Ok, another morning spent in bed. Doing even less, getting up later, reading the entertainment section of the Saturday paper and an illuminating article on pie, yes, pie, rhubarb at that, in the Sunday Times.
I think I need this. Thinking about making pie. Sacrilige for a compulsive overeater? Not necessarily. I have the odd piece of pie, but I don't think I've made one for almost a year. I'm really out of practice. Pie is one of those things you get better at with practice, probably because it requires such eye-hand coordination, kind of like riding a bike. I'm sure I can still do the fundamentals, but the finer points of crust (it's always about crust, isn't it?) may be forgotten. Why in hell do I want to make pie? Well, to have a piece, of course!
But I also have this fantasy of making a pie for each of the neighbours I will be leaving in two weeks, most of which I regret not having gotten closer to. I really have very little in common with most of them, but they have been generally good neighbours: friendly enough for the odd chat or just a wave. There's one who I quite like and never see much but at least we will be living near enough her son that we'll still see them the odd time and I may get to walk his dog, that is if he doesn't pull my arm from my socket!
Speaking of dogs, I am having dog fantasies. Martha Stewart (sigh, yes, another guilty pleasure) yesterday was a rerun of her bulldog day show, and I really like the look of French bulldogs. They aren't so wrinkly drooly as the English variety, but still fall under the so-ugly-they're-cute category. Temperamentally they seem pretty easy going, but the only thing that gives me pause is their lack of heat & cold tolerance. Is that just asking for trouble in our hot humid summers? And of course they would need a coat in winter: that's just too precious. I'm confident I could bludgen Fuzz into walking a dog in a coat, but he would suffer.
It's nice to just be able to sit and bluesky. Yesterday I discovered a geranium sale at my favorite greenhouse (ok I used to work there) and went nuts and bought geraniums and verbena and alternantheria (I can't actually say that, I just say "trailing purple stuff" for six planters! I'm just so happy I have more sun at the new house. There are a couple of huge silver maples but that's about it, and their shade is dappled.
We're slowly going through stuff, packing, and culling. On Sunday Fuzz took a bunch of old and not so old toys down off a high bookshelf running the length of a living room wall. We dusted and packed. And I culled. Some things I just automatically packed, like the antique toys and my half rusted Lassie lunchbox from primary school. Others, like a doll my dad brought back from Holland on one of his peripatetic business trips (likely bought in the airport shop) got dusted, fondled, and then placed in the goodwill box. I'm letting go of more and more of my childhood. She wasn't a loved doll, always the type you just put on a shelf and looked at. I'm getting quite cold blooded about this. No, that's not right, it's not cold blooded, I'm analysing why I hang on to things, and if it doesn't have a good memory or feeling attached to it, it goes. The doll just reminded me of how often my father wasn't there (physically and emotionally) when I was a kid. The lunchbox reminded me of my mother sending me to school with a roast beef sandwich, a thermos of hot soup, and one of those little red boxes of raisins. When I look at it that way, the choice was a no-brainer.
When you see how the language of love in my family was expressed through food, no wonder I have food issues. Ergo the rhubarb pie fantasy. I care therefore I cook. Interesting.
The emptier my house is getting, the clearer I feel. God, am I going to end up being the clutter Nazi? Is Martha rubbing off on me too much? Yesterday I vaccuumed the whole house and then washed two floors. I'm having a love affair with my Swiffer. Who is this woman?
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