Houston: "Second Home"

Writing today from Houston, my last full day in this most amazing city before I fly back to Seattle, I'm struck (again) by how much I love this place I once called home for fifteen years. I never come back to my "second home" without a whirlwind of emotions and a big question: What would our lives have been like if we had never left for a new city back in September of 1991? I'll never know but I always wonder.

Aruba was my first home, Houston my second, and Seattle, the third. Although there were years lived in Austin and upstate New York, these big three carry the weight of my life's experiences. The fact that I've lived in Seattle eighteen years, longer than in either of my two other homes, is a testament to the seeming escalation of time's passage. Time speeds up, doesn't it?

But, I digress.

Houston; much the same, much different. Memories swirl in my head. The roads are so open; traffic moves with intention. Everyone is going somewhere. Now. I've always loved the energy. Vibrant with life. Colors. Movement. Go.

The food is to die for. The weather; not so nice right now. Muggy beyond belief, like a jungle at times. I do feel well hydrated however!

My sister's show is the piece de resistance. Each time I walk into the space, there is something new. A gala of color, inspiration, and deep thought. Get thee Houstonians to the Second Seating exhibit. You won't be disappointed.

Tomorrow I fly back to my third home. Time whizzes by but I've lived each moment. Houston is.

Fortune Cookie

I've been in Houston all of six hours and if my fortune cookie from dinner tonight is accurate, good things are coming my way. My sister and I ate dinner at Mai's (Vietnamese) which was glorious; garlic tofu, rice and egg rolls rolled in lettuce wraps with cilantro, mint and fish sauce. My fortune read: "Traveling to the south will bring you unexpected happiness." I'll take it. There's nothing quite like Houston. I'm thrilled to be back in the town that I once called home for fifteen very good years.

Worrying

Question: Is the act of worrying

a. an indulgence
b. a waste of energy
c. an attempt to control outcomes
d. hardwired into some people forever
e. all of the above
f. none of the above

My answer is e.

And, I speak from experience.

Mint Dream

If you're in the mood for the perfect mix of mint and milk chocolate grab one of these little treats, lock yourself in a quiet place, and enjoy each delicious bite of this endorphin boosting blast of energy. Guaranteed to delight, this edible dream packs only 140 calories and will blast you into a better place.

I'm so excited to "find" these treasures again. Forty years ago as a teenager, I was in love with these clouds of minty marshmallow cream enrobed in chocolate. Then, for some reason, these delights disappeared from the shelves and I thought perhaps Mr. Russell Stover stopped production. Apparently not; you just have to know where to look. I found my stash at the pharmacy at Virginia Mason's Federal Way Clinic.

If you've never had a Mint Dream, you'd best remedy this situation. Ahhhh.

Maple Syrup

I love maple syrup; the real stuff, the hardcore from-the-maple-tree, genuine golden grade A syrup. I've been hopelessly spoiled by the real deal ever since Mom, in the late 1970's, started ordering maple syrup from upstate New York by the gallon. When the gallon arrived she was quick to share bottles of syrup with family. Referring to the process as "canning up" the syrup, she would bring the entire gallon to a boil and then pour the syrup into quart sized or smaller mason jars. Some years she ordered 2 gallons of syrup and the line of "canned up" maple bliss in her pantry was a beautiful sight.

Soak up your pancakes and waffles in this heavenly drizzle and you'll soon have little use for Aunt Jemima ever again. No comparison.

This year our supply of maple bliss drifted to a dangerous low. We'd been working off a gallon purchased several years ago and were down to the last few ounces. Mom hasn't been in any position to order more but fortunately, buried in her flip file of addresses was the name and phone number of her contact in Attica, NY. Terry Harder.

Score.

After a few phone calls, leaving messages for Terry and getting no response I was ready to conclude he was no longer in the business of selling and shipping maple syrup. But then he called and said, "Oh, yeah; I remember your Mom very well. And, I'm glad to hear that at age 92 she can still enjoy maple syrup. I have a gallon right here on my counter and can send it out UPS tomorrow. Just send me a check for the amount when you receive the syrup."

Wow. The gallon arrived with a hand written bill three days later. Mom was delighted and reminded me to "can up that syrup" right away. So, I did.Factoid: It takes 40 quarts of maple sap to produce 1 quart of maple syrup.

Buffy the Lion King

There are two cats living alongside the residents at the adult family home where my parents reside. Animals are such great companions and these two felines delight not only my parents but cat loving visitors as well. If anything makes a house feel more like home, it's having a pet or two.

Mom in particular has always been a cat lady; in Aruba she had dozens of them over her 26 years on the island. At one time, I remember counting fourteen cats of all colors, shapes and sizes eating their dinner from three large plates at the back of our house. These cats rarely ventured inside our house; they roamed the yard, chased lizards, lounged in the shade under the sea grape trees and showed up regularly for meals twice a day. They all had names, crazy names and most of the time, they made Mom happy. They were a 'lean and mean' group; Aruba cats were never fat; they spent too much time moving, chasing lizards, and keeping out of the way of neighborhood dogs. When Mom and Dad knew they'd be leaving Aruba, they acquired no more new cats and let natural attrition run its course, giving the last of the cats to neighbors and others when they moved stateside. That was over 30 years ago and Mom has never had another cat since.

Until now.

Imagine reaping all the benefits but none of the worries associated with having pets. These two cats bring such joy to my parents; they lounge on their beds, laps, and under the dinner table, begging for scraps of meat. They have free reign to roam the house and the grounds. No one seems to mind. "Buffy" is the long haired cat stretched out on the recliner."Panda" is the black and white cat.

"Buffy", the dominant male is now known as the "Lion King" ever since his haircut 6 weeks ago. His fur is so long that once a year he gets a professional shave in August. I've never seen a shaved cat and wish wish wish I had taken a picture of him in those early weeks after he was relieved of his long coat. By now his fur is growing in and he doesn't look quite so shocking. What he does resemble however is a miniature lion; the long hair around his neck left untouched and the tail shaved (ha!) almost to the tip with just enough plume left to make a grand statement. You'd never have known that he's also a 'lean and mean' specimen under all that hair; definitely not carrying any extra pounds this one. An Aruba cat after all.

Arapahoe

Yesterday I spent an hour or so at my parent's former home, the one they moved from three years ago when their abilities to live independently declined. For various reasons we call the house left behind Arapahoe. We still talk as if the house belongs to them, like a safety net or a place they could (maybe) go back to one day. And, they do go back from time to time for Easter brunches, Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas celebrations; whenever we gather together as an extended family. The property now owned jointly by myself, my sister, and brother remains a lovely place for a quiet retreat, a family gathering, or a place for out-of-town visitors. In fact, my brother will be in town this weekend and where will he stay? Why Arapahoe, of course.

I'm at Arapahoe on a regular basis, checking this or that and if I'm wise I also get into the garage to start up the car. The battery tends to poop out if the car sits dormant for long and we've had endless encounters with AAA guys who respectfully jump start the battery or try hard to sell us a new one. We've probably gone through half a dozen batteries in the car's eight year lifespan. Finally my brother purchased a battery charger and I must say, it works great. We keep it in the garage on the ready and yesterday was one of those days when a charge was in order.

Whenever I'm hanging out at Arapahoe, I make busy. For the 45 minutes it took for the car battery to come to life on the end of cables connected to the charger, I cleaned up and then opened my eyes wider, looking for anything I could find to discard. Discard? Bad word in my Mother's vocabulary, music to my Dad's ears. I'm much like him; if it can be thrown out, let's do it. Now.

Lest my siblings worry that I'm up to no good at Arapahoe, when I talk discard, I mean perishables, worthless paper, empty cardboard boxes, expired this and that. Three years later, I'm still tackling ancient stuff in the freezer, bit by bit. Six months ago I went through the pantry and founds cans of vegetables and other stuff best used by 2006 that I weeded out. Progress is slow but I try to make headway, one bit at a time.

Yesterday it was the last of the items in the freezer side of the garage refrigerator that got my attention. I left the two glass jars of frozen blackberries alone; they're no good now but my heart wasn't up to hacking away at the contents under warm running water. There will be another day for that task. What I did find was a stack of old pie shells; most store bought in the those flimsy tins. Out you go!

But, on the bottom of the stack was a glass pie plate with a home-made crust, wrapped in a plastic bag and sealed with a twist tie. My Mother's work. I wonder when she made this unbaked pie shell; sometime before the summer of 2006, maybe considerably longer. To Mom, if it's frozen, it'll last forever. I unwrapped it and looked at the frozen dough, pressed into the pie plate for a long time. I etched the fluted edges and the imprints of her fingers on the bottom of the pie shell into my brain. My mother's last pie shell, never filled, never eaten.

Sentimental me.

And then, I dislodged the frozen dough from the glass pan, in chunks, into the trash.

Arapahoe offers up bittersweet experiences every time I walk in the door if I let myself go there.