Remedy for a bad day: Make a retro-meal

     Despite the sun outside, it has been a gray day for me.

     A beloved dog, struggling with cancer, is clearly nearing the end of her battle. Our financial adviser somehow thought I was in Mitt Romney’s tax bracket when he sent me a distribution earlier this year, didn’t withhold enough taxes, and now I owe the IRS more than two grand. I face another 100-mile-round-trip work commute tomorrow. Spring is still too far away.

     And yet… I still have two dogs (and a cat and a bird) I love, I husband I love even more, I have friends, I’m employed and I have memories of childhood meals that could bring comfort on a day like this.

     So for a “virgin” activity today, I decided to re-create one of those meals my late mother would have set on the table back in the ‘50s with all of us there. I feel tears welling as I even type this.

     The menu came from recipes from the Good Housekeeping Cook Book (published in 1942) that my mother passed on to me: meatloaf (being vegetarian, I substituted a soy substitute for the ground meat) with criss-cross cheese on top, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans (from our garden! frozen, and thawed), a salad of lettuce and tomato (iceberg would have been more authentic than my artisan lettuce, but I didn’t have any) with French dressing (didn’t have any bottled, so I made my own) and, for dessert, apple brown Betty. (OK, I don’t remember mom ever making apple brown Betty – Scotcheroos would have been more her style, but she would have liked this). It’s as close as I can get to a meal that would have been set out on our dining room table in Allen Park, Michigan.

     Then, Rick and I got out some vintage dishes, pulled out our version of TV tables and watched retro TV while we ate.

     The food was… wonderful. The day was… better.

     And, with leftovers, so will tomorrow be.

(Photo courtesy of TastofHome)

I tried on a boa... constrictor

Well, that’s a bit of an overstatement since I wasn’t exactly wearing the snake like a pashmina but it was a boa constrictor and he did slither up my arm toward my shoulder like he wanted to hang out in the cave of my armpit until the sun came out.

     Sebastian is his name and he belongs to my friend John, who also has a couple other snakes, some geckos and – for all I know – an amphibious vehicle.

     Sebastian is actually kind of a handsome fella. He’s an albino boa, a kind that is apparently prized in the pet snake-osphere, and he’s cream-colored with butterscotch “saddles” – those diamond-shaped markings that grow more intense toward the snake’s tail.

     He’s also very young, maybe eight months old, and not quite half the five- to six-foot length he will be at maturity. He has mesmerizing eyes with lines that look like plus signs in them (giving him the appearance of being constantly starry-eyed) and a little forked tongue that he flicks in and out to “smell” what is nearby (in this case, me).

     That “smelling” is how boas find their prey. Most people know how constrictors work – grabbing their prey with their teeth, wrapping their coiled bodies around the intended dinner and squeezing until the victim can no longer draw air into its lungs. A leisurely dinner of – depending on the size of the snake – mouse, rat, rabbit, pig or deer, swallowed whole – then ensues.

     Feeling a boa constrictor move is quite a marvel. The snake stiffens its (many) ribs for support, then lifts its belly scales to propel itself forward. It tickled when Sebastian crawled on my arm, but I could feel the power in the movement.

     The strength – and size – of boas are likely what give them their menacing reputation, which folks who know snakes say is undeserved. Boas are not venomous, would just as soon avoid people as wrangle with them, and can be quite well-behaved. John says snakes have personalities, like all animals do, and characterizes Sebastian’s as “mellow.”

     After my first-ever get-together with a boa constrictor, I have no reason to disagree.

     Would I hang out with Sebastian again once he got to be six feet long?

     Sure.

     As long as he’d had a good meal long beforehand.

The zen of walking backward

Like a lot of people my age, I occasionally have lower back pain, and I’d heard about studies showing that walking backward on a treadmill significantly reduced discomfort among participants.

     I figured it might be kind of like turning back the odometer on a car – make the model appear a little newer than it actually is.

     So yesterday, I tried it for the first time.

     One study, at the University of Nevada, found positive results among participants who walked backward for 15 minutes three times a week because the activity increased flexibility of the low back, “resulting in greater sagittal (from front to back) and coronal (frontal) range of motion.” And who doesn’t want better sagittals and coronals?

     One proviso: The scientists said this backward walking should be done without hanging on to the railings on the treadmill – a challenge for this walker, who’s a white-knuckled rail-clutcher even when walking forward.

     Another proviso: If you try it, start at a really slow speed, because walking backward on a treadmill is harder than you think.

     It feels weird. Instead of striking the belt with your heel first, you’re stepping on the ball of your foot and rolling it backward. But you’re also not “loading” the knee joint, which is the cause of pain among a lot of hikers and climbers.

     It’s also hard to keep your balance, or at least it was for someone like me without a great sense of balance (no flamingo yoga poses for this kid).

     But I learned that, by focusing on a spot across the room, I could get into a kind of meditative mindset that allowed me to hit a rhythm and almost forget about what I was doing. This, despite the discomfort I felt almost immediately at the top of both legs, where they meet the body.

     The first five minutes of backward walking went by really slowly; for the other 10, I nearly forgot I was there.

     Did it work? Well, I’ve only done it once so far and the studies I researched were among subjects who practiced backward walking for weeks. I plan to keep at it.

     And this morning, when Rick asked me how my sore back was doing, I told him I’d forgotten I had one.

In the "universal" war, the remote wins

     Imagine a world where you could use one device to turn on both your television and your DVD player, where this single miraculous tool could also control volume and picture format, where you never had to leave the comfort of your couch to fish for another remote or mess with the dials of your TV or DVD player.

     Such a world is already here, you say?

     Not in this household, so one of my resolutions for 2012 was to program the remote for our satellite receiver and television so it would also control the DVD player – for the first time in the history of our home.

     How did it go? How much time do you have? Like this:

     HOUR ONE: Try to figure out the “device code” for our Emerson combined DVD/VCR player (OK, it’s an older model). This involved pushing buttons to go from “satellite” to “DVD” mode, holding down the mode button ‘til several other buttons flashed, then punching in numbers from a chart that might or might not be the right ones for this particular model DVD player. Just to be sure, I punched them all in twice. Then I did the hokey pokey and I turned myself around.

     HOUR TWO: Try to bust that darned device code using the “scanning” method, where you switch from satellite to DVD mode, turn on the power and go up and down the channel selections until the DVD turns itself off. Then you know you’ve got the right code. I finally got codes for both the DVD and the VCR and was about to pop open the champagne when I realized that, no matter which input or mode buttons I pushed, the television picture did not change, so I was obviously not switching to DVD mode.

     HOUR THREE: When in doubt, call India. I finally broke down and called the customer service number for our dish company and got a resolutely polite man with an Indian accent (I’m convinced this is why so many companies outsource customer service to India; no one else is as courteous in the face of consumer hostility). He walked me through several button-pushing steps, put me on hold a couple of times, then got back in and asked whether my television had any channel buttons on the face of it. It did not, I told him. Well, he said apologetically, even though his company’s remotes are supposed to be “universal,” there are some televisions they just won’t work with and mine was one. He was so sorry, he said. But not as sorry as I was.

     HOUR FOUR: I considered opening the champagne anyway.

     Some things just aren’t meant to be.

Ain't she tweet

One of the challenges of being over 60 and trying to keep pace with the changing world around me is using social media, How do I befriend (or should I say “friend”) it and use it to best advantage?

     That’s why one of my “virgin” resolutions for this year was to learn how to use a hashtag – the “#” symbol that is used to mark keywords in a Twitter post to categorize them so they’ll show up more easily in a Twitter search.

     But first, I wanted to know why hashtags are so-called.

     It turns out that in commonwealth English, the symbol we Americans call a pound sign or number sign is called a hash, and the telephone dial button that has the “#” on it is called a hash key.

     On Twitter, the online networking service that lets you send and receive text posts of up to 140 characters, hashtags help you find the most interesting postings about that subject. If you click on a hashtagged word in a Tweet (posting), for example, it shows you all the other Tweets in that category. Hashtagged words that become very popular are often Twitter Trending Topics, which I gather is kind of like going viral on UTube.

     But first, I needed a basic Twitter lesson, so I turned to my friend Melissa, a social networking master and a real tweetheart to boot.

     I already knew that Tweets were great for communicating urgent news instantaneously – e.g., the British are coming – and Melissa said they are indeed a tool.

    But she mentioned something this techno-resistant writer had never considered – that, because Tweets must be 140 characters or fewer – they force the writer to be concise, thoughtful and creative in the process of composing. Kind of like social networking haiku.

     That softened my heart somewhat. So I duly signed up for a Twitter account and sent my first Tweet – to all four of the people I am so far following. One (OK, it was Melissa) even reTweeted it.

     Now for the hashtag part. I’m tweeting a link to THIS blog post on Twitter (@wildogfarm) with the hashtags #over60 and #hashtags.

     We’ll see what happens.

The secret world of kumquats

I confess to misconceptions about kumquats.

     They didn’t grow ‘em where I grew up outside of DEE-troit and even after decades of living in New England, I had never seen one at the age of 64.

     So, eating a kumquat was one of my “virgin” resolves for 2012. I loved the sound of the word – KUMquat.

     I pictured a medium-sized, “squat” fruit, like a misshapen papaya or mango, which of course was the first misconception.

     Kumquats – native to Asia – are tiny, perfectly oval creations that look like baby oranges, which is close to what they are. Sort of.

     Peel open a little kumquat and taste the inside and you’ll get a burst of intense citrus flavor, almost like you were getting the “zest” along with the fruit. Eat the kumquat whole (which many people do) and you get the same, slightly sweeter, sensation, like the zing of a good marmalade (which, it turns out, kumquats are often used for).  With kumquats, it’s the rind that’s sweet and the pulp that’s tart, so eating them whole makes sense.

     Where do you get them? Gourmet shops or places like Whole Foods, which is where I got mine.

     What do you do with them?  Many people DO use them for marmalade, but I tried making “candied” kumquats, which can be used as snacks, on salads, or in this great hazelnut crunch cake recipe from Epicurious.

     I love it when my preconceptions get overturned.

    

Go rock-climbing

So… Spiderwoman I ain’t.

     But this height-fearful, arthritic-fingered adventurer still had fun on her virgin rock-climbing experience, scaling (part of) the four-sided, 40-foot wall at The Workout Club in Salem, N.H.

     After locking me into a harness and attaching me to a rope with figure-eight and safety knots, my 18-year-old instructor, Angela (a competitive swimmer and longtime rock climber) watched from her side of a double belay as I maneuvered slowly up one wall.

     She offered tips: Keep your butt close to the rock, and rely more on your lower body strength (pushing off from footholds) than on your upper (hauling your body weight up with your fingers) until you develop a style that works for you.

     I would also add this advice: Anticipate underwear wedgies, and DON’T LOOK DOWN.

     After climbing a while, I started sweating under my fleece sweater and descended in one of those cool, kick-off-from-the-rock moves where the rope and harness bring you gently to the ground, like you see in commercials. That part was genuinely fun.

     Then, down to my T-shirt and pants, I climbed again, this time with a little more confidence. I’d like to say that I made it to the top of the wall, but I’d be lying by about half or more. As Angela had predicted, muscles that aren’t used in most day-to-day activities, like the ones in your forearms, started aching and I soon called it a day (though I was pleased that my athletic husband didn’t make it much farther up the wall than I did).

     For those serious about the sport, special footwear can be purchased – flexible, rubbery shoes with lots of Velcro bindings – and, of course, harnesses, ropes and other gear can be bought at a range of prices. Gyms devoted to rock climbing, like the Boston Rock Gym in Woburn, Mass., or Vertical Dreams in Manchester, N.H., offer professional classes.

     As for me, I’m not ready to invest in a ton of gear or sign up for a K-2 climb, but I plan to build up those forearms ‘til I look like Popeye and give it another try!

    

Make a mind-blowing mousse

     Airy, tantalizing chocolate mousse. Love it. Never made it. Until now.

     Here is the recipe my friends loved:

n      Put one cup premium lamb and rice dog food in a bowl and set aside.

n      Break up six ounces of bittersweet chocolate and put in the top of a double boiler on low heat (or in a small pan on top of a steamer in a larger pan with gently boiling water) until it melts. (Keep checking so you don’t run out of water and wreck the pan.) Turn off heat when melted and let stand.

n      Beat one pint of heavy cream until voluptuous peaks form and set aside.

n      Now the hard part: Whip three to four egg whites into soft canyons and valleys. (Note: Make sure the egg whites are at room temperature before you start or, like me, you’ll find they don’t whip and you have to start all over.) Add two tablespoons of sugar just as peaks start to form and continue whipping until stiff (the egg whites, not you). You will face the same ethical dilemma I did regarding what to do with the unused egg yolks. I recommend cooking them and adding them to the waiting dog food.

n      Scrape the melted chocolate into a large mixing bowl and whisk in all the egg whites, then fold in the whipped cream.

n      Cover the mousse appreciatively and keep cool at least one hour before serving. Whipped cream and cute little chocolate curls can be added as garnish before serving.

n      In the meantime, feed the dog the dog food.

Starting the new year on a 'positive' note

     There are so many things I’m still a virgin to – climbing a 4,000-footer, camping in winter, singing at a karaoke bar – but for my first-ever blog post I thought I’d choose one of the more difficult things on my list: Not saying anything negative for an entire day.

     The morning was easy because I was in silence – sitting at a “meditate for peace” group gathering that has become an annual New Year’s Day tradition for me and a friend.

     But then came the first half of the Patriots game, where the Pats’ defense seemed to be altogether MIA, and I was feeling the after-effects of the previous night’s champagne and home-made eggnog and my intention became… challenged. It didn’t help that my dear friend Susan was urging that I exclude Jets coach Rex Ryan from my “no negativity” pledge as we got updates on that game.

     So… I tried my best to exclaim only at the positive Pats’ plays (thank you, Mr. Gronkowski) and, who knows? Maybe it helped them, too. Look at that 49-21 final score.

     Which reminds me of one of my favorite positive-thinking experiences, an event that  happened exactly 10 years ago today.

     I had gone to a small outbuilding on our property to write some New Year’s resolutions and do some thinking when Rick suddenly appeared, bearing a bouquet of flowers.

     That’s dumb, I thought to myself; they’re only going to freeze out here. But I told myself, don’t be a bitch. He’s trying to be sweet.

     Then he suggested we go outside and sit on a rug next to the vernal pool that was still flowing and I thought, it’s freezing out there; I don’t want to. But I told myself, don’t be a bitch. He’s being romantic.

     So we took the rug out to a log near the vernal pool on the first day of the new year, 2001… and Rick proposed.

     I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I HAD been a bitch and blurted out my first thoughts that morning.

     So glad my positivity rallied, like the Patriots’ defense.

     I won big time.

     Can your intention affect events? I don’t know. All I know is, it can – does – affect who you are and who you are becoming.

     And we’re always becoming, whatever age we are.