Gentlemen, After A Nice Little Vacation, Looks Like We’re Back It Again

I love cooking. I really do. Or at least I did once upon a time. I’m not talking about tossing a salad and placing steaks on the grill. I’m talking more about French or Continental cuisine . . . the type of meal that takes hours to prepare . . . with all that mise en place crap, wine usage, meat fabrication, blah, blah, blah. I don’t know when I lost this love of cooking, but it’s hardly new. The bloom was off the rose certainly by the time we moved to Costa Rica. Now I’m all about baking, and that’s always a morning activity. After 3:00 P.M., I want nothing to do with standing about in a kitchen.

I’m married to a man who believes that eating dinner is normal, if not de rigueur even in the jungle. There is simply something about a sit-down-together dinner that Rusty enjoys. An evening meal holds little interest for me . . . well, perhaps some cherry-cheesecake ice cream eaten directly from the container with a spoon. One spoon. And did I mention that Rusty’s not happy with merely a sandwich? The man expects a meat and a couple of different vegetables on a plate, for Goodness sake! I’ll concede that Rusty’s fondness for dinner isn’t unique; but I’m not the person possessing any enthusiasm to prepare it. Now Rusty can cook . . . I mean really cook . . . but, oh, the mess. And for some reason the man thinks that every light in the kitchen must be illuminated, including, get this, the range light over the stove. This is truly unbelievable to me. Yes, I'm quite serious. Bugs! Hello! Jungle to Rusty!

Rusty has been in the U.S. this past week. Aahh. I need to say it again . . . aaahh. I was dreading his departure . . . really dreading it even if it was only seven days. And then everything fell into place . . . and/or went terribly wrong. In either event, Penny the Puppy and I now possess a gloriously-relaxing, easy, quickly-established routine; and it only includes dinner for one of us. 

Now Penny is more difficult to feed than you’d imagine. She’s finicky, to say the least. But through trial and error I’ve discovered her likes and dislikes; and on the worst night it takes only about two minutes to prepare her evening meal. Penny’s meal doesn’t require cutting boards, mise en place dishes (of which we own dozens), spatulas, sauciers, whisks, blah, blah, blah. A spoon. A single spoon or a butter knife is the only thing in our kitchen needed to keep little Penny happy. We are alike in this way.

Mosquitoes. I’ve been fighting a losing battle with mosquitoes for over two months, and I’ve got the scabs and scars to prove it. One week with Rusty absent and I’m winning the mosquito war. Why? Closed doors and no lights. Penny comes indoors just prior to dusk – more to remove her from poisonous toad territory than mosquitoes. But the result is that with no one on the terrace there is no need for outdoor lighting. Actually, neither is there a need for lighting indoors. The screen doors remain closed for the evening (except for that final outdoor bathroom break . . . Penny’s, not mine); and Penny and I are most content to play with toys indoors or to read with the Kindle® or watch movies in the bedroom. The house remains dark except for a hallway light. That is plenty of light to play fetch with pink-pig or fluffy (the tattered piece of red-dyed rabbit fur).

I am in jungle heaven. No open doors through which  mosquitoes inevitably will slip inside to lie in wait on my side of the bed. No lights to attract insects that attract poisonous toads. A terrier who is placed in bed by 7:30 . . . 8:00 at the latest; and a dog mommy who can genuinely relax in the evening knowing that Rusty isn’t going to leave open a screen door through which a mosquito will enter or a puppy will exit . . . all this while he obliviously plays his sheep-collecting computer game on the terrace with the lights on attracting every insect within two miles and every toad on the mountain. 

Rusty returns this morning. And, bitch that I am, even I acknowledge that I cannot state that the house rules have changed, materially, nor that we will be doing things the Kathy-and-Penny-way in the future. A future that might, might involve dinner once a month. Might. 

Now had Rusty remained away for more than seven days I might have some leverage to lay down new rules. Might. Had he remained away a few weeks the gloves would be coming off, and we'd have the come to Jesus talk. But as of Saturday night the reality is that mosquitoes will enter through screen doors that Rusty fails to completely close; larger insects will enter the house through those small, Rusty-created openings in the screen doors, attracted by indoor lights; insects will cover every terrace surface also attracted by light; and toads and frogs will arrive predictably just past dusk to enjoy the insect buffet. And yes, the kitchen will be a nightly mess created by a man who simply wants his dinner and possesses a more complex palate than a 13-pound terrier. Why is life so complicated? Lo que hay.

I Left My Thimbles And Socialist Reading Material At Home.

Penny the Puppy and I engaged in a few arguments this week . . . all having to do with grooming. Our little 11-pound animal sounds as if she'll take off your face. But she cannot be allowed to win any fight . . . despite what she believes to be her qualified judgment and her good Berkeley roots.

These fights made me think of U.S. politics . . . especially as we approached this Independence Day. Fight with liberal dog. White House administration, U.S. Congress . . . most logical connections in the world, right?

Anyway, maven of movie lines that I am . . . fan of David Lean's genius . . . and Doctor Zhivago ranking in my top-five films of all time, I've firmly scolded Penny stating, "I want this carried out with no anarchy!" And then, paraphrasing, I've told her that we'll have no anarchy!

So what on earth has this to do with Independence Day in the United States? Well, a few weeks ago a friend, knowing that we're from Texas, mistook my political beliefs. Yikes! Could have been my framed N.R.A. membership certificate. That or my 300 Win Mag mounted on the back window of the Land Cruiser. Maybe not. Anyway, she was quickly and sharply corrected. Then, over the weekend I found myself politically stereotyping our new Samara friends based on the U.S. state from which they moved (Colorado). I was correct, of course; but stereotyping remains a slippery slope.

On Sunday I asked a dear friend of mine here in Samara whether it was time for me to come out of the closet, politically, and let the world (Samara, that is) know of my political views. I decided not to take any such drastic steps at this point. Still, it's not rocket surgery to guess my political stance, and I'll wrap up a hint with these three words: Peace Corps Volunteer!  If those three words fail to give-away my political leanings, you need to do some homework . . . that, and stop voting for any office higher than dog catcher as you're clearly not qualified to judge any political candidate. Whoa! Kathy! 

Anyway, then I was reminded how different are Rusty's and my political views. I wouldn't say polar opposites -- hardly. But Rusty is a true anarchist. We rarely discuss politics, except to embrace the genius of John Oliver (okay, there's a second hint). So I'm fine with anarchy these days. Why, I've been known even to cross party lines; and I can argue both sides of the aisle with the best of 'em. 

So on this particular Fourth of July, I'm celebrating a historical event, or events . . . those that took place on July 2 and July 4, 1776. This year I find it difficult to celebrate being a citizen of the United States. On the other hand, any excuse for a party.

Then, as I was bemoaning the state of politics in the U.S., I found this meme. I love it, with one exception: if one is going to take the time to alter a photo with an overlay of text, please, please get your grammar/punctuation correct! Is that too much to ask?

Bitching about grammar appears among my top five hobbies. Bitching about politics, as a hobby, doesn't even hit my radar; though admittedly burying my head in the Costa Rica sand reflects just another sad example of my well-honed denial skills. Right or wrong, I do love the absence of U.S. news regarding the leaders of the free world.

Okay, one more. Speaking of bitching, grammar, and the free world, I've yet to meet anyone, Trump supporter or hater, who will disagree that Kellyanne Conway looks like a slut! Ooops! Kathy! Someone get that woman a talented, qualified stylist and grammar/dialogue coach. 

Had enough? I, also. And clearly, the cat's out of the bag as to my current political views. I hope. Time for a drink. Lo que hay.

It’s Odd How One’s Mind Slips Sideways In A Place Like This.

My mind finally may have gone 'round the bend last week. I had a bad day. Actually, in my mind I had a bad week. Can't-catch-your-breath sobbing was involved. But in reality, nothing catastrophic happened; and most of the meltdown feelings involved our puppy's well-being . . . that, and U.S. politics. 

Recently I read an article involving tips for living in Costa Rica. One of the tips suggested attempting just two (2) tasks per day. Two?!? Seriously? I can accomplish more than two tasks in the three hours that I'm awake from 5:30 to 8:30 A.M. Admittedly, after that it's usually downhill, often involving a nap-fest. Nevertheless, as I read that questionable tip I began to feel better about my week. I made chocolate chip cookies. I painted a gate. I groomed a puppy. I shaved my legs. I continued the ongoing battle against mosquitoes and toads. And I pondered a number of future tasks. Pondering counts. 

This is the puppy. Penny the Puppy. Her coat reflects Day 2 of being hand-stripped (don't ask). But regardless of coat, one can see that she is a long, leggy animal. And with those long legs she's learned to jump.

My friend Judy helped teach Penny how to jump into our arms. This is a great trick with only one problem: a puppy that knows it can leap into the arms of an upright adult also knows that she can leap just about anywhere she'd like to go. Hmm.

Anyway, I love her to bits despite the fact that I am so neurotic that I am convinced she is going to die . . . any moment. Every time she eats a bad bug and vomits . . . whenever I cannot see her . . . whenever she refuses breakfast I am convinced that she's dying. I'm also convinced that she will drown in our pool.

This is the pool; so drowning actually is not beyond the realm of possibility. These are the dimensions of our existing pool steps. Nineteen inches down to that first step; and though she can leap, I'm confident that leaping while submerged involves different physics . . . something about inertia, Sir Newton, and objects at rest (a law of physics that I clearly grasp from my nap-fests). And that first step is quite narrow, thus preventing a running start . . . a start that, again, would be impeded by the viscosity of water versus thin air. Science, yeah! I rarely enter via the steps. That first step is deep, even for me. More often than not I simply roll in from the coping. 

Now that Penny can jump she's been seen scampering around the pool coping. She's also been known to take a step directly from the pool's edge onto any inflatable raft or boogie board floating in the pool. This is the point where my heart stops and I begin a rant about leaving nothing in the pool, ever . . . of which only I am guilty.

So do the math. Nineteen-inch step; 14-inch legs. Steps were taken . . . or created. Yes, we drained the pool; and Lubos and Cynthia designed two steps that cover the entire width of the far end of the pool -- both shallow enough that Penny can exit the water with an easy step directly up to the coping . . . and wide enough that I can roll about in shallow water like a beached whale.

Rusty, get your checkbook. After all, we certainly cannot place a price on Penny's safety; but moreover Rusty cannot place a price on a relatively sane wife. Relatively.

This week the new steps will have their little blue tiles installed, we'll refill the pool, and Penny will learn the in-out trick in water. She's already begun lessons on dry steps.

So with our favorite crew (Javier and Tonio) working outdoors on the pool (thus the chocolate chip cookies), I felt compelled to do a bit of work in the yard. 

The gate. A gate that Penny, should she so desire, can leap over at any moment. Denial -- not just a river in Africa and my current coping skill about Penny's leaping skills. Happily, as of now, she doesn't realize that there is anything of interest beyond her gated and fenced yard. She's seven months . . . so it's just a matter of time. Anyway, what does one do with a gate when the color green ordered at the paint store isn't quite what one envisioned? Vines. I painted vines. Yes, I felt very Pinterest-y, which is almost as frightening to me as the idea of losing young Penny. Sally, you understand, right? Lo que hay.

Garbage. All I've Been Thinkin' About All Week Is Garbage. I Mean, I Just Can't Stop Thinkin' About It

Raise your hand if you’re a woman from North America and you clean prior to your housekeeper’s arrival. I clean, including use of the vacuum. On her best day my housekeeper could not reach things that I can with the long tubes of the canister vacuum. She is shorter than I am. Furthermore, our housekeeper doesn't adhere to strict rules of recycling; and when she empties bathroom trash it is often co-mingled with the recycle bin in the kitchen. So I empty bathroom trash.

We live in a very tidy environment for health and aesthetic reasons. A few weeks ago I removed and laundered all draperies in our kitchen, living, and dining areas. And then . . . sit down for this. . .  I ironed them. I’d never really objected to our unpressed draperies. They adequately draped from their rods; but the newly ironed draperies are a huge improvement and make me happy. I thought of my adopted Aunt Sance as I pressed. Sance, who’d be horrified to discover that her husband left the house without a pressed T-shirt. Old school.

Anyway, even in the tidy environment where we live (though somewhat less tidy now that we have a new puppy), dust accumulates . . . not to mention fur-tufts from our 19-year-old cat. A tidy home is not necessarily a clean home . . . just as swimming in the pool does not equate to a hot shower, though it often feels that way. Genuine cleaning is required, with soap. I’ve adopted the Bissell slogan: Bissell . . . We Mean Clean®. Our housekeeper just popped out her third child. This means that I’ve not seen her since April and don’t expect her return until autumn, if ever. You see where this is going.

Tell Me What You’ve Done That Hell Yawns Before You.

And speaking of blasphemy, heresy, and general poor form, I rarely post anything related to religion or politics. I rarely speak of such topics, except among my closest friends. And Rusty. Rusty loves to hear me grumble about politics . . . or perhaps not.

Anyway, it's the Easter season, or Semana Santa here in Costa Rica. Most commercial enterprises close, and tourists flood our little village. But let's not forget that it's also Passover, without which we'd have no Easter . . . and no Ramadan, which begins next month. We'd also not have Eid al-Adha, aka Tabaski, which, in my experience, is the best party in West Africa. True, sad though it may seem, the massacre of a sheep or lamb is often involved.

And speaking of massacre, on with today's tale. In thinking about springtime religious holidays I realized that most of my friends are either Catholic or High Episcopalian. I have a few Jewish friends in the U.S. and several Muslim friends in Africa. I, myself, tend to embrace all religions with my any excuse for a party ideology; but the reality is that Easter isn't as special for us as is National Pet Day, which was Tuesday.

Ain't A Thing I Can Do About It.

Our new puppy is a terrier. We often tell Penny that her behavior is tenacious, which it is, though the animal could not care less whether we notice. Penny is going through her "make me" stage, though sometimes it's a "you can't stop me" stage. All we can do is remain firm in her training and love her to bits.

I understand Penny's persistence. My own tenacity simply will not allow me to walk away from a baking failure. Having perfected the cream puff . . . having posted the recipe here with specific instructions that cream puffs absolutely cannot be made without bright light . . . what did I do? I tried to make cream puffs in the dim evening light of our kitchen. Complete failure. So naturally I had to make two more arrays just to confirm that indeed I can make cream puffs . . . in a brightly illuminated kitchen filled with afternoon sunlight. 

And then there was the brioche calamity . . . and the biscotti nightmare . . . and my reproach of Paul Hollywood's recipes, which is neither to impugn Paul's kitchen talent nor The Great British Baking Show -- I'm merely saying that Paul's instructions failed me when using primarily Costa Rican ingredients. So I ran far and fast from Paul's recipes and sought the advice from good ol' U.S.A.'s King Arthur Flour. Mulligan! Now I won't say that it was the best brioche in the land, but I definitely made genuine brioche à tête as well as white chocolate & cranberry biscotti that actually resembled biscotti. 

Then I triumphed with my chocolate-mocha cream horns. They were worth that battle for puff pastry. And my Pastel de Tres Leches with the Italian meringue topping was so good that I believe Rusty only got two slices. Suddenly I'm an Italian meringue expert.

Anyway, with so many sweets swarming in our home, my shorts are noticeably tighter, which should come as no surprise. I need a mumu . . . that, and a new hobby that doesn't involve sugar, eggs, butter, and cream. I chose sewing.

I . . . Was . . . Running!

Each day we teach Penny valuable life lessons. I've explained the danger of snapping at flying insects. Penny understands the importance of being seated before dinner. Her grammar, a private matter between only the two of us, is impeccable; and she grasps the concept of too many pronouns and too few antecedents . . . even at her tender age. However, Penny’s real take-away from her grammar lessons is that too many personal pronouns make mommy crazy. The puppy is prodigious, I tell you -- a reliable vocabulary of over 30 words at just four months of age.

Last week Penny learned never to touch any Costa Rican toad . . . a lesson that could save her life. A few days later we all learned the lesson of what a tarantula bite will do to an eight-pound puppy. Yes, a late-night emergency call to Dr. Delgado was involved . . . and as Murphy's Law would have it, the electricity was off so she was cared for in Rusty's arms by lantern light. Luckily I'm good in a crisis and it wasn't until the next day that my melt-down came. A few days prior to the spider lesson I learned how painful is a bee sting smack-dab in the center of my palm. Now I'm not saying that I cried like a little girl . . . but neither would I deny it. So our world has become a small mommy and me learning center.

Looks Like I Picked the Wrong Week To Stop Sniffing Glue

Back to the subject of the six-plus hour trip to the Auto-Mercado. Puff pastry lives in the freezer at Auto-Mercado. If I had puff pasty I could make lime and ginger cream horns. Recall that I've already made my lime curd and candied lime peel; and although the curd proved overly limey, I can tame that tartness when I make my pastry cream. I can make crème anglaise in my sleep, along with cream puffs; but more on that later. For now I don't have time (okay, I've got nothing but time) and I certainly don't have the inclination to remain away from our puppy for over six hours. That leaves one alternative: make my own puff pastry. 

Now let me say this: though I love a baking challenge, when I see anyone making their own puff pastry (laminated dough), I go bonkers raising my voice to proclaim, "no one makes their own laminated dough -- it's insane -- it would be like trying to make your own phyllo. Insane, I tell you!" 

Notwithstanding our odd Costa Rica butter, the theory of making puff pastry isn’t complicated. It’s a matter of pounding icy cold butter into a large pastry rectangle, then making multiple folds of that pastry while refrigerating between the series of folds to keep that butter icy cold. I just might be able to perform this trick. On the other hand, after the past week’s baking mishaps, do I really want to risk pounds of butter? Definitely not after last week.

I Ate His Liver With Some Fava Beans And A Nice Chianti

Ah, Neiman Marcus. The Mothership. Just thinking of their cosmetic world creates a visceral longing . . . like an opiate addiction. Say it with me: Tom Ford. . . Chanel. Your muscle memory just unconsciously reached for your credit card, right? For one as poor as I, how did I ever frequent Neiman’s, either on-line or in person at the original Dallas Mothership? Once upon a time I experienced such a desire to return to the Mothership that I ordered a pair of sandals, on-line, from a satellite phone in West Africa. Great sandals. 

Today a grocery store satisfies my shopping addiction. The mere idea saddens me and should serve as a cautionary tale to any Costa Rica resident without a JetBox account who was or is a shoe or perfume lover – how are the mighty fallen?

I don’t know whether Auto-Mercado reigns as the best grocer in Costa Rica, but in my mind there exists nothing better. Is the store truly so full of wonders such as berries and pickling cucumbers, or have I simply lowered the bar? I think of Auto-Mercado as being on par with Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, Central Market, and the Food Halls at Harrods. So clearly the bar hasn’t merely lowered, it’s crumbled. Nevertheless.

Our closest Auto-Mercado is a two-hour drive. Add a minimum hour for shopping and 30 minutes for lunch at the Subway® next door and we’re talking about a six-hour outing. And what has, you ask, the Auto-Mercado that our local grocers have not? Let’s list just some of it:

• Iceberg lettuce. Heck, a variety of lettuces in a real produce section.
• A deli counter with sliced cheeses and cold-cuts from around the world. Think Boar’s Head. Think Reuben sandwich.
• An in-store bakery with everything from flat-bread pizza to bagels and warm-from-the-oven French breads.

One Wrong Move And That Dog Will Tear You To Shreds

I live in a calm, orderly world. I'm happy in this world. I know where every item is in our kitchen. I can tell you precisely where to find any particular size of scissors. I can easily direct you to our SCUBA gear . . . and anything else throughout the house. Counter tops and furniture remain uncluttered, floors are wide-open without items forgotten here and there. I wouldn’t say that I am neurotic about living in an orderly environment . . . but Rusty certainly would. 

When we have house guests Rusty endures my predictable 15-minute meltdown when I must accept that gear belonging to our dearest friends will be strewn about the house. It’s an insignificant price to pay for hosting our pals as guests. Otherwise, when it's just us (and our cat), I use a little unwritten schedule to keep our house and my life very orderly. 

And then one day about a week ago my little universe shifted. The axis of my little world tilted somehow, and what order existed left the building.

See The Way The Handle On Those Pruning Shears Matches Her Gardening Clogs? That's Not An Accident.

This year Chanukah begins on Christmas Eve . . . right through January 1. This is very exciting for me, and we have plans all weekend with wonderful friends. Rusty doesn’t celebrate Chanukah; I celebrate both Chanukah and Christmas. I'm excited about the holidays, as always. About 2017?  . . . that remains to be seen. Anyway, bitch that I am, my gift to you this year is a typical Kathy rant. Actually I’m still on that volume-versus-weight rant.

Sometimes I just need someone or some authoritative text/entity to agree with me on a fact that I know to be true. For example, in my recent endeavor with lime curd the recipe called for 150 grams of lime juice. This obvious error in the recipe consumes my thoughts. One cannot measure a liquid by weight. Would 10 grams of water occupy the same volume in a measuring cup as 10 grams of honey? Of motor oil? Mercury?! Of course not, and it’s making me crazy that the Internet contains a great recipe with an unforgivable error in a critical measurement. And I wonder why my lime curd is overly tart. Liquids are (or should be) measured by volume, be it milliliters or fluid ounces. I cannot let it go. Naturally my husband was and still is thrilled . . . or not. He simply wanted some authentic French Madeleines.

So it's the holidays and I should play nicely . . . should being the key word. A few days ago I did make Madeleines for that darling man o' mine. And the recipe read, thankfully, fluid ounces of melted butter. Got that? Fluid ounces of melted (i.e., a liquid) butter. Ah, but here in Costa Rica our butter contains so many additives that when one melts the happy product of a happy cow you’ll find all sorts of things floating on top (and, for you true cooks and bakers,  I’m not simply referring to the milk solids). These floaters must be skimmed before measuring the butter. So if I need four fluid ounces of butter, I’d better begin with six-plus ounces from the stick of solid butter. Surely you’re following my reasoning in this rant. No? Well let’s move to another topic . . . one of my favorites: grammar and the misuse of English words.

I Think This Just Might Be My Masterpiece

Those 15 pounds I lost while in Texas? They're back. Still, 'tis the holiday season, and one anticipates a certain amount of weight gain . . . except perhaps in this land of year-round beach-going and tiny bikinis.

Some people enjoy participation in competitive sports. I am not one of those people. Well, I do enjoy golf; but arguably golf is more of a game than a sport, and a drinking game at that, which explains my love of the game. Baking constitutes my new competition.

My friend Becky introduced me to The Great British Baking Show. It’s baking, not cooking, my friends. Need I explain further? Those Brits . . . unlike so many U.S. Food Network competitions, the bakers of The Great British Baking Show speak with politeness and humor . . . not to mention that delightful accent. You’ll not find aggression – no hostile rivalries as with the U.S. shows. What you will find is pastries and breads galore, beautiful in appearance and with almost unbelievable flavor combinations. Cardamon, masala chai, and basil . . . together in a single dessert -- what genius home-cooks think of this stuff? Nevertheless, while watching in Texas I wanted to scamper away from the T.V., raid Becky’s pantry, and prepare items such as malt-cream and ginger-lime cream horns or marula liqueur and coffee crème brûlée. Then there are the classics: éclairs and cream puffs, for which one needs the pastry dough known as pâte à choux (or choux pastry). Pronounce it with me: pah-ta-shoe.

I’ve never been a baker. Even box cake mixes presented a challenge in my youth. Years ago I tried all that French and Danish and Viennese pastry stuff and became well acquainted with the term epic failure. Why I waited until moving to Costa Rica to perfect my baking skills remains a mystery. I’m baking in a country without good quality (I’m not seeking great) butter, flour, and sugar. And then there’s the challenge of making meringues in a land of high humidity. Adding to the challenge is the absence of seemingly simple items such as bread flour, cake flour, and those items that surely you always keep in your own pantry, muscovado and caster sugars. It gets worse. Recipes from The Great British Baking Show are easy to find, but what on earth is strong white bread flour? Is there a weak white bread flour? Is icing sugar the same as confectioner sugar? [Yeah, it is.]

The Trick, William Potter, Is Not Minding That It Hurts

Today we’re going to jump around while discussing my experience with the year 2016. Alert one: adult language is involved.

I’m in love with John Oliver. If you don’t know who John Oliver is, you might just stop reading now. Of course I’m truly in love with my husband and friends and family; but John Oliver holds a special place in my heart. 

I understand the Constitution of the United States, but I simply cannot and will not accept that John Oliver should be prevented from being President by something as silly as his birthplace. Again, if you don’t grasp the implication of this opinion, you should certainly stop reading now.

We own flags. We have dear friends here in Costa Rica who tease us about our flag collection. Member of Norway’s royal family celebrating a birthday? We’ve got the flag. Bayern’s futbol team doing well? We’ve got the flag. But when packing all of these flags during our move from Texas, I questioned seriously why I was taking our hurricane flag. After all, Costa Rica is too far south to experience a hurricane. Or is it? 

This week the hurricane flag was hoisted. The prognosticators for Hurricane Otto know little more than those for any tropical depression. Hurricane experts are like the pollsters . . . their work of late is unpredictable. Like snow in Texas . . . I’ll believe it when I see it. Nevertheless, the idea of a hurricane on Thanksgiving day brought a delightful sense of anticipation, which was one of the few delightful things about 2016. Tomorrow I’m going to begin work on a new flag for the year 2016. A flag for whose sentiment I can take no credit – you got it: John Oliver.

I Don't Wanna Be A Product Of My Environment. I Want My Environment To Be A Product Of Me.

Today I'd like to lead you on a little guided look at our planet . . . our environment. As with most guided tours, we'll have a quiz or two. 

I am a seriously dedicated Mad Men fan . . . and I've only seen Season One. Am I offended by the roles of women in the show? No, I am not. It is a snap-shot into the 1960s in the United States. And frankly, the women working on Madison Avenue were probably afforded more opportunities than women working in Texas or Mississippi, which still isn't saying much about those opportunities. I'll compare Mad Men to a 1704 map of the Middle East. Am I offended that Israel isn't present on that map? No, because it is merely a snap-shot into the Middle East environment of the early 18th century. Do either of these examples indicate that I approve of the environment captured in such a snap-shot? Of course not. 

Now let's move along on our little tour of the environment that presently exists across the globe. But first, are you a feminist? Let’s take a little quiz.

1. Do you believe in the radical notion that women are people?
2. Do you believe in the insane idea that women should be afforded equal opportunities? Crazy things like equal access to education, the right to drive a car, the right to equal pay for equal work?

If you answered Yes, then you, my friend, are a feminist.

Here's another quiz. What's wrong with this image? You know . . . oh, yes . . . you know.

So today, March 8, is International Women’s Day. This is a big deal to me, and it should be to you, too . . . particularly if you have daughters, nieces, or know any women at all. In many countries it is a national holiday. Wait, I’ll go further, even in many developing countries it is a national holiday. So why not in the United States? You know why. 

This Is Me Taking Back Control Of My Life.What The Fuck Have You Done Lately?

Tomorrow is my birthday. I can say Today is my birthday  in German, French, or Spanish . . . (it’s most fascinating in German) but that doesn’t interest you. Suffice to say, those few days during which Rusty is older than I are ending; and I’m a tad cranky. About many things. For instance, I recently saw Facebook posts from two dear friends/family, and it was all I could do not to correct their grammar. But that would have been considered poor form, right? Right, Sally? Come on . . . work with me here.

On the other hand . . . who writes this crap?! Was it the fault of my friend for posting it? Well, to some extent, yes . . . she could have at the least noted the poor grammar contained within the truism of the meme. But more importantly, who the F is too old, too tired, TOO sober, and lacking the time for proper punctuation and proper grammar? Riddle me that! Rob/Sally, am I correct here, or not?! I wanted to post a FB reply that said precisely that: "Too . . . for what? proper grammar and punctuation?" And it's birthday eve, so I've deemed myself entitled to some genuine derogatory comments because I'm old! I'll go further: yin and yang. Get with it folks. It is never Ying and Yang. It's yin and yang. GOOGLE! Hello? Clearly, I'm on a birthday-eve spiral.

Anybody Interested In Grabbing A Couple Of Burgers And Hittin' The Cemetery?

Today is this man's birthday. True. 

For years I'd revel in Rusty's birthday. We were born in the same year and even attended the same high school. In years past I'd delight in those few days between our birthdays when Rusty was older than I. This year I announced: Dear God, we're both old . . . let's just spend the day digging a couple of graves and wait. So, no party; and we even cancelled Operation: Dinner Out . . . though we did luncheon on the beach, and I did make Rusty's favorite, coconut cream pie.

Anyway, I thought that I'd take this opportunity to share a few more photos of Rob's visit (my photos, this time), and to make fun of my darling husband . . . and men, generally . . . since we're both old and have so little time remaining.

Where's My Wandering Parakeet?

My youngest sister-in-law possesses many talents. But the gift that I find most endearing, most charming, is her ability to loudly call Kah-Kaw, Kah-Kaw, as if imitating some bird. I know of no bird that actually makes that sound. Undoubtedly there exists some bird somewhere that calls Kah-Kaw, Kah-Kaw . . . I’ve simply yet to encounter this bird. I can rule-out all Costa Rican parrot and toucan species (even macaws) as well as hundreds of birds from North American and from Western and Southern Africa. Nevertheless, I’m confident that somewhere some bird indeed calls Kah-Kaw, with Patti’s hint of a screech and her head-turning plaintive cry.

My first trip to Costa Rica was over a decade ago. We stayed in Northern Guanacaste near or on Playa Conchal. Way back then our resort was part of the Meliá Hotels chain: it’s now part of the Westin group. Anyway, over the course of a few years with friends and family we made more than one trip to that lovely property . . . played golf, took the requisite bus-in-the-tourists day-trips to local sites, and foolishly believed that we were experiencing Costa Rica . . . despite the fact that we never left the resort but for the dive trips that departed from the beach and the day trip(s) to Buena Vista Lodge.

Anyway, perhaps Patti cried Kah-Kaw prior to our holiday at Playa Conchal, but I date her first bird-like calls to that trip. It was an effective and efficient way to announce loudly yet unobtrusively that cocktails are served . . . or we’re on the way to your suite for sun-downers. Now I say unobtrusive because let’s remember the piercing, blood-curdling sound of the howler monkeys. Compared to a vociferous troupe of howlers, Patti might as well have been whispering Dinner is poured from her bungalow many meters away. Patti became widely recognized for this talent, which was quickly adopted by our group of friends and family and was subsequently carried throughout the Western Hemisphere to many Mexican and Caribbean resorts. Hey, in the days before mobile devices, it worked. 

Well, Clarice . . . Have The Lambs Stopped Screaming?

If there were only a few foods remaining on the planet, I’d hope for dolmas and hummus . . . and lemon meringue pie. I could eat dolmas three times daily and probably never tire of them. Rusty possesses less enthusiasm for the stuffed grape leaf. No one knows why. Similarly, he’s not the fan of hummus that I am. That said, he dons an air of indignation when I state to anyone that Rusty hates hummus. I make hummus often and I usually eat all of it, save and except that first spoonful out of the food processor when I ask Rusty to taste-test for seasoning. So perhaps hate is too strong. But believe me, of every item in our refrigerator, hummus is probably Rusty’s last go-to food. 

Clearly, we're here for a discussion of food and not the myriad adventures experienced with our recent guests. Yes, we visited Buena Vista Lodge, the Diria coffee tour and Rio Celeste. But before we delve into those adventures, let's cover food . . . one of my favorite topics.

My brilliant friend Rob visited us for a few weeks. The first week of his visit Rob was joined by his darling sister, Jenny. Jenny was a special treat in that we'd never met her and were delightfully surprised at every turn. But back to my beloved Rob. Rob eats. Rob cooks, but mostly Rob eats. Rob is easy to please when it comes to cooking; but he’s not easy to fill-up. Did I mention that Rob eats? Long before Rob’s arrival we had discussed making sausage . . . for selfish, hunger-driven reasons, of course; but also as sort of a tribute to our mutual friend, EBJ (in my mind, the Sausage King of Detroit). 

Will I Get In Trouble For That?

Let’s talk trash. Once upon a time I took for granted the fact that little (or burly) elves arrived at our curb twice-weekly to remove trash. Then arrived this pesky save-the-planet era when something called recycling began. No longer could trash be hauled to the curb in a willy-nilly fashion. 

But think of recycling this way: how many jobs would be lost if someone wasn’t required to cull through my garbage at a landfill located in some unknown part of my world? Are you getting the impression that I rebelled?

But wait . . . those elves were not Superman, endowed with x-ray vision. They and could not possibly see through our opaque plastic trash bags to determine contents. 

Then I moved to Africa . . . a land where little black plastic shopping bags are everywhere . . . sachets, they were called. Sure, you could place that tiny packet of soap in a purse; but in the third poorest country in the world, a woman with a sachet was a woman who could afford to spend money. It was the Burkina Faso version of carrying a Barneys bag. Sadly, these little sachets found their way to tree tops, blown there by wind. They were under foot on every inch of the earth, en masse in gutters in cities. It was horrifying. 

I Told Those Guys What They Wanted To Hear . . . I Said, Uh, Yeah, Sure. But It Was All Lies.

Green Bee Eater, Botswana

So why weren’t the bird photos on the last post my own photographs? I’m a photographer. Believe me, I’m a photographer. Sometimes I amaze myself; though I concede that when you take over 5,000 photos, the law of averages states that you'll get a few dozens great shots. Still, this photography-in-the-tropics thing is different. Very different.

My friends, Maggie and A.Kaye are both artists in every sense of the word. A.Kaye is a professional photographer; but to describe him only as a photographer doesn’t scratch the surface of his talents. Maggie’s artistic skills span all mediums, including video/film-making. Anyway, they are always inspiring to me. Recently A.Kaye and I have had a little eMail discussion about my willingness (or lack thereof) to broaden my use of our very sophisticated camera equipment. Of course I balked. I’m a creature of obsessive-compulsive habit. 

I was sharing this little eMail relay with Rusty when Rusty pronounced that Pinterest would tell me, step-by-step, how to shoot anything I wanted (with a camera . . . I sold my 20-gauge and 300 Win Mag). I replied, sarcastically, I bet there’s even a YouTube video to teach me. Right? Only about 400 million, Rusty announced. Again, creature of habit. Books! I’m a read-a-book kind of gal. You can learn anything and everything from an actual book. What a world, what a world . . . we’re all so accepting of the Internet, and I’m no exception. How are the mighty fallen!

So I said aloud to Rusty that Pinterest is the new heroin dealer. Then I realized that Pinterest is far more powerful with a longer-reaching arm than merely one single drug dealer. 

Dear God, Pinterest is the new Cosa Nostra. 

They supply all manner of ills/vices; are accountable to no one; and creep dangerously, often covertly into your email and personal cyberspace life. Pinterest is an insidious addiction. It will consume you . . . and I've had my first taste of its heroin-Kool-Aid.