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Sudden Death

Today I arrived at the office at 8:45am, 15 minutes later than usual (10 minutes I blame on the MBTA, and 5 minutes I take full responsibility for.) Although my workplace is flexible with arrivals and departures, I like to maintain a facade of punctuality, so I noted with relief that my boss’s office was dark and his door was closed.

My tardiness would not be noticed, but I noticed my boss’s tardiness because he’s usually in by 8am. I checked my email and saw no “Working from Home” email, so I figured his commute was particularly beleaguered. I fetched my tea and began the day’s project of redesigning the online help system by pecking gently at various CSS files.

About 20 minutes later, my department’s Vice President whisked by my desk: “Meredith, could you head over to the other side of the floor? I have an announcement to make to everyone.”

Dread gripped me as I stalked across the floor to stand with the other members of my department. Last time this grim gathering took place, it was to announce cost cuts, downsizing, and layoffs. That’s when I thought of my boss’s absence… could it be? Did my boss get canned? No, impossible. He’s well-liked and well-regarded, and he’s been at the company for nearly 4 years.

The department VP, a woman who I’ve known for about 6 years, stood in front of us. “I have some very sad news to share with you. [My boss] passed away suddenly last night.”

I overuse the adjective “stunned.” I realized that today. I say that stunned me, this stunned me, and usually I’m talking about occurrences that are not in fact stunning but surprising. This, though… to learn that my boss, who was 47 years old and in excellent shape, who jogged every other day, hiked mountains with his family, and just received a black-belt in Tae Kwon Do, who just yesterday had sent me emails about screenshots that he needed, had died… I mean, shit. I was stunned. I’m still stunned.

Apparently my boss had collapsed suddenly while warming up for Tae Kwon Do class with his teenaged son. And died.

I wish it had been layoffs. But no, the department VP stood there, crying for the sudden death of the man who had been a good friend and colleague. No one else made a sound. We were all stunned.

Soon I found myself back at my desk. The enormity of what happened hit me, and I quietly started to cry. I felt the need to go through my Inbox and delete all of the hundreds of emails that he’s ever sent to me. He was my boss, I was his only subordinate. What do I do? How can I sit in the office while feeling such profound sadness? Who do I tell that I’m leaving work early?  I look at my boss’s office, and I see his door is closed, and his office is dark.

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By Meredith – July 9, 2009

You’ve Got Meat

Today the Meat Fairy paid a visit to our home, leaving a potpourri of farm-fresh grass-fed goodies from Vermont in a cooler on our front porch.

Where’s the beef? Why, it’s in our freezer, along with the veal, the pork, and a 3-pound lamb shoulder roast. (I need ground pork recipes, stat.)

13 Pounds of Beef, Pork, Lamb, and Veal

13 Pounds of Beef, Pork, Lamb, and Veal

Plus, 2 dozen of the most magnificent-looking eggs I’ve ever had in my refrigerator. All different sizes and shapes, with sturdy shells and beguiling individuality.

Eggs

Good Eggs

It was difficult to select just one of the meats for dinner, for it seemed an excellent opportunity to try out that recipe for veal cutlets served on a bed of hamburger topped with nitrate-free bacon and garnished with a pork chop, but I decided to stew the beef chuck, which is the prettiest beef chuck I’ve ever seen.

Beef Chuck

Beef Chuck

We have exactly 1 month before the Meat Fairy returns with another trove of meat, and then another the next month, and the month after that… By the time our meat CSA ends in December, we should have more than enough meat in our freezer to give to our family and friends as Christmas presents.  This year, ground veal for everyone!

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By Meredith – July 7, 2009

Through the Woods and Into a River

The New Hampshire Division of Parks and Recreation runs a remarkably efficient system. To secure a campsite at one of their bucolic campgrounds for a holiday weekend, reservations must be made more than a month in advance. Payment is due up front and is nonrefundable, so even if the weekend forecast is full of thunderstorms and only a fraction of campers actually arrive, the park still comes out ahead.
iley.

Given how endemic rain has been in the Northeast this summer, canceling never crossed our minds. Besides, at $29 a night, it felt too modest a sum to surrender outright. More importantly, we’re determined to finish our remaining eighteen or so White Mountain 4000-footers by the end of 2009, an ambitious goal that will require not only better luck with the weather, but also some flexibility in our social and professional lives.).

On Friday, we knocked off Mount Waumbeck, a straightforward 4-hour hike that rewarded us with rays of sunshine.

Summit of Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009
Summit of Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009

On Saturday, we decided to hike Mount Cabot, the most northern 4000 Footer. Our campground was nearby so it would save us some driving. Mount Cabot’s most accessible trail is closed so we drove to an alternate trail in Berlin, NH, near the town’s fish hatchery. About 2 miles from the trail, we passed a gate with a sign saying that the gate was only open from 8am to 4pm daily. Fearing we would be locked in, we decided to park outside the gate and hike the extra 2 miles to the trailhead, which would bring the day’s total to 13 miles.

On the way to Mount Cabot’s trailhead, it started to rain and we donned our rain gear. The guidebook had described our route as a “wet” trail even in dry conditions, so the rain effectively turned the trail into a stream.

At Mt. Cabot's False Summit, 1/4 mile from the True Summit
At Mt. Cabot’s False Summit, 1/4 mile from the True Summit

Luckily there is a small cabin at the top of Mount Cabot to provide shelter for hikers in inclement weather. We decided to have our lunch in the cabin and met 2 gents around our age who had planned on camping at a nearby lake but then decided to spend the night at the cabin.

Lunch in Mount Cabot's Cabin, Soaked to the Bone
Lunch in Mount Cabot’s Cabin, Soaked to the Bone

On the way back to the car, with only 1 mile to go until the road, we reached the most difficult water crossing of the day, a brook raging with rainwater about 3 feet high, with no options to cross except via a fallen tree. And while stepped gingerly across the tree, I slipped and fell into the brook.

Before I fell into the river, my only dry piece of clothing was my underwear. So, when I emerged from the river completely dripping wet, I took some consolation in the fact that only my underwear had really gotten wet. More upsetting was my left arm, which was covered in scratches and bruises.

I thought falling into the river would be the last bad thing that would happen to us that day. But no, the kicker was when we walked 2 miles on the road back to our car at 6 pm and found that the gate had not been shut at 4pm like the sign warned. It was open.

So we returned to the campground and felt immeasurably better after taking hot showers and changing into dry clothes. The weather cleared up a bit for the evening’s Fourth of July festivities at our campground, and Mr. P got to play with his first-ever sparklers.

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By Meredith – July 6, 2009

Mount Waumbeck 4006′ July 3, 2009

Near Mt Waumbeck Summit

Near Mt Waumbeck Summit

On the Muggy Buggy Trail to Mt Waumbeck

On the Muggy Buggy Trail to Mt Waumbeck

Summit of Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009

Summit of Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009

Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009

Mount Waumbeck, July 3, 2009

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By Meredith – July 3, 2009

Internet Bereavement

I composed a rather chewy blog post two nights ago about how our home currently does not have internet. I thought that I would be able to share my outdated torment with the disinterested world yesterday, when our internet was to have been restored, but the internet’s ghastly puppeteers at Verizon denied me the chance to air my cathartic rant by not showing up at our house during the agreed-upon service window of 8am to 12pm. Yes, the cable guy didn’t show up… must you be such a cliché, Verizon?

Our lack of Internet all started with Mr. P’s mortal rage towards RCN cable company, who had provided us with uninterrupted cable internet service for 18 months but hiked their rates on a near-monthly basis until we were paying $56/month for internet alone (we forgo cable TV and phone service). I didn’t care  — honestly, I’d pay $100/month for internet — but our domestic IT infrastructure is solely Mr. P’s domain. I do the cleaning and the bulk of the cooking and shopping, and I don’t care as long as I never have to configure a wireless router or devise a data backup strategy for our digital pictures. It’s one of the perks of marrying a geek, aside from the grateful adoration and the mind-blowing sex.

Anyway, Mr. P decided to switch to Verizon, which is cheaper since it is modem-based and our phone landline is unused. The Verizon cable guy came to our house last week, bada bing, and we had adequate internet until last Monday night when it just stopped working. And when Verizon stood up Mr. P yesterday by not showing up to fix it, Mr. P’s mortal rage shifted from RCN (who now doesn’t look that bad) to Verizon.

“We’re switching to Comcast,” he decided.

So, our household will continue to be internet-barren until next week. But since we’re camping/hiking in New Hampshire over the weekend, we won’t miss it. Although… it’s hard to feel comfortable anywhere knowing that there’s no internet waiting for us at the house. It’s like there’s no food or hot water. It doesn’t quite meet the definition of home.

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By Meredith – July 2, 2009

Tales From the T: The Bernie Madoff Edition

Yesterday morning I sat on a train at Alewife as it idled for 3-4 minutes before commencing its run down the Red Line. Totally engrossed in the New York Times‘ coverage of Bernie Madoff’s 150-year prison sentence, I barely noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man in a blue suit sit next to me until I saw him pull a folded Wall Street Journal out of his briefcase.

I glanced at his newspaper and he glanced at mine. Despite our evident ideological differences, there is an unspoken respect between commuters who read real newspapers (as opposed to the free Metro newspapers that hired derelicts distribute near the turnstiles, which provide news in primary-school-level factoids that make USA Today look hard-hitting.) We’re rare. Maybe once a week I’ll sit near a man (almost always a man) who is reading a NYTimes, a WSJ, or a Boston Globe. We’ll appraise each other, like we’re members of an exclusive, learned society that could be called People Who Give Shit about What’s Happening in the World.

[Theoretically, reading a newspaper is no better than reading news online, but in practice, people who read news online can click the articles they want to read, and it’s human nature to crave soft news about how a 2-year was strangled by a pet python or if Michael Jackson’s ex-wife will fight for custody. People who read reputable newspapers will turn a page and find an article about how China is lending Zimbabwe millions of dollars to prop up its dismal economy or an editorial analyzing Obama’s health care plan. It’s not fun to read, but it’s what’s in front of you.]

So the man in the business suit gestures at the Bernie Madoff headline on my New York Times. “150 years!” he says.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it? I mean the whole thing is just…”

“Incredible,” he finished.

And over the course of our 25-minute train ride to downtown Boston, the man in the suit and I had a wonderful conversation that started with a gushy rehash of the incredible Madoff scandal, continued to the discovery that we live 3 streets away from each other, delved briefly into politics before quickly swerving to our respective professions. He said that his company might have a future need for a technical writer, so he gave me his business card. I wasn’t surprised he was in finance, but I was sort of awed that he was a Vice President at one of the most prestigious investment banks in America.

That’s the cool thing about this random encounter with a fellow newspaper reader on the subway. Had I known when we began talking that he was a VP at a prestigious investment bank, I would have been completely tongue-tied and awkward even though I’ve been avidly reading about Bernie Madoff in the newspaper for months. As it was, I held my own in the conversation and it was effortless. Thank you, New York Times, for the knowledge you have bestowed upon me, and the good impression you have helped me to forge.

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By Meredith – July 1, 2009

Thriller

Michael Jackson won’t be really, truly dead in my mind until I fling a fleck of dirt upon the leviathan’s coffin in the form of a half-baked blog eulogy.

Last Thursday, I learned of Michael Jackson’s death in the locker room as I changed for my after-work yoga class. A nearby young woman was talking on her cell phone and eavesdropping was inevitable when I heard her say:

“Yeah, he’s dead… I know, I didn’t even know he was sick… Yeah I can’t believe it  either… Okay, just wanted to tell you he died! Have fun tonight.”

From her cavalier tone of voice, I gathered that the deceased about whom she bantered was either a celebrity or the non-furry pet of an ill-regarded friend. As she interfaced with her cell phone to make another call, my ears perked:

“Hey it’s me, did you hear about Michael Jackson?”

Ah, of course. Michael Jackson. Which other celebrity’s death would be major enough to warrant calling all your friends and indulging in a moment of incredulousness before going to your power yoga class? No sadness, no regret, just a strange twisty emotion bordering on gossipy curiosity and distant nostalgia.

In the 1980s, I was a Michael Jackson fan. Not a mega-fan, but certainly the Michael Jackson mania that swept my peer group afflicted me as well. I remember going to a sleepover birthday party and jumping around to “Thriller” for literally hours with a dozen other sugar-hyped young girls who were equally desperate to achieve Thriller zombie dance perfection.

But I wasn’t hooked by Michael Jackson’s glove or leather jacket or dancing, for I was too young to comprehend coolness on that level. No, it was his voice and that music, that poppy happy soulful infectious music. After my Sesame Street songs, my Sunday school songs, and my lullabies, Michael Jackson was the first popular music act that I listened to (followed closely by Cyndi Lauper and Madonna). And he set the standard so high that no pure pop music act has come close to capturing my adoration the way Michael Jackson did.

But as time wore on, Michael Jackson just couldn’t keep pace with his own coolness. I believe my disillusionment started around the release of Dangerous with that video for “Black or White” where Michael smashed cars and grabbed his crotch. I mean, grabbing your crotch in public is never cool. Neither is excessive plastic surgery, child molestation allegations, or marrying Lisa Marie Presley. Just… not cool.

Okay, so Michael Jackson might have been tragically misunderstood. His father might have been a tyrant who prevented him from having a real childhood. His accusers might have been lying money grubbers.  His public might have been disloyal. His handlers might have been manipulative and self-serving.  He might have been died in debt, balding, terribly sick and terribly afraid of disappointing his fans. But he was Michael Jackson, and for a time he was undisputedly the coolest mother-effer in the whole world. End of story. Now beat it.

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By Meredith – June 30, 2009

Tangled up in Wood

So it’s summer, although Mother Nature is steadfastly refusing to acknowledge it. What transgression wrought by her cringing East Coast inhabitants has unleashed this punitive repetitive condensational weather pattern for the entire month of June? And will she condemn us to this veiled atmosphere of gray drizzle for the entire summer? The money that I will save on sunscreen, aloe vera gel, and beach parking will go towards Vitamin D capsules ,to sooth the sunlight deficiency that’s causing me to do crazy things like buy stock in Ford, consider taking adult Irish step dancing classes, and eat bunny rabbits.

One typical summery activity for classical music lovers in New England is to abscond to Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony orchestra in rural Western Massachusetts. New Yorkers especially are notorious for crowding into the idyllic town of Lenox, to lodge at $300/night B&Bs, to hobnob with other cultural vanguards, and to tote around picnic baskets full of gourmet foodstuffs that they will feast upon on a blanket spread atop the soft pristine grasses of the Tanglewood lawn. Those who are in-the-know (i.e,  everybody) will purchase tickets for seats in the open-air music shed as rain insurance, but if the weather holds up, they will stay with their blankets on the lawn so they can get sloshed on fine summer wine as the sounds of Wagner, Stravinsky, Mahler, or Mozart erupt into the eerily bug-free country sunset.

Tanglewood season doesn’t officially begin until July, but there were compelling events this past weekend that were worth the trip. On Friday night in the Ozawa Hall (a small venue specifically for chamber music and small ensembles), the world-renown Emerson Quartet gave an absolutely enthralling performance. We sat in the second balcony, which allowed us to gaze upon their baldspots while enjoying their lively rendering of Dvorak’s American String Quartet:

Emerson Quartet

Emerson Quartet

I also enjoyed their performance of Barber’s Adagio, which I immediately recognized as the song that is played during Willem Dafoe’s death scene in Platoon, which is simply the sexiest, most epic death scene in the whole history of cinema.  Good stuff, except… well, the cellist was fairly sloppy. Sometimes his bowing was totally out of cadence with the others:

Cellist's out-of-synch bowing

Cellist's out-of-synch bowing

As if the Emerson Quartet wasn’t enthralling enough, we returned to Tanglewood on Saturday night with many thousands of people in order to see… a live broadcast of the Prairie Home Companion from Tanglewood, starring Garrison Keillor, with special guests Martin Sheen, Steve Martin, and local folk hero Arlo Guthrie!

The view of Prairie Home Companion from our middling-priced seats

The view of Prairie Home Companion from our middling-priced seats

The weather had been uncharacteristically nice that Saturday, and we arrived at Tanglewood to picnic on takeout from Panera Bread and various farm stand produce before the show started.

Tanglewood's Music "Shed"

Tanglewood's Music "Shed"

Then we went into the shed to find our seats. At 5:45pm, Garrison appeared to warm-up the crowd before the broadcast. He roamed the aisles of the shed, singing humorous lyrics about Tanglewood to the tune of “My Girl.” He walked not 10 feet from us and I swooned.

Garrison warming up the crowd

Garrison warming up the crowd

Then the show began. It was thrilling to watch the show live, so I hate to say anything that implies my enjoyment of Prairie Home Companion wasn’t all-consuming, but the show featured wayyy too many Heather Masse songs — at least 7, including her duets with Garrison. Snore. I’d rather hear skits, or…. Steve Martin on banjo!

Steve Martin on banjo

Steve Martin on banjo

What a surprise that Steve Martin can rock out on the banjo! His rollicking twangy style sounded good to my bluegrass-ignorant ears, and I loved his between-song banter. “I wrote this next song, but my wife gave it the title. This song is called ‘When are you going to put down that damn banjo?'”

During the first hour, it started to rain. Everyone in the shed twisted around to watch the rain falling onto the lawn ticket holders, feeling smug about having paid a premium for a seat in the shed. But when the rain didn’t let up, it was the shed-goers who were the least prepared for the dash to the parking lot.  Apparently the Tanglewood experience isn’t complete until you’re sitting in your car in soaked clothes, one of 10 thousand cars trying to leave the parking lot.

End of Prairie Home Companion with Garrison, Arlo Guthrie & Steve Martin

End of Prairie Home Companion with Martin Sheen, Garrison, Arlo Guthrie & Steve Martin

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By Meredith – June 28, 2009

Here we are, now entertain us

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (the official name for the clowns who hand out the Oscars) announced today that, starting next year, the number of Best Picture nominations will be doubled from 5 to 10.

This move would imply that Hollywood is producing soooo many good movies that opening the field to 10 movies is the only fair thing to do because so many cinematic gems were being snubbed. But the truth is…

  • Hollywood just wants to pay tribute to as many genres as possible before picking the biggest crowd-pleasing drama with the most artistic merit. I predict that in the field of 10, there will be 1 animation, 1 action (low-budget), 1 action (big-budget), 1 quirky comedy, 1 movie with a majority non-Caucasian cast, 1 historical drama (WWII), 1 historical drama (non-WWII), 1 drama (Baby Boomer appeal), 1 drama (Gen X appeal), and 1 totally wacked indie with a twisty narrative structure.
    Note that the 1 movie with a majority non-Caucasian cast may be combined with another genre to make room for another Baby Boomer drama.
  • With 10 nominations, Hollywood can now simultaneously pat itself on the back for its small-budget artistic forays while throwing a bone to the poor slobs who can’t understand why Paul Blart: Mall Cop isn’t receiving the recognition it so richly deserves.
  • And after years of pruning the Oscar broadcast to a svelte 3 1/2 hours, now the broadcast will swell to at least 6 hours, to allow sufficient coverage of each of the 10 Best Pictures nominees, to maximize advertising opportunities, and to provide gainful employment to every artistic director, choreographer, and montage editor in California.

Sneer. Last weekend, we scanned the movie listings and there was not one single movie that we wanted to see, even at our independant/foreign movie house. We finally settled on Food, Inc., because at least we’d learn something. So, Hollywood,  what’s going to happen when you’re churning out so many crap movies that you can’t even muster 10 worthy flicks for the Academy’s consideration, and then through a fluke split in the voting, The Hottie and the Nottie is walking away with the golden statue?

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By Meredith – June 24, 2009

Rabbit, Fresh Killed

Warning! This post contains images of dead skinned rabbit!

Food, Inc. made me determined to eat off of the industrialized food grid. So, we went to the Mayflower Poultry Company in East Cambridge (home of the notorious “Live Poultry Fresh Killed” sign, as featured in Infinite Jest). I used to live not one block away from the Fresh Killed store, and it happened to be the same year that I stopped being a total vegetarian and started to eat fish and chicken. Despite my fledgling carnivorous habits, the Fresh Killed store intimidated me. I pictured cages full of squawking chickens, waiting for their turn on the chopping block.  I decided to go when a neighbor told me that they sold fresh eggs, for eggs seemed innocent. I walked into the store and the smell made my nose buckle. It was a rancid smell, with overtones of iron and raw chicken. The people behind the counter starting barking at me, asking me in broken English how they could help me, and my eyes darted around the store, looking in vain for eggs. I saw chicken parts stacked in a display case, legs thighs breasts wings, a mess of goose-fleshed pale yellow skin and knobby bone. I saw freezers full of cow parts. I saw a sign: Goat, $4/pound. Gagging, I backed out of the store and fled home to nosh on some tofu or something.

Fast forward 6 years. I’m a full, unabashed, enthusiastic carnivore who is on a quest to find the freshest, leanest, least industrialized meat that I can. Enter, the rabbit.

The rabbit! We don’t eat rabbit in America, but they’re pretty common eats in Europe. In fact, Mr. P ate rabbit once a week growing up, and has fond memories of being 7 years old and going with his father to buy freshly-killed rabbit from an old man in Brittany, who would select a rabbit, break its neck, and then skin it for them right there. “Did he give you a lollipop?” I asked.

It’s precisely because rabbits are not typically consumed in America that I want to consume them. Rabbit farmers are small-time producers who use clean old-fashioned farming techniques in order to ensure their yields. Unhealthy rabbits don’t breed, and the success of their operation depends on breeding. They don’t use growth hormones, cloning, or selective breeding in order to produce monster fatty rabbits. And no slaughterhouse are involved; the rabbit probably meet its end in the open-air, not surrounded by bacteria-ridden equipment and non-unionized low wage workers.

So we went to the Fresh Killed store and bought a rabbit. Now, that’s such an easy thing to say — “we went to the Fresh Killed store and bought a rabbit.” But even after all these years of meat-eating and all these good reasons for wanting to eat rabbit, it was mentally difficult thing to do. The enormity hit me when the young black man at the Fresh Killed store said “You want this one?” and held up an entirely skinned dead rabbit, head and eyes intact, for our consideration. (He did cut off the head upon request).

To properly convey what I’m talking about, behold:

cimg3645

I felt completely squimish around the rabbit, so Mr. P took responsibility for preparing the rabbit. He felt no such queasiness:
cimg3646

So I absconded to the living room couch with a book. After awhile an awful racket coming from the kitchen permeated my consciousness. Banging, thumbing, some grunting. “What are you doing?” I called, putting down my book and going into the kitchen, to see (Eee! Eee! Eee!):
cimg3647

I was under the impression that the rabbit would be roasted, but apparently the French prefer to stew their rabbits. (In fact, they prefer to stew everything, in wine, with carrots, celery, and onion. Could this explain the French paradox? If grilling, roasted, and frying meat oxidizes cholesterol and makes it unhealthy, perhaps the French escape this by stewing.) In any case, the finished result tasted like lean chicken:

cimg3649

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By Meredith – June 23, 2009