Cloth Napkins

I love good cloth napkins. I’m thinking of re-instituting a policy whereby we only use cloth napkins at dinner in the house. What’s the big deal? Buy enough so that it’s not an issue. Toss them in the laundry. It’s got to be cheaper and better on the environment that paper napkins. And it’s so much cooler. We need to kick it old school.

For awhile, we got really into paper plates, paper napkins and even plastic cups. What’s the deal?! What’s next, drinking wine out of Dixie cups. Hell, if it were up to me, we’d have our milk delivered in glass bottles several times a week.

The Disease of Kings

When I was younger, I always thought of getting old as a romantic notion. I imagined myself retired and puttering about, keeping myself busy with this or that but with no responsibilities. What I didn't count on was that my body would simultaneously begin to fail me. It just hadn't occurred to me.

Yesterday I was doing a little writing and was contemplating what I wanted to write about.

It feels a little like I don’t do enough anymore. That so many of the stories I wrote before came out of my misadventures involving hobbies, family, home repair or other projects. Our kids are grown and don’t do a lot of things with us. I tend to hire people to do house repair (and I always hated it anyway), and I don’t seem to have many hobbies other than surfing and let's face it, there are really only so many things you can say about surfing. It's a wonderful activity, but after one essay, you've pretty much covered the subject. I DON'T want to write about work.

What was I going to write about now, I asked myself. Did I need to become more productive around the house if only so that I had something to write about? It's not the worst idea in the world. But then something happened last night that may have given me a glimpse into my writing future.

Last night I realized I have gout. Gout! I mean, who gets gout? Here is a short list:

Henry VIII, Charles Spurgeon, Kublai Khan, Nostradamus, John Milton, Queen Anne, Isaac Newton, Charles IV, Charles V, Alfred Lord Tennyson, George IV, John Hancock, Thomas Jefferson, Karl Marx, Alexander Hamilton, George Mason, Benjamin Franklin, Henry James, Frederick the Great, Curt Schilling, and perhaps most interestingly, the T-Rex skeleton called "Sue."

With the exception of Curt Shilling, the professional baseball player who famously helped the Boston Red Sox to win the 2004 World Series, all these other people are from another century, or two. This is not a modern affliction. It's more like a throwback. I live in a house built in 1725 and have somehow acquired an ailment from that time period.

If you're not familiar—and I certainly wasn't—gout is a kind of arthritis. It's usually associated with the swelling of a joint, usually the big toe, and is caused by a buildup of uric acid in the blood. If the uric acid levels are too high, they form crystals in the joint, causing pain and swelling. That's what I have. A painful, swollen bit toe. Bigfoot.

It has been called "the disease of kings" because it was associated with the intake of rich foods and alcohol. Swell. It doesn't sound much like the disease of kings. It's closer to something poor sailors would get, like scurvy.

There is no permanent cure. But you can lessen the impact by reducing your intake of beef, scallops, gravy, bacon, pork, lamb, asparagus, liver (I guess my beloved foie gras is out), red wine and beer (specifically draft beer). Actually alcohol consumption in general is supposed to be curtailed, which I don't see happening any time soon.

Instead you're supposed to drink a lot of water. This seems to be the answer to almost everything and I rarely drink water, let alone the 64 ounces or so they suggest. Who has the time to drink that much water? They also suggest natural cherry juice as a remedy. This I might be able to handle.

My ancient ailment is just one in a long, but new, list of afflictions I've had to endure since turning 40. I have a bad lower back, hemorrhoids, poor hearing, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to start getting stuff cut off my skin from years of overexposure to the sun.

Well, at least I'll have something to write about now.

Wet Rocks

I stopped at the liquor store on the way home from work yesterday and while browsing for a new chardonnay came across a wine description from a winery that among other things described the wine as evoking wet rocks. It wasn’t clear whether they thought it tasted or smelled of such. But then the smell and taste of a wine are so closely linked that maybe it didn’t matter.

It certainly got my attention. Wet rocks. Who is tasting or smelling wet rocks? And why would anyone want their wine to taste or smell like it. I’m not even sure that evokes anything for me. I’ve seen descriptions that evoke a sense of minerality before. Stone. Slate. Graphite. But rocks? And wet no less.

Here is a rather odd description of another wine I found:

"Packed, in a brawny, muscular style atypical for this lush vintage, with a gravelly undertow to the currant paste, braised fig and dark licorice notes. Picks up even more steam on the finish, with grilled mesquite, mineral and garrigue notes and a long, hot stone-filled finish."

There are so many things wrong with this I almost don't know where to begin. Are we supposed to be drinking this, or building a house with it?

For instance: grilled mesquite. Can you even grill wood? Doesn't it just catch fire? A gravelly undertow? A long, hot stone-filled finish? Garrigue? This one I had to look up. According to Wikipedia: Garrigue is a type of low, soft-leaved scrubland found on limestone soils around the Mediterranean Basin, generally near the seacoast, where the climate is ameliorated, but where annual summer drought conditions obtain.

Well, now I'm definitely intrigued. Rocks. Mesquite. Paste. Licorice. And an obscure Mediterranean bush.

In The Dark

You don't really realize how much you enjoy electricity until you find yourself cold, drunk and in the dark. That's been my experience anyway.

Last weekend we were hit with what has been only one of several blizzards in New Jersey. This isn't the typical hyperbole from the local action news team. This was the National Weather Service. We got not one, but two honest to God blizzards in a matter of a few weeks. The last one knocked out the power for several hundred thousand homes. We were one of them for a bit.

Late Friday night, or early Saturday morning, depending on how you look at it, we lost power. Now because we live a little off the grid, meaning that we have well-water, oil heat, and propane cooking gas, you wouldn't think we'd be that affected by natural disasters. But take electricity away and the pump that brings the water from the well no longer works, the pump that injects oil into the heater no longer works, and even the oven doesn't seem to want to work without the aid of an electrical current. The only thing that did work was the stovetop, but only if you lit with a match.

I woke to the sound of my wife Jane and her sister Bern coming into the house. They had spent the night whooping it up at Bern's house just down the street and when they woke up without power, decided to walk through the snow storm to our house. I looked over at the clock to see what time it was, and that's when I knew.

We've lost power before. In fact, it seems like it happens all the time. We live on a state highway and if ice and snow isn't bringing a line down, it's a drunk on his way down to the shore.

But I can't remember it happening when it's this cold and you can't get anywhere because there's a foot or two of snow outside.

So, we started a fire in the dining room fireplace, closed the doors to the other rooms, and opened a bottle of vodka. Frankly, what else were we supposed to do? We couldn't make coffee, as we didn't have any water. There was alcohol, plenty of ice, and canned mixers. We didn't have anywhere to be. We had nothing to do. We made cocktails.

I don't know the last time you sat in a room for eight hours with no lights, no television, no computer, no internet, and just drank and talked. I think it was college for me and there was cocaine involved.

Presumably, the snow also covered the nearby cell tower, rendering it nearly useless, because I normally have a full 3G signal on my iPhone and I was left with barely a cell signal. So even my powerful smart phone was rendered powerless.

So as the light of the day began to fade, so did the batteries in our phones. We were being plunged into darkness with no real connection to the outside world. We had the fire going, which put out just enough heat to keep us from freezing, but not really enough to warm the room and we lit candles which gave us just enough light to not run into things, but not enough to see anything.

At 6pm, Bern announced she had had enough and headed upstairs to bed. I can't remember the last time I went to bed at 6pm. Jane and I were left to drink and stare at each other. Eventually, we decided to argue about something, just to keep it interesting. Then we went to bed. It was 8pm.

I woke at 3am on Sunday morning with lights coming on all around the house. I got up and walked around the house, turning off lights, checking the heat, and running water through the pipes, before going back to bed.

In hindsight, I recommend eating something if you're going to drink for 12-13 hours, because the alternative is waking up with a pretty good hangover. I had been sick for a few days and my back was out from shoveling the weekend before, so when I first woke up I didn't recognize the hangover since I'd felt like shit for at least a week anyway. Eventually, it hit me.

Now it's one thing to wake up the day after a snowstorm with the prospect of digging your way out when you feel good. But if your back is tweaked, and your head won't stop throbbing, it's pretty miserable.

I'm seriously thinking about getting a generator.

Good Writing Habits

"A lot of good writing consists of waiting around the for aquarium to settle so you can see the fish."
- Abigail Thomas.

They Were Small Once

There was a time when my children were small. This might not seem like a profound realization, but it is. Most people my age or younger, have small children. Babies, toddlers, elementary school kids. They blog about cute things four year olds say, little league and the stresses of dealing with diapers, bathtime and family time. I, on the other hand, am planning my oldest daughter's wedding while praying that my youngest will graduate high school (which it looks like he won't).

I yearn for the simpler times. This growing up stuff is the pits. For them. For me. Remember when you wanted to grow up and be an adult and make your own decisions? I'm seriously thinking of asking my parents if I can move back home. I'll be good, I promise. Hell, I'll take out the trash, keep my room clean...hell, I'll pay the mortgage

I was reading a blog recently by a guy who has three small children. He's a good writer and he seems to have a wealth of material to draw from with three boys. What was I doing when my kids were small? How come I wasn't writing?

Maybe I'm having trouble with perspective. The things I THINK I have to write about don't seem humorous, interesting, or even mildly educational. I'm more irritated than anything.

I shouldn't be. My daughter got engaged, was actually able to find a house, and a mortgage in this economy. She has a good job and she's not only moved out, she's getting married in a few months. Why am I not overjoyed at this? It's not like I'm not proud of her, because I am. I'm most pleased.

Maybe, like I said, I just miss those more intimate moments when it was us and them. No cars, dates, jobs, or friends. They went wherever we went. They did what we did and ate what we ate. If Jane and I decided to go to the beach, they went to the beach. Now, we're lucky if we see them for a meal.

I guess, I'll just have to wait for grandkids.