My father finally seems to be enjoying his retirement. Which is great. I know he likes to travel and he’s getting to do that, going on job interviews and visiting family. After all he spent about 40 years supporting out family. Through the stress of layoffs and knowing/suspecting/being told he only held onto his as a matter of minority and then seniority and never being able to find a different job (and that’s gotta do something to your ego), I’m glad he’s finally enjoying himself. Not just sitting around (I believe getting depressed and angry) waiting to eventually die, which the family knows if he didn’t have a job or something to do he would just quit living.

So by rights, this is his time, and while I don’t begrudge him that it is grudgingly that I am part of his travel experience. I know, I owe him, blah-ditty-blah-blah. But it’s the surprise attacks, the unexpected arrivals, the pick me up from the suburbs, the I’ll be on the coast and then visiting you but I won’t tell you when and I wont give you a number you can reach me at. The lack of consideration for those he’s descending upon. I really hope the rest of the relatives he’s visiting don’t feel the same way, I really hope he treats them better, but part of me doesn’t. I mean I’d want him to be welcome back wherever he goes, but I don’t want to think its just his immediate family he has complete disregard for. After all, I know when I’m being set up as the mark.

“She's a grifter, just like her brother. They probably had grifter parents and grifter grandparents and
someday they'll each spawn little grifter kids—“
~Miller's Crossing

slightly hardened and a little fizzy

It's that time of year again. The time when we cart our apples to the press. Yup. It's the family cider squeeze. Where we build bonfires, play tag on top of 6ft tall hay bales, and get very, very appley sticky.
It’s a lot of hard work, but I must admit even as a disaffected -goth- adolescent (when I should have been saying, “You KNOW we can just BUY it”) I enjoyed the old fashioned grinding, pressing, straining and then funneling into glass jugs. Not to mention it was also about that time I realized what the older men were doing around the campfire was not just watching out for rogue embers* but passing around last years cider, which oddly tasted different.

Heres how:
The natural way: Put it in the fridge and fagetaboutit. It'll start to harden within about 2 weeks.
Impatient? Adding a few raisins, or some cider or wine yeast (NOT regular bread rising yeast) will get fermentation going faster. Watch it carefully and siphon it into another clean vessel, leaving the yeast and debris behind. To keep the cider clear this may take repeated tries.

*One year the wind caught up some embers and the roof of the shed was well on it’s way to competing with the bonfire before anyone realized it.

Unfortunately it is a 3 hour drive and our 13yr old puppy is going to have to go with us. She'll be stiff and annoyed but we have to go. Aside from the call of cider there is a rumor that this is also my bridal shower. Cool, so I do get a bridal shower. Maybe the Great Aunts got together and made me a quilt and that is well worth the trip.

from my unsympathetic point of view

Book Review

This year for my birthday my SnL (sister in law) gave me a book. That in itself is no surprise each year at Christmas we all make up lists of books for gift ideas and the lists are so long there are usually plenty of leftovers. Oddly enough she never chooses to give me any of those. Maybe it’s a comment on my taste, maybe she looses the list, I can’t say. Last year it was “Gilead” and that took me some time to read. I started it right away, even tho’ the jacket promised a religious story about a minister in Iowa in the 1950's, but got waylaid by the boring premise of writing letters to his child who was still alive and set it down. The imagery was vivid and having spent a lot of time on a farm enjoyed the picture it painted but also got a tad tired of religious rambling. I did finally finish it and it has better moments, but just not my cup of tea. Anyhoo, color me tangential, so this year it was “We Need to Talk About Kevin”. I have to admit I was glad she wasn’t there when I was given the gift all I did was turn the book over and read “Eva never really wanted to be a mother”. I distinctly remember a guffaw and a comment questioning the reason for the book and a weird response that she had specifically picked it out for me. Uh, okay, thank her for me.

So another tangent needs to be inserted here. I don’t want children. I have been telling people this for about 20 years and the general consensus is Shock that a woman NOT want a baby, “It’s different when their your own” or “You’ll change your mind”, blah, blah, blah, discounting my statement because “why would you a mere woman know what you want”. Bullshit. I do not foresee myself getting less selfish with my time as I grow older or becoming less rigid and demanding. Oh, also. I have no patience and believe in corporal punishment: a lovely combination. I know my limitations; I have made an excellent babysitter, but would make a horrid parent. Why people have trouble believing me, I will never know.

I just got around to reading We Need to Talk About Kevin (also written in letter form) and devoured it in 2 sittings. Every so often R would walk by and I’d say, “next time someone tries to tell me I don’t know my own mind about how I feel about children I’m just going to hand them this book”. It’s the freakn' worst case scenario of my life were I to give in to bringing another life into this world, minus the fact I’d have started slappen’ that kid around at an early age and kept it up escalating as he did. I know. I’m a horrible person. I’m okay with that. It’s not like I’m running around town slappen down other people’s children. Hell most of them are well behaved and their innocent discoveries are endearing, but we’re talking about my kid. The kid that would be horribly scarred from daddy saying, “you have to hide in the basement” every time mommy came home. The kid who was treated less as a child, allowed to make childlike mistakes and have childish habits, and more as a small adult: held responsible (and they would learn about responsibility) for everything. After all, as their parent, I would be held responsible for their actions.
You know you hate me, you know you want to send me hate mail, track me down and rip out my uterus or try to convince me none of that would happen…
May I suggest you read this book.

Good night and enjoy the buffet

ps apparently this book wasn't supposed to be about what happens when the ill advised experiment with raising children, but about a "Columbine" experience. Meh, same diff.