I first wrote about gazpacho, the quintessential cold Spanish summer soup, in my earlier blog, Sundays in Spain. The first post, from 2009, was titled Gazpacho! and recounted how I learned that you never order gazpacho in Spain except in the summer time. The second, from 2011, had the same title, with slightly different punctuation: ¡Gazpacho! I had obviously acquired a Spanish keyboard in the intervening years, and I could add the upside-down exclamation mark at the beginning of the title.
I was mortified that I had actually published two posts with the same title in one blog. Now I have searched back through Sundays in Spain to find references to those two posts so that I could link them in the paragraph above. Two interesting facts manifested themselves. First, the Google search engine on the Sundays in Spain blog was not able to find the 2011 ¡Gazpacho! post--probably because of the punctuation, and--with a new U.S.-style keyboard--I am unable to make the upside down exclamation mark. Since I was unable to find that post by searching for it, I decided to browse through all the posts that I had labeled "food" in that blog. The second interesting fact is that I wrote an awful lot about food during the six years I wrote that blog in Spain. Sixty-five posts to be exact! You might wonder whether I did anything else other than eat and drink and write about it!
Here I am now, in Cincinnati, in the middle of Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial beginning of the summer season, and I am thinking and writing about gazpacho again. I have already had my first gazpacho of the season this year. That's because I have begun preparations for a special afternoon of tapas for a group of people from St. John's Unitarian Universalist Church, to be held in two weeks. After much thought and discussion we have selected the menu, depending primarily on my memory and a cookbook called Classic Tapas: Authentic Spanish Recipes, translated into English (and other languages in other editions) but including the Spanish names and pictures.
Having selected various tapas, however, I had to learn how to make them. After all, as my trip through the 65 Sundays in Spain blogposts on food revealed, I had done a lot better at enjoying eating tapas than in preparing them myself. Among other things, we are having Spanish tortilla, paella, albóndigas (meatballs), and, of course, gazpacho. All things that are typical and that I have enjoyed often, but none of which I had ever actually prepared before. Tortilla and gazpacho are ready-made staples in most Spanish grocery stores, and that's exactly the method of preparation I had always used when serving them in my home. I never made albóndigas at home because they are almost always available as a tapa at a bar, and eating a tapas-sized portion is so much better for you than cooking a family-sized recipe for two people. Nor did I make paella at home the Spanish way (in a topless paella pan), because it was so much easier to have it out at a restaurant, prepared by experts, and also because I was sure, from many years of cooking, that you had to cook rice in a covered pan.
So it has been an adventure to find the recipes, locate the equivalent ingredients, and experiment making the various dishes for our tapas. In the last few weeks we have had a feast of Spanish evening meals and I have perfected my techniques for the upcoming afternoon of tapas. I even am comfortable now in cooking paella in a pan without a cover (my un-used paella pan being one of the few cooking utensils I brought back with me. We are holding a respite from eating Spanish for the next week or ten days, but I will then swing into full gear to prepare for the party. I might read through some of those 65 food posts from Sundays in Spain in the meantime, however, for vicarious enjoyment and inspiration. But I will not allow myself to change the menu!
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Inspiration
I went to two OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute, sponsored by the University of Cincinnati) sessions this week and left both uplifted in knowledge and spirits.
Thursday a woman by the name of Tambura Omoiele spoke about "Blacks in the Holocaust: The Rhineland Bastards." I was not the only person in the audience who, having read the description lightly and long ago, came to the class thinking we were going to hear about the children of black American soldiers who had gotten involved with German women. We did not. And when I did read the class description, I discovered that I was a little too late to read the recommended (advanced) reading: Destined to Witness: Growing Up Black in Nazi Germany, by Hans J. Massaquoi.
Few people know that between 400 and 600 black German children were castrated, sterilized and/or sent to concentration camps during the Hitler years. They had lived in Germany since the migration of many Liberians to the Rhineland in the early 20th century. Hans Massaquoi was born in Germany in 1926 of a marriage between the Liberian consul and a German mother; somehow he managed to escape the fate dealt to many of the black children. After WW II he left Germany and came to the United States, where he served in the army, married and had children, made his living as a journalist, marched with Martin Luther King, Jr., and became managing editor of Ebony magazine. His book on his life in Germany was published by Morrow in 1999 and is still in print.
Tambura Omoiele is on a mission to inform people about the forgotten black people in major world events. I certainly did not know that black German citizens were among the 11 million people who died in the Holocaust. Now I do. Tambura mentioned in passing that a black couple had also been on the Titanic, but we never knew that, did we? Maybe that will be her next speech. At any rate, her telling of this event of WW II history was passionate and profound.
The next day I drove to another OLLI location to hear Jonathan T. Reynolds speak for three hours about "Every Bite a Taste of History: Food in History." Not only did Professor Reynolds, a specialist in West African history and Islam and currently on sabbatical from Northern Kentucky University, impart many facts about food in history, he treated his audience to a history of the teaching of history since the years that many of us had studied it in high school and college. Dr. Reynolds theorizes that one can teach the history of the world using a cookbook as a text. He hasn't gotten approval for that yet, but if he ever does, I'd like to take that course! And when he finishes his current textbook (his sabbatical project), World in Motion: A Dynamic History of Humankind, I may give that a shot, too.
Again this one-shot lecture was given with passion, and it taught me things about historiography and the origins of foodstuffs that were brand new to me. He inspired me.
Thursday a woman by the name of Tambura Omoiele spoke about "Blacks in the Holocaust: The Rhineland Bastards." I was not the only person in the audience who, having read the description lightly and long ago, came to the class thinking we were going to hear about the children of black American soldiers who had gotten involved with German women. We did not. And when I did read the class description, I discovered that I was a little too late to read the recommended (advanced) reading: Destined to Witness: Growing Up Black in Nazi Germany, by Hans J. Massaquoi.
Few people know that between 400 and 600 black German children were castrated, sterilized and/or sent to concentration camps during the Hitler years. They had lived in Germany since the migration of many Liberians to the Rhineland in the early 20th century. Hans Massaquoi was born in Germany in 1926 of a marriage between the Liberian consul and a German mother; somehow he managed to escape the fate dealt to many of the black children. After WW II he left Germany and came to the United States, where he served in the army, married and had children, made his living as a journalist, marched with Martin Luther King, Jr., and became managing editor of Ebony magazine. His book on his life in Germany was published by Morrow in 1999 and is still in print.
Tambura Omoiele is on a mission to inform people about the forgotten black people in major world events. I certainly did not know that black German citizens were among the 11 million people who died in the Holocaust. Now I do. Tambura mentioned in passing that a black couple had also been on the Titanic, but we never knew that, did we? Maybe that will be her next speech. At any rate, her telling of this event of WW II history was passionate and profound.
The next day I drove to another OLLI location to hear Jonathan T. Reynolds speak for three hours about "Every Bite a Taste of History: Food in History." Not only did Professor Reynolds, a specialist in West African history and Islam and currently on sabbatical from Northern Kentucky University, impart many facts about food in history, he treated his audience to a history of the teaching of history since the years that many of us had studied it in high school and college. Dr. Reynolds theorizes that one can teach the history of the world using a cookbook as a text. He hasn't gotten approval for that yet, but if he ever does, I'd like to take that course! And when he finishes his current textbook (his sabbatical project), World in Motion: A Dynamic History of Humankind, I may give that a shot, too.
Again this one-shot lecture was given with passion, and it taught me things about historiography and the origins of foodstuffs that were brand new to me. He inspired me.
Book Binge
Half Price Books, a store that I have sold to and bought from liberally over the years, had announced a clearance sale at Wright State University in Dayton this weekend. The last thing I need is more books, but I was intrigued by a reason to go to Wright State University, a college that I think did not exist during the years I was growing up just 40 miles to the north, and which now has actor Tom Hanks as a long-term supporter and co-chair of a major fund-raising program for the university, according to the ads I see during the news on my television most mornings.
So off we went to Wright State on Saturday morning. I did not expect to run into Tom Hanks, but I did think I might find a few books, and how could I go wrong when nothing would cost more than two dollars?
It took only 40 minutes to find our way up I-75 and I-675 to the Nutter Center, where the sale was. Once inside this sports arena, there were tons of books, all on 30 or more tables, each marked by subject: Fiction, Children, Young Adult, History, Cookbooks, Home and Garden, DVDs, and more. I have to admit that I went crazy at the cookbook tables. I was probably inspired by the Food History lecture I had listened to on Friday, as well as by my preparations for both a Danish smørrebrød and a Spanish tapas dinner next month. I didn't find any cookbooks to complicate my already-planned menus, but I did see a few to feed my addiction to "company cookbooks" sponsored by the big food brands. Here's a selection of what I spent two dollars apiece on:
We never got to the main campus of Wright State. By the time we emerged from the book sale we were dying for coffee, and in the words of one of us: "There were two long tables marked Coffee Table but no coffee anywhere to be seen!" We escaped and made straight for coffee. The rest of Wright State will have to wait until another day.
So off we went to Wright State on Saturday morning. I did not expect to run into Tom Hanks, but I did think I might find a few books, and how could I go wrong when nothing would cost more than two dollars?
It took only 40 minutes to find our way up I-75 and I-675 to the Nutter Center, where the sale was. Once inside this sports arena, there were tons of books, all on 30 or more tables, each marked by subject: Fiction, Children, Young Adult, History, Cookbooks, Home and Garden, DVDs, and more. I have to admit that I went crazy at the cookbook tables. I was probably inspired by the Food History lecture I had listened to on Friday, as well as by my preparations for both a Danish smørrebrød and a Spanish tapas dinner next month. I didn't find any cookbooks to complicate my already-planned menus, but I did see a few to feed my addiction to "company cookbooks" sponsored by the big food brands. Here's a selection of what I spent two dollars apiece on:
- The Heinz Tomato Ketchup Cookbook (complete with a little Heinz history).
- Betty Crocker Ultimate Bisquick Cookbook (a heavy volume of over 400 pages with, surprisingly, a handy metric conversion guide on the back page).
- Great American Favorite Brand Name Cookbook, Collector's Edition. This 600-page giant has recipes for brands that I may never buy, but the recipe is not the thing--it's the indication that those brands probably created their own cookbooks that I can be on the lookout for in the future.
- The Garlic Lovers' Cookbook, volume II, from Gilroy, California, the Garlic Capital of the World.
- Flavoring with Olive Oil, a small volume with nice pictures. I can't imagine how I can use more olive oil than I already do, but maybe...
- Cooking in Style the Costco Way and A Decade of Cooking the Costco Way. Who knows whether any of the Costco products in these books from 2006 and 2011 are still in Costco's inventory, or if I would want to buy them, but I love company histories!
- The Food and Cooking of Malaysia & Singapore. I rejected purchasing this big book--or one very similar to it--when we were in Malaysia and Singapore two years ago, because it was too heavy to carry back. Now it was not.
- La Cocina Cubana Sencilla / Simple Cuban Cooking. Even though I have not yet gotten to Cuba, I can start looking forward to it.
- Uncommon Grounds: The History of Coffee and How It Transformed Our World, by Mark Pendergast. Definitely in line with the food and world history theme I had experienced the day before. And besides that, I like coffee.
We never got to the main campus of Wright State. By the time we emerged from the book sale we were dying for coffee, and in the words of one of us: "There were two long tables marked Coffee Table but no coffee anywhere to be seen!" We escaped and made straight for coffee. The rest of Wright State will have to wait until another day.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Sharing Shopping
This week I did something that I have wanted to do for more than twenty years: I shared a purchase at Costco with my sister.
I first visited Costco back when we lived in Connecticut, so by my calculation, that must have been in the early 1990s. It was a huge, barn-like store there, in Danbury, I believe (we lived in Woodbury), befitting its description in the history section of the current Costco website as "a warehouse store." Back then Costco only allowed small businesses to become members, and I was running my own small business as an information professional. So I was able to purchase a membership--I think it cost $40--and go shopping for all sorts of products useful for some businesses: food, cleaning supplies, office products like file folders and--this shows how long ago it was--fax paper, and computer supplies like floppy disks and software packages.
Although I was running a business, I was a sole proprietor and sole employee, so I wasn't too interested in--or trustful of--the software sold at Costco. I was interested in the food. And in that category, everything was in quantity. In gross quantities, actually. No way could I ever made use of the savings by buying chicken breasts in quantity or the huge slabs of beef or pork for roasts--even then our two-person household ate comparatively small amounts of meat over the course of a year. We had no place in our two-bedroom condo to store the 30 rolls of toilet paper and paper towels that you had to practically crawl onto the shelves to pull down anyway. Most importantly, I did not have anyone to go shopping and to share the big packages with. All my family lived 1000 miles to the west; since I worked from home I didn't have work colleagues that I saw every day; my professional association colleagues were all in southern Fairfield County, more than an hour south of where we lived; and we had just recently moved to Connecticut, so I didn't know many people anyway. So the things that I bought at Costco were few and far between. I don't remember deciding to stop going there, but I don't remember renewing my membership, either.
Now we are in Cincinnati, within short driving distances of three sisters. The Costco store is closer to my house than to the houses of any of my sisters, but I had not yet darkened its doors--except to buy a membership for the next closest-to-Costco sister last Christmas. You no longer have to be a business to be a member of Costco; indeed, now there is a bewildering slate of membership options available for the general public, and it really makes no sense for a very small sole proprietorship to purchase a business membership. For one reason or another my sister had not used her gift card yet, so we celebrated May Day by making a joint excursion to activate her membership,
Much has changed in the last two decades. In this Costco, anyway, there is not even a pretense of a B2B focus. It's all about consumer items, and the inside of Costco now looks like any of the other big box behemoths in suburban commercial areas. Pallet stacking has given way to standing freezer and refrigerator cases and regular big bins. Food--much of it prepared meals--takes up the most space, but there are whole sections demonstrating that Costco wants to be your pharmacy, your travel agent, your home renovation provider, and your auto membership club, too.
My sister, who does major-league cooking for various church groups, and I had a great time making our way through the aisles, accepting food samples and scouting out items that we both would like and might be able to split to "have on hand" for those times when we don't feel like really cooking. I was ecstatic to find fresh panko-breaded tilapia filets that need baking only for 18-20 minutes--they sounded like a possibility for one of the sandwiches in a Danish smørrebrød dinner for twelve that I am preparing for in June. This sister was not interested in fish, but we did fall for a package of 20 spinach-potato patties, frozen, that only needed heating in the oven.
Having made our first surveillance trip, we made our few purchases and drove back to our house. I got half the spinach-potato patties, individually wrapped, and stuffed them and a hand-written copy of the oven instructions in a freezer bag. For dinner that night Johannes and I enjoyed the baked tilapia (it is going to be perfect for that Danish stjerneskyd sandwich) with a potato patty and more vegetables. It was a treat. But the best treat is that I now live close enough to my sisters to be able to share the booty from occasional shopping trips to the warehouse stores.
I first visited Costco back when we lived in Connecticut, so by my calculation, that must have been in the early 1990s. It was a huge, barn-like store there, in Danbury, I believe (we lived in Woodbury), befitting its description in the history section of the current Costco website as "a warehouse store." Back then Costco only allowed small businesses to become members, and I was running my own small business as an information professional. So I was able to purchase a membership--I think it cost $40--and go shopping for all sorts of products useful for some businesses: food, cleaning supplies, office products like file folders and--this shows how long ago it was--fax paper, and computer supplies like floppy disks and software packages.
Although I was running a business, I was a sole proprietor and sole employee, so I wasn't too interested in--or trustful of--the software sold at Costco. I was interested in the food. And in that category, everything was in quantity. In gross quantities, actually. No way could I ever made use of the savings by buying chicken breasts in quantity or the huge slabs of beef or pork for roasts--even then our two-person household ate comparatively small amounts of meat over the course of a year. We had no place in our two-bedroom condo to store the 30 rolls of toilet paper and paper towels that you had to practically crawl onto the shelves to pull down anyway. Most importantly, I did not have anyone to go shopping and to share the big packages with. All my family lived 1000 miles to the west; since I worked from home I didn't have work colleagues that I saw every day; my professional association colleagues were all in southern Fairfield County, more than an hour south of where we lived; and we had just recently moved to Connecticut, so I didn't know many people anyway. So the things that I bought at Costco were few and far between. I don't remember deciding to stop going there, but I don't remember renewing my membership, either.
Now we are in Cincinnati, within short driving distances of three sisters. The Costco store is closer to my house than to the houses of any of my sisters, but I had not yet darkened its doors--except to buy a membership for the next closest-to-Costco sister last Christmas. You no longer have to be a business to be a member of Costco; indeed, now there is a bewildering slate of membership options available for the general public, and it really makes no sense for a very small sole proprietorship to purchase a business membership. For one reason or another my sister had not used her gift card yet, so we celebrated May Day by making a joint excursion to activate her membership,
Much has changed in the last two decades. In this Costco, anyway, there is not even a pretense of a B2B focus. It's all about consumer items, and the inside of Costco now looks like any of the other big box behemoths in suburban commercial areas. Pallet stacking has given way to standing freezer and refrigerator cases and regular big bins. Food--much of it prepared meals--takes up the most space, but there are whole sections demonstrating that Costco wants to be your pharmacy, your travel agent, your home renovation provider, and your auto membership club, too.
My sister, who does major-league cooking for various church groups, and I had a great time making our way through the aisles, accepting food samples and scouting out items that we both would like and might be able to split to "have on hand" for those times when we don't feel like really cooking. I was ecstatic to find fresh panko-breaded tilapia filets that need baking only for 18-20 minutes--they sounded like a possibility for one of the sandwiches in a Danish smørrebrød dinner for twelve that I am preparing for in June. This sister was not interested in fish, but we did fall for a package of 20 spinach-potato patties, frozen, that only needed heating in the oven.
Having made our first surveillance trip, we made our few purchases and drove back to our house. I got half the spinach-potato patties, individually wrapped, and stuffed them and a hand-written copy of the oven instructions in a freezer bag. For dinner that night Johannes and I enjoyed the baked tilapia (it is going to be perfect for that Danish stjerneskyd sandwich) with a potato patty and more vegetables. It was a treat. But the best treat is that I now live close enough to my sisters to be able to share the booty from occasional shopping trips to the warehouse stores.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Beginning Anew
It's been a week filled with comings and goings: a visit to the eye doctor, a late afternoon at the movies for Woman in Gold, meeting with out-of-town cousins for a supper visit, a day out for the symphony and lunch, and a Sisters' gathering for brunch, not to mention overdue trips to the grocery store, library, bank, and Ikea food shop. The weather has been changeable, too; some days sun, alternating with cold and rain showers, but there was only one day of really unpleasant rain, and thankfully I could stay home for that. The other times that I was out and about driving to the various appointments and errands, I relished the view of spring flowers and the greening of lawns and foliage. The daffodils are gone now, replaced by tulips and multitudes of flowering trees in white and pink. The lawns have turned from blah to light yellow-green and now to a rich, deep green, and the trees separating our neighborhood from the little commercial area to the south have sprouted blades so the view is no longer as stark as it was during the winter. Soon we won't be able to tell that there is anything but forest between us and the main road. I walked that area on Saturday during a quick trip to Walgreen's for the batteries I needed to get my mouse working again, and the weather was clear and fresh and sunny on the way out, though a few raindrops moved in by the time I had made my purchase. Today we drove west to our favorite superstore to get groceries and curtains for my office, deliberately taking the slower town road instead of the interstate so we could view the gardens along the way.
This afternoon we installed the curtains that I desperately need to shield my desk and computer from too much sun coming in through the venetian blinds on my south-facing window. Then I got energetic enough to put together a new floor lamp that I hope is going to encourage me to sit in an easy chair in my office to read, rather than relegating all my pleasure reading to the bedroom. I have been mindful since we moved in of the opportunity to reshape old habits, and I am attempting to define certain areas for certain types of reading. My reading is dependent on good light, and I now have several places in the house with good light, so I am reconsidering what I read where, both to foster the reading and to manage the clutter. I just might be able to keep the newspaper in the kitchen, I think, or failing that, on the dining room table, instead of spread over the living room couch or my bedside stand. I'm trying hard not to bring magazines and recipes and cookbooks into my office at all, as they will only get lost there. And I'm trying to keep work-related paper only in the office, not just to reduce chances of losing them throughout the house, but to reduce the encroachment of work into other aspects of my life. I am not forbidding myself the pleasure of reading in bed entirely, though--that would be a real hardship and counter productive for the imagination. But I am trying to limit the objects on my night table to one book and one tablet at a time. That is going to take some discipline. But new environments can help to form new habits.
This afternoon we installed the curtains that I desperately need to shield my desk and computer from too much sun coming in through the venetian blinds on my south-facing window. Then I got energetic enough to put together a new floor lamp that I hope is going to encourage me to sit in an easy chair in my office to read, rather than relegating all my pleasure reading to the bedroom. I have been mindful since we moved in of the opportunity to reshape old habits, and I am attempting to define certain areas for certain types of reading. My reading is dependent on good light, and I now have several places in the house with good light, so I am reconsidering what I read where, both to foster the reading and to manage the clutter. I just might be able to keep the newspaper in the kitchen, I think, or failing that, on the dining room table, instead of spread over the living room couch or my bedside stand. I'm trying hard not to bring magazines and recipes and cookbooks into my office at all, as they will only get lost there. And I'm trying to keep work-related paper only in the office, not just to reduce chances of losing them throughout the house, but to reduce the encroachment of work into other aspects of my life. I am not forbidding myself the pleasure of reading in bed entirely, though--that would be a real hardship and counter productive for the imagination. But I am trying to limit the objects on my night table to one book and one tablet at a time. That is going to take some discipline. But new environments can help to form new habits.
The Long Way Home
Last Sunday I was not in Cincinnati. I was winding up a trip to the annual conference of the Association of Independent Information Professionals (AIIP), an organization that I helped bring into being in 1987 in Milwaukee. It was the first conference save one that I had attended in a dozen years, due to my residence in Spain. It was welcoming and inspiring to meet with old friends and to make the acquaintance of new ones whom I had not met at all or whom I knew only through the electronic discussion list that the organization shares. AIIP is a small, intimate conference , and the personal associations and tradition are what have kept me a member and now brought me back to this face-to-face meeting after so many years.
It was a short visit, but a long trip out to Irvine, California by way of Dallas on Thursday a week ago. It was an even longer trip back, by way on Chicago, on Sunday last week. It was long enough that it extended into Monday. I had a perfect flight from Santa Ana's John Wayne airport in Orange County to Chicago's O'Hare. As soon as I landed in O'Hare I went to the gate for the connecting flight and discovered that we were delayed for an hour, waiting for an in-bound crew to arrive and get over to our gate. No problem, I thought. I was scheduled to arrive in Dayton late and had arranged to meet my husband at an airport hotel for an overnight, so we didn't have to drive home at 11:00 PM. Since I now would be arriving at midnight, I was very glad that I had made that arrangement.
The crew arrived and we finally got on. Then we got off the plane again when they discovered a malfunctioning door to the baggage area. Then we got on again, and in due course an announcement came that we were delayed again, because the door they thought had been fixed really was not right. This time we were advised that we could get off if we wanted, or we could stay on if we wanted, while the repair was made. I stayed on. Some time later the fatal announcement came that the flight was cancelled. Off we got to stand in line to get hotel and meal vouchers, and then to find our way to the shuttle bus to the Hyatt Regency O'Hare. That was a hurdle itself, and when we got to the Hyatt, there was another line to check in, and of course the restaurant had closed for the night, so I had to settle for a cold salad from the convenience shop. Then we had to call the airline to confirm our passage on the 7:00 flight the next morning, and of course there were long delays in the telephone queue. When I finally hung up my clothes for the next day and climbed into bed--a fairly quick process since I had no luggage with me--I called the front desk to leave a wakeup call--and was greeted with "Good morning" before I even asked for a call just three and a half hours hence. When I checked out at 4:45 that morning, the front desk clerk asked me solicitously if I had enjoyed my nap.
The morning flight to Dayton went well--all forty-five minutes of it--but the new crew seemed blissfully unaware that it was transporting a plane full of friends-by-circumstance who had been through a very long evening and very short night together. I dragged myself through the day when I got home, but it took another two days before I really caught up on sleep. And only today did I put the receipts from my trip in order and locate the notes and cards and other papers I had gathered through the conference. It was a memorable trip, but worth it.
It was a short visit, but a long trip out to Irvine, California by way of Dallas on Thursday a week ago. It was an even longer trip back, by way on Chicago, on Sunday last week. It was long enough that it extended into Monday. I had a perfect flight from Santa Ana's John Wayne airport in Orange County to Chicago's O'Hare. As soon as I landed in O'Hare I went to the gate for the connecting flight and discovered that we were delayed for an hour, waiting for an in-bound crew to arrive and get over to our gate. No problem, I thought. I was scheduled to arrive in Dayton late and had arranged to meet my husband at an airport hotel for an overnight, so we didn't have to drive home at 11:00 PM. Since I now would be arriving at midnight, I was very glad that I had made that arrangement.
The crew arrived and we finally got on. Then we got off the plane again when they discovered a malfunctioning door to the baggage area. Then we got on again, and in due course an announcement came that we were delayed again, because the door they thought had been fixed really was not right. This time we were advised that we could get off if we wanted, or we could stay on if we wanted, while the repair was made. I stayed on. Some time later the fatal announcement came that the flight was cancelled. Off we got to stand in line to get hotel and meal vouchers, and then to find our way to the shuttle bus to the Hyatt Regency O'Hare. That was a hurdle itself, and when we got to the Hyatt, there was another line to check in, and of course the restaurant had closed for the night, so I had to settle for a cold salad from the convenience shop. Then we had to call the airline to confirm our passage on the 7:00 flight the next morning, and of course there were long delays in the telephone queue. When I finally hung up my clothes for the next day and climbed into bed--a fairly quick process since I had no luggage with me--I called the front desk to leave a wakeup call--and was greeted with "Good morning" before I even asked for a call just three and a half hours hence. When I checked out at 4:45 that morning, the front desk clerk asked me solicitously if I had enjoyed my nap.
The morning flight to Dayton went well--all forty-five minutes of it--but the new crew seemed blissfully unaware that it was transporting a plane full of friends-by-circumstance who had been through a very long evening and very short night together. I dragged myself through the day when I got home, but it took another two days before I really caught up on sleep. And only today did I put the receipts from my trip in order and locate the notes and cards and other papers I had gathered through the conference. It was a memorable trip, but worth it.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Siblings Day
I had never heard of Siblings Day until this past Tuesday, when a notice appeared in my inbox reminding me of the upcoming Scandinavian Scribblers meeting and suggesting siblings as a writing prompt. When I finally got around to investigating the origin of Siblings Day I found out that it is a fledgling holiday--fairly new and unofficial. According to the Facebook page of the Siblings Day Foundation, it was established in 1997 as a day for sisters and brothers to reflect on the special bond they share.
Well, the day (Friday, April 10) passed without any communication from my siblings to me or from me to my siblings. I guess they hadn't heard about it either--Siblings Day certainly hasn't made it yet into the Hallmark store or the Sunday advertising supplements or even as a Google doodle. I'll have to ask my three sisters about Siblings Day when I see them next week at our regular monthly Sisters+ brunch.
Because whether I recognize the day or not, my sisters are the reason I came to Cincinnati when we moved back to the U.S. this past year. We are four girls in my family, and have been now for sixty years. Although we grew up close we all went our separate ways very soon after graduating from high school. Only one of us remained in Cincinnati; one went to Chicago and then Indiana, another to Wisconsin; I spent most of my adult life in New England, with a longish side trip to Spain. Now we have all reassembled here in Cincinnati, and we are reestablishing and reveling in that special bond we have as siblings. We each live separately according to the style and habits and circumstances we developed on our own throughout our adult lives, but we are also getting to know each other again, this time as adults. It is a wonderful treasure, and one I know that we all value.
Well, the day (Friday, April 10) passed without any communication from my siblings to me or from me to my siblings. I guess they hadn't heard about it either--Siblings Day certainly hasn't made it yet into the Hallmark store or the Sunday advertising supplements or even as a Google doodle. I'll have to ask my three sisters about Siblings Day when I see them next week at our regular monthly Sisters+ brunch.
Because whether I recognize the day or not, my sisters are the reason I came to Cincinnati when we moved back to the U.S. this past year. We are four girls in my family, and have been now for sixty years. Although we grew up close we all went our separate ways very soon after graduating from high school. Only one of us remained in Cincinnati; one went to Chicago and then Indiana, another to Wisconsin; I spent most of my adult life in New England, with a longish side trip to Spain. Now we have all reassembled here in Cincinnati, and we are reestablishing and reveling in that special bond we have as siblings. We each live separately according to the style and habits and circumstances we developed on our own throughout our adult lives, but we are also getting to know each other again, this time as adults. It is a wonderful treasure, and one I know that we all value.
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