week…off sick Monday with a blasted head cold, a new employee (who I know will be great) starting on Tuesday, the rest of the week full of the usual—work, home, work, snow, work, head cold.  Blech.

So, on the way home on an exciting Friday night:  a quick trip to the grocery store (lunch with a friend tomorrow, plus general provisions), filled up the car with gas (yikes, big price jump—should’ve gone yesterday), loaded up the purchases in my little shopping cart and wheeled them upstairs.

Cat fed, jeans, sweater, socks, bra off….shorts and big sweat shirt on. I headed for the couch with the intention of just vegging for the evening. Possibly writing the blog, possibly prepping for tomorrow’s lunch, possibly hitting Netflix…the whole evening in front of me.

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Getting from a Pod to a Penitentiary…and back again…

I floated yesterday.

I went to one of those pod places—sensory deprivation float tanks–and gave it a shot.

There was a Groupon so I thought I’d take a chance and see what it was all about.

Now, I’ve never been suspended in warm, heavily salted water, soft spa music piping through, completely naked and in total darkness in my life—not even sure I really wanted to try it.

But for the price, it was worth trying out.

The only other time I can recall actually being suspended in water was at the start of what I often refer to as one of the strangest days of my life.

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Get off your Grönkulla and hand me that Fyrkantig, would ya please?

Well, for the very first time in my life, I’ve finally done it.

Living just a short drive away from one of the world’s most amazing stores for almost half my life, I’ve never actually attempted to build a piece of Ikea furniture.

But now I have.  Three pieces, actually. All by myself.

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I like to watch….or Suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome, For Now.

 

nest
Nobody’s home right now.                © 2018 American Eagle Foundation, EAGLES.ORG.

It’s midnight in Washington D.C. as I write.  It’s pitch black; the sounds of night peepers can be heard between the sounds of sirens and car horns. It’s dark in the woods, and probably a little scary too, for most everything and everyone.

A camera set for night vision illuminates a spot that almost seems to glow.

It’s a large, empty nest, probably bigger than any nest you’ve ever seen.

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The Way to a Girl’s Heart: Don’t Blow It.

 

love note

(this is an excerpt from last year’s journal, written in early January as I was starting to pack my life into boxes)

THIS is a love note:

Dearest Betty,

Through the abandoning of my defensive mechanisms, I am reluctantly forced to admit exactly how I feel about you.

My discipline, my pride has, up until this point, prevented me from telling you exactly how I feel.

I do not wish to manipulate or pressure you, but as you have asked for this note, here it is:

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Compliments to the Chef

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Chef Paul Bocuse, 1926-2018 (both photos of M. Bocuse taken from menu covers)

How we find our palates?

Certainly a large part of it has to do with our parents, or the people or person who cooks for and eats with us—we learn to like what we’re fed.  Granted, some of it we don’t like, but there’s so much more that we don’t know if we enjoy because if they don’t like it, we’ll never have it.

Take, for example, mushrooms.

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