NOTHING STAYS THE SAME 

I'm stressing out about a tree that we will lose this year.  

See the elegant dogwood at the corner of the house?  That thirty-year old tree must be moved and it's likely it won't survive.

This came about because there was a crack in the foundation of our house which caused water to seep into the ceiling of the basement.  To fix the problem, the house will need to have piers placed under the foundation at the corner to lift and straighten it.  Right by the dogwood.

It breaks my heart that this magnificent tree will be dug up.  The dogwood and its twin have graced the corners of our house for decades, creating symmetry in the front landscaping.  Throughout most of the year, there is no shortage of color:  creamy-white blossoms in spring, emerald-green foliage in summer, and crimson berries and rust-red leaves during the fall.   

It's odd how we take things for granted, how we may fail to fully appreciate what we have.   When I glance through the sheers of the dining room window, I expect to see the leafy dogwood.  It's always been there.   And now, its days are numbered.       

I can't bear to lose this beautiful tree.  So, I did a little research and found that the best months to transplant a tree would be November through March.  It would be important to bring along as much of the root as possible without roughing up the root ball.  Ehh...this looks iffy.  Though we plan to have the work done late fall, expecting contractors to carefully uproot a tree with a bulldozer is unlikely.  My gut feeling is they won't give a sh*t.  

Even still, I needed to know if we could save the tree.  I asked my arborist friend B.G. to stop by and give us his opinion.  After taking a look at the dogwood and noticing how close it was to the house and how far its roots had spread, he said that it would not survive.  "The tree is too big," says B.G. 

We had another expert come by to have a look.  He said that if the tree is removed and then replanted it may have enough energy to flower in the spring, but it may not live much longer. 

Two grim opinions.  

And then, my husband interviewed three contractors.  Two of the three said the tree is in the way.  But one told us that they could work around the tree!  You know which one I'm rooting for (pun intended.) 

But who am I'm kidding?  The dogwood hugs the corner of the house.  It would be a miracle to work around a tree that's smack dab in the middle of an area that has to be dug up. 

I'm crushed about losing a tree that my husband planted thirty years ago.  This healthy dogwood is like an old friend.  Soon, it will be gone forever.  And I'll have to get used to the fact.  This will not be easy for me.  But like Carly Simon sings, "I know nothing stays the same."  

There is a slight chance that once the tree is dug up, it won't be damaged too much and it can be replanted.  If enough root ball is saved, it might survive.  For a moment, I have a flicker of hope.  Who knows what will happen?  All I know is to appreciate the now because tomorrow things may change.  Elegance may disappear.  So, I take a deep breath, step toward the window, and part the dining room sheers.    

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Photo: Anton Titov 

DANCING DURING THE PANDEMIC 

I miss taking ballet in the dance studio. 

Since April, I've been taking class on Zoom.  Laurie, our ballet teacher teaches from her carpeted loft.  I dance on the wood floor of the dining room after scooting the chairs and the table to the side.  Most of us use a chair for a barre, though one of the younger students has a barre at home.

This setup works fairly well for me unless my cat Ozzie decides to stretch out on the keyboard.  It may be comfy for him, but he blocks my screen view or sometimes presses a key to shut off Zoom.  So, after I move Oz (who then sits on my makeshift barre) I follow along by listening and watching my teacher.  When we've completed thirty minutes of barre exercises, we push our chairs out of the way to do center work.  Here's where it gets tricky.  Most of us have limited space, so our adagio (slow) and allegro (fast) movements are more confined.  We don't have the luxury to spread out for waltzing, pirouetting, and leaping across the room. 

Then in July, ballet studios in Kentucky opened their doors with safety measures in place. I joined Laurie's in-person class which had been limited to ten dancers. All students wore masks when entering the studio, used hand sanitizer, and did temperature checks.  The waiting area was divided into spaces six feet apart so that dancers could spread out to pull on leg warmers and step into ballet slippers.  Each student had their own barre to promote social distancing. 

I loved being back in class where I could receive personal instruction, chat with friends, and have the space to dance.  But I was concerned about doing ballet in the studio.  Even though we are required to enter with masks, not all of the students continued to wear one at the barre and during center work.  I get it.  Wearing a mask is no fun.  It makes me overheat and it catches my eye and distracts me, especially when spotting for pirouetting.  I can understand why some dancers don't want to wear one.  But I didn't feel safe when we moved from the barres to the center of the studio.  Trying to social distance was difficult.  Center work requires learning a combination of steps that move dancers in many directions across the floor.  For some, it was hard to remember to stay six feet apart.   

With every class, I was feeling more conflicted.  I wanted to be face to face with my classmates.  I wanted to receive correction and encouragement.  I wanted to have space to dance.  But I didn't feel comfortable even though the studio arrangement had been well-thought out.

So, after struggling about what to do, I decided to give up the in-person classes and to return to ballet lessons on Zoom.  For me, it's a good alternative.  It's an opportunity to be expressive and stay in shape.  At home, I am able to do barre and center work and receive instructions on improving technique.  Hopefully next year, I will be able to return to the studio and do ballet without any restrictions.  But for now, it will have to wait.  And that's okay.  Even with limited space and a keyboard loving cat, I can put on ballet shoes and dance.

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Courier Journal 

A NON-TRADITIONAL RUN FOR THE ROSES  

I love to watch the Kentucky Derby.  It's not just a competition of three-year old thoroughbreds galloping around a dirt track.  It's a horse race steeped in tradition.

And yet the 146th running of the Derby was just plain sad.   

The Derby has always taken place during dogwood-blooming time on the first Saturday in May.  This year, it was in September.  

The Derby always drew fans dressed in classy suits and showy hats.  This year, no fans were allowed to sit in the grandstands.   

The Derby is always raced by jockeys wearing brightly-patterned silks.  This year the jockeys added face masks to their attire.    

On this Derby day, I think back to a happier, more carefree time, to the time I joined friends for the 100th running of the Derby.  We arrived at the entrance at 4:00 in the morning with coolers of food and drinks.  Since we had to wait for Churchill Downs to open, we dozed on blankets laid out on the pavement.  Four hours later, we made a beeline for the infield to grab a spot by the rail—a race in itself with other early-risers.  What I remember most is a warm sunny day, a crowd of hippies and partiers, a streaker who climbed a flag pole, and the Derby winner, Cannonade.    

Winning Impression, photo: Churchill Downs 

Experiencing one Derby in person was enough for me.  Ever since then, I watch the race at home with my husband, away from the sun and drunk fans and close to a bathroom where I don't have to wait in line. 

As always on Derby day, we sip on mint juleps.  It's a Mrvos tradition.  This year we concocted a batch using Woodford Reserve and topped it with blackberries and fresh mint from our garden.  I'm not much of a bourbon fan, but when the ratio of alcohol to simple syrup leans more to the sugary side, it's delicious.  And this sweet drink helped wash away some of the sadness that had settled upon Churchill Downs.

Another one of our Derby traditions is to root for a horse that we think will win the race.  This too, chased away some of the Derby blues.  We had something to look forward to.  My husband typically goes with the favorite.  I like to cheer on the grey horses.  I believe they try harder because their coats are not as flashy as the chestnut-colored thoroughbreds.  My money was on Winning Impression.  (He finished in 12th place in a field of fifteen.)

We added a new tradition this year.  My husband decided to make burgoo, a traditional dish served at Kentucky racetracks, made with beef, tomatoes, potatoes, mixed vegetables, thyme, sage, sherry and red wine.  Imagine a thick hearty stew.   Having good ol' comfort food also helped to lift our spirits.       

Our traditions make the Derby special, in spite of the changes brought on by COVID, changes that ultimately give all sports a melancholia, a palpable sadness whether it's football, baseball and basketball games or tennis matches or horse racing. 

I'm hoping by next spring, the regulations will have been eased and that the 147th Kentucky Derby will be run in the month of May.  That there will be grandstands filled with fans decked-out in fancy suits and elaborate hats.  That there will be jockeys wearing silks without face masks.  Churchill Downs is an elegant southern racetrack and the Run for the Roses should be held as it was conceived, ever so colorful, full of pageantry, and forever steeped in tradition. 

À la prochaine! 

Please follow me on Twitter and RT my pitches on October 29th for #PBPitch (and I'll reciprocate)  https://twitter.com/RandiLynnMrvos  

LOVING NOT ONE, BUT TWO STRAYS  

I'm not embarrassed to say that I love a scruffy cat called Putty.  

Putty is the cat that I took care of for over seven years.  Ever since a tom cat attacked him on our deck, I've seen very little of my sweet stray.      

Putty chilling after a dish of tuna

When Putty first came to our door begging for food, he was shy and he didn't hang around for long.  Over time, he became accustomed to me.  He'd follow me on the deck when I fed the birds or in the garden when I weeded.  He'd come to patio after I'd drive into the garage and greet me with a gravelly meow.  Putty would even let me pat his head.  He learned his name and would trot up to me when I called him.

Putty had it made.  This cat ate canned cat food and tuna. He was spoiled rotten and I loved spoiling him.

But after the cat fight, he's only returned one or two times.  I've seen him in the neighborhood when I take a walk, and I'll call him, but he doesn't come to me.  He only stops and stares.  I wonder where he hangs out.  I wonder if someone else feeds him.  I wonder if he has forgotten me.  

Kitty says, "Feed me." And I do.

Then this spring, another stray cat came to our deck.  She's beautiful and tiny and I call her Kitty.  You can see from this photo that her left ear has been clipped.  This is called ear-tipping and it is the universal sign that a feral cat has been sterilized.

Kitty is like a miniature version of Putty, though instead of having black spots on a white coat like Putty, she has striped spots.  Like Putty, she has green eyes and a pink nose.  She has the identical facial pattern as Putty, which looks like she's wearing a cap that comes to a point on her forehead, curves around her eyes, and extends down to the upper cheeks.  She looks like she could be his daughter.

 One night, I heard an angry growling sound coming from   outside.  It could only mean trouble.  Another stray, a huge   Russian Blue cat, was fighting with Kitty.  It was like a rerun of   Putty's skirmish on our deck.  I banged on the kitchen window but that did not stop him.  I opened the door and yelled at him, and then both cats ran away.  Luckily, the attack didn't harm Kitty or scare her from coming back. 

Kitty makes herself at home on our deck much like Putty had done, stretching out on her back with paws facing the sky, curling on a chair, or resting under the picnic table.  But no matter how comfortable she is lounging on the deck, I have not gained her confidence.  She stares at me through the kitchen door wanting to be fed.  Then when I fill her bowl, she skitters to the opposite side of the deck.  She comes to eat only after I close the door.  In time, this may change.  

Part of me feels that Putty's departure has made room for a cat that needs more attention than he does.  I try to wrap my head around the fact that Kitty is the cat that I'm supposed to be caring for, not Putty.  In a way that makes me feel better.  That somehow this is how things are meant to be.  But it doesn't mean I like it.  It's just how things are for now.

Though I enjoy having Kitty around, I am ever hopeful that Putty will return*.  Maybe during the winter months I'll be putting out tuna for him.  And when the weather gets colder, I'll be taking care of not one, but two strays, little Kitty and a cat that I call Putty. 

À la prochaine! 

*Putty stopped by on Sept.19th!!! Guess what he had for dinner?

A WRITER'S LIFE DURING A PANDEMIC 

It's no surprise that our lives have changed because of COVID-19.  While we strive to keep our routines like they were prior to the pandemic, I think it's safe to say we've all had to adjust.

Previously, I attended one ballet studio class and three French classes once a week and went to the gym every day.  Now, I take my ballet and French classes on Zoom in the evenings.  And though the gym opened a few weeks ago, I feel safer avoiding it for the time being.  To get exercise, I walk for at least an hour or more each day.  

Overall, my life hasn't changed drastically.  And I'm thankful that my routine is fairly normal.  So, this is pretty much the general structure of my day.   

          Feed Ozzie (there's food in his bowls,                                             Feed our beloved stray Putty 
         and yes, he has two food bowls)                                     

                                                   Have breakfast (notice who eats before me)                                                            

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                                         

                Work on clients' manuscripts                                                     Work on my manuscripts

    Move the cat 

                             Tweet                                                                                      Work on my blog

                        Keep up with LinkedIn                                                    Create a pin for Pinterest

Study French

Have lunch

Move the cat

I used to workout at the gym after lunch. Now I walk in the neighborhood.

                                                                          

              Study French, encore                                                                              Move the cat                                                      

                                                                                              

Have dinner

Attend a Zoom class (French or Ballet depending on the night)

Work on my manuscripts

   And finally...relax with my hubby and Ozzie   

That's my typical day, packed with activities that keep me busy and productive. 

I have no major complaints...yet sometimes my life feels surreal, like I'm having a bad dream.  And when I wake up, everything will be back to the way it once was.  I'll be back dancing in the ballet studio, back learning French in a classroom and back working out in the gym.

But this is the reality, the new normal.

It's sad and frustrating that life has changed, that life is so different.  I could bitch and moan, but what good would that do?  So, I will strive to be thankful, aim to be positive, do my best to be patient, and be willing to find ways to adjust.

À la prochaine! 

THE LAST TWO DAYS OF MAY 

Two days before demonstrations broke out in response to George Floyd's death, my husband and I helped our daughter Abby relocate to Washington, DC.  During the 540-mile drive, we weren't thinking about anything political and we certainly didn't think there'd be civil unrest.  Our biggest concern was moving Abby safely.  Though this should be a happy occasion, we were sad that we would not be able to get physically close or hug one another because of COVID-19.

Feelings aside, these are...

the things I observed: 

• traffic was not heavy on the interstate or in Washington, DC.  There was little road construction.

• everyone social distanced in rest stop restrooms and washed their hands.

• only 40 - 50% of the travelers wore masks at rest stops.

• about 90% of the residents in the neighborhood of Mount Pleasant, Washington, DC wore masks.

• in the Chevy Chase neighborhood of Washington, DC, only 50% of adults picking up carry-out food wore masks.

• all employees in fast-food restaurants wore gloves and masks.

• dining rooms in fast-food restaurants were cordoned off and strips of tape were placed at six-feet intervals to ensure social-distancing when placing an order. 

• the hotel receptionist sat behind a large plastic shield. 

• the Embassy Suites looked like a ghost town.   

• Rock Creek Park was crowded, but people practiced social distancing. 

the things I didn't foresee: 

• the truck rental company not having the vehicle we had reserved.

• we'd have to park a block away from my daughter's apartment to move her in.

• I'd have to stand guard after the furniture was unloaded onto the sidewalk.

• some of the furniture being too heavy to be lifted up steps. 

• we'd have to rent a storage unit for the furniture that couldn't be carried into the apartment. 

• the move being so emotional for our family. 

the things I didn't expect:

• not having dinner because COVID-19 forced restaurants to close early. 

• the streets surrounding our hotel to be blocked by police cars.

• an angry, loud crowd outside our hotel shouting and throwing parking cones into the street. 

• riot police assembling on the street and lining up shoulder to shoulder behind bulletproof shields.

• my anxiety level to be sky-high, not knowing how the police or crowd of people would react.  

• Washington, DC locked down for a curfew. 

The last two days in May were stressful for our nation.  On a personal level, the weekend was equally as stressful.  But we got through it.  Despite a few glitches, the move went fairly well.  It actually turned out better than I had thought it would.  For months, the three of us had been social distancing and limiting contacts, so we felt safe to be close.  And therefore...

the thing I am most grateful for: 

• heart-felt hugs from a happy, loving daughter. 

À la prochaine!  

                                                                                                                                                                                                             Photo: Tastyoasis.net

A TASTE OF COMFORT 

The coronavirus pandemic has touched nearly everyone in the entire world.  Though we're inching toward reopening the nation, the daily reports of new cases and deaths are grim.  Still, my husband and I feel compelled to listen to the news each night at dinnertime.

This ritual reminds me of my youth when my family and I sat at the dinner table and watched journalists report from the jungles of Vietnam.  I was sixteen-years old.  Every evening we listened to the number of body counts and saw the horrors of the war.  In many ways, the harsh reality of COVID-19 seems no different.  And yet, this pandemic is so incredibly different because we are fighting a war in our own country and it affects each and every one of us so personally.

During these hard times, it can be challenging to keep spirits lifted.  It can be tough because the news of the illness is ever-present on television and in the newspaper.  It totally sucks.  So we must find ways to deal this unprecedented situation.

We all have different ways to cope.  I've found that watching funny movies, talking walks, engaging in Zoom classes and doing Face Time with family make me feel better.  And I should mention there's one other thing:  good ol' comfort foods.  You know the foods that provide consolation or a feeling of contentment.  The foods that are sugary or full of carbohydrates.  The foods we may associate with home cooking.

One recipe that comes to mind is my mother-in-law's famous noodle kugel.

Millie loved to cook and bake for her friends and family.  I honestly couldn't tell you what I liked the best from her vast repertoire:  banana split cake, chocolate Texas sheet cake, cream puffs, and the list goes on.  Then there's her fried chicken—move over Claudia Sanders.*  You've got nothing on Millie's crispy, moist, tender, tasty chicken. 

But for comfort food, I think of her noodle kugel.

This recipe is so damn easy to make.  My husband and I can't get enough of it.  I promise, you will LOVE it.

So, here you go:

Noodle Kugel

2/3 package of wide or extra wide noodles
5 eggs
3 Tablespoons butter, melted
1/2 Cup (heaping) sugar
dash of nutmeg

Cook noodles about 7 minutes to al dente.  Drain noodles when done.  Coat the baking dish with a cooking spray to prevent sticking.  Place cooked noodles in baking dish.  Stir in butter.  In a mixing bowl, beat eggs well and then mix in sugar.  Pour over noodles.  Sprinkle with nutmeg.  Bake at 350° until the top gets brown, about 45 minutes. And enjoy.

It may be months before the gloominess of the pandemic goes away.  But we can put down the newspaper and can turn off the television for awhile.  We can engage in activities that bring smiles to our faces.  And we can savor our favorite foods.  Because now more than ever, we all need a little more comfort.
Bon appétit!


*Colonial Sander's wife's restaurant is in Shelbyville, Kentucky.