Making a Home, a Home

As I so often say on behalf of my dog: Get in my belly.

I take comfort in food. You know this about me. Entering 10th grade, I was 5-foot-1 and weighed 235 pounds. I still have the stretch marks.

In adulthood, I've figured out how to appropriately manage my weight. I exercise like a fiend and try to eat a lot of vegetables, because I like vegetables. Preferably with blue cheese dressing. But I'm flexible on that.

Here we are in Boston. My 16th move, or whatever insane number it is. We have no friends. Going to the grocery store is arduous. Going for a run is difficult. The dew point is roughly equal to the temperature. My dog is panting on the floor under the air conditioner. We have Comcast. I'm not happy.

So when someone mentions apple crisp at work, my ears perk up as they did a couple of nights ago. It was jokingly suggested that we celebrate the first actual day of the GOP convention with a potluck. This is how newspapers work. We mostly want to eat. We run spell check with buffalo wing sauce on our fingertips. I do, anyway.

I immediately volunteered to make "my" apple crisp. The recipe comes from a cookbook our elementary school (Afton-Lakeland pride, ba-by!) put out as a fundraiser when I was in first grade. The cookbook had Nicole Oakland's apple crisp recipe. My Mom tried it and made it roughly 100 times during my childhood (only her raisin bran muffins were a more common site in the oven; I don't care if I ever eat another).

In Duluth, MN., I was feeling unsettled in the fall of 2003. I was 26. I owned my own home, but I didn't really cook for myself. I asked my Mom for the apple crisp recipe; I still have and refer to the recipe, though I know it by heart.

The recipe has been tweaked. In Duluth, it was followed to the letter. In Salt Lake, I experimented with gluten-free flours. That was mostly a failed experiment. In our home in Stansbury Park, Utah, I doubled the amount of ingredients in the crust. When we moved to downtown Salt Lake, I don't think we made the crisp.

But New England is leafy and apple-y. Portland saw many an apple crisp. I'd buy a half bushel of Cortland apples and make a giant tray. I went back to plain-old, whole wheat flour. I figured out how to chop the apples. Cut it like a tomato. Stand the apple straight up. Cut down like you're slicing a tomato, leaving a little wider chunk for the seeds in the middle. Take the middle and cut off the sides. Cut those to make bite-size pieces. Take your big slices, stack them up like you're trying to reconstitute half the apple and make lengthwise slices. Then make crosswise cuts. I can do an apple in about 30 seconds.

Those giant trays of apple crisp would serve as my breakfast for a week.

With the oven at 375 degrees, I can already smell the crisp crisping. The toppings were appropriately doubled, so the top of the apple crisp is essentially a giant oatmeal cookie (with cinnamon mixed in). The apples aren't right. We only had Fujis, but I was too lazy to go to the grocery store for the third time in 48 hours. But that oatmeal crust is about right.

I make it a little different every time, but it's pretty much the same. I probably won't even eat any at work tonight. I know exactly what it tastes like. Everything is different. But that apple crisp is a constant.

RECIPE

Cut 6-8 Cortland apples into a 9x13 baking dish (ungreased)

Mix together:
1 cup white sugar
1 and 1/4 cup brown sugar
1 cup flour
2 cups oatmeal
1 tablespoon cinammon
1 cup Promise/butter/Country Crock

Cover the apples with the topping. Bake at 375 for 45 minutes to an hour.

A Wonderful Summer Day/Poop-pocalypse Pt. II



T-minus 5 minutes to bowel eruption.

It isn't often that I feel the need to warn readers about content. There will be no gratuitious swearing nor descriptions of horrible violence to come in this space. There will, however, be a flashback to one of the grossest nights of my life. Avert your eyes if you are offended by the word poop. Well, it's too late now. You might as well keep reading. That's the worst word I'm going to use, though there might be some technical anatomical descriptions.

Saturday was marvelous. It was the first day temperatures and the humidity were both under 80. The Wife and I had been looking for a fresh-water river into which we could throw tennis balls for Daisy Duke, our 2-year-old chocolate Lab and the love of TW's life.

A tactical error was made.

We went to the Neponset River, which seemed like it might not be too salty for Daisy Duke. Daisy is a water enthusiast who enjoys swimming with great vigor to retrieve items. The problem is, when a tennis ball is in her mouth, her lower jaw goes well below the water line and she drinks/inhales water all the way back to shore.

Why go in water at all? Daisy Duke enjoys it with such enthusiasm that it feels like a crime to keep her away, and she hasn't swam since moving to Boston. And TW delights in watching our dog turn into a psychotic spaz.

It was going better than planned at the Neponset River. After about 15 minutes, boats and rafts started making their way past us, engaged in some kind of water fight. Kids were throwing water balloons at each other and squirting water guns. Some guy had something that looked like a potato gun. People wore goofy hats and somebody shouted at us. It was all in good fun. I even asked TW to take a photo of some of the boats, pictured above, because it was such an excellent experience.

After a half an hour of swimming, Daisy Duke was wearing down. Probably. It's hard to tell with her. She's every bit as spazzy on Minute 30 as she is on Minute 1, where tennis balls and large bodies are concerned.

TW was encouraging me to give Daisy Duke one last heave when I noticed she was having trouble breathing. This happens all the time, due to the water in the lungs issue.

Then she threw up in the grass at my feet.

"No, I think we're good here," I said.

I wasn't concerned. I'd sniffed the dog and her tennis ball to determine salinity of the water and didn't detect much. Besides, she's consumed massive quantities of water many times.

It became clear pretty quickly that it wasn't just a volume issue.

Daisy Duke jogged out of the grassy area, shook a few times to get the excess water off, and then proceeded to poop off to the side of the sidewalk. It was runny and it smelled vile. TW, normally an avid poop-picker-upper, decided to let this pile stay, as it was in deep grass. And wretched.

Then, she pooped a second time. Then a third. There was no consistency. It was brown water. As we walked along the sidewalk, we came upon a guy and a little fox terrier. We started to say hi, but Daisy threw up a couple of times on the sidewalk.

There's not much you can do for a dog who's consumed too much salt water. Daisy was fine, other than the fact she was pooping constantly.

Seriously. There's video of this kind of thing on YouTube.

At a point, the dog gave up on anything resembling dignity. She just walked down the sidewalk, occasionally spraying water out of her butt.

We, of course, felt horrible. But there's nothing much to do. You can't put the dog in the car because, well, it's your car. Even with 165,000 miles on it, we still care a tiny bit about our little SUV. All we could do was walk her around the sidewalks, give her some *fresh* water, and wait for the storm to subside.

It only took about a half hour for the intestines to calm down. Daisy lapped up a bucket of water that TW had the foresight to bring from home. When we got back home, Daisy destroyed her water bowl (which was filled with filtered water, naturally). Later, in the park, she wheezed and gagged while chasing a tennis ball in the park. There was still a little salt water in her lungs.

She peed heavily, the normal way, the remainder of the day. She didn't have a stroke or a seizure, which is good. Today, at the park, she grabbed a random tennis ball and continually dropped it at my feet. She isn't scarred by her experience with tennis balls. And I guarantee she'd belly flop back into the river with no second thoughts. Or thoughts of any kind. She's a dog. That's what she's programmed to do.

She didn't learn her lesson, but her owners did.

Our Neighborhood is Weirder Than Yours



Yes, this is what I want my funeral to look like.

 If there's a respectful way to mock people, I would choose to do that. I would, but I can't think of such a way. Just know that as I type about our neighborhood, this is the look on my face: bug eyes, head shaking left and right as I finally give up trying to understand what it is I am seeing.

Those experiences come often in Eastie.

Fifty years ago, East Boston was a neighborhood filled with Italian immigrants. I don't actually know that for a fact, but it seems like it should be the case, and Wikipedia is never wrong.

There are signs of our neighborhoods old Italian roots. The market down the street sells cold cuts, olives and bread. And nothing else. On hot days, the Italians pop chairs out in front of their houses and just sit there, as if air conditioning and cable TV don't exist. It's so sterotypical a scene that I'm afraid my description of the Italians having a discussion (yelling) at each other in front of their homes will sound like some hack writing from a TV show. But it actually happens.

Among other short commutes, such as the 10-minute walk to the airport, we live in close proximity to a large Catholic church a block from our house. As a recovering Catholic, you couldn't pay me to walk inside the church. But the dog and I were at the park Saturday when I noticed another classy Catholic funeral going on. This much is certain: When I die (riding a Harley, naked), I want a black El Camino stuffed to the brim with roses.

That, or a rollicking party in an Irish pub, with no funeral service to speak of. Whichever.


In fairness, it was rather warm this day.


The thing is, I kind of love it all. I've lived in the suburbs, where people rarely come out of their houses to talk. I've lived in downtown Salt Lake, but there wasn't much ... ethnic diversity. Diversity is a good thing, if just for the blog fodder.

It's simply everywhere, the fodder. On a walk to the subway, a pair of 60-ish Italians had out sun parasols. I have lived in Florida. I've been to Las Vegas in July. Salt Lake is guaranteed to be sunny for four months out of the year. I have never seen anybody walking with a sun parasol before moving to Boston, and now, I've seen two people using them. I can die happy. On a Harley.

Get Around, Round, I Get Around

It's totally safe to text and bike, right? That's not illegal yet.

Visiting a big city with mass transit was always something of a novelty when I visited from the backwoods or New Hampshire or Salt Lake City. You don't have to drive! It's relatively cheap!

When you move to the big city, you get a little perspective. It's not that you don't have to drive, it's that you would never want to. It's relatively cheap but you can forget about seeing your wife wear any type of shoe with a heel on it to walk to the subway.

Oddly, I sort of love driving in the big city. More specifically, I love driving under it. Driving through the tunnels is fun. And for, shall we say, "aggressive drivers," there's not much to adjust to. Just stick the nose of your car into traffic and go. And expect others to do the same.

The more tentative drivers among us do not necessarily fare well. The Wife is probably still annoyed by an incident on Monday. We were trying to make a right turn onto a not-terribly-busy street. There was a city bus to our left and a few cars were coming up behind it. The bus driver waved to TW to encourage her to go ahead and make her turn. Her foot went off the brake, then back on the brake. Off the brake, then back on the brake.

"Well, what about those cars behind the bus?" she murmured.

Go. Just go. That's how you drive in Boston. Gogogogo and do it right now. This is not a problem for me.

TW eventually pulled out in front of the bus, muttering, "I *hate* it here."

City life is an aquired taste when you are used to suburbs and air conditioning. The subway is particularly loathesome because it requires a 10-minute walk, then standing around underground in a station that is a solid 10 degrees warmer than the outdoor air temperature. I'm not even sure how that's possible. Isn't heat supposed to rise?

Again, this doesn't really concern me because I'm just going to the movies, out for a beer, or doing touristy things. TW will be going to work and likes to look cute. This is a problem when riding the subway.

There has, however, already been one transportation victory in Boston. It's called the Hubway, and it is glorious. My God, just look at the station map. They're everywhere!

Riding a bike might be the easiest way to get around town. There are, essentially, no significant hills in Boston, so the riding's easy. You can run stoplights, when safe, with aplomb because ... you're on a bike! It's a lawless land of bike ridin'.

They're great when tourists are in town, which works well for Hotel Patrick. I've had family in town for the past couple of weeks. The bikes are a superb way to get around town, avoid crowds, and prevent cranky tourist feet.

Here's the technical info: Bike rentals cost $5 for a 24-hour period. But. You have to return the bikes within a half hour or you get charged an extra $2. Bonus: You can get an annual membership for $70. I'm getting one next summer. TW just found this out just now. Back there. Three sentences ago.

We're figuring it out. Driving: Generally bad. Subway: Sweaty in the summer. Bikes: God's gift to Boston.