Thanksgiving day.  At first glance this year it seems hard to give thanks at the end of a tumultuous year of hospital visits and broken bones and pet loss and friend loss and downsizing and friends losing jobs-hope-faith and ongoing wars in other countries and guns and government infighting for themselves and the White Sox/Bears/Cubs eliminated again.

Wait.  While the negative can seem overwhelming, it is the small, the simple, the unexpected and sometimes the everyday, the overlooked that we should be thankful for today and perhaps each day.

I am thankful that an unplanned-for shifting of priorities–and finances– means we now spend more time with our friends and families playing-laughing-cooking,  share our homes and talents, a dinner out appreciated more (especially for mom), we explore local treasures, thankful I can watch a new rescue puppy morph into a dog, health recoveries, a vacation, a movie night in with the whole family, warm tomato and basil straight from the garden,  an email from a forgotten friend or a call from someone up the road, finding the steal of a deal while shopping, s’mores and lightning bugs, impromptu talent shows of children dancing and singing, decent grades in new schools, family moving closer, a new work endeavor, each other.

These thoughts aren’t new, though the experiences are, but sometimes it helps to really take a moment to remember, as life slips by, like sand through the fingers, the grains all intermingled but each one still individual–the shiny, the tarnished, the plain forming into a beautiful stream of grains.  And I hope that you all have small joys and the everyday smiles to be thankful for. They fill our lives as much as the than the wonderful, grand moments we experience.  They are everyday happiness.  C

Who needs a gay chaperone?

That’s the question pick-up line I heard from the salivating youngster, approaching my companions at an extremely popular Chicago nightclub, The Crimson Lounge—full of poseurs and provacateurs and a team of forty-something women with matching dyed blond hair and black outfits and a real-life Planet of the Apes characters and mafia wanna-bees and MTV-looking nothings and a few people like us just out for fun.  Very cool decor.

Do you use the same shampoo? was the real question he asked the two sisters,  his excuse to be approach them.  Supposedly, his goal was to see where they looked when they answered—each other or us or him.  Whatever.

Is khaki a color or a fabric? The sisters perused this question from another buttoned-down boy, his entourage watching in the distance, waiting to pounce.   The two sisters debated this as a serious question until I informed them he really didn’t care.  He just needed a line–and I bet it was used often. Oh, yeah, right.

We left the technotronic sounds of Crimson Lounge, where the crowds felt like they were waiting…watching…in anticipation of….some B list or A list actor or musicians to sit behind the cheesy red ropes one step up from the main floor as an exhibit for all to watch.  Cliche, so the masses could wonder How did they eat?  What did they drink?  Who would they allow to cross the ropes?

The next club it was  I’m from NY; this is my first visit to Chicago. I was told.  That was later replaced by “Where are you from? No one says where they are really from.  I was really raised in Spain, and now I live in Chicago” this said after conferring with his friend, who readily agreed to this truth.  Ahhh—where is the accent, my Spanish dreamer but decent partner, old-school dancer?  I told him before he disappeared into the night that he should start with that line, not end with it.

And his friend, the purported overweight Yoga instructor.  Yeah, right.

You’re sisters?  We’re brothers ! We were told much, much later by two very similar looking, chiseled cheek lads still alone shortly before three am.  Maybe the only truth in the night, since they clearly resembled each other.

I forgot there are no night truths as the night fades to black, the speakers silence, the hunters and the hunted united in arms and beds, a few like us still with our evening posses, bodies exhausted from non-stop dancing, ears ringing, totally fun from start to finish.

What is the best or worst pick up line in YOUR past?  Mine has to be  on a college set dance set-up  date “Do you like to fish?” I certainly wish I had my gay chaperone that evening, spent trying to ditch a drunk fool who followed me into the bathroom.  But that’s another story. C

After too long an absence, here are some looks from my dying but beautiful gardens.

Bloom Gone

End of season coneflower

still alive!

C

As I peeled the foil top off a large can of Swiss Miss hot chocolate, I was immediately transported back to childhood.  The chocolate scent that rose from the can was of the boxes of Jello chocolate pudding, a favorite dessert from my youth.

We sometimes prepared the cooked version on the stove, stirring and stirring in a silver-colored pot with black handle.  We put plastic wrap on the top as it cooled, then slowly peeled it off to see the chocolate craters on the surface.  And no one ever wanted the hard crusty part when it was just a day old. Sometimes we used the yellow and white Tupperware shaker, with a plastic spoke in the middle to stir it up.  We could then immediately take turns dipping spoons into the shaker, slurping down the chocolate jelloey pudding.  Yum!

The final time I remember eating homemade pudding I was just driving, home from a visit to a friend’s house with a severe case of the munchies.  I dove into the bowl of freshly-made chocolate pudding on the counter and starting inhaling spoonfuls into my mouth, all the while yakking on the phone.  Yum!

An unexpected trip to the past, just from opening a can.  Weird. C

The coyotes amble through our yard as if their own, trotting along the  back perimeter, then disappearing by the mulberry tree into the wetlands or  the neighbor’s grasses, abutting the tiny creek that flows through it.  There are two we mainly see: one the size of a German shepherd, with similar coloring and a long, dark tail.  He suddenly sports a limp.  The other is probably the babe that our pup Cali chased in spring, smaller and sand-colored, cute as can be.

I wonder, do they snicker in the grasses as Cali comes out, tethered to a leash or long rope to play or “do her business”?  Cali’s nickname is Bolt from our unfenced yard, since she will play and chase balls with us, then give us “the look”, turn and run…eventually coming back, but not before she explores a couple yards and crosses some streets, barely avoiding traffic.

And then, as the coyotes stealthily gaze into our windows after dusk, whether needlelike rain or clear moon shining, do they howl at our home as we settle into our warm house, no rain, no breeze, no bugs,food in a bowl? Jealous of our comfortable, spoiled dogs? C

“When was the last party you were at with three generations singing together?” John asked, as we all broke into the familiar words of  Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine, Eight Days a Week and a myriad of other Beatles songs performed perfectly by the band American English.  So true.

There were over 300 of us joined together last night, at the annual fundraiser for Equestrian Connection, the equine therapy program I volunteer at.    I looked around the indoor arena transformed into a party room with flooring (no dirt!), round tables and chairs for dining, a bar, a stage for a live auctioneer and bands, the silent auction nestled in the aisle with the curious horses, not used to these late night festivities.

The evening was lively and inspirational, with some young students speaking, a homemade DVD put together by one family showing the benefits of hippotherapy, wheelchairs scattered around the room intermixed with dancers and revelers.  The goals were clearly defined: to raise enough money to pay for one year of therapy for the 20 or so families who cannot afford the therapy right now but know how critical it is for their kids.

One choked up mom said on stage that her wheelchair bound eleven-year old daughter cannot play soccer or softball or baseball…but she can ride horses!  I have personally witnessed time and again the amazing improvements these children (and adults) make during their weekly lessons or fields trips from schools and institutes.

So, there we were, routing for the auction bids to go higher, warmth spreading on a clear, cold autumn night.  American English entertained–and reminded me how many Beatles songs I know ALL the words for (hard admission for someone who grew up a true-blue Elvis fan with the scrapbooks to prove it)–and drew people together.  Some people danced, I saw one group of seven from 65 to 13 standing arm and arm  and singing along while swaying with the music, others took pictures with their phones and cameras, some just tapped their feet and enjoyed the sets.

And we all arose with the encore, seeming to sing together strongly–if not totally in tune–that we would start a Revolution to band together and keep this organization moving forward.

A fine, successful night for all, horses now enjoying the quiet until their riders come again. C

So sad, decimating the gardens after two mornings of hard frost.  In early October, no less.  Basil, so fragrant in pesto last week, now rubbery black leaves, the tomato vines collapsed and shriveled with a few lingering green ones oozing seeds, the cucumbers withered in the dirt, peppers wilting. I yanked everything but a couple herbs from the dirt yesterday, leaving blank black boxes yawning for next year’s growth.  This is when I know winter is truly coming.  So sad to have the frost so early this year, since last year we got tomatoes into November.

Then I moved on to the flower beds, clippers flying, as I cut back my summer beauties, petals gone, stems drooping.  The annuals pulled from roots out–marigolds and yellow beauties and zinnias and dahlias.  Many of the perennials now down to the earth–coneflowers, daisies, white asters, bachelor buttons,  several varieties of black-eyed Susans, bee balm.  A few still remain–gorgeous plum asters, grasses changing color like the trees, mums, gilardia, more purple sedum.  The trellises put away, the hoses rolled, bee houses  replaced with pumpkins and gourds to supply a little lingering color.

Alas, there will be more to cut and bag as November approaches, sweating in the late autumn days, as we lament the end of summer, the floral and vegetable garden.  But we will start planning for next’s years garden in the winter months, waiting for the frown ground to thaw.  C

The garden smells of decay, the leaves drying and swirling, flowers blackening, bees swarming for the last of the nectar.  The tomatoes are fading, the pumpkins ripening, neon shades of orange, some still a faded green.  They are stocked in bins outside the grocery and hardware stores, gourds in nets, ready for picking–and payment by weight.

But, my friend Patti has been visiting a pay-by-the-carload pumpkin patch north of the IL border for fifteen years, packing the car with a rainbow of pumpkins. We played a couple hour of hooky to visit her secret spot earlier this week, gathering pumpkins on their opening day.  What fun we had on a lovely autumn afternoon!  The first car in, we parked by an open field dotted with pumpkins, scattered gourds on the ground. We traipsed back and forth, pumpkins in hand, tiny ones in a bucket piling higher, the trunk filling.

babies

Once the car was filled with green and orange pumpkins, tall and round and skull-shaped ones, the search was on for the elusive white pumpkin.  We wandered in the fields, sneaking a few more treasures, but we only found four small white ones intermingled with the orange ones.

A full load!

All this, for only $65.  Plus an afternoon of  sun, searching through fields, spending time with a good friend.  Worth the late nights catching up working. Plus, the porch looks great with the decorations, and the kids are ready to carve them, toasting the seeds.  C

Morning beauty

The elusive artist remained unseen, but his work he left to view.  A lovely site on a foggy morn. C

A wintry summer in Chicago has resulted in fewer beach and pool days, evening sweaters in August, lower air conditioning bills and a sadly underwarmed garden.  The biggest loser in my tiny three-step levels and overflowing garden seems to be the teeny sad tomatoes lacking the sun-kissed flavor we usually get.  They usually thrive in the heat, changing from green to a sunburned red that is so delicious.  What a wonderful summer feeling–wandering through the overgrown vines, pulling off the still-warmed fruit, the smell lingering on my fingers long after I come indoors.

Although there are slow and steady handfuls of tomatoes ripening, usually now I am overwhelmed with bowls of tomatoes, seeking out new recipes to try, freezing soups and sauces to last throughout the long midwest winter.  The tiny grape tomatoes are sprouting by the handful, but they are not our everyday favorites.  And I have one beautiful plant that has yet to produce a fruit.  One of my best tomato plants is one that simply re-seeded from last year, growing in the wasteland, climbing up forgotten soccer nets, intertwined with cucumbers hanging over and through the vines.

A first-time cuke grower, they have been bountiful and delicious, so much more flavorful than any store-bought ones I have ever eaten.  We found many uses for them quick overwhelming amount we had,  and there are still a few pickle-sized ones on the vines.  Next year, maybe we will try a variety with fewer seeds, as these all had to be de-seeded the seeds were so large.  But, removing the skin filled the house with an amazing, clean scent of cucumbers (one of my favorites).

The lemon and original-flavored basils are bushy and full, the scent trailing behind as we carry armfuls in to use fresh, cook with, or prepare pesto to last the winter.  All the herbs are lovely: oregano, cilantro, rosemary, two kinds of parsley, dill, tarragon.  I will miss you all when the first frost arrives, except that parsley that can last until snowfall.

Green peppers have been wimpy and thin-skinned all summer.  My best success is the jalapenos.  Firm, spicy, red and green, I pull them in by the handfuls.  I’m looking for new recipes to use them–feel free to pass them along.

Ah well.  As summer winds down, we will enjoy every last item in the garden until we are forced to (sigh-oh no!)  buy pale tomatoes and waxed cucumbers from the grocery store.  And savor the last flavors of summer. C

P.S.  When the dog comes in smelling like a tomato plant at night licking her lips, exactly what is she doing with my tomato plants???