serinde

A possibly-homeless man, hands full of grocery bags, walking up 207th St. with a drinking straw stuck in each ear.

Misty haze over Spuyten Duyvil.

A kid in a leather jacket walking down the subway stairs, looking uncommonly like a very young, slightly blonder Corey Feldman.

(Where by "day 2" I mean "a week after day 1", on account of questionable weather + after-work commitments.)

First of all: backpack, massive improvement; no 20mph headwind, massive improvement. (Though I don't think the trip took much less time, if any.) However, in spite of the again-lower-40-degree temperatures and not wearing heavy clothes and a whizzo miracle fiber hiking backpack, there is still some sweating at the back. Presumably this will only get worse as the season progresses, so I had better take thought to that: either by having a complete change of clothes, or by offloading cargo to the bike.

In deference to $BOSS's warning that $OVERBOSS looks askance at jeans (though I have been wearing nice ones with blouse & jacket off-and-on the whole time I've been here), and also because I wanted to see how it did, I wore a skirt today, with a sleeveless knit top. I put my Layer of Authority in the backpack, along with nice shoes and my stockings, since I figure riding is going to be even harder on them than my usual thunder-thigh chafing. Not wanting to go commando, however, I dug out an old pair of leggings to keep the wind off of me. Attire was completed with pink sparkly socks, Skechers, and an embroidered stretchy denim jacket. I fear I looked too hipster for words, but the combination did work; I was comfortable for the whole ride, and my movements were not restricted. Nor was the load on my back too heavy, in spite of also carrying two apples, a quart of soup, and my usual impedimentia.

It is a beautiful, diamond-bright morning to be riding in the spring green along the blue, blue Hudson. Even the yucky industrial bits under the West Side Highway look picturesque. Another morning, when I have more lead time, I'm going to stop and take pictures along the way.

I have still not Let Go enough to lock my bike outside. Although there are many bikes there, most of them are beaten up, and I'm scared that my shiny new one will be the obvious target. Also, I think both of my wheels are quick-release, and I think therefore I need an additional wotcha to make sure no one walks off with the front one. (Does that happen? Would people steal just a wheel?)

I was originally going to make a sweet potato bread pudding, but lack of bread. (Then again, I was also going to do my hand-wash, rearrange closet space, and take out the recycling.) The answer is clearly to make sweet potato bread.

I found many and many recipes on the intarwubs, but at the end chucked them all in and started working off Grandma's banana bread, which saw me through my college years (as well as generating all kinds of visits from people on my floor when they saw me walking back from the Hartley package room).

1. Set oven to 350. Butter and flour your loaf pan.
2. Cream half a stick of butter with 1/2 cup of sugar (I cut it down because I had put some sweet in the potatoes already).
3. Add in 2 eggs (upped it) and the cup of mashed sweet potatoes (which had been already cinnamoned and maple-syruped).
4. Combine 2 c. flour (I'm trying half white, half whole-wheat), 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp baking powder, and salt ynogh.
5. Add the dry ingredients to the mixing bowl alternately with half a cup of milk (original uses 3 T. buttermilk, which I haven't).
6. If I had pecans, I would have added them here, but I don't, so I didn't.
7. Put in loaf pan, bake for an hour.

45 min to go yet. So maybe I'll get something useful accomplished tonight.

I observe that my last several non-cooking posts were heavy on the stress and upset, so let me take a moment to reassure the Gentle Readers that matters are improving on most fronts. Ranger is in fine fettle and appears to have entirely recovered from his abscess. I have not yet been able to take him back to discuss the potential kidney issues, but he's eating, drinking, relieving, active (for age 17) and engaged; even his coat is looking better. I have been diligent in getting settled into the new place, and although there is still a dauntingly long list of Things To Do, it is definitely in a livable state. Not yet an entertain-able state, perhaps, at least not IMAO, but matters are progressing. And, I am finally reunited with all my STUF, including that which had been stored in sweh's garage for the last four years.

Work is still getting ahead of me. The first session of the leadership program was terrific, though intense (duh), and there's a lot of homework and what-not I have to do; the idea is that you take these principles and apply them in your daily work, and then you need to Show Your Work. So there's that, and then there's also the big software implementation project I am running; and when you add that to the day-to-day, plus me being gone for a week, then various other people being gone for training, and now I'm going to be out three days for training on said software...I feel like it's all getting ahead of me. I'm not as stressed as I was last year about this time, thank fuck; it's not spoiling my sleep and I don't have electric worms running along my nerves; but I have definite moments of EVERYBODY PANIC. Well, I knew it would be a tough spring. Keep on keepin' on.

I am putting out cautious buds on the creative front as well. A Super-Secret Knitting Project, which is using a number of techniques I've never done before, is going well and may even be done on deadline for a change. At the last minute (and I do mean the last minute) I put my blue, unlined GFD into the A&S competition at Mudthaw...which, to be honest, I thought was a display not a competition, or I might not have done it...and got tolerably good feedback, and in the course of discussion of it I somehow committed to teach a class at Pennsic and also at Southern Region War Camp; and I'm excited to get to work on the summer sewing. (Though I need to bung the spare room/sewing room into better shape before that can advance.)

The main stressor, other than direct work stuff, is that there's so much I want to do and there aren't enough hours in the day. I can win some time by managing my time more wisely, but I fear I am still going to have to re-engineer some expectations, and I hate that. And I haven't even started folding in workout choices--extra time/extra hassle if I start commuting by bike, or timing and logistics if I start going to the neighborhood dojo or yoga studio. But I know I'm going to need one or more of those in order to not go mad. I really love the local hang-out/cafe/bar; they have a quiz night, they have a KNITTING CIRCLE, they have good live music, but if I go there much I shall be in the poorhouse, let alone the time sink. And I want to chum around with the peeps who live up here. At the same time, I want to stay in and nest and bloody well finish Skyrim and catch up on TV shows and and and.

This working-for-a-living thing. What bosh.

I am starting to surface from the mental wharrgarbl of moving + work + work trips + life drama, and also the kitchen is in a reasonable state to be used, and I had a bunch of sweet potatoes looking increasingly questionable; so.

The four oldest ones I peeled, cut out all the ucky bits, boiled, and mashed with a little butter, a bit more maple syrup, and some salt and cinnamon. That's easy. You don't need me for that.

The two from the most recent batch were in better shape, and gave me more options; and since I have been feeling yearnings for salty crunchy things, I thought I might try making chips out of them. Thus:

1. Preheat oven to 400. Line baking sheet(s) with foil.
2. Peel the sweet potatoes. (You probably don't have to ordinarily, but I didn't have anything that would do to scrub them--and they needed a lot of scrubbing.)
3. Slice the sweet potatoes, 1/8" or less.
4. Toss the lot with about 1 Tbsp of olive oil.
5. Lay them out on your baking sheets. Each potato took up one sheet, so it was convenient that I have two of them.
6. Sprinkle with STUF. I did one sheet with garam masala + salt, and the other one with a randomly-discovered jar of Paul Prudhomme's Blackened Redfish Magic[tm] + a wee bit of extra cayenne.
7. Bake for about 10 minutes.
8. Flip all the chips (they now take up only about 2/3 of the sheet. SCIENCE!!) and sprinkle on the other side too.
9. Bake for another 5-10 minutes.
10. Take out, let cool, store.

I am unsurprisingly crap at making slices of a uniform thickness (and likewise at judging size in the first place), so it is equally unsurprising that some of the chips are crisp and chip-like while others are a little squidgy in the middle. They taste good, though. The garam masala is maybe a little too subtle. The other is...not. I intend to take them in to work, along with almonds and fruit, which when added to the cheese and oatcakes I usually stock should keep me from being gustatorily bored.

Now is to make headway against the terrifying list of Things What Have To Be Done. Which, I must confess, "dealing with questionable vegetables" was very not near the top of.

So, Ranger has been off his game since I moved, which isn't surprising of course; cats hate that shit. The problem is, with a very old cat, you can't always tell which parts are Goddammit Get Off My Lawn and which are signifiers of something actually wrong. On the one hand, after a few days, he was following me around (a little) and sitting next to me on the armchair and so on; on the other, he seemed a little bit wobbly when he first stood up and his fur is starting to get more of that staring old-cat look. And I figured that he was probably due a check-up when I got back from yon business trip.

Things took a more immediate turn on Tuesday evening, when I got home from work to find his right cheek markedly swollen. I took him in first thing Wednesday--fortunately there is a well-reputed clinic right up Broadway--and they ascertained that, why yes, he has an infection. (O RLY?) They did not drain the abscess, which in retrospect I thought odd, but gave me antibiotics for 10 days and recommended a warm compress (which I understand in theory but have you ever tried holding a warm damp cloth to a cat's face for five to ten minutes?), and said that once the infection was under control then we'd have a look to see if there's a particular cause for the infection--e.g., a rotting tooth. (Which, if it's that, I was warned that the usual treatment is to put them under general anesthetic to yank the tooth, which is a perilous undertaking on an old cat.)

They also took blood, which they didn't figure would say much about his current issue, but since he is so old it would be good to see what else might be up, which I fully agreed with.

So we are two days of antibiotics in and his face isn't noticeably less swollen. It's hard to say if his appetite is down, because he's such a minimal eater to begin with; at least there is some product in the catbox (and when we got back from the vet he headed straight for the kibble, which was a little reassuring). The vet apparently left voicemail whilst I was in the subway today, asking me to call back, but when I did there was no answer. -_- She said that his white blood cell count was up, because duh infection; but also that he has some evidence of kidney disease. Wonderful. (And I am in goddamn meetings all goddamn day tomorrow so I don't even know when I'll be able to talk to the vet.)

I am clinging to the fact that Ranger is still tolerably interested and interactive, even if not moving a huge amount. Because I am very not ready to say goodbye to my fluffeh kitteh.

Because everything happens at the same time, I also was called for jury duty this week. (In sober reflection I should have taken my postponement, but I was thinking that a) whatever other time they called me for would undoubtedly be even less convenient and then I wouldn't be able to postpone again, and b) I believed everyone around me who had had to show up maybe one day and then that was it.)

Now, it must be understood that I do not have a problem with this; indeed, if this week/month weren't so full of the ualeauleauleaue, I would be really excited to serve on a jury. I truly do believe it is part of what makes society go 'round, and I truly do hope that if it's ever my turn in the legal barrel that intelligent, well-rounded, competent people will not try to do whatever they can to avoid it, and I truly do feel it to be an honorable and worthy thing to be doing. (The last and only other time I got called, when living in Jersey City, I got as far as juror selection and they bounced me--to my dying day I will believe it was because, when they asked "What's your favorite TV show?", I said "Buffy".) But also, this is trial jury not grand jury, so I expected the most that would be asked of us was one week--which I could spare, with difficulty it's true, but if I worked like a dog at night it could be okay. Whether or no, it's still important to show up, and now they tell us that there is wifi in the juror waiting room and all, so I figured worst-case I'd be sitting around for a day or two but I'd still be able to get a lot of work done.

( Life In 60 Centre St )

And I told the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but I feel crappy about it. I had two powerful duties, and they conflicted, and I had to choose one; and I think I chose the right one, but that still means I failed on the other.

Currently I am off on an artistic pilgrimage, which is including a trip to a renowned museum with a lauded textiles collection and round-robin discussions on manie diuerse & erudite topics. It has, however, taken a turn for the anguish. As we were gathered in the hotel bar (which has some decent cocktails, and half price for happy hour), raising glasses in good cheer and joy, We Got A Call; in which it was learned that our dear friend and fellow artist, Shaun, had taken his own life today.

Let me tell you about Shaun. Here is a man who by day is a sysadmin (and of the body to the point that his personal address is "bofh@[his-domain]"), who likes the sci-fi and the jokes and all the geekly delights; and who in the SCA takes anything that comes to hand, however random, and becomes a master at it, even if it was an art he had absolutely no angle on beforehand. There was an ancient & venerable tartan pattern that his clan used, but the original textile was long since used up and no one could find more of it. What did he do? Teach himself to weave and make more of it. He learned pewter casting, carving models into all kinds of exquisite shapes, whatever was needed for the current project, and then casting a couple hundred of 'em--on Beth's porch, on one memorable occasion. Not enough good beer and not enough shade at events? He built a rolling wooden widget to hold an iced keg (with spigot)...with a folding porch umbrella fit into the side. (And was then, at the Pennsic I was sitting and roasting in the sun all afternoon for the gorram Arts & Sciences display, the kind of thoughtful person who would to trundle it up all the way from camp so I could have a spot of shade and some refreshing cold beverage for the rest of the afternoon.) For every friend inducted into the Order of the Laurel, he'd make a metal wreath with tiny clips for holding actual laurel leaves so that the honoree could have an actual wreath of laurel, rather than whatever frob their other friends could come up with. Recently, he had been working on recreating the Aldrevandini beaker, though with his own spin on it (like, his own arms in the center). And his works were exquisite--as beautiful as the originals.

And beyond that he was brilliant and funny and level-headed and practical and amazing great fun to hang out with. I would go to events just because I knew that Shaun and Cas were going. I didn't get to hang a fraction as much as I would have liked, but I had a little thought deep inside that some day I'd be living in the 'burbs again, and then I would get to chum with them all the time, and how awesome that would be.

He had a loving wife and many, many loving friends--for real, I mean, and he knew it, there was no question there. No one seems to know anything about depression, no hints were given, nothing to tell. Yet, somehow, he thought that the world and his loved ones would be better without him. I am completely incapable of understanding how he could have reached that conclusion. Whatever trouble he may have had, any of us would have given from the heart to take care of it...a thousand thousand times more if the alternative was to not have him with us ever again.

A co-op application, even for a weenie subletter, is a serious thing with lots of info. They want everything to do a credit check, so it has information like your SSN, your bank account number, your last N residences, etc. Oh yes, and a check.

Wanting to be careful about this sort of information, I thought it wise to send it via certified mail, which has delivery confirmation and requires a signature. Because it's going to an office, right? Someone should be there, right?

HA HA HA

I looked at the tracking number. Delivery was attempted last Tuesday, no one was there[*], and so a notice was left to come pick it up at the post office. (It seems they do not attempt redelivery.)

Which no one has, from that day to this. And at this point I don't expect they will. So in fifteen days (!!) it gets sent back to me, and I can try mailing it again. And then they have to actually read it, and process it, and interview me, and pass judgment, and etc. By which point I will be worn to a breaking point wondering if I have someplace to live or not.

[*] I s'pose it's possible that the mail carrier was playing silly buggers and didn't actually ring, as occasionally happens.

Cabbage Potato Soup
Potato (1), Leek (1), Cabbage (1), Salt Pile (1)
Redaction totally made up.

1. Start some bacon fat rendering in the pan. (This may not be defensible. I note that there are no visible pork products in Skyrim. But, they undoubtedly smoke and brine fatty meats, so.)
2. Chop a smallish onion, throw it in.
3. Core and shred your Cabbage (or half of one, leftover from the last adventure). Add in to wilt.
4. Take the white and pale-green parts of your Leek, slice them, add to pot.
5. Extract the bacon parts that are wholly rendered, and break them up for cat yums. Spinach Cat is much appreciative.
6. OH HEY GUESS WHO FORGOT TO START THE SOUP IN THE SOUP POT HERP DERP
7. Grumble, move everything out of skillet to pot, clean skillet.
8. Chop your Potato, about 1 lb worth. Add to pot.
9. Add 2 c. of water because it's starting to get a bit scorchy in there.
10. Add the Salt Pile.
11. Cover, let simmer while you fix a cocktail.
12. Spend an inordinate amount of time to find the cocktail that required fresh rosemary. Give up and make a Newark instead (apple brandy, sweet vermouth, Fernet Branca, Maraschino), because you can.
13. Realize it's smelling awfully...cabbagey. Sniff, ponder, add more Salt Pile and some caraway seeds.
14. Continue to let simmer while on the phone with a boy. ^_^
15. Figure it shouldn't be immersion-blended, so serve it forth.

Wow, this is pretty good. The caraway was absolutely the right note to tone down the cabbageosity.