Quilt Auction Winner and Recipe for Fresh-Smelling Towels--No, I Am Not Martha Stewart

Quilt auction update:  My friend Lin, who bid $450, won the quilt.   She's a high school pal I reconnected with on Facebook a few years ago, and I visit her in San Jose every few months, so I'll be able to visit the quilt.  Readers have now donated nearly $1200 to the Berkeley Food Pantry through quilt auctions!  Thank you!

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Oh, woe, my computer rebelled yesterday, so no pictures on the blog until I get it back from its pediatrician, the blunt-spoken, cruise-loving musician/computer-fixer,  Steve at Berkeley Back-up.  In the meantime, I'm using Jerry's computer when he peels his hands off the keyboard.

 

He was gone for four days to a meeting in Utah, and during that time I had a couple of friends over to eat cupcakes from Love at First Bite in Berkeley (I ate the most, disgraced myself with my sugar addiction); started another quilt to be auctioned off; and thrashed the hell out of my stinky (mildewy) bath and kitchen towels, a mountain of them.

 

A few months ago, I heard Terri Gross interview Jolie Kerr, author of My Boyfriend Barfed in My Handbag...and Other Things You Can't Ask Martha, a guide to getting out stains.  My ears perked up when I heard her Rx for towels that don't smell fresh, even when they're washed regularly.  Here it is, and it works!

 

1. Run the towels through the washer in hot water and one cup of white vinegar. No detergent.

2. At the end of the cycle, add detergent, and run the towels through another hot water cycle.

3. Toss the towels in the dryer and don't remove them until they're completely and utterly DRY.

 

My towels have a new lease on life.  They're fresh-smelling and feel fluffier and cleaner to the touch.  Kerr says the towels smell mildewy because we use too much laundry detergent, which is food to mildew, and because they're so often damp. 

 

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"News is hell," my sister wrote in e-mail last week. 

 

Between the plane that was shot down, the war in the Middle East, and the Central American refugee children, I needed an  kind of antidote to reality that didn't involve alcohol or carbs.   I loaded photos from our vacation in Inverness on to one of those electronic pictures frames, a gift from Jerry's son David and his wife, Michele, and sat and stared at the slide show of green trails, blue-blue water, and the view of Tomales Bay that we had from the deck of the house we rented.  A welcome escape.

 

Then I called a moratorium on news in any form, even NPR, which is my studio companion.  Enough.



That Bully on My Wrist

 



The bidding stands at $400.  Winner to be announced on Friday, July 18, at noon.  Thanks to all!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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See that big pale mark?  That's where my watch used to be.

Here's the watch:

I wore it every day for 18 years, and I like it, as watches go.  It was designed by Tibor Kalman of "M&Co," a very creative guy who designed all kinds of things.    The watch  wasn't expensive, and it's practical because it's easy to read.

Here's the back:

 See what it says? 

 

For years I've lived by that maxim, way before Tibor and his watch.  As in, "What have you accomplished today?  Oh, and by the way, are you late?  You ARE late  You've been wasting time!"

 

Three years after I got the watch,  I read that Tibor died of cancer at 49,  poor man, and after that every time I caught sight of the back, I'd think, "Right! Take note!"

And now I say to hell with it. 

Last weekend I realized my mood slipped each time I checked my watch.  That quick flick of the wrist was always accompanied by a bossy voice I'd rather not hear (see above).  Consulting my watch made me feel less in control of time than I already do at 64, keenly aware that I'm considerably past the half-way mark unless I plan to live to be 128.

Boy, is this liberating!  Now I do what I do, I consult a clock occasionally if I have an appointment, and that's it.  Time takes care of itself.  I'm in charge, and I no longer feel browbeaten.  I can't believe how many times a day I catch myself taking a look at that pale patch on my wrist and think how it was a daily series of  little punches, hour after hour, prodding me, hounding me.  That watch is a bully.

I'm using time much more efficiently without it.

Has anyone else done this?






 

 

 







Happy Valentine's Day: Romance Chez Moi

Jerry has a professional meeting tonight.  I'm out all day in San Francisco,  having lunch with a friend and then a haircut.  When to do Valentine's Day?

As far as Jerry's concerned, we can skip it, but he knows that isn't acceptable to me.  I may be a cynical old crone, but I feel VD must be observed.

Negotiations ensue.  Breakfast?  And then a take-out dinner squeezed in between the end of my day and his meeting?  That'll have to do.

A hasty breakfast

Dinner--who knows?

There's been a hiatus in posting due to angst ("n. a feeling of anxiety"--this way understates it). Too much bad news lately and too many sad situations I can't do anything about.

I saw this on the side of truck yesterday:

Are you kidding, guy?  Plenty!  There's so much to lose beyond anything you can protect with an alarm system.  (Guy got out of his truck and asked if he could help me when he saw me loitering; logbook probably reads, "investigated old bat hanging around truck with camera in supermarket parking lot.")

This past week, I gave into the chocolate bar I resisted the week before.

And then I bought another one for Jerry for Valentine's Day.  If that isn't love, what is?

Peril!

I feel as though the State Department has taken over where my mother left off. 

Let's all be anxious about vague, improbable things happening!  Like a terror attack anywhere in the world where Americans might be traveling on a plane, on a ship, in a subway during the month of August.  Keep your eyes and ears open (right, like that's going to work.).  That's the warning they issued today.

My parents were crazy anxious.   My mother used to stand at the end of our driveway, wringing her hands if my dad was late home from work.  Either that or stand at the sink with her lips moving silently, clearly praying for his safe return.  This was on a routine work day.

An occasion for fear

If my dad opened a can of anything--fruit, vegetable, or meat--he'd worry that it might have botulism.  What are the chances? Just about nil, but my sister and I didn't know that, and I have thrown away many a can because there was a weird air sound when I opened it (which turns out to be okay because there's some kind of vacuum effect).

It's taken years of therapy to figure out that the threats were overstated, that I don't have to be afraid of every last thing.  That the cruise ship isn't going to sink, the plane isn't going to crash, that every physical symptom Jerry or I have isn't going to be cancer, for God's sake.

Taught to be anxious, alas

Now here comes the State Department,  teaching us to be fearful about things we can't control and that are statistically improbable as far as any individual is concerned.

My sleep doctor, who practices Cognitive Behavior Therapy (Use your head!  Don't let emotions drive you!) would beat back the State Department warnings with all kinds of probabilities and statistics, until they were whimpering in a corner, tiny enough to fit into a mouse hole.  I would leave his office feeling I was taller and standing up straighter than when I walked in.

The cruise ship did not sink

The State Department needs some CBT.  Or do they know the statistics and are they just covering their asses in case something really does happen?  Can people sue the State Department?

Snapshots from the Week

                                                                            1.

Still battling insomnia,  I've signed up for six sessions with a sleep therapist.  I'm afraid he's young enough to be my son, but he's very pleasant and knows a lot.  As of this week, I have reading assignments, and I have to keep a log of my sleep each night.

The therapist's office is near Diesel Books and Bittersweet on College Avenue in north Oakland.  I never come home without a new book or some chocolate (each of which can lead to insomnia).

                                                                         2.

 

On Tuesday, my friend Valerie and I took her sister-in-law and my friend Ellen to the Lake Chalet restaurant on Lake Merritt in Oakland  for her birthday.  Delicious food, eaten indoors or out.  Here's a picture of Ellen blowing out a candle on her tiny cheesecake.

 

                                                                              3.

A not-so-good photo of a dish that's become a go-to around here:  Pesto Roma Tomato Boboli.  People have told me about simple pizzas you can make with Boboli crust, but only my friend Lin had dictated the recipe.  Hurray! I use artichoke pesto instead of basil and sprinkle some sliced black olives on top:

Buy a prepared Boboli crust (I use whole wheat)
Spread pesto sauce over it
Cut up Roma tomatoes and lay on top (I use 2)
Sprinkle a package of shredded mozzarella cheese (I use half a package and add cheddar, too)

Cook according to directions on Boboli package.

                                                                               4.

                                                            
A harrowing but addictive read: "Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots."  The portrayal of a woman growing up in a strictly religious sect of orthodox Judiasm who finally breaks free.  I recommend it but not for bedtime reading.

                                                                                   5.

Taking a break from British television crime shows, we watched and enjoyed these two documentaries this week:

"How to Live Forever," an investigation of how people live to be 100.  Funny, sad, and occasionally hilarious, such as when filmmaker Mark Wexler interviews a Japanese man who stars in "elder porn" movies, very popular in Japan.  This film ultimately validated my contention that there's no point in seeking immortality and why make an ass of yourself trying?

"All in This Tea"  follows a West Marin tea specialist, David Lee Hoffman, who treks around China seeking "handcrafted" teas, which seems to mean organic and made by small farmers.  He sells his  tea at Peet's and online at Phoenix teas.  He's indefatigible and something of a crank who's made a pest of himself to his neighbors in Lagunitas (this I found out during  follow-up reading online).

                                  

                                                                              6.

I'm still pretty tense about the election and didn't watch the second debate. I  found this Immigration Kit at Bittersweet in north Oakland, if worse comes to worst:                                                                     

 

 

 

                          A selection of chocolates,  a Canadian Immigration Form. While supplies last.

 

 

Also featured: The Obama blend of coffee.  Note the countries contributing beans.

 

 

 



 

7.

 

 

 

Quilt by Jessica Ogden (about $630; made in India)

 

 At first glance, I thought there was a screen in the background, but it's a quilt.  The photo is from The New York Times Magazine, which featured a page of photos of Tina Seidenfaden Busck's gallery in Copenhagen.  Gave me ideas.