Belly Time

Inspirational song: Let Me Touch You for a While (Alison Krauss)

I promised deep thoughts tonight, and I have spent the entire day pondering a very heavy topic, with generational implications, but I am not ready to get into that one. I am angry at a group of immoral old men, too angry to do anything but rant and call names. I'm going to bury that resentment right now, and think about happier things. Cue the rainbows and glitter.

A few years ago, I put words to a pattern of behavior I noticed with the cats. The term I came up with wasn't sophisticated, but it served my purpose. I had a lot of time lying around, between recovering from surgeries and wallowing in misery in my gluten-consuming days. My favorite white cat took advantage of my inertia, and gave me lots of what would come to be called "belly time." She draped across my abdomen, belly to belly, and purred for hours. In my Lortab euphoria, I imagined that she was fully aware of the soothing and healing properties of purring, and this was her attempt at mothering me a little in return. Long after I stopped needing or wanting those opiates, I continued observing the belly time habits of all the cats. It was common to most of them, needing to spend time chest to chest, face to face with me. In a more sober frame of mind, I started thinking about what a mutually soothing bonding time that is, and I let myself be more still and cognizant of the emotional conversation that happens during belly time. I've also noticed that medical professionals are starting to stress belly time for newborns, both immediately after birth, and during the first year, as absolutely crucial to an infant's emotional growth and brain function. They say that infants need that skin to skin contact to develop into strong, resilient children. Now, as a parent, I wonder whether I spent enough time giving that belly time to my own children when they were young, as I do now intentionally with my fur babies.

It's not just relevant in a parent-child relationship (which I consider applicable to my relationship with my animals, do not doubt). I have found that in my last year of solitude, one of the things I miss most is getting to spend time just standing chest to chest with my man. It's simple, it isn't dramatic or passionate, but it's incredibly important. I hug my friends and family, but this is different. This is an exchange of energy that I crave and miss like crazy. I can handle taking care of the house and yard by myself, I can handle being the only one who can fly out to evaluate flood damage on our kids' homes, I can handle spending the holidays alone (mostly). But living without belly time for more than a year is turning out to be way too much for me.

Less

Inspirational song: Is That All (U2)

Do I really have to pretend I had deep thoughts today? All I really did was clean house, and try not to dwell on last week's heartbreak. My house is less of a wreck now (not clean, just less cat hair and dirty dishes), and I am one day closer to the end of my forced solitude. The highlight of my day was standing at the windows with the boys (one canine and one feline), watching the squirrel cover the area under the tree, looking for dropped sunflower seeds and remnants of the "fruit" from the ornamental peach tree. I gave her my one free pass for the day, and didn't set the dogs on her. I taunted the seven-legged spider who built a giant, three-layer web right next to the back door. Okay, maybe it was tacky that I told her there was no handicapped parking, and I didn't care that she was missing a leg. She needs to move to the thicket. I'm not going to spend the next three months afraid to walk out on the deck. Problem is, she's already huge, half the size she will be in a month. I'm going to need a hazmat suit and giant tongs to convince myself to move her.

That's it. That's all that this day amounted to. I promise, I will try to come up with something profound for tomorrow. I'm open to suggestions for topics.

Pest Control

Inspirational song: Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (David Bowie)

The war between me and my backyard pests has just escalated dramatically. It's time for me to break out the napalm and nukes. Before my second trip to Oklahoma, the bug zapper bulb burned out prematurely (by about 11 months). I put off replacing it until I returned, and that might have been a tactical error. It allowed the mosquitoes to bloom, which fed my spiders until they grew fat and happy. The banana spiders are moving in closer to the house, and they're about two and a half inches across (toe to toe) now. It's going to take a lot of work to retake the ground I surrendered when I went on vacation. I ventured out on the deck well after dark tonight, and shone a flashlight around to see who creeps out when I'm not looking. If I had been armed with a flame thrower, my deck would be cinders right now.

I was so happy to finally learn which of my bell pepper plants was which, as the red peppers started to ripen and turn an orange-y red. And now they are red with giant bite marks in them. Two days ago, I had a fist sized tomato that was starting to ripen. It's gone now. And as a final insult, some disgusting beast crawled on the next biggest green tomato, and pooped all over it. Was this necessary? I suppose it did me a favor, because I doubt I will ever just eat a fruit or vegetable straight out of the garden again. I'm still holding on to a couple small watermelons. The largest one is now as big as a grapefruit, but it has a nibble mark on the top of it. Is there anything I will get to keep?

We went from a guarded posture to DefCon 1 this afternoon. I watched the dogs act fascinated with the barbecue grill when I let them outside. They peered into it from all sides. So I sent them back inside, and opened it to see what was so interesting. I did not expect to see a face peering back out at me. There was a gray rat underneath the burners, and he was as surprised to see the lid open as I was to find him there. I immediately shut the lid, went inside to grab the phone, and came back to see whether he had scurried off. He was still there, so naturally I took a few pictures. He crawled back out of the vent holes when I went next door to show my neighbor the photo. I knew I couldn't put off the trip to Lowe's any longer. I bought a replacement bulb and lure for the bug zapper, and I'm trying an experiment. I bought one of the sonic rodent repellent plug-ins, and I have it out there now, even though it's for indoor use. I had to try. The plug is somewhat protected from most rain, and I had to do something to push back on the rats. Sprinkling the mole granules did nothing. Unfortunately, I forgot to buy a brush to clean the grill, as I obviously need. I'm tired of bringing the grates inside to clean them, and they need it desperately after the last party. But if it will keep the pests away from the grill, I'll hit them with the magic erasers again. Pesticides are sounding more and more appealing. Give me strength to stick with less poisonous pest control solutions.

Toughening Up

Inspirational song: Harden My Heart (Quarterflash)

Despite being advised not to rush the grieving process, and despite having more leeway to wallow in it than most people may have, I am shoring up my defenses, and acting like an adult. At least, that's what I'm trying to do. I'm still very freaked out by the lack of Siamese howling every time I enter a room, and I haven't quite stopped expecting to hear violent sneezing all day. The echoes of his noises are still here, but they are already fading. It makes me sad all over again to know that someday, I will forget exactly what he sounded like. I'm shamelessly taking advantage of the confusion of the remaining cats. They don't want to leave me alone. Even Athena has been unusually well-behaved, like she thinks Torden's disappearance was banishment. She barely bit me all day.

It was easier to venture out and take care of my obligations today. I took my car back to the dealer, so they could remove the nail I drove over (I can't remember, was this the second or third time I've done this in the last year?), and I made it to the post office to return my mother's car keys that took a plane ride home with me (whoops). They are baby steps toward normalcy, and I will take them.

I have extolled the virtues of physical therapy on so many occasions, and I feel compelled to do it again. It was 1995 when I had an embarrassing accident, working out on an aerobic step (back when they were considered cool), when my ankle buckled, and I flew backwards. I smacked my back across a wooden beam, knocking the wind out of me, and I woke to the sound of my housemate screaming for her boyfriend to call 911 when she couldn't rouse me. Ever since, I've had a rib that just won't behave like it is supposed to. Bones did a "spring test," essentially poking along my spine until he landed exactly on that impact point, and said he found an area of resistance. It has been inflexible and prone to pain for nearly 20 years, and a good physical therapist (which I have) can find it like it has a neon sign pointing to it. One quick, sudden shove later, and I could breathe again. After all this time, it might take a couple more of those adjustments to stay loose, but for the first time in an exceptionally long time, I have the expectation that it will get better. I couldn't come across Bones until the time was right, but I can't help but mourn for the good skeletal health I could have had, if he had come along sooner. Now that I have had the opportunity to compare where physical therapy was back in 2002 to the complex plane on which it exists now, I must impress upon all of you: if you find yourself needing to choose between physical therapy versus painkillers and surgery, pick the PT! Don't give up and think that opiates are the answer. Healing is worth the effort.

The Pieces of My Broken Heart

Inspirational song: Funeral for a Friend (Elton John)

I stayed up late last night, finally giving up to sleep around three this morning. When I went to bed, my old man cat was still alive, but just barely. His breathing was shallow, and when he tried to meow, he could only whisper. I was certain when I woke at seven thirty that he was gone. When I went downstairs to let the dogs out, I was proven correct. Somehow, knowing for years that he was old and frail, and knowing for weeks that he was evaporating before my eyes, the final eighteen hours with him was a sucker punch to the gut. Thankfully, my mother helped talk me through a plan last night, so I didn't panic and run in circles trying to decide how to handle the vehicle that Torden no longer inhabited. I wasted no time going outside in the warm, muggy morning, to dig before it got too hot. It took an hour of hard, sweaty work, but I made a nice spot for him, under a rose of Sharon that is already presenting a single white bud. And now, the relative silence in my house squeezes my heart in waves of pain, over and over and over. There are religions that demand immediate burials of their faithful, and today I see great logic in that. If I had not taken care of it first thing this morning, before the shock wore off, I would still be trying to talk myself into doing it now. I was useless all day, sitting like a lump on the couch, crying every time I heard the echo of his sounds that haunt this house already. It takes my breath away how badly it hurts.

As I alluded yesterday, I have blogged about Torden's history, of his concussion that led to seizures when he was a kitten, and his golden years of dementia and deafness. Somewhere in the last year, I think I have explained his philosophy, which comes down to one word: Ring. Since he was very young, he had nystagmus, where his pupils shook left and right when he tried to focus on objects. We always assumed he couldn't see very well. But no matter where he was, what he was doing, if you held up the plastic ring that comes off the cap of a milk jug, he would attack it. He could always see a ring. He hoarded them. Stashed them under furniture and appliances. Played fetch with them, howling when he wanted his daddy to play every morning, throwing them into the shower so he could dive in the tub after them. The kids decided that the lesson he wanted us to learn was that the meaning of the universe is ring. At times, when I'm reading about philosophy, history, cosmology, or experimental physics, little details drift past that make me think he was really on to something. I will have to ask my children to help me form that philosophy into readable words. As a final tribute to Torden's lifelong obsession, I put one ring on his chest, and a second on top of his grave. I need to think of a way to preserve the one on top, as a marker. 

I stayed in my muddy jeans most of the day, sitting on the couch, feeling miserable. At some point I took a nap, to make the day pass faster. It wasn't until almost seven that I finally showered and made myself leave the house. I went to the grocery store because I had to. I wore a casual dress, but left my face scrubbed bare. I avoided mirrors today, but I'm sure I looked like I went a few rounds with Apollo Creed. I don't think I was able to stand up straight. I felt like my chest was collapsing, and each step thudded through me. With great effort, I managed to hold it together until I was pushing the cart to the corral in the parking lot. After that, my control was gone. 

I know in a few days, I will have to be completely back to normal grownup life. But today, I am wallowing in the rubble of my broken heart. Tributes to Torden have come in from around the world. If he had been a human, he would have been a politician or a rock star, winning people over with his cult of personality. He was a singular character. He was Ring.

The End of an Era

Inspirational song: If You Love Somebody Set Them Free (Sting)

Writing is going to be exceptionally difficult tonight. Since last night, I have been sitting, waiting for an old friend to die. It doesn't lend itself to the writing of quaint little vignettes. 

When I arrived home last evening, I found my old man cat dehydrated, looking like he had been unable to eat since I left on Saturday. I've known this day was coming for years, since he went from being a springy, energetic, pourable cat to a stiff, brittle, deaf old man. He started showing signs of dementia at least four years ago. He and I had a deteriorating relationship, as his madness produced hours of Siamese cat screaming, and inappropriate behavior with my young huntress cat. In the last few months, he has been a mere shadow. Nearly every time he came to sit by me, his energy was so diminished, and his body so cool to the touch, I barely noticed he was there. I think that was my biggest hint that he was in the process of passing into my past.

I've been telling him since yesterday that he won. He made it past his sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago, and officially holds the title of my longest-lived cat. Now it's time to let go and rest, knowing he has done well. Job well done. He will be remembered as the cat all of our friends and family loved best.

I can't write anymore. My next few hours or days are going to be very hard.

I have written his story before. If you would like to know the epic story of Torden, it starts here:

http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2013/07/this-old-man.html

The Center of the Universe

Inspirational song: Yakko's Universe (Animaniacs)

I stood on the concrete metaphor for what it's like being a small-time blogger this morning. On the way to the airport, my stepfather and I drove through downtown Tulsa, and found an acoustical anomaly referred to as "the Center of the Universe." It's a small circle, on a sloping bridge that goes over some train tracks. The are bricks in a spiral pattern around the circle, and from there rough-aggregate concrete forms a small piazza. There are planters along the edges, with gorgeous deep red crepe myrtles in full bloom at this time of year. When we arrived, a group of kids and a couple of moms were there, playing with the spooky effects of this spot on earth. When you stand around the piazza, everything sounds relatively normal, for being outside, near train tracks, in a windy city. When you stand on the concrete circle, suddenly all sounds are amplified, like you are standing in a clear acrylic cylinder, and sounds are bouncing back from all sides, very close to you. It's disconcerting when the first echo hits your ears. You try to continue to speak normally, but just like when you hear your own voice feeding back on a cell phone, it's difficult. You think you are broadcasting ten times louder, by speaking your mind. But outside of your own tiny little circle, those closest to you can hear you, and more than a few feet away, no one knows you have spoken at all. Et, voila. My life, in one tidy metaphor.

There are days when I'm like those little kids on the circle, bending over and just saying "hello!" over and over, to hear the sound effect. But there are days when I'm pouring my heart out, and to my own ears, it sounds so loud, so profound. Outside of my tiny little spiral of influence, no one is listening. When I first started this, I was so shy. I was okay with those early posts that were only ever read by five or six people, almost entirely family members. Now I am confident in my voice, but still so limited in my reach. I don't know how to amplify my voice any more than I already have. I'd love to find people who actually want to listen. How do I find them?

Back in high school, one of my good friends, whose father worked for the factory that made a certain famous plastic cup brand, brought in a strange object to the band building (where we all hung out after school). If I remember the story right, they were changing colors at the plant, and the plastic extruder poured out a ten inch tall glob of bright yellow plastic, that looked like it had been piped out of a giant pastry bag. My friend's father let him have that glob of waste plastic. He was always rather eccentric, this band friend of mine, coming up with all sorts of cleverness that amused the rest of us teenagers, and when he proclaimed that the gloppy yellow cone was the center of the universe, we all giggled and went along with the joke. I can still remember seeing him staring at it, focused, as if he were contemplating the great mysteries of life, yet barely able to keep a straight face.

Looking at the Past

Inspirational song: Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead (Warren Zevon)

My poor brother was so bored today. There were tons of attractions in Tulsa he has wanted to see, but has not yet visited, any time he was up in this part of the state. We thought about going to lots of them, like the Woody Guthrie museum, or the Philbrook, or other neat, historically significant spots around town. There was one big hitch: today was Monday, and most of these types of attractions are closed on Mondays. He was stuck here while we dithered, and the most we did outside of the house was go shopping for a few groceries and kitchen tools. We would have happily gone to some of the museums tomorrow (especially the Woody Guthrie place--I would have been all over that), if my flight wasn't so early in the day. There's one spot we are hoping to reach, but if will save that story for tomorrow, if we do manage to get there. It's someplace that I'd never heard of before, and now that I know it exists, I am compelled to see it.

It was odd that we should be such boring homebodies on today of all days. It was tonight, after dinner, after we each had a couple of glasses of wine to lower our inhibitions, that I went and armed myself with pen and paper, and started poking around to discover which stories I'm allowed to tell from our collective past, and which were off limits. I suggested to them on my last trip that I wanted to dig deeper, and at that time I was given a generic blanket permission from all of them to write freely. Today I wanted to start the process of memory among all of us. It takes a long time to let the memories reopen, re inflate, and fall into words. I have just barely scratched the surface, and already I have learned things I never suspected about my family. I have also begun correcting the things I had wrong including stories where I was massively off course when I wrote in this space. It is not necessary to me to go back and change the posts, for even though some of the key details were wrong, the basic premises were not. 

I've gotten rather stuck in my own routines, and I'm having trouble being separated from my Park, but I feel like I could use another three or four days with the family to get the stories started. It's difficult trying to be organized and act as ringleader and memory keeper, when I'm not on my own turf. It was great after dinner, when they could hear each other's voices, and build on each other's experiences, even those that took places decades apart. Damn my timing for waiting until nine or ten o'clock at night to really push them to talk. I need to find a way to get them all out to the Park again. Last time that was a logistical nightmare. There must be an easier way. It's a shame that passenger train travel is so diminished in modern America. That would be a nice relaxing way to get them to my side of the world, without wearing them out like the last long drive did, and without stressing them out like the last time they flew. I should find out whether such a train route still exists. What a great way to revisit the past that would be.

Polyglots and Doppelgangers

Inspirational song: Rondeau (Jean-Joseph Mouret)

I had a very specific reason for returning to Oklahoma a mere ten days after I left it. The first trip was all about my step dad's art. The second trip was all about comedy. Intelligent, edgy, fanciful comedy. My favorite polyglot came through and played one night in OKC and one night in Tulsa. This makes the third time I have traveled to see Eddie Izzard perform, and each time is getting further east. I guess I'm seeing him from left to right (Hollywood, Boulder, and now Tulsa). I was told by the woman who was so kind as to introduce me to his standup material a decade ago, that in order to win our little "who loves Eddie more" contest, I have to touch him. I suppose if we all hadn't been tired after the show, I could have stood outside next to his tour bus, where there was a huge line of people waiting to do that very thing. But we were indeed tired, and there was a neat little bar a block from the venue calling our names. I didn't even buy a t-shirt, deciding instead that I have plenty of shirts, but a "cake or death" coffee mug would actually see some use. 

I wish I had had some great inspiration to write today, but it really was all about absorbing someone else's wisdom, rather than doing much deep thinking of my own. It's really nice to have vacations that are not all go-go-go. This was a quiet Sunday mother and daughter mani-pedi sort of day. Later, while we waited for the show to start, I did a lot of people watching from my vantage point in the balcony. I saw a lot of people who I thought totally fit the image I have in my mind of typical 2014 Okies. One lady looked like she could have been my great aunt, fifty years ago, the way she styled and held herself. She was adorable. And then I swear I saw myself come down the stairs, one section over. That was disconcerting. She was a dead ringer for me, down to where here bangs parted on the right side of her forehead, and swept to each side in a cowlick. I hope she enjoyed the show as much as I did.

Destroyer of Worlds

Inspirational song: Destroyer (The Kinks)

Today is the anniversary of my near death experience. While some people might not think back on that sort of memory fondly, to me it was wonderful, because I gained two of my greatest assets that day. Firstly, I stopped fearing the moment of death. I was just close enough to recognize that when it does come, it won't hurt. (Although I remain utterly terrified of suffocating or drowning--nothing will alleviate that.) But secondly, I unleashed my greatest weapon on the world: The Destroyer. She tore her way free of my body, and has treated every sealed package she has encountered since with equal disdain. Every cardboard box, every plastic bag, every invincible blister pack has fallen to her shredding impatience. As she grew older and stronger, the awesome power of destruction grew with her. She is a grownup now, and has nearly mastered her skill, learned how to harness and control it. We still get a lot of "I've destroyed the radiator in my car...again..." phone calls, but I've stopped worrying so much about whether she can handle the scrapes she gets into. She uses her powers for good now. Mostly. Just don't ask her big sister for an opinion on that. She's still a little sore over the ratio of her personal belongings that survived intact to those that fell before The Destroyer.

I can't remember how or when she and I became so amused by owls. We see decorative owls for the garden or as wearable art, and we feel the inescapable compulsion to text each other a photo, captioned: "Helllllooooooo!!" (Said in the comical queen of England voice). So naturally, when I was at that craft show from Piccolo Spoleto last month, and I found a glassmaker whose specialty was owl pendants, I had to have one for her. I picked one with a good face, and saved it to send for her birthday. I don't keep a lot of wrapping paper around the house anymore, but I had an inspiration. A few weeks ago, she sent a photo of her cat, whose owlish expression might have been the genesis of our obsession. The pose and the backdrop looked like the quintessential Olan Mills portrait. I wrapped the pendant box with brown craft paper, on which I painted that cat picture. It came out very well, if I do say so myself, especially considering it was a miniature. The whole thing was about two inches by three inches. I even liked it in progress, and I think I want to do something else just like it, but stop when it looks like the early stages of this painting. I have a base picture in mind to try when I get the chance.

We have called this child by her Destroyer nickname since she was a toddler. But it wasn't until this afternoon, days after I was certain that I was going to use that song for today's post, that I found out Ray Davies of the Kinks shares her birthday. It's like it was meant to be. Happy birthday to both of them.

Clammed Up

Inspirational song: Take Your Mama (Scissor Sisters)

I hope this dark cloud over my mood is short-lived. I feel grumpy, achy, frustrated, mad, queasy, and just generally in a funk. Nobody did this to me. It's all mine. But it's making me reluctant to write, because all I want to do is complain, and as the Internet told me, ain't nobody got time for that. I had better be snapped out of this by dawn, because I have an early flight, and being trapped in a tiny airplane seat while feeling sick and grumpy is my idea of hell. 

This time I remembered to take the dogs to camp when I was supposed to. At least that went right for me today. And birthday dinner with one of my girlfriends was great... Until the no-see-ums started biting us where we sat on the patio. I handled the heat well enough, until we all started drinking sweet champagne for a toast. I should have stuck with my alcohol-free plans. Half a glass of wine and I had a core meltdown. I needed air conditioning. The meltdown kept going as I tried and failed to put air in my tire that was running low. I hate admitting that my friend was right all those years ago, but I really felt like I had been raised to be decorative as I fumbled with the air hose on the dark side of the filling station. I'll try again first thing in the morning, on the way to the airport. I don't expect more success, but I can't get out of this unpleasant task.

I give up. I have so little good to say. I will just stop here and leave you with a picture of cats competing for the space next to me.

Baby Got a Bad Back

Inspirational song: Let's Twist Again (Chubby Checker)

I had given up, years ago. I got so tired of trying to explain to doctors that my back gives me fits, that there are things I can't do, and that I have chronic pain. If anyone was interested at all, they'd just throw pills at me, which doesn't do anything to stop the problem. I had one doctor, more than a dozen years ago, send me for what I now know was fairly primitive physical therapy, which did some good. But as my activity levels got better and worse, as my weight went dramatically up and down (and up and down and..), and as other medical issues became my primary focus, any benefit from that physical therapy was lost. Two or three years ago, I successfully convinced the man that buying the membership at the chain massage place was worth it, and it wasn't long before he joined me in monthly massages. That's just about all I've done for it in years, other than demanding that the man gives me regular, strong bear hugs, to crunch everything back into alignment. I miss those more than you can imagine.

The first time I visited a chiropractor, back in the salad days (of no health insurance), I was in bad shape. My hips had rotated so far forward that he told me he couldn't believe I was still walking. My spine was pushed forward out of the pelvis, and then arched dramatically up at the waist. I still remember the sound as he snapped me back into the correct position. Since I was a child, my sacro-ilial joint has been too flexible for its own good. That wasn't super helpful during PE class in the 1970s, when we were expected to lie on our backs, with both feet a foot off the ground (oh, the pain), or when I would collapse on the floor after piano lessons, and my grandmother scolded me for being melodramatic. How could a child possibly have a sore back? This has affected nearly everything I've done in my life. I don't ski or skateboard. I stopped taking piano lessons. After a couple bad experiences, I refused to do retail jobs, where I'd be expected to stand for 8 hours without stopping. I don't lift freeweights (although I love controlled weight machines). And I'm the first person in a group to sit down anywhere we are.

So today, sitting on the "Anne table" (as Bones calls it), waiting for my first physical therapy exam for my back, I discovered I was glad for a crowded PT room and a delay in being seen. Sitting unsupported, with one leg dangling off the table and one bent in front of me, my back started to ache. I went from feeling no pain, thinking I'd be dismissed as not being serious, to feeling distressed and re-evaluating what my physical therapy goals would be from this experiment. I want to be able to sit on a surface with no back support (such as a piano bench, or the bleachers at Red Rocks amphitheater) for more than about five or ten minutes, before the pain sets in. Seems reasonable to me. Bones did a thorough exam, as did his new intern. When he sat down and showed me on the toy spine what I looked like, it was no wonder I have been stressed like I have lately. One hip rotated forward, and one hip rotated backwards, and the longer they were like that, the worse they and all the attached muscles were getting. He had me lay back, and he showed me my feet. My left leg was a full inch longer than the right, from being twisted. He put me through my paces, gave me new stretches and exercises that were entirely different than what I was told to do a dozen years ago, and he set me straight (literally). Bless him for being the smartest kid in town.

I've continued to avoid the heat outside, but I was forced into action this evening. When I went out late to water all of the plants, I found a half-eaten green tomato sitting on the rail. This exact thing happened last year (right before the beetles or worms or whatever they were exploded my tomato vines from the inside). Months ago I bought a mole repellent, but never sprinkled it around. Today, I started with the area all around the deck, including pouring it along the deck boards, and watering it down below. I don't know whether the thieves who have been stealing all my tiny watermelons live directly below the deck or not, but judging from how much the dogs try to dig around there, I'm entertaining the possibility. I will see how this first round goes, and put on more as the schedule on the bag tells me to do. I will chase off those little varmints one way or another. The good news is, where the watermelon vines dangle off the deck rails, there are two little melons that haven't been stolen yet. I think the rodents can't reach them. One is the size of a small grape, and the other is as big as a large lemon. I would so love to get to harvest these.

Having a Heat Wave

Inspirational song: Bright Sunny South (Alison Krauss and Union Station)

I have little patience for extremes. People who believe in zodiac signs would say it's the Libra in me. I like my world balanced, with all things in moderation. I prefer to have "enough" of everything, neither too little nor too much. If I could convince my body to agree, I would happily be a size medium for the rest of my life, not thin, not fat. I am happiest in the milder seasons, spring and fall, and I get grumpy in summer and winter. Last year, I spent weeks complaining that it never stopped raining. This year my house must have be sitting under a giant umbrella, because nary a drop of rain has come down on us lately. Anytime scattered storms push through to the coast, I watch the radar as they twist and contort to avoid raining on me. And whereas last year it took forever for the temperatures to reach 90 degrees, this year we hit that mark early, and have topped it nearly every day for weeks. Heat and humidity take too much out of me. I'm finding it difficult to get outside and take care of things again. I'm going to have to convince myself to go to bed at a reasonable hour, so I can be running the lawn mower before the heat sets in. When would that be, exactly? Probably 7:30 or so.

I made it pretty far into the warm season (it's still not summer for two days??) before the pests took over my Park again. It's better than last year, but I still have to dig deep to face them. My bug zapper bulb already burned out. I thought it was supposed to be okay plugged in 24/7 for a month or so, but maybe I needed to have it on a timer. I will go through the Christmas decorations to find one, as soon as I get that replacement bulb. The spiders have returned, en masse. They are still small, those banana spiders, but they are starting to grow. They were tiny when I first started seeing them in the rungs of my tomato cages, maybe a half an inch across including the legs. Now the ones who hang out on the front porch are twice as big, or maybe a bit bigger. Two days ago, I stopped short of crossing through the posts onto the front porch with the water hose, when I noticed there was a web across the front entrance, with a banana spider who covered as much surface area as a quarter camped in the middle of it. She would have hit me square in the chest had I walked onto the porch. I sprayed my geraniums over top of her web, and told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to have the web in the same spot the next day. So yesterday I went outside to see whether she believed me. She did not. In fact, she took offense to my suggestion that she move, and she made a double-thick web. Before I went out to fertilize a rosebush with old coffee grounds, I grabbed the outdoor broom, and pushed her around into the bushes. She wasn't back today, but I am not convinced I have won this battle yet.

Rodents are proving to be a problem again this year. Every single tiny watermelon that grows on my two lovely plants gets eaten by somebody who does not have permission to be on the deck. I'm thinking it's time to go ahead and get one of those sonic rodent deterrent devices. I've been talking about it for a year. I harvested the first okra pod I have grown in almost twenty years today, although I haven't eaten it yet to know whether it's good. I have hopes. The one and only tomato that ripened so far had blossom end rot. I thought I was doing so well preventing that, with all the eggshells in the soil and even watering. What more must I do? I always think of that Shirley MacLaine line from Steel Magnolias, when she explains that she is an old southern woman, so naturally she wears funny hats and grows tomatoes. Maybe I need to start wearing a hat.

Annie's Test Kitchen - Part 2

Inspirational song: Sweet Inspiration (Charlie Robison)

We learn from our failures as well as our successes. We are left confused by mediocre results that are neither great nor miserable. My first attempt at a gluten-free cheesecake fell into this third category. It tastes fine, but the texture is not what I prefer in a dessert.

I flipped through a couple recipes on Pinterest, and then totally winged it based on the size of cake I wanted. It might explain why it was so much wetter than I expected it to be. (And to my mom: most of the recipes I saw called for flour in the filling. That would explain where we went wrong last week, assuming that only the crust of cheesecake contained gluten.)

Here was today's process. Refer to yesterday's blog for the gluten-free shortbread cookie recipe in the crust.

I tried to make the almond meal a little finer by running it through the food processor. I blended the entire crust in there, and it seemed to help a little bit. But the difference was minor.

I still don't have parchment paper, so I thought tapioca starch on foil would make it come off of the springform pan base better. I ended up regretting the foil at the end. I would not repeat this step.

I used a full recipe for the shortbread cookies. I put the whole thing in the base of the pan, and baked it at 350, for 16-17 minutes.

It came out looking good. I let it cool while I mixed up the filling. I don't know whether it should have cooled longer or not. I also didn't touch it with my fingers to know how firm and/or crisp it was.

I was trying to make a very small cheesecake, so I used just two packs of cream cheese, two eggs, and a glob of sour cream that was probably about 2/3 of a cup. I probably should have used less sour cream. It might explain why the final product was so overly soft and silky. In place of flour, I used tapioca starch to keep it gluten-free. I'm not sure that was the right choice.

I didn't use anything to grease the sides of the pan, and it ended up not mattering.

Hm. I uploaded a picture of it sitting in the oven in a water bath. That photo didn't seem to want to be seen. You know how to do a water bath, right? Foil around the base of the pan to keep the water out, put it in a pan with a half an inch of hot water around the springform pan.

After 40 minutes of baking, I mixed up sour cream and sugar as a topping, as I've done in the past, and liked.

And before I put it on the cake, I remembered to add a little flavor.

Sour cream topping spread on the partially baked cheesecake.

I left it sitting in the oven after I turned the heat off, for like an hour, while I wrote a super-long email to my dad. It did not seem to overbake. I put it in the freezer for half an hour to chill. It probably could have used more time to get cold.

To make it pretty, I smushed about a half cup of raspberries through a strainer with a wooden spoon, to get a few tablespoons of puree. It was plenty.

It came out looking very pretty. Not very tall, not very dry on the edges. It tasted just fine.

Now, what this experiment was all about--the crust. Whether the cookie was crisp when it came out of the oven initially, it did not end up that way. I regretted the foil, because I was afraid I would tear it when I tried to scoop out the moist crust. Graham cracker crusts are somewhat moist too, so I'm not considering it a total failure. My recipe could use tweaking, but I will show you what I did, so you can correct as you see fit.

Raspberry Cheesecake (Gluten Free)

Vanilla shortbread recipe -- available here http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2014/06/annies-test-kitchen-part-1.html

Filling -- 

2 8oz packages of regular cream cheese, room temperature

3/4 cup granulated sugar

2 eggs, room temperature

2/3 cup sour cream

1/4 cup tapioca starch

1 tablespoon vanilla

Topping --

2/3 cup sour cream

1/3 cup sugar

splash Amaretto

1/2-3/4 cup raspberries, pureed through a strainer

In a mixer, with the paddle blade, combine cream cheese and sugar until smooth and fluffy. At low speed, blend in the eggs, one at a time. Add the tapioca starch, sour cream, and vanilla. Pour over baked crust. Double wrap the springform pan in foil, and place in a waterbath 1/2 inch deep. Bake at 350F for 40 minutes, or until the outer inch and a half seems set when jiggled. Pull out of the oven to spread the sour cream topping over the cake, leaving a small border around the edge. Bake for another 20 minutes, and then turn off the heat. Let the oven cool with the cheesecake still in it. Remove from oven and cool completely, chill in the refrigerator before topping with pureed raspberries.

Update, 18 hours later: Once fully chilled, everything was perfect. The consistency of the cake was smooth and firm, the flavor was good. The crust was exactly what it needed to be, moist enough to eat, set enough to hold together when cut. This recipe could easily be doubled for a full-sized cake.