Easy as ABC

Did you think you were rid of me for a few weeks? Yes, Earl and Richard carted off my computer this afternoon along with lots of other stuff they say does not begin to approach the 1,000-pound limit, but Mike connected a keyboard to his laptop before he dashed off to work, hoping no doubt to keep me from distracting the movers. La, la, la.

Earl, 53, is the father of a 3-year old. Earl knows all about military moves because his father's Army career spanned 30 years and Earl spent eight years in the Army himself. Richard, 47, is a native of Trinidad-Tobago and has one of those lovely, lilting West Indies' accents I can listen to for hours. Which turned out to be a good thing.

Michael Jackson is the reason I know how old Earl and Richard are. We all had fond adolescent memories of The Jackson Five to share. We also reminisced about Earth, Wind and Fire, Marvin Gaye, Chicago, and Sly and the Family Stone while they packed my belongings and I folded sheets.

Richard treated us to a smooth rendition of George Benson's "This Masquerade" with me on rhythm and Earl on eye rolls. Richard handled Matt's thrift shop guitar like it was the Holy Grail, cushioning it in layers and layers of wrapping paper, and did not even sigh (loud enough for me to hear, at least) when I remembered the carrying case sitting in Matt's closet. They insisted I fetch the case and then cheerfully unwrapped and rewrapped the guitar.

Here's something to bear in mind the next time you're in the area: Richard highly recommends the Fish Hut on Maryland's Route 5 for great food and Sunday afternoon jam sessions.

Draw Your Own Conclusions

From 1996 to June 22, 2009:

• Metrorail fatalities - 9
• US fatalities in Afghanistan and Iraq - 5,031
• Automobile accident fatalities in Washington, DC region - 6,000+

One Thousand Pounds

Overseas moves are accomplished in two stages. The Household Goods shipment takes about two months to get to Japan via truck and ship. The Unaccompanied Baggage shipment, limited to 1,000 pounds, gets there in six weeks or less by truck and airplane. Furniture and televisions may not be included in the Unaccompanied Baggage shipment.

We carefully timed both our shipments to arrive in Japan the same week we did in 2006 because we wanted to hit the ground running for Mike's CO tour. In order to do this we lived like college students our last two months in Norfolk. We slept on a mattress on the floor and the only furniture in the house was destined for either the dumpster or storage. This time around we're taking the opposite approach since we have no idea where we'll be living once we get to Yokosuka and we aren't too concerned about the welfare of anyone other than Matt.

Our Unaccompanied Baggage will be packed and shipped tomorrow. The Household Goods will be packed and shipped July 7-9. The first thousand pounds will reach Japan around August 10, the rest will get there closer to September 24. Can we be absolutely certain the first thousand pounds will arrive before Mike sails off into the sunset? Heck no, so anything he might need to thrive on a ship for 3-4 months spanning two seasons needs to be toted by us on the airplane (and what if they head toward the Southern Hemisphere? I need to refresh my memory on that part of the world).

Exactly how much stuff equals one thousand pounds? We must have asked ourselves that question two dozen times today as the pile in the middle of the living room grew larger and larger. There's a bike, golf clubs, basic kitchen items, linens, the computer printer, a guitar, and -- first thing tomorrow morning -- my computer. (Matt's decided to send his computer in the HHG shipment although I've made it perfectly clear that he absolutely will not be mucking up my computer with any of his games between August 10 and September 24.)

It looks like a thousand pounds, but that's the same thing we said in 2006 and again in 2008 and we didn't even hit 500 pounds either of those times. Wait! Mike just remembered that the first leg of our flight will be on one of those small commuter planes so we definitely don't want to be lugging our entire summer wardrobes. Now we're ransacking our drawers and closets and stuffing suitcases with clothing we really don't need to wear in the next six weeks. We're throwing the suitcases on top of that pile in the living room.

It dawns on me that if we can live without most of our summer clothes for half the summer, maybe we should be sending this stuff to Goodwill rather than to Japan.

The Longest Morning (and Post) Ever

A senior Navy leader took Friday morning off work to escort me to my medical and dental appointments in Bethesda. There are four possible reasons he would do this:

1. He finds my keen insights on the military healthcare system thought-provoking and/or amusing.
2. He anticipated his mediating influence would prove invaluable when my brain shifted into caffeine-withdrawal mode.
3. He didn't trust I would actually show up for my appointments without adult supervision.
4. His job is really boring.

Mostly he sat in waiting rooms reading Catch-22 while I engaged in witty repartee with earnest healthcare providers.

Lab

Patient: You have a lovely first name.

Pricker: Peggy?

Patient (slightly confused): Is Peggy a nickname for Gilbert?

Pricker (glancing toward name badge affixed to lab coat): Oh, this isn't mine. (removes name badge)

Patient: Aren't you required to wear a name badge?

Pricker (slapping tender skin inside patient's elbow perhaps a wee bit harder than necessary): Hmmpf.

Patient: No, really. I'm sure name badges were required WHEN MY HUSBAND WAS THE XO OF THIS HOSPITAL. (Patient nearly chokes to death on huge lump of self-hate while Peggy secures correct name badge to pocket flap before jamming needle into patient's trembling arm.)

Dental

Dentist: So you're here for an overseas screening?

Patient: I'm not exactly sure. Someone already signed my screening form because we couldn't obtain our Family Entry Approval without a signed screening form and we had to have that Family Entry Approval before the moving company could schedule our packouts for Unaccompanied Baggage, Household Goods, and Storage.

Dentist: Oh. Well I'll just check your teeth to make sure you don't have any problems the dentists stationed in Japan can't handle.

Patient: And then when I arrive in Japan I'll need to schedule an appointment so the dentists there can verify you did your job properly?

Dentist: Exactly.

Patient: Then the dentists in Japan will give me a chit to prove I am eligible to have my teeth cleaned and cavities filled?

Dentist: That's correct.

Patient: And then I'll carry the chit from the dental chair to the appointment desk where the clerk will inform me the current appointment page is already full?

Dentist: Probably. I can tell you've been overseas before.

Patient: And then the clerk will invite me to call or stop by to watch him turn to a new page in the appointment book at 7:00 am on Thursday morning?

Dentist: Sounds right. Except we try to change the page-turning day to Tuesday or Wednesday once everyone gets used to Thursday, just to keep our patients on their toes.

Patient: And then I'll say to the appointment clerk, "Please allow me to bend over your counter in order to demonstrate how Real World businesses that value their customers, like beauty parlors for example, turn the page of the appointment book while the customer is standing right in front of them."

Dentist: Oh, God.

Medical

Patient and Escort reach the Internal Medicine Department five minutes late (or 35 minutes later than Escort's intended ETA) because Patient was sidetracked by an adorable 20-year old corpsman (male) who admired her purse and insisted on discussing his favorite Vera Bradley patterns (mental note: sign petition urging President Obama to repeal DADT policy). "Insisted" is a bit of a stretch but sounds better than "Patient tried every gambit in her conversational armamentarium to keep those gag-provoking x-ray contraptions out of her mouth for as long as possible."

Back to Internal Medicine . . . oh wait, not really because the appointed doctor has been relocated to another department with a catchy name, "Medical Home." Patient and Escort trudge about a mile through possibly the worst laid-out hospital in the Western Hemisphere and reach a door marked "Medical Home." The door opens onto a hallway stretching to infinity. "I am having the strangest sense of deja vu," whispers Patient with an impressive French accent, "I could swear Franz Kafka described this exact hallway in Chapter 12 of The Trial." Escort, who has been navigating labyrinthine hospitals and aircraft carriers for over 35 years, was similarly arrested (Kafka-speak for 'startled').

"Maybe we're supposed to enter this room on our right," whispers Patient, spotting a large woman seated behind a larger desk facing a dozen chairs ranged around the walls of a small, narrow room. The large woman asks Patient to produce identification then hands Patient a clipboard with a form attached to it. The large woman also returns the identification card to Patient which is positively serendipitous since Patient must consult that card to answer every single one of the six questions on the form.

Patient and Escort hastily seat themselves in two of the three vacant chairs and avoid eye contact with the party of five who entered the waiting room just behind them. "I'm having deju vu again," whispers Patient, "but this time I'm reminded of a Twilight Zone episode." "Why are we whispering?" Escort wonders. "I am being a role model for those two ladies across the room whose normal tones of voice are echoing off the acoustically-defective walls of this room."

Patient manages to mantain complete and total silence for at least nine seconds. "I sure hope they don't forget to fix this waiting area as long as they're doing all that construction and remodeling work to merge with the army hospital. The secretary's furniture is taking up at least a third of the available space and if all those doors on the Infinity Hallway lead to examination rooms, there sure aren't enough chairs to accommodate the number of people it would take to fill those rooms." Patient's attention drifts when Escort begins citing existing data and studies regarding the appropriate ratio of waiting room chairs to examination rooms. She suddenly notices the lack of smudge marks on puce-with-a-hard-C-colored walls. Uh-oh.

Patient sees hospital staff member (or random person wearing hospital scrubs under a lab coat) sitting three chairs to her right. Perhaps he can shed light on the issue. "Psst!" (Patient regrets for the millionth time that the one gene her mother withheld was the one gene Patient most wished to inherit, Marcia's heart-stopping, attention-riveting, loud-as-a-clap-of-thunder Finger Snap.) "Psst!" "What are you doing?" Escort asks in a horrified whisper. As . . . if . . . he . . . didn't . . . know. "PSST!" Eye contact is achieved.

"Do you work here?" Scrub boy hesitates before nodding. Patient beams encouragingly. "Great! Maybe you can answer a question for me. Are we sitting in a pre-renovation or post-renovation room?" Scrub boy thinks the latter. He looks regretful. Their minds meet and hug briefly (yet chastely, of course, since Escort is watching them like a hawk with tongue poised for a rapid-fire tut if necessary). Darling scrub boy feigns interest in the latest, still-under-development, of Patient's 35,294 heartfelt opinions: healthcare systems, especially those purporting to provide patient- and family-centered care, ought to make damn sure patients are in the majority on any and all committees or boards responsible for hospital design or re-design.

Scrub boy is visibly relieved when a doctor is ready to see him. Escort hisses, "I am going to personally pour two gallons of caffeine down your throat the minute we get out of this place."

Patient does not care for the tone of that hiss. She spots a Customer Satisfaction Form on the table to her right, finds a pen, and shares a few of her better ideas until the doctor is ready to see her. Afterward, neither Patient nor Escort are able to locate a receptacle for Customer Satisfaction Forms anywhere on the hospital premises. "Catch-22," grins Escort before escaping to the suddenly blessed boredom of his job.

A Tale of Three Titles

When I finished Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers (highly recommended), How to Quit without Feeling S**T leaped off my non-fiction bookcase where it's been gathering dust ever since I lugged it home from a bookstore last December. An ordinate number of books flock to my house every December; bookstores are my ports in the storm of holiday shopping. This book caught my eye because (a) the cover is red, and (b) maybe it's time to start thinking about cleaning up my act on several fronts (emphasis, of course, on thinking).

Flipping to the inside front cover, I spotted the expression "nutrition management," my cue to set the book aside long enough to load four large scoops of Pralines and Cream into my favorite bowl, which has earned that designation by being large enough to accommodate four large scoops of Pralines and Cream. As the ice cream slowly melted in my mouth - I favor a teaspoon over a soup spoon to prolong the pleasure - and my tongue toyed with those pralines like a kitten with a ball of string, I digested the first chapter, "Are You Addicted?" Much to my amazement, sugar was the third substance listed, after caffeine and nicotine. Is nothing sacred? I also learned the difference between dependency and addiction. Being a full-tilt sort of girl, I came down firmly in the latter camp on a number of substances but, happily, I am neither dependent on nor addicted to heroin or prescription drugs. Whew!

This is a weighty tome, so I don't expect to get to the climax - "Designing Your Own Personal Quitting Plan" - before mid-July. But reach it I will and optimistic I am. The authors, much to my delight, are down-to-earth, concerned Brits who positively exude compassionate understanding as opposed to prissy-toned, holier-than-thou, know-it-all (and probably uncontritely obese) Americans. Like me, for instance. Except for the obese part. Unless I fail to kick this sugar addiction.

Meanwhile, I am working my way through Joseph Heller's Catch-22 for the second time in preparation for the Dead Authors Book Club meeting Mike and I will be hosting two evenings from now. This book is having a profound effect on me. To wit: you literary types have no doubt noticed that I'm using 100 words when three would suffice.

Catch-22 is not (yet) available on Kindle so Mike and I are sharing a copy, shedding new light on the man I married. The English major sits ramrod straight, shoulders squared at his desk every evening, looking like a high school valedictorian reviewing his answers 30 minutes before the SAT proctor calls "Pencils down!" (behavior horribly distracting to the other 17-year olds who are gnawing on their #2 pencils and gazing wildly around the room while trying to remember which is the x axis and which the y).

My heart melts like the aforementioned Pralines and Cream when I see himself applying himself so diligently to the task at hand. Cute is the first word that springs to mind. Yet, romantic that I am, there are only so many minutes I can gaze at this heart-warming sight before my fingers itch to drum on the kitchen table and my eyes launch daggers in the direction of his forehead. I must remind myself that he paid for the book, along with the 940 other books I've read in the past 10.8 years. In the interest of marital harmony, I've opted to crack open a third book, something by Denise Mina who never fails to distract me from murderous thoughts as well as the general activities of daily living.

Activities of daily living in this case refers to the express shipment a moving company will be stopping by to pick up next Monday morning . . .

Wildlife v. The Wild Life

The National Geographic staff photographers are buttoning up their safari vests today with a jauntier sense of job security than most of their compatriots. Jimmy Olsen, alas, has abandoned his plans to launch a third career as a nature photographer when he retires from the Navy in 2011. This comes as a huge relief to Mrs. Olsen, nee Lane, who aged five years in ten minutes worrying that Jimmy would lose his footing and tumble 12 feet to the concrete sidewalk, forcing her to deal with the often inane military health care system.

This photograph of Jimmy is the closest you'll come to glimpsing our resident baby birds, an adorable little trio dubbed Mary, Margie, and Rocky in honor of my triplet cousins. Suzi and I discovered the birds while spending copious amounts of time on the front porch communing with nature and exchanging information about our nieces and nephews (extrapolated from pithy and cryptic Facebook postings with strong favoritism shown to those who sought our 'friendship').

Combine our mother's aversion to camping with the advent of cable television in the mid-1960s and a beer-drinking grandfather fond of nature programs and you get two girls whose wildlife experiences were mostly provided by Mort Neff, a sprightly old voyeur of insects and animals. The information we gleaned from these late afternoon programs is disjointed and a trifle hazy because every ten minutes or so Grandpa would request another beer and we would race each other and our brothers to the kitchen for the privilege of fetching an icy Stroh's. Privilege in this case refers to the fact that Grandpa allowed the winner to drink the beer out of the long neck of the bottle on the journey back from the kitchen to the couch.

Had we grown up in a different family we might have had a disastrously late start on our quest to achieve immortality in the Beer Guzzling Hall of Fame. But had we grown up in another family it might not have taken us three days to notice we were perched ten feet from a nest of newly-hatched birdlings. Suzi spent most of Day One ducking her head every five minutes or so when Mama and/or Papa Bird darted from the top of the porch pillar to a nearby tree. On Day Two it was my turn to flinch since Suzi, her mother's daughter, got up at the crack of dawn to nab the safe chair. We spent the rest of her visit alternately fascinated and appalled by the feeding habits of birdlings and worrying that Rocky was getting more than his fair share of the partially digested worm morsels.

I Love a Parade

Six blocks southwest of us, at the corner of 8th and I Streets, is Marine Barracks Washington, the oldest post of the Marine Corps. The service members stationed there perform a variety of missions, mainly ceremonial and security functions, around the National Capital area.

The Friday Evening Parade has been a summer tradition for many years. Residents and tourists alike flock to the Barracks to enjoy rifle companies marching, the Silent Drill Platoon performing their Rockette-like routine, the U.S. Marine Band perform marches composed by former director John Philip Sousa, and the Drum & Bugle Corps' rousing renditions of original compositions, Broadway favorites, and classical music punctuated by cannon bursts.

Kate had never been to an Evening Parade and neither had her Aunt Suzi so we jumped at the chance to be guests of Warrant Officer Dix, director of the Drum & Bugle Corps. Mike has known Warrant Officer Dix since our Bethesda days. The highlight of the parade for me was hearing "Corpsman Up" for the first time. Dix composed this tune in 2005 to honor all the young Navy corpsmen who have served side-by-side with Marines on battlefields around the world.

I think Suzi liked being escorted to the post-parade reception by a young Marine. Kate can recommend the upstairs bar at Molly Malone's, across the street from the Barracks. That's where we three females holed up after escaping a rather stodgy reception. Mike not only paid our respects to Warrant Officer Dix but arrived at the bar in time to pay for our second round. If he keeps this up, I'll have to give him back that Mr. Perfect title.

If you are ever in DC during the summer, I hope you'll have time to experience the Evening Parade at the Barracks, a Sunset Parade at the Marine Memorial, or one of the weekly concerts next to the Washington Monument or on the steps of the Capitol. Follow this link to find out how to obtain parade tickets.

Goo-goo Gaga

Little sister is on a quest for appropriate Mother-of-the-Groom garb. Big sister marches from one rack of elegant evening dresses to the next while little sister wanders off in search of one of those elusive chairs or benches hidden in the dark recesses of department stores.

Little sister decides an on-line search might be more productive (at the very least, it will involve a chair). Big sister remarks that 'google' resulted from a misspelling.

Sisternal ADHD kicks in. Little sister googles 'google' while big sister reaches for her trusty dictionary. Little sister wins the race, announces that 'google' derives from 'googol', and gets back on task.The more acutely afflicted big sister becomes engrossed in the dictionary. Her eyes drift from googol to goo-goo.

goo-goo [Slang] an idealistic advocate of honest government; usually a somewhat disparaging term

Why, pray tell, is a desire for honest government considered idealistic? And why would we want to disparage anyone who advocates honest government?

Big sister is plagued with outrage for a full 12 hours. Long-suffering husband scampers off to work a full hour earlier than usual lest he fall victim to a random arrow of righteous indignation. Little sister says, "Hey! Enough with the dictionary already. We need to wrap up this wedding garb quest before you start designing and distributing The Official Goo-Goo Badge of Honor."

(Remind me when I calm down to tell you how two fairly intelligent sisters were able to fritter away more than two hours trying to figure out how to spin salad greens in a contraption with only four parts.)

Accessories by Dr. Seuss

Aunt Suzi arrived on the heels of our second vegetable share. This week we have lots of salad greens with cleaning instructions complicated enough to send me scurrying to Williams-Sonoma for one of those salad spinner thingies. The green onions are remarkable . . .
. . . and we're still trying to figure out how one is supposed to employ garlic scapes (thanks to Kate for modeling and spelling tips).

Feline Downright Frantic

Pssst! CC and I have decided to take matters into our own paws while Peevish is upstairs folding laundry. 'Upstairs folding laundry' is Peevish code for avoiding reality.

My sister CC has always been something of a Nervous Nellie -- she is even skittenish about having her picture taken -- so I simply ignored her initial mewlings about moving back to Japan. Then Middle Kid, our original owner, called from Texas and CC knocked the upstairs phone off the hook so we could listen in on the conversation. Peevish asked Middle Kid to take care of CC and me for two years while she gads around Asia with Mr. Perfect and Guitar Hero.

Middle Kid: No way, Peevish Mother. The last time Dad and I counted there were 30 cats eking out an existence in this abode.
Peevish: 30. . . 32 . . . who's to notice?
Middle Kid: Well, Dad, for starters. You need to come up with a Plan B pronto.

That was over a week ago. We haven't seen any progress in the Plan B department but the laundry has been folded and refolded to perfection.

This morning we overheard a conversation between Cat Allergy Daughter and the Man Formerly Known as Mr. Perfect.

CAD: I don't understand. Why can't you just take them to Japan like you did last time?
MFKMP: First of all, pets are not allowed on either of the airlines the Navy wants us to use to fly to Tokyo. Even if I found a cat-amenable airline and was willing to fork over $500 for the pleasure of sharing foot space with two cat carriers for 14 hours, Minerva and CC would have to spend six months in the hoosegow, I mean military kennel, once they got to Japan. This would be unpleasant for them and insanely expensive for us.
CAD: But what if you can't find anyone willing to adopt them for either two years or forever?
MFKMP: . . . (slicing motion across throat)

Help! SOS! Mayday, mayday! Have cat carriers, will travel. We've been spayed in case you're worried we're harboring nefarious notions to start one of those 30-cat dynasties in your home. How could we possibly scratch your lovely furniture when we don't have claws on our front paws? Sure, we've spent the past 4-5 years indoors, but we're not averse to experiencing the great outdoors (especially considering the alternative, gulp). Worried about odor? We have two big litter boxes with covers to contain that problem. We drink water and eat that cheap-ola dry food. Being sisters and all, we'd prefer to stay together (but, hey, I'm willing to turn my back on her if it boils down to self-preservation). We aren't social but we aren't antisocial either, we just like to spend our days snoozing under beds and in the corner of closets. As military cats, we have a proven ability to adapt to new environments (and think our service to our country merits a better reward than that slicing motion across the throat, thank you very much).

We have also on several occasions survived on our own for up to a week at a time. (We were already four years old before Peevish learned that veterinarians advise against this. The Man Formerly Known as Mr. Perfect has no excuse for such negligence because he was raised in a pet-friendly environment.)

Please contact Peevish ASAP so she can arrange to transport us from her house to yours. This would be a marvelous way to guarantee one more personal interaction with Peevish before she leaves the country.

Do not under any circumstances communicate with the Former Mr. Perfect. He is not to be trusted.

Love,
Minerva

G Street Blues

Just before noon yesterday, as I was sitting on the front porch struggling to compose an ode to museum security guards, thirty feet beneath my wicker chair a man jumped on the subway tracks directly in front of an eastbound train. EMS and police personnel were on the scene within minutes. The eastbound train was rerouted to the westbound track for the next several hours while evidence was gathered. What would possess someone to end their life this way? What would possess someone to carry a rifle into a museum?

The crime scene tape was still in place and patrolmen with flashlights were walking up and down the track when I caught the train for my theater date with Kate. Although I didn't think I would be very good company, I didn't want to postpone our third attempt to see "Legacy of Light," a play about the choices women must sometimes make between motherhood and careers. I'm trying to cram as many memorable mother-daughter moments as I can into the next five weeks before I abandon her to what she calls 'geographic re-orphanhood.'

Thanks to Kate we had second row center seats, meaning I could actually process most of the dialogue. By the time we exited the theater I had a much better grasp of Physics than I gained during the 1969-70 school year and an enormous crush on Voltaire. I was also ravenously hungry so we hurried back to Capitol Hill where we met up with perfect husband and charming nephew for dinner at the neighborhood Vietnamese restaurant. Beef and string beans took care of the hunger and scintillating conversation mixed liberally with a half-carafe of Cabernet Sauvignon made short shrift of any lingering melancholy. The Voltaire crush and incredible mastery of Physics persist but it's not like I can/will act on either.

One thing I will be acting on starting Tuesday is my instinct to hold my little sister's hand whenever we are standing on a Metro platform.

Desperately Seeking Padlock Key

Matt didn't have school on Monday so we motored down to Norfolk Saturday morning and spent three days getting our house ready to go back on the rental market. We drove back to DC last night so he can finish up junior year. My hunch? The only thing these teenagers will learn in the final two half-days (yes, that's right, two half-days rather than one full day) of school is the difference between "the letter of the law" and "the spirit of the law." What could be more inane than requiring high school students to make up snow days after final exams have ended?

Be that as it may, tomorrow afternoon we will all climb back into the car and spend 3-4 hours gasping in unison at the reckless drivers on I-95 so we can finish painting the second floor before Andy the Repairman rips out the carpet and refinishes the floor. Andy is also going to replace the ceiling in the family room, get to the root of the moisture in the porch roof (uh-oh is right), and supervise the first floor painting crew. We would paint the first floor ourselves but our ladder is in DC and won't fit in our car. There is most probably another ladder in our Norfolk garage but heck if we can remember where we stashed the key to that padlock . . .

It's almost too bad our landlord days will be drawing to a close when we move back from Japan because we have certainly learned some valuable lessons in the past few days. Valuable Lesson #1: The utilities should automatically revert to the landlord's account rather than be disconnected when tenants vacate. Air-conditioning is a nice amenity when painting inside a house in the South during a heat wave. Water comes in very handy for cleaning paintbrushes and flushing toilets. Valuable Lesson #2: It is possible to flush a toilet by dumping several gallons of expensive bottled water in the tank.

Mike, Matt, and Jonathan are handling the painting. For purposes of marital harmony, I have been assigned to yard cleanup. So far I've managed to fill 11 of those big plastic bags with weeds while simultaneously meditating on the state of the world, the state of the family (both nuclear and extended), the nefarious root systems of thorny vines, and the astonishing growth rate of our neighbor's jasmine which was just starting to peek over the top of the fence three years ago.

Lambsquarters Revisited

Farmer Allen says, "Lambsquarters is one of the spring greens things that many people list as their all time favorite of the season. Prepare it as you would spinach. I think these stems are tender enough to eat, as well. Lambsquarters taste like spinach but has WAY more nutrients."

The first recipe that popped up on the internet was for Kokt Svinmålla (Boiled Lambsquarters) which looks (a) pretty Scandinavian to me and (b) a lot like how Wendy says her father prepared Lambsquarters. Wendy's from Minnesota so this actually makes sense.

1 lb. fresh, very young, tender lambsquarters
2/3 cup water
dash or two of salt
Rinse the lambsquarters. Add the salt to the water and bring to a boil. Add in the lambsquarters and boil for about 5 minutes. Pour off the liquid and allow the lambsquarters to drain. Serve with a little butter. Makes four servings.



Here are a few tidbits I picked up on Wikipedia:

• Lambsquarters (Chenopodium album, also called fat hen, goosefoot, or pigweed) played the same role in cooking from the Viking Age until nearly the end of the Middle Ages as spinach does now. (Discerning eaters cannot help but wonder about the sharp decline in popularity after spinach was introduced from Asia in the 16th century.)


• Lambsquarters are found today as weeds at the edges of ditches and gardens. They should be eaten in moderation due to high levels of oxalic acid. (I can do moderation.)


• Archaeologists analysing carbonized plant remains found in storage pits and ovens at Iron Age and Roman sites in Europe have found its seeds mixed with conventional grains and even inside the stomachs of Danish bog bodies. It remains arguable whether the weed was included in the diet deliberately. (When I was pondering a career in archaeology, no one mentioned sifting through stomach contents . . . methinks those Danish bog bodies must have ingested a bad batch of Kokt Svinmålla.)


• The stalk hardens with age and, in China, has been used as a walking stick since ancient times. (Exactly how big are these plants?)


• Lambsquarters is a host plant for the beet leafhopper, an insect which transmits curly top virus to beet crops. (Beet leafhopper. I just love the way that rolls off my tongue. Sounds like a Greenwich Village poet circa 1954. Beet leafhopper. Beet leafhopper.)

In Today's Share

For the first two decades of my life my vegetable encounters were pretty much limited to carrots, corn, peas, corn, green beans, corn, lima beans, corn, beets, and corn, which was about average for the Sykes kids. The outliers were Dave, who rarely ventured beyond corn, and Tom, who exhibited an apparent zest for spinach but probably just to gross the rest of us out while currying favor with Mom. Our vegetables came in cans, the store brand of course, except in August when local farmers left sacks of corn on our back steps.

My mother tried hard to expand our palates but it was an uphill battle all the way. I will never forget the evening she served brussels sprouts the first (and only) time. The second that bowl landed on the table six noses turned toward heaven. Mine must have turned a centimeter higher than my siblings' -- a valuable lesson, that -- because Mom selected me to be her test case. If the brussels sprouts didn't kill me, the three youngers would have to eat it too (yet another bullet dodged by the two older brothers). I'm not totally certain which outcome my mother preferred.

A single sprout was placed on my empty plate. As my eyes began their slow descent to vegetable hell, they snagged momentarily on Dave's horrified expression. Were it remotely possible to slash one's wrists with a bread knife, the boy might not have survived that meal. I did what any big sister would: washed down the intact sprout with half a glass of milk then -- just as my mother was starting to beam with satisfaction and reach for the serving spoon -- opened my mouth and expelled that leafy green ball from my throat. It bounced across my plate and landed a few inches from the bowl of boiled potatoes (our daily staple). That's the day my mother coined the expression 'an exercise in futility' (no one else on the internet is taking credit at any rate).

Vegetables are on my mind because our farm share begins this week. The good news from Farmer Allen is that he didn't tuck any brussels sprouts in our bag. The bad news is I don't recognize most of the vegetables he did include:

• Spring Onions with buds or blossoms


• Heirloom Lettuce


• Lambsquarters (say what?)


• June Strawberries


• Rainbow and White Baby Chard (gay? racist?)


• Easter Egg Radishes

Stay tuned. You will be hearing lots more about Lambsquarters for sure.

Exodus, Part I

The mass exodus from Yokosuka just after news of our impending return leaked out is surely coincidental. Most of my favorite bloggists are cantering off into the sunrise this month and next. Kathleen Sr is coming to DC, Wendy is going to San Diego, Kathleen Jr is Peoria-bound, and Diane arrived in Norfolk this past weekend.


We can't rationalize visiting California and/or Illinois between now and mid-July but, with Mike behind the wheel and traffic cooperating, Norfolk is only three hours south of DC. Besides, our student renters turned in their keys Sunday and we needed to confront the realities of what will need to be done before the house can go back on the rental market. And, gosh, six hours on the highway might be the perfect opportunity to reach closure on that non-fiction book I've been slogging through since early April.

Reconnecting with the Norwoods was definitely the highpoint of the day, and introducing them to my favorite salsa at Mi Hogar ranked right up there.

The low point of my day was seeing how much painting and weeding lies in my immediate future. I'm reasonably certain the nadir for Mike was being stuck in a rapidly moving vehicle with a woman who insisted on sharing the last 40 pages of The Face of Battle.