Amorphous blob'ism of a week

Y'all, January is hard enough without accusations of "shithole" (or, as it wasn't but was suggested/lied about, "shithouse") countries and assertions of people we do and don't want anytime but sort of especially MERE DAYS BEFORE we celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Day in the year that IS ALSO the 50th year since his assassination. 

January is cold enough that we can really do without continued sexual impropriety on a grand scale, including multiple and fairly credible tales of porn stars having had affairs with the Evil Yam just after Melania gave birth and then being paid hush money to shut up about it all.

January is screwy enough in terms of snow days and, thusly, parental schedules, that I hardly think we also need a desperate mother paying a large sum to largely untrained Container Store people for a "sleek and Swedish" organizational system that promises to solve a hoarder son's closet issues. Said mother averred that a cyclonically-inspired closet could be tamed in 60-90 minutes on an early-dismissal Tuesday. Said mother was, four hours, no lunch, and extreme body and foot odor later, chastened by said sleek and Swedish org system that is now a permanent part of a closet due to a mallet, chisel, hammer, and wild-eyed determination to make that fucker fit. Do not tell said mother's husband just what lengths she went to via the baseboard just inside the closet doors.

My dear housekeeper, Imelda, ventured in two hours in: "Emily, I am hearing the hammer. Is everything going ok? I want to offer my help."

"Imelda, I will win in this closet. I will make this organizer fit."

"Ok, Emily, it's just, I'm hearing the hammer" -read: "I should not be hearing a hammer," which was an accurate perspective from anyone but especially Imelda who can fix and solve and do anything- "and I want to offer my services."

I'm pretty sure my scent and the state of my hair and eyes caused her quick departure from the room. 

The Container Store is really the devil. No wonder it partners with Real Simple magazine which is the lyingest name of a magazine ever. Real Stressful would be infinitely more accurate. Sweet baby jesus in the skies, RS editors. Back your trains up. No one can cover even 80% of the advice you offer on one page must less on 200 of them. 

Meanwhile, the children appear to be suffering January-induced meltdowns and loss of senses of humor. Mary mother of moody boys. Get it together. Tonight, Tom's 40th birthday incidentally, found me with a brand new Keratin treatment in my hair -which means it's straight as a board and CANNOT, under penalty of death, be tucked in a rubber band, hair band, or even behind an ear- peeling and deveining shrimp, making biscuits, preparing a cocktail, making the kids' dinner, AND alternately tending to and ignoring pitiful whimpering from Oliver because he had to copy previously written persuasive letter text onto a new sheet of paper. The trials of being a privileged youth today.

My eyes just fell out I rolled them so hard.

Have you ever tried to peel and devein shrimp without being able to move your hair out of your face or even really touch it? Such is not an optimal scenario. And the wailing child is the cream. 

But I'm a perseverant gal, and damn you shithole president and persuasive letter writing and Keratin, I will make my husband a delicious meal. And I did.

barbecue shrimp

biscuits!

kale salad

And the boys calmed down and got their homework done, and dinner was good, and then T and I watched Get Out which is hands down the best social commentary film I've seen in a while, and now we're two forty-somethings off to bed. Happy Birthday, honey.

A loss and a meal and a niece

It's been pouring brickbats all day. Early on it felt cozy, but, in concert with having fallen back with (the most horrible event foisted on us twice yearly) Daylight Savings and thus being plunged into darkness at approximately 3pm (legit, I offered Oliver dinner at 2:57p today AND felt as if I were doing so late), and some heartbreaking news this afternoon and the looming anniversary of election day 2017, well, it's been a grim evening. 

When I was very young -two years out of college- I moved to New York with a broken heart, big dreams, no money, and a job I'd talked my way into and was not remotely prepared for. You will not be surprised to know that the job didn't last, not least because my boss was an abusive alcoholic who enjoyed hitting on all of the waifish women he'd lured into the company.

Desperate, I reached out to a former University of Chicago colleague who now worked at Columbia. She put me in touch with the admissions director and long story short, I was offered a job. Bliss.

I moved into the lower level of 212 Hamilton Hall and became officemates with Terry. Next door, if I remember correctly, resided Peter.

Peter V. Johnson, a bespectacled man who always wore a suit, bow tie, and proper pocket square. Who laughed at my skim, no-whip gingerbread lattes, who offered me friendship and mentorship and made me fight, in the best and smartest ways, for the applicants I really thought warranted admission.

He'd attended Earlham, was married to a vibrant woman and had a vibrant daughter. He'd been at Columbia for years.

He called me Slim and I called him Peeves (an ellision of P. V. J.). I distinctly remember several colleagues saying, "Not sure he'd let anyone else call him that."

When we moved to temporary quarters because 212 Hamilton began its renovation, Peter and I shared an office. Never, before or since, have I enjoyed sharing office space quite that much. I can still hear Peter's raspy chuckle, can still recall the way we sat in stupor as we watched the Towers fall on 9/11.

Once we'd moved into our shiny new space, no one shared an office, but Peter's corner spot was a primary hangout. How many times did I sit for hours a day, six days a week, arguing for certain applicants, ordering another container of Strokos tuna salad, marking my docket, losing track of time in there?

Those hours are some of my fondest professional memories. And now Peter is gone. And my heart is so sad.

For all of these reasons, none of these reasons, reasons beyond today, I found myself nesting like a fool this evening. Ol was driving me batshit, Jack and his pal were doing just enough homework to stay within the limits of acceptable, and all I could think to do was cook and provide.

What was meant to be the ingredients for at least two days of meals turned into a one-night feast that will, hopefully, sustain us through the weekend. That said, the steak is gone. I am not yet buying enough to sate the appetites of growing boys. But there is a huge pot of soup (ribollita; absent leafy greens per a shopping mistake and freezer overestimation but alas), a vat of potatoes, half a round of the best cornbread ever, and there is love and thought and memory in it all.

red chili cornbread

flank steak tagliata a'sear

steak at rest

Five days ago, on my nephew's 3rd birthday, his little sister was born. A day later, she was named Virginia. She is such a darling beauty, and I can't wait to meet her.

Today, Virginia went blue (go Northam), and I have to think that in the cycle of loss and birth and life and death is, always, love. And hope. I know Peter would have been pleased with the gubernatorial outcomes of today, and I thank little Virginia for any part her happy birth played.

sweet Virginia, five days old

Week in Review

This past Wednesday was the annual Washington Area Women's Foundation Leadership Luncheon. You might remember my post about it last year. I was so inspired that despite my complete lack of comfort with soliciting money, I enthusiastically agreed to join the Host Committee for this year's event. 

The tone of this year's Luncheon was one firmly rooted in female empowerment and strength. After a week of Me Toos swirling around, it was tremendously meaningful to sit with more than a thousand women (and a few men) and celebrate our vast ability, resilience, and connectedness. I am proud that the host committee this year raised more than $860,000 for the Women's Foundation. This record amount is crucial for our wholly donor-supported organization, and I am grateful to all who lift us up. 

On Friday night, a dear friend and I headed downtown to see Tom Hanks in conversation with Ann Patchett. A curious combination, perhaps, until you find that Hanks has just published a book of short stories, Uncommon Type. 

Gorgeous night, exciting event.

He is an avid collector of vintage typewriters (he owns more than 200) and the machine has a role, from mention to major character, in each of the seventeen stories in the book. 

Meanwhile, in addition to being a prolific writer, Patchett, as you might know, owns the independent bookstore, Parnassus Books, in Nashville. She was sent an advanced copy of Hanks' book. Initially rolling her eyes over "another actor who wants to publish a book," she found that once she started reading, she couldn't stop. She noted with relief that Hanks' writing is totally unaffected in a way that feels increasingly rare these days. 

It was a delightful conversation, although my friend and I both wondered if Hanks is always so kinetic and "on" or if he was in show-mode for this event. It was at times almost exhausting to watch and listen to him. I liked Patchett a lot. Although I don't much care for her fiction, her nonfiction is brilliant and I absolutely adore it. I hoped not to have a Kingsolver experience (remember when I went to hear her speak and found her public presence not terribly appealing; sad), and I didn't.

Washington has so much to offer. Despite American politics feeling like the most depressing and toxic and devouring dumpster fire ever, this city is extraordinarily rich in so many other ways, and I feel lucky I can take regular advantage of our cultural and social justice offerings.

It has also been a week (weeks, actually) of pretty and delicious food which for me never fails to serve as balm and joy. 

pumpkin ravioli with sage brown butter and parmesan

incredibly juicy, tangy Concord grapes from a local farmers market

tomatoes from that market heading towards roasted tomato jam (an outstanding Amanda Hesser recipe)

after nearly two hours in the oven, the jam is ready to put up.

In other news, Stumptown has changed its packaging, and I'm smitten with the handsome take on a humble coffee bag. If you love coffee and grind your own beans for your morning espresso, please try Hairbender. Mamma mia. It's a worthy splurge.

And Nutmeg continues to keep watch, this time with the help of a bony friend. Oliver, who loves Halloween more than even his birthday and Christmas, is in full decorative spirit and costume planning right now. The countdown to the 31st is on! Ol told me last week, "Mamma, I know you don't love Halloween, but you always work to make it so much fun for me. Thank you." What a gift he is, and such an old soul. Tom and I are dressing up this year, and Ol is delighted. I told him that his enthusiasm is infectious, and thanks for making my life more fun.