Crumbs

Posted on December 15, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

One day my brother stopped over for a cup of coffee.  Like most visitors, he sat at the kitchen island while I brewed up a cup.  Or maybe it was a pot of tea.  I offered him a cookie or a piece of cake.  The exact morsel is unclear.  What is clear is that at some point between sipping his hot beverage and standing up to leave, he swept some crumbs off the island and onto the floor.  It happened in an instant, like an elbow jerking after the doctor taps it with a rubber mallet.

It was shocking to me, but what could I say?  He was a guest.

In a similar striking instant, he realized his faux pas and said “did I just sweep crumbs on your floor?”

We both laughed.  I probably said “no worries.”

Inside, I was tossed about like a tempest because…well…I am a little bit of a neat freak.  I’m not saying it’s a good thing.  I’ve tried and tried not to be and sometimes my house is actually in disarray.  During such times, I’m in turmoil within until I can establish a clean sink or a clear cupboard.  Order on the outside, order on the inside.  It ain’t easy being me some days.

On Saturday, I had lunch with my parents.  My mother made a pizza and as is our usual custom after a meal, we cleared the table and started the dishes.  Imagine my surprise when my mother, Saint Helen of Immaculata, swept a few crumbs onto the floor.

I looked at her and said “Mum! What are you doing?”

“It’s just a few crumbs.  We’ll vacuum them up later.”

I offered to get the vacuum and clean up the offending crumbs RIGHT NOW, but she was firm in her resolution that the crumbs would stay on the floor.  She’d vacuum them up LATER.

Helen had spoken.

At this point, convinced I was adopted, I walked home in a daze and went straight to the closet in my laundry room.  I pulled out my Miele vacuum and started running it around the kitchen.  No crumbs here.

Little Mechanical Balsam PillowFriends, there are only ten days left until Christmas.  Here is a very short list of things I may not get done before the big day.  As an exercise, I’m going to work on accepting my imperfection as a holiday hostess and I suggest you check your own list (check it twice) to see if there are certain things you could give up on now to avoid disappointment on December 25.

  1. I am not going to lose 10 pounds in 10 days.
  2. I may not be able to make my own organic leaf lard pie crust for French meat pies this year.
  3. I am not going to have all my Christmas cards in the mail by the close of business today, the big US Postal Service mail day.
  4. I may not be able to make a batch of ginger snaps AND a batch of frosted sugar cookies.  It might end up being ONE or the OTHER but not BOTH.
  5. I’m probably not going to get around to sewing a maroon velveteen pillow cover.

Sure, I’ve had Mr. Deehan running here and there, doing this and that during most of his available daylight hours.  But the sands are rapidly running through his hourglass; he tells me he’s going on vacation starting this Wednesday and I’ll be BLEEP out of luck for a few weeks.

With the impending absence of my house’s strong arm and mighty fortress, I’ve accepted the fact that my holidays will be just a smidge less than perfect. What else can I do?

But I’ll tell you one thing.

There won’t be any crumbs on my kitchen floor this year, that’s for damn sure.

Posted in Experiments and Challenges | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

My Cookie-Pierced Heart

Posted on December 12, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Everyone knows by now that I don’t have a Tee Vee.  Worse than that particular crime against Americanism, I’m not very good at following pop culture.  Sure, the teenagers walk by my house every day wearing pajama pants, hoodies, and Uggs.  I observe, I briefly ask “why?” and then I reframe my thoughts back to my work, the blog, Moxie, and French language fluency.  I don’t shop a lot any more, either, so I don’t get catalogs in the mail.  But I’m not completely oblivious and I follow a few cultural and socio-economic trends via Facebook and Twitter.  I do know it is “Holiday Cookie Swap” season.

This week, writer Drew Magary issued his “Hater’s Guide To The Williams-Sonoma Catalog.”  You can read it here.  (There’s lots of bad language, you have been warned.)  I read it and I laughed.  I laughed a lot and I wondered if I could ever write anything quite as clever without all the BLEEPs.  But mostly what caught my eye was his mention of gluten-free vanilla sugar cookie mix and the “Holiday Cookie Swap.”

You see, a few weeks ago, Mathilde Murdoch invited me to a “Holiday Cookie Swap.”  Tildee has invited me to every single one of her cookies swaps and I’ve declined each of her five invitations.  Last year, I had just moved and could barely find a cookie sheet.  The years before?  Who knows.  I looked at the list of invitees copied on Tildee’s e-mail this year and I couldn’t refuse because I missed my friends from New Hampshire.

Cherie Ripperton, Slim, Jenna Mae, and Jackie Phillips had all RSVP’d “yes.”  Other friends I’ve never blogged about were going too, and there was a delightful promise of “light appetizers.”  Best of all?  It was going to be at Lee-Annie Leonie’s new Portsmouth “in-town” condo, the story of which is a happy one all by itself.  So I pulled out my baking stones and responded to the note with a quick “I’ll be there with Ginger Snaps.”

My cookies were ready and carefully sealed into a vintage cookie tin.  I was really looking forward to going until I read the “Hater’s Guide.”

Had I allowed what Magary calls the “doily mill” of Williams-Sonoma, Crate & Barrel, Martha Stewart, and other media message makers to influence me with their shiny granite countertops, Le Creuset cooking dishes, and perfectly shaped sugar concoctions?  Was I just another American consumer in search of another kitchen tool to complete myself?

Let it never be so.

It being the holiday season, I took the day off from work and decided to spend it visiting some of my favorite places on the Seacoast, my residence for almost twenty years.  On my way to the Rye Beach Post Office to mail some holiday cards, I stopped at the Rye branch of my bank.  I pulled into the parking lot and shut off my old Jeep.  What was that smell?  I had just had the Jeep’s oil changed.  I popped the hood and did a cursory glance around the engine and assured myself it was just my imagination.  As I slammed the hood back down, a woman of seventy or so pulled up in a giant Audi, a model I had never seen before, and looked curiously at me.  She asked “is everything ok?”

“Oh! Yes, thank you!” I said.  “You know how old cars are. They’re always smoking and stinking.”

She gave me a perfunctory smile and then quickly darted into the bank.  Obviously, she did not know how old cars were and “smoking” and “stinking” were two adjectives she had never applied to her motoring adventures.  I’d better watch myself with the down-home Maine stuff.

I mailed my letters and headed back to Portsmouth.

I had some time to fill before the cookie swap so I parked the stinking smoker on a side street beyond the meters and walked to the Portsmouth Athenaeum.

Please leaveIt’s a private membership library, but it’s open to the public on certain days.  Yesterday afternoon was one of them.  I have a pleasant memory of spending an afternoon there, sitting in an old Windsor chair and reading, and I had hoped I could find a quiet place to write a few Christmas cards.  I climbed the stairs to the third floor.

I walked in on a group of men and women seated around a large oak table eating lunch.  There was a moment of awkwardness and I questioned if it was my old nubby cloche hat or my L.L. Bean boots.  Then a woman stood up and walked towards me, asking “may I help you?”

“I would like to do some reading.”

She said something about a missing volunteer and that portions of the library were not available today.

“Oh.  OK.”

I had been moving towards a large oak table in a reading room and as I crossed a certain invisible line, a man from the lunch group said “Muffie, I’ll handle this.  You eat your lunch.”

Tan corduroys, a blue blazer, and a screaming green holiday tie like a stake of holly through his Scrooge-like heart were all I could see of this stern gentleman who explained there was no room at the inn for me today.  The last time I had visited must have been a fluke and in the midst of my interloper’s confusion, my mind started playing the scene from Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion, where Michele applies for a job at the Versace boutique on Rodeo Drive and is told “we won’t be requiring any staff at this time.”

Green Holiday Tie may have been offering me a stool in the corner, but all I could hear was “please leave.”

I held up my hand and said “No, no, I understand completely.  I’ll leave and go to the public library.  Thank you.”

Well, it was an awkward moment to be sure and the discs in my spine must have decompressed at least three inches.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a carrel at the Portsmouth Public Library, writing out cards and going over my “to do” list.  It couldn’t have been nicer and it was peacefully quiet.

Snow had started falling while I was inside the library.  I left my packages in the car, got my cookies, and headed over to Lee Annie’s.  The residential neighborhoods around the library twinkled in winter snow-globe perfection.  Although my heart was heavy with the afternoon’s rejection and I felt kind of dumpy from sitting around the public library all afternoon, I put on a happy face and climbed the stairs to the cookie swap.

What can I say?  Lee Annie’s new home is beautiful and it was cozy and warm.  There were lots of hugs and I couldn’t help but wipe a little tear from the corner of my eye to hear all my friends tell me they missed seeing me every day.  There were broiled prosciutto-wrapped asparagus spears and there were plates of crudité, crackers, and things to dip them in.  Dr. Dee, who I think is secretly writing the ultimate guide to cooking with Jimmy Dean sausage, brought a crock pot full of her latest creation.  Good eating!

There was a quiche and Tildee made a thoughtfully composed pizza.

There was no competition in the kitchen, just laughter, friendship, and tasty treats. And let’s not forget Bernard Saint’s salami and horseradish cream cheese appetizer squares.

The cookies? They were a lovely end to what was simply a good time with good friends.  Cherie Ripperton claimed her sugar-dusted coconut shortbread cookies weren’t her best work, but once again, she underestimated herself.  And I must say, Slim made some chocolate-dipped chocolate chip cookie dough balls sprinkled with sea salt which were downright delicious.  Ever concerned about food quality and cleanliness, she reminded everyone twice or thrice that she made the cookie dough without any eggs.  There was no Holiday Cookie Swap Salmonella this year.  Thanks, Slim!

CookiesI made it back to Maine around 10:00 p.m.  It was snowing lightly and as I rounded the corner to my house I smiled because Mr. Deehan had turned on my Christmas lights for me.  I admired my old imperfect block of a house with the red electric candles in the windows and was glad to be home, filled with stories and cookies.

Sure, old “Green Holiday Tie” at the private library set me back a few paces, but then I remembered something corny and important.  My heart wasn’t Scrooge-pierced with a stake of holly through it.  My heart was full of the affection of many wonderful friends and sometimes, that’s enough.

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Just Capause

Posted on December 11, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s funny when little children begin meandering their way around words and turn “because” into “capause.”

Coffee BreakIt kind of sounds like “coffee pause.”  Have one today.

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Solo

Posted on December 8, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I don’t remember when I started haunting the Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul in Lewiston.  Maybe it was Ash Wednesday.  Or maybe it was during a “Lady Alone Traveler” trip to Lewiston.  The exact day is not clear; my life is a whirlwind of rushing to and fro, trying to accomplish a few things before I die.

During the week the Basilica’s chapel, located in the lower level of the church, is open from 7:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m.  It’s called a “chapel” but it’s actually quite large, carved out of the footprint of the upper church.  One day, I visited for a few moments of quiet contemplation and was perfectly alone in the chapel.  I decided to sing and I was surprised by how clear my voice sounded in the giant space.  I don’t remember what hymn I sang, maybe something I knew most of the words to, like “Amazing Grace” or “Faith of Our Fathers.”

I wanted to return with my Trinity Hymnal one day, so I could sing more songs that I loved.  But each time I returned, there would be someone else there, enjoying their own moments of quiet contemplation.

This experience of singing in the Basilica chapel and my quest to become fluent in French encouraged me to join the French Mass choir.  It’s been challenging and heartwarming and encouraging.  It’s complicated and it’s probably a blog post for another day.

(I can hear the “tick, tick, tick” of my life’s whirlwind clock beating like Edgar Allan Poe’s Tell-tale Heart.)

On Saturday, the ensemble’s leader, Ann, was sick.  Another experienced singer in our group of five, Madeleine, was home as well.  Sister Renee was serving as lector.  It was just Mr. Roy and me.  One of us would have to serve as “cantor” and welcome the parishioners, announce the entrance hymn, and sing the responsorial Psalm.

Sing the responsorial Psalm.  Solo…and en Francais, of course.

I’d practiced the opening welcome before, but not seriously because I never imagined Ann or Madeleine would miss church.  And even though it seemed exciting in my mind, when the time came, the Franco-full church of faces, expectantly waiting for me to open my mouth and sing something in their language was intimidating.  Would they realize I was an imposter?  Would they laugh at my bookish pronunciation of their words?

Maybe a few of them would remember seeing me with my mother at La Rencontre and be gentle in their critique?  Had I earned enough credibility with these small acts?

And in the “you can’t make this stuff up category” there was someone there from the newspaper doing a story about the French mass.  I kid you not.  I saw a woman with a little reporter’s notebook interviewing the greeters.  A tripod was set up in one of the side aisles.  A photographer was zipping around the building snapping pictures all through the mass.

Talk about pressure.

Psalm 85(Translation: Show us your steadfast love, O Lord, and grant us your salvation. Psalm 85:7)

Well, it all turned out well.  My voice didn’t crack and our talented director and accompanist, Paul Caron, smoothed over the rough edges with his masterful playing.

Just in case it happens again, though, I’m going to change my preparation routine.

Practice makes perfect…even though I don’t know how to say that in French yet.

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Satins and Chips

Posted on December 5, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

A few nights ago, I finally unwrapped the gift my friends Mary and Dave brought to my house on Thanksgiving.  I hated to unwrap it; the slim box wrapped in orange paper with a yellow and orange polka dot ribbon blended into my living room decorating scheme perfectly.  It looked elegant on the coffee table or on the credenza.  But damn it, I wanted to know what kind of chocolates were in the box.

It turned out to be a box of Russell Stover’s “All Dark” chocolates and the first thing that came to mind as I lifted the lid were the lines from Forrest Gump.  “Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re going to get.”

Sitting in my dim living room, illuminated only by the red Christmas lights in the windows, I could not see the lid diagram outlining the box’s contents.  But I knew exactly what I was going to get because memory told me that the oval-shaped Russell Stover chocolates are always butter cream.

ALWAYS.

It was a raspberry cream and it tasted as good as it might have tasted one Christmas at an apartment on the corner of Pierce and Pine Streets in Lewiston back in the early 1970’s.  That’s the first clear memory I have of my Aunt Dot, who lived there with my French Canadian grandmother, or “Mémère.”  At Christmas, Aunt Dot always bought a few boxes of Russell Stover chocolates and they would come out of the cupboard when we visited the apartment.

The rest of the year, though, she kept a tin of the hard candy “Satins and Chips” in the living room.  Not only did those sparkly-beautiful candy tins hold a mysterious assortment of confections, they were practical too.  Aunt Dot, a heavy smoker who worried about fire, emptied her ashtray remains into an old emptied tin at the end of the day, securing the lid and securing the building from the dangers of a stray smoldering ember.

My Aunt Dot, Dorothy J. Belaire, was born on December 9, 1936. She died of cancer at age 62 on November 29, 1999.

Over the course of time and other family deaths, I inherited a box of Aunt Dot’s photographs.  No one could eat a forkful of Easter ham or a bite of Christmas finger roll until Aunt Dot had snapped a picture of it for posterity.  Then there would be the “group photos” of everyone attending these family gatherings.  Many of the photos were familiar to me because Aunt Dot always had two or three copies made and gave one to my mother.

Here’s a picture of Aunt Dot picking up some prints in her travels about town.

Aunt Dot PhotographerAside from trips to different parts of America and Canada, she lived, worked, and worshiped in Lewiston, Maine her entire life.

I’ve written a lot about my Uncle Bob here on this blog and very little about my Aunt Dot.  Uncle Bob stories are summer stories; this time of year, I think of my Aunt Dot.  When I look through the old, old pictures of this dark-haired beauty, it’s like I’m looking at a different person than the one who remembered my birthdays, First Communion, and Confirmation with a card and a cash gift.  Who was this vivacious lady in the yellowed newspaper clipping titled “Au Bal De St. Doms?” Or at a Polynesian restaurant in New York City?  Or at Blinstrub’s Village in South Boston?

Aunt Dot DivaHere in this old box of photos, still smelling faintly like one of Aunt Dot’s Winston ciggies, there’s a story.

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Afternoon Tea

Posted on December 4, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

It’s a delight to have guests for tea.

TeaTomorrow, we’ll bust into that box of Russell Stover chocolates I got for Thanksgiving.

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Gifts of All Sorts

Posted on December 1, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

For the last week, I’ve been living in a “Thanksgiving bubble.”  All my thoughts and energy went into preparing Thursday’s meal–my first Thanksgiving in my new home.  I invited my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, and Mary and Dave (who bought The Coop and have become like family to me.  It’s funny how something as now-maligned as a real estate transaction could turn into a friendship.  Maybe that’s a new way to do business…the mutually beneficial way.  But that’s a blog post for another day.)

My nephew, Mark, couldn’t make it up from Providence.

While I was in the Thanksgiving bubble, I paid little attention to what was going on in “the news.”  I kept my eyes only on winter storm Cato and how that could impact the indulgent holiday.  According to the National Weather Service, we got 10.5 inches of snow.  It was wet, heavy snow, but I kept up with it and had the first clear driveway on my street.

Everything worked out and it was a lovely day. As I cleared the “kitchen sink island” I reflected how it had been a day of gifts.  There was the gift of snow, of course, which made everything look beautiful and clean.

Then there was Mr. Deehan’s suggestion that I brine the turkey.  It sounded new and complicated, what with my brain on overload from work and mental menu-making.  No worries, he said, and he asked if I had a large stock pot.  Certainement!  He took care of the overnight brining and then stopped by the next morning to truss up the turkey and put it in the oven for me.  What a gift!

When Mary and Dave got here from New Hampshire, they brought gifts.  Stuffed mushroom caps still hot from The Coop’s oven, Italian pastries, and a box of chocolates, wrapped in Moxie-orange paper and ribbons.

Around about one o’clock, things started getting a little dicey…the Thanksgiving witching hour, when everything is almost done at the same time, except the gravy.  And the table isn’t set.  And a multiple of undone things suddenly scream out for doing.  That’s the moment when there’s the gift of my sister-in-law, Miss Mary.  Her turkey feathers never get ruffled and she gives executive orders like a commander-in-chief.  She gave assignments to my brother Jim and encouraged me to keep going through the final miles of the Thanksgiving marathon.

Dinner was served, followed by dessert.

Miss Mary and Jim helped parse out the leftovers and we did a few dishes.  The afternoon shadows fell and Mary and Dave had to head back to New Hampshire.  Miss Mary and Jim left for their house on the other side of the river.  My parents announced that they wanted to help me with the dishes and even though I was tired, I accepted their offer.  I told them to take a seat and I would wash the dishes and they could dry.  They enjoyed performing this domestic duty while sitting down and I must admit that even though many visitors plant themselves on those seats opposite my sink, it had never occurred to me to ask for help in this unique way.

The Dishwasher ChairsAnother gift?  No one posted any pictures of the indulgent day on social media.

Mr. Deehan stopped by the day after Thanksgiving to fix a loose something or other and I unloaded some pumpkin pie on him.  Then I outlined my Christmas light color scheme and made a case for each one.  Red, orange, blue or green?  I stopped and confessed “I know…first world problems.”

Mr. Deehan put it another way…he said “truly blessed” and I don’t know if he was being sarcastic or serious because I haven’t quite figured him out yet, but it caused me to stop and remember that what he was saying was true.

There were a lot of gifts on this year’s day of national indulgence…truly blessed indeed.

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Stay Tuned!

Posted on November 28, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

I’m in a slow-moving turkey coma today.  My regularly scheduled “Friday Pillow Talk” installment is only half-written and I’m late for the office.  Let’s meet here at some point this weekend and I’ll tell you how winter storm Cato brought a bunch of wonderful “gifts.”

GiftsHere’s an interesting “Black Friday” gift post from Seth Godin.

Until we meet again…or as the French say ” à bientôt!”

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La Neige

Posted on November 27, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Je ne suis pas bloqué par la neige.

That’s French for “I’m not snowed in.”

Matin apres la neigeNo time to look up “the turkey’s in the oven.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Don’t Blame Crosby

Posted on November 24, 2014 by Julie-Ann Baumer

Last weekend, the “b Plus,” section of the Lewiston Sun Journal did a feature spread on “Hipsters.”  According to writer Max Mogensen, “hipsterism” is now on the wane, but lives on in Maine because we’re at the tail end of marketing trends and waves.  Ah, Maine…the last bastion of “hip.”  The state is kind of stuck out here in the Atlantic Ocean, practically part of Canada.  Send us your flotsam and jetsam of commercialization.  Dredge up the lagan and derelict, the last soaking shoe laces of an old pair of Chuck Taylor sneakers and bring them to the Maine border.  We’ll take them!

The question the article promised to answer (and what initially piqued my curiosity to read the piece) was “What’s Bing Crosby got to do with hip?”  Mogensen’s piece stated “Clarinetist Artie Shaw famously cited Bing Crosby as an early hipster.”  I eagerly read through the rest of the piece, searching for clues.  Was der Bingle a dope smoking bohemian, building bombs and fomenting anarchy between crooning songs on NBC Radio’s Kraft Music Hall?  The article never told me, but a basic query on my favorite search engine (“Bing” of course) haphazardly helped me find Artie Shaw’s 1992 quote:

“The thing you have to understand about Bing Crosby is that he was the first hip white person born in the United States.”

Wow, that’s a lot to unpack at this early hour in the morning.  I didn’t find an answer in the article, either.

Was Bing Crosby hip?  It’s a question requiring time and research and it will have to hang out there like a loose tooth today.  It’s the Monday of a late-arriving Thanksgiving week.  There might be time to research Bing Crosby and his hipness…later.

We know how Herman feels about der Bingle.

Meanwhile, in unhip Lisbon Falls on Saturday, Holy Trinity Church had their holiday fair. I bought some red berries and a couple of Christmas wreaths; the festive church hall was full of people I knew and the joviality inspired me to start my own holiday decorating on Sunday.

Holiday In DoorI finally found the perfect place for my Bingle Bells.

There’s a lot to do to get ready for the “most wonderful time of the year.”  It’s pressing down on us like an off the tracks locomotive.  Weekends are never long enough to get it all done, but hey, don’t blame Crosby.

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