This post was written on March 27, 2008, but I reread it again tonight, and wept anew at how desperately I love my Grandpa.

I had such a wonderful time at Grandpa’s funeral, with no kids to chase, and my whole family (minus one brother who couldn’t make it) to play with. We all crammed into the house on Cherry Lane, with some of us on the floor, some on couches. There was movie watching (Rubin and Ed) and Mexican cooking, and everybody waiting for Grandpa to come out of his bedroom and ask if anybody wanted any ice cream.

I had been very emotional about not getting to see Grandpa again, but those who were there said that he had woken one last time when they were discussing my plans to come the next day. In a very egocentric way, I love that he was excited to see me again, and that he responded to my name. The people who were present told him that I was trying my best to get there, and that I loved him. He died about an hour later, after slipping back into sleep.

My wonderful little brother sat with Grandpa for hours that day, holding his hand and listening to his breathing. He noticed the change, and called everyone in when it was time. After Grandpa died, and nobody knew what to do, my other younger brother went and built a fire in the fireplace because that’s what Grandpa always did when people came over, even if it was 80 degrees inside. My cousin wore one of Grandpa’s bolo ties to the funeral.

On Thursday night, we all went to the viewing. I knew we were going. We went straight from the airport to Provo. I was feeling terrible from the trip, so I had gone running. We had had dinner with the family, then headed to the mortuary together. I was happy to be with my family. Even my mom was there, and she and dad were talking (not something that happened often while they were married). Grandpa’s two living siblings were there, some neighbors came, and some of Grandpa’s second and third wives’ families came.

I was standing around with my brothers and cousins watching the slide show when I turned around and glimpsed the casket, which I hadn’t yet noticed. I was accosted with the realization that Grandpa was dead, and that his body, his shell, lay in the adjoining room. I saw the crown of his forehead, and his wispy white hair. Almost in a swoon, I fled outside to weep. Though I had known, intellectually, that I was at his viewing, I hadn’t processed the connection with him actually being there, to see. I was desperately sad.

I went back in with determination to face the mortal remains of my sweet Grandpa. As I stood over the casket, I noted his waxy, yellow-orange skin. His eyelids, wrinkled and painted, were no longer translucent, as I remembered them. His hands were folded, and they were familiar, yet foreign, their position and color contrived. His glasses seemed oddly large.

My youngest brother approached me silently. We stood for a moment, then moved into the other room, still with the casket in full view. We talked briefly about how the body there resembled our Grandpa, but wasn’t him. It was his leftovers. It was comforting to me to know that he wasn’t in there anymore. I have no firm beliefs about where Grandpa might be now, but I know he’s not in that aged, frail body anymore. As much as he enjoyed his life, Grandpa was ready to part with it.

Today, as Kiki and I were exiting the indoor portion of our farmer’s market, it was pouring rain. I asked her if we should wait until it stopped, or just go out. She said we’d go. There was a man standing by the door, who heard our interchange, and said, “She’s not afraid of getting wet. Although she may melt, cause she looks like sugar.”

I must admit, in her pink top with cherries on it, and black tights and black ballet skirt, she did, indeed, look pretty sweet.

My neighbor (the famous Phil, stitcher-upper extraordinaire) stopped to chat this morning, and regaled me with the tale of his daughter’s “hand, foot, and mouth disease”. Yeah, guess where she got it? I had thought Kiki’s shoes were too small, because she had all these little blisters on her feet. Upon further inspection, I realized that they were too many, and too evenly spread to be a result of friction with her footwear. We put an antibiotic on the sores, thinking they may be fungal, and they went away quickly enough. But I’m pretty sure we shared the joy first.

We’re great neighbors.

I just saw a squirrel run past my kitchen window with a 3-inch zucchini in his mouth. My zucchini. That I grew with the sweat of my brow. Probably the same bastard that thwarted all my attempts at sowing lettuces. And robbed me of every single strawberry. Or at least one of the cohorts that conspire against me to prevent me from enjoying a fruitful harvest. I’ve never felt so violent towards wildlife before.

I’ve been ambivalent about fireworks for years. But after watching the video that Jana posted about the personal cost of the fireworks industry, I’m not too sad I missed it last night. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to participate in fireworks productions again, unless there’s a serious change in their manufacture, and certification that people’s lives aren’t at stake daily, just so we can pretend like we’re watching bombs blow and celebrating our “freedom”, otherwise known as buying power. No more cheap fireworks for me.

I’m in my own home again. I’m exhausted. I need to clean our little house. I need to exercise. Before I exercise, I need to go get a steroid shot to make my hip behave. I need to go shopping to get something for breakfast. I need to take care of my poor, neglected garden. I need to go to the library. I need another nap.

Go read the NY Times op-ed piece about some of the differences between liberals and conservatives. It’s not a political piece, but it’s still interesting. Anyway, how about this sentence,

“If you damage your prefrontal cortex, your I.Q. may be unaffected, but you’ll have trouble harrumphing.”

Also, I thought it was interesting, though not entirely surprising, that it has been found that people who search things on the internet generally find stuff that reinforces their own bias. Don’t we all want to be proven right? It’s the same in our conversation. We love to talk to people who agree with us, or who validate our opinions. That’s how we tribe up. I like the suggestion to lunch with people who have differing opinions than our own, though not necessarily radically different, or at least not people who won’t listen respectfully to your own ideas.

I’m moving to Vauban. In related news, I bought myself a bike yesterday, for my Mother’s Day/birthday/Christmas present for the next 2 years.

Pretty, no? I had them add fenders, a back rack, and a front basket. 21 Speed, front shocks, comfy ride. I may be in love.

as in, the pox. Zeeb got it from the vaccination, and this morning, Kiki woke up with a ring around her neck. Yay. Derek is out of town, of course, because every time he leaves, something bad happens (remember the sliced finger, the cracked skull?).

I think I may have to skip Calvin’s school’s Mother’s Day Tea.

This is a whiny post about my whininess. Not whinniness, which is what a horse would be, but whiny-ness. I’m a whiner. Whiner sum ego.

I went to the doctor last week, after years of complaining about the cold. Yes, I’m one of those people that you wish would just move away, so you never have to hear about the frozen feet again. I wear multiple wool sweaters in the winter. I wear wool leggings under my pants, and several pairs of socks under my sheepskin boots. Yet my hands and feet, and thus my entire body, remain unremittingly frigid. I hate it. I hate it so bad that it frequently makes me cry.

It’s against my principles to set the thermostat above 68 in the winter. Even that feels indulgent. Yet, every once in a while, I just can’t take it anymore and crank it up to 70. Then I feel guilty and turn it back down to 60 overnight.

I feel angry all winter long that I have to haul my kids to school and preschool in the bitter cold. I dream of having a second car. But then I feel selfish and bratty. I dream of having a treadmill, so I could run or walk without braving the arctic chill (and now the rain), but then I can’t stand the idea of using electricity to do something that requires none, and should only be creating energy, not wasting it. So I don’t go running.

Well, the point is that I went to the doctor to get tested for hypothyroidism, which is one know cause of intolerance to cold. I was practically praying that they would find that I have it, because I would just have to take one pill a day, and everything would be normal.

Well, I don’t. I’m fine, healthy, whatever. I have Raynaud’s syndrome. Yeah, unexplained intolerance to cold. Nothing really to do except try to keep warm.

Just in case you’re curious, Raynaud’s is where the capillaries in the extremities clamp shut because of either sudden (or prolonged) cold, or emotional distress. Some of you have witness me have an attack, and it’s not the cutest thing ever. I’m sure depression doesn’t exactly help. The hands and feet can become white because of the lack of blood. Then they turn blue from lack of oxygen. (I’ve never gotten that far.) But then, they can develop gangrene. Yup, we can get frostbite in temperatures where other people are wearing shorts comfortably.

I cried for about 10 minutes this morning, when I found out I don’t have hypothyroidism. Isn’t that awesome?

So I’m reading this cookbook/philosophy book by New York restaurant owner Kenny Shopsin. It’s a great read on many levels, but I’ll warn you, skip it if you get queasy at multiple sex references and profanity. Anyway, I just wanted to let the crepe lovers among you know that the crepe method Shopsin created is worth finding the book for. I tried to get it on Amazon, but they didn’t have it, at least last week. Luckily, my awesome local library does.

Anyway, if you’re a crepe purist, maybe you should avert your eyes while I describe the painfully simple, fast way to cheat on crepes. Grab some white flour tortillas, the thinner the better, and the great big ones are the best. In a wide bowl, whip up some eggs with a little cream and a tiny bit of vanilla. Dunk the tortillas, one by one, a la french toast, and maybe let them stew for a few minutes while you heat up the griddle.

Butter griddle like you would for regular crepes. When it’s hot, toss in a tortilla, cook until golden on the bottom, with lovely brown circles all around, flip, same for next side. I plated these up as fast as I could and couldn’t keep up with how fast they were cooking. I actually had to cut the tortillas in quarters because my griddle is too tiny, but that works with little kids just fine.

I popped them on a plate, dabbed about a tablespoon of cottage cheese (no ricotta on hand), a drizzle of strawberry jam, folded it like a burrito, and tapped on some powdered sugar. What a hit.

There are so many other cheats in the book that it’s worth looking into. I already do a lot of them, but he sure takes it to a new level, as far as being prepared to cook anything on the fly, and serve in less than 5 minutes.

I’ve now started daydreaming about visiting Shopsin’s General Store, but I suspect I’d get kicked out for being too much of a twit. I’d probably walk in, stare around with wide eyes, and stammer. And Shopsin would bellow, “Off with her head!” Actually, I doubt he’d do that, but I don’t know if I want to find out.