Saturday December 21
"It is the day's midnight and the year's". (John Donne's Nocturne to St. Lucy's Day. First critical paper I ever wrote that made me believe I could think was on this poem. An A from Howard Nemerov.)
Spent the morning doing random tasks: folding boxes, making fruit compote, and skimming pictures in Weeds of the Northeast, which I had bought just to identify a wicked invasive plant that Michael and I had mistakenly (but justifiably) thought was called "beggar tick". It's a vegetable assault weapon that shoots out hundreds of tiny burs, which hook into clothing and can be only be removed by painstakingly picking them out one by one. They ruined by favorite pea coat after I thrashed through the acres of brush and thorns that were later cleared for our house, meadow, and pond. Even now that the area has been civilized the weed continues to pop up randomly through the wildflowers. I leafed through hundreds of pictures of far more harmless invasives but failed to find a picture that matched this demonic plant, so Michael turned to the Great Google and located the villain under the name "Virginia stickseed" or, alternatively and better, "beggar's lice".
Michael commented, “It’s not as bad as a goat head.” These thorny bastards grow in the Southwest and not only tear the skin but secrete a toxin to seal the deal. The desert is filled with survivors with cruel defenses: venomous animals and stabbing plants that make it while the gentler life forms can't. Is that why humans all over the world are now turning meaner? As our environment becomes increasingly threatening is our response not to be cooperative but to be self protective and venomous to outsiders? I hope not. I would far rather be the Northeastern beggar lice, sticky and annoying and a danger to wool jackets, than the desert goat head that inflicts pain and injects poison.
We met Jim Dolan at Gracie's Luncheonette across the river. He was in good form, having cheerfully hired his lawyer to make a claim against Virginia and her assistant Diane for damages resulting from his dismissal. He has a good case. Virginia gave no cause for firing him, which wasn't clever given Jim's propensity for revenge. And it wasn't smart to get rid of him anyway before this very difficult election, with its early voting and new technologies. Jim's back off his diet. He’s obese and I don’t know how he can live much longer with that apple belly.
After lunch Michael and I went to the Alpine Pork Store down the road from Gracie's. Under a sloping roof, the building is a cheap cartoon of Teutonic half-timbering, the first floor rigged with a stone façade and the top pasted with tan slabs that look like giant tongue depressors. Inside two square women with golden blonde hair and lips pressed into disapproval were cutting meat at the counter. Behind them hung several plates painted with Germanic heraldic symbols next to scolding signs that threatened you not to smoke and warned of no public restrooms: "Please don't ask." A few ceramic pigs, a Hummel figure, and a couple plaster dwarves leering under red caps perched on a shelf underneath. Jars of sauerkraut, mustard, smoked paprika, herring, and other items in WWII vintage packaging lined the shelves opposite the counter. Ones strongly held principles against all things Nazi bund-ish fail, however, after one bite into their pigs, which are delicious. Bought pork chops, pork butt, and Weisswurst. No information on where the porkers lived or how happy they were before they were transported into hog heaven. I didn’t ask.
Jillian emailed me pictures of Livy and Harrison, both beautiful. Said she’s sending me green chilies. The batch I ordered myself came today, so with hers we should be ok through the winter. Jeremy called with a review off the new Star Wars movie (“Bring a handkerchief”).
Made polenta and spooned reheated meatballs over it. Watched more of His Dark Materials.
Sunday December 22
Slept late letting the nighttime warmth generated by Michael pour over into light.
Spent the morning reading cookbooks and Saveur’s 25th Anniversary edition. I think I’ve subscribed to it that long.
After lunch I tried out my new snowshoes. After staring blankly at the simple instructions and then ineffectually twisting and wrestling my boots to conform to the binders, I called Michael for help. He glanced down, “You have them backwards.” Once he had fixed them in place, I made the decision to leave them lodged in their binders for the rest of the winter. I took off into the field, propped up by two poles, and shuffled down to the pond, with it’s classy gray winter shimmer, watched the doughty brown winter birds leap back and forth among the brush and reeds that line the water, poked at the dock, and then plodded back to the house. No hip pain at all. My muscles are very weak so I didn't get far, but it was gratifying to go as far as I did and if I can go out regularly I should gain strength.
Lunch was a reheat, and I spent the afternoon wrapping presents with my usual wonton raccoon skillset.
Met Richard Wallace and Ann at Wunderbar later. I texted them that I had made a reservation, and Richard was walking in when we got there. The front room was crowded so they put us in the back. I asked the girl at the desk to watch out for Ann, who still hadn’t arrived fifteen minutes later. Richard went into the front of the restaurant to check for her and they both returned a couple minutes later, with Ann cross as a bear. “I came in and didn’t see you. So I went back and sat in my car. I almost went home.”
“We told them to look for you.”
“Well no one did. And the tables in the front were all empty so I didn’t think you were in the back room.”
Since I had texted her that there was a reservation, logically she should have asked about it, but she didn’t. Ann enjoys being aggrieved, and it's gotten worse recently. Generally, everyone listens to her litany of annoyances until someone can paste a new subject over them. She's heading out to Ohio for Christmas to see her sullen son. and Richard is going north to visit his late sister’s son, who hadn’t spoken to his mother in years and never did, even as she was dying this summer. (Jill and I have been exchanging emails almost daily lately but I haven’t heard her voice in nearly two years nor seen her in nearly four. It's very hard. Still, I’ll take what I can get.)
Monday December 23
Everything I do is in slow motion these days: moving, thinking, changing positions. Once I land in a spot either in bed or on a chair, I’ll remain there until some residual energy gets me up for a bathroom run or a critical task. It is already 11:00 and all I’ve done is compose yesterday’s diary entry and talk briefly to Harris about the olive oil subscription I ordered for him and Neville for Christmas.
After writing this, we drove to Great Barrington, Massachusetts so Michael could buy pot at Theory Wellness, the only accessible legal marijuana dispensary. After waiting behind a half dozen cars, plated for either Connecticut or New York, we were waved into a parking slot by two young people, who were screaming at each other and frantically tearing back and forth between the exiting cars and the traffic build-up at the entrance. Fortunately, they herded us to a parking spot near the store, so I had a short walk. There, we waited outside the building in a long queue of mixed generations, marked by a rope blinking feebly in the sun with Xmas lights. The day was warm, a speaker plunked on a picnic table played Dire Straits, and the crowd was mellow. When we finally got into the store, we were placed at the end of one of several very long lines leading to clerks standing behind an extensive L-shaped counter that displayed multiple marijuana products. In spite of the wait both inside and out, everyone—clerks and consumers—were friendly and cheerful, which was no surprise given the skunky smell, which was so powerful that it would be impossible to work there or even wait long enough without becoming stoned. A clerk heading the line next to ours accidentally swiped a receipt from a neighboring clerk, which caused them both to giggle uncontrollably. A young women heading the line on the other side of us introduced herself to her customer as "Than" or something. She was holding tongs in one hand and supporting a huge glass jar under her other arm. She very slowly and carefully retrieved a fuzzy jelly-bean-sized bud and extended it to the young man in front of her with a soft smile, saying very gently, “You’ve come a long way so take all the time you need. Let me help you with any information you need." The long line behind her customer seemed to sway with approval. Michael bought a tiny amount of pot in a beautiful box for an exorbitant amount of money, and we went off to eat at the local Bagel place.
After lunch we faced the crowd at Guido's, the high end supermarket in Great Barrington, to buy Christmas meat. The crowd and small cramped aisles reminded me of Fairway during the holidays in New York, although Guido's lacked the rage that permeated those festive West Side shopping experiences.
Back home exhausted. Slept in the tub after reading some Norway noire. Then, too tired to cook, I reheated the meatballs for their final take-down. Still tasted great. Watched Dark Materials.
Tuesday December 24
Started Christmas Eve off this morning by denting the Golf fender on my way out of the garage by trying and failing to avoid hitting the side wall. Michael advised me later to not turn the wheel at all while I backed up or turn it opposite to what my capricious directional instincts told me to do.
Made it to the Army without further mishaps where we exchanged presents. Faye gave out scratch-off lottery cards, which once again failed to reveal a prize. Charlie gave me a Canadian commemoration coin from his massive collection of other commemoration coins, which he's in the process of trying to sell but getting dismal responses. Ria gave me an odd set of wooden spoons with a paisley design. We baked chicken legs and stir fried vegetables, which were ok. It's my last day at the Army for a while since I start radiation next week. Love these guys.
Spent the afternoon processing chilies and putting the Xmas posole together. Dave dropped by about five and nearly slipped on the ice rink that forms every winter over the concrete slab outside our garage. Our friendly but over-booked HVAC neighbor, Jim Grabowski, has failed to hook up the radiant heat under it since the house was built three years ago. Michael calls him every Monday morning to remind him and sometimes Jim answers with the cheerful lie that "we're on his schedule" and he'll be by "in a week or two". More often he doesn't answer at all or respond to the voice mail. In any case he never comes. I'm sure he thinks this is not an emergency and that it's easily remedied with rock salt or sand. And, indeed, Michael went out and spread sand over the area.
Dave didn’t stay long. Five years ago before the fight I had with him we would have gone over to his house on a night like this when Janet wasn’t there, eaten some grilled meat, listened to Neil Young, Stephen Stills or some new album Dave had just brought, and become happily sodden with nostalgia and wine and dope. Our evenings together as couples had already ended as the friendship between Janet and me eroded from my gross intrusions up here into her languid space. (Or maybe we were never friends, even in New York. Maybe she only wanted to keep contact with me while Andrew was alive so I could pass on information about him. I don't think she ever got over him). But those boozy nights with Dave continued for a few years until I threw him out of our apartment one summer evening while hosting a dinner for our friends. I had felt for some time that our routine banter had turned hostile. And that night I weathered a couple of insults while we were having drinks, and then at dinner he threw out what I perceived as the final attack and I yelled, "That's enough. Fuck you", and he left echoing "fuck you", while Michael, Ann, Liz, and Geoff watched. He and I didn't speak for months, although Michael and he continued to work on various projects together. It took about another two years before he started dropping by and occasionally having a glass of wine together on Janet-less Thursdays but we always went back to our respective homes for dinner. Janet is now in California with her sisters as she is every Christmas. He’s alone tomorrow as we are and I invited him for posole. “ He responded, I’m doing a brisket, but let’s get together and have wine.” Since Janet and I became sick, things have considerably warmed up between all of us, but not to the extent that we've shared a meal.
We're now upstairs listening to our favorite folk/country music (no Xmas) and reading. Our neurotic cat Diana has been sitting between us, but I think the joy of having our attention got into the tormented spaces of her brain. She gave me two gentle bites and jumped off.
Posole was fine. Watched the last episodes of Strange Materials.
I used to love Christmas Eve and all its myths, lit up by candles and strings of colors. Our new house would be brilliant if we had a tree framed in the big window and candles along the edges for our windows. But we do nothing now. I distributed all our ornaments to the kids before we moved out of the city. Michael does not punctuate his year with celebrations—no birthdays, no anniversaries, no holidays. At first this was very difficult and sad for me, but over time I’ve learned to adapt by celebrating for myself (buying great birthday and Xmas presents for me) or for other people (throwing dinner, buying them presents). Michael I don't exchange gifts, so my resentment has resolved into indifference. Only on occasion does his "existential" pretention really piss me off.
Finally, tonight I miss my daughter so much, and particularly because the next time I see her will undoubtedly be my last. The certainty of that is the only event I'm not sure I can bear with this disease.
Wednesday December 25
A day in minor key: gray and steely, with the icy driveway a worry. Put together the fruit for the mince pie I'm making an our anniversary and added bourbon, which has a slight vanilla flavor. It may be too sweet. Spent much of the day sending put the Amazon gift cards and cash to kids and grand kids and responding to Xmas messages. I had a nice email exchange with Jill but didn’t have the nerve to call. Willie FaceTimed a talking avatar of himself and then changed it to a mouse, which was weirdly adorable. Dave dropped by with wine in the late afternoon, which was a pleasant echo of our old times together. After he left we ate posole and then watched a supercharged action movie that was too violent and stupid to finish. We switched to a comedy series that parodied the Vikings that was too stupid and violent to finish. Should have watched Christmas Carol but Michael’s indifference to celebrations has rubbed off. Went to bed and woke up to meditate.
Thursday December 26
Spent the morning at the grocery store supplying the pantry and kitchen with food for Willie and his friend Alex, who are arriving today. I ran into Stephanie Sussman, one of my few friends from the CCDC, who is having a mother's dream holiday—both her daughters, grandkids, and sons-in-law have been up for Xmas. Although she and her husband Dave are Jewish, some goyim have sneaked into the family, and her last couple of days have been marked by tree chopping and decorating with grand-kid-made ornaments. Everyone is getting along and no political talk. Happy for her. Home to make apple crisp and pastry for the mince pie.
Willie and Alex arrived about three. They were friends from the seminary, and Alex is now a priest, ordained this spring in Korea, where Willie traveled to watch and celebrate. He seems to be very happy with his vocation, coincidentally stationed at Bayside Sacred Heart, where Kim went as a kid and my grandsons were baptized. He brought a poinsettia, cheese, sausage and wine. Now Christmas can begin.
Before dinner we all drank a lot of wine, and Michael and Alex dozed through the Snowman, which we watched and then we ate lemon chicken, broccoli rabe, and sweet potatoes. Apple crisp was weird because I made it with maple syrup.
After diner we went through a list of every movie ever made before finally deciding to watch Holmes and Watson, a comedy that had rated a dismal eleven on Rotten Tomatoes. It was completely stupid and silly and I laughed through it, just what I wanted. Willie is just so sad, though. I see it in the pauses within our conversations. Nevertheless, I'm very happy to have him and Alex here.
Dave called Michael and said that he and Janet would like to come to our anniversary party tomorrow, which makes me happy. Liz and Geoff and Richard Wallace will also be there.
Friday December 27
Our 30th anniversary. Alex and Willie off to church in the morning. I rolled out the pastry for the mince pie, while muddling up my previous plans for the rest of the meal. I came up with the anti-clever idea to roast the rutabaga in order to soften the skin, as I do with pumpkins and squash, forgetting that a rutabaga is coated in wax. I heated the oven to 400 degrees and popped it onto the top rack. Within about fifteen minutes the kitchen started smelling like crayons. I opened the oven door and toxic black smoke spilled into the room. Michael turned off the smoke alarms and we opened windows and doors. “It’s coated in wax.” He unnecessarily reminded me a few times as we scrambled about trying to de-fumigate the house. I told him it was my anniversary present to him.
Alex had to get back to his parish by five, so I set the dinner hour to three, and texted the change to everyone. Not much time to finish everything. The wax finally burned off the oven enough so I could open the door without introducing a noxious event and put the pie into it, hoping it wouldn't end up tasting like mince petroleum. I peeled the villainous rutabaga, cut it into chunks and tumbled them with baby carrots into a pot of water. I opened a jar of homemade red cabbage sauerkraut, sliced a red onion, and put both in a saucepan smeared a purée I made from roasted red peppers and tomatoes. I whisked together a Yorkshire pudding batter and stored it in the fridge. And finally I took out two precious bags of defrosted Hatch green chilies and stuffed them with Muenster cheese, laying them out so they would fit in the roasting pan. At one I took the pie out, let the oven cool down to 275 and pushed the sirloin roast beast into it.
Alex and Willie were sitting at the table entertaining me and each other. After all the food preparation was done and we still had time before people arrived, Willie suggested playing Clue, which we had last played when Samantha was here. He was shut down with emotional pain, and it wasn’t clear if the game would cheer him up or make him feel worse. Fortunately Alex has the cheeriest persona of almost anyone I’ve ever been and he engaged enthusiastically with the game and its somewhat complicated rules. We couldn’t quite finish it before three so Willie valiantly threw himself on his sword and made an incorrect accusation. Bolstered by Alex's indefatigable good humor, playing it was more cheerful than I had feared,
I asked Alex to give me a blessing before the guests arrived. He put his hands on my head, which were warm and soothing, and said a quick prayer to Jesus, mom, and Saint Peregrine.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“He’s the saint for cancer.”
“I hope it’s not because he likes it.”
Everyone arrived at about the same time. I pulled the beef out and put it on a plate to rest, and pushed the oven temperature back up to 450. I heated up the roasting pan on the burners, laid out the chilies, poured the batter over everything and put it back in the over. Yorkshire chili relleno, my only and favorite contribution to fusion cuisine.
It was a cheerful dinner although Willie was quiet and obviously depressed. Geoff Leckie and Richard Wallace supervised the conversational directions. Toward the end, Geoff was explaining why restoration could harm old masters, but it was hard to follow, since he was vaguely drunk and kept back-tracking and complicating his narrative. Liz finally provided a straightforward explanation: restoration can rub out not only the old dark varnish but the glaze that the artist applied over the original paint, which adds shadows and nuances.
I sat across the table from Janet. We’re comfortable together and genial, but we aren’t friends, and I believe we’re both comfortable with that non-relationship. Michael didn’t mention our anniversary tonight except once to wish me a happy one. It has taken me years not to be hurt by his lack of celebration, and it was hardest to get over my resentment on our anniversaries, particularly those that fell on the decade or midway. So once again I celebrated this one alone by cooking a dinner I was proud of and by toasting and thanking Dave and Janet for introducing us and being there tonight.
The food turned out well, better than I thought it would, given the rutabaga grenade. People were gone by seven, and Willie wanted to watch Daytrippers, an independent film from the nineties with a great cast, but we couldn’t find a site that streamed it. Annoying and unusual. So Willie’s next choice was, inexplicably, a recent version of Cinderella, which weirdly Michael stayed awake for.
No comments:
Post a Comment