Apple Pie Supper

Life doesn't begin until one late afternoon, it is decided to have dessert for dinner.  The first strawberries, the local ones so sweet and fragile, deep red in ripeness shouldn't have to wait for last place on the menu.  Hull the berries after a quick rinse, slice them with lots of sugar.  Yes, sugar.  Lots.   Make your biscuits, use butter and one egg, gives the biscuit a nice crust; then whip the cream using a bit of vanilla and confectionary sugar.  Assemble: bottom half of biscuit, butter, strawberries, top half, another spoon of berries, and then whipped cream.  Hypnotize the family as you set the bowls in front of them.

This will also happen with a deeply embedded in summer peach cobbler, an Amish cherry pudding, or apple pie.  Apple pie for supper with ice cream, you will be elected president of everything for life.  Now, not that a single variety is lagging, but if you want a redolent essence permeating every morsel of crust, use a blend of apples.  Older ones were developed for flavor, not for looks; Pippin, Winesap, Russet, Northern Spy, 20 Ounce; toss those in with a mainstay, a solid Cortland or Johnathan, and if you can find one, grate a quince in as well.  Leaf lard will produce a soft crust, but good lard is difficult to find; all butter will make it snap and flake with flavor.  Do not leave out the salt--chemically, it's needed to produce a crust that browns nicely.

In years past, I could throw an apple pie together in 25 minutes by using my apple peeler and having the counter space to spread out.  Leftover pastry scraps were re-rolled, covered with cinnamon sugar, and cut into diamond shapes before baking; they were almost as revered as the pie itself, which filled the house with an orchard's incense as it baked.  Let it sit on a rack to cool for cutting, maybe twenty minutes, then ready the ice cream.  Or, if you are from New York State, a slice of sharp cheddar.  Why not both?  Blueberry, sour cherry, peach, lemon meringue, rhubarb, pecan, sweet potato; all good, but for a pie to have for supper, apple made the most sense.  Goes good with bacon in the morning as well.

Today was the first day that I came home from work and wasn't greeted by a grey and white cat, whose arrival at the door became slower, yet he pushed himself even at the last to put in a hurrying step coming down the hallway.  Kai has started looking for him, visiting the places he kept; Snowbelle has a happier countenance and chirps good-riddances.  I noticed his absence, which will happen for awhile.

Tonight I have paperwork, lots.  The fish sail back and forth in the aquarium; the corys are swimming in a synchronized triad, the angels are piloting slowly, as if the parade was in their honor.  This paperwork needs tending, (teaching people: finishing the SLO/LMA), and then I am going to bed early.  More scraping and shoveling, more ice, more schnee in the morning; maybe the cold weather stirred up memories of pies on baking racks, flour dusting the counter and floor.  Sleep well, descend to the necessary levels of somnambulance for repair, discovery, flight among dreams.  Good night.

Stevie Pickles

He was my feline watchdog, noises had to be investigated so that he could keep things together; just last night, there was commotion in the outside hallway and he came out, ears up, staring and listening intently for information.  Any loud crash would bring him running, and I had to argue with him after breaking a glass as he wanted to get right in the middle of it.  Turned into a shoving match till he tried to bite me as he would a stubborn underling and then the famous, now sweeping snow from cars broom was gotten.  No cat argues with me with a broom in my hands.  Yet he would come when the others went running, my valiant fellow.

Today, after two months of a fast weight loss with no apparent cause, I put him down.  He had been put through several tests that showed all his systems were running well; strong heart, no blood sugar or thyroid issues.  To determine if it was cancer would require exploratory surgery, and I was not going to put him through that mill of human hope when the chances were plainly not good.  He had stopped eating, taking in bits of chopped, cooked meat or cat treats before wobbling away; his bones were sticking out, muscle mass was almost gone.

I am numb from the loss of several companion pets within the frame of four months.  The remaining two are healthy, Snowbelle is just a bit crooked due to spinal malformations, but Kai is fine.   Steve had started to go downhill right after Tulip died; he paid no attention to her administrations previously, but seemed to miss her cloying attempts at being his friend afterwards.  I dunno. When Min had died the month before, he went on a rage, swatting everyone including me; that went on for a week before he settled back into letting the human be the boss.  I think he was keeping us in line, so there would be no more slip-ups.

He was difficult, till he decided he loved me.  On one side, the white fur streaked through the gray in the shape of an S; on the other side, it formed a C.  My initials, I thought.  Kismet.  I had wanted a boy cat to balance out the communal bitchiness of the four females and it worked, they turned their attention to him, with fewer battles amongst themselves.

After examination, the vet recommended euthanasia, and gave him a shot to relax; it sort of worked, sort of didn't, he became like an angry, drunken sailor. The fatal shot didn't kick in either, it put him in a state as though under anesthesia; a second injection took minutes before his heart stopped, before the last expansion of his lungs.  Goodbye, my baby; I hope you felt loved.

After he was gone, I was able to do something that he'd never allow; hold him, finally, to cradle his head in my hands, hold his paws, press into his neck with my face, telling him with gratitude the joys he had brought to this earthly plane. He was a soul among billions, a fighter who took care of the ones he loved.

Home now, but less, less than home.  I am sure the vet will call with a "this one is perfect for you" cat that will most likely come and live with us; two cats are just ridiculous when having three is absolutely no increase in the work.  But not yet.  Not until I feel Stevie is settled, that he is alright, that maybe he is not being so hard on Tulip.  My heart is scattered, a piece of it once beat inside a grey and white cat, a tough guy who allowed trust to enter, who found his home.

Steve, Tulip, Min, Moby, Martian, Eggy, Fiona Fafnir, Pi, Mimi, Skitter, Lucy, Mittens, Smoky, Joule, Kelvin, Mama, Rosealily, dear Muffin.  

Bricks and Bats

The car has been continuously buried under snow for the week, and the produce forgotten in the back seat became an art form; a block of mushrooms, a bag of snap peas that would put your eye out.  I use my large cornstraw broom to fling off the snow for it does a quick job and warms up the constitution; there is no time in the morning to fiddle with a snow brush the size of a waffle.  Got to get going, thwack.  

Every swing of the clock's hands has dumped snow on the flivver, a confectionary dollop of six-sided mysteries.  Parking in the lot or on the city street at work introduces the plows and blowers that pack brown slush up the sides or thank you so much, on top.  How the hell are you getting that stuff ON TOP of my car? The sun roof is blanketed over, which is okay as there hasn't been any sun, and the foot of snow on the roof gives the car the appearance of having a crew cut. This introduction is to let you know that every freaking morning has had a dramatic shoveling/scraping scene inserted into the commute.  And by "freaking", I mean "gosh darn".  The neighbors look at me while fluffing off their own vehicles with teensy brushes as I launch waves of snow with the kitchen broom in furiosity; I don't think it's admiration, the tension I get is as if something dangerous has entered and lives very close to them.  Don't care.  I'm going to work and have to hustle, because.

Because of Not Her Real Name 'cause she'll kick my ass let's say Chaz.  Chaz is a volunteer grandparent at my school who found out that I'm her neighbor, and could she ride with me to work?  Sure, I'm nice and will go out of my way to be nice as the philosophy is that we are all in this together.   It means an extra drive around the loop to her building, I pull up to the sidewalk and here she comes. However, Chaz is in her seventies with a recent knee replacement, so she walks slowly, and will stop walking to talk to everyone, anyone for minutes, losing focus in the idea of getting to the car because we gotta get to work.  NOW.  I have learned to get out of the car, offer my elbow and pull. C'mon, c'mon. c'mon; we gotta get you into the car.  

"I'm okay!  Oh, let me get into the car.  I'm good.  Okay, you okay?  Alrighty then."  She flops back onto the front seat, turns, and as we hold up traffic, arranges her cane.  No, I don't mean to be snarky, it's just sometimes, maybe about 80% of the time, she isn't in the lobby.  She looks out her kitchen window till she sees me, then takes the elevator down.  This slaps on another five minutes.  If she talks to the people in the lobby, ("They don't understand English"), it's seven.  

Today she wasn't there at all, no Chaz in sight; I texted her a Good Morning :) and waited.  And waited.  Finally, after a record time which surpassed my schedule, she appeared; I recognized her sway and the bobbed wig she wears.  I get out of the car and help her over the slush pleasantly while in reality deep in a corner, I wanted to catapult old lady butt up and over the ramparts.  Patience.  I have it.  

"I went back upstairs.  I told the young man to tell you that I went back upstairs.  He don't speak much but he knows sign language."

What?

"I went back upstairs to call a cab.  I didn't know what to do, so I went upstairs."

Now, this is the second year I have been driving her.  Never have I missed picking her up, and in fact, was two minutes earlier at the outset.  She had decided she was going to take charge of the situation and call a cab.  Or her son, who drives her everywhere anyways.  We proceeded while I listened to the I went back upstairs I didn't know if you were coming story for several minutes before I steered her onto how I would sign her schedule today, since the director of the grandparent program was absent.  The roads were a mess, the snow was blowing sideways, and Chaz was happy to be on her way.  Me too.

Ten minutes late, I took the back stairs up to my room to avoid any administrative eyeballs, swung into setting up the kids breakfast; because of the lousy conditions, I beat all the students to the room.  But being late throws me, knocks the synchronicity into the blender simply because the school day is rigorously planned to the minute.  So, you patch it up, toss out a component, and smooth the edges; Chaz arrives to the room, telling me how she stopped to talk to whositz, which is fine.  She cheers people up, and they love to see her; she knows half the politicians in the city, who to call up and complain to, wears false eyelashes, calls me Ivory to her Ebony, and knows that you have to crack a few eggs to make a cake.  

All I have to do is get there earlier; I think she got herself to the lobby sooner than usual, listened to her internal clock, knew time was up for her waiting, and decided to take matters into her own hands.   No, she isn't patient, but that's her way, and she's especially good with the children.   I am grateful to have her.

I cannot say, but tonight may be my Steve's last; he has an appointment at the vet's for 12:30 for an evaluation.  My heart is breaking, my poor little one.  There are trucks scooping up the mountains shoved against the outside fence, and loading the snow into larger trucks to be taken to the brownfields in South Buffalo.  It is a hollow feeling, isolation by weather, impending loss of a loved companion.  Push; push forward, what else can be done?  I don't wish to sleep, I want time to extend forever, to hold still with no deaths or deadlines; simple thoughts, these.  Sit with me.  Wait.  Sun will come.