the WingDangDoo

I’m sure the words will come pouring out. In time.

Until then, here’s a sad postscript to my sister’s story, as told through my words.

She died on Wednesday, with Paul and me by her side. She knew how much we loved her. And she wasn’t in pain.

I miss her. Already.

Absurdity catches me by the tail and spins me around. I feel my burdens slip away as I look into its silly, kind eyes.

We now have tides in our basement. High tide likes to sneak up on us, jumping out from behind a tree and screaming “BOO! Gotcha!” Low tide takes its time, stopping for pastries and coffee, always here later than we’d like.

The trees that used to beckon launched a full-on aerial attack, missing the house by a few feet.

Things change.

The trees are gone, changing 10 years of landscape and shade and, well, meaning. The anti-team sports child plays lacrosse. The massive, end-of-the-world issue from way back in January is resolved and I am gaining, what’s that word? Oh yes. Perspective.

I wonder how I’ll make it through another seemingly endless stretch from when I dolphin-kick  into my first morning lap — the warm up before endurance work, the endurance work before sprints — and when my head hits the pillow.

And I wait for absurdity to grab me by the tail and spin me around one more time, making me laugh as I look in its kind eyes and leave the burdens behind, one by one, in the deep end.

His name is Poe. As you can tell from his white patch, he is soft and squishy inside. Like a Twinkie.

We’re voting on names. Leading contenders include:

• Lucky Rabbits
• Lupe Fiasco
• Fuzzbutt Doodlehead
• Magellan
• I Don’t Have to Listen to You

Listening to me complain about my shoe eating doodle for the millionth time, my sister was quiet for a moment on the other end of the phone.  “Patty,” she finally said “have you thought about closing your closet door?”

She had a point.

Once I closed it, I realized how bland and blah the wall next to the french doors was.

So I fixed it.

I’m not done with hanging stuff yet. Since the wall has been blank for 10 years, I’ve decided I can live with it for a bit before I add anything else to the mix. Heck. maybe I’ll go wild and hem my curtains before I do anything else to the bedroom.

There’s very little in this world that some IKEA stools, framed school artwork and a drunk monkey can’t fix.

He’s not ours.

He will be going back to his person (who’s currently hospitalized) in about 3 more weeks.

Which one of you wants to tell Talullah?

“Think with your head, not with your heart,” my sister warned me when I told her where I was going today. NYCACC, Staten Island. Listed as a Dutch Sheep Dog, the dog in the picture looked like a doodle to me. “Don’t bring him home unless it’s right.” I promised her I wouldn’t.

We discussed it with our children last night. We have been pursuing so many options. Rescue. Shelters. Craigslist. You name it, we’ve tried. I came across this boy yesterday during my daily sweep of adoption and rescue Web sites. As I explained the situation to them, my children agreed we had to at least try to get this dog with the expressive eyes and the goofy smile Click to continue »

reckoning

I consider myself a decent baker. I make a mean pie crust, and most baking endeavors don’t intimidate me.

Except for bread.

I’ve made focaccia many times, and homemade rolls once or twice. I never really did much else with yeast; its unpredictable nature scared me. I never thought I was capable of making bread this delicious. I had a hunk of it, fresh out of the oven and dripping with butter, and I swear I heard the angels sing from the heavens above. OK maybe it was my contractor’s air hammer from the second floor. But I clearly heard something.

Props to Chris at the LBC for recommending this recipe. I was wondering what to make in my new enamelware Dutch Oven*, and he piped in with this winner. I can see now why he refers to the no-knead bread as a bit of an obsession.

If you’re on the fence about getting a Dutch Oven? Do it. Do it so you can make this bread. Do it so you can make Ina Garten’s Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic. As devoted as I am to my slow cooker (and grateful to my friend Stamford Talk for tweeting** about honey hoisin chicken, which I will be making again tomorrow… this time with shallots, mushrooms, cashews and water chestnuts), I definitely am developing a crush on my Dutch Oven for its versatility.

We’re supposed to go out for dinner in an hour. But I think I’d rather stay home and make out with the bread.

*Yeah, I know. Hold the fart jokes, please.

**Twitter. It’s what’s for dinner.