The First REAL Snow

The weatherman predicted snow last night, and I didn't know whetherto believe him or not. I did, however, peek out the window when I got up in the early morning hours, and sure enough, it was there. Not just the dusting that we've gotten now. Not feet (or many inches) deep either, but enough to call a real snow. I was sure Canon would be interested, and the evidence of it was little pawprints going back and forth.

Would Miss Caprice be interested enough to get her dainty feet wet? Morning play was a romp through the snow, chasing each other. That pesky Canon got rolled over in the snow by his big sister and didn't seem to mind a bit. He laid under her in the snow not seeming to mind a bit. Canon is used to being on the bottom with a strong female on top.

The play was followed by a snack-- snow!

I like to write about things that make me happy. This was one. On Sunday we hosted a brunch/poodle play date for our poodle friends, Jasper & Roxy and Mr. B. and their people, Nancy & Jeremy and Carmen and Mark. The south sun bathed us in warmth as we watched poodles play and ate.

I've always envied parents, who make friends through their children. We have made new friends through our children, even though they wear curly, furry coats. Roxy is, of course, Canon's sister, and Mr. B was in our puppy kindergarten class at Evi Fox's. All three pups have the same birthdate. The white ones are always thrilled when Mr. B walks into class, and he likewise. The three will also be in the novice obedience class together, as well. Caprice and Jasper formed a "friendship" before the pups were home.

Ahhhh. Dogs!

Night/Morning Reading

It's 1:30 a.m. I can't sleep. The dogs are stretched out between Michael and me, Caprice at my feet, Canon between our heads, feet almost in Michael's face, head at my pillow. He is breathing quickly and loudly. Is anything wrong? I pet him, kiss him, rub his tummy. He groans a bit, slows his breathing, but then goes back to his sleep panting. I wonder if the little wound at his nose is infected. Does he have a fever? I lie there, and lie there, and lie there...

Might as well get up for awhile, I reason. Actually my reason leads me to the kitchen to taste the pineapple cheesecake I have made for my poodle play group brunch in the morning. Back to bed. Still can't sleep. I pick up one of the books on my nightstand, Doug Koktavy's The Legacy of Beezer and Boomer, even though I know it will be a tear jerker, as it is about the author's experiences with the illness and death of his dogs. I cry as soon as I open the book and look at the introduction. I see Ana mentioned, and Julie. I smile thinking of them--just for a moment, because the tears are rolling. By now I am sniffling too, probably louder than Canon's breathing.

Up again for a Kleenex and a good blow. Why on earth did I think I could handle this? I'll write about it in my blog.

I feel my way to the office in the dark, so as not to wake Michael. (How could he be asleep with all this action?) Canon follows me. I sit on the floor and pet him for a short while before I move to the computer, he to seemingly quietly sleep on his pillow, although as I look at him, I see his chest quickly moving up and down. As I watch him, I think of how much I love this fuzzy, white creature, and tears fall again.

The urge to write about Beezer and Boomer is not as strong now. Maybe I'll wait to write more after I read more. If I can read more.

Why I don't like to bake

I enjoy cooking (while not exactly the cleaning up afterwards part), but avoid baking. I finally understand why, and it's pictured at the right.

This was the gluten-free version of Mexican wedding cookies, those rich, little snowballs made with butter and nuts and covered with powdered sugar. The recipe came from our last visit to the St. James Tea Room and the cookies were in our little favor bags that we took home. I faintly recall the chef saying something about if your cookies spread too much, chill the dough. I chilled it for about 10 minutes. (Hey, the oven had been preheating for quite awhile!) The cookies spread, looked unbaked, so I left them in the oven a few more minutes. Not only did we have spread, but overcooked! Darn, I'd been thinking about these cookies since I went gluten-free nine years ago. I thought I'd never taste them again. If I have to depend on my baking, I won't.

Anyway, I'm thinking that with baking, it's got to be near perfect-- there's no going back to fix. If I make a dish, a casserole, a dip, I can tweak it by adding a little salt or season, balancing flavors out. Baking is unforgiving, and I need all the room for forgiveness I can get!

Cream!

I just finishing a cup of Chai, topped with ample whipped cream. I enjoyed it-- enough to want to write about cream. When there's a container of whipping cream in the house, I abandon polite instincts to take a mouthful straight from the carton and hold it in my mouth to enjoy its creamy thickness. (Don't worry, guests, I'd never do this with your cream!) It's not really about the taste, but the texture. For me, the texture of cream gives me comfort- thick, sticking to the walls of my mouth and my tongue, rolling down my throat.

Pumpkin pie is nothing without the whipped cream. Those fancy drinks at Starbucks? Leaving out the whipped to save calories is molesting the drink. I sometimes buy the brand of yogurt that has the cream on top. I eat the cream and give the yogurt to the dogs. Think about your root beer or coke float. What is it that creates that lovely foam? Cream! How do I know that? Homemade floats at Einstein's. Half and half with coke. Ice milk can't offer the silky taste of ice cream.

One of my favorite rock groups in the 70's was Cream.

Cream and dream rhyme. That's no coincidence.

Our book group discussed A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian at our last meeting, not that tractors were the important part of the book. Basically this story about two sisters uniting to "help" their 84 year old father when he decides to marry a 30-something year old "floozie" who is looking for a husband so she can stay in the U.S. There are lots of themes- family relationships, immigrants, history, memories and perceptions, and, yes, even tractors.

I wondered how our discussion would go because our hostess's father, in the same age group as our "hero" was part of our discussion. According to his daughter, he, too, had a "floozie" in his life after his wife died. This was brought up, and I gladly noticed that M did not equate himself with the father in the book, as he shared some of his life, and his writing with us.

The book was a delight to read and discuss in this environment. It was our third "immigrant book," I think, dealing with atrocities in the characters' homelands, but this one was dealt with through humor-- a relief for us all.