Birdwatchers

A new great thing--of the few great things--about Cincinnati in the wintertime is the opportunity for birdwatching. When nature is stripped bare, it's easier to see what, and who's, left during the cold season. We can now see seemingly far-off traffic lights flickering through the bare treetops. We glimpse neighbors we didn't know we had. But we're also seeing birds now.

Some dear friends gave us a terrific bird feeder stand, with hooks and spots for everything imaginable. After a false start with squirrels--I'm sure they'll be back--our recent snowfall and frigid temps brought the birds flocking to our yard. Hurrah!

We've hung the World's Cheapest Bird Feeder (free) and a suet feeder. In the past few days the birds have outnumbered squirrels by an appreciable margin, and so we're tickled pink. We've spotted:

Sparrows

House finches

Juncos

Chickadees

Tufted titmice

Carolina wrens

Cardinals

Downy woodpecker

I doubt we'll see anything exotic, but any little thing that makes our ho-hum corner of our city more lively is a step in the right direction. We're making small steps with the bird feeder.

Another benefit is that its location, just outside the dining room window, encourages more time spent at the table, which is a definite plus for my two fidgety, picky eaters.

Of course the cats enjoy the entertainment as much, or more, than we do. And I'm sure our hungry bird neighbors are happier still.

Casing the Joint

Just before Thanksgiving someone relieved our neighbor of her central air conditioning unit. More specifically, they ransacked the a/c unit, leaving the carcass strewn about her back yard. It was a mess. "Thousands of dollars in damage for twenty bucks' worth of scrap metal," that's what the cop told her. They do this for the scrap metal they can cut out of the thing. It goes without saying that she was finding it difficult to get into the holiday spirit when I talked with her that Thursday morning.

If I’ve said it once, I’ll say it countless times more: “People. They’re the worst.”

Last night Jay discovered a bag of trash that was not ours in our recycling bin. We aren’t the neatest family, but we do know what trash is ours. This wasn’t. Opening the bag revealed standard poor-folks trash: quickie-mart trash, smokeless tobacco package, small cardboard cartons of some kind of milk or juice. The kind of junk you accumulate if you don’t cook much and/or don’t have much money.

The disheartening thing was that our recycling bin wasn’t on the curb. It was tucked beside our a/c unit, which is beside our garage door, in a secluded little corner in our driveway. When we had our roof redone, this is the corner, we later realized, that the roofers used as a bathroom.

So, of course, we put it together, ran through some scenarios, and our hackles were, and are, up. Someone may be scoping our house. Maybe they brought the trash over so they looked more legit as they checked out our a/c unit. Sure, they could’ve just needed a place to ditch their trash bag, but why in our bin, when it’s not readily visible?

So tonight I looked out the back door and noticed some fresh tracks in the snow leading from the sidewalk, straight through the back yard, around the end of the driveway, over to the corner of the neighbor’s house, and then down to our driveway. Big man-sized tracks, so they don’t belong to any of the neighbor kids. They were quick tracks, with no detours, but no purpose either, which is the most disturbing thing. They don’t belong to any of our neighbors or their kids. Weird.

People. They’re the worst.

Earlier today I spoke with the local police officer in charge of our area—about the trash incident—and he confirmed that it sounded odd. So now, with tracks through the yard, I have a rash of emotions—a lot of anger, and a little trepidation. It could all be coincidental, and not easily explainable, and just plain random. Or it could mean that someone would like to help themselves to something we own.

Going into the Christmas season, this may be the perfect challenge to my general belief in the goodness of humanity. When I play possible robbery scenarios in my head, none of them involve any kind of compassion or forgiveness on my part. Mostly I just unleash, with “great vengeance and furious anger,” in the words of Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) in Pulp Fiction, who was quoting the Bible, ironically.

The home is one’s castle. At this time of year, it’s usually a joyous castle. It’s a shame to want to keep the lights on not out of festive spirit, but rather to discourage thieving shitheads.

I really wanted to write about how I saw a coyote tonight. It crossed Westwood Northern Boulevard in front of my car, and for that split second, I had that sense-of-a-moment, part delight, part sadness, that you get when your sphere collides with that of an animal who deserves more nature than what it has.

But instead, the tracks I focus on are the ones that are much closer, still, to home, where we apparently live in contested territory, too. May the thieving shitheads not win.

Why, homemade mustard, of course!

This morning finds me snuffing and sniffling on the couch, trying to remember how long I've been coughing and blowing my nose. Has it been one week or two? Is it a continuation of the last cold, or a new cold? And why does that even make a difference? Could drinking apple cider vinegar help, if I don't want to go to the doctor? Would apple cider vinegar make me gag? Oh, the questions of a congested mind.

Well, yesterday morning was exciting, unlike this morning. As Jay enjoyed his raisin bran, I busily stirred some homemade mustard on the stove. I brimmed with pride--I can make my own mustard, so Ha! Take that, commercialized world! I can make a condiment!--as Jay retreated to the living room, trying to avoid the pungent aroma that soon dominated the house.

He left for work, and I sheepishly put it in the fridge. Come lunchtime, though, I couldn't wait to whip out the mustard and a soft pretzel to have a taste. (The pretzels, made the day before, screamed for mustard, and so a mere project became an Affair--not uncommon with me, as you may well know by now.)

This mustard. Mmm. Words fail me. Dear reader, get thee to a kitchen, I say, and make mustard. If you are not too unlike me, you'll be tickled pink to realize you can do one more thing better than some thing from a store. And that, in this day and age, is triumphant.

This mustard is hot. Very hot. And quite sweet. Think of the mustard you get with Chinese take-out, with some sweetness added. I'm sure it's basically the same. The recipe--and encouragement--is Ann Hodgman's Heroic Mustard, from her darling, priceless cookbook, One Bite Won't Kill You, which I will rave about endlessly until I die. If I could be Ann Hodgman, I would, but I can't, unfortunately. So I'll pore over her cookbooks, and maybe I'll send her a gentle reminder to get those cookbooks reprinted, and this time, with a sturdy sewn binding, and on better paper.

Oh, back to the mustard. It's basically one-half cup Colman's mustard flour and one-half cup distilled white vinegar, and a wee bit of salt, which you mix up and let sit overnight. Then you add one-fourth cup sugar and a beaten egg, and whisk it all in a small saucepan over low/medium heat 'til it reaches boiling (steaming and bubbling). Let it cool, scoop it into a clean jar, and keep it in your fridge. AH says it'll last a month in the fridge, but if I make another batch of pretzels, mine will be gone lickety-split.

What the day brings

Do you ever have one of those days? One of those moments when you must give it up to Humility? Like yesterday, when feeding the cats, I flung a chunk of it into Ezra's hair, and then Ezra had to endure a dry cleaning of sorts, while Elliott screeched for more sandwich? (When, I ask, isn't FOUR sandwiches in one day ENOUGH?)

Today's one of those days, too, apparently.

I wake up early--after a 10-hour crash, no doubt my body trying to get an upper hand on the second sinus cold of the season--to make sure we still have money. And the student loan, which has been on "auto-pay," is no longer auto-paying. Of course the student loan site yields no helpful information. So I must wait for the rest of the world to wake up, so I can try to cough up a chunk of money, pronto, in addition to the phlegm.

I should have known something like this would end up on my plate. The weekend went well: a visit to the in-laws' with enough beer and not too much political talk. I accomplished some knitting. We enjoyed being outdoors in a way that's difficult in our corner of Cincinnati: free-range children riding bicycles in the road and inky, sparkly nighttime skies.

Ah, the fly's in the oinment today! At the House of Bunthoff we'll ready ourselves for a good slather; it's too early to succumb. It's Monday, it's Ohio, it's November. Bring it on; we're not ticklish.

Boo! Boo! Boo!

the wizard; no beard just yet



Bob and The Wiz

Our delightful cat-o-lantern

Our first real Halloween: we walked the street and brought home candy. In case you can't tell, Elliott was Bob the Builder, and Ezra, despite popular opinion tonight, was not Harry Potter, but was just a plain old wizard (our answer to What is a boy witch?).

Being the mom, and a mom who loves making things, I was quite pleased with myself that the homemade costumes--well, the homemade parts--came off so well. Though you can't really see it, Elliott's Bob the Builder shirt is a painted long-sleeve t-shirt. (His knit hat is homemade too, but it was a necessary addition, not keeping with the theme, though I was delighted he'd wear it. I can never bundle him up enough.)

Ezra's wizard hat was my triumph. I whipped it up in a quick hour while Elliott was at preschool one morning. It was a felted wool sweater and some scraps of fabric and ribbon. It became a wizard hat that barely fits. Again, I'm tickled pink that he kept it on his head--more attributable to the dip in temperature than to my fine handiwork, I'm sure.

Ezra's gown is a piece of plain fabric, folded in half and with a head hole cut out. The little belt is another fabric scrap. His beloved broom got spruced up with some sparkly ribbon wound around and taped on.

We gathered altogether too much candy on our brief walk, and Elliott's sweet tooth is raging. I'm sure he'll make a beeline for it tomorrow morning.

The pumpkin is another delight, though it was short-lived. Elliott was not nearly as interested in pumpkin carving as I'd hoped. Both boys were actually much more fascinated with the carving tools (not a knife, thank goodness, but a "safe carver") than what we found inside the pumpkin. Elliott helped a wee bit, and Ezra just sat on the kitchen table.

As you can see, we carved a darling, mischievous, snaggle-toothed cat. He came out well, and I was so proud. And so I took it personally when I found him this morning all chewed by squirrels. I know it's just the way of the world, but I couldn't help feeling that the squirrels singled me out--not unlike that angry humiliation one might feel upon finding the car rifled through after leaving it unlocked overnight. I was asking for squirrel trouble.

Small things: mirepoix

As we age, and our tastebuds dull, one might generalize that we mature into an appreciation of complex flavors. There's definitely something to this, and I'm sure I'll explore it in a later post. We tend to like more things because, ironically, we don't taste them as well, or as acutely, as we could or would have—had we dared—in those youthful salt-and-sugar-filled days.

But I'd argue that we also have the capacity to appreciate simple tastes. As I become a more mature cook, I thing I'm appreciating simpler fare. Okay, I give myself too much credit. Perhaps I'm just becoming a lazier cook. Regardless of the reason, today I sing the praises of mirepoix.

I remember my delight at discovering this luscious French word that makes "onion, carrots, and celery" sound exotic. But of course those foodie French have a lovely little word for, according to my trusty Food Lover's Companion, "a mixture of diced carrots, onions, celery and herbs sautéed in butter" (391).

On Sunday we gave thanks over bleak dinner fare: pasta and sauce. As my ever-gracious husband noted, "It's food."

Unsurprisingly, Monday found us with plenty of leftover pasta and a sauce that, while not bad, was clearly a dinner plate team-player without a team. Poor jarred pasta sauce. You tried.

Enter mirepoix. What would we have done without you? With you, dinner goes from blah to blah-ZOW!

So if you find yourself in a similar tight spot, consider a little mirepoix magic:

Lovely Baked Pasta

1. Preheat your oven to 350F. Get a casserole pan ready.
   
2. Boil some pasta in a pot (shapes are better than spaghetti).
   
3. Meanwhile, mince an onion, a carrot, and a rib or two of celery. Use a food processor if you've got it. That's your mirepoix, darlin'.
   
4. Sautee the mirepoix in some butter. Cook it until it's good and soft.
   
5. If you want to brown a little ground beef too, throw it in.
   
6. Add some dried oregano and basil, and a little salt and pepper.
   
7. When it seems nice and cooked down, add some spaghetti sauce. How much? Whatever's in the fridge or the cupboard. Whatever looks good to you.
   
8. Now toss the saucy mix with the pasta, which should now be cooked and drained, and pop it into the casserole pan.
   
9. Add some cheese if you're into cheese (we are).
   
10. Sprinkle more cheese on top.
    
11. Cover with foil and bake for at least half an hour.
    

This, like many pasta meals, improves with age—to a point, of course. Enjoy it, and enjoy your leftovers the next night. Pat yourself on the back for (1) learning a French word, and (2) jazzing up a boring old pasta meal. Go you!

Home again, home again

We're back in Cincinnati, from a trip to NC: job hunting, football game, and time with the grandparents. We're saying our prayers for the job; the game was good (though Cincinnati lost); and time with the grandparents is always fun.

Of course, returning home from home makes me think about how we think about homes.

This was our first trip to NC since December 2009, and the time away has given us some perspective. We arrived home to our house last night with a sigh of relief. The 8-hour drive was lengthened by an hour sitting in stopped traffic, and we were so relieved to be in our own space again. The boys played with toys they had forgotten they had. We made some omelets for a quick dinner. We went outside as it was darkening for those last few minutes of play time.

What makes home home? Familiarity and comfort, and they often go hand in hand. Safety. Family. Here in our little house on the corner, I have a laundry list of improvements to make it homier. The list remains untackled for two reasons: (1) start-up money, and (2) fear of commitment. After more than three years here, I'm still having a hard time calling this "home" emphatically enough to invest in some serious housewarming projects, like painting rooms, framing art, sewing curtains, and--gulp--installing that fence I so desperately want.

As I think about moving to NC, hoping that we'll be able to live closer to my family, I have conflicting thoughts. Shouldn't I be able to make anywhere "home"? On the other hand, what is it about the area I grew up in, apart from my family's proximity, that makes it feel like home? I can't articulate why it feels comfortable, but it's an unmistakable feeling. Is it landscape, weather, deeply imprinted memories, or "a certain slant of light"?

I likely won't figure that one out soon. What I do know is that my boys need outdoor space. The hands-down best part of visiting grandparents is their outdoor kingdoms. Both sets of grandparents are blessed with a world of outdoors for our boys. Though our own yard is modest, we can long for that delicious free roam at the grandparents'.

This weekend the boys sat on tractors, had tractor rides, played in the hammock, dug dirt in the yard, walked and biked 'round the yard, took stroller rides, collected acorns, and ate most meals outside on the deck. Don't fence them in! (Oh, but a fence might be nice!)

Homes should give us room to grow, I think. And while I know we're truly blessed to have a safe, spacious, comfortable home here, I think we could do with less space inside and more outside, because boys grow best when they get that sunlight and fresh air. It seems to make their smiles brighter.