High Summer Shenanigans

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Why, yes. Hrafen probably is judging you.

It was the best of fruit. It was the worst of fruit. It was… another lovely summer.

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It’s August already… the calm before the storm. We’ve been thinning apples from the two trees like mad, but we already know it’s going to be an interesting autumn. After being inundated by the neighbor’s cherries and our own plums in June, we were grateful for the five apricots we got off of our tree in July and a teensy, single nectarine. We’re bracing ourselves for the goji berries, jujubes, peaches, and apples that are coming next, followed by the poms and persimmons. We put up some plum jelly which is delicious – and experimentally flavored with allspice. This is not to everyone’s tastes, which means there’s more for those of us who like it! We were happy to be able to share it with friends visiting from Scotland and the Netherlands.

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The goji berries were a surprise – we mistook the small bush in the corner of the yard for some kind of peppers! We’re still not quite sure what to do with them, but T’s sister loaned her a dehydrator, and we know that many people make and drink tea from dried goji berries, and also eat them – also dried – for the incredible boost of Vitamin C. They have such a mild flavor that the drying seems important. We figure if we treat them like raisins, that’ll be about right. The jujubes… are going to be a bigger challenge, but more and more people are growing these pretty little trees, and we’ll …taste them and figure out how best to treat the fruit. They’re called red dates, and so drying them might also be a possibility. Some varietals are crisp like apples – but we won’t know what we’ve got until a bit later.

The tomatoes are in full swing, and we’re eating them every day. We’re also already making plans for next year… for some San Marinos, because why not make sauce while it’s hot? Those who remember our green tomato mincemeat pie filling will have to wait a year – only three plants really isn’t enough to have that much of a green tomato surplus. Maybe…

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When we haven’t been overwhelmed by the garden, we’ve been frantically trying to pull the house together ahead of T’s minor surgery. We are ecstatic to have donated a whole ton of stuff, which means the car can now fit into the garage. We’re – once again – bound and determined to rid ourselves of so much stuff, and keep the sleek and streamlined way of living. Of course, we say this every time we move…

Meanwhile, T is fine – and sh’s meant to be sitting back and relaxing for six to twelve weeks, but there was a much spoken about Swiffering Incident the third day after surgery which probably bodes ill for her resting properly for the entirety of her convalescence. It also bodes ill for the state of the house as well, but D is stepping up admirably, and keeping the cookies coming. This is really all anyone can ask for in recovery, is it not?

Summer’s for the Birds

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Somehow, it doesn’t seem to be summertime until you hear that first lazy drone of a plane while you’re lying on your back basking in a clear, blue morning. We’ve not heard many planes of a morning here because the dawn chorus is downright raucous! Not only house sparrows and waxwings but gray warblers, finches, phoebes, robins, and starlings abound…. and then, of course there are the hummingbirds and Hrafen, Morrigan and Bran, the crows. (They looked through the skylights on our first day in this house and helpfully announced themselves while eying us like they were watching People Planet.)

Given all the garden and fruit trees, this house is Summer Bird Central (obviously; someone had to eat all the cherries and menace the squirrels over the apricots and glower at us over the plums), and it’s both a joy and a pain. The crows leave cherry pits underfoot, the hummingbirds wage war and explode into shrieking fits if we so much as set foot in the yard on the way to the garage. The phoebe, of course, is the most social of birds, unbothered by our coming and going, and hopping over closer when we come out. They do complain if we don’t pick up rocks or shift fruit off of the ground every time we’re out of doors – the phoebe are fairly convinced that we only exist to disturb the dirt to kick up bugs for them. (They may be right… so far, we exist to forget that fountains have to be run and maintained in order to prevent mosquito larvae! The phoebes are feasting, but we’re getting mosquito dunks posthaste. We have enough problems without extra bloodsuckers! And, if you, like us, didn’t know, the mosquito dunks we found ONLY kill mosquito larvae and are safe for tadpoles and everything else.)

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We found these little guys the other weekend in Balboa Park. We were walking through the gorgeous Japanese Friendship Gardens there, and they were quietly stuck around the back of one of the little art gallery. We share them here to remind you to look for the unnoticed – and to pause in gratitude for the abundance of the season – even if it’s an abundance of hot days and loud birds who decorate your lawn chairs. Despite the grim news cycle, may your heart still find hope, and may your hands stay busy doing what you can.

Chaos and Upheaval

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Hello – it’s June! We had other things to say at other points last month, but the Chaos Unleashed has robbed some of those things of their immediacy… on Memorial Day, our landlord popped by to announce that he was selling the house, so we’re moving to the town next door. We had lease papers signed within a week of him telling us, and we move in on the 10th. We really do NOT want to live through somebody showing the house with us in it. We did that once and…nope. So, T. went looking and found a pretty little place that’s within a 15 minute walk of where we rehearse for choir. Unlike many of the houses around here, it’s a real house, which means it’s old, but it has a very thorough remodel and an owner who adores it — and says he will never, ever, ever sell it. Which is good enough for us just now.

We are (nearly) all packed and ready to go, with most things staged in the garage, so the movers can do the heavy lifting. We really had settled in here, which makes it all the more difficult to move, because there were really only a couple of things which didn’t get unboxed (Christmas ornaments, a stash of sewing fabric). But, this is our 17th move in 25 years of marriage, so it’s not like we haven’t gotten the drill down by now.

The new place is all one level (yay, no more stairs!), has air conditioning (most houses around here don’t, relying on the afternoon breeze), has a bunch of mature fruit trees in the back (plum, cherry, persimmons, white peach, pomegranate, and citrus galore), and has garden space (with like 16 square feet of Chinese chives planted as well as Thai bird chilies, and, surprisingly, dragonfruit). It’s a quick across-the-block hop from the nearest branch of the public library, the weekly farmer’s market, and the aforementioned rehearsal space. Since it is older, it doesn’t have a lot of closet space, which is just the excuse we need to do a once-and-for-all winnowing of the many, many, many coats, blankets, gloves, and woolens we brought back from Scotland.

Otherwise, we’re sailing on calmer waters these days. Hope you are, too.

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-D & T

The Gift to Sing


Happy Weekend!

This is our last concert of the season, and it’s already been a doozy, as we’ve had a seven hour rehearsal for it last weekend, and we have tech rehearsal next week. Somehow T ended up being in charge of producing the program (she has SUCKER tattooed on her forehead in invisible ink which only shows up when directors look at her in daylight), and so between working on her revision (first deadline: May 27! Aaargh!) is doing a lot of proofreading and squinting at font choices and proper spellings of names and such.

In the process of working on the program, though, she came across this gem of a poem which she found in an old book given to her last year by her 8th grade English teacher. (Yes. The woman still kind of gives assignments, some twenty-odd years later.) It was written during the Harlem Renaissance, and T thought of it this morning as she heard D singing in the living room.

(Poet and writer James Weldon Johnson, 1871-1938, is perhaps best known for writing the song, “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing.”)

We’ve been very blessed that no matter what’s gone on in these past months, we’ve been able to remain at peace with each other – in spite of provocations. We’ve kept faith with each other, and with ourselves, as far as possible. We’ve never stopped finding the ridiculous, and we’ve never stopped singing. And – better still? Himself got almost six hours of sleep last night. It’s not over yet – by a long shot – but this feels like progress.

The storm is passing over, hallelujah.

Floating Into May

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Trust

It’s like so many other things in life
to which you must say no or yes.
So you take your car to the new mechanic.
Sometimes the best thing to do is trust.

The package left with the disreputable-looking
clerk, the check gulped by the night deposit,
the envelope passed by dozens of strangers—
all show up at their intended destinations.

The theft that could have happened doesn’t.
Wind finally gets where it was going
through the snowy trees, and the river, even
when frozen, arrives at the right place.

And sometimes you sense how faithfully your life
is delivered, even though you can’t read the address.
~Thomas R. Smith


Ah, May.

It’s a good time to note that May is National Mental Health month, since we’re kind of a nation on the brink of madness at the moment. It’s tough out there, but you’ve GOT this. As you move through your world and maintain your boundaries, remember that the best way out is through, that “No” is a full and complete sentence, and that “Human kindness has never weakened the stamina or softened the fiber of a free people. A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough.” – Franklin D. Roosevelt.

You’ve got this. Promise.

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We’re feeling at one with the season, since we’ve had a pause in the rain. A brief pause, since it looks to be starting up again later this weekend… but no one really minds, since as of March, our Fair State is out of drought for the first time in a full decade. You would THINK this means that we’re having an easier allergy season, but… nope. More water means even more crazily blooming everything. Plus grass. And mold. And fungi. Ah, well. Bring on the clouds.

T’s little sister sailed gloriously through her course at the Paul Mitchell school, and graduated just shy of a year after she began. She is planning on taking her boards eventually, as soon as she gets over the luxury of sleeping in again, and then, look out world. T would like everyone to know that her sister is an awesome colorist, and that she is happy to serve as a billboard for her mad skills. (T would also like everyone to know that if you don’t wash your hair with the right kind of shampoo, your pillowcases WILL pay the price in grubby teal dye that will NEVER LEAVE. Oy!)

T’s been busy with Actual Work for a change, and has deadlines in May AND June, so she’s trying to stay focused, which is not easy with the extra little joys her autoimmune and The Devil’s Drug, aka Prednisone, has brought into her life. Still, we’re all excited to see her with another book contract, and look forward to summers 2020 and 2021 with nervous happiness. Mostly nervousness, at this point, because …deadlines. But, we carry on.

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A tiny bit of excitement because our young pear tree has FOUR pears on it, and we identified the little bushlet in our backyard that has so faithfully bloomed every year and then… basically done nothing else but sit there. We thought it was an avocado, or another citrus – and it’s actually a lychee. We identified it after seeing a MASSIVE one in Hawai’i in bloom last month. We have never had fresh lychee (Show of hands? Anyone?), and while we’re not fans of the canned variety, we’re told we’ll LOVE the fresh. Yeah, well, we’ll see if the plant actually does anything with the hundreds of tiny fruit we’re not sure how to thin!

While things have been challenging, there have, of course, been the little serendipitous blessings. We were the Easter “ringers” for a venerable old Presbyterian church in Livermore, and were meant to pick up the trumpet soloist who wasn’t able to drive, due to a cycling accident (and a broken pelvis). Of course, all this occurred on a day when our car wouldn’t start… so, we drove his car after having met him for three minutes. This was a leap of faith for all involved, but in the end, we got a slightly dinged up trumpeter and his wife as friends. We’re sure we’ve met other bipolar people before now, but it’s no coincidence that we’ve met one now, a functional and amusing human being who gives us hope that the worst of things will pass.

Another little joy has been T’s new instrument. It’s only THEORETICALLY T’s, as she is in that state of just sitting and touching it, and not really, you know, playing, it, but it’s a pretty little visitor from the Northern California Ukulele Festival.

Pear-shaped, or mandolin-shaped ukuleles have a bright, open sound, distinctly more sweet and melodic than the traditionally shaped ukulele. The bell-shaped ukes were first popularized in 1927, and though the shape is less popular, it’s one of the best we’ve found. We’ve named it Baliset, because we are those nerds.

T is slightly horrified, as she has never wanted to play a ukulele, and considered them only slightly a step above the recorder she played in the third grade and muttered something about “hipsters,” but… she is promised, this one is different. No, really…

One of the Devil’s Drug’s little side effects is “agitation,” as the doctor puts it, and “not sleeping again, ever,” as T puts it, which puts her in good company, since D doesn’t seem to sleep that much, either these days. There’s a LOT of reading going on – D reads medical books, while T reads whatever she can get her hands on. Shocking, huh? That they’re actual books with PAPER?! Yes, well, we’re pretty proud that acquaintances and friends are being published this year as well, and are vicariously enjoying the thrill of projects finally completed after years of work – and those are somehow the books one simply HAS to get in actual print, no ebooks allowed. What have you been reading lately? We hope it is something equally as engaging.

With all the reading Himself is doing, T fully expects D to publish some massive paper on …well, some theory or other. There surely ought to be some recompense for all these hours spent wakefully.

On that note, it’s high time to try for a nap, before the HOURS and HOURS of rehearsal time scheduled for this weekend.

PS – This is seriously one of the more gorgeous covers we’ve ever peeped. We’re biased, as friends of the author, but seriously – what a cover!

The Dark Fantastic

Thoughts On At-will Employment Ethics

What ethical responsibilities does an employee have in a state which is an at-will employment state? Does the employee owe their employer some notice? If so, does that same obligation rest with the employer? Of course not, although there is some pretense of this given. However, it seems to me that the most common scenario is one in which the employee is expected to give adequate notice, if not excessive notice, and the employer is allowed the free latitude to “do what is good for the business” rather than what is good for the employee.

Some of this is due to the imbalance of power inherent within the relationship, but some of it is socially reinforced, is explicitly stated on the part of employers, and is reinforced through an indirect pathway, in that prospective employers will evaluate a prospective employee based upon whether or not they have left their current position with hard feelings. Started differently, it appears that individuals are willing to punish their peers for not giving adequate notice, while simultaneously allowing latitude on the part of the corporation. This social reinforcement of notice serves to allow the individuals within the corporation to maintain some semblance of stability, while allowing the corporation flexibility. There is tension here, however, simply because individuals are applying a standard to others which they would not apply to themselves. If you ask anyone in a corporation whether or not they have a moral obligation to give a notice, they will probably be reluctant to honestly own that they do. I think, people intuitively understand that there is an imbalance here, and understand that it is not ethically right of them to enforce such a standard of notice upon their peers, while simultaneously preserving the option for themselves to not give notice.

This is one area in which individuals are willing to accept a double standard with regards to ethics. Employees grant privileges and latitude to corporations to perform acts which the individuals themselves would find ethically repugnant. This double standard is part of what allows corporate structures to perform unethical actions while their employees feel that they as people are being ethical.

People inherently resist holding corporations to the same ethical standards as they do individual humans. That is not to say that individuals are not in favor of holding corporations ethically accountable. That is merely to say that individuals instinctively understand the corporations are fundamentally different than human beings, and should not be afforded the same rights or privileges, and nor should they be necessarily required to uphold the same moral standards. However, absent any critical thinking on the moral standards of corporations, and any means of connecting the opinions of the individuals within the regulation in a meaningful way to the corporations actions, we will be left with this double standard in place, and largely unrecognized.

D

Island of the Loud Birds

We are not island people, unless the island is generally green, cold, and foggy and connected with a wrongheaded place that has a queen. Islands which are mosquito-muggy and green? Nope, not for us. Or, so T. thought she was safe assuming. D’s random, “Hey, Big BrotherD says we should go to Hawai’i!” comment had her saying, “Uh-huh,” and moving on with her life. Until he bought the tickets.

“But, we’re not island people!” T protested.

“But, how do we know?” D countered.

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Our first time in Hawai’i maybe wasn’t one of our better organized trips. We neither of us was feeling that well (ironic, since we were going to visit someone post-surgery), and we forgot a lot of stuff. But, we arrived.

The ocean was overwhelming, as was the sky.

The contrast between stormy steel-gray and blinding sunshine seemed to change every four minutes. And there were CHICKENS. EVERYWHERE. Sooo many chickens. This was more amusing than expected, as the baby chicks would often scurry under the nearest large “safe” space when frightened. The first night, at a food truck, this was between T’s feet. She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified. (Chickens evidently know a vegetarian when they see one.)

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The first night, we slept with the windows and doors closed. This did not prevent the Dawn Chorus from waking us at 3:20 a.m.

Our friend Ju texted us a screenshot of her phone about an hour later, during what she calls “The Hour of the Rooster.” We had no rooster – but we had everything else. Sandpipers. Mynah birds. Zebra doves. Waxbills. White-eyes. Java finches. We gave up and got up.

There isn’t much to do on the very North Shore of O’ahu, other than surf and hike, and people are avidly into it. Traffic on the North Shore of O’ahu is less amusing late in the day, as people just arriving on the island tend to need to pull over every four minutes to gawk at the water. Early in the morning, though, it is wonderful. We drove in the rain, which cleared, leaving us with that freshly-showered feeling (warm, wet, in need of a towel). We were still feeling meh, so took the day slowly. Starting with water seemed a good idea.

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Obviously, there were birds near the water, and this continued us on our Bird Odyssey. As T has said, a camera is merely a gateway drug to bird watching, and we chased birds our entire trip. This was its own amusement; D chasing across a golf course, while a coy sandpiper led him on was its own comedy routine.

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We decided early on to avoid tourist-y places this trip – no coffee or pineapple plantations, no luaus, no Polynesian Cultural Center – our purpose was to hang out with Ju, look at birds and water, and remember how to be Humans, Being. It took us the first three days to become accustomed to the low speed limits, random surges of people crossing the highway (the reason for the 35mph everywhere), and the warm rain (!!!!) before we truly started to enjoy ourselves, and of course, then, we had to start thinking about doing Last Things and going home.

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Of course, five days isn’t enough, when you’re trying to unkink your brain. Not if you’re not yet sure you’re an island person. Not if you’re leery of humidity, and the wildness of your hair and the way you look in fewer clothes.

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Once you stop caring about any of that, though, and embrace your fat, your frizz, and your fishbelly paleness, it’s just enough time for a little reset.

Random Patterns

Going through the knitting stash, I discovered this pattern. No idea what it is for. Kind of feels like when you read those stories of the random adventurers discovering some magic spell and mistakenly reading it, performing the spell, and ending up with who knows what. That would be this, but performing the spell looks like it would take something like 30 or 40 hours and more than eye of newt.

– D

It’s Probably Axel’s Fault. All of It.

One of the gifts of technology has been being able to “hear” magazines in podcast form, and in this household, there is altogether too much access to food podcasts. D sometimes listens to them, and gets …these ideas… ideas T really, really, really wishes he had never heard.

His latest idea, though, is Axel’s fault. And, it all started with the cured egg yolks.

What could be finer, terms of lovely things to enjoy, than a fresh new cookbook? With full color images, and cross-sections of the ingredients… the dishes… the appliances… Oh, yes. This is Modernist Cuisine at Home, a very, very pricey little cookbook that is more an art piece than a cookbook (but, to its credit, it comes with an Actual Cookbook which does not contain high def images, and which does have stain-proof, wipeable pages). In this very beautiful book, which is Axel’s newest pride and joy, D saw a photo of someone grating something which was not cheese, and D remembered an America’s Test Kitchen episode he’d seen. “Oh, yeah, those are preserved egg yolks!” he said.

In terms of things T wants to eat, egg yolks are not that high on the list. A childhood of parents who were at times vegan and other times vegetarians who kept chickens left her with a mild distrust of egg yolks. She eats eggs, but prefers them scrambled, so she cannot see… anything about them. Once you’ve candled eggs… yes. Well. The less said, the better.

Now, T didn’t think much of this throwaway comment, but D is in possession of a mind which fastens upon a thing and does. not. let. go. He remembered those eggs. For days. And when we were gifted with a basket of some farm fresh from his niece’s chickens, he had An Idea of what to do with them, he said.

An “idea” he said. “Something cool,” he said.

It seems the word ‘cool’ has varying definitions within a single household, but we digress.

It’s apparently very simple. Separate egg and yolk. Dump yolk in mixture of salt and sugar. End up with far too many whites, and no real plan of anything to do with them. Dismay your spouse with your apparent glee at the disturbingly orange, firm little balls of protein-rich… something-ness, which languish for weeks on end in their dry brine cure, growing ever harder and more disturbingly un-egg-like.

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Some argue that the yolks need to air dry, others suggest a short stint in a low oven. Regardless, they seem raw-ish, and T has determined that no matter how… “like Parmesan” dried, aged egg yolks are, she will not be eating them, thank you so. She will, instead, avail herself of the myriad frozen egg yolks, and inveigle her way into getting macarons. Frequently.

Macarons 1.1

Macrons are, in and of themselves, another deceptively simple food that is tricky. It’s just whipped egg whites, a bit of sugar, and almond flour for structure – how hard could it be?

Hard.

Macarons 1.2

Sure, you can whip the whites, but if you don’t sift both flour and powdered sugar, and the sun comes out from behind a cloud, it will all go wrong. You may sift the flour and sugar, but if the chickens laid the eggs on or near a new moon, it will all go wrong. Your eggs may be room temperature, you may whip to stiff peaks, but if the wind is from the East, well. Honestly, the EAST??? What were you thinking?

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You may leave your cookies to sit the requisite thirty+ minutes to set, you may keep your kitchen hermetically sealed against drafts, you may sing all sixteen lines of Va, Pensiero in perfect Italian, swaying gently, but … the cookies will not raise. You will make another batch. You will make stiffer peaks. You will add less coloring. You will give up on remotely following the sanitized recipe and add tiny flecks of ground vanilla bean. They will still not raise, and a few of them will cave in.

You will not know why. You will serve them anyway, they will melt in spouse’s mouth, and be the most delicious puffs of air-infused-with-Creamsicle she has ever eaten. She will share them with her chorus buddies, and they will clamor, in a strictly ladylike fashion, for mOaR.

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(Oh, yes. Fiori di Sicilia, you ask? Well, that most divine of all seasonings makes your cookies taste like Creamsicles. A mere 1/2 teaspoon, and all is delicious and smelling of soft, vanilla-y citrussy goodness. It tastes like your Italian summer dreams, even if that one time you were in Italy in the summer it rained the whole time and you never even heard any Verdi when you were there, only incoherent screams, and a lot of horns from people flipping you off as they drove up waaay too close to your back bumper…)

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*cough* Where were we? Ah, yes. Axel. His fault. His cookbook. Those disturbing orange orbs. The amazing fluffs of Creamsicle goodness. Yes, well. Perhaps Axel can be forgiven this time for once again instigating some hair-brained (like harebrained, but…worse) foodie scheme into this household. After all, the more of those slightly disturbing orange orbs there are, the more freely available egg whites there are, perfect for more experimentation in making the perfect macarons. Some day, they will rise triumphant and smooth, perfected and serene. Some day, there will be no cracks. Some day, all that invisibly melting cookie flavor will actually look as perfect as the ones in bakeries. Until then, we’ll keep on trying. After all, there really isn’t much most of us wouldn’t do for Italian summer dreams. (Dreams work better, after all… they don’t contain those rude drivers, for one thing.)


Health Junk, Because Some of You Wanted to Know: Week… seven? Yes. Week seven of D’s medical leave, and a low, gray fogbank has taken up residence around us. Thank God for a bit of precipitation and moisture in the world, which will soon herald a green springtide, but the low visibility and endless gray means a lot of indoor days… and trips to the Oakland Museum of California. Thank goodness for indoor entertainment. If you haven’t been, go. It’s truly one of the better museums in the Bay Area.

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It’s trade-off time! According to the Geneva Marriage Accord of 1386, spouses have to trade off being ill. By a narrow margin, this time it’s T who is dragging, as her autoimmune disease has figured out a way to bowl over her immunosuppressant drug. Now is the season of enormous fatigue, new labs and new trials and – ugh… just in time for the upcoming choral show, where T is going to put on elbow-length gloves, a string of pearls, and …sequined ears (don’t ask) to make a fool of herself. The performance definitely won’t be as high energy as it might have been, but, at least the drug conk out was expected; her endocrinologist warned her early on that there would be multiple drug shifts throughout the life of the disease, because that just seems to be the way autoimmune disease goes. It’s no fun, though.

Himself, meanwhile, under medical supervision, is doing his own drug juggling, to gradually reintroduce some necessary medications. There are gains every day, and though we still don’t know entirely what caused this catastrophic unhinging of every single thing, having a break from work stress while sifting through the detritus of the implosion of his life has been, while not wholly pleasant, bracing and necessary. Some days it’s a slog, but he’s doing as well as he can, and wellness – and happiness – seems a less elusive goal these days.

And how are you? What are you looking forward to these days? More importantly, what weird foodie thing are you cooking? Here’s hoping it has nothing to do with Axel…