This morning

I've been working feverishly on a few long term projects. I took a little break around 10:30 and decided that since it was almost lunchtime I could have pita chips and hummus instead of fruit or something breakfasty. (The pita chips and hummus were delicious and from Trader Joe's. Have you ever been to TJ's? It's the only grocery store I've found where an employee will stand with you for five minutes deciding which cheeses to buy based on what you want to make. TJ's really understands me.)

As I ate, I remembered that through most of high school I had early lunch, which meant eating at 10:35am. I felt a long-distance kinship with Centralites I'll never meet.  They're eating those same nachos, I thought. And those horrible hamburgers. Which is why I usually took a lunch.

Then I looked at the clock and saw it was really only 9:30. I felt a little silly and decided to blame it on Daylight Savings Time. How many weeks ago was that?

Paws Off

To cope with the last weeks of February, I planned a stellar back patio container garden. With the help of Steve and lots of library books, this weekend I moved one baby step toward home-grown tomatoes. We started some seeds inside, and sowed lettuce and kale outside in boxes we got for free (with the purchase of a bottle of beer - darn) at a local wine shop.

 

And I was feeling really good about the methods of squirrel deterrent that Steve and I discussed. Until I saw these guys on our back porch at the same time.

 

Hanging out in the sun. Mocking me.

I have the feeling that the sanctity of our stylish planters will not be respected.

It's on.

Bwahaha!

Courtesy of Bridgett's South City Musings, Unhappy Hipsters makes me feel loads better about the style state of our apartment.

An Open Letter to Steve, Oatmeal and Frozen Vegetables (separately)

Dear Steve, Oatmeal and Frozen Vegetables (separately),

Thank you. These past few weeks have been crazy. If not for you, I would be seriously malnourished.

Steve, you have spent hours slaving over the stove just so I can eat a hot meal. You've prepared plates of food for me to eat in the car while you chauffeur me to my various commitments. You've done the dishes, and packed my lunch. I appreciate you.

Oatmeal, you are warm in the morning and keep me full until nearly lunchtime. You can be gussied up so many different ways. You cost little and provide twelve days of delicious breakfast. I appreciate that.

Frozen Vegetables, you are pre-cut and cook in mere moments. You go well with numerous fast pasta dishes, including the one I am eating right now. You help me pretend that I am eating seasonally. I appreciate that.

Steve, I look forward to more time with you.

Oatmeal and Frozen Veggies, let's be honest. You're on your way out as soon as Spring rolls around. Sorry Charlies.

Love,
Mary

To Feed or Not To Feed

This morning as I was packing Steve's lunch, I heard it.

Meow!

Certainly my imagination, I thought. But then it become more persistent. Meow! Meow! I'm likely to be hungry! I'm likely to be cold! I'm almost positively adorable! Meow!  I inched toward the back door, peered out the window, and there it was. The stray cat Steve and I had seen wandering the neighborhood last night. I instantly went into cat-lover mode, apologizing, saying I would be right there, and ran to get a saucer of milk for this hungry, cold, and certainly adorable white cat. I inched the back door open. The cat instantly ran inside the apartment.

Our security alarm went off. It was so early I hadn't disarmed it yet.

I grabbed said cat, because I couldn't have it wandering our kitchen, ran to turn off the alarm, and paused for a moment as the cat settled into my arms on the way back to our patio. It was very clean, and friendly, I noticed. All signs pointed to this cat once having home. No collar though. The cat had no idea what to do with the milk I set out for it. I decided to leave it, and tried really hard not to name it (Stravinsky).

I updated Steve, who had been showering during my adventure. He said, "Did you wash your hands?" I washed them.

I grew up around cats. My mom once let me keep an adorable stray that came up our driveway one afternoon. We christened him Pierre, and in our house he became healthy, happy, and a little shit. An adorable, fluffy, sometimes wonderful cat, but a little shit nonetheless. (Sorry, mom.) This memory kept me from instantly adopting Stravinsky. I planned on checking the neighborhood for "lost" posters and putting an ad out on craigslist. I thought of Bridgett, who is currently feeding a half-tailed cat that lives under her front porch.

Stravinsky meowed the rest of the time I was in the kitchen.  Steve saw my heartstrings being tugged and suggested I move to a different room when he left for work. Which I did.

But then I peeked out the window. A tarp covered patio table had become Stravinsky's Place.  The sunrise illuminated his outline.  Completely white, save a triangle of brown on the head and an absolutely inappropriate puffy tail that channeled Davey Crockett's iconic headgear.   I toyed with changing Stravinsky's name to something less refined. 

And I wanted him less. Which really bothered me. 

I also started thinking about how I was ready to feed and save Stravinsky, a random cat that appeared on my back porch. But if a human had turned up on my back porch looking for food and love, I would have been terrified and called the police. Am I superficial? Perhaps I'm jaded from being panhandled too many times. I never give money, because I worry about what I'm actually funding.  Mostly I just feel that in that moment I don't have the training or resources to help rehabilitate this person in need. In that moment I cannot give them back whatever it is they lost to put them in this situation.

I became overwhelmed by all the problems in the world that I cannot fix, and felt like a selfish, unhelpful human being. But then I remembered that when people ask me for money, I offer them any food I have with me.  Only one person has taken me up on it. She seemed genuinely appreciative. I started to feel a little better. It's not much, but it's something.

Stravinsky is still outside, now following our landlady around. We talked briefly about it, with her commenting on how well cared for Stravinsky appears to be. She directed me to a neighborhood website that might help find previous owners or someone looking to adopt him. I hope it works, because Stravinsky still hasn't figured out to do with the saucer of milk.

Ten Seconds of Terror

Steve and I spent the weekend out of town, celebrating our brother Mike's and our nephew Leo's birthdays. There were two kinds of cake, both with a cool whip topping. I preferred the chocolate cake, and I ate many small pieces after dinner to pretend that I wasn't actually eating more cake. Before getting ready for bed, I had one more piece (that didn't count, of course,) which I gleefully consumed with my hands in a darkened kitchen romantically lit by an open refrigerator. 

The following morning, I scrutinized my reflection in the bathroom mirror and noticed a large streak of platinum gray in my hair. I've been finding the occasional gray hair for three years - yes, I still vividly remember the first time - but this was a streak of epic proportions and had developed overnight. Panicked, I leaned in closer for a better view.

My hair wasn't platinum at all, just coated with a streak of dried cool whip. From the cake the night before.

Cool whip in my hair. 

I sighed and brushed it away. I vowed to never eat cake with my hands in a dimly lit kitchen right before bed ever again. My nerves can't stand another jolt like that.  

Bacon

I love bacon.  I'm not shy about this fact of life. I. Love. Bacon. I have for as long as I can remember. In grade school, I once ordered a BLT hold the T at a restaurant. The waitress told me it wasn't a very healthy choice. I didn't care, because the T got in the way of the BACON so why in the world would I want it on the sandwich?

Now, I can appreciate tomatoes. But I'll admit that bacon often makes decisions for me. Out for lunch and deciding between two sandwiches? Which one has bacon? CHOOSE THAT ONE. Oh, that breakfast special you're eyeballing doesn't come with bacon? FORGET IT. Or, order it as a SIDE. Excuse me, Steve, did a hostess ask YOU to cook the bacon as we help out with the meal? STEP ASIDE. No, seriously, back away from the bacon. 

I have sharing issues when it comes to bacon. Maybe it's unhealthy for my relationships and my heart, but I love bacon and that's the unequivocal truth.

On Sunday, Steve and I went to a bourbon tasting dinner at Newstead Tower Public House, where each course was accompanied with a different bourbon and a bourbon cocktail. It was one of the best meals that we've had in St. Louis, and the chef came out to talk to each table individually at the end of the night, which made us feel very special. More notably, my obsession with bacon has risen to new heights because of this meal. We ate a beef stew filled with the most delicious, thick-cut, tender-fatty bacon I have ever tasted. Glorious. Also, we enjoyed Newstead's version of a Maple Leaf Cocktail:  Bourbon, maple syrup, lemon juice, served in a bacon and pepper rimmed martini glass with an entire strip of bacon as a swizzle stick. 

The evening was a bacon revelation.  Only my second bacon revelation, the first being on our honeymoon in Portland when Steve and I consumed a maple-bacon donut at Voodoo Doughnuts. I know it sounds unusual, but please, for your own good, don't dismiss it.  Once you try it, a fiery passion for bacon will be awoken in you that will never ever extinguish. 

Then again, I was bacon crazed before I tried any of the aforementioned delights. Perhaps I am slightly, very slightly, biased.